My sharp tongue has always been my shield against the fear of rejection that childhood neglect left behind, but it meets its match in Francesca Townsend.

One hand at the small of my back is enough to halt me on the estate drive. She does not have to say anything at all.

Every defiant word I snap only tightens her control, and the ledger room's heavy oak table will soon see the discipline that threatens my inheritance and promises the claiming I secretly crave without abandonment. The secrecy of our desire in this rigid world heightens the dread and the pull. I wonder how far I can push before her hand lands on bare skin.