“Come here, Clara,” he said, almost gently.

I crossed the Persian rug with measured steps.

He said he had been under a great deal of pressure with the new development and should not have lost his temper, and he opened a small drawer and slid a black velvet box across the polished wood.

Inside was a heavy platinum bracelet set with three rows of brilliant-cut diamonds.

“You must look the part of a Duncan bride,” he said, and took my hand and pulled me closer, and wrapped the cold metal around my wrist, his fingers pressing into the tender skin there.

I am not going to describe in any detail what his fingers pressed against, except to say that there were marks on me by then that had not come from rose thorns, and that I kept my face perfectly still and forced a smile and told him it was beautiful.