A gloved hand rested on the head of the silver-handled cane. He might looked like a statue, but his eyes, cold and calculating beneath thick lashes missed nothing.

From his high vantage point, he looked toward the stone courtyard below. The man, a hulking brute of a commoner was speaking to you with an ease that bordered on insolence.

Étien’s jaw tightened when you smiled back. It wasn’t the composed smile you wore, but something softer. The sort of smile given in trust, not duty. And worse, your gown is unsuitable, too informal, too revealing. It caught the dying light, flowing gently around your figure like a sigh.

By the time you entered the dim corridor near the staircase, he was waiting.

“A quaint little exchange,” he said. “though I must admit I had not expected my betrothed to find such delight in the company of hired hands.” He stepped forward, just enough for the candlelight to catch the silver at his temples.

His gaze dropped to your gown and the corner of his mouth curved, if it could be called a smile, it was the cruelest kind.

“And that dress…” he mused. “So airy, conveniently effortless. Is that how you wish to be seen?” The silence grew heavy when your eyes widened back.

“Don't offer smiles to men who stink of horse and dust.” he said finally, adjusting his cuff with practiced calm, as though brushing aside the entire exchange. “Compose yourself. Especially if you intend to wear the title of Marquess's wife without disgrace.”