XI

The Prescott brougham came to a gentle halt on the pristine, raked gravel. Through the window, Maya watched the line ahead—a glossy barouche, a lacquered landau, each one releasing a flutter of brilliant silks and carefree laughter onto the red-carpeted steps. The house rose before them, a majestic expanse of pale Portland stone. The scale of it was… quietly overwhelming. The portico looked large enough to house her entire home with room to spare.

“Now, girls,” Aunt Eliza said, her voice low and firm. She traced a meaningful line in the air with a gloved finger. “Remember. Backs straight. Gloves on at all times. We are Lady Penbrook’s invited guests. Carry yourselves accordingly.”

Maya smoothed the fingers of her new kid gloves, the leather still stiff and unfamiliar. Her travelling suit of moss-green wool, so elegant and appropriate at home, now felt decidedly simple. The door swung open, and the outside air swept in, carrying the sweet, powdery scent of heliotrope. But beneath it, as she took a steadying breath, was another scent—the crisp, clean note of citrus and moss. Eau de Portugal.

She placed her hand in the footman’s white-gloved one and stepped down. The awareness of being observed from the grand portico above was immediate, a subtle prickle at the back of her neck. She did not glance up. Instead, she turned gracefully and offered her hand to Adelaide.

Her cousin’s blue eyes were wide, her fingers trembling and cold as they clasped Maya’s. “Oh, my,” Adelaide whispered.

“Just smile,” Maya murmured back, giving her fingers a reassuring squeeze. “We have every right to be here.” She infused her tone with a certainty she hoped was contagious.

Somewhere beyond those doors, he might be waiting, though she told herself it didn’t matter.

Behind them, she could hear Adeline already whispering some confidence to Aunt Eliza. Maya kept her own posture serene, her gaze steady on the imposing front doors. The gravel shifted slightly beneath her feet, but her steps did not falter.

* * *

Devin had already claimed the best vantage in the drawing room, a solitary perch by the first-floor window. The welcoming throng below might as well have been a blur of polite faces and laughter; nothing mattered except the sharp, restless ache of waiting for one particular carriage to appear.

He braced one hand high on the window frame, the fine wool of his coat pulling taut across his shoulders. In his other, a drink he’d forgotten to taste. When the sleek black brougham with the Prescott crest finally came into view, Devin’s hand froze on the curtain.

The door swung open. His breath stopped.

Auburn-gold under a neat hat. The line of a shoulder. Then she was there, stepping down onto the gravel.

The house party behind him—the laughter, the music—cut out. His circling thoughts, his thudding heart, every noise in his head—gone. Even his pulse seemed to hesitate, unsure if it was allowed to keep beating now that she was here.

That dark green suit. It wasn’t fabric. It was her. God. She still has it. That unruffled calm. She wore it like it grew from her skin.

But her eyes. He was a fool for her eyes. Those upturned hazel eyes, sweeping over the façade with that lift of her chin—cool, assessing. Judging the portico, then.

And then she turned back to the carriage. Her hand reached inside. To pull out the fluttering cousin.

Of course.

A smile cracked his mouth. Of course you’d do that first.

It was so her it rang through him, a bell struck clean. He’d always been the one looking only at her. She’d always been the one looking at everyone else.

She was here.

A raw, ridiculous thrill stole his breath and left him with nothing but the sight of her.

A titter sprang from behind him. He didn’t need to look. Lady Sophia’s set, clustered near the fire like gaudy, restless butterflies.

“Well, there is Miss Prescott at last,” Alice’s voice was a gleeful murmur. “Our Duke looks ready to fly down the steps himself. Who would have thought a little rustic dignity was all it took to ensnare such a prize? It speaks volumes about his recent… simplicity of taste.”

“Alice, I beg you, find another subject.” Sophia’s interruption was swift and tense. “Miss Prescott’s attire is faultless. The suit is a Redfern, the gloves are kid. One must acknowledge the… quiet assurance of her presentation.”

A beat of stunned silence followed.

Devin let the curtain fall. A faint, cold satisfaction settled in his chest. Lady Sophia had learned her lesson—or would soon enough.

* * *

In her bedchamber, Maya stood still as Agatha put the final touches to her hair. The room was dominated by a white Statuario marble fireplace, its mantelpiece a froth of carved ivy and rambling roses. Above it, a vast, bevelled pier glass captured and repeated the room’s opulence. The claret silk of the drapes gleamed. The ormolu clock shone. The dense Axminster carpet stretched below, a dizzying, infinite gallery.

“You’ll do, miss,” Agatha said finally, stepping back. Her normally impassive face held a glint of fierce satisfaction. “More than do.”

Maya looked in the pier glass. She looked like a stranger. A poised, impossibly expensive stranger. The gown was from Madame D’Arbley in Dover Street, delivered only yesterday in a specially reinforced box after two express fittings and a small fortune spent on the modiste’s assistant.

It was rose-gold satin of the heaviest, most liquid quality—not a simple pink, but a complex, burnished alloy of copper, peach, and pale gold. The color did not shout; it glowed from within the weave, a luminous, multi-dimensional shade with deep, metallic luster. The fabric held light like a reservoir, releasing it with each shift of her body in a slow, molten ripple of gilded shadow and soft fire.

It skimmed her shoulders and traced the lush curves of her corseted body before falling away in soft folds, its radiant hue turning her skin to warm alabaster, her auburn-gold hair a living flame. Pearls were woven through the intricate chignon at her nape, their white gleam a quiet wink against the gown’s low, gilded warmth.

In the pier glass, Maya saw herself fully—not adorned, but illuminated. Poised. Regal. A woman who did not need to enter a room to be felt.

A nervous flutter battled with a defiant thrill in her stomach.

The door burst open without a knock, and Adeline and Adelaide spilled into the room in a whirl of cerulean and rose silk—their own new gowns—a shared, secret joy, their bills tucked inside her own when she’d sent the draft to Madame D’Arbley. They stopped short, their chatter dying into a simultaneous, soft gasp.

Adelaide’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Oh, Maya,” she breathed.

Adeline simply stared, her eyes shining. Then a slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. “Look at you,” she whispered. “Just look at you.”

Agatha, standing back near the dressing table, gave a single, firm nod, her own expression softening into something perilously close to pride. “There,” she said. “Now you’re ready.”

Adelaide clasped her hands together, her delight incredibly contagious. “We saw him in the drawing room. He was standing apart, near the arch to the conservatory.”

A sharp, hot-cold thrill shot through Maya’s veins, but she schooled her face to contain her excitement.

Adeline stepped forward, linking her arm through Maya’s with gentle possession. “Come on. Let’s not keep everyone in suspense.”

Maya took a final breath, the scent of French milled soap and her familiar lavender water filling her senses. She smiled, a real one, at their reflections.

“Then let’s go,” she said.

* * *

The murmur hit her first. Then the scent: beeswax, gardenias, claret.

She paused on the threshold. Aunt Eliza’s hand pressed lightly at her back. Adelaide gripped her elbow. Adeline stood rigid at her other side.

“Heavens,” Adelaide breathed.

“Chin up,” Adeline murmured. “You outshine every one of them.”

The silence rippled out from the doorway like a stone dropped in still water. Heads turned. Conversations dipped, then surged higher.

Lady Penbrook emerged from the crowd like a ship under full sail. Black silk. Silver hair. Eyes that missed nothing.

“Miss Prescott.” Her gaze traveled once, swiftly, from Maya’s pearl-studded chignon to the hem of her rose-gold gown. “You are in good time.”

A trap. Early is eager. Late is insolent.

Maya curtseyed, slow and deep. “Your home is so breathtaking, Lady Penbrook. One is eager to see every moment of it.”

A beat. Then the older woman inclined her head—a fraction—and moved on.

Adelaide exhaled.

“Acceptable,” Aunt Eliza murmured. “Barely. Next time, wait for her to speak first.”

“Yes, Aunt.”

Lord Frome intercepted them before they’d taken three steps. He was florid and beaming, his waistcoat strained across its buttons, and he claimed Maya’s hand with the possessive warmth of an old family friend.

“My dear Maya! How splendid you look. Country air agrees with you.”

“It does, Lord Frome. How is Lady Frome?”

“Flourishing. She’ll want to call on you. You must come to tea.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Between us, I told your brother you’d take. Knew it the moment I saw you.”

He patted her hand and released her.

Adeline’s voice, low at her shoulder: “You’ve been officially ‘taken,’ then. I suppose that settles it.”

“Hush,” said Adelaide, but she was smiling.

They moved deeper into the room. Aunt Eliza steered them with small, subtle pressures—a touch to Adeline’s elbow, a brief incline of her head. They circled the outer edge of the conversation.

A young man detached himself from a nearby cluster. Mr. Granville, fresh from Cambridge, his collar a fraction too high. He bowed, flushed to the ears.

“Miss Prescott. I wonder if I might beg the honour of a dance? The first set, if it’s not already promised?”

It was not promised. The realization flickered through her, cold and quick, before she smiled.

“The first set would be lovely, Mr. Granville.”

He beamed, bowed again, retreated to his friends. She caught the low, urgent murmur of his voice, the nudge of an elbow, the glance thrown back in her direction.

“Well,” Adeline murmured. “That was fast.”

* * *

Aunt Eliza guided them toward a cluster of older ladies near the fire. Friends of the family. Safe ground. Maya exchanged pleasantries, produced the correct names from memory, smiled at the appropriate intervals. Beside her, Adeline performed her own variations—cool, polished, a shade too correct. Adelaide spoke less, her gaze drifting.

Captain Forster found them there.

He was resplendent in his regimentals, his mustache waxed to two perfect points, and he bowed first to Aunt Eliza with perfect, punctilious courtesy. Then his gaze found Adelaide.

“Miss Adelaide Archibald. You promised me a waltz, I believe.”

Adelaide’s blush crept to her hairline. “I believe you promised to request one, Captain.”

“Then I am requesting. Earnestly.” His eyes crinkled. “Will you deny a soldier his only consolation?”

She murmured something that was clearly assent. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm with quiet triumph and led her toward the dance floor.

Adeline watched them go. Her expression was carefully, exquisitely blank.

Then a young man with sandy hair and a diffident manner appeared at her elbow.

“Miss Adeline Archibald?” He hesitated, colouring slightly. “I don’t know if you remember me—Geoffrey Hammond. We were introduced at Lady Danbury’s ball last spring. The quadrille?”

Adeline’s composure flickered—just slightly, at the edges. “Yes. Of course. Mr. Hammond.”

His relief was palpable. “I wondered if you might have a dance free?”

Maya watched them go, then turned. The room cleared before her.

A servant passed with champagne. She took a glass, sipped, and let her gaze drift.

The room was a kaleidoscope of silk and candlelight, of nodding plumes and flashing jewels. Ladies leaned close behind their fans. Men clustered near the fire, their laughter low and territorial.

Her gaze moved steadily, sweeping the room.

Where is he?

Not near the fire. Not with Lord Thornton’s set. Not among the dowagers holding court by the window.

Maya’s breath snatched from her lungs.

Her hazel eyes rested on the intimidatingly good looking gentleman at the far end, near the grand piano.

He was half-turned from her, his profile sharp against the candlelight. His dark, slightly wavy hair fell just over his brow. He appeared intent on whatever Lord Waverly was saying. The glass in his hand had not moved in some time.

He was not looking at her.

But she knew he knew she was there.

Then he turned. Not much. Just enough. His gaze found hers across the room.

Those eyes. Storm-grey, heavy-lidded, unreadable. They moved over her face once, slowly, as if confirming something he already knew.

His mouth—wide, the lower lip fuller than the upper—did not smile. But his head inclined, a fraction.

Maya looked away first.

Behind her, Aunt Eliza said nothing.

* * *

The first set was called.

Mr. Granville appeared from behind her, nervous and eager, and led her onto the floor. The dance was simple—a country dance—but his palm was damp inside his glove and he counted under his breath, moving his lips.

“You’re doing beautifully,” Maya assured him.

He beamed. “I say, that’s awfully kind.”

When the set ended, he thanked her twice and bowed himself back to his friends, already reliving the triumph.

A footman passed with champagne. She took another glass.

Sir Humphrey Waycross appeared at her side, white-haired and mild.

“Miss Prescott. Your father was a capital shot. Best I ever saw with a Purdey.” He paused, a brief, courteous hesitation. “I trust your brother carries on the tradition?”

“Spencer keeps the guns clean, Sir Humphrey. The harvest has demanded his attention this season. He sends his regrets.”

“Ah, the lot of a landowner.” He nodded, satisfied. “And your sister-in-law? She flourishes?”

“Very much so. She remained to keep him company.”

“Good, good. A wife’s place is with her husband.” Another nod. Then, gently: “And your mother’s roses? Still the finest in Nottinghamshire?”

She smiled. “The head gardener writes that the damasks have outdone themselves this year.”

He listened, nodded, and moved on.

“A friend of your father’s,” Aunt Eliza murmured. “Reporting back. You’ve passed.”

* * *

Mr. Granville returned, emboldened by his success. “Miss Prescott. I forgot to say—that is, I wished to say—you look very well tonight. Extremely well. Everyone is saying so.”

“How kind of you, Mr. Granville.”

“It’s not kindness. It’s simply—you look—” He floundered, reddened, bowed. “The second set, then? If it’s not already taken?”

“It’s not taken.”

His face lit. He retreated again, walking backwards until he nearly collided with a dowager.

Maya set her empty glass on a passing tray and turned, deliberately, toward the terrace doors. The movement drew her gaze past the piano—past Lord Waverly, past—

Devin was no longer listening.

He was looking at her.

Their eyes met across sixty feet of parquet and silk and murmured speculation. His face gave nothing.

Maya looked away first. Her heart pounded.

Behind her, Aunt Eliza’s voice, low and steady: “Steady.”

She steadied.

Lord Thornton appeared before her, bluff and genial. “Miss Prescott! Haven’t seen you since—well, it’s been an age. You remember my wife?”

Lady Thornton smiled from beside him. Her gaze was warm, curious. “That gown is Parisian, unless I’m very much mistaken.”

“Dover Street, actually. Madame D’Arbley.”

“Ah. I thought I recognized the cut.” Her smile deepened. “She doesn’t take new clients easily. You must be very favored.”

Maya murmured something appropriate. Lady Thornton’s gaze held hers a moment longer, assessing, then released her.

They moved on.

* * *

The second set ended. The third was called.

Adelaide returned from the dance floor, flushed and breathless, Captain Forster still at her elbow. Adeline followed a moment later, Mr. Hammond hovering at her shoulder.

Adelaide’s eyes were bright. “He dances beautifully. And he asked if he might wait upon you tomorrow, Mama.”

Adeline’s smile was small, satisfied. “Mr. Hammond has offered to drive us in the park on Thursday. He said he would write to you formally.”

Aunt Eliza regarded them both with an expression that was carefully, deliberately neutral. “We shall discuss it in the morning.”

* * *

She was going to be the death of him.

She moved through the crowd like a woman made of fire and gold, and every man in the room was watching.

Granville had danced with her thrice. Thrice. The pup was practically glowing, still hovering at her elbow, still finding excuses to lean close. Devin had watched the first set and then the second. He had watched her smile at something the boy said.

His grip tightened on his glass.

Frederic’s voice was a buzz in his ear. “…and so I told him, the mare isn’t worth half that…” Devin didn’t hear a word.

“Your Grace.”

He turned. Mrs. Althea Denby stood before him, ice-blue silk, pale green eyes, a smile that knew too much.

“I feel I must offer my congratulations. Your betrothed is quite… luminous. It explains your long absence from town.”

Devin gave her the barest nod. “Mrs. Denby.”

His gaze slid past her. Maya was speaking to Granville. Smiling at Granville. Then she glanced up.

Their eyes met across the room. Hers widened, just slightly. Her smile flickered. She turned away sharply, back to the pup, back to her cousins, back to the careful, maddening distance she had maintained all evening.

Hell.

“She is remarkable,” he said, his voice flat.

He set his glass down on the piano and walked.

* * *

The fourth set was called. The fifth. Maya lost count.

Granville again. Then a Mr. Althorpe with kind eyes and a stammer. Then Lord Esterbrook, whose hand pressed too low on her back and whose conversation was a thinly veiled inquisition. She answered him with smiling evasion and drank her champagne.

The glass was empty. Another appeared in her hand.

The music swelled. The room spun gently, pleasantly. She was laughing at something Granville said—something not terribly funny, but his earnest, adoring face made it impossible not to—when her gaze drifted, as it always did, to the far corner near the piano.

Devin was not there.

Her smile faltered. She scanned the crowd.

There. Near the terrace doors. Mrs. Denby in her ice-blue silk, her hand resting lightly on Devin’s sleeve. Her face was tilted up to his, her lips curved in that knowing smile. He was listening. His head was inclined toward hers.

Maya looked away. Her fingers tightened on her glass.

“—and so I told my sister,” Granville was saying, “that a gentleman caller must always—Miss Prescott? Are you unwell?”

She smiled. It felt painted on. “Not at all. Do go on.”

But she heard none of it.

* * *

The set ended. Granville bowed, reluctant, and was absorbed back into his cluster of friends. Maya stood at the edge of the dance floor, her champagne glass empty again.

A footman passed. She exchanged her empty for a full.

“Miss Prescott.”

She turned. Lord Esterbrook again, his smile too smooth. “I don’t suppose I might persuade you to risk a second dance?”

She should refuse. Aunt Eliza was watching from across the room, her expression carefully neutral. Adeline was deep in conversation with Mr. Hammond; Adelaide was twirling her dance card, pretending not to watch the door.

Maya smiled. “I should be delighted.”

Esterbrook’s hand found her waist. They moved into the waltz.

She refused to look toward the terrace doors. Utterly refused to look for the ice-blue silk or the dark head inclined toward it. She fixed her gaze on Esterbrook’s cravat and counted the steps instead.

One two three. One two three.

“—extraordinary gown,” Esterbrook was saying. “Madame D’Arbley does not take new clients lightly. You must be very—”

“Favored. Yes. I’ve been told.”

His brows rose.

Maya sipped her champagne. It was nearly empty again.

* * *

When the waltz ended, she did not ask Esterbrook to return her to Aunt Eliza. She excused herself—I require a moment—and slipped through the nearest door.

The balcony was cool and quiet. The murmur of the ballroom faded to a distant hum. Stone balustrades, climbing roses in terracotta pots, the vast black bowl of the sky pricked with stars.

Maya set her glass down on the ledge and gripped the cold stone with both hands. She closed her eyes.

Breathe.

She heard the door open behind her. Felt the shift in the air, the subtle displacement of warmth.

She did not turn. She knew the weight of his presence, had felt it across the entire aching width of the past hour.

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

His voice was low, rough at the edges. “Neither should you,” he murmured.

Maya opened her eyes. The garden below was silvered and shadowed. She did not turn around.

“Your friends will miss you,” she managed. “Mrs. Denby, in particular, seemed to be enjoying your company.”

A pause. Then, very quiet: “Is that what this is about?”

She turned then.

He stood a few feet away, his face half in shadow. The light from the ballroom caught the hard line of his jaw, the dark wave of his hair. He looked—she could not name it. His grey eyes held hers, and something in his stillness made her chest tighten.

“You’ve been watching me,” she accused.

“You’ve been watching me,” he returned.

She did not deny it.

“You danced with Granville.” The words dragged out of him like splinters.

“I danced with him thrice”

“Thrice.” His jaw tightened. “And Esterbrook. And Althorpe. And half the eligible men in that room.”

“They asked. I accepted.”

“You accepted every damn hand that was offered.”

“Should I have refused?”

“Yes.”

The word hung between them.

Maya laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to stand there with that woman’s hand on your sleeve and tell me who I may and may not dance with.”

His eyes flashed. “Mrs. Denby seeks my patronage for her son’s commission. Nothing more.”

“And Lord Esterbrook is a bore who seeks my dance card. Nothing more.”

“He wants you in his bed.”

“He will not have me there.”

“How am I to know that?”

The words hit her like a splash of cold water.

He thought she would—with Esterbrook. With any of them.

She could not speak. The pain was too sharp.

Devin’s gaze dropped to her mouth.

“You smiled at him.” His voice scraped low. “You laughed at his jokes. You let him put his hand to your waist and steer you around the floor like you belonged to him.”

“I belong to no one!”

The words tore from her, raw and too loud. Her fingers curled into her palms, nails biting half-moons into her gloves.

No one. No one. Not him. Not you. Not anyone.

She felt the sting behind her eyes and hated it.

“No.” His voice was barely audible. “You belong to no one. And yet every man in that room is picturing you in his bed.”

The crack of her palm into his cheek was sharp and clean in the night air.

Devin did not move. His grey eyes held hers. The faint mark of her fingers bloomed red across his skin.

Maya stared at her hand. She had struck him. She had never struck anyone in her life. Her palm burned. Beneath her gloves, her fingers trembled. Her chest fought for air.

“How dare you,” she breathed.

Something shifted in his face. The hard line of his jaw softened. His eyes moved over her face—searching.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “I should not have said that.”

Maya turned away. Gripped the stone balustrade. The cold bit into her palms. She fixed her gaze on the dark garden below and willed her breathing to slow.

Do not cry. Do not cry.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice was rough. She heard his footsteps. One. Two.

His hand closed over her waist.

Maya went rigid.

His chest pressed into her spine—solid, warm. Her breath stopped. The heat of him seeped through the the layers, into her skin. She felt it everywhere.

Devin’s breath stirred the tiny hairs at her temple.

“Look at me,” he murmured. “Please.”

Maya shook her head.

His lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Maya.”

The sound of it traveled down her spine, pooled low in her throat.

“I watched you,” he bit out. “All evening.”

His thumb traced a slow circle at her hip. Her breath hitched. Her fingers tightened on the stone.

“I told myself it was nothing.” Devin paused. His forehead rested against her temple. “It was not nothing.”

Maya closed her eyes.

She should step away. She did not.

“When I saw you tonight—” His jaw worked. “When I saw you walk through that door, in that gown—”

He stopped.

“I knew, I had not been living. I had been waiting.”

Maya gulped.

“I cannot stand in another ballroom,” Devin went on, “and watch you dance with men who are not me.”

His voice dropped to barely a whisper.

“And I cannot stand here, with my hand on your waist, and pretend I do not want to pull you closer.”

Maya’s heart slammed against her ribs.

“William—”

“God.” He whispered it like a prayer, like a confession. “I love the way you say my name. Say it again.”

She shook her head, throat too tight.

His lips brushed the edge of her ear. “Please.”

Slowly, she turned.

He was so close. Her palms came up against his chest—to push him away, to steady herself, she did not know.

His heart beat fast beneath her fingers.

He was larger than she remembered. His shoulders blocked the light from the ballroom. His grey eyes, heavy-lidded, moved over her face.

He was not handsome—not like Granville or Esterbrook.

He was something else.

He was mesmerizing.

The kind of man who did not need to smile to be devastating.

“I was jealous too,” Maya breathed.

Devin’s gaze searched hers.

“Of Mrs. Denby?”

How am I supposed to think when he looks at me like that?

“Of every woman who has ever touched your sleeve.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “And what do you do with yours?”

Maya looked down at them—pressed flat against his chest, her fingers curled into the wool of his coat.

“Tremble,” she confessed.

Devin’s breath left him.

His hand brushed her cheekbone.

Her eyes drooped on their own accord.

“Maya.”

His lips hovered near her temple. A fraction of a second passed. Then he brushed her skin—soft, lingering.

Stay still.…

His mouth found the corner of her mouth, his mint breath mingling with hers.

“You taste,” Devin murmured, “like champagne.”

Her eyes fluttered closed.

His lips traced the curve of her jaw. Slow. Torturous.

“And Heaven.”

A soft sound escaped her.

His mouth grazed her throat. Just below her ear. Her pulse leapt to meet him.

“And everything I have denied myself.”

His lips pressed there. Another. Maya’s fingers tightened in his coat.

“William—”

His mouth trailed lower. The hollow of her throat. The delicate skin above her collarbone.

She gasped. Her head fell back.

He withdrew, hovering a breath away.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathed.

She looked at him. At the grey eyes, dark and hazy. At the faint mark of her hand still fading across his cheek.

“No,” she whispered.

Her lips captured his—drawing softly, sucking, teasing, pulling.

He went rigid. His hands tightened on her waist as though bracing himself.

“Where,” he breathed against her mouth, “did you learn to kiss like that?”

She smiled.

“You are not the only one who has been waiting,” she whispered.

Something flickered in his eyes.

“Miss Prescott?”

His hands stilled at her waist.

“Maya?”

Aunt Eliza was getting closer.

Devin released her. Slowly. His fingers trailed from her hair, her cheek, her shoulder.

She stepped back. Her hands flew to her hair—the pearls intact, the chignon still held. Her gown—she smoothed the satin at her waist.

He stood before her. His cravat was slightly askew. His chest rose and fell in slow, deep breaths.

His eyes held hers.

“Maya?” Aunt Eliza’s voice came insistent, just outside the door.

“Coming,” she called out.

“Later,” she whispered.

His jaw tightened. “Later.”

She opened the door and stepped into the light.

XII

The stallion’s hooves shredded the dew-soaked turf, sending clods of black Nottinghamshire earth flying into the mist. Devin leaned low over the beast’s neck, the thunder of the gallop vibrating up his spine and drowning out everything but the rush of cold, damp air against his face. It was the only time his mind went quiet—when the world was reduced to the rhythmic heave of a thousand pounds of muscle beneath him.

Behind him, a ragged shout broke the spell.

“Slow down, you damned madman!”

Devin eased the pressure on the bit, circling the great horse back as Frederic skidded to a halt. The Marquess looked a ruin; his hat was gone, his golden hair was plastered to his forehead, and his Four-in-Hand knot—usually a work of art—was a limp rag of damp linen.

“You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedgerow,” Devin observed, his voice steady despite the exertion.

Frederic gasped for air, searching his pockets for a handkerchief that wasn’t there. “My valet spent an hour on this cravat. An hour, Will. Mary will have my head if I appear like a stable boy for the shooting party.”

“Shared suffering builds character,” Devin remarked, his mouth twitching.

They walked the horses along the ridge where the August sun began to burn the valley floor into view. The mist was stalled breath, thick and white, retreating only where the light touched the high ridges.

“I had a letter from my steward,” Frederic said, wiping his forehead with a damp sleeve. “The home farm’s accounts are a shambles. My tenants are arguing over crop rotation while I’m meant to play Solomon. It makes me miss the simplicity of the army.”

“The burden of the Entail,” Devin said dryly.

“The burden of a five-year-old daughter who will eventually require a dowry that doesn’t bankrupt the estate.” Frederic shook his head. “Mary is already compiling a portfolio. Sketches of gowns, lists of eligible heirs who haven’t even finished their schooling. It’s terrifying.” He shot Devin a look. “You’ll understand. Daughters are a lifetime sentence.”

“I have no daughters.”

“Not yet. But you’ve certainly taken the first step toward rectifying that.”

Devin didn’t answer. He adjusted his grip on the reins, his knuckles pale against the leather.

“Edward wrote to me,” Frederic continued, shifting the subject. “Still complaining about that new hunter he bought. Says it’s ‘spirited.’ In Edward-speak, that means it’s tried to kill him thrice.”

“He always buys them too green.”

“Indeed. Pray for Edward,” Frederic said, steering his horse around a muddy patch. “The Dowager has convinced herself that my ‘influence’ might finally secure an heir. Me, an advisor on domestic duty. The woman is truly desperate.”

“I shall pray for Edward’s wife,” Devin murmured. “She is the one caught in the crossfire.”

“True enough.” Frederic adjusted his reins, his gaze shifting to the horizon. “I’ll be returning to London by the month’s end. Mary wants to catch the tail end of the summer theatre, and frankly, my tailor in Savile Row is threatening to strike if I don’t settle my accounts for the autumn wardrobe. Besides, the country is getting a bit too quiet for my tastes.”

“The quiet is the point, Fred.”

“For you, perhaps. I need the noise.” Frederic shot him a look. “You’re off next week, I take it? The Parliamentary Bill for the new line?”

“The Select Committee sits on Tuesday,” Devin confirmed, his jaw tightening with the weight of the task. “I have directors to sway and votes to secure if the Midlands extension is to move forward. Abercrombie is the key.”

Frederic groaned. “Abercrombie’s still on the Board of Directors, isn’t he? Mary’s uncle. He’s as stubborn as a mule and twice as deaf. If you can convince that old walrus to sign off on your railway, you’ll be the hero of the hour.”

“Someone has to drag this century forward,” Devin remarked dryly.

They turned toward the stable yard as the sun finally cleared the ridges. The mist was gone, leaving the valley sharp and vivid.

“You’re in a strange mood,” Frederic observed, narrowing his eyes at Devin. “You aren’t scowling. For a man of your legendary gloom, it’s practically incandescent.” He tilted his head, studying Devin with a libertine’s sharp intuition. “The Prescott girl. I saw it at Penbrook’s—the way she looked at you when she thought no one was watching. Like you were a puzzle she hadn’t quite solved.”

“She looks at everyone with that same calculation,” Devin said, though the memory of Maya’s hazel eyes—steady and unrevealing—flickered in his mind.

“No,” Frederic said softly, his voice carrying a rare note of gravity. “She doesn’t.”

* * *

Morning softened the east parlour in a luminous haze, illuminating the rose-muslin gown as it molded her waist and clung to the sculpted flare of her hips.

The music curled through the room—a waltz with a bright, teasing lilt—and Maya glided through its rhythm.

Monsieur Duval hovered beside her. “Plus… plus légère—yes, yes—non, wait—ah!” He pressed a hand to his temple. “Mademoiselle, you make my instruction unnecessary. You dance as if the floor is merely a suggestion.”

Maya smiled, soft and amused, adjusting her turn with the quiet grace of one choosing to indulge him.

In the adjoining room, Spencer lounged with his coffee.

“If elegance were currency, she’d bankrupt London.”

Adelaide’s eyes followed Maya, steady and assessing. “That’s because she isn’t thinking about the steps. She’s composing the story.”

Silas’s voice sliced cleanly through the air.

“His Grace, the Duke of Devin.”

A sudden, absolute silence fell.

Maya slowed, her heart slamming against her ribs.

Devin stood framed by the doorway.

He saw her instantly. The light loved her—it gilded the wisps of hair at her temples. The muslin was a cloud over her skin.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Maya said, her voice a steady pool in the riot of her chest.

He crossed the threshold. Each stride — purposeful, consuming the distance between them. The air thickening with the scent of him—sandalwood, starched linen, and the crisp, cold edge of winter morning.

He did not speak. He simply offered his palm.

She placed her fingers in his—a featherlight touch that sent a pleasurable tremor up his arm, a startling shockwave that settled low in his gut.

“I didn’t know you danced,” she said quietly, surprise softening her words.

“A duke has many unexpected skills,” he replied, his voice low. “Few of them as honest as this.”

He led her to the center of the floor. His hand came to rest at the small of her back—a brand of heat through the folds of muslin. Solid. Certain.

He gave a subtle nod to the pianist. A new waltz began—slower, deeper.

Monsieur Duval bowed, vanishing into the periphery. There was only the music, the floor, and the space where their bodies almost touched.

Devin initiated the first step with a confidence that startled her. His body communicated through pressure and release. Maya matched him perfectly, her body answering his.

He spun her with debonair flair.

The room became a golden blur, Devin’s dark figure the fixed axis of her universe. The air rushed past, carrying the nearness of him deep into her lungs. For a suspended moment, Maya was flying, anchored only by the firm clasp of his hand.

Devin watched the arc of her turn, the elegant line of her neck, the way her lips parted on a soft gasp of motion. He saw the precise moment her eyes found his again as she completed the revolution, a flash of gold and triumph in the hazel depths. The return was a sweet collision. Maya’s fingertips trailed, lingering, against his palm.

The ceiling swam into view, his face filling her world entirely—those half-lidded stormy eyes, the stern line of his mouth gone soft. She felt the powerful muscles of his arm and shoulder cradling her, holding her safe.

Her lips curved into a knowing smile. “Careful, William,” she whispered, her hazel eyes holding his stormy gaze. “You’re falling in love with me.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His hand at her back tightened, pressing her infinitesimally closer—a silent, undeniable admission. He did not deny it. He could not.

The air grew close and hot, saturated by her fragrance and his own sharp want. He leaned in, a fraction. Her eyes drifted shut.

“Your Grace…” Aunt Eliza’s voice, bubbly and distant, floated from another world.

The music ended.

The spell held for one more suspended second. He did not release her. His hand remained at her back, the other still cradling her fingers.

When he finally stepped back, it was a conscious act of will. His pulse hammered beneath his skin.

“Thank you again,” she said, her voice slightly unsteady. “For everything. I should have said more at Penbrook’s, but we were—”

A faint blush. “—interrupted.”

Devin’s eyes smoldered. “You deserve far more. I give only what a man on the edge of sanity can manage without losing his last shred of honor.”

“I am leaving for London,” he added, his voice lowering into a private register.

“Tomorrow?” A trace of longing—raw and beautiful—fractured her composure.

“Yes.” He took her hand again, his thumb stroking her gloved knuckles. “But I needed to see you first. To be near you.”

He leaned in, his lips a breath from her ear. His whisper was a private confession. “London will be noise and duty. But my mind will be here. In this room. With the feel of you in my arms.”

He drew back, capturing her gaze, letting her see the truth of it.

“When I return from London,” he said, his voice low and earnest, “I will ask you properly. And I will not ask lightly.”

Maya’s breath snagged. “And what does that look like, William? When you ask me properly?”

He didn’t answer right away. His thumb traced her knuckle, once, twice—a man gathering words he wasn’t used to speaking.

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted quietly. “I only know it won’t be in a ballroom. Won’t be for anyone but us.” He looked at her then, those storm-grey eyes stripped of everything but truth. “I’ve spent my whole life saying the right thing at the right time. For this, I want to mean it. I want you to feel it.”

He paused, his hand tightening on hers. “But if you’re asking what I want—what I really want, after—”

He hesitated, his gaze locking on hers, heavy with something she couldn’t name. “Breakfast. Conversations that last all day. Walks where no one watches. Learning the sound of your laugh when you’re truly surprised.” His voice dropped. “You make me want to see how you take your tea in the morning—watch the way your fingers curl around the cup, the quiet sigh that follows the first sip.”

Her eyes glistened.

“When I return, we will decide what this becomes.” His voice dropped, rough and true. “No more pretending.”

He bowed—and in that moment, his devastating eyes held an intensity Maya had never seen before. It made her ache to hold him, to soothe him. But she couldn’t. Not with her family watching.

Then he walked away.

Maya stood breathless in the center of the sun-drenched floor. The echo of his hands still burning on her skin. She wanted to follow—but she didn’t.

* * *

London

London greeted the Duke of Devin as it always did—with a scent of polished leather and a thrum of speculative curiosity. Doors opened, heads bowed, but the air itself seemed to lean in, testing the rumor that the most dangerous man in the ton had been softened by a country girl.

He had returned to his Grosvenor Square townhouse under a sullen, wine-dark dusk. Officially, business called: the Midlands Line, steel contracts, a looming vote. Unofficially, he had fled. The quiet of Novaton had become a prison of her memory—the scent of lavender on a garden path, the reproachful softness of her mouth. Business was a blade to cut the ties of his own thoughts.

By midday, his drawing room was a battlefield of polite ambition. Financiers stood like crows in black frock coats, canes held like sceptres. Lords of the ton drifted in on clouds of Macassar oil and privilege. A few daring women, in walking dresses of shot silk the colour of temptation, arrived hoping the Duke’s famed charm had survived his recent retreat into respectability.

Invitations piled upon the silver tray—crested vellum, whispered suggestions, one private note in a hand he knew too well, proposing the Royal Italian Opera’s darkest box.

London remembered him. It always did.

Devin received them from his post by the Carrara marble hearth—a statue of a man in a perfectly cut coat of black superfine, his waistcoat a severe charcoal silk. His dark hair was ruthlessly ordered; his storm-grey eyes, half-lidded, missed nothing. He smiled where required, his voice a low, even instrument of impeccable courtesy.

The old, bored irony was gone. In its place was a chilling focus, a mind present but orbiting a distant, fixed point.

When the last guest withdrew. He loosened the gold links at his cuffs.

“Peace,” he muttered to the empty, gilded room.

His valet, Thompson, materialized. “Mr. Fletcher is in the study, Your Grace.”

“And the brandy?”

“The ’47 Napoleon awaits.”

“Wise man,” Devin said, already moving. “Fletcher’s company requires fortification.”

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

The study was his true domain: maps of his railway empire tracing iron veins across the walls, ledgers standing at attention like a leather-bound army. The air was Russian leather, shag tobacco, and ambition. On a side table, a brass telegraph ticked—the mechanical pulse of the modern world.

Fletcher stood before the desk, a man of angles and sharp creases, his face parchment-dry behind gold pince-nez. “The Midlands directors grow restless. Delay is costly.”

Devin poured two glasses of tawny brandy, handed one over. “Let them learn the cost of haste, Fletcher. It is higher.”

“A lesson they are disinclined to learn, Your Grace.”

Devin settled into his chair, the leather groaning. “Then my disinclination to care will have to suffice. What else?”

Fletcher consulted his ivory-bound book. “The Ironworks minutes. Correspondence from the Labour Commission. Three invitations from Westminster to debate factory reform.” He paused. “You’ve shown… interest in that subject.”

Devin’s gaze lifted from the papers, sharpening. The telegraph ticked in the silence. “Confirm my attendance. If we are to play their game, we will do it from the front row.”

“Understood.” Fletcher produced a final envelope, heavy cream, sealed with a familiar, elegant press of red wax. “A personal note. From Lady Caroline Montrose. She intends to call this afternoon.”

Devin took the envelope, his thumb brushing the wax. A vapour of gardenias and regret seemed to seep from the paper. “Then we shall have her,” he said, his voice devoid of inflection.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

Lady Caroline arrived as the afternoon light failed. She didn’t wait for the butler; she entered the drawing room with the practiced grace of a woman who knew exactly how her hips swayed beneath mauve silk.

Devin didn’t rise immediately. He watched her from the armchair, his gaze traveling from the artful disarray of her chestnut curls to the deliberate, slow lick of her tongue across her lower lip.

“William.” Her voice was a low, forced huskiness—the sound of a woman who remembered the exact frequency that used to make him turn. She stopped in the center of the room, her chest rising and falling in a way that drew the silk tight over her breasts.

“Business, Caroline,” he said, his voice flat. “It doesn’t wait.”

She laughed, the sound vibrating in the quiet room, and moved toward him. She didn’t just walk; she prowled, her gaze raking over the breadth of his shoulders and the hard, clean line of his jaw. She looked at him with an open, thirsty lust that would have been flattering if it weren’t so transparent.

“London says you’ve found a country girl,” she murmured, stopping so close her skirts brushed his boots. She leaned down, her hand resting on the arm of his chair, her face inches from his. The scent of violets and sweat-damped silk crowded his lungs. “That you’ve been broken to the bridle.”

Devin looked at her mouth, then up into her eyes, his expression as unreadable as a cliff face. “London talks. I don’t listen.”

“Does she know what she’s getting?” Caroline’s voice dropped to a dry rasp, her breath warm against his cheek. She bit her lower lip, her eyes fixed on his mouth. “The man who could make a woman forget her own name? Or the one who made her wish she could?”

She reached for his chest, her gloved fingers hovering over the lapel of his coat, a silent invitation for him to close the distance.

Devin caught her wrist.

He felt the delicate bones beneath the French kid, the frantic, uneven trip of her pulse against his thumb. He waited for the old heat to stir, for the familiar pull of a woman who knew all his darker habits.

He felt nothing but a sharp, dry boredom. It was like looking at a room he’d already moved out of.

He released her, his hand dropping back to the chair as if he’d just set down a heavy book. “You’re remembering a man who no longer exists, Caroline. That is a waste of your time and mine.”

A flash of genuine confusion crossed her face, followed by the jagged edge of wounded pride. She stood there a moment too long, her mouth parted, waiting for a spark that wasn’t coming.

“You’ve changed,” she accused, the words heavy with the realization that her power over him had evaporated.

Devin turned toward the fire, dismissing her with the casual finality of a closed door. “My carriage will see you home.”

He heard the whisper of her skirts as she retreated, the click of the latch. Devin braced one hand on the mantel, his knuckles turning white against the marble. He hadn’t lied. The libertine was dead. But the man who had replaced him—the one who couldn’t stop seeing upturned hazel eyes and a rose gold gown—was a far more volatile creature.

He didn’t know yet whether to call it a loss or a liberation. He only knew that the “theatre” of women like Caroline no longer tasted like anything at all.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

That night, White’s enfolded him in its familiar, masculine fug. Cigar smoke coiled like blue serpents in the gaslight; the clink of crystal and the slap of cards were a liturgy he knew by heart.

“Devin! Your money is needed here!” Lord Essex called from a baize table, cheeks florid with claret.

Devin played a few hands, his movements economical, his focus absolute. He won without apparent effort, his mind a thousand miles away in a sunlit parlour. The jokes and jibes of the men rang hollow against the silence within him.

“You’re elsewhere, Devin,” Essex grumbled. “That northern air has frozen your wit.”

“My wit was never the asset you imagined,” Devin replied, rising and gathering his gloves. He left them to their fortunes, the echo of their laughter dying at his back.

Outside, the damp London night smelled of coal and regret. As his brougham rolled through the fog-cloaked streets, a single, treacherous thought took root: he needed a purge. Not of memory, but of the old, hungry ghost of himself. He needed to look it in the eye and walk away. There was only one place for that.

⋆ ⋆ ⋆

The house in St. John’s Wood was a temple to discreet sin. Crimson drapes bled light onto wet pavement. A single candle burned in an upper window—a beacon he had steered by for years.

He was admitted without a word. Expected. Always expected.

Her scent hit him first: amber, jasmine, and underneath, the faint, sweat-warm smell of sex and Turkish tobacco. The kind of smell that got into clothes and stayed, that reminded a man of where he’d been and what he’d done there.

The salon was a lush green cave. Sapphire lay on a chaise like something poured there, wearing indigo silk that slid off one shoulder. Her raven hair spread across the cushions. Her eyes—grey-green, heavy-lidded—found his and held.

“William.”

She rose. The silk slipped further. She didn’t fix it.

“I wondered if you’d forgotten the way.”

He stood very still. His blood remembered this room, this woman, this particular shade of dim light. The memory was physical—a pull low in his gut, a loosening behind his ribs.

“Some roads are hard to unlearn.”

She circled him. He felt the brush of silk against his coat, the warmth of her passing. “You’re different. Taut. Has your country girl shown you how to ache?”

“This isn’t about her.”

“Isn’t it?” She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could feel the heat rising from her skin. Her hand came up, her fingers tracing the air an inch from his jaw. “You came because she makes you feel things you can’t name. Things that scare you. You came because I speak the language you’re trying to forget.”

Her palm pressed flat against his chest. He felt the heat through wool and linen, felt his heart kick against it.

“You remember,” she murmured, her thumb finding the hollow at the base of his throat. “What it feels like to stop thinking. To just take. To let go.”

His jaw tightened. His hands stayed at his sides.

She leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I know what you need, William. I always have. Not a wife to protect. A woman to let you fall apart.”

Her mouth moved to his neck. He felt the wet heat of her tongue, the soft pull of her lips against his skin. His eyes dropped half-closed. A sound caught in his throat.

Her hand slid down his chest, over his stomach, lower. Her fingers found him through the wool of his trousers, pressing, shaping. He was already hard. She smiled against his neck.

“See?” Her whisper was a dark satisfaction. “Your body still knows me.”

His hands came up to grip her waist. The silk was thin beneath his fingers, her body warm and solid and achingly familiar. She pressed into him, her thigh sliding between his, her mouth finding his jaw, his lips.

He kissed her back.

The taste of her—wine and tobacco and something darker—flooded his mouth. His hands tightened on her waist. The old hunger roared up, hot and vicious, demanding.

She made a sound low in her throat, triumphant. Her fingers worked at his waistcoat buttons.

Maya’s face. Smiling at him. Careful, William. You’re falling in love with me.

He let go of Sapphire like she’d turned to flame.

She stumbled back a step, catching herself on the chaise. Her grey-green eyes went wide, then narrow. “What—”

“No.”

The word came out rough, barely there. He was already refastening his waistcoat, his fingers clumsy but determined. His blood still roared. His body still screamed at him. But he could see Maya—those hazel eyes, the best kiss of his life that beautiful night at Lady Penbrooks balcony.

“I’m engaged,” he said.

Sapphire’s laugh was sharp, incredulous. “You think that matters to me? To you? I’ve had you when you were ‘engaged’ to Eleanor remember?”

“Then you’ve had a different man.”

He turned and walked out before his body could argue.

The night air hit him like a wall—cold, wet, smelling of coal smoke and horse dung. He stood on the pavement and let it fill his lungs. His hands were shaking. His cock was still hard. Every nerve screamed at him to go back inside.

But Maya’s face held him there.

Careful, William. You’re falling in love with me.

In the carriage, he leaned his head against the cool leather and closed his eyes. The scent of Sapphire still clung to his coat. He could still feel her mouth on his neck, her hand on him. With repulsion at himself, he brutally wiped his lips clean with the back of his hand. God! What have I done!

He tried to reassure himself, that he’d almost fallen. Almost let the old self drag him under.

But he hadn’t. The “reassurance” should have made him feel less guilty but somehow he felt a great deal worse.

The carriage rolled through the wet London streets. Somewhere out there, in a house he’d barely begun to think of as home, a true woman who deserved his love was waiting for him to come back.

And damn he would, he couldn’t wait much longer.

XIII

The days after the Duke’s departure passed quietly. Beneath the surface calm, Prescott Manor hummed with a new energy—anticipation, memory, the vibrant chaos of a house fully awake.

The first week brought Mr. Pennyworth, the traveling photographer. He transformed the drawing room into a temporary studio, much to Aunt Eliza’s delight.

“Now, Miss Prescott, tilt your chin… a fraction to the left. Yes! Think of a pleasant thought. A pastoral scene. The flight of a dove.”

Maya sat still on the velvet posing chair, the iron head-brace hidden behind her auburn-blonde curls. She wore her best afternoon dress of peach silk, warm as the inside of a seashell, with a fichu of Irish lace at her throat. A delicate brooch of seed pearls and gold nestled in the lace. Her gloves were French suede in ivory, buttoned snug at the wrist.

She was not thinking of doves.

She was thinking of breakfast. Conversations that last all day. The way his thumb would trace her knuckle while she told him something ordinary.

She was thinking of storm-grey eyes. The solid heat of his hand at her back. The world blurring to gold as he spun her, flying in the strength of his arms.

“A sublime expression!” Mr. Pennyworth called from under the black cloth. “Hold it…”

A sharp pop. Magnesium flared, freezing her private longing in ghostly white. The twins gasped.

“It’s like magic!” Adeline whispered.

“It’s chemistry,” Adelaide corrected, though her eyes were wide.

Later, as the fumes cleared and Pennyworth packed his plates, Spencer appeared in the doorway. Two glasses of sherry. He offered one to Maya on the terrace.

“A permanent record of your betrothal year,” he said quietly. “Aunt Eliza will frame it and badger the Illustrated London News.”

Maya sipped. The wine was sweet and sharp. “It feels… final.”

Spencer gazed at the overgrown topiary. The boisterous brother was gone, replaced by a man weighted by something he couldn’t name. “Not all moments deserve to be captured. Some are better left in the darkroom. Unfixed. Washed away.”

Maya turned. “Spencer?”

He didn’t look at her. His knuckles were white around his glass. “The Duke’s first visit to Prescott House. Twelve years ago. It wasn’t a social call.”

The air stilled. The twins’ laughter faded to another world.

“I know,” Maya said.

He flinched, finally meeting her eyes. “He told you.”

“Yes.”

Spencer drained his sherry. “I was a fool. A desperate fool. I had nothing left to wager. Nothing but…” His voice broke. He looked at her, raw shame in his face. “You were eight years old. It was the most dishonorable act of my life.”

Maya watched a ladybug crawl the stone balustrade. “He refused you.”

“With a look that could have frozen hell.” A short, humorless laugh. “He threw my vowels in my face. Told me a man who stakes his family deserves to lose everything. I thought he’d ruin me.”

“And now?”

Spencer’s shoulders slumped. “Now he’s marrying my sister. And I have to live with the knowledge that the only good thing to come from my folly is that the one man who could destroy me chose to protect you instead.” His voice dropped. “Can you forgive me?”

She set her glass down. “The wager isn’t what binds me to him, Spencer. It’s the man who walked away from it. You have nothing to do with that anymore.”

He bowed his head once, sharply, and walked back inside.

* * *

The second week brought Mrs. Farnsworth’s Midsummer Assembly. Gaslight blazed. Gossip and quadrilles swirled. Maya stood with the twins near a potted palm, an island in the noise.

Adeline, in sky-blue tarlatan, kept darting glances at a young lieutenant. “He’s looked over three times,” she hissed.

“Let him look a fourth.” Adelaide, in shell-pink, didn’t glance up from her dance card. “Watch.”

She raised her painted silk fan, fluttered it slowly, then touched it to her right cheek.

The lieutenant’s eyes widened. He started toward them.

“What did you do?” Adeline gasped.

“I told him he’s too willing.” Adelaide smiled. “Fan language. Slow means married. Fast means engaged. Across the cheek means I love you. Right cheek means yes. Left means no. He’s been signaling ‘I desire an acquaintance’ all night by resting it on his heart. I told him to be patient.”

Maya listened, fascinated. Her own fan—ivory and peacock feathers—felt like a cipher. What would she signal William? They’d needed no fans. Their language had been pressure and release, his palm guiding, her body answering.

Sir Henry Fairbourne appeared, his Adam’s apple bobbing above a too-tight cravat. “M-Miss Prescott! If your card isn’t full—”

“I believe my sister’s dance card is spoken for, Fairbourne.”

Spencer offered his arm. “The next waltz is mine.”

On the floor, the opening strains began. Not their waltz, but enough. As they turned, Spencer spoke low. “See the matrons by the chaperone’s corner? They’ve been watching you all night with assessment. You’re the Duke’s future bride. Every move is noted.”

“It’s oppressive,” she whispered, smile fixed.

“It’s power.” He spun her. “Unwanted, but power nonetheless. Use it.” His grip tightened. “And if you must sigh for him, do it behind a fan. A closed fan held to the heart means ‘You have won my love.’ Save that one for the Ogre.”

Maya laughed. For a moment, dancing with her brother, the ache of absence mixed with the fierce certainty of family.

* * *

The letters arrived like clockwork.

The first was polite. London receives me as it always does—too loudly, too warmly. I trust the country remains kind to you. She read it three times, tracing the sharp initial D.

The second was shorter. Maya. I rode through Hyde Park. A lady passed in a gown the exact shade of your eyes. A cruel coincidence. I hope your garden prospers. —William. She pressed it to her chest, smiling, then placed it beside the first.

The third was a quiet earthquake. Dearest. Forgive my intrusion. Silence weighs heavier than letters. I know not whether I dread or desire what follows. —William.

Audria caught her reading. “Three letters! In his own hand! If that’s not devotion, I’ll eat my bonnet.”

“Please don’t.” Maya tucked the page away. “Your taste in millinery is dreadful.”

“He’s besotted.” Audria collapsed into a chair, radiant. “And so are you.”

* * *

The first week of September blazed. The house slept. The third letter lay warm beneath Maya’s pillow. I know not whether I dread or desire what follows. Her heart quickened, as it always did when she thought of him.

Restless, Maya slipped outside. No wrap. The night air was cool, carrying the scent of crushed mint and the sound of crickets. Moonlight silvered the garden. Fireflies drifted through the grass, turning familiar paths into something enchanted.

She walked to the stone bench by the dried fountain—the spot where, as a girl, she’d dreamed of adventures beyond the county line. Now her adventure was a man in London, and the frontier was her own heart.

A rustle in the rhododendrons.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Adelaide stepped into moonlight, her nightdress glowing. A small leather-bound book in her hand. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Maya shifted, making room. “What are you reading?”

“Byron.” Adelaide sat, tucking her feet beneath her. “When We Two Parted. Terribly maudlin.” She glanced at Maya. “I saw you from my window. You look like a Radcliffe heroine, pining by the ruins.”

“I’m not pining.”

“Aren’t you?” Adelaide’s gaze was gentle. “It’s all right if you are. Even for an ‘industrial Ogre.'” She smiled. “He writes to you. That means you’re in his thoughts. It’s a conversation, even across miles.”

Maya looked at her cousin—two years younger, but with a startling empathy. “Does it frighten you? Belonging to someone so completely? Your life becoming inextricably linked to theirs?”

Adelaide considered, fingers tracing the book’s edge. “Only if I couldn’t see myself in the reflection of his eyes. If I became smaller.” She looked at Maya. “You won’t become smaller. I think you’ll make the space around him different. Softer, maybe. But larger, too.”

The simple truth of it stole Maya’s breath. They sat in silence, two women under the same moon—one on the precipice, the other watching.

Finally, Adelaide stood. “Don’t stay out too long. The dew will ruin your slippers.” She paused, then leaned down and kissed Maya’s cheek. “He’s a lucky ogre,” she whispered, and disappeared into the shadows.

Alone, Maya lifted her face to the moon. She didn’t feel like a girl waiting anymore. She felt like a woman on the threshold. The ache for William was still there—a deep, resonant chord. But it was no longer emptiness. It was a string pulled taut, waiting for the musician’s hand to complete the melody.

* * *

Two days later, no announcement preceded him—only the grind of iron wheels on gravel. Gray haze hung over the wet fields, smelling of limestone and cut grass. With every jolt of the carriage, his pulse quickened.

Home. Or something like it.

The Landau stopped before Prescott Manor. Doors swung open. Servants spilled onto the drive in white aprons. Then the women—Audria, Aunt Eliza, the twins—their gasps and laughter bright in the morning air.

Devin stepped down. He stood on the gravel, tall and still. He nodded to Aunt Eliza, a brief dip of his chin. To Audria, a flicker of something almost warm. The twins curtseyed; he acknowledged them with a glance that softened for half a second.

Then Spencer appeared in the doorway. Their eyes met.

Devin gave a single nod. A man acknowledging another man’s place in the life of the woman he loved.

Spencer nodded back. Just once. It was enough.

Then Devin’s eyes swept past them all, scanning the house, the windows, the stone archway.

“Where is Miss Prescott?”

His voice was quiet. Quiet enough that Silas had to step closer.

The butler hesitated. “In the stables, Your Grace.”

Devin moved. He turned and walked, coat tails snapping, stride lengthening with every step toward the paddocks.

✿ ✿ ✿

Inside the stables, the scent of sun-warmed hay mingled with the salt-and-oil tang of leather. Bars of light sliced through the motes of dust, branding the straw-strewn floor in gold.

Devin stopped at the threshold.

Maya stood beside her mare. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, her hands moving through the horse’s mane. Her hair had slipped its pins—a mass of sun-gold waves falling over her shoulders.

She let out a long, slow breath while she worked the reins. Her muslin gown, stripped of hoops and lace, was cinched at the waist with a faded blue sash that shifted with every pull of the brush.

“There, my darling girl,” she murmured. “Such a fine coat, and such spirit—none could match your grace.”

Devin’s chest tightened.

This, he thought. This is what I’ve been starving for. Her. Just… her.

The mare shifted. Maya spun.

“Your Grace—”

The title hit him like a slap. After weeks of imagining her saying his name the way she had in her parlor so many weeks ago—William, soft and wondering—he was “Your Grace” again.

Before Maya could drop her gaze, Devin crossed to her. His knees felt like they belonged to someone else. He kept his hands at his sides because if he touched her now, he wasn’t sure he’d stop.

“Maya.”

The brush slid from her fingers. Dust puffed from the straw. She stared at him as if he were a ghost she’d conjured and couldn’t quite believe in.

“I—I did not know you had returned.”

“I could not remain away.” The words came out rougher than he intended—weeks of restraint crumbling in the space between them. “London became intolerable.”

A faint smile flickered across her lips. “Surely the city has its charms still?”

“None that rival this.” He took in the stable, the hay and the horse and the dust. But his eyes said her.

She knew it. Devin watched the knowledge move through her—a quickening in her breath, a softening in those hazel eyes that made his heart slam against his ribs.

He stepped closer. She retreated a step, skirts rasping over straw, but held his gaze. Good girl, he thought. Don’t run. Not from me. Not now.

“You look…” He searched for footing and failed. He’d faced down Parliament, commanded boardrooms, reduced grown men to silence with a glance. And here, in a stable, with hay in her hair and a horse behind her, he couldn’t find words. “More beautiful than I remembered.”

Heat rose in Maya’s cheeks. “You forget—I am unchanged.”

“No.” Devin’s voice dropped, rough and true. “Everything has shifted.”

She looked away, hand sliding down the mare’s shoulder. “Easy now, my girl…”

Devin stepped closer. The faint trace of London coal-smoke clung to his coat, but stronger still was her scent—lavender, warm, soft, intoxicating. Every step brought him nearer, and the world shrank to the curve of her lips, the proud swell of her chest beneath muslin.

“And the stories of suitors haunting your every step?”

“Only to discuss the weather.”

“Then I owe your aunt a debt.” His eyes darkened. “Had any man dared more, I might have done something for which I could not apologize.”

“Jealousy? How unseemly.” Maya gifted him a dazzling smile.

“Honesty.” Devin stepped closer still. “Has been rare these weeks.”

He extended a hand, hovering above her waist.

“Maya.” His voice was taut. “I have thought of you every hour. Every letter written, rewritten, cursed. You did not reply.”

“No.”

“Why?”

She bit her lower lip. “If I did, I should never stop.”

The air left his lungs. Three weeks of restraint, of telling himself he could be patient, that he would wait for her answer—all of it dissolved in seven words.

Devin’s fingers slid into the hair at her nape. Silk. Warm. Real. He tilted her head back, needing to see her eyes, needing to know if she felt this too—this desperate, terrifying need.

Maya’s hazel eyes darkened, heavy-lidded, and for a moment, Devin thought she might dissolve into him. Every flutter of her lashes sent a shock straight to his chest.

“I can endure no longer. A special licence. We marry within a fortnight.”

Maya searched his face. “You cannot be serious.”

“I have never been more so.”

“But—the world will say it is too soon…”

“Let them.” Devin closed the final inch. “I want you behind my doors and under my name.”

“William…”

He cupped her face, holding her gaze. “Do you love me?”

“I should not.” Maya’s mint breath warmed his mouth.

“That is insufficient.”

Her forehead dropped to his shoulder, fingers gripping a hand full of his coat.

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

Devin tilted her face to meet his, his lips found hers and the world dissolved. Her mouth was soft, yielding, his. He kissed her like a starving man, like she was the first meal he’d been allowed to touch.

Home, he thought. This is what home feels like.

A small, desperate sound escaped her throat and went through him like fire.

And in that moment, behind his closed eyes, he saw Sapphire’s face. Felt her mouth on his neck. Felt his own hands gripping her waist.

God, no. Not now. Not here.

He should tell her. Now. Before this went further. Before she gave him everything and he hadn’t earned it.

But he was a coward. He couldn’t risk losing this. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

He kissed her deeper, trying to bury the memory in her mouth—trying to replace it with her, with this, with the truth of what she made him feel.

Devin’s hand fisted in her hair, taking her mouth harder, deeper. She met him with equal hunger. Her body pressed flush into his—soft breasts molding to his abdomen, nipples tightening through muslin, boring into his hard stomach like small, insistent flames.

God. The way she fit into him, the tiny desperate sounds she made as he kissed her senseless. Maya was soft everywhere. Lush. Womanly in a way that undid him completely. He wanted to devour her.

“Oh… William.” The name broke from her lips, breathless, wondering.

His hands gripped the generous flare of her hips, pulling her harder against him. He was already rock hard—had been since the moment he saw her—and when she felt him, when she realized what she did to him, she made that sound again, that desperate little whimper that drove him insane.

He tore his mouth from hers, gasping.

“What—” he panted, “have you done to me?”

Maya’s hazel eyes were dark, dazed, lips swollen. She shook her head—tiny, helpless—and pulled him back down.

“I missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too—God, I’ve missed you, Maya.”

“Prove it.” She stood on her toes, dropping wet kisses all over his face.

Devin’s breath snatched. “What are you asking for, Maya?” His hands were still on her waist, but he pulled back slightly to search her lust-fueled face.

Maya entwined her hands around his neck. “What do you think?” She murmured, biting her lip.

He looked at her, looked at the stable, and back to her flushed face. “We can’t. Not here.”

“Why not?” She drew his lips back into hers, devouring them.

Devin felt the blood drain to his groin. With an effort he didn’t know existed, he pulled back from her. Their breaths came harshly.

Maya collapsed on his chest. “I’m sorry, it’s just—you make thought impossible.” She whispered against his throbbing heart.

“Good.” His voice was wrecked. “Then let us feel instead.”

A sharp cough broke the quiet.

Aunt Eliza stood in the doorway, fan snapping open. “If Dukes conduct themselves with such abandon, it is a miracle any lady keeps her head!”

Maya went scarlet. Devin shifted, half-shielding her.

“None of that.” Aunt Eliza’s eyes were bright. “You are entirely claimed, child. By the set of His Grace’s shoulders, he has no intention of surrendering you back to the schoolroom.”

She turned, skirts hissing through straw. “Come along, girls. We have a wedding to arrange.”

The twins’ wide eyes disappeared behind her.

* * *

Dinner at Novaton House was a ceremony, not a meal.

The dining room—vast, panelled in dark oak and warmed by the steady glow of a hundred wax candles set in silver candelabras—was a stage of refinement and ritual. The Devinscliffe crest, a blaze of gold above the marble hearth, watched over the room, while portraits of long-dead dukes and duchesses regarded the living with centuries of frozen pride.

Beneath a pristine damask cloth, the mahogany table was laid with a veritable army of King’s pattern silver, enough to serve a small village. Footmen moved with quiet synchronization under the unspoken order of service à la russe, their movements efficient yet unobtrusive, as if the ceremony itself were alive.

Not a syllable pierced the quiet until the second course—a delicate bisque of shellfish, had been tasted.

Devin ate with steady, galling calm. His grey eyes, fixed on the middle distance. Across from him, the Duchess sat wound as tight as piano wire.

At last, as the fish course was removed and the servants glided in with roast venison under silver domes, the Duchess laid down her silverware with a sound as decisive as a gavel.

“So,” she said, her voice a staccato of patrician ice. “I am told, William, that you intend to persist in this absurdity.”

Devin did not look up. “Which absurdity in particular, Mother? I have several.”

Lady Fitzwilliam stifled a small gasp, covering her smile with a napkin.

The Duchess’s gaze could have frozen steam. “Do not toy with me. I speak, of course, of this reckless proposal — this… marriage to Miss Prescott.”

Devin’s knife paused mid-air. “Reckless? No, Mother. I would call it settled.”

Her Grace’s spine straightened, if such a thing were possible. “Resolved?” she echoed, her tone a blade. “You speak as if this were the purchase of a new stallion. Marriage — your marriage — is not a matter of impulse. It is alliance, heritage, the continuation of our name. You are the Duke of Devin, not some country tradesman indulging a pastoral fancy for the miller’s daughter.”

“Indeed not,” he replied, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous baritone that usually signaled the end of a negotiation. “For one thing, Maya is neither a tradesman’s child nor a fancy. She is a lady — in spirit, in birth — only fate had dealt her family cruelly and I am marrying her.”

A silence fell so profound it seemed to extinguish the candlelight itself. Even the footmen froze mid-step, as though unwilling to stir the air between them.

Lady Fitzwilliam murmured faintly: “Good heavens. He’s serious.”

The Duchess inclined her head ever so slightly, a queen regarding a rebellious subject. “You would drag our name through the mire of provincial gossip — for what? Some romantic delusion?”

“For love,” Devin said simply, each word striking like a bolt of thunder.

“Love? Love is a weakness men indulge when they have no duties. You were raised to govern, William — to lead, to preserve the dignity of this house, not squander it upon a pair of hazel eyes!”

He met her gaze cooly. “Perhaps it is time the Devinscliffe name stood for something more than pride.

“Pride,” she repeated icily, “has kept this family intact for three centuries.”

“And perhaps it has kept its sons lonely for just as long,” he countered, calm as ever.

A collective intake of breath rippled down the line of servants. The Duchess’s hand trembled slightly before she set down her wine glass.

Lady Fitzwilliam broke the tension with a quiet sigh. “My dear William, you must know your mother cannot be persuaded by philosophy. She’s an empire unto herself.”

“Then let her reign,” he said, rising with a sudden, towering authority that made the candle flames flicker. “And let me live.”

“William—”

He turned fully toward her, every line of his frame a monument of resolve. “The banns will not be read. I shall obtain a special license. The ceremony will take place in a fortnight.”

“You will ruin yourself,” she whispered. “A Duke cannot marry sentiment. The world will laugh, the House will sneer, and I—”

“You,” he interrupted, voice dark and determined, “will see that I have never been so certain of anything in my life.”

Her thumb jerked against her fork, the silver scraping across the Minton china with a dry, jarring screech.

He bowed slightly. “If you cannot give me your blessing, then give me silence. Either will suffice.”

And with that, he withdrew, leaving his untouched dessert.

Lady Fitzwilliam watched him go, then turned to her hostess. “My dear, he is quite magnificent when he defies you.”

The Duchess exhaled, a sound of defeated majesty. “He is his father’s son,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And God help the woman who loves him.”

XIV

Prescott drawing-room was a hymn to high summer. Sunlight, thick with dancing motes of dust, streamed through the tall sash windows, pooling on the Aubusson carpet and gliding the spines of books in the mahogany case. The air held the quiet, domestic fragrance of rosewater, and the dry sweetness of potpourri.

Maya’s fingers moved over the pianoforte keys with a soft, rolling fluency, picking out the gentle melody of “Drink to Me Only With Thine Eyes.” Adeline, perched on the chintz settee, her afternoon dress a cloud of lilac, sang in a clear, true soprano. Adelaide, her needle busy with a tambour frame, hummed along.

The front door knocker sounded—a single, firm, imperious rap that cut through the melody.

They stilled. Silas’s tread crossed the hall. A low murmur of voices—one deferential, the other a deep, unmistakable baritone that sent a swift, secret thrill down Maya’s spine. The drawing-room door opened.

“His Grace, the Duke of Devinscliffe.”

Devin stepped into the room, and the very air changed. He was dressed for riding, his boots carrying the dust of a long, purposeful ride, his dark coat impeccably cut but worn with a casual authority that spoke of a man who owned every horizon he surveyed. He brought with him the scent of bay rum, warm horse, and sun-baked earth. His black hair was wind-tousled, his expression not one of casual visitation, but of a mission barely contained within the bounds of civility.

He absorbed the scene, his storm-grey eyes missing nothing before they settled, with palpable weight, on Maya.

She was a vision that halted the very air in his lungs. She wore a tea gown of the very latest fashion, a creation of silk moire in a shade of seawater blue that shifted with her every breath, from smoky aqua to deep azure. In the sun-drenched room, she seemed to glow, her wealth of auburn-blonde hair coiled in an artful arrangement that captured the light, her hazel eyes wide and perceptive. She looked less like a woman at a pianoforte and more like a goddess of calm waters, momentarily descended into a country drawing-room.

“Don’t stop,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Please.”

The ‘please’ did it. It was quiet, almost rough-edged. Adeline’s next note died prettily in her throat.

Maya’s hands lifted from the ivory keys. “Your Grace.”

“William,” he corrected softly, for the room to hear. He then turned his formidable attention to the twins, executing a brief, impeccable bow that seemed to both acknowledge and diminish the space between them. “Forgive the interruption. My business at Novaton concluded earlier than anticipated, and I found I could not delay my call.” His gaze swept the room, a ducal assessment that was also oddly personal. “Your home is always welcoming.”

Adeline found her voice first, a faint blush staining her cheeks. “You are most welcome, Your Grace. We are… surprised. And delighted.”

“A most agreeable surprise,” Adelaide echoed, setting aside her tambour frame. “Maya did not mention you were expected.”

“My plans were… singular,” he said, his gaze flickering back to Maya, who had risen from the stool. He engaged them with a focused charm that felt like a deliberate exertion of will. “I passed the lower meadow. The hay is in, I see. A good yield this year?”

Adelaide, ever practical, brightened. “It is, Your Grace. Cousin Spencer is well pleased. Though the weather must hold…”

For a few taut minutes, Devin held them. He spoke of the upcoming harvest festival, asked after Audria’s roses, acknowledged a new watercolour on the wall with a discerning comment. It was perfectly, flawlessly done. He was being, Maya realized with a swell of potent understanding, charming. He was deploying the full, formidable force of his attention to put her cousins at ease, to prove himself not a monster from a fairy tale, but a man. A man who, for her sake, would make polite conversation about crop rotation. She saw the effort beneath the polish, the brooding intensity in his eyes that softened only when they glanced her way, and it touched her more deeply than any easy flirtation could have.

Yet, the relentless purpose in him was a live wire. Seeming to sense the limit of the social interlude, he expertly extracted himself. Turning fully to Maya, he said, his voice dropping a fraction into a caress. “Before I entirely disrupt your afternoon, might I beg a moment of your time, Miss Prescott? It is somewhat pressing.”

It was all Maya needed to have some quality time with him. He didn’t wait for an answer, merely nodded again to the twins. “Ladies.” Then he turned and walked out, leaving the door open.

Maya followed, offering her cousins a small, reassuring smile. The silence they left behind was palpable.

Devin didn’t go far. He stopped in the cluttered morning room across the hall—the room of old ledgers and Spencer’s tobacco smell. He pushed the door until it stood open the precise width of a book spine, then turned to face her.

For a long moment, he just looked at her, as if memorizing her in the stream of afternoon light. The social mask was gone. In its place was a stark, weary intensity.

“The wager,” he said, “the way I told you. In the carriage. It was brutal. I used it as a weapon because I was angry—at Spencer, at the situation, at myself for wanting you so much it felt like a weakness.” He took a slow breath. “I am sorry for that. Deeply sorry.”

Maya felt the air leave her lungs. An apology from this man was a rarer, more disarming thing than any kiss.

“I know why you did it,” she said quietly.

“Knowing isn’t the same as forgiving.” He took a step closer, the scent of him, of bay rum and outdoors, enveloping her. “I don’t want a wife who is the settlement of a debt. I don’t want a duchess who is a transaction. I want you. The woman who argues with me in libraries and makes soldiers of children in a fairground. The woman who looked at a banker’s draft with horror.” A faint, pained smile touched his lips. “I want a partnership. If you’ll have me.”

From his waistcoat pocket, Devin drew the small box of dark morocco leather. He opened it. Inside lay the ring. A single, deep amethyst, the colour of a summer twilight, set between two clear diamonds on a broad band of old gold.

“My grandmother’s,” he said, his voice hushed. “She was a formidable woman. Loved fiercely. I think she would have approved of you.” He took it out. “May I?”

She offered her hand. His fingers were warm, slightly rough from the reins. He slid the ring onto her finger. It was heavy. It fit perfectly.

“A claim,” he acknowledged, his thumb stroking the band. “But also a promise. This is the family you’re joining. This is the history I’m placing in your hands.” He looked up, his storm-grey eyes holding hers. “I will not cage you, Maya. I want you to fill Novaton with your laughter. Change the curtains. Argue with me about the tenant roofs. Drag me to village fêtes. Be my wife in truth. In every way.”

The raw vulnerability in his words undid her. A hot pressure built behind her eyes. She looked from the ring on her finger to the storm in his. “Then I will,” she said, her voice thick with promise. “In every way.”

“And you?” she whispered. “What do I get of you?”

“A man who will come home to you. Who will listen. Who will stand between you and the world, always.” He swallowed. “A man who is… learning to be less of a fortress.”

Devin reached out then, to touch her face, his fingers tracing her cheekbone with a reverence that made her bones feel liquid. “I am not good at pretty words. My love isn’t pretty. It’s obsessive, and possessive, and it wants to give you everything. Even when I do it badly.”

Maya turned her face into his palm, pressing a kiss to its centre. “I don’t want pretty.”

A sound, part groan, part surrender, escaped him. He closed the distance, his arms wrapping around her with an immense relief. He buried his face in her hair. “God, I’ve missed you,” he murmured, the words muffled against her neck.

She held him, her hands sliding up the solid plane of his back, feeling the tension there. “I missed you too.”

He drew back just enough to look at her. The love in his eyes was a tangible force.

His mouth covered hers.

The kiss began softly—a brush, a question. Then his hand slid into her hair, his fingers tangling in the pins, and the kiss deepened. It was not gentle. It was a slow, unraveling. The taste of him—China tea and something indefinably male—filled her mouth. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and when she opened for him, the kiss turned hot, deep, devastating.

A low sound vibrated in his throat. Devin walked her back until the solid edge of the walnut writing table met her hips. He leaned into her, his body a hard line against her softness, one leg sliding between hers. The bold intimacy of it sent a jolt of pure lightning through her. Her hands fisted in the wool of his coat, clinging as the room tilted.

His mouth left hers to trail kisses down the line of her jaw, to the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. “Twelve days,” he muttered against her skin, the words a curse. “It’s a lifetime.”

The floorboard in the hall creaked. The door began to swing inward.

Devin went still. He didn’t lift his head from her throat.

“Do. Not.”

His voice was a low, dangerous growl that seemed to shake the air in the room.

The push on the door stopped. A sharp intake of breath. Quick, retreating footsteps.

In the sudden silence, Maya felt a wild, illicit thrill—the Duke of Devinscliffe wasn’t a man to intimidate. He was a man to command.

He lifted his head. His eyes were black, his breath coming in ragged pulls. He took in the sight of her—her lips swollen, her hair half-tumbled down, her chest rising and falling fast.

With a groan, he swept her up against his chest. He took two strides to the worn horsehair sofa and sat, settling her sideways across his lap, cradling her close. “Here,” he murmured into her hair, his voice still rough with unmet need. “Where I can just hold you.” Her head tucked under his chin. He held her, his big hand splayed on her back, his own heart still hammering against her side.

They sat like that for a long moment, the only sound their slowing breaths, and the distant, peaceful hum of the house around them.

THE WEDDING DAY

The morning of the wedding dawned clear and blue—a bright, crisp English summer day that seemed almost painted for celebration. By dawn, the lawns of Novaton Abbey clattered with life. Sleek, black-lacquered carriages of the ton rolled up the gravel drive, wheels crunching over sun-baked stones; liveried grooms scurried beneath the ancient yews, and the bells rang—solemn and joyous—their peal carrying across the summer air.

At the front, within the verdant shadows of the chancel, Devin stood—a monolith of governed power in his Superfine black morning coat. Every line of his posture spoke of mastery, yet the slow flex of his gloves betrayed an anticipation that bordered on veneration. He was a man on the precipice of a life surrendered wholly to love.

As the hour struck ten, the great gasoliers were dimmed to a golden glimmer, and the velvet curtains over the high windows were drawn, plunging the nave into a soft, cathedral twilight. In the pews, hundreds of guests held small silver-and-glass lanterns, their tiny flames flickering like trapped fireflies in the gloom.

A sudden, profound silence descended. The choir’s soaring anthem faded, replaced by the solitary, crystalline notes of a single soprano echoing from the rafters—a melody so pure and fragile it seemed to suspend time itself.

Then, the heavy oak doors groaned open.

The Abbey did not merely wait; it exhaled. To accommodate the Duke’s desire for “a sanctuary of nature,” the ancient stone floor had been transformed. Lush ferns, traveller’s palms, and overflowing banks of white moss lined the aisle, creating a verdant path that seemed to have grown from the very foundations of the earth.

When Maya Prescott entered, a collective intake of breath rattled the box pews. She did not merely walk; she floated through a meadow of August roses and trailing ivy.

Her gown of cream Duchess satin glowed with an inner light, the gold-thread embroidery reeling out like a slow river of honeyed light. The bodice was a triumph of structure, molding the sharp dip of her waist, the heavy satin sweeping back over her hips in an outline so dramatic it seemed to defy the very air of the cathedral. Her veil, a mist of Brussels point-de-gaze lace, fell from a coronet of real orange blossoms, their waxy fragrance fragile in the still air.

As she moved toward him on Spencer’s arm, the world outside the Abbey ceased to exist. There were no dukes, no socialites, no ton. There was only the melodious rustle of her silk train against the moss—and the steady, magnetic pull of the man waiting at the altar.

When she reached the chancel rail, Devin stepped into her space. The man beneath the formal morning coat seemed to surge forward, stripping away the Duke with the force of a sharp inhale. As his fingers closed over hers, the sudden, raw heat of his palm sent a shock straight to her marrow. His eyes, typically the cold grey of a winter sea, thawed into a roaring summer storm of absolute devotion that made a hundred women in the pews instinctively touch their own hearts.

The Archbishop’s words rolled through the vaulted stone arches like a benediction carved in air, but for Devin and Maya, the universe had shrunk to the few inches of space between them.

When the time came for the vows, Devin’s voice was low, steady, and stripped of all aristocratic detachment.

“With this ring,” he said, sliding the gold band onto her finger with slow, intimate care, “I thee wed—not for name nor wealth, but for all that I am.”

Maya’s voice was a mere thread of sound that filled the cavernous silence. “And I, you.”

The Archbishop pronounced them husband and wife, and like a fairytale, the sun broke through a gap in the high curtains, lancing through the stained-glass lancets in sudden, heavenly brilliance. A kaleidoscope of crimson and sapphire kissed her veil, setting the gold threads ablaze.

The Duke did not press his lips to hers. Instead, he lifted her hand, drawing it to his lips in a tender kiss—a promise she could feel in every heartbeat.

A collective sigh passed through the congregation; Audria and Aunt Eliza dabbed at their tears, the twins clutching their chest.

It was the sincerity of a man who had everything, and knew he would have nothing until he had her.

As they turned to face the witnesses, the world was theirs.

❦ ❦ ❦

If the ceremony had been sacred, the Wedding Ball was pure celebration.

The great ballroom of Novaton Hall stood resplendent. Louis XIV chandeliers hung heavy with Bohemian crystal, their thousand facets refracting the glow of ten thousand wax-lights into a lavish spray of diamonds. Liveried footmen glided silently, bearing silver trays of “The Widow.” The air throbbed with the heady scent of Opoponax, mingling with the low rasp of silk trains sliding across the polished floor.

The Dowager Duchess presided from a raised dais; her gown of steel-grey faille silk was lustrous, and her throat was encircled by a widow’s collar of mourning jet and diamonds. Beside her, Lady Fitzwilliam leaned close, whispering, ‘You must admit, Your Grace, the young Duchess is exquisite

The Dowager’s gaze rested on Maya—graceful, her smile like a clear spring of water in a room of spiced wine. “Beauty,” she said coolly, “is a commodity. It is equanimity under scrutiny that distinguishes the truly bred.”

Maya bore the responsibility of her new rank with serenity. She greeted every guest—from Cabinet Ministers to County Squires—her laughter a subtle, musical note that remained purely for the amusement of her guests.. The twins, Adeline and Adelaide, hovered near her in white tulle over silk, while Aunt Eliza—radiant in mauve broché—regaled the company with tales of Maya’s childhood. Audria, striking in plum-colored poult-de-soie, guided the conversations with the tact of a seasoned diplomat.

At the Duke’s table, the air was saturated with the resinous drift of Havana leaf. Politics and the Midlands shipping routes dominated the discourse; every man present deferred to Devin. He spoke little, but when he did, the table went stone-still, men leaning forward with an audible creak of starched linen, adjusting their gold-linked cuffs. Even in silence, he ruled the room by his mere presence.

Toward the close of the evening, when the orchestra shifted to a lilting Strauss waltz, Lord Peregrine Ashcombe—young, handsome, and far too confident in his own charm—made his approach.

Maya had been laughing when he appeared, his patent leather pumps clicking on the polished parquet. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing so low that his silk fob-chain dangled, “it would be an unforgivable sin to allow the most radiant lady in the room to remain without a partner for the dance.”

Audria arched a brow. “Lord Ashcombe, your gallantry leaves scorch marks. I pity the floor.”

“Then I must hope Her Grace will forgive my trespass,” he replied smoothly.

Before Maya could demur, the Dowager herself inclined her head—a silent, social decree. And so, with every eye upon her, Maya accepted with calm grace, placing her white glove lightly upon his sleeve.

The waltz began. As they turned, the orchestra’s tempo rising, laughter rippled faintly through the crowd.

From his place at the head of the room, Devin watched.

At first, his expression betrayed nothing — merely the polite interest of a husband observing a common civility. Yet as the dance lengthened, his eyes followed the presumptuous placement of Ashcombe’s hand. Instead of resting where courtesy dictated, the man’s palm had slipped lower, fingers spreading with intimate familiarity at the back of her waist, perilously close to her hips.

As if that were not insult enough, Ashcombe leaned in to murmur something meant only for her, drawing a tell-tale flush to Maya’s cheek.

He set down his glass, the crystal striking the marble with a sharp, percussive clack that silenced the nearest conversation.

“Ah,” murmured Audria to Aunt Eliza, noting the subtle shift in his stance. “And there it is.”

Rising, Devin moved with the effortless command of a man who owned the floor. Conversations withered mid-sentence. The orchestra played on, but every eye tracked his advance.

“Forgive me, Lord Ashcombe,” he said, his voice cold and even as chilled iron, “but I believe you’ve imposed upon my wife’s patience long enough.”

Ashcombe smiled, far too wide, adjusting his fob chain. “Merely a dance, Your Grace.”

“Then let it end as such.

Devin’s hand found the small of her back, his touch the gentlest brand as he drew her into the next turn with fluid ease, less a dance than a reclaiming of what was his. The shift was effortless—a quiet, private world in the middle of the crowd.

With a silent, knowing tilt of her head she murmured, “You guard my patience well.”

He met her gaze, a dark promise in his grey eyes. “Because it belongs to me alone.”

Around them, the guests continued their polite motions.

When the final note faded, Maya’s curtsy was graceful, Devin’s bow a chilling perfection, his eyes never leaving hers. The applause that rose was polite, uncertain, held by the picture of composed claim.

Only Audria, smiling faintly behind her fan, leaned toward Aunt Eliza and murmured, “He may be a duke, but he is every inch a man.”

Devin’s eyes, dark and impenetrable, did not once leave Maya’s face.

He offered his arm. “A moment, if you please.”

She placed her hand upon his sleeve, the gesture outwardly polite.

The Duke guided her through the throng, past the mahogany buffets, smiling faintly when addressed, nodding where courtesy demanded. None saw the tension in his jaw, nor the storm gathering behind his calm.

Only when the doors of the adjoining conservatory closed behind them did the façade break.

The air was cooler there—scented with night-blooming jasmine and the damp earth of the planters, moonlight falling in fractured silver through the glass panes. The laughter and violins from the ballroom were muffled, distant, like echoes of another world.

He turned to her.

“Maya.”

Her name emerged low, roughened. “Do you make it a habit to laugh with other men as though they amuse you?”

She drew herself up, chin tilting. “Do you make it a habit to humiliate your wife before an entire ballroom?”

“Humiliate?” He gave a soft, incredulous laugh — the sound of a man who rarely heard that word applied to himself. “You think I stood there watching Ashcombe whisper to you and found it amusing?”

“I was civil. As any hostess must be.”

His eyes flashed. “You were radiant. Every fool in that room saw it. And he—” His jaw tightened. “He looked at you as though he’d earned the right.”

Something in her expression softened — then sparked again, defiant. “And what right have you earned, William, to dictate the manner in which I smile?”

He took a single step forward. She held her ground, though every instinct warned her to retreat.

“I am your husband,” he said, each word low and definite, as though staking a claim. “The only man in England or the whole world entitled to your smile — or your defiance.”

She sucked in air as if resurfacing from deep water; Maya looked away. “Then perhaps you should try deserving them.”

That struck. For a moment, silence filled the glass room — sharp, electric.

Devin’s jaw hardened, eyes dark, dangerously slit.

Maya regretted her words.

Too late, his large hands spanned the narrow dip of her waist, drawing her flush against the solid wall of his chest until her breath mingled with his.

“W-William–” Maya gasped.

“Do you doubt it?” he murmured. “That I’d fight the world for the right to touch you?”

Her lips parted, her voice scarcely a whisper. “You needn’t fight. Only ask.”

That undid him. His mouth claimed hers with a fervor that blurred the line between anger and devotion, hunger and worship. She melted against him, a low fire kindled from the intensity of his desire.

His hands traced the dramatic flare of her hips, marveling at the lush softness .

Maya moaned his name, intoxicated by his strength, by the pull of him, the undeniable truth of their bond.

A wanton, sweet ache rose within her. She pressed into him, fingers digging lightly into his coat, holding on as though to stop time itself, wishing this moment would never end.

Devin answered with equal fervor, giving himself wholly, drinking her in as their lips spoke what words could not. Every breath, every subtle movement marked her as his.

His thumb lingered at the base of her throat, a firm claim, as he devoured her with dark, hungry eyes.

“You play with fire, wife,” he growled.

“Then let it burn me—”

“Shhh.” His finger pressed to her lips, stilling the words. “Not here. Not now.”

Maya gave a slight nod, her hands tightening against the folds of her gown.

“Now,” he whispered, resting his lips against her brow in a long, breathless seal. “Smile for me. Only me.”

She lifted her eyes to his, chest heaving, a faint flush blooming across her cheeks.

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

* * * *

The clock in the hall struck midnight, its chimes vibrating beneath the lingering strains of the orchestra. Despite Spencer’s gentle protests, the Duke had given the signal.

Maya, now clad in her midnight-blue travelling habit, descended the staircase one last time. Outside, the Travelling Chariot awaited, its polished lamps piercing swathes of gold through the inky darkness. The post-boys, in their yellow jackets, stood ready at the heads of the lead horses, holding the reins with taut patience.

The carriage door closed with a firm click, shutting out the distant music of the ball. Devin settled beside her, his presence a comforting reassurance amid the flurry of final farewells. Her hand brushed his, and warmth ran through her chest.

“By the time the sun touches the Thames,” he murmured, “we shall be at Devinscliffe House.”

With a sharp crack of the whip, the horses sprang forward. The carriage swayed beneath her, each gallop sending the thrill of flight into her bones. Nottinghamshire receded, silvered by moonlight, and for the first time in weeks, she let herself exhale.

XV

The Devinscliffe chariot was an enclave of quiet splendour—the interior lined in deep navy button-tufted silk, ivory and silver fittings gleaming softly in the glow of the crystal oil-lamp. Outside, the Nottinghamshire hills rolled dark beneath the stars; the scent of damp summer earth and crushed heather drifted through the half-lowered window, held fast by its thick silk cord.

Maya sat beside him, hands folded too neatly in her lap, as though holding them still by sheer will. They tingled faintly, still recalling how she had clung to him shamelessly in the conservatory, flinching at the memory despite herself. A loose tendril of golden hair had escaped its pins and brushed her cheek.

Neither spoke. The steady crunch of the wheels over the macadamized road filled the silence between them—a silence that felt different now, very awkward, as though charged with the memory of what had happened between them.

For the first time since the ceremony, she was alone with him, truly alone.

She turned toward the window, her heartbeat embarrassingly loud in her ears.

He is my husband.

The words should have steadied her. Instead, heat crept up her throat. She had thrown herself at him, pressed herself against him wantonly, kissed him so boldly, practically begged him to take her there in that moment.

She pressed her lips together, mortified.

And there he sat, so calm, so very relaxed, as though none of it had unsettled him at all.

Devin sat with careless elegance, one arm resting along the edge of the seat, the other gloved hand motionless upon his knee. She became aware of his attention—fixed, unfathomable—resting on her profile for a moment before he spoke.

“You’ve been quiet, Duchess,” he said at last, his tone level, almost conversational. “Should I take that as regret?”

Maya licked her lower lip.

“Not regret,” she replied, eyes fixed on the darkened landscape beyond. “Only… farewell. It feels strange to leave the world I’ve always known.”

He regarded her in silence. The guarded expression he had worn since Nottinghamshire eased into calm, understanding eyes. “Then we shall build you another,” he said simply.

The words were calm, but the implication beneath them was unmistakable — intimate, sensual, a promise she dared not name.

Suddenly, images rose unbidden: their naked bodies entwined, his skin against hers, the two of them alone in the privacy of their chamber. The thought was vivid enough to steal her breath.

Maya shut her eyes to banish it.

For a suspended moment, they sat thus. A small jolt of the carriage over a rut brought them closer, her shoulder brushing his. She went still — too still — the moment of contact sparking a fresh wave of embarrassing memory. She looked up despite herself.

He was already watching her.

There was no arrogance in his gaze — only a quiet certainty and a question he wasn’t asking aloud. A question she feared she was already answering with her blush alone.

“You’ve a talent for silence,” he said gently. “Most people fill it with noise. You wear it well.”

She tried to smile, feeling the quick, uneven skip of her heart.

“And you, Your Grace — do you prefer silence?”

“I prefer meaning,” he replied. His voice was low, reflective. “Silence often has more of it than words.”

It should have been an ordinary exchange. But the memory of what had happened between them — the heat of it, the shock of her own abandon — hung between them like a fragile, trembling thread.

She shifted slightly, still unable to meet his eyes. Devin noticed. Of course he did.

“Maya,” he said softly.

She tensed.

His voice lowered.

“Do not look away from me because of earlier.”

Her fingers curled in her lap.

“Nothing to regret,” he continued, gentler still. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

She swallowed, mortified and moved at once.

“I…I wasn’t myself,” she whispered. “I don’t know what came over me.”

He swore lightly beneath his breath, cursing himself for the way she felt. “Maya.” He turned her face gently toward him.

She obeyed but couldn’t quite meet his gaze.

“I am your husband,” he said quietly.

Though only a fact, the words made her cheeks burn.

“You shouldn’t shy away from me,” he added, his tone a murmur meant only for her. “If we’re being honest, I felt immensely pleased by your responses to me.”

He paused, searching her eyes with a sincerity that gentled everything sharp in him.

“You pleased me, Maya. More than you know.”

She stared at the floor of the carriage, unable to form a proper reply — her shyness softening into something warm, something dangerously close to happiness.

* * * *

The night at the Angel and Royal passed beneath the blackened oak of the King’s Room. They dined on cold game and Amontillado in the same parlor where Richard III once signed warrants, the Duke’s usual hardness softening into quiet, attentive patience as he offered her morsels, pausing to meet her eyes before each taste, drawing warmth and suppressed laughter from her. Beyond the leaded oriel windows, Grantham settled into a damp chill as a chambermaid readied the oak tester bed, a mountain of carved heraldry and corded damask that had watched over seven kings.

By the time they retired, exhaustion had claimed Maya utterly; she slept almost immediately, lulled by the rumble of mail-coaches along the Great North Road and the protective presence of the man now bound to her by name and by vow.

By late morning, the mist had lifted. The carriage wheels glided over the wood-paved streets of London, Grosvenor Square emerging through the haze—coming to a halt before the Devinscliffe townhouse at the height of the day.

Maya looked up as the carriage slowed. The house was a massive Italianate block, its Georgian brick encased in smooth, cream Bath stone. A columned portico jutted over the pavement like the entrance to a temple, framed by three stories of plate-glass windows. Gold-tipped iron railings guarded the deep basement area, the only sign of the invisible hive of servants below.

Devin stepped out first. He adjusted his silk top hat, his presence commanding the space before the black-lacquered double doors. He extended his hand, the lavender kid-leather of his glove a sharp contrast to the dark carriage frame.

Maya hesitated, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the stone, before placing her fingers in his and stepping onto the landing.

The warmth of his grasp steadied her, yet her pulse leapt violently at the contact. Her mind betrayed her, straying back to the sequestered sanctuary of the inn: the startling, silver-lit sight of his fingers curled with unconscious possessiveness against the soft contour of her waist.

Nothing had passed between them but the hot air of shared breath, the intimate awareness of his presence. The ache of holding back made that simple touch at the carriage door send a jolt of raw electricity through her palm.

They crossed the threshold into the marble vestibule, the massive mahogany doors sealing out the rumble of Grosvenor Square with a definitive thud. The September sun poured through the fanlight, igniting the gilt-bronze gasolier and striking the white-veined marble with a brilliant, daunting glare.

Massive Rococo pier mirrors reflected their progress. In the gold-leaf glass, the flare of Maya’s hips and the long line of her stride stretched into an infinite corridor of silent luxury.

She felt his presence beside her—not simply near, but surrounding, a low-frequency pull that seemed to command the very air of the vestibule. She curbed the thrilling nervousness that made her body tremble slightly as they ascended the great staircase, her hand resting lightly on the polished mahogany rail.

“This is your home now,” he said quietly.

He led her through the drawing room, where the scent of beeswax and expensive Havana leaf clung to the air. The walls were draped in deep blue damask, and the polished curve of a Steinway grand reflected the midday light. They entered the dining salon, a room that felt intimate despite its grandeur.

At its center, a George III mahogany table was dressed in Irish linen so fine it clung to the wood like a second skin. Silver domes were lifted to reveal delicacies—oysters on ice, thin slices of cold venison, and hothouse grapes—but the only hunger Maya felt was the magnetic pull of the man seated opposite her.

Maya toyed with a single grape, acutely aware of his gaze. She felt it everywhere: in the trip of her pulse and the warmth blooming beneath her skin.

He spoke little—asking softly after the Madeira or the food—but each word felt like a touch, dragging her back to the heat of the kiss they’d shared.

When at last they rose, the servants withdrew, leaving only the serenity of the great house and the faint crackle of the fire. Devin guided her through the corridor to her chambers—hers now, adjoining his own.

Her chambers were draped in ivory watered-silk. A Chippendale ribbon-back settee sat near the hearth, and her silver-backed brushes rested in a neat row upon the dressing table.But it was the bed that held her gaze—a massive Hepplewhite four-poster with a sheer linen canopy that drifted like mist. At the foot lay her nightgown. The white muslin was delicate and light, a silent signal of the night to come.

When she turned, he was still there—filling the doorway as though it were built too small for him. His height, his breadth, the sheer solidity of him framed against the entrance made the room feel suddenly smaller.

Her heart raced and a skitter rose in her stomach, betraying her composure.

“You must be exhausted,” he said, his voice husking in a way that stirred her.

“I am not tired,” she whispered, twisting the edge of her sleeve between her fingers. “Only—”

“Only?” His stormy grey gaze held hers, arresting and searching from the distance.

“Everything feels…new. So very new.” A faint flush rose in her cheeks betraying her vulnerability.

A corner of his mouth lifted, and something in his eyes softened, a quiet understanding that stirred her nerves into a tumultuous riot within her.

“Then we shall learn it together.”

Her chest tightened. The way he said we—so sure, so intentional.

He stepped closer, his height towering over her so that his shadow engulfed her, every sense drawn toward him.

A wave of panic ran through her—he would claim his right here, and yet the thought held a strange pull she could not resist.

He reached down to tilt her face toward his, his large thumb grazing her temple as he brushed away a stray tendril of hair. The gentleness of it was her undoing; her knees turned to water, and she felt herself sway.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured.

“I—am not,” she whispered.

His mouth curved just slightly.

“Liar.”

The single word, low and intimate, sent a shiver through her.

He lowered and his lips met hers—the lightest, most tender touch. It sent a ripple through her body, made all her bones melt, and sent a heat coiling low in her stomach. She felt the aching need behind it, the need he held back so carefully, the tension almost unbearable in its control.

When he drew back, the mesmerizing depth of his gaze held her.

“Maya,” he said huskily, tasting her name as if for the first time. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

The sound of it strained with a desire he rarely allowed himself to reveal.

Then, as though mastering himself by sheer will, he released her hand.

“Goodnight, my duchess,” he said quietly.

He turned toward the door. For a fractured second, she thought he would leave without looking back. But he did—once—and his gaze lingered on her, an intimate caress. Then the door closed softly behind him.

The silence vibrated through her nerves. Outside, the distant clip-clop of a hansom cab signaled that London was moving into its afternoon—but inside, the warmth of the room and the drawl of her own exhaustion were winning.

Maya remained still, lips tingling, heart wild. He had gone.

She sank onto the edge of the bed, every nerve alive with the intensity of what had nearly happened. Her fingers traced her lips, recalling the warmth of his brief contact and the force he had held so completely in check. It ought to have comforted her that he’d left her untouched. Instead, it left her trembling, restless, acutely aware of the man on the other side of the wall.

She rose and faced the mirror. Her reflection seemed almost unfamiliar: the foxy tilt of her hazel eye, and brows, and full lips flushed with a strange, newly awakened warmth. She tugged the velvet bell pull, and her lady’s maid appeared at once, swift and silent.

The ritual of undressing became a quiet, seamless choreography. The maid’s deft fingers moved down the long row of silk-covered buttons, easing the gown from Maya’s slender shoulders. When the corset was finally unlaced, Maya drew a sharp, grateful breath.

In the dressing room, a copper hip-bath awaited. Steam rose in light, fragrant plumes, infused with rose and lavender oils. When Maya stepped into the warmth, the heat enfolded her like a balm. She leaned back against the rim, her auburn-blonde hair spilling over the copper edge in an ethereal silk stream. Eyes closed, she felt the fatigue of the journey ease from her long, shapely legs, the bath’s warmth caressing the delicate curve of her calves.

Yet Devin’s image would not leave her—the timbre of his voice, the tenderness of the kiss they’d shared. Her heart vaulted with something that was not quite fear and not quite longing, but an exquisite blend of both.

As her maid brushed out her hair, the long auburn blonde waves spilling like unspun silk over her delicate shoulders, Maya’s eyelids grew leadened. The lulling glide of the brush was soporific, each stroke loosening another thread of tension.

By the time she swung her legs onto the high mahogany bed, her fine muslin clinging to the stark flare of her hips, the velvet curtains had been drawn to block the afternoon sun, casting the room in a false, golden twilight. The fire burned low, warding off the stubborn damp of the stone walls.

Still, Devin lingered in her thoughts—the mercy of his lips, the quiet certainty of his presence beyond the wall.

She pulled the linen sheets to her chin, her body surrendering at last to the bone-deep exhaustion of overnight travel. Sleep claimed her not slowly but all at once, a deep, dreamless plunge—cradled by the knowledge that he, too, was finally finding rest.

XVI

Outside, Grosvenor Square simmered in that leaden hour before evening. Along the iron railings, the hazy glow of gas-lamps began to flicker to life, mixing with the metallic tang of coal smoke rising from the street. The city was settling into a golden, heavy haze.

Maya stirred, half-entangled in the silk counterpane. Her hair was a wild, bright ruin across the down pillow.

For a moment, she was lost in the disorientation of a new bed, her body still humming with the vibration of carriage wheels.

Then the memory of the early morning settled over her—the timbre of Devin’s voice as he leaned in to whisper Goodnight, my Duchess, while the sun was still a sullen, copper slit on the horizon.

A delicate spike settled in her chest at the exquisite knowledge that she was no longer Miss Prescott, but Her Grace, the Duchess of Devinscliffe. The title sat upon her like a borrowed crown—glittering, heavy. She stood as the chatelaine of this limestone labyrinth, a thought that made her stomach perform a giddy, nervous pirouette.

When she rose, her maid appeared silently to draw back the curtains, revealing a sky tinted with the first violets of dusk. A fresh service of tea had been prepared in Minton porcelain, with the indulgent comforts of a late-afternoon tray: hothouse strawberries, thick cream, and delicate sandwiches meant to sustain her until a fashionably late dinner.

Upon her mahogany dressing table, amidst the crystal scent bottles, lay a cluster of envelopes bound with a scarlet satin ribbon. The Devinscliffe seal gleamed, sharp and authoritative.

They were the entire landscape of London’s elite: a mountain of congratulations and invitations in fine, looping hands. Every single one seeking a piece of the new Duchess.

One envelope, however, was unmarked. Its parchment was weighty, the ink dark and unmistakably masculine. Inside, a folded note written in Devin’s hand:

“For my wife, the Duchess of Devinscliffe—who makes even the dusk worth waking to.”

Beneath it lay a small velvet case. Within, a diamond pendant rested on black silk—a single, brilliant stone. It felt cold against her skin, an understated, dazzling weight of purity.

Maya traced its facets, he had thought of this—written to her while she slept through the day, with him only a door away. That quiet, romantic gesture pierced deeper than any grand declaration could have.

* * *

When she descended for dinner, Devin was already waiting—a dark figure against the sash windows, the violet sky of the square deepening behind him until he seemed to absorb the light.

His posture was rigid, his stillness more of a statement than any movement. A copy of The Times lay forgotten on the mahogany table, eclipsed by a vase of hothouse roses so white they looked carved from bone.

“You received my note,” he said, his grey eyes reading her expression as if it were printed upon her face.

“I did,” she murmured, the lustrous silk of her evening gown flowing with her stride, clinging to her form in a way that left nothing of her exquisite shape to the imagination. “It was… beautiful.”

He inclined his head, but his eyes lingered far too long. He cleared his throat. “A husband must make himself useful in some fashion. I fear I am not much of a poet, but I do have taste.”

“You have too much,” her teeth sank into the fullness of her lower lip, a silent, tell-tale gesture that betrayed the memory of the kiss they had shared.

He smiled then—a smile stripped of practiced charm, quiet and almost tender. It made her heart reverberate like a struck silver bell.

Dinner passed in that comfortable quiet that belongs only to two people learning the slow, deepening tide of each other’s silence. When he spoke, it was to ask after her rest—simple questions spoken with such care that they lingered like the scent of the roses.

As they moved toward the drawing room, the hall was already filled with the day’s deliveries, which had accumulated while she slept. Boxes wrapped in gold paper, bouquets of hothouse blooms, and an astonishing array of ribbons, lace, and crystal, some bearing names she recognized from the day’s letters—the Countess of Mayfield, the Marchioness of Eversham—others arrived without note, mere tokens of curiosity from a fascinated society.

Maya stood among them, half-amused, half-overwhelmed. “They send so many things,” she said quietly, watching a footman struggle beneath a tower of parcels. “And yet none of them know me.”

She felt the subtle pull of his presence before he spoke. “London rarely sends affection, my dear. It sends tribute.”

She looked back at him, her hazel eyes bright. “And which is this?” she asked, gesturing to the mountain of silk and paper.

He stepped closer, the severe line of his jaw inches from her temple.

“Tribute, unquestionably,” he said, his gaze dropping to the diamond nestled against the soft rise of her chest. “Affection—that, I prefer to keep for myself.”

Before she could turn fully, he slipped his arms around her waist from behind, his hands locking over her stomach with a quiet, possessive strength. She sucked in a sharp breath, pressing back instinctively into the hard wall of his chest.

She closed her eyes, letting his steadiness wash over her like a warm tide.

❦ ❦ ❦

By the time night settled over Grosvenor Square, he proposed a brief escape from the house. “Before you drown beneath lilies and ribbons,” he said, his voice deep-timbered with dry amusement.

The town brougham rolled through Piccadilly, the street a clattering river of lacquered broughams and hansom cabs, their silk-hatted drivers maneuvering through the gilded chaos of a city that refused to sleep. Maya sat beside him, the silk of her cloak stealing brief washes of gold beneath the street lamps. Every turn of her head revealed a flicker of wonder—the silver gleam of a jeweler’s window, the shadowy laughter of ladies in passing broughams, the glittering movement of London under the stars.

Devin watched her with quiet fixity. There was a peculiar, almost enchanting pleasure in her astonishment—as though he were seeing the city anew through her unjaded eyes. She felt the intense focus of his scrutiny, and it sent a shiver through the very center of her being.

“You like it,” he said.

“It’s… alive,” she whispered. “And yet—I feel as though I am a stranger here. I don’t quite belong.”

He regarded her for a moment, his voice gentling into a half-whispered bass. “You will. It will take its cue from you, as every room eventually does.”

Her laugh was soft and uncertain, a sound like low-hanging mist. “You make me sound formidable.”

“You are,” he said simply, reaching out to cover her hand with his. His touch was warm and steady—an almost possessive brand on her skin.

❦ ❦ ❦

At a private gallery on Bond Street, he indulged her delight in the aisles of art and gilded volumes, securing half the titles she lingered over despite her protests.

Then to Garrard’s on Albemarle Street, where he refused to be dissuaded from purchasing a pair of pearl earrings that were radiant yet understated.

“You will humor me,” he murmured while fastening the case and handing it to her with quiet finality. “I find I like seeing you surprised.”

Maya lifted the lid. “William,” she breathed, the name a soft exhale of wonder.

Before he could speak, her arms circled his neck. She pressed close, a delighted sigh escaping her as she surrendered to the contact.

He went rigid for a stolen breath—stunned by the sheer, uncurbed impulse of her—before his hands found her waist. He pulled her into his chest with a tender strength that made his silence more eloquent than any word.

By midnight, they were at the Royal Italian Opera, secluded in the shadows of the Devinscliffe box. Below, the house glowed under the massive gaselier, light spilling over gilt tiers and velvet-draped balconies.

On stage, Aida was reaching its zenith. The orchestra rose in a visceral swell of brass and strings that vibrated through the mahogany railings and into Maya’s very bones.

Devin didn’t watch the stage. He drank in the ivory slope of her neck, where her skin glowed in the gaslight.

He watched the diamonds waltz in her hair and caught the silken sigh of her gown as she leaned forward. Her lips were parted in enchantment, her soul lost in the beautiful tragedy unfolding below.

Devin’s hand rested on the mahogany railing. Though they didn’t touch, the air between them thrummed with a magnetic tension that made words feel obsolete.

Maya’s pulse stuttered. She didn’t need to look to feel the heat of him.

The house erupted in applause, but Devin only turned to her. “Did you enjoy it?”

Maya looked at him, her eyes bright with the remnants of the tragedy. “More than I can say,” she whispered. “I feel as though I’ve lived a lifetime in three hours.”

Something in his expression shifted—the austere line of his mouth relaxing into the shadow of a smile.

“Then it was worth every moment.”

❦ ❦ ❦

The ride home was silent.

Outside, the grand Regency terraces of the West End stood like sentries against the dark, their soot-stained facades looming over the empty streets. The road was a lonely canyon of granite and iron, echoing with the distant clatter of a hansom hurrying a late reveler home to Mayfair.

London had slowed to a hushed, clandestine thrum. Near St. James’s, the orange glow of a coffee stall illuminated the weary faces of night-workers and a flower-girl upending her empty basket. In the deep shadow of a portico, a young couple stood locked in a stolen embrace, oblivious to the Duke’s passing brougham.

Devin sat close—close enough that Maya felt the heat of him radiating through her silk skirts. It was a breathless, sensational awareness, more potent than any touch.

When the carriage halted, Devin descended first. He offered his hand, his storm-grey eyes locking onto hers—unreadable, but burning with a sharp, masculine intensity.

“Careful,” he said, his voice a low vibration in the quiet street. “London has a way of making one dizzy.”

“Then I shall rely on you to hold me,” she whispered.

The firm line of his mouth curved slowly. “Always, Duchess.”

Inside, the great house was quiet, scented with summer roses. The servants had withdrawn, leaving them to the intimate peace of midnight.

Maya shed her cloak, revealing the lustrous gold of her gown. The diamonds at her throat threw dancing glints of light against the soft cream of her skin.

“You should rest,” Devin said. His voice was level, but his grey eyes darkened with a banked heat.

“I am not tired,” Maya replied.

She stumbled then, the words hanging between them like a challenge she hadn’t realized she was making.

He studied her, jawline tightening “No?”

She shook her head, fingers grazing the polished mahogany railing of the staircase. “It feels too soon to let the day end.”

Devin moved closer—close enough that the air between them seemed charged. “Then we won’t let it,” he said.

Her skin prickled where his voice had touched her.

In the drawing room, he poured two measures of Veuve Clicquot from a chilled silver bucket. The soft hiss of the bubbles was the only sound in the room.

“To my wife,” he said. His gaze was steady, magnetic.

Maya lifted her glass, her eyes bright. “And to her very patient Duke.”

Devin smiled. Though his gaze held amusement, it shifted into something more dangerous—a raw reverence held back only by the thin glass between them.

When the crystal chimed, the sound was a sharp puncture in the silence.

❦ ❦ ❦

They ascended the grand staircase in a silence broken only by the ragged music of their breathing—hers quickened, his steady, a sharp contrast in composure. She felt him behind her, a force as constant as gravity, pulling her into his orbit.

At her chamber door, she paused. “William.”

The name—stripped of the ducal mask—hit him like a physical strike. He stalled, his eyes darkening like a churning sea.

“Yes?

“I wanted to thank you,” she said softly. “For today. For… everything.”

He tilted his head, his voice a quiet rumble. “You owe me no thanks.”

“I do,” she persisted, her fingers twisting the ribbon of her sleeve. “I keep wondering if I can ever fill the space you’ve made for me.”

A fierce, consuming tenderness flared in his eyes. He stepped into her space, enveloping her in the cradle of his arm as his hand gently tilted her chin to meet his gaze. “Maya,” he said quietly, “you are already more than I ever expected. The only thing in this world that feels real.”

Maya gasped, time suspending for an eternity.

Then he lifted his hand—slow, sure—and traced his thumb along the line of her jaw. His touch was impossibly gentle. “You’re always trembling,” he murmured.

“Because you make me,” she whispered.

A low sound escaped him—a raw exhaled laugh. He was warring with himself, his hand falling away for a fraction of a second. Maya felt the sudden, sharp sting of the cold.

But he didn’t move away. He leaned closer.

His lips barely brushed hers, a tentative contact that sent a shiver through her entire frame. He felt it—that involuntary tremor—and it spurred him. He deepened the kiss, just enough to make her breath falter, the soft sound a testament to the power he held over her.

Her lips surrendered, tasting of vintage champagne t. She leaned into him, her hands resting on the solid wall of his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart.

The pressure of his mouth was an invitation. She accepted, her own lips parting, and he took the opening—his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth in a gentle request for entry.

A soft gasp escaped her as the kiss changed, transforming from a tender exploration to a demanding claim. The heat between them flared, no longer a pilot light but a conflagration. His arms tightened around her waist, pulling her into him until she could feel every hard muscle of his frame, erasing the very concept of distance.

And then, to Maya’s dismay, he drew back.

The effort it cost him was written in the severe line of his jaw and the broken catch in his lungs. He rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed, his breathing a harsh echo of her own. He looked like a man who had stared into the sun and now found the world too dark.

Her gaze searched his, dazed, her lips swollen from the fierce pressure of his mouth. “William…” she breathed, the name a fractured sound.

He shook his head, the movement tight and abrupt. He looked like a man fighting a predatory instinct he could barely contain. When he spoke, his voice was a hoarse rasp, thick with a self-control so desperate it made the air vibrate.

“No,” he gritted out, the word a raw struggle. “Not tonight.”

The tension between them was suffocating and raw. Devin’s discipline was visible in the iron tightening of his jaw and the almost painful stillness of his frame. He stood before her, hands clenched at his sides as if to physically anchor himself to the floor and keep from reaching for her again.

He looked at her then not as a man looks at a beautiful woman, but as a man looks at something sacred. He looked as though he were afraid that touching her again would shatter the unbearable stillness between them.

“Maya,” he said, each syllable an agonizing effort. “When I come to you, it will not be because I couldn’t help myself. It will be because you wish it—with no fear, no hesitation. Do you understand?”

She nodded, the gesture an act of sheer resilience. Her heart hammered ceaselessly against her ribs.

He pressed a final, searing kiss to her brow. He lingered there just long enough for her to feel the raggedness of his breath against her skin—a silent promise and a whispered plea.

“Good night, my Duchess,” he murmured. The title was no longer a rank; it was a covenant.

“Good night, William,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

When he left, closing the door softly as if preserving a fragile silence, she stood for a long moment in the flickering lamplight. One hand pressed on the wild drum of her heart. The taste of him lingered—not just on her lips, but beneath her skin, like a fire newly awakened.

* * *

The following morning, a soft, insistent tap at her chamber door pulled Maya from a deep, dreamless sleep. She stirred in the tangle of linen sheets as pearly dawn seeped around the velvet drapes. Pushing the heavy fall of her wild hair back from her face, she rose, her bare feet meeting the dense pile of the carpet.

Wrapped in a cream silk peignoir that slithered against her skin, she opened the door. The corridor was empty, but a single Devinscliffe-crested sheet lay just beyond the threshold. She bent to retrieve it, the silk pulling taut across her shoulder.

Unfolding it, Maya found his handwriting—bold, black strokes, the ink slightly smudged at the tail of the ‘D’.

Look to your window.

Then join me below.

– D

A slow smile touched her lips. She crossed the room, the morning chill raising a prickle on her arms, and drew back the heavy drapes.

Maya’s breath snatched, sharp and cold in her throat.

In the mews below, where the morning mist clung like cobweb to the cobbles, a vision from a Jules Verne novel awaited. A great, striped silk envelope, in deep burgundy and gold, lay partially inflated on the dewy lawn, its basket a woven cradle of willow and oak. For a second, she hesitated, a chill brushing her bare arms. A furnace hissed a low, gaseous roar, bathing the scene in an unnatural glow that made the greying dawn seem pale. And there, standing beside it in mud-splashed boots and a tweed coat, one hand resting on the basket’s rim, was Devin. He looked up, his eyes finding hers in the window. A silly, unbidden thought bloomed in her chest: My husband. He did this for me.

Some moments later, swathed in a thick wool cloak that smelled of lavender and cold air, she stood beside him on the damp grass. Her thin shoes squelched as she stepped closer. The basket was laid with a breakfast of winter strawberries beaded with moisture and warm brioche wrapped in linen, and a bottle of Perrier-Jouët ’74 nestled in a silver ice bucket already slick with condensation.

“Trust me?” Devin asked, his hand a firm pressure at the small of her back.

The basket lurched, scraping grass, then dropped clear of the ground.

The earth fell away. The lawn was there, then it was a tiny green rug, then nothing but dizzying, gut-plummeting air. A cold wind slapped her, rocking the wicker basket. Maya screamed—a raw, short sound of pure shock. Her knees buckled. She spun, eyes clenched shut, and grabbed for Devin, fisting her hands in the expensive wool of his coat, burying her face into the rough weave. She could feel the solid muscle of him, a wall between her and the terrifying void.

“I’ve got you.” His arms wrapped around her, hard and immediate, pinning her back to his chest. One arm was a tight bar across her ribs, the other hand cradled her head. “Don’t look down. Look at me. Feel me here.”

She was shaking, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He held her closer, his voice a low rumble in her ear. “Breathe. In. Out. With me.” He took an exaggerated breath, his chest expanding against her spine, and let it out slowly. She tried to match it, the air hitching.

“That’s it,” he murmured. His hand stroked her hair. “Just the wind. Just my voice. You’re safe.”

The blind terror began to recede, inch by inch, pushed back by the sheer physical reality of him holding her. The death-grip of her hands on his coat loosened. She became aware of other things: the smell of wool and clean sweat, the steady thump-thump of his heart through her shoulder blade.

Devin waited until her breathing evened out. “Ready?” he asked, his voice soft.

Maya gave a tiny, frantic shake of her head into his chest.

“Just a glance. Over my arm. I won’t let go.”

Slowly, forcing herself, she turned her head within the circle of his arms and opened her eyes.

Her breath stopped.

London was gone. In its place lay a vast, impossible map—streets like delicate scratches, rooftops like tiny blocks, the Thames a twisting grey ribbon far below. The city stretched endlessly, fading into a hazy smudge of countryside. The silence was enormous, broken only by the wind, the occasional blast of the burner, and the soft whisper of air brushing past her ears.

The fear hadn’t vanished, a cold thread in her stomach, but it now wove with a heart-stopping awe that made her chest ache and her eyes widen. She could feel Devin behind her—solid, grounding, unshakable—and with him there, the sprawling city below felt both impossibly distant and intimately theirs.

He didn’t speak. He simply extended his arm, his finger tracing the river’s path east, then sweeping north to that distant green haze. When his voice came, it was a whisper she felt in her bones.

“Ours.”

* * *

By late afternoon, the memory of that weightless height still tingled in the soles of her feet when a visitor was announced. “The Maestro Alfredo Piatti, Your Grace.”

Maya’s hand flew to her throat. “Piatti?” she breathed, turning wide eyes to Devin. The name was one she’d read in newspapers, a figure from a distant world of European salons. To have him here, in their home… He arrived with his instrument—a magnificent Matteo Goffriller of dark, glowing tiger-maple that smelled of old wood and rosin. In the intimate, damask-draped music room, he played for them alone. He did not begin with music, but with the practical, hushed sounds of his art: the soft creak of his chair, the tap-tap of his shoe on the parquet, the gritty slide of the bow-hair over string before the first pure note broke free.

Maya sat, utterly still. Her lips parted. A single, traitorous tear escaped, tracking down her cheek before she could catch it, and she briefly wondered if she was crying too freely in front of him. Devin did not watch the maestro. He watched her.

When the final, vibrating note faded, Devin simply reached across the space between their chairs, his large hand engulfing hers. His thumb pressed once, firmly, into the centre of her palm. Later, after the maestro had bowed and taken his leave, Maya threw her arms around Devin; the emotion was too large. “William,” she crooned, “That was… I have no words. Thank you.” A lazy smile tugged at his lips. “Anything for you”.

* * *

A ripple of laughter escaped her, soft and husky in the quiet of the carriage afterward. The wicker basket still seemed to sway beneath her feet.

“I feel as if we’ve stolen a day from someone else’s life,” Maya said, her head resting against the plush squabs, watching the gas lamps of Belgravia blur past.

Devin’s hand found hers in the dimness, his fingers threading through hers. “It belongs to us.”

“Does it?” She turned her face to his, the passing lights catching the fox-gold glints in her eyes. “I should like to steal one more thing, then. Something quiet. Something still.”

He raised a brow. “Name it.”

“The lake,” she said simply. “I saw it from the balloon. It looked… peaceful.”

A beat of silence. His thumb stilled on her knuckle. “As you wish.”

* * *

An hour later, she stood at the edge of the stone boathouse, the night air cool and sweet with the scent of damp earth and the peppery spice of night-scented stock.

The Devinscliffe lake was a swath of black silk, its surface holding the perfect, inverted twin of the star-strewn sky, though one lantern drifted slightly off course, rocking the water beneath her fingers. But along its edges, wound through the weeping willows and draped from the boathouse eaves, were hundreds of Chinese lanterns. Their light was warm and honey-gold, their paper sides painted with herons and lotus flowers.

Maya’s breath snagged. She pressed a hand to her sternum, as if to steady the wild, fluttering bird that had taken residence there since dawn. How does one say thank you for a day like this? The gown he’d had waiting was Worth. Sea-green silk, the colour of a deep lagoon, cut with the impeccable flair of a Parisian master. It skimmed her bosom, clung to her waist, and flared over her hips and thighs. Her hair, the colour of raw honey and autumn cider, was loose save for two artful twists at her temples, falling in a heavy cascade down her back.

Devin stood beside her, having shed his tailcoat. In his waistcoat and rolled shirtsleeves, he looked more like a pirate than a duke. He watched her take in the scene, his eyes half-shuttered.

“It’s breathtaking,” she whispered.

“Yes.” He wasn’t looking at the lanterns.

A flat-bottomed skiff, painted a deep burgundy, waited. He handed her in, his grip firm as she stepped down. He followed, his weight making the craft settle deeply with a soft groan of wood. He took up the oars and pushed them away from the dock with a single stroke that sent water slapping the stones.

Then he stilled.

The world shrank to the circle of golden light and the lap of water. He didn’t row. Devin simply looked at her. His gaze traveled over her brows, her lips, down her throat to where the green silk hinted.

“You mesmerize me,” he confessed.

She trailed her fingers in the cool water. “Good.”

He gave a soft laugh and dipped the oars again, propelling them slowly into the centre of the light-strewn darkness. She gripped the edge of the boat for a moment, the skiff swaying beneath her.

After a long while, Maya spoke. “You’re quiet, even for you.”

“I’m listening.”

“To what?”

“To the silence. It’s different out here.”

She watched the play of muscle in his forearms. “You don’t like the water.”

It wasn’t a question.

The oars paused. Water ran off the blades in shimmering threads. His gaze lifted to the inky expanse. A tension bracketed his mouth.

“It’s not a matter of liking,” he said finally.

“What is it a matter of?”

He was silent for so long she thought he wouldn’t answer. When he did, the words came as if pulled from a deep, cold place. “When I was a boy, the sea decided it wanted me. At Brighton. It didn’t ask. It just… took.” He met her eyes. “For a few seconds, I understood what it was to be nothing. To have everything that made me me mean absolutely nothing to the world.”

Maya held his gaze. “That must have been very lonely.”

Something in his face shifted.

“It was,” he admitted, the words quiet. “My father shouted from the shore. I could hear him, but it was like a dream. The water had its own sound. A roaring silence.”

Maya drew her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. “My father’s silence was a slow one. A drowning from the inside out. The doctors called it dropsy. By the end, he was a stranger in his own body. I used to read to him—the Morte d’Arthur. It was his favourite. We sold it. To pay the physicians.”

Devin’s jaw tightened. A flicker of something ferocious darkened his eyes.

“He was lucky,” he said, his voice gravelly. “To have you there.”

“I felt powerless.”

“You were his anchor.”

Tears blurred the lantern lights into golden smears. She didn’t wipe them away.

“Come here.”

He set the oars down and held out his hand. She went to him, settling on the plank seat beside him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, tucking her into his side. She fit, her head below his shoulder.

She tilted her face up. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not telling me not to be afraid.”

He looked down at her, his face close. His gaze dropped to her mouth.

“You’re the bravest person I know.”

For Maya, the world dissolved into the space between their lips. There was only the softness of his mouth meeting hers. A shared breath became a sigh, and the sigh became a slow, deep exploration. Her hands came up to his face, her fingers learning the texture of his jaw.

For Devin, time ceased to exist. The roaring silence in his head was drowned out by the sound she made in her throat. He felt the moment her body melted into his. His hand cradled her jaw, his thumb stroking the pulse beneath it, and he knew he was lost to her.

When he finally broke away, they were both breathless. He leaned back just enough to see her face in the lantern light. With a touch so gentle it ached, he traced her damp lower lip with his thumb.

“Maya.”

She traced his brow with a fingertip. “You know something?” she whispered.

His eyes held hers. “What?”

She crooked her finger.

A breath of laughter escaped him. He leaned in.

When his ear was close, she let her breath coast over his skin. “When I am with you, I am not afraid of anything. Not the water. Not the past. Nothing.”

A convulsive wave wracked through him. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, and she felt the heat of his skin, the heavy beat of his heart pounding through her own.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes were glistening in the lantern light. All the ducal arrogance was stripped bare; he looked young. She swallowed, suddenly aware of how exposed they both were, yet the pull to him was irresistible.

“Then I have everything,” he said, the words raw.

He bent his head, and this time his kiss was one of quiet, awestruck gratitude. The skiff drifted, the lanterns danced on the water, and in the centre of it all, they held each other.

XVII

Devin rose before the house. Sleep had taunted him—a shallow, broken drift that shattered long before dawn, leaving him to trace the faded cracks in the plaster molding overhead. The silence was dense, broken only by the faint hiss of a dying coal fire and the distant, percussive thwack-thwack of a servant beating a rug in the mews.

He sat up, the mattress groaning, and dragged a palm over the rough terrain of his jaw. The urge to cross the corridor to Maya’s rooms was a cord pulled taut behind his ribs. Three days married, and he had not laid a hand on her. Not truly. It was an exercise in monastic abstinence, and he was a man forged for command, not this hollow, patient ache.

He had endured this once before. And the memory clung, vine-like.

Eleanor—the Heiress of Springs—had been all delicate bones and timid smiles, eager to placate. The night before their engagement was to be announced, she had whispered a request: Make love to me. I wish to know what it feels like, to be desired. He had hesitated, but she pleaded, and he acquiesced, gentle, believing he offered comfort.

He hadn’t known.

No one had. Not her parents, not the physicians—least of all Eleanor herself.

The wasting disease unveiled its cruelty only in the absolute stillness of her death, stealing her breath by morning.

Everyone called it inevitable, a twist of nature’s knife. But Devin could not unknot the timing. Had he hastened it? Had the strain of that kindness snapped some fragile thread inside her?

He accepted the condolences with a face of carved duty, bowed at her funeral like the Duke he was expected to be, while something within him sealed shut. He vowed never to touch innocence again unless he was certain he could not fracture it.

And now Maya—vivid, warm Maya—looked at him with a trust that unstitched his resolve. The memory of her breath against his ear on the lake—You are my big, strong warrior—now felt like a vow he was terrified to break. It was the wounded confusion in her eyes at her chamber door after the opera, that genteel, heartbreaking not tonight, that now twisted in his gut. When she had leaned into him again last night, hopeful and unguarded, the old terror had struck him anew.

Because she was alive in a way Eleanor never had the chance to be. And he wanted her—a raw, scraping want.

Which was precisely why he feared her.

By the time his valet entered, Devin had already sluiced his face and neck with water from the porcelain ewer, the cold needling his skin but leaving his thoughts undisturbed.

“The black cutaway,” he said, voice pared to an edge. “The charcoal waistcoat. The striped trousers. I’ll breakfast at the Club.”

An hour later, his brougham parted the morning fog that clung to the cobblestones like sulphurous gauze. London wore its habitual grime—damp, soot-veined, purposeful. It suited him.

The carriage turned onto Pall Mall and halted before the Imperial Racing Club. The Georgian façade of Portland stone stood austere, its tall windows reflecting a queue of hansoms and private carriages. The place exuded a quiet, impregnable wealth.

Inside, the air hung rich with Havana smoke, aged brandy, and the brisk, clean sting of bay rum. In the dining room, the low rumble of masculine conversation blended with the chime of silver on china.

Devin surrendered his hat and gloves. He passed the sideboard with its steaming urns and chafing dishes of kedgeree and deviled kidneys without a glance. His stride—methodical, intent—drew silent attention as he moved toward the card room.

Edward and Frederic were already stationed by the tall sash window, a slow curl of Turkish smoke drifting between them. Their coffee sat untouched. Both looked up as he entered.

“Devin,” Edward greeted, a knowing twist to his mouth. “You’ve the look of a man fleeing matrimonial comforts.”

Frederic offered a dry chuckle. “Or being strangled by them. Which is it, Your Grace?”

Devin took the vacant chair. “It’s barely nine. You’re both drunk on conjecture.”

“That isn’t a denial,” Frederic observed, one brow arched.

Edward relaxed into his seat, his grin widening. “How does the new Duchess fare? London is riveted. I heard Lady Marchmont nearly required smelling salts at the Opera—Maya outshone every chandelier in the place.”

Devin’s mouth moved, a phantom of a smile. “Lady Marchmont requires smelling salts when her soup is insufficiently salted.”

Frederic barked a laugh. “And there he is. The same merciless bastard who terrified dons and debtors alike.”

“Marriage hasn’t dulled him yet,” Edward said. “Though I’d wager it’s attempting to.”

Devin’s tone remained even. “You two seem determined to chronicle my decline by the minute.”

“Because we recognize the signs,” Frederic drawled. “A man doesn’t wed a woman like that and emerge intact.”

Devin fixed him with a blade-sharp glance. “You’ve collected a wife and several mistresses and absorbed nothing from the lot. Do not tutor me on marriage.”

Frederic spread his hands in theatrical surrender. Edward chuckled softly. “Touché.”

Frederic leaned back, releasing a smoke plume that wandered toward Devin, while Edward reached over to refill Devin’s cup from the silver urn. No one spoke; the silence was companionable, worn smooth by years.

The door swung open abruptly. The club secretary, Mr. Mercer, stood on the threshold—pale, his spectacles clutched in a nervous hand.

“My lords, Your Grace,” he began, his voice frayed. “I regret to inform you… Lord Blackwood was discovered deceased last night. In his rooms upstairs.”

A total silence fell. The longcase clock’s ticking sectioned the void like a hammer on iron.

Edward went rigid. Frederic’s levity dissolved.

Devin’s focus sharpened, his voice controlled. “How?”

“Uncertain, Your Grace. An Inspector from Scotland Yard was here at first light. There is talk of poison… or a fall. The circumstances are unclear.” Mercer hesitated. “Members are asked to remain available for questioning.”

The air in the room grew still and watchful.

Behind his composed façade, Devin’s thoughts slotted into place, precise as a lock’s tumblers. He wasn’t considering Blackwood the man, but the previous evening—the exact heft of the billiard cue, the scent of blue chalk, the dismissive words he’d leveled across the green baize. He accounted for each second, rehearsing the sequence as if already before a magistrate.

Nothing more had occurred. Nothing of consequence.

Except the man was now dead.

Frederic exhaled, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Damned shame. Blackwood was a fool, but not the sort you expect to end like that.”

Edward’s gaze shifted to Devin. “You were here late, weren’t you?”

Devin’s expression remained untouched. “For a time.”

No one pressed further, but the quiet that followed was thick as the heat pressing against the windows.

He stood, the leather of his chair releasing a dry, adhesive sigh, and worked his gloves back onto his hands—smoothing the kid leather over each knuckle until the fit was flawless.

“Then the police will have their questions,” he stated, his voice arid. “Let them come.”

Frederic looked up, a long cylinder of ash teetering on his cigar. “You’re taking this with remarkable calm, considering—”

Devin’s grey eyes pinned him, cold and sharp. “Considering nothing. The man’s death is a misfortune, not my concern.” He leaned slightly over the mahogany table, the clean scent of his shave shearing through the stale smoke. “Still. Learn what you can, Frederic. Discreetly. I want to know who poured the glass and who stood witness.”

His tone was the same low, iron frequency that had subdued boardroom panics and quelled dockyard riots. It required no repetition.

Frederic gave a single nod. Edward stayed motionless, eyes fixed on the oily remnants of his coffee.

Devin turned toward the window. The August haze smeared Pall Mall into a bleached watercolor. Sun hammered the cobbles, raising steam from the gutters. Hansoms rattled over ruts, horseshoes striking stone—each sound too distinct, too clear in the stifling air.

He had come here to escape the pull of his wife’s proximity, to silence the hunger her presence awakened. Instead, he had stepped into a death that threatened to become his own.

Questions

Inspector Hale arrived before the tall case clock struck noon—a compact, salt-and-pepper man with sharp amber eyes and the posture of a coiled spring. His collar bore a faint, damp rim from the trek across the sun-scorched stones.

He crossed the expanse of the Wilton carpet in calculated, unhurried strides. Hale did not seem the type to be impressed by a title. To him, a Duke was merely a witness in more expensive tailoring.

When he entered, Devin stood by the white marble mantelpiece, one arm resting near a Louis XIV clock. Frederic and Edward remained moored in their leather chairs, their expressions sobered beneath the thinning haze of cigar smoke.

“Your Grace,” Hale said, a brief nod of his head the only concession to rank. “A regrettably unpleasant business, this. I trust you’ll indulge a few questions.”

Devin’s reply was curt. “If you must.”

Hale flicked open a leather-bound notebook, his thumb smudged with ink. “You were present at the club last night?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“I don’t require an audience to play billiards, Inspector.”

“Of course not. Still,” Hale traced a small semi-circle on the Wilton pile, “several members recall seeing you in conversation with the late Lord Blackwood.”

“A brief exchange regarding horses,” Devin said, his gaze lingering on a silver inkwell as if it held the answer. “He was half-drunk and less than interesting.”

Hale tapped a cedar pencil against his palm—a slow, hypnotic sound. “You’d had business disagreements in the past, I understand?”

“Blackwood disagreed with anyone richer, faster, or more competent than himself,” Devin said, his voice flat. “That encompasses most of London.”

A faint, ghost-like smile crossed Hale’s lips, though his eyes remained flinty. “And you left shortly before the incident.”

“I left because the brandy was inferior and the conversation worse,” Devin said. “If that’s a crime, you’d best arrest half the peerage.”

Frederic let out a short, dry bark of a laugh. Edward looked up at the ornate Lincrusta ceiling, as if willing himself invisible to the law.

Hale snapped his notebook shut—the sound sharp as a pistol shot. “Thank you, Your Grace. We may need to speak again.”

Devin’s tone cooled a fraction, his shoulders easing slightly. “You’ll find me where I always am—conducting business while others speculate.”

When the inspector’s footsteps had faded down the hallway, Frederic gave a low, breathy whistle. “You’ve lost none of your charm with the law.”

Edward leaned back, the mahogany of his chair protesting under the shift. “He doesn’t like you, Devin.”

“No reason he should,” Devin said, “I never pay for what I don’t buy.”

Frederic studied him, his eyes narrowing through the smoke. “You think this was more than a quarrel gone wrong?”

Devin’s stormy gaze hardened into blue flint. “Nothing happens in my circle without purpose. Someone wanted him gone—and wanted it messy.”

He turned toward the door, the leather of his polished boots thudding against the rug. “Keep your ears open, both of you. And for God’s sake, stay clear of the papers. The Pall Mall Gazette is already scenting blood.”

Frederic nodded once. Edward muttered, “You mean we stay clear. You’ll walk straight into it.”

Devin didn’t deny it. He simply straightened his starched linen cuff and stepped out into the echoing silence of the corridor.

Grosvenor Square

The brougham turned into the square as the sky broke. Rain hit the cobbles with a hiss, raising a shroud of steam that smelled of dust and scorched stone.

He stepped into the vestibule, handing his damp hat and coat to the butler. The hall held the quiet scent of beeswax and, faintly, lavender.

She was in the drawing room, near the cold hearth, a book closed on her lap. She looked up. Her lips parted, then settled into a curve. Her eyes, that distinctive hazel, moved over his face.

“You’re wet through,” she said. Her voice was soft, husky in the quiet. She rose. The muslin of her dress swayed with a motion he watched too closely. “You should have taken an umbrella.”

“I wasn’t planning to be gone.”

“No,” she said, coming forward. She took the towel from the hearth stand. “You weren’t planning to tell me, either.” Her tone held no edge. “Turn around.”

He obeyed.

Her hands, small and sure, blotted the damp from his shoulders. She worked with graceful efficiency, the way a person does when care has settled over everything else.

“You left before I woke,” she murmured, closer now. Her warmth, carrying a scent of rose and lavender, displaced the chill on his skin. “Thompson said you’d told him, not me.”

He exhaled, a controlled sound. “There was business.”

She folded the towel, set it aside. “Business that sends you out before dawn and brings you back looking like that?”

He met her gaze. “A man died at the club last night. Blackwood.”

Her eyes widened. “How?”

“They don’t know yet.” He turned away, poured a brandy. The liquid filled the glass, then the silence.

“You were there?”

“Last night. For a time.”

She said nothing. Then she crossed to him. “Let the police do their work.”

He looked at her—at her calm face, far too perceptive. Her youth was a vivid contrast to the news. He didn’t ask the question aloud.

“No,” she said, answering it anyway. She shook her head. “But I know you. You’ll make it yours to carry.”

A faint, humourless smile touched his mouth. “Careful men don’t build empires.”

“But careful men,” she said, her eyes softening, “live long enough to enjoy them.”

He had no answer. Her fingers went to his cravat, loosening the knot. They paused, for a second longer than necessary, at the base of his throat.

“You’ve had nothing since morning,” she murmured. “I’ll have dinner sent up.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Then sit with me. You don’t have to speak. Just be here.”

Her voice was calm. Certain. It found a seam in the armour he wore for the world. For a moment, he almost yielded.

But the memory returned: Blackwood’s face, the inspector’s watching eyes. He set the glass down and stepped back.

“There’s something I must see to.”

She didn’t ask. She only nodded, though a glint of disappointment lived and died in her eyes. “Take your coat. It’s still raining.”

He stopped at the door and looked back. The firelight found the copper in her hair, the soft line of her cheek. In the warm gloom, her stature was all poised grace. He saw it then: her stillness contained a different kind of strength. Facing the world was easier than facing this.

“I won’t be long,” he said.

“I’ll wait.”

He left. The hall was cold, the front door solid. Behind him, the drawing room held the fire, and the scent of lavender, and her promise.

I’ll wait.

* * * *

The streets of London had settled into a cloying, post-storm atmosphere by the time Devin stepped out again. The rain had ceased, but the city offered no relief; instead, the granite setts seethed with humid, foul-smelling vapor, the day’s heat cooking the rainwater in the gutters.

London breathed a peaceful sigh. Save for the sharp, wooden clatter of a night watchman’s rattle from a few streets over, and the thick stench of wet horse-dung and river-mud, a smell that even the heaviest downpour could never truly wash away. Underfoot, the “London Slop” clung to the edges of his boots, each step a sticky thud against the pavement.

His brougham had been dismissed; a plain black hansom waited by the corner of the square, its side panels scrubbed of any ducal crest. Devin preferred the anonymity of the shadows tonight. He drew the lapels of his light linen overcoat higher and moved the last few yards toward the Imperial Racing Club, the gas lamps wavering sickly over the Portland stone façade.

A watchman stood near the heavy oak doors, his shadow elongated and grotesque against the masonry. He started, his hand flying to his cap as he recognized the silhouette approaching.

“Evenin’, Your Grace. Club’s closed by order of the Inspector.”

Devin slipped a gloved hand into his pocket, drew out a gold sovereign, and pressed the cold metal into the man’s palm. “It is open for the next hour.”

The lock turned with a metallic thud. Inside, the foyer was a cavern of mahogany shadows, save for a single Colza lamp left burning low near the grand staircase. The silence was absolute—the kind of unsettling quiet that made the staccato tap of his boots on the parquet and the ticking of the longcase clock in the hall feel like a drumbeat against his skull.

He reached the billiard room—the air still holding the ghostly, stale tang of Havana smoke and the chalky scent of the tables. The police had come and gone, leaving behind an artificial order—the kind of scrubbed neatness that whispered someone had disturbed rather than preserved it.

Devin moved toward the slate-bed table, his eyes scanning the green baize. There, resting on a side cabinet—a thistle-shaped brandy snifter. It was clean, yet the glass lacked the brilliant luster of a fresh polish. He held it to the dying lamp. The rim was marred by a faint, waxy smudge of carmine.

His brows drew together, a pulse quickening at the anomaly.

There were no women permitted within the thresholds of the Imperial.

He leaned closer, the scent hitting him—jasmine and the harsh tang of belladonna. It was a scent he hadn’t expected in a drawing-room, deliberate and sharp.

He straightened, his gaze raking the corners of the room, the brass sconces, the ledgers. Near the hearth, something caught his attention. He crouched, retrieving a small mother-of-pearl button from the floorboards. A single frayed strand of pale eau-de-nil silk still clung to the thread-holes. He palmed it.

Behind him, the door groaned on its hinges.

“Should’ve known you’d return to the scene, Your Grace,” said a voice—low, dry, and familiar.

Devin didn’t bother turning. Fletcher—his secretary and the only man in London permitted to question a Duke’s sanity—stood in the doorway, his coat still damp from the mist.

“You followed me,” Devin said, his voice a level baritone.

“I make it a habit when you begin haunting dark rooms alone at midnight.”

Devin adjusted his cuff. “You shouldn’t have risked the walk.”

Fletcher stepped into the light, his face drawn. “They’ll hang someone for this before the week is out. And right now, the talk at Scotland Yard points toward Archer. He was seen boltin’ from the mews not long after the body went cold.”

“Archer?” Devin’s voice hardened. “The man is a groom, not an assassin. It’s nonsense.”

“Nonsense is the primary currency of the Morning Post, Your Grace.”

Devin strode past him, heading for the stairs. “Then we’ll find the truth before they print the lies.”

They moved through the upper corridor, where the air was thick with the sour, fermented tang of stale brandy. At the landing, the door to Blackwood’s private suite was cordoned off with a rough hemp rope. Devin produced a brass master key—one the steward had been well-compensated to ‘misplace’—and turned the lock.

The room smelled of spilled cognac and sour tobacco. Papers were strewn across the secretaire; one corner of the Axminster rug had been kicked back. Devin’s knee hit the parquet with a muffled thud as he lowered himself, the wool of his trousers tightening across his frame, his fingers brushing the floorboards until they met something cold.

A cufflink. Heavy gold, engraved with a flourished, unmistakable D.

He went rigid, the air seeming to freeze in his lungs.

Fletcher swore an oath. “If the Inspector finds that, the rope is as good as knotted.”

Devin’s jaw tightened until the muscles ached. “It wasn’t mine. I was wearing the onyx set last night.”

“I know that. But a jury won’t care for the distinction.”

He straightened slowly, the gold lying in his hand—cold and incriminating, the gravity of the moment pulling at his very marrow. He had seen this pair before—months ago. A voice, sensual and sweet as honeyed wine, echoed in his mind: For the man who never forgets what’s his.

He crushed the memory. “Conceal it. Not a word to the household.”

Fletcher hesitated, his eyes searching Devin’s. “You think it was planted?”

Devin’s tone was a low, final thud. “I don’t think, Fletcher. I know.”

They slipped out as they had come, the sulfurous August fog swallowing their silhouettes as though the city itself were erasing them.

XVIII

When he entered the townhouse, it was past two. The house was still. The drawing-room fire was embers—and she was there.

Maya slept in the armchair, the book open on her lap. Her hair had come loose, auburn-gold across her cheek.

He stood in the doorway, the night’s chill leaving his coat. The memory of the cufflink—blood, the dead man’s stare—faded.

He walked to the chair, knelt, and lifted the book. Her lashes moved.

“You came back,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep.

He said nothing.

Her eyes opened. Hazel, clear. “You’ve been investigating.”

He did not answer. She saw it anyway.

“Don’t go alone,” she whispered.

His throat closed. He brushed a strand of hair from her face. His knuckles traced her supple skin. “If you knew what I saw tonight.”

“I’d be here,” she said, simple as fact.

Her hand came to rest on his waistcoat. He went rigid. His heart beat once, hard, against her palm. The room seemed to contract, holding only the sound of his breath and the faint warmth rising from her skin. Lavender. Sleep. Her.

“You carry too much on those shoulders, Devin.”

He looked at her hand, at the pale line of her wrist. “It’s the only way I know.”

“Then learn another.”

Her hair grazed his jaw. He thought of lowering his head to the space where her neck met her shoulder. Of stopping. For good.

He stood instead. The floorboards creaked.

“Goodnight, Maya.”

She looked at him, a long, quiet look that settled in the space between them. Then she rose, her dress rustling, and left.

He exhaled slowly and took the cufflink from his pocket. Gold. Cold. The letter D gleamed in the gloom.

He stood there, the scent of her lingering where his own violent night had been. He stood until the embers greyed and his pulse, where her hand had been, finally slowed.

* * *

Morning broke over London with a rare, cloudless azure. Bright sunlight spilled over the red-brick facades of Grosvenor Square. In the street below, the cry of a muffin-man rang over the resonant, iron-rimmed rumble of the morning milk-cart, while a crossing-sweeper began his dust-scattering work on the dry granite. Inside the square, the lime trees stood crisp and green against the uncharacteristic clarity of the summer sky.

In the Duke’s townhouse, the day began as it always did—the low murmur of servants, the faint clatter of porcelain, the distant clip of horses in the street below. But the calm was deceptive. A quiet strain vibrated just beneath the surface, a tautness that had settled in overnight.

Maya sensed it the moment she descended the stairs. She moved with the unconscious sensuous grace of a woman born to be looked at. Fletcher was there, speaking quietly to one of the footmen, his tone low and clipped. He broke off as soon as he saw her, as if her presence demanded a shift in the very atmosphere.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Fletcher said, bowing stiffly from the waist, his face a careful carapace of formal deference.

She offered him a genuine, warm smile, the kind that reached her hazel eyes and lit them with a disarming candor. “Good morning, Mr. Fletcher. Is the Duke awake?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” He paused, adjusting the cuffs of his somber morning coat. “He left before breakfast was laid.”

Her brows lifted, a subtle, elegant question in the movement. “Again?” Her voice was soft, carrying a note of concerned interest rather than accusation.

The secretary hesitated, a slight tremor betraying his discomfort. He was a man of discretion, but her gaze had a rare, piercing quality that made evasion almost impossible. It was the quiet intelligence in it, the patient attention that invited trust. “He is attending to some pressing matters at the Imperial Racing Club. He instructed me to say he would not be long.”

Maya nodded slowly, the easy words sitting uneasily on her conscience. “I see. Thank you for telling me.” She paused, her consideration for Devin transforming the practical into a gentle command. “Please inform the kitchen to keep his coffee warm. He seldom eats a proper meal before midday, and strong coffee on an empty stomach will only sharpen his temper.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said, his tone subtly warmer, his bow a fraction less rigid, as he turned briskly on his heel.

As he departed, she paused by the drawing-room window. Outside, the vibrant life of the square dissolved into a meaningless blur of light and motion; her thoughts were fixed entirely on Devin. She recalled the quiet tension in his eyes the night before, a guarded look she hadn’t seen since their wedding, and the faint, unmistakable scent of stale tobacco smoke that had clung to his evening coat.

Something was wrong; she could feel it in her very bones.

* * *

At that same hour, Devin stood once more beneath the soot-darkened mahogany panels of the Imperial Racing Club. He was not alone this time.

Frederic and Edward were there—both men sober for once, the usual humor between them muted by unease.

“This whole damned business smells wrong,” Edward said, his boots creaking against the parquet as he paced. “Blackwood wasn’t a saint, but murder? Here?”

Frederic leaned against the marble mantel, an unlit cigar between his teeth. “The constable’s already got his theory. They’re saying your groom, Archer, quarreled with him over a wager gone bad.”

Devin’s jaw tightened. “Archer wouldn’t lift a hand to anyone. He’s loyal to the bone.”

“That’s what I told them,” Frederic said, “but loyalty doesn’t count for much when there’s a dead man on the carpet and your initials on a cufflink beside him.”

Edward shot him a warning look. “Fred.”

But Devin didn’t recoil. “They found it.”

Frederic’s brows shot up. “You knew?”

“I went back last night,” Devin said. “Before the police. It was planted.”

“By whom?”

“If I knew that,” Devin replied, “I wouldn’t be wasting words.”

Edward stepped toward him. “Then you’re saying someone wants you blamed for it.”

Devin’s tone went cold. “Someone wants to see me cornered.”

He moved toward the billiard table, hands clasped behind his back, his posture carrying the same quiet authority that bent Parliament to his will. “We keep Archer out of the noose first. I’ll need both of you—discreetly. No noise, no attention.”

Frederic gave a crooked smile. “Since when have we ever been discreet?”

“Since I married,” Devin said dryly.

That earned a short, amused breath from Edward. “Speaking of which—how is the Duchess faring with London’s most ruthless man?”

A faint warmth touched Devin’s expression, there and gone. “She bears it better than most.”

Frederic grinned. “Bears it? She hasn’t run off screaming yet?”

“She’s patient,” Devin said, quieter now. “Far more patient than I deserve.”

The two men exchanged a look—part teasing, part respect.

Edward said, “You know, Will, you may fool the House, but not us. You’re half a ghost these days—and it isn’t business keeping you up at night.”

Devin’s grey eyes lifted, sharp. “Mind your own wife, Edward.”

The room fell into a sudden silence, though the sting eased quickly.

Frederic finally exhaled and smirked. “He’s still got teeth, thank God.”

Devin allowed the faintest curve of a smile. “You’d do well to remember it.”

* * *

By afternoon, the first tendrils of gossip had already begun to wind through Mayfair’s drawing rooms and tea parlors. It began as a vague murmur — a tragedy at the Imperial Racing Club. No names were spoken yet, but society never needed names to begin sharpening its suspicions.

Maya caught the news from Lady Marchmont, who waylaid her on Bond Street with that particular, sharp-bright inflection women reserved for a circling scent of fresh disgrace. She was swathed in fussy dove-grey silk, her bustle a preposterous architectural feat for the September swelter, the heavy veil failing entirely to mask the avid gleam in her eyes.

“My dear Duchess,” she trilled, leaning in with an air of conspiratorial concern, “do tell me His Grace is quite himself? One hears such unsavoury whispers about the Club. I have always maintained that gentlemen’s establishments are dens of iniquity—and peril.”

Maya, cool in her pale lemon linen, cut for the very heat that wilted the other woman, met the inquiry with a serene, polished smile. “My husband enjoys robust health, Lady Marchmont. He is merely detained by affairs.”

She held the woman’s gaze until Lady Marchmont’s own wavered and dissolved, retreating with a quavering, unconvincing laugh.

But as Maya settled into the leather embrace of her brougham, the disquiet seeped back—denser now, and edged with a creeping chill. She sank against the squabs, her knuckles whitening on the carriage strap as the wheels juddered into motion.

Home, she withdrew to her chamber and immersed herself in a deep, steaming bath, the water clouded with milk and richly scented with her signature lavender. She let the heat seep into her bones, unraveling the day’s persistent tension. She rose, water sluicing in rivulets down her long, shapely limbs, and draped herself in nothing but a slip of fine batiste. The damp fabric clung, transparent as morning mist, to the elegant slope of her shoulders and the sensual curves of her body. Her dressing gown hung loose and forgotten from her hands.

On silent, bare feet, she approached the study—her heart thrilling for a moment at the thought of her husband behind the door—and stilled, her breath snagging at the sight of Fletcher instead. A sudden, sharp consciousness of her own state flooded her. Fletcher, the soul of discretion, had already averted his eyes with seamless tact.

“Has His Grace returned?”

“No, Your Grace.”

She paused, the words lodging faintly in her throat. “Should he arrive before supper… inform him he is not to barricade himself in the library tonight.”

Fletcher’s eyebrows lifted, a fleeting surprise in his otherwise impassive face. “I shall relay the message, Your Grace.”

“No need,” Devin’s voice drifted through the study doorway — low, velvet-dark. “He does no shutting away today.”

Maya froze.

Fletcher’s gaze darted between them, then he bowed sharply and was gone—the door clicking shut behind him.

The meaning hung in the air, thick as the brandy on Devin’s breath. His voice was darker than she’d ever heard it, roughened by drink and something far more dangerous.

“You came to my study.” The words came out low, stripped. “Looking for me. In this.”

The sight of her drove the breath from his lungs. That sheer slip of fabric—soaked, transparent—clung to every curve he had only ever dreamed of. Her hair was damp at the ends, pasted to her throat. Her feet were bare on his floor.

A hot, vicious clench seized his gut. This was his. Meant for his eyes, his hands, his alone. Not for Fletcher to glimpse, not even for an instant.

Maya gasped. “William, I only—”

“I know.” His voice was rough, control fraying at the seams. Hearing her say his name like that—soft, guilty—ignited a darker fire in his blood. The sharp sting of violation burned away, replaced by something more primal. A need to scour the moment clean. To brand her so deeply there would never be a question of who she belonged to.

The hallway behind him was a pool of shadow. Lamplight gilded the powerful slope of his shoulders, the open throat of his shirt where his pulse beat strong and steady. He swayed almost imperceptibly with the contained force of a storm held at bay.

“Oh,” escaped her—a soft, punched-out sound.

Something about the way he stirred at her. His grey eyes—usually cool steel—burned tonight. Shade deepened to molten pewter, sharp, tracking every shift of her posture as though her body were a map he intended to follow.

A current shot through Maya, swift and dizzying. Her lungs tightened as her pulse slammed upward.

He prowled into the room. Each movement slow as a promise—or a threat. Maya’s grip tightened on her dressing gown as she retreated until her back met the wall.

“It’s—a very fine evening,” she stammered, the words thin in the charged air.

“Yes.” His gaze burned straight through the thin silk of her gown, lingering where it clung to the ripe curves of her breasts. “A very fine evening indeed.”

She tried to shift sideways, but he was already there—filling her vision, her world. Power radiated from him, raw and unchecked. His storm-grey eyes held her pinned: a feast he intended to devour. A violent tremor seized her—terror and exhilaration twisted into one breathless knot.

He closed the final distance, and the air between them vanished.

Gracious heavens.

“Aren’t you hungry?” The attempt at distraction was pitiful, her smile shaky. “Cook made a fine dinner.”

“Dinner.” The word was a low rumble. His gaze traveled slowly from the wild fall of her hair, down the impossible slenderness of her waist, over the heavy, lush flare of her hips—a silhouette so dramatic it seemed to strain against the seams of reality, then back up in a devastating sweep. “I am hungry.”

He leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear carrying the sharp sweetness of brandy.

“For my wife.”

Maya’s heart thudded at the back of her chest. She began shifting anew, her hip bumping the hard edge of the desk. Her eyes darted toward it in recognition.

Devin was by her side in one swift motion.

“William”. She squeaked, hardly able to contain her nerves.

“Mmm…” He murmured, lowering himself to the pulse at the side of her neck, doing sinuous things that dissolved her equilibrium.

A faint moan escaped her lips, she covered her mouth shocked by the outburst.

“You’ve been drinking.” She whispered, eyes drooping in pleasure.

“Enough to peel the day off my shoulders,” he murmured, still dropping kisses, sucking mercilessly on that delicate pulse that strained for his lips.

“Enough to remind me what matters.”

Maya’s breath came in short gasps. Her fingers found the nape of his neck, urging him on.

He groaned, “Maya….”

“I spent the entire evening walking through that damned Club… frustrated, no progress.” He whispered breathlessly, kissing her collarbone, descending dangerously lower. “And all I could think of was this moment. You. Here.”

Maya’s eyes closed in ecstasy, her breath quickening, then faltering as she rubbed her body shamelessly against his rigid form.

A low growl threaded his voice. “Be careful”.

Without warning, he tugged the ribbon at her neck. The chemise slipped down her shoulders and fell to the floor.

Cool air washed over her, and his entire body became alert— The weight of her breasts, the impossible slenderness of her waist, the smooth, vulnerable skin at the junction of her thighs, the rounded swell of her hips—she was so utterly female, it felt like a punch to his gut.

She watched his body tense, every muscle coiling. Her nipples tightened instantly at the force of his scrutiny.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathed, the words ragged.

Maya’s breath hitched, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow heaves.

“Only… only for you,” she whispered, cheeks burning, fingers trembling as she lifted them almost instinctively to cover her bare body.

Devin’s hands stopped her immediately.

“Do not hide from me,” he murmured. “I’ve waited a lifetime for this.”

His hands cupped each breast, reveling in their fullness and tenderness, kneading with maddening reverence.

Maya released a shivering sigh, her eyes met his—stormy grey and raw with hunger. Fear and anticipation warred within her. Would he be gentle? Or would the man she had longed for, the powerful, ruthless Duke, finally claim her without holding anything back?

As if reading her thoughts, Devin hurried to reassure her.

“I’m going to be gentle… easy on you. We’ll take it slow.”

Maya nodded without thinking.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

“Yes… I do. You’re my husband.”

Those words struck him like a fire he hadn’t anticipated. Her trust, her vulnerability — tender and raw — ignited something within him.

He captured her lips with a fervor that words could never convey, exploring, declaring, surrendering. Maya melted into his kiss, hands clutching his coat as if it were her only anchor to sanity.

When he finally pulled back, his breath came heavy, eyes glazed with desire.

“I can’t resist you,” he confessed.

Nor I you, Maya thought, her pulse hammering in her ears.

With deliberate care, he took her nipple between his lips, sucking gently. Maya shuddered, the exquisite pleasure shooting through her. A deep, insistent throb began inside her, and she arched on instinct, pressing her breasts more fully into his lips.

Devin groaned, a low, desperate sound, like a beast finally fed. He devoured the hills and valleys of her, murmuring incoherent confessions that sent shivers down her spine. Maya didn’t know what had come over her — she had never imagined his tongue could bring such exquisite pleasure.

“Oh… William…” she rasped, breath quivering.

Devin answered with a rough sound low in his throat, her voice spurring him on as he continued with uncontrolled hunger

“More… please,” she whispered, unsure of what she was pleading for, yet unable to resist the pull of desire.

Her fingers found the zipper on his trousers as if guided by instinct.

Devin stiffened, eyes tracking her hands to his zipper and back to her lust-fueled face, a silent question lingering — did she understand the gravity of what she was asking?

“I want you… now. I need you,” she whispered, lips swollen from his kisses, cheeks flushed, her breasts proud and firm, begging for his attention.

“My naughty wife,” he murmured with a low chuckle, fingers brushing a strand of hair from her silken face. “You tempt my self-control to a whole new level.”

Maya wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him down to her height. “I don’t want you to hold anything back,” she breathed, voice quivering with need.

With a dangerous growl, Devin lifted her effortlessly from the floor. She squealed, a mixture of surprise and delight, as her arms flew up around his neck.

XIX

He crossed the threshold, carrying her effortlessly. The bedroom was warm, shadows dancing over the silk-covered walls as he set her down.

Maya’s breath came fast. The room felt smaller now, every corner thrumming with the promise of him. Devin’s storm-grey eyes captured hers, hunger and tenderness warring in their depths.

“My little wife,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to her nose. “So bold in your curiosity.”

Heat bloomed across Maya’s skin, a soft laugh escaping her. She couldn’t deny it—and she wouldn’t.

Devin stepped back, shrugging off his tailored frock coat. The fabric slid to the floor with a soft sigh. He paused, her gaze tracing the line of his shoulders and the swell of his chest beneath his vest.

Next, he undid the buttons of his waistcoat, letting it fall free. He smoothed a curl of hair from his forehead—a small, knowing gesture that sent a tripwire of lightning through her pulse.

Finally, he reached for his white cotton shirt. One button at a time. Slow. Teasing. Every movement a silent promise.

Maya forgot to breathe. His body was astonishing—wide, sculpted, every muscle coiled and alive, taut as ship’s rigging.

He met her gaze, eyes dark with playful hunger. “You like what you see?” he asked, a subtle, teasing shift of his shoulders making his chest rise.

Maya’s laugh was breathless. “Oh… yes, my king! You are… formidable.”

With a wicked smirk, his hands moved to the fastenings of his trousers, then halted.

The amusement drained from Maya’s face. She felt a quiet hesitation in him, and it made her chest skip. The warmth pooling low in her belly felt like equal parts fear and desire.

“I don’t want to frighten you,” he murmured, his eyes searching hers.

“I won’t be frightened,” she whispered, her chest rising and falling in quick, uneven heaves.

He raised an eyebrow, amused yet skeptical. “Certain?”

“Yes… I’m certain,” she breathed, the word fraying into a whisper.

Slowly, he drew his trousers down, every movement unhurried.

Maya’s throat went dry. Her eyes widened, tracking the strong V-line of his form. She had known he would be larger than she imagined—larger than anything in her experience—but the sheer, overwhelming presence of him was a physical blow to her senses. The breadth and the proud strain of him spoke of power barely leashed.

Her heart hammered. She was torn between the urge to reach for him and the atavistic instinct to flee.

Devin climbed into the bed. Without hesitation, he drew the duvet over himself, shielding his nakedness the moment he caught the flash of alarm in her eyes.

Maya hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding herself until her shoulders loosened. The mattress dipped with his weight.

“There,” he murmured. “You’re safe.”

Safe.

The word landed like a weight, though her heart still stuttered. She could feel his heat through the linens, the undeniable presence of a man who had removed every barrier—yet chosen, deliberately, not to overwhelm her.

His hand rested atop the coverlet between them, palm open.

“I told you,” he said softly. “Nothing happens unless you wish it.

“Maya swallowed, her fingers twisting in the sheets. “I… I know,” she whispered.

Devin watched her, his gaze softened. “You may look,” he added, a hint of warmth threading his tone. “Or you may not. Either is right.”

She bit her lip. The invitation—the lack of a demand—sent a frisson through her. It wasn’t fear; it was the sudden, deep ache of trust.

Slowly, she turned her face toward him, taking in the breadth of his shoulder beneath the covers. She released a faint sigh of wonder.

This was her husband.

This moment—theirs.

She lifted her hand and brushed his hair back, easing a dark strand from his forehead. He looked so beautiful—if such a word were permitted a man. She had wanted to do this from the very first day, a secret pressed to her heart.

“Thank you,” Devin said softly, a quiet chuckle warming the words.

She blinked. “Thank you for what?”

“For that,” he murmured, turning his head slightly into her touch. “You said I looked beautiful.”

Heat bloomed across her cheeks. She hesitated, then lifted her chin with shy honesty. “I meant it.”

His expression changed—something unguarded crossing his face. He caught her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm, lingering there as though sealing the moment.

“And I shall remember it,” he said, low and sincere, “for the rest of my life.”

Drawn by the quiet gravity of him, she leaned in and kissed him—slowly, tentatively, savoring the truth of him on her lips. The kiss was a mere brush. A breath shared.

Devin stilled, as though the world had narrowed to the fragile point where her mouth met his. Then, with a sound low in his chest—he answered her with a depth that startled her.His lips coaxed rather than claimed, tilting his head as though learning her shape was a sacred act. One hand rose beneath the covers, resting at her waist—warm and comforting, as if to say I have you.

Maya’s breath snagged.

The kiss deepened, rich with intent. His mouth was an invitation, and when she answered—wild and uncurbed—he rewarded her with a soft sound of approval that rippled through her. Her fingers dug into his muscles as if she feared she might float away otherwise.

Devin drew back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, his voice a low murmur meant only for her.

“There you are,” he said softly.

And the way he said it, with relief in his voice made her heart tip forward, helplessly, toward whatever came next.

His thumb brushed her lips, savoring the softness. “I want you to close your eyes. Could you do that for me?”

Maya blinked, a small smile tugging at her lips, part amused, part confused. “Close my eyes?” she breathed. But she did as he asked, letting the darkness behind her eyelids pull her into his control, feeling both daring and entirely at his mercy.

“Trust me,” he murmured, and Maya felt the bed dip beneath him as he lowered himself toward her feet.

“Don’t peek,” he added, his voice low, teasing.

Maya suppressed a laugh, the corners of her lips twitching. “I’m not peeking,” she whispered, though the tiny quiver of excitement in her chest betrayed her.

Maya’s eyes remained shut, the world reduced to the warmth of him, the caress of his lips, the subtle heat radiating from his body. She could feel him shift closer, settling between her thighs, dropping soft kisses, each kiss traveling upward with teasing, deliberate slowness.

Her hands fisted in the sheets involuntarily, heart pattering in a mix of anticipation and disbelief. Each gentle, tantalizing press of his lips lit a trail of fire under her skin.

And all at once, a wet, electric sensation ignited the most sensitive part of her. Her eyes flew open, wide with shock.

“William!” she gasped, hands flailing reflexively, trying to push at his head—

He only stilled her with his hands, firm and grounding, a low sound leaving him.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against her, voice rough, unrepentant. “I’m not stopping.”

He was immovable, planted like a solid wall, his tongue working in ways she had never imagined possible.

A sound was torn from her, part gasp, part sob. Her mind fragmented into pure sensation—the scrape of linen, the scent of him, the devastating focus of his mouth.

Her hands fumbled, clutching at the sheets as her hips shifted instinctively, seeking more even as she tried to push him away. But the pleasure—wild, sharp, impossible—refused to let her go. Each flick, each teasing motion drew another cry from her lips.

“Please—”

“No,” he rumbled, his voice a dark vibration against her core. “Not yet.”

Her thighs quivered beneath him, knees pressing together in reflex, and yet every instinct whispered to give in, to melt into the sensation that consumed her. Her back arched, breasts pressing against the cool sheets.

A soft, possessive growl vibrated against her. The quake it sent along her spine was pure surrender.

“William!” she cried.

“Mmm…” he murmured, voice thick with hunger, “you’re mine.”

‘You’re mine.’ The words sank in, a truth that unspooled the last thread of her resistance. A heady mixture of trust and awe surged through her, tethering her fully to the man, the sensation, the inevitable fall.

“Don’t fight it, little wife,” he murmured, voice rough with need yet tender. “Let me take care of you.”

“Don’t stop—”

Her body shuddered violently, a wave of exquisite release curling through her from core to limbs. Hips lifted, pressing involuntarily into him, knees shaking as a gasp tore from her lips. She clung to him, arms wrapped tight, mind spinning with the fire of sensation that both startled and consumed her.

Devin groaned, low and urgent, “Yes… that’s it, give it to me,” his hands steadying her, cupping her, guiding her through the tremors that wracked her body.

Her release rolled through her again and again, each pulse tethering her closer to him, to the warmth, the power, and the undeniable fire that was wholly, irrevocably William.

He stayed there, cupped around her, letting her come down from the tremors of pleasure, his breath warming her sensitive skin, every exhale sending shivers through her still-trembling body.

Then, slowly, he began to crawl upward, until his chest rested against hers, his breath stirring her hair, neck, shoulder. The quiet strength in his hold made her feel safe, cherished, as though nothing in the world could intrude upon this cocoon of shared heat and trust.

Maya’s fingers traced the line of his jaw, memorizing the set of his mouth and the strength coiled beneath his skin. Every beat of his heart beneath her hand answered the wild, uneven tempo of her own.

“Just breathe,” he murmured. His voice was soft, but it carried the vibration of the raw sound that had sent a tremor through her moments ago. His eyes searched hers, reading every aftershock, every unspoken question.

“I didn’t know it could feel like this,” Maya whispered. “I never imagined—”

“You imagined me,” Devin interrupted softly. A hint of a smile played at his lips. “Every glance. Every stolen moment before tonight. It all led here.”

A slow, liquid flush claimed her. It was the truth; the man who had been all poise and command was now something different—present, and utterly devoted.

His hands skimmed her back, tracing the curve of her spine to settle at the small of her waist. “You’re mine now,” he murmured. This time, the hunger was gone, replaced by a quiet awe, as if he could scarcely believe she was finally in his arms without hesitation.

Maya nestled closer, inhaling the warmth of him. His strength held her steady even while her body still vibrated.“Yes,” she breathed. “All of me.”

His hands rested upon her hips, thumbs tracing slow circles into her skin. He pressed a kiss to the landscape of her shoulder, her silken hair tickling his lips. The solid heat of his chest pressed to her back grounded her erratic pulse.

“Maya,” he said, his voice low and husky.

“May I make love to you?”

Maya’s heart stuttered. Her lips parted, the answer a breathless exhale. “Yes… yes, William.”

A slow, satisfied breath escaped him—a tremor of relief beneath the banked storm of his desire. His hands slid upward, his fingertips skimming her ribs, tracing the contours of her body with agonizing intent.

“I will be gentle,” he murmured into the nape of her neck. “You tell me if it is too much. If you want me to stop.”

Maya trembled, her chest rising and falling in shallow hitches. “I trust you,” she whispered. “Completely.”

He pressed closer, a solid, comforting heat of his body seeping into hers. “I am glad,” he murmured.

Then in one slow, inexorable stroke, he was inside her.

Maya cried out—a sharp, gasping sound of pure shock. The pain was excruciating, a burning stretch that stole her breath and sent tears springing to her eyes.

Devin went utterly still.

For a moment that spanned an eternity, there was no movement. Only the shock of joining, the feel of her tight, hot sheath around him, and the sound of her quiet sobs. His forehead dropped to hers, his breath ragged against her lips.

He was everywhere, filling her body so much that it was nearly impossible to breathe without discomfort. She could feel him trembling—the immense effort it cost him to remain motionless, to give her time.

“Too much?” He gasped, the words torn from him. “Should I stop?”

She glimpsed the torment in his eyes. It would kill him to stop. She could see it—the strain in his jaw, the cords of his neck, the way every muscle in his body was locked in rigid control. But he would. If she said yes, he would.

Maya’s hand came up to cradle his face. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please. Only—slowly.”

A shudder wracked Devin’s frame. He pressed his mouth to her’s, claiming her lips in a passionate kiss, tongue plunging past her parted lips and sweeping against hers—warm, insistent, consuming. She answered without thought, her own tongue meeting his, tasting him, losing herself in the wet heat of his mouth.

Devin used that moment to move. A shallow withdrawal. A slow, careful return.

“Like this?” he panted against her lips.

She whimpered. “A little—much—”

He stilled instantly. Waited. Then withdrew and thrust again, just as gently, watching her face contort with strain.

“Now?”

“Only a little,” Maya breathed.

It still burned but not as much.

Devin did it again. And again. Each stroke tender yet powerful, his breath coming faster, his muscles beginning to ripple beneath her desperate fingers. Maya’s nails dug into his back, clinging to him as the burning gradually faded, replaced by something else—a strange, building pressure, a friction that no longer hurt but demanded.

Before she knew what she was doing, her hips began to move—slowly, wanting him, meeting him.

Devin’s heart slammed against her chest. His eyes flew to hers, wild with disbelief.

“Maya—”

She didn’t answer. She rolled her hips again, and this time a moan escaped her—not of pain, but of want.

That was all it took.

His control slipped.

His thrusts came faster, harder, deeper—each one driving the breath from her lungs, each one answered by a cry she couldn’t contain. Her legs wrapped around his hips, locking him to her, and he made a sound she had never heard—raw, desperate, almost feral—as he drove into her again and again.

“God—Maya—” he gasped, his voice breaking.

Her fingers devoured him—the sweat-slick planes of his back, the corded muscles of his shoulders, the place where his pulse hammered wildly at his throat. She was lost in him, in the rhythm, in the glorious, aching fullness of him moving inside her.

The pressure built. Coiled. Tighter and tighter until she thought she might shatter from it.

And then she did.

Her body clenched around him in waves, pulling him deeper, and she sobbed his name into the crook of his neck as pleasure detonated behind her eyes. Devin followed her instantly—a final, driving thrust, a guttural scream of her name, and then the hot pulse of him filling her, his body shuddering through wave after wave of release.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Only their ragged breaths filled the silence, his chest heaving against hers, her fingers still tangled in his sweat-damp hair.

Then, slowly, he lifted his head. His eyes—those storm-grey eyes—were wet.

“God, Maya,” he whispered.

Her hazel eyes searched his in the dim light. Maya saw no Duke there. Only William—a man who had finally come home from a long, lonely war. Her hand slid up to cradle the fierce line of his jaw, her thumb stroking his cheekbone.

Her own body was spent, thoroughly exhausted. But in his arms—claimed, cherished, utterly his—she was not just at peace. She was home.

The Duke of Devin, who had never spent a full night in a woman’s bed, stayed.

He did not rise to reclaim the solitude of his own chamber or fortify his composure with a brandy against the dark. He did not retreat to the window to contemplate the day as a transaction. He simply held her.

When she stirred in the deep of the night, murmuring into the silence, his arms tightened. When the fire died to embers and the room chilled, he pulled the covers over her shoulder, tucking her warmth against his skin.

Sleep, when it finally claimed him, was not the shallow rest of a man perpetually on guard. It was sublime.

William did not dream of old battlefields or the cold demands of his title. He dreamed of nothing at all—a blissful void, tethered only by the sweet sensation of her hair brushing his cheek and the steady thrum of her breath.

XX

The dawn was beautiful, filtering through velvet curtains to find them entangled. Maya awoke to the tantalizing heat of him. She lay in a breathless stillness, letting the reality settle: the weight of an arm across her ribs, the solid wall of his chest molding to her spine, and the scent of bay rum and sandalwood clinging to her skin.

Downstairs, Fletcher arrived at his customary hour. The study was empty; last night’s brandy glass remained untouched on the mahogany desk. A discreet smile touched the secretary’s lips. He did not go upstairs. He simply turned and began the day’s work.

Behind her, William stirred. He nuzzled the sensitive skin of her nape, gathering her into the hardness of his frame. One coherent thought broke through the haze of his sleep: She is here. The memory of her coming apart in his arms was no longer a fantasy; it was the foundation of his world.

“Mmm.” A drowsy hum filtered through her spine. His lips found her shoulder in a slow, sleep-soft kiss.

Maya arched into him, a sigh escaping. Last night: his mouth here, and here—and lower.

He dropped another kiss, lower, as if tracing the path of her thoughts. Maya shut her eyes. A flash of candlelight, the strain of his shoulders above her—she was lost again.

“Good morning,” his voice gravelly against her skin.

A shiver traced her spine. “Good morning.”

He lifted his head, his thumb cradling the swell of her breast.

“William,” she whispered, the name husky.

A low vibration started in his chest. “I love the way you say my name.” He shifted, his hand smoothing over the slope of her waist to settle on her hip.

Then, he stilled.

The light was clear now, stripping away the sanctuary of the dark. There, on the Irish linen sheets. A rust-colored bloom. Evidence of her virginity. A fractured breath escaped him. “It’s real,” he whispered to the Heavens.

His seed was inside her. What if she was already with child? The thought sparked a joyful hope inside him. Please. Let there be a child.

His gaze lifted, finding her eyes. Wide. Waiting. He saw the heat flushing her throat, the arrested breath in her parted lips. He did not speak. He did not smile. The raw truth of it stole the air from his own lungs.

Slowly, he leaned down, pressing his lips to the center of her shoulder blade—a long, silent kiss that felt like a seal. When he looked up, the veneer of the Duke was gone.

“Maya,” he breathed.

Her heart turned over. She reached up, her fingers threading into the dark, sleep-tousled silk of his hair. He closed his eyes, a shudder of pure feeling passing through him as he leaned into her palm.

He bent and kissed her—deep, slow, tasting of shared sleep and something new, something irrevocable.

“Thank you,” he whispered, breath warm on her lips.

“For what?”

“For trusting me.” His thumb sketched the line of her cheekbone, a touch so reverent it burned. “For being mine.”

“You’re welcome,” she murmured. Then, with a soft smile: “And thank you. For staying.”

She framed the strong line of his jaw and brought his mouth back to hers. This kiss was hers—exploring, a deliberate claiming. You are mine, too.

When she broke it, his breath came hard. “Good morning again,” she said.

A real smile—the kind he rarely showed the world—curved his lips. “It is now.”

William sat up, the sheets pooling at his waist. The morning light carved his torso in gold. She let her gaze travel. Over the width of his shoulders, the strong muscle she had clung to. Over the planes of his chest, smooth and unmarked. Her eyes widened at the vivid memory it triggered: the shock of him filling her, his thunderous cry. She looked away, cheeks burning.

“Look your fill, Maya,” he commanded softly. “I am entirely your husband.”

She dared to look back. “It’s still a marvel,” she confessed.

“That I am yours?”

“The fact that you’re real. And here.”

A rough sound came from his throat. He reached out, his fingertips drawing a slow line down her spine. Maya sucked in a breath, eyes drifting closed. He paused over the small strawberry-coloured birthmark above her hip, his thumb stroking it. He had found it last night in the dark.

“Mine,” he murmured, his lips dampening the spot.

“Yours,” she agreed.

“Are you sore?” he asked, his voice dropping to that intimate register that made her ache.

She nodded, embarrassed. “A little. Here.” She placed a hand low down her belly.

His expression softened into something fiercely tender. “I’m sorry. And not sorry.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Let me take care of you.”

He slid from the bed, and for a moment, Maya simply watched the powerful, clean lines of his back. He crossed to the bell-pull, then returned, scooping her up against his chest.

“William!”

“Hush, darling. I have you.”

He carried her into the adjoining chamber and lowered her into the steaming, lavender-scented tub. Maya sighed as the heat unknotted the delicious ache of him.

William knelt beside the tub, steam wreathing his shoulders. He took up the sponge of fine, bleached wool. “Stay still. Let me tend to you.”

His work began at her shoulders—methodical, tender. He washed her arms, kissing each knuckle. When his hands moved to her breasts, they stilled. He cupped their weight, his thumbs circling her nipples.

Maya’s head fell back; a moan escaped her. “Oh… William…”

A low sound rumbled from him, but he forced his hands to continue. The sponge swept over her stomach, his touch devastatingly gentle. “So beautiful,” he murmured.

When the sponge drifted lower, she flinched.

He froze. “Too much?”

“A little tender,” she whispered.

His eyes met hers—dark with a mix of hunger and remorse. “I will be gentle tonight,” he promised, his voice thick.

William rinsed her with warm streams from a silver ewer, then washed her hair, his thumbs working firm circles into her scalp until she was boneless. He lifted Maya out, water sluicing down her body, and enveloped her in a warmed Turkish towel. He dried her with ceremonial care—every limb, every curve—as if he were anointing something sacred.

Reaching for a jar of beeswax and lavender salve, he smoothed the cool balm over the delicate skin of her inner thighs. Coolness. Then a spreading warmth. His touch, a healing apology. The gasp was snatched from her.

He bent close. His voice was a husk against her damp hair. “This scent will always be us, for me. The morning after. My peace.”

William bundled her into his navy Japanese silk dressing gown. The weighty silk swallowed her, smelling of bay rum and him.

“There.” He tied the sash, his fingers lingering on the knot. “My wife.”

Maya looked up, her hazel eyes searching his face. “Do I look like a duchess?”

“You look like my heart,” he said.

He carried her back to the bedroom. A low satinwood table had been pulled close to the hearth: coffee, thick cream, and a bowl of strawberries that looked like rubies against the white Spode porcelain. Settling her in the center of the newly changed mattress, William climbed in beside her, half-undressed.

He poured her coffee, adding the cream without asking. He’d been watching her closer than she’d realized. Buttering a corner of toast, he held it to her lips. “Eat. You’ve a long day of recovery ahead.”

Maya took a bite. A single speck of orange marmalade clung to the corner of her mouth. Her pink tongue swept it away. His gaze dropped, the line of his jaw tightening.

“You’re staring,” she murmured.

“I’m memorizing you.” He bit into a strawberry, the juice dark and sweet, and offered her the remaining half. Her lips closed over his fingertips, warm and soft as she took it.

“Did you sleep at all?” she asked.

“The first real rest I’ve had in years. No dreams. Just the rhythm of your breath.” He collected a stray drop of juice from her lower lip with his thumb, then brought it to his own mouth, his eyes locked on hers.

Maya reached for the bowl, selecting the largest berry. She held it to his lips. “My turn.”

He took it, his tongue dampening her skin. The spark was immediate—a sharp, electric echo of the night before.

“You,” she whispered, “are a dangerous man.”

“I am your man.” His mouth was a breath from hers. “How sore are you?”

“Very,” she confessed, biting her lip. “It was worth it.”

The sharp knock fractured them apart.

William went still. A muscle ticked in his jaw as the vault of the aristocrat slid back into place. Fletcher’s voice filtered through the oak: “Your Grace. My apologies. A message from the Prime Minister. It cannot wait.”

William closed his eyes, cursing under his breath. Maya reached for his hand, lacing their fingers. “The investigation?”

“Yes.” He brought their joined hands to his lips, kissing her knuckles with a ferocity that made her lungs tighten. “I would give the title and the estates to stay in this bed until noon.”

“Then go,” she said. “Unravel the mystery, William. Then come back to me.”

“Nothing in London could keep me away.” He cupped her face. His thumb followed the topography of her cheek—the curve of bone, the soft hollow—as if he were a blind man. Memorizing.

“Stay here. Rest. Be soft for me.”

He kissed her. Hard. A promise that tasted of coffee and salt. Then he pulled away.

She watched him at the washbasin. He moved with efficient speed. Buttoning his shirt. Pulling on his waistcoat. Each layer was a piece of armor, hiding the man she had held in the dark. He paused at the foot of the bed. His stormy eyes swept over her—his wife, wrapped in his robe, smelling of his soap and their peace, drowning in his navy silk. A vision to carry into the cold day.

He returned to her side one last time. He took her hand. Pressed a fervent kiss to her palm. Folded her fingers over it, as if sealing the sensation there.

“You are my only peace, Maya. Remember that.”

The door clicked shut. The silence he left behind was immense.

Downstairs, the front door thudded. A carriage wheel scraped the curb. A horse’s hooves clattered against the cobbles of Grosvenor Square, the sound fading into the morning.

Maya pulled his robe tighter. She was the Duchess of Devinscliffe.

But as she leaned back, she knew she was something far more important: she was Maya—his, completely.