His Perfect Passion

“I do not want to be like her. I would show my children love because that is what a mother is supposed to do. Children are a precious gift, to be cherished and…protected.”

“Do you want to be a mother, Marianne?”

“Of course I do, Darius.” But I don’t deserve to be one.

“Tell me. Tell me you will want my child, please. I need to hear that from you, Marianne.”

He sounded almost desperate. The overwhelming urge to soothe and reassure him was necessary. Something she had to do. “I want your child, Darius. I do, truly.” She kissed him on his chest, feeling him relax. It was a small kind of comfort.

“I am so glad, Marianne. You will be a wonderful mother to our children.”

How could I be?

“What of your father?” She moved from his embrace so she could see his face.

He smiled fondly. “Father tried to make up for her. He was excellent. I was but five and twenty when he died,” he said wistfully.

“I do remember him, vaguely, at church.” She touched his cheek. “You look like him, from what I remember and the portraits in the house. Very handsome, the both of you.”

Her compliment seemed to affect him. She sensed melancholy and regret in him. It saddened her.

“I wish he could have known you as mine.”

“I do as well, Darius.”

Very softly he said, “I think you perfect, Marianne.” He met her lips in a deep kiss. “Ti amo.” He whispered it so quietly she might not have heard. But she did hear.

Again, she stilled.

Oh, Darius, you should not love me!

Marianne felt sick to her stomach, and guilty, like she had bewitched him with dishonesty. And she knew if he was aware of the truth about her, he would regret his declaration. But the selfish part of her waited for Darius to tell her to say the words back to him. The silence hung heavy as she waited for it.

He didn’t. And the selfish part of her wanted him to command her to say she loved him. She wondered why he didn’t, and frowned. He had asked her to tell him she wanted his children. Why not this?

Marianne got quiet then, and still, contemplating until she accepted the reason. Darius did not want her to say it. If there was one thing she knew about Darius, it was that he acted on his desires. He knew what he wanted and had no trouble voicing or demanding it. So then, that left only one possibility. He didn’t want love from her. He wanted her body and her companionship and her obedience to him. As it should be…

* * * *

The first time he’d said those words he was hardly aware, so often it swirled in his thoughts. This time, however, Darius was fully conscious his declaration was not returned, and the pain of that knowledge was excruciating. He’d observed her frown and felt her stiffen up, and that had hurt even more.

The thing that attracted him to her in the first place—her submissiveness—had trapped him. He could tell her to do things, say words, and think thoughts, and she would, but he could not tell her to say that she loved him. He physically could not. Because if he did that, then he might never know if she only said the words to please him. Maybe he would never know the truth, but he simply could not bear for her to tell him she loved him when in fact she didn’t. Just couldn’t bear the thought of it. He vowed he’d refrain from voicing the sentiment aloud to her again.

Chapter Thirteen

The two of them went along together in this way for many weeks, until Marianne’s father died. Mr. George aspirated his own vomit while passed out from too much drink. Darius was the one to tell her and to hold her while she cried her heart out. Grateful that Marianne was spared the burden of discovering her father dead, he took consolation in that at least. That dubious “honor” had gone to Mr. George’s housekeeper, who’d found him cold and already stiff in the bed.

Marianne grieved, of course, the last member of her family dead, and under sad circumstances. Darius agonized for Marianne, wishing he could ease her pain. For all that he had disapproved of Mr. George, he was still his wife’s father and loved by her. She had shared fond memories of him from childhood.

The sight of her mourning at the graves of her parents rent his heart. So sorrowfully beautiful, dressed completely in jet black, the only points of color being her blue eyes and the pearl crucifix he’d given her, would be an image of Marianne he’d never forget.

Darius could see that Marianne missed her father, and he began to worry. He worried that Marianne did not have cause to need him anymore. It was not necessary to be reminded of how he’d won her. She had sacrificed herself to save her father. Darius knew that. Well, her father no longer needed saving. He was dead. And because of that, Marianne did not really need Darius any longer.

She might not need him, but she was stuck with him, for he would never let her go. The very idea was an impossibility. She was his precious Marianne, whom he loved more than anything, the wife he loved, even though she clearly didn’t love him in return.

Loving was never part of the plan, but in matters of the heart, things rarely go to plan. It was simple, really. He loved Marianne and had told her so. Hearing the sentiment returned was his greatest wish. On more than one occasion he had told her, and the pain of the absence of those words given back was acute.

Darius didn’t know what he could do about it though. He’d made such a mess of everything and was now so entangled, he felt like a puppet bounced along on a string.