“Blast that man,” said Glenarvon as soon as the door had shut behind Lord Daventry. "He never should have come here at all."

Catherine's mouth flattened into a thin line. "Oh, indeed? Lord Daventry has every right to call upon you as anyone else. Perhaps more."

"Don't presume to know what you're talking about," Glenarvon replied, trying to brush past Catherine.

Grabbing his arm, she pulled the marquess back into the room. "I presume to know much about the situation, Lord Glenarvon. I do not dare to think of how you must see me, but I am not the young and silly fool that you seem to perceive me as. I believe I know as much about you and Lord Daventry as anyone else might."

The marquess's eyes widened. Catherine couldn't possibly know about his arrangement with Daventry. "I doubt that," he said.

"You doubt a great many things about me, I think." When Glenarvon said nothing in reply, she continued, unburdening herself. "You and Lord Daventry are very old acquaintances. As he said, you two grew up side-by-side, in neighboring estates. Of course, yours is quite a good deal grander than his. That must have been a strange feeling for him to always be compared to your wealth, your good looks..."

"My good looks?" Glenarvon's brow raised quizzically.

Catherine flushed. "I only mean to say that you are a formidable man, Lord Glenarvon. There is much going on behind your eyes. But that is your downfall. Lord Daventry may have to live up to your wealth, but you have always had to live up to his disposition. Where he is gracious, you are harsh. Where he is lively, you are brooding. You have been compared to Lord Daventry all your life, and you have always been found lacking. That is your issue with him. That is why you can barely stand to be in the room with the man."

As she finished her speech, Catherine walked past Glenarvon coolly, but he seized her, bringing her close to him. His arms bulged with anger, the sinews straining against the thin fabric of his shirt.

"You shall never compare me with Lord Daventry again, do you understand?" he asked.

Catherine gazed up at her husband defiantly, noting the lock of dark hair that had fallen poetically onto his forehead as he opined. "I shall compare where comparison is due, my lord. Any man worth his word would expect the same."

Unhanding Catherine, Glenarvon crossed his arms and exhaled a huff of air. "Then you would not mind if I sought to explore your character, then? To plumb your deepest depths?"

Cold air greeted Catherine's tongue as her lips parted ever so slightly, her eyelashes batting away her inner demons. She gathered herself up, puffing out her chest regally. "I would invite you to explore my character, sir. I have little to hide." Excepting that I married you to save my sister's reputation, she thought.

Glenarvon's pearly teeth flashed, and he sunk back, leisuring in the power that he now held. "Where to start?" he asked. "There's so much to think of. I suppose the first thing I that popped into mind when I met you was that you were impudent."

"Me, impudent!"

"Yes. And rude, as you have so readily demonstrated today."

Fire blazed in the pit of Catherine's stomach, and she nearly lashed out at the marquess bodily. "From the moment I met you, you have been the most unmannerly man I have ever had the displeasure to know. You treat people as if they are beneath you, and no wonder, for you seem to hold the idea that denizens of the countryside are somehow lesser than those in the city."

"So says the girl who has never been to London in her life."

"A fact that you would use against me at every turn, I am sure," she said. "It remains that you cannot possibly view me as your equal. Not now, and possibly not ever."

"Well if you think that, then I wonder why you chose to marry me at all," spat Lord Glenarvon, his chest heaving.

It was too much. Covering her face with her hands, Catherine let out a sob. She lifted her skirts and turned heel, rushing from the room. She ran down the hall, not caring whither she went. The house was large and there were plentiful places to hide.

After some time, she stopped and sunk to the bare wood floor, her dress puddling around her. Tears still streamed unhindered down her face, a deluge she could not staunch no matter how much she tried. She pulled her knees up to her chest, curling her arms around herself, seeking comfort from her own body. Her breathing began to grow steady again.

Glenarvon was right. She had no business being married to him. The marquess's attitude, his behavior, even his manner of speaking offended her. The mere sight of him was enough to send her into sheer raptures of anger. There was no holding her tongue around him. How could she when he had so little respect for her voice?

Still, she was married to him. She could never have made any other choice–not whilst Anne loved Peter. So there was nothing to be done. Nothing.

Catherine stood, wiping her face with the back of her left hand. The hall she occupied was cold and empty, lit by a few candles hung from the walls. Worse, the hallway was unrecognizable to her. She had no memory of blue wallpaper anywhere in the house, but here she was, standing in a blue wallpapered corridor. So much for life on a grand estate. She couldn't even be wealthy for one night without getting lost in her own house.

After much deliberation, she struck forth at random, taking a determined left turn. She strode deliberately down the hall, intent that anyone who might see her would think she would know what she was about. This confidence led her true, and within more time than she cared to admit, Catherine found herself at the door of the library. She hesitated.

Chimes sounded as the clock struck seven times. It was barely evening and already the night was in shambles. It was too early to go to sleep and too late for much else.

Hoping that someone had lit a fire in the library, Catherine gripped the door handle and turned it, ushering herself quietly inside.

As she closed the door behind her, she heard a noise from the further recesses of the room. She turned quickly, finding Lord Glenarvon standing at attention, a book still open in his hands.

Turning the door handle, Catherine made to rush from the room again, but before she could flee, the marquess spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Catherine," he breathed. "Don't."

The utterance was part command and part plea. She bit her lip, letting her hand hover just by the door handle.

"Come here," said the marquess. This was definitely a command now. There was no mistaking his demanding tone, his voice rough with an emotion Catherine could not quite place.

Without thinking, Catherine obeyed, her body a traitor to her own mind. She glided toward Glenarvon as if in a dream, her eyes hazy. Suddenly, she was standing before him, her face defiantly raised to his. Their eyes met and she did not flinch, despite the deep well of blackness that stared back at her.

Words bubbled up from a dark place inside of Catherine, a leftover reserve she did not know she possessed.

"You dare to command me," she said. It was not a question–it was a fact.

Glenarvon regarded her with a steady gaze, the hint of a smile playing around his lips. "And you dare to disobey."

Catherine saw no humor in the matter. "I am not yours to command, Lord Glenarvon. I may have pledged myself to you, but I have not pledged my spirit."

"Were those not the vows you uttered in the chapel but hours ago?" The marquess laughed.

Catherine couldn't stop herself. His impudence was too much. Without even realizing it, her hand was flying through the air toward his face.

The marquess caught Catherine's arm mid-slap, his expression darkening. She gasped, surprised as much at herself as she was at Glenarvon's reflexes. Her chest heaved and flush crawled up her breasts unbidden. Without thinking, she took a step closer to him, bringing her body flush against his.

"I'm trying to be good for you, Catherine," he whispered, his face softening. "I truly am."

They stood in silence, the air barely stirring around them. Glenarvon's hand still encircled Catherine's wrist in a vice-like grip, and yet the longer he held her, the more she realized she didn't want him to let go.

"I'm trying, too," she said.

With that, his lips were upon hers, locking them in a passionate embrace. His other arm snaked around her waist, pulling her even closer.

At first, Catherine met the marquess’s mouth hesitantly, her lips just barely brushing his, but his hunger demanded more and something inside her answered. Their rhythm deepened as their lips moved in greater frenzy. Without realizing it, she threw her arms around his neck, using his strength to support her and bringing his face nearer to hers. He slipped his tongue expertly against Catherine’s and she greeted it with a low moan, passion overtaking her.

The marquess was not the husband Catherine had dreamed of, but in this moment she wanted him just the same. She ran her hands through his tousled raven hair, thinking of the look in Glenarvon’s eyes right before their lips had met. It had been unlike any expression she had seen from him before. Gone were his brooding brows, replaced by a curious tenderness. It was that man she kissed now, digging her nails into his neck as he brought her hard up against his muscular frame.

Trembling hands pulled at the marquess’s shirt, freeing them from his breeches with a ferocious need. With the marquess’s help, Catherine lifted his shirt up and over his head, revealing his impressively muscled body.

Glenarvon began to kiss and suck down Catherine’s neck, undoing the top of her dress as he went. She gasped as cool air struck her back, and fabric slipped from her slender shoulders.

Catherine ran her hands down Glenarvon's rippling chest, reveling in the beauty of his marble-carved muscles.

It suddenly struck her what she was about to do–what she was about to lose. Her innocence was nothing to give away idly... But Lord Glenarvon was her husband, and would be until the end of their days. He said he was trying to be a better man. Catherine had agreed to try as well, but was she really capable of that if she refused to open her heart to him? It needn't be much, but it was becoming very clear to her that some level of faith was required in her marriage if she hoped to one day feel love kindle between her and the marquess.

She had mistrusted him from the first, but perhaps she had done him wrong by making such a swift judgment.

In this moment, here in his arms, she could barely remember what quarrels she had felt with him. His body felt so powerful against hers, his skin so smooth and wonderful. It was impossible to remember a time before she had felt him. Impossible to remember a time before their mouths had met as one. They were flesh on flesh, bound together in an eternal caress.

Yes, she would give herself to him, and gladly. Nothing could tear her away from him now.

As Catherine looked up into the marquess's eyes, he noted a change in her features. Her quizzical mouth, so often turned into a sneer towards him, peaked into a sweet smile. All over, her mien shifted, a change in attitude that even he could detect. Her look was one of trust, of relinquishing.

Glenarvon's stomach tightened and his heart began to pound. It felt as if a fist had encircled his neck, smothering his breath and suppressing his reflexes.

In a flash, he pushed Catherine away, his mind churning. She didn't deserve this. He had lain with women before and he wasn't ashamed of that fact. But Catherine? She was merely an innocent pawn in his game with Daventry.

Catherine crumpled as the marquess backed away, hurt spreading across her face. Distance flexed between them in the darkened library, black and unending. Even as a tear began to roll down Catherine's face, her heart turned to stone. What a fool she had been to trust Lord Glenarvon! He had caressed her, unbuttoning her dress, and making her feel so lovely and wanted and safe. But that was a lie. The man was no more safe or trustworthy than a snake, and far more slippery. Never again would open herself to him as she had on this night. There was no heart in his chest–only an empty decaying cavity, closed from disuse.

"How dare you take advantage of me like that!" she said, her nails biting into her palms.

"Catherine–"

"No. Leave me be. I don't want to see your face or hear your voice. I don't want to feel your hand upon my skin. Leave." Catherine struggled to pull her dress back up around her shoulders, covering herself.

Even in her anger, she was struck by Glenarvon's beauty, his chest shining like white marble in the moonlight, contrasting with his black curls. Her eyes narrowed. It was a front, just like the rest of him. Good looks meant little when the insides were rotten through.

Hand jutting through the air like a knife, Catherine pointed at the door to enforce her words.

There was nothing for Glenarvon to do. Somehow, he still wished to comfort her. He ached to take her into his arms and smooth his rough hand against her silken red hair. But it was no use. He had made his choice at the ball long ago, and he could hardly change it now. At the very least, Catherine was currently far away from Daventry. Now all Glenarvon had to do was protect her from himself.

Turning away, Glenarvon walked slowly through the library door, pausing for the briefest of moments to look back at Catherine. She had slumped to the floor, her hands covering her face. Her hair cascaded around her, flickering blood red in the light from the hearth. Soft sobs wracked her body.

Glenarvon shut his eyes, willing himself to forget that sight. It would do no good to feel sentimental about the girl–not when Daventry was still around. He closed the library door behind him, leaving Catherine to wallow in her anger.