Marcus leaned his head against the door and closed his eyes. How could she have kept this from him for two years? He had believed the worst all this time, only to find out it was not true. Anger and relief washed through him, and he wasn't sure which was the most prevalent emotion. To know she had not slept with his brother was a great relief, but realising she had knowingly kept the truth from him, directly torturing him by letting him believe she had... It was infuriating. And deflating.

Did she care so little for him that she had no compunction about letting him dwell on this false assumption for years? He groaned. Apparently so. His hand fisted, and he hit his thigh in frustration. This was not part of his plans to save their marriage. For him to have any chance at all, he needed her to not hate his guts. He thought they had made some progress in the last few days, but perhaps not. Unless this counted as progress. It certainly did not feel like progress. It felt like a punch in the gut.

And yet... She had not slept with Dash. He opened his eyes again, his eyes falling on a painting on the other side of the hallway. One of the many ancestors of the Winterbourne line. He didn't know the man's name, but the portrait stared down at him. Judging him. Taunting him. Surely no other Duke of Winterbourne had fled his wife's bedchamber.

Latching onto his wounded feelings and anger, he opened the door and went back inside. The room was eerily quiet. Even the cats were still as if they could sense that something was amiss. Rain lay in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. Was she asleep?

He padded over to stand next to the bed, staring down at her. It reminded him of the other night, when she had lain there deathly pale, but tonight her cheeks had a healthy glow and her breathing was calm. Her eyes fluttered open and widened as she caught sight of him.

"Marcus!" She scrambled into a sitting position. "I'm sorry for not telling you sooner, I—"

Her apology was interrupted by his mouth capturing hers in a searing kiss. Coming onto the bed, he buried his hand in the silk of her hair as he cradled the back of her head. His tongue stole across her lips, taking advantage of her surprise. Kissing her was like tasting a piece of the rainbow. All lights and colours.

He half expected her to push against him, maybe slap him, but she moaned and melted into his arms. No matter what her reasons were for having agreed to marry him, at least she was attracted to him. He could work with that. Fuelled by a mix of anger and desire, he leaned her back against the pillows, following to cover her body with his. She felt amazing in his arms. Soft and warm.

Not entirely sure what his plan was—doubting the fact that he had one at all beyond wanting to touch his wife—he abandoned her mouth to drag his lips across her jawline to her ear, kissing and nibbling his way down her neck. Her hands came up to slide around his shoulders, her fingers digging into the hair at the back of his head. She was gloriously sensitive to his touch, gasping as he palmed her unbound breast through the fabric of her nightgown.

His skin felt warm and feverish, the desire for her burning hotly under the surface. This had been a terrible idea. He wanted her so desperately that his body ached for her. The way she responded to his caresses and kisses didn't help, every moan and gasp spurring him on further. Impatiently, he pulled on the collar of her nightgown to reveal her pert breast. When he captured her nipple in his mouth, she bucked underneath him, her fingers at the back of his head almost painful as they gripped him. With a low growl, he nipped at her, rewarding him with a low moan.

While he continued to lavish his attention on her breasts, his hand slid up the soft skin of her thigh, pulling the nightgown along with it. He wanted to feel her. Taste her. He wanted all of her. His hand stilled as realisation hit him. If she had not been with his brother... She was most likely a maiden. Unless she had sought comfort in someone else's arms. But he highly doubted that. Her request not to consummate their marriage made a lot more sense now. If she was a maiden, that was yet another piece of evidence that he was impotent.

He groaned inwardly. He could have proved to her right then and there that he was far from impotent. Instead, he moved his hand back to her hair, gave her a last kiss, and pulled back. Seeing her flushed face and bare chest nearly broke his resolve. Dark eyelashes rested against her cheeks but fluttered open as she realised he had stopped touching her. Her blue eyes stared up at him.

"Marcus?"

Forcing himself to sit up, he schooled his features into an impassive mask. Unsure whether he was punishing her, or himself, he said, "Go to sleep, Rain."

Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened, yet no sound came. He could see exactly when her temper ignited.

"You oaf!" she snapped, and he caught the hand aiming a slap at his face. Not that he didn't deserve it after that. But as much as he might want to punish her for keeping such a big secret from him for so long, he was also trying very hard to keep his promise to her. No consummation of their marriage before the tenth kiss.

"That's four," he said calmly, his hand still gripping her wrist. Not hard, only enough that she could not pull it back. When he felt her arm relax, he let her go, and she dropped it into her lap.

Glaring at him, she muttered, "That was a lot more than a simple kiss."

"It was," he agreed. And he had wanted a lot more than that. Still wanted a lot more than that. His body was practically screaming at him to reach for her again, to continue what he had started.

To remove himself from the temptation, he stood and walked over to the blankets he had put down on the floor the previous night. He could feel Rain's eyes burning holes in his back and feeling hot, he pulled his shirt over his head and threw it on a chair. Turning back to her, he nodded curtly. "Good night, Rain."

Her eyes were wide as she stared at him, and he realised it was the first time she had seen him without a shirt on. Larger than the average man, both in height and bulk, he knew he was not an unappealing sight, but it also meant she could most likely see the scars. Mementos left by his father, equally visible on his soul as his skin.

When she crawled out of bed and came towards him, he knew for a fact she'd spotted the unsightly marks. Her eyes darted from his scars to his face as she cautiously approached him. Remaining still, he allowed her to reach out to trace a thin line across his left shoulder, down towards his chest. Disappearing behind him, he could feel her fingertips gently follow several more just like it on his back.

"What... What are these?" she asked, her voice quivering with suppressed emotion.

"My father took my education and upbringing very seriously."

"He hit you?" She came around to stand in front of him again, her pretty face painted with horror.

"Occasionally." He shrugged. "Mostly he used a belt."

Her hand found his and gripped it tightly. Noticing the marks on his forearms, she turned his arm over to inspect them closer.

"Cheroot burns," he stated matter-of-factly. It had been a long time ago, and his father was no longer around. Anger or sadness served no purpose at this point.

"Oh, Marcus." Her eyes watered as she gingerly touched the uneven, pale round marks.

He captured her hand with his other one and moved it away. "Do not cry for me," he muttered. "I do not deserve your tears."

"But the little boy you were does." She sniffled. "And you do not get to tell me what I can and cannot cry about."

The fierceness in her tone made him smile. It was so very her to be angry and sad at the same time. "It was a long time ago. Once I grew larger and stronger than he, it stopped."

He could still remember the last time his father had attempted to punish him. Marcus had taken a keen interest in reading about other cultures already at a young age and had found interesting writings about the soldiers in Ancient China having to prove their worth by lifting weights. There were other similar accounts in other cultures, and he had found ways to incorporate it in his own life, enjoying pushing his body further and further, building muscles and stamina.

He had been sixteen at the time, and already an inch or two taller than his father when he had been summoned to his father after not receiving top marks in school. The former duke had pulled his belt out to mete out his punishment. But as the first lash came down, Marcus grabbed the leather strap with his hand and yanked. His father lost his footing, allowing Marcus to retrieve the belt and toss it into the fireplace. The look in his son's eyes must have frightened the duke, for he never tried anything like it again.

Rain had grown silent, her gaze roaming over the expanse of his chest, the flatness of his stomach, the width of his arms. He had never stopped exercising or pushing his body, finding more and more ways to train his physique. Mould his body into something bigger, stronger. No one—not his father, or anyone else—would ever come for him again. His tall stature and wide shoulders came naturally, but the rest he had worked hard on for many years. His body craved physical activity, as much as his mind craved the knowledge in books.

The fingers that had recently traced his scars returned to his chest, but this time she placed her whole palm against his skin and he could only hope she could not feel the wild beating of his heart. Could not sense how much restraint he had to exercise not to reach for her again. Not to carry her back to bed and do all the wicked things he so desperately wanted to do.

Her hand slid down his chest, making him tense as her soft touch sent trails of fire scorching his skin. Focusing on controlling his breathing, he watched her face as she continued exploring his muscles with a look of fascination. When her hand dipped dangerously low, he captured her wrist again. Without thinking, he brought it up to his face and placed a soft kiss on her knuckles.

She stared up at him. "Do all men look like this?"

"No."

She made a face. "Well, obviously not all... I've seen some rather podgy men around. But younger, more fit men?"

"Usually not." Feeling embarrassed, he looked away. "I exercise more than most. I have created a room through a door in my study for my personal use. A small gymnasium, if you will."

Her eyebrows lifted. "Can I see it?"

"Maybe one day." He'd shown no one that room other than the few servants allowed in to clean it. His exercise regime was not exactly something he suspected the ton would approve of. Their peers had very clear ideas of what a gentleman—or lady—could or could not do. While he enjoyed some of the more acceptable forms of physical exercise, such as horseback riding and boxing, most people would sneer at him lifting weights or running around the grounds when he was at his country estate. Those were not the pursuits of a gentleman.

Rain stifled a yawn behind her hand, so he took the opportunity to spin her around, and putting his hands on her shoulders, he steered her back towards her bed.

"You need rest," he muttered. "The doctor said you should not overexert yourself."

"The Leighton ball is tomorrow," she said as she clambered back into bed. He wished he could have followed. "I would very much like to go."

"As long as you feel recovered enough," he promised.

Returning to his pile of blankets, he lay down. It was definitely not comfortable. Made even less so by the knowledge that there was a perfectly comfortable bed only a few feet away, with a soft, warm body inside it. He held back a groan. Hopefully, he would have one of his employees from the agency arriving soon. Someone who could watch Rain at times. Because he did not see himself managing this for much longer without breaking his promise to her.

~~~~~~