The night before their wedding, Livia did not sleep.
It was not, as Amelia suggested with hushed giggles, because she was *anticipating* the wedding night.
It was because every time she closed her eyes, she saw paths.
In one, she stood on a dock, the river smell in her lungs, her father at her elbow, counting ships. Her days filled with trade, her nights with ledgers. Safe. Familiar. Alone.
In another, she stood in Merrow Park’s fields, the wind lifting her hair, tenants’ children running past. Rowan at her side, lines of strain at the corners of his eyes, his hand ink-stained from a day with accounts. Her days filled with land and people and the endless negotiation between duty and desire. Her nights—
She refused, firmly, to think about her nights.
There were other paths. Darker ones. Divorce courts. Empty houses. Beds with cold sheets.
She acknowledged them.
Then, stubbornly, she turned away.
Hope is dangerous, her father had said.
So is crossing a street, she had thought.
She got out of bed, wrapped herself in her robe, and padded to the small desk by the window.
By candlelight, she took out a sheet of paper.
She did not head it with *Dear Rowan.* That felt suddenly too formal, too small.
She simply wrote.
*I am awake, and it is your fault.*
*You are not here, which is also your fault.*
*My father is snoring. Alice is snoring. I do not know whether you snore. If you do, I shall push you out of bed. Consider yourself warned.*
She smiled faintly as she wrote.
*In a few hours, I will stand in a church and say words that will bind me to you in the eyes of God, the law, and half of London. I will not be thinking of God or the law or London. I will be thinking of you. Of what it means to choose you, not as a ledger entry or a strategic alliance, but as a man.*
*You are not a safe choice, Rowan. But then, neither am I. Perhaps that is why this feels… right. We are both, in our different ways, dangerous. To ourselves. To others. To the stupid, comfortable patterns that have governed our worlds.*
*Let us be dangerous together.*
She sat back, heart hammering.
*There are things I do not know how to say. Not yet. Not without blushing, and you know how I feel about that. But I think you already know some of them. You have seen how I look at you. You have… felt it.*
Her face burned.
*We will make mistakes. I am certain of it. You will be thoughtless. I will be cutting. You will retreat into charm. I will retreat into numbers. When that happens, we must drag each other out. We must not let our worst impulses rule. I give you leave to do that for me. I hope you will give me the same.*
*Also: if you ever tell me not to speak of business in public, I will divorce you and take half your tenants with me. Consider this my own settlement clause.*
*Yours (irrevocably, for better or worse, for ledgers and in laziness),*
*L.*
She sanded the letter, folded it, and sealed it with wax.
In the morning, she gave it to Alice.
“Have one of the footmen deliver this to His Grace before the ceremony,” she said.
Alice’s eyes went wide. “Before? Miss—my lady—what if he… reads it and… bolts?”
“He will not,” Livia said with more confidence than she felt. “If he does, I shall hunt him down.”
“Yes, my—” Alice stopped, cheeks pink. “Yes, miss.”
Livia smiled faintly.
“In a few hours,” she said, more to herself than to Alice, “you must remember to call me something else.”
“You’ll always be ‘miss’ to me,” Alice blurted. “Beggin’ your pardon.”
“Good,” Livia said. “I shall need at least one person to remind me I am human.”
***
Rowan received the letter as he was fastening his cuff links.
Whitlow hovered with a list of last-minute concerns; Lord Vernham lurked in the corner, making ribald suggestions about how to endure speeches.
“From Harcourt House, Your Grace,” Fletcher said, extending the sealed envelope.
Rowan’s heart stuttered.
“Thank you,” he said. “Leave us a moment.”
Whitlow looked scandalized. “Your Grace, the carriages—”
“Can wait,” Rowan said. “This cannot.”
The room emptied with varying degrees of reluctance.
He broke the seal with fingers that were not quite steady.
By the second line, he was smiling.
By the seventh, his throat ached.
By the end, he was laughing and swearing under his breath.
“She is going to ruin me,” he said aloud.
“Good,” Lady Agnes said from the doorway.
He started. “Aunt.”
She stood there, already dressed for the wedding in stern gray silk relieved only by a small, defiant spray of red feathers.
“Did you snoop?” he demanded, hastily folding the letter.
“I did not.” Her eyes sparkled. “Your face is parchment enough.”
He hesitated, then handed her the folded sheet.
“She will be my wife in an hour,” he said. “There are no secrets between us that I wish to keep from you. Or you from her.”
Agnes read quickly. Her mouth twitched several times. When she finished, she looked up, something like fierce pride in her gaze.
“She’ll do,” she said.
“I thought so,” he said.
“She’ll eat you alive if you’re not careful,” she added.
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” She handed the letter back. “Come along, boy. Time to get shackled.”
He tucked the letter into his breast pocket, close to his heart.
“Gladly,” he said.
***
The church was full.
Candles flickered; incense smoked. The whisper of silk and satin filled the air, mixed with the rustle of programs and the soft clang of latecomers’ boots on stone.
Rowan stood at the front, the vicar droning somewhere beyond his awareness.
He saw none of the faces turning to look down the aisle.
He saw only the space where she would appear.
“I have never seen you so pale,” Whitlow muttered from his place behind him.
“I have never been so pale,” Rowan muttered back.
The organ swelled.
Rowan’s heart leapt into his throat.
She appeared.
For a strange, suspended moment, he thought he was dreaming.
Livia moved up the aisle on her father’s arm, each step measured, steady. Her gown was ivory, not white—practical, she had said, it could be dyed later if needed. The fabric fell in clean lines, the neckline modest but not prudish, the sleeves edged in lace that brushed her wrists.
Her hair was coiled high, threaded with a few simple pearls. No tiara, no dripping jewels.
Her face was… open.
Not serene. Not shy. Something fiercer.
Her eyes were fixed on him.
He forgot to breathe.
“Boy,” Harcourt muttered as they drew near. “Breathe, or she’ll think you’ve died before you’ve even kissed her.”
Laughter bubbled at the edges of the congregation.
Rowan sucked in air.
Harcourt stopped beside him, placed Livia’s hand in his.
“Take care of her,” he said roughly. “Or I’ll take care of you.”
“I know,” Rowan said, his own voice unsteady. “I intend to make that unnecessary.”
Harcourt grunted and stepped back.
Livia’s hand was small in his, cool but firm.
“Hello,” she whispered.
“Hello,” he whispered back.
“You look like you’re going to faint,” she murmured.
“I might,” he said. “If you keep looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“Like you’re about to jump off a cliff and drag me with you,” he said.
Her lips curved. “We agreed to be dangerous together.”
He almost laughed.
The vicar cleared his throat meaningfully.
The words were said.
The vows were spoken—not loudly, but clearly.
“I, Rowan, take thee, Livia…”
“I, Livia, take thee, Rowan…”
He listened to her voice as if it were a map, tracing each syllable.
When it was done, when the ring was on her finger and his on hers, when the vicar said, “You may now kiss the bride,” Rowan turned to her, everything else falling away.
“This one,” he murmured, hands light at her waist, “is not in the woods.”
“Nor in a ledger,” she said, breath quick.
“This one is for *everyone,*” he said. “Let them see.”
He kissed her.
It was not as gentle as the first kiss in the mist, nor as wild as the one that had nearly undone them both.
It was… claiming, but not possession. A declaration.
His mouth covered hers, firm and sure. Her lips parted, not in shock but in welcome. She leaned into him, her hands lifting to rest lightly on his chest, fingers curling in the fine cloth.
The church, the rows of watching eyes, the muttered scandalized gasps vanished.
There was only the warmth of her, the shaped press of her body against his, the faint tremor that ran through her when he angled his head and deepened the kiss just enough to suggest everything he would do later, in private, with no vicar to clear his throat.
He felt her answer in the way her breath caught, the way her fingers tightened.
Someone—Lady Agnes, he suspected—cleared their throat loudly, with a hint of laughter.
Rowan broke the kiss, reluctantly.
Livia’s eyes were wide, pupils blown, lips flushed.
“You have just shocked my father half to death,” she whispered.
“Good,” he whispered back. “He’ll be too busy clutching his heart to threaten me for at least an hour.”
She laughed, the sound stunned and delighted.
They turned to face the church, hands clasped.
Husband and wife.
Partners.
Dangerous, together.
***
The reception at Harcourt House was a riot of contradictions.
Silas Harcourt’s modest but solid home groaned under the influx of silk and velvet, jewels and powdered hair. Servants darted like panicked fish with trays of champagne; Channing lurked near the study door like a dragon guarding a hoard of documents.
Livia and Rowan did their duty.
They shook hands, accepted congratulations, deflected barbed compliments.
“You have done very well for yourself, Miss Harcourt,” Lady Tansley drawled, lips thin. “Many would envy you.”
“I hope so,” Livia said blandly. “I intend to make the position worth envying.”
Rowan barely contained a smirk.
Later, in a brief lull, they found themselves tucked into a small alcove off the main hall, half-hidden by a badly positioned potted plant.
“For a woman who insists she does not yet love me,” Rowan murmured, “you are remarkably good at defending me.”
“For a man who insists he is reformed,” Livia murmured back, “you are remarkably good at provoking me.”
He glanced around. The nearest guests were several yards away, engaged in a heated argument about the proper way to braise a pheasant.
“Come here,” he said softly.
Her brows rose. “We are in a hall.”
“Yes,” he said. “And I am your husband.”
The word thrummed through her.
He drew her into the shallow recess, the plant screening them just enough.
“Rowan—” she began, glancing around.
“Hush,” he said.
He tilted her chin up with a fingertip and kissed her.
It was shorter, sharper than the one in the church. A stolen taste.
Her body responded with embarrassing eagerness.
Her hands flew to his lapels, steadying herself. His tongue flicked against her lower lip. Heat flared.
“Stop,” she gasped against his mouth.
He did, instantly, drawing back a fraction.
“Too much?” he asked, voice rough.
“Not enough,” she blurted, then clapped a hand over her own lips.
His eyes darkened dangerously.
“Livia,” he said, low and reverent. “If you say things like that in public—”
“This is barely public,” she whispered.
“It is more than enough,” he said hoarsely. “For now.”
He stepped back fully, putting a safer distance between them.
She felt abruptly cold.
“We will leave soon,” he said, more steadily. “Your father has already threatened to throw us into the carriage if we linger.”
Her cheeks flamed. “He did what?”
“He loves you,” Rowan said. “In his… unique way. He wants you to have… time.”
Her ears burned. “He did not *say* that.”
“Not in so many words,” Rowan allowed. “He mostly muttered about not wanting to see my face any longer. But the sentiment was clear.”
Despite her mortification, she smiled.
She looked up at him—this man who had been her adversary, then her temptation, now her husband.
“You know,” she said quietly, “for all my talk of danger… I am glad it is you.”
His hand closed over hers.
“I am very glad,” he said simply, “that it is you.”
Behind them, someone called their names.
They stepped out from behind the plant, faces composed, hands linked.
Soon, the guests would leave.
Soon, the carriage would come.
Soon, there would be a door that closed behind them with no one on the other side.
Soon.
For now, there were smiles to give and thanks to make.
Later, there would be other lessons.
In scandal.
In trust.
In pleasure.
In how to live, day by day, in the dangerous, exhilarating space between ledgers and love.
***