The morning was a blur of calculated chaos orchestrated by Darius. In his secret apartment, he had efficiently arranged a rapid return to Warwick Manor, bringing with him not a wedding gown, but a plain yet exquisite ivory dress, and a grim-faced registrar.
In the small antechamber of the Warwick library, Elenora faced him before the rushed ceremony. She wore the ivory dress, and the pale gold lace seemed to mock her icy composure.
"The terms must be explicit," she stated, her voice tight. "This marriage will be political, and nothing more. Separate chambers. Separate lives. And no... no consummation."
Darius was dressed in a dark, severe suit—more military than matrimonial. He looked less like a groom and more like a conqueror.
"Agreed," he said, his eyes hard. "My needs are governance and information, not affection. However, Elenora, you must understand: publicly, we are inseparable. Any sign of distance will signal weakness to your father's creditors and Montclaire. This must look like a coup fueled by passion and urgency."
"Cruelty, then," Darius corrected with a dangerous smile. "We will show them a union forged in iron ambition, not lace."
The Great Hall of Warwick Manor was barely prepared, yet brimming with aristocracy summoned on short notice by the Minister's command. The atmosphere was less celebratory and more akin to a public execution. The nobles exchanged whispers; they were gathered not for a wedding, but for a spectacle.
Elenora was led down the aisle by a trembling, discomfited magistrate. When she reached Darius, he took her arm. His hand was rough and warm, a startling contrast to the delicate silk of her sleeve.
In the strained silence, the vows were exchanged. The words "honor," "obey," and "cherish" felt like vile lies.
When the time came for the ring, Darius presented a simple, heavy band of gold. He took her trembling left hand and, with deliberate slowness, slid the ring onto her finger. The simple touch of his skin on hers was the most charged moment of her life.
His voice, when he spoke the final oath, was a low, resonant threat: "I bind myself to you, Elenora, until death releases us."
The small, tense reception that followed was the true battlefield. Elenora forced a tight, cold smile to her lips, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her enemy.
The challenge came swiftly. Lord Montclaire, sleek and poisonous, approached the couple.
"My congratulations, Minister Cain," Montclaire said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "A hasty acquisition."
Darius stepped forward, his posture imperious, towering over the older Lord.
"The Duchess and I made a strategic decision, Montclaire," Darius announced, his voice carrying clearly across the room. "The necessity of this union was dictated by matters of State, involving the recent threats to port security. I suggest you focus on your ledgers. The game has changed."
Elenora, watching the execution of her enemy's enemy, felt a strange, dizzying wave of admiration. She forced her chin up and placed her hand on Darius's arm, projecting the illusion of pride.
The night was upon them.
The ducal suite was lavishly prepared, the massive chamber now feeling like a cage newly forged for two people.
Elenora entered the main bedroom alone, shedding her wedding cloak. Darius followed minutes later, closing the door behind him with a resonant click that seemed to seal their fate.
Elenora walked straight to the door leading to her separate dressing room. "The terms remain," she said, her back to him.
"Of course," Darius replied, his voice dangerously soft. "We honor the contract."
He walked toward her slowly, his footsteps muffled by the thick rug. He stopped just behind her. She could feel the heat and sheer presence of his body surrounding her.
"We played the public perfectly today, Duchess," he murmured, his breath stirring the fine hairs on her neck. "You performed beautifully."
He reached out, his hand going not to her face, but to the heavy gold ring on her finger. He tilted her hand, inspecting the band. "Because your performance must be flawless, always."
He dropped her hand, but instead, his own strong hands framed her face. His thumbs rested lightly on her cheekbones. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, were intense and demanding.
"I promised you work, Elenora, not love," he whispered, his voice vibrating with restrained energy. "But don't for a moment think this marriage means nothing. You are now mine."
He moved closer, eliminating the last vestiges of space, and then, without gentleness or romance, he pressed his mouth to hers.
The kiss was hard, demanding, and purely possessive—a sealing of the contract, a statement of ownership.
When he finally pulled back, Elenora was breathless, her body rigid with shock and a terrifying, unwanted spark of response.
"That is the official kiss for the Minister's wife," he said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Now, sleep. We begin the investigation into 'The Winter Garden' before dawn."
He stepped away, turning toward his own chambers. Elenora was left alone in the cold, opulent silence, her lips still stinging, finally realizing that the hardest battle of her forced marriage would be with the man she hated, and the response she couldn't control.