“Don’t laugh at me,” Domitian scowled. “You’re my wife now. We’ll have the ceremony tomorrow morning.”

“Your father will never allow it!” She’d be divorced again within the week, once Vespasian or Titus found out. Or perhaps they’d let him have his way, counting on him to call for divorce himself once his passion cooled.

Domitian began dragging Marcella through the other rooms of her new quarters, talking too loudly. A private bathhouse, a bedchamber with a vast sleeping couch . . . and a huge spacious tablinum with arched windows and a whole wall of shelves filled with scrolls. Marcella ran her hand along the smooth surface of the desk, already stocked with blank rolls of parchment, wax tablets, fresh pens . . .

Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, being a prince’s wife for a few weeks or months. As Lucius’s wife, she certainly had all the disadvantages of being a girl and none of the advantages of being a matron. And after Domitian tires of me, perhaps I won’t remarry at all.

Cornelia Secunda, known as Marcella, a prince’s wife. Who would have thought it?

“See?” Domitian muttered into her neck, pulling her down on the huge bed. “I said I’d have you.”

“How impetuous you are,” Marcella murmured between kisses. “Your brother will be furious, you know.”

“Who cares what he thinks?” Tugging at her skirts.

“He’s the heir, darling—he can do whatever he wants.”

At first she didn’t feel the pain. Only the shock, as Domitian slapped her across the face.

“Don’t play me,” he said calmly.

For an instant she thought she was back in the sunny atrium while Marcus Norbanus looked at her with such dispassionate dislike . . . back in the bathhouse where Diana regarded her with such utter contempt. “. . . I don’t play you,” Marcella managed to say.

“Yes, you do.” He was inside her now, his weight heavy on her breasts, but his thick body stilled for a moment as he looked down into her eyes. “You play everyone, Marcella. You’re very clever at it. I don’t like clever women, but I can put up with your cleverness. Just don’t use it on me. No more little whispers about Titus. He doesn’t concern you, and neither does my father. Your only concern now is me.”

“Of course.” Marcella reached placating arms around his neck, but Domitian slapped them away.

“You’ll keep my house,” he said, and one of his heavy hands dropped across her throat. “You’ll warm my bed.” Fingers sinking into her neck. “You’ll bear me children.” Tighter. “Those are your duties, Marcella. The duties of a proper Roman matron. Nothing more.”