NO MERCY, MY DUCHESS

4

The opulent dining room of Blackmoor Manor, usually a sanctuary of decorum and hushed conversation, buzzed with an entirely different energy that evening. Duke Julian Lancelot Blackmoor sat at the head of the impossibly long table, his formidable presence radiating an almost palpable tension.

Across from him, his younger brother, Lord Gareth, was in the midst of narrating the entire scandalous ordeal to their parents, the formidable Duke and Duchess of Blackmoor, who had just arrived from their extended trip abroad.

The elder Duchess, a woman of steely will and impeccable breeding, listened with a growing look of incredulity, her fork poised mid-air. The Duke, a stern man with eyes that mirrored Julian's own icy blue, merely raised a single, aristocratic eyebrow, betraying nothing.

Gareth, however, was clearly enjoying himself immensely. He recounted Livia's ill-fated prank with theatrical flair, describing her fall into the tub, the subsequent discovery, and particularly, her defiant outburst in the drawing-room.

He mimicked her indignant "Nothing of the sort happened!" with a broad grin, and then, much to Julian's simmering fury, launched into a surprisingly accurate rendition of Livia's sharp retort to Lady Clara.

"And then, Mother, Father," Gareth chortled, nearly spilling his wine, "she told Clara, 'respectfully, you should shut up!'" He dissolved into another fit of laughter, clearly finding the whole ordeal immensely funny.

The Duchess let out a scandalized gasp, though a faint, almost imperceptible tremor at the corner of her lips suggested she wasn't entirely disapproving of such spirited defiance. The Duke remained impassive, but his gaze flickered to Julian.

What irked Julian even more than the public humiliation, more than the calculated insolence, was the fact that his own family, particularly Gareth, found this entire situation so uproariously entertaining. The very idea that someone, anyone, had dared to say "no" to him, Duke Julian Lancelot Blackmoor, was, to them, hilarious. For a man who had meticulously crafted a life of order, control, and unchallenged authority, his brother's mirth felt like a personal affront.

Julian's jaw was clenched so tightly a vein pulsed visibly in his temple. He didn't speak, but his silent fury was a tangible force, pressing down on the room. His glare, fixed on his laughing brother, was a promise of future reckoning. The roast beef on his plate remained untouched, his appetite long since vanished, replaced by a cold, burning resolve. This mockery, this insubordination, would be dealt with. And Lady Livia, the unwitting catalyst of this domestic rebellion, would soon learn the true meaning of his "I will, Duchess."

**********

The morning after the meeting with Thomas, Livia felt a cold resolve settle in her heart. Sleep had offered no reprieve from the nightmare of her impending marriage. She knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that she could not marry Duke Julian Blackmoor.

Her desperate promise to Thomas echoed in her mind, a beacon of hope she clung to. There was only one way out, one truly scandalous revelation that even the Duke, with all his rigid adherence to propriety, could not ignore.

Without her parents' knowledge, and with a daring she hadn't known she possessed, Livia slipped out of the Viscount's estate before dawn. The crisp morning air did little to soothe her churning stomach, but the urgency of her mission propelled her forward. She rode directly to Blackmoor Manor, bypassing the main entrance, instead seeking out a side gate she knew Eleanor sometimes used for her early morning rides.

A sympathetic stable hand, bribed with a few coins and a plea for help, let her in.

She found the Duke in his study, a formidable chamber filled with the scent of old books and fresh ink. He was already at his desk, poring over documents, the very picture of unshakeable calm. He looked up as she entered, his eyes, those cold, piercing eyes, holding no surprise. It was as if he had expected her.

Livia took a deep breath, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Duke Julian," she began, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to sound defiant. "I have come to tell you something. Something that will make our... proposed union... impossible."

He merely raised an eyebrow, a silent invitation to continue.

"I am... I am without my maidenhead," she blurted out, the words tasting like ashes in her mouth. She forced herself to meet his gaze, trying to project an air of nonchalant confession, though her cheeks burned. "I gave it to... to the Baron's son. Last night."

For a fleeting second, a flicker of amusement crossed Julian's eyes. It was gone so quickly Livia almost questioned if she had imagined it. His expression settled back into its usual controlled impassivity, yet there was a subtle shift, a tightening around his mouth that Livia couldn't quite decipher.

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze unwavering.

"Indeed, Lady Livia?" His voice was calm, almost dangerously so. "A rather hasty engagement, wouldn't you say? Especially considering your previous... affections."

Livia's carefully constructed composure began to c***k. He wasn't reacting as she'd anticipated. There was no outrage, no immediate dismissal.

Then, he reached for a small bell on his desk and rang it once. Almost immediately, his butler, Mr. Finch, appeared, looking even more pale and harried than the night before.

"Finch," Julian commanded, his voice perfectly even, "kindly send for the governess. And inform her she is needed for a... delicate matter."

Livia's blood ran cold. The governess. He meant to have her checked. Her carefully constructed lie, her desperate gamble, had backfired spectacularly. She paled, the color draining from her face. He would know. He would know she was lying. The humiliation would be unbearable, the consequences unimaginable.

"No!" she cried, her voice high and desperate. "You can't! You... you wouldn't!"

Julian's gaze hardened. He rose from his desk, his towering presence seeming to fill the entire study. "It seems, Lady Livia, that your word alone is insufficient proof for such a grave claim."

The governess, a prim woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, arrived moments later, looking curiously between the rigid Duke and the visibly distraught Livia.

"Your Grace?" she inquired, her voice cautious.

"The governess will examine you, Lady Livia," Julian stated, his voice brooking no argument.

Livia recoiled, backing away until her shoulders hit the solid oak of a large bookcase. "No! I refuse! You cannot force me!" Her voice was shrill, laced with panic.

The thought of submitting to such a humiliating inspection, knowing her lie would be exposed, was unbearable.

Julian's eyes narrowed. His patience, already stretched thin by the previous day's events, snapped. He moved with a sudden, startling swiftness that left Livia no time to react. He crossed the room in two long strides, his hand closing around her wrist.

"If you refuse to be examined by the governess," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl that vibrated through her bones, "then I shall ascertain the truth myself."

Before Livia could even gasp, he dragged her to his chamber himself. Her feet scrambled on the polished floor, but his grip was unyielding. The sheer force of his will, the raw power emanating from him, left her utterly helpless. She struggled, a choked cry escaping her lips, but it was futile against his superior strength.

He pulled her into the vast, opulent bedchamber, the very room where her disastrous prank had begun.

The large, four-poster bed, adorned with heavy velvet hangings, seemed to loom over them. He spun her around, and in one swift, brutal movement, pinned her down on his bed.

Livia gasped, the breath knocked from her lungs. Her thin gown rode up her legs, exposing them to the cool air. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild bird trapped in a cage. Fear, cold and absolute, gripped her. This was no longer a game.

The playful defiance she had displayed, the sharp wit she wielded like a weapon, seemed utterly useless against the raw, unyielding power of this man.

His eyes, usually so controlled, held a dark, dangerous light as he looked down at her. He didn't speak. Instead, with a horrifying, calculated precision, he reached down.

To her uttermost shock and violation, he checked for himself.

A silent scream tore through Livia's throat. A gasp of pure, unadulterated horror escaped her lips. Her body stiffened, every muscle tensing in a futile attempt to resist. The invasion was swift, brutal, and profoundly humiliating. It was a complete obliteration of her dignity, a brutal assertion of his power over her.

Tears streamed down her face, hot and stinging, blurring her vision. They were tears not just of physical violation, but of a crushing realization. This was not a negotiation. This was not a debate. This was not even a consequence of a prank. This was a man seizing control, asserting his absolute dominance.

For the first time since the bath chamber incident, since her ill-conceived attempt at revenge, she realized this was no longer a game. This was real.

And she was utterly, terrifyingly, at his mercy.

Julian withdrew, his face unreadable, save for the faintest tightening around his eyes. He rose from the bed, his movements precise and controlled, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. He adjusted his cuff, a picture of chilling composure.

Then, he turned and rang the bell cord again. Mr. Finch appeared almost instantly, his face impassive, as if he hadn't just witnessed the most shocking display of a Duke's will.

"Finch," Julian's voice was clear, devoid of any emotion, "Lady Livia will be moved to the guest bedchamber. Assign a maid to attend to her at all times, and a guard positioned outside her door. She is not to leave the estate, nor is she to receive any visitors, until the wedding ceremony is concluded." He paused, his gaze sweeping over Livia, who lay crumpled on the bed, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Ensure her comfort, but see that my orders are followed precisely."

"Yes, Your Grace," Finch replied, bowing stiffly, his eyes carefully avoiding Livia's prone form.

"And," Julian added, his voice still unnervingly calm, "send word to the Viscount and Viscountess Thorne. Inform them that their daughter is being kept under my protection at Blackmoor Manor until the wedding. And that all arrangements are proceeding as planned."

With that, he turned and left the chamber, his footsteps echoing in the sudden, cavernous silence.

Livia remained on the bed, tears soaking the velvet, the cold reality of her capture settling upon her like a shroud. She was no longer a free woman. She was the Duke's prisoner, and her escape, her defiant stand, had only cemented her fate.