NO MERCY, MY DUCHESS

6

The day of the wedding dawned grey and ominous, a fitting reflection of Lady Livia's spirits. Blackmoor Manor, usually alive with the hum of a grand household, was draped in an unsettling quiet. The preparations for the ceremony were meticulous, as befitted a Duke's marriage, but there was none of the usual joyous anticipation. Instead, a palpable tension hung in the air, thick with unspoken scandal and forced compliance.

Livia had spent the preceding two days in a haze of despair. Eleanor had been a constant, comforting presence, attempting to distract her with idle chatter and endless cups of tea.

But Livia felt like a bird trapped in a gilded cage, every gilded bar a reminder of her impending fate. Her desperate lie about Thomas had failed spectacularly, leading only to further humiliation and a tightening of her gilded chains.

The memory of Julian's cold, violating examination, and his subsequent calm command, played on an endless loop in her mind, a stark reminder of his absolute power.

She was dressed by the Duke's personal maids, chosen for their discretion and efficiency. The wedding gown was a masterpiece of white silk and lace, exquisite in its detail, but it felt like a shroud.

Her reflection in the mirror showed a pale, determined face, her eyes holding a flicker of the defiance that had landed her in this predicament. She would walk down that aisle, but she would not surrender her spirit.

Downstairs, the grand hall had been transformed. Fresh flowers, white lilies and roses, adorned every surface, their sweet scent doing little to dispel the somber mood.

A small, select group of guests had been invited, primarily the Blackmoor elders and a few very close family friends, most of whom wore expressions of polite bewilderment or thinly veiled disapproval.

The Viscount and Viscountess Thorne, however, beamed with ill-concealed triumph, basking in the reflected glory of their daughter's ascent.

Duke Julian stood at the altar, a figure of imposing stillness in his formal attire.

His face was a mask of aristocratic impassivity, his eyes, those piercing winter-sky eyes, scanning the assembled guests without betraying a single emotion. He looked like a man fulfilling a duty, albeit one he had imposed upon himself with chilling resolve.

Lord Gareth stood beside him, remarkably subdued for once, though a faint, almost pitying look crossed his face when he caught Eleanor's eye.

The heavy oak doors creaked open, and Livia appeared. She walked slowly, her movements stiff, every step a conscious effort. Her hand, trembling slightly, rested on her father's arm, but her gaze was fixed ahead, avoiding Julian's eyes. She could feel the stares, the whispers, the collective judgment of a society that reveled in scandal even as it condemned it.

As she reached the altar, her father released her, offering a tight, triumphant smile. Livia stood before Julian, feeling dwarfed by his presence, utterly vulnerable yet strangely defiant. She finally met his gaze.

His eyes were unreadable, devoid of warmth, but something in their depths, a spark of something almost challenging, sent a shiver through her.

The ceremony was a blur of ancient vows and solemn pronouncements. Livia repeated her lines mechanically, her voice barely a whisper. When it came time for Julian to speak, his voice was clear, strong, and unwavering, each word echoing with an undeniable finality.

He placed the ring on her finger, a cold, heavy band of gold that felt like a manacle.

Then came the moment for the kiss. Livia's heart hammered. She braced herself, expecting a perfunctory peck, a quick, dutiful touch of lips. But Julian's hand moved, cupping the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the delicate curve of her jaw. He leaned in, slowly, his breath warm on her cheek. His eyes, just inches from hers, seemed to pierce her very soul.

His lips met hers, not with tenderness, but with a deliberate, almost possessive pressure. It was a claiming, not a kiss of affection.

There was no passion, no sweetness, only the cold, hard assertion of ownership. Livia felt a profound jolt, a chilling recognition that this man, now her husband, had taken not just her hand, but her entire life, into his formidable grasp.

When he finally pulled back, a fraction of an inch, his gaze held hers, an unspoken message passing between them. He had won. He had claimed her.

And as the applause, thin and scattered, began to ripple through the hall, Livia knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that her life as Lady Livia was truly over.

She was now the Duchess of Blackmoor, bound to a man whose will was as unyielding as iron, and whose depths remained a terrifying, intriguing mystery.

*******

The wedding vows were barely cold on her lips, but Livia already knew what lay ahead. The marriage might have been consecrated in the eyes of society and God, but the true consummation, the private act that would bind her physically to the Duke, loomed over her like a dark cloud. She dreaded it with every fiber of her being, a visceral repulsion for the man who had so thoroughly stripped her of her autonomy.

But Livia, for all her fear, was nothing if not petty and witty. As the last guests departed and the heavy oak doors of Blackmoor Manor closed on her new, terrifying reality, a mischievous, desperate plan began to form.

As evening descended, and the hour for the dreaded "bedding" approached, a piercing scream echoed from the bridal suite.

"My stomach!" Livia shrieked, clutching her midsection and doubling over dramatically. Her cries escalated, a truly convincing performance of agony, punctuated by genuine tears of fear and frustration. "Oh, the pain! It's excruciating! I feel as though I might... might expire!"

Servants rushed to her side, their faces etched with concern. Julian, who had been preparing for the inevitable, arrived quickly, his expression unreadable, though a flicker of annoyance crossed his features at the disruption. Livia, seeing him, upped her performance, gasping and moaning with renewed vigor.

"The physician!" Eleanor exclaimed, rushing to Livia's side, playing her part with an intuitive understanding of her friend's desperation. "Someone fetch the physician immediately!"

A harried physician was summoned, examining Livia with a perplexed frown. He poked and prodded, listened to her heart, and asked a series of questions.

Livia, with remarkable theatricality, described phantom cramps, debilitating nausea, and a general malaise that defied easy diagnosis. She was vague, contradictory, and utterly convincing in her distress.

The physician, bewildered by her symptoms yet unable to find any physical ailment, could only recommend bed rest, light meals, and a soothing cordial. He advised against anything strenuous, implicitly including marital duties, much to Livia's silent triumph.

And so, for a glorious, scandalous week, Livia got away with it. Each evening, as dusk settled, her "symptoms" would miraculously return with renewed intensity, forestalling any unwanted nocturnal visits from her formidable husband.

Behind the closed doors of her temporary confinement, she and Eleanor would giggle, their hushed laughter a defiant whisper against the solemn silence of Blackmoor Manor. Eleanor, delighted by Livia's cunning, covered for her expertly, ensuring that the Duke received daily, gravely concerned updates on his new Duchess's mysterious, lingering ailment.

Julian, to his credit, remained outwardly calm, though the increasing frequency of his jaw-ticking did not go unnoticed by his staff. The delay irked him, but he was a man of immense patience when he chose to be.

He sent polite inquiries, small gifts of fruit and calming teas, and maintained a facade of concern. Yet, Livia knew his placid exterior hid a growing impatience, a silent tallying of the days. She knew this reprieve was temporary, a mere delaying tactic. The lion would only tolerate being teased for so long.