I Prepared For The Worst On My Wedding Night — What My Arranged Husband Demanded Shocked Me

Part 1

Waiting in a room heavy with the scent of damp ash and expensive lavender, I felt like nothing more than freshly deeded property.

My mother’s parting wisdom echoed in my mind, punctuated by the dull knife-bite of corset stays digging into my ribs.

She had leaned in, her breath tainted with cherry and peppermints, to deliver her final, chilling advice.

Just endure.

Lie still, close your eyes, think of the estate, and it will be over quickly.

When the heavy brass doorknob finally clicked and turned, I gripped the silk sheets tight.

I braced myself for the brutal reality of my new life.

The rain over our city smelled of coal dust and wet cobblestones.

It beat against the glass of the carriage in erratic, violent bursts.

I sat rigidly on the dark leather squabs, careful not to let the monstrous crinoline of my wedding gown crush against the opposite seat.

The dress was a triumph of debt.

Six yards of duchess satin overlaid with Brussels lace that my father had likely leveraged the last of our unmortgaged tenant farms to acquire.

It weighed perhaps twenty pounds.

It felt like fifty.

Dan sat across from me.

He was a shadow in the dim carriage interior, illuminated only intermittently by the sickly yellow glow of the streetlamps passing by.

We were married three hours ago.

I had promised to honor and obey him before a bishop who smelled of mothballs.

There was a congregation of four hundred whispering aristocrats.

My mother had pinched the back of my arm until it bruised to ensure I smiled.

Dan had not spoken since he handed me into the carriage.

I was grateful for the silence.

It allowed me to compartmentalize the terror rising in my throat.

I was twenty-one years old, entirely ignorant of the mechanics of men, save for the grim clinical warnings my mother had imparted.

Men take what the law says is theirs.

It is not about your pleasure or your comfort.

It is about an heir.

Remove yourself from your body.

Let him do what he must.

I looked at the shadow of my husband.

He shifted.

His boot scraped against the floorboards.

The sound made my stomach pitch.

I dug my fingernails into my palms, feeling the sharp bite of my own skin through the thin kid leather of my gloves.

He wasn’t a hideous man.

At thirty-four, he was tall, solidly built, with a face that looked as though it had been carved from something unyielding.

Sharp jaw, straight nose, a brow that perpetually lowered over pale, unreadable eyes.

He was known in society as a serious man, a man of agriculture ledgers and parliamentary debates.

He did not dance, and he did not flirt.

He had looked at me across a crowded ballroom two months ago, noted my family’s ancient lineage and empty coffers, and made a practical offer.

I was a transaction, a very expensive, beautifully dressed transaction.

“Are you cold?”

His voice startled me.

It was a low baritone, rough at the edges, like wool dragging across wood.

“No,” I said instantly.

My voice sounded thin.

Rehearsed.

He leaned forward slightly.

A streetlamp flared, illuminating his face.

He looked tired.

Deep lines bracketed his mouth.

He wasn’t looking at my face.

He was looking at my hands resting tightly in my lap.

“You are shaking.”

I stopped breathing for a second.

“The carriage is rattling.”

Dan stared at me for a long moment.

He didn’t argue.

He leaned back into the shadows.

“It is a short ride to the townhouse.”

“The fires will be lit.”

It sounded like a threat, a warm room where the final part of the contract would be executed.

I turned my face to the window, watching the blurred lights smear against the rain-streaked glass.

I focused on the smell of the carriage.

Leather, beeswax, the sharp clean scent of rain, the faint masculine odor of Dan’s wool evening coat.

A smell like dry leaves and expensive cigars.

I cataloged these things furiously.

If I filled my mind with the sensory details of the physical world, I wouldn’t have to think about what was going to happen when the carriage stopped.

The wheels ground to a halt against the curb.

The heavy iron gates of his residence clanged shut behind us.

It sounded remarkably like a prison door.

“We are here,” Dan said.

He pushed the carriage door open before the footman could reach it.

The cold, wet air rushed in.

He stepped out into the rain, ignoring the umbrella.

The footman scrambled to raise it and turned to offer me his hand.

I placed my gloved hand in his.

I stumbled slightly on the wet step, the heavy satin of my gown tangling around my ankles.

Dan caught my waist, steadying me effortlessly.

His hands spanned my ribs, his thumbs pressing briefly against the rigid bone of my corset.

I flinched.

It was involuntary, a sharp, jerky movement away from his touch.

Dan dropped his hands instantly.

He took a step back, his face completely unreadable in the dark.

“Watch your step,” he said, his voice flat.

I gathered my heavy skirts, my cheeks burning with a hot, shameful flush.

I had failed the very first test.

Lie still, endure.

I was already shrinking from him before we even crossed the threshold.

The townhouse was cavernous.

It did not feel like a home.

It felt like a museum dedicated to dead men who had won wars and hoarded gold.

The entryway was dominated by dark mahogany and marble floors that echoed like gunshots under my heels.

A line of silent servants bowed in terrifying unison.

“My wife will require her maid,” Dan said to the severe-looking housekeeper.

He did not look at me.

“Have her sent to the master suite.”

“I will be in my study for an hour.”

An hour.

A reprieve.

A countdown.

I nodded stiffly to him, a jerky inclination of my head that made the tiara dig painfully into my scalp.

He turned and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing down the long shadowed corridor.

I followed the housekeeper up the grand staircase.

My legs felt like lead.

The rustle of my satin gown sounded deafening in the quiet house.

Up two flights of stairs, down a hallway lined with portraits of stern-faced women who had likely marched to this exact room with the same pit in their stomachs.

The master suite was massive.

It smelled of beeswax and woodsmoke.

Heavy crimson velvet curtains were drawn tight against the rain.

A massive four-poster bed dominated the center of the room.

It looked less like a place to sleep and more like an altar.

My maid, a young, nervous girl named Heather, scurried in behind me.

She looked as terrified of the room as I was.

“Shall I help you undress?” she whispered.

“Yes, please.”

My voice cracked.

I stood in the center of the room like a mannequin.

Heather unpinned the heavy veil.

She worked the tiara out of my hair, taking a clump of my hair with it.

I didn’t wince.

The pain in my scalp was a welcome distraction from the heavy, sick feeling in my stomach.

Then came the dress, the hundreds of tiny buttons, the heavy dragging weight of the satin pooling on the floor.

Finally, the corset.

Heather unlaced the stiff canvas and whalebone contraption.

When it released, I took my first full breath in twelve hours.

My ribs ached profoundly.

There were deep red, angry lines pressed into my skin where the bone had dug in.

Heather slipped a nightgown over my head.

It was white, fine lawn cotton embroidered with tiny, ridiculous daisies.

It was completely sheer in the firelight.

It offered no warmth and less protection.

“Shall I brush your hair?”

“No, Heather, you may go.”

She looked relieved.

She gathered up the wreckage of the wedding gown and fled the room, shutting the heavy oak door behind her with a soft click.

I was alone.

I looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.

The brass pendulum swung back and forth, eating away at my hour.

Forty-five minutes left.

I walked over to the fire.

The heat radiated against my bare arms, but I was shivering.

My skin was covered in gooseflesh.

I wrapped my arms around myself, rubbing my elbows.

Just endure.

I rehearsed the physical actions in my mind.

He would come in.

He would expect me in the bed.

I should turn down the covers.

I walked to the edge of the massive bed and pulled back the heavy brocade quilt.

The sheets were blindingly white, crisp, and cold.

I sat on the edge of the mattress.

It was soft, yielding.

I swung my legs up and slid beneath the covers, pulling them up to my chin.

I lay perfectly still, staring at the canopy above.

The silk fabric was gathered in the center like a dark red rose.

Thirty minutes.

The wind howled outside, rattling the windowpanes.

Inside, the only sounds were the ticking of the clock and the wet, sputtering hiss of a damp log in the fireplace.

My mouth was dry.

I tasted old copper and fear.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to dissociate.

I tried to think of the estate, of the tenant farms my father could now repair, of the butcher’s bill that was finally paid.

I was the currency.

The transaction was necessary.

Ten minutes.

I heard a floorboard creak in the hallway.

My eyes flew open.

My heart slammed against my ribs so violently it physically hurt.

I locked my knees together under the blankets.

My hands were fisted at my sides, the fingernails biting into my palms again.

The brass handle turned.

It was slow, deliberate.

The heavy oak door swung open, hinges silent.

Dan walked in.

He had changed.

The formal evening coat was gone.

He wore a simple white linen shirt unbuttoned at the collar and dark trousers.

His hair, previously slicked back, was slightly mussed, as if he had run his hands through it repeatedly.

He held a crystal decanter of amber liquid in one hand, and two glasses in the other.

He didn’t look at the bed.

He kicked the door shut with his heel, walked over to a small table near the fireplace, and set the glasses down.

The clinking of the glass sounded deafening.

A sharp domestic sound in a room built for secrets.

I watched him from the shadows of the canopy, holding my breath.

My chest was tight, tight enough to mimic the corset I had just shed.

He poured the liquid, two fingers in each glass.

He picked them up, turned, and finally looked at me.

I was pressed so far back into the pillows, I was practically part of the headboard.

The sheets were pulled up to my nose.

I knew my eyes were wide, panicked, tracking his every movement like a cornered animal.

He stopped halfway across the room, his jaw tightened.

“Do you drink brandy?” he asked.

His voice was quiet in the large room.

Not aggressive, not demanding, just a question.

I swallowed hard.

“No.”

“You should try tonight.”

He walked slowly toward the bed.

Every step he took, my muscles coiled tighter.

Let him do what he must.

I squeezed my eyes shut as he reached the edge of the mattress, preparing for the weight of him, the rough hands, the inevitable pain.

The bed dipped slightly on the opposite side, but he didn’t reach for me.

“Open your eyes.”

I shook my head, keeping them squeezed shut, a pathetic, childish rebellion.

“Open your eyes.”

“I am not going to touch you,” he said quietly, and what he demanded next terrified me more than any physical act ever could.