The city slipped past beyond the carriage windows in a blur of lamplight and shadow.
Inside, it was too warm.
Livia sat opposite Rowan, the sway of the wheels a distant thing compared to the pulse thrumming under her skin. Her hands were folded, very properly, in her lap. The fingers, however, would not stop trembling.
Her new husband watched them.
“Cold?” he asked quietly.
“No,” she managed.
He smiled, slow and knowing. “Good. I would hate to begin married life by failing at such a simple thing as providing warmth.”
“You are not responsible for my temperature,” she said, striving for dryness and almost managing it.
“I am keen to be responsible for… several of your bodily sensations,” he said mildly.
Heat shot from her cheeks straight down her spine.
“Rowan,” she hissed.
“Yes, duchess?” he said, perfectly polite, but the word seemed to stroke along her skin.
She had not yet decided how she felt about it—*duchess*—attached to her. It sat alongside Livia Harcourt in her mind like an ill-fitted cloak. She doubted it would ever sit lightly.
“You are enjoying this,” she muttered.
“Oh, immensely,” he said. “I have been imagining this carriage ride since the vicar first said the words *dearly beloved.*”
“And what, precisely, did you imagine?” she asked, then bit her tongue.
His eyes darkened. “Do you truly wish to know?”
No. Yes.
“Perhaps not,” she said with dignity. “Not if it will make the last five minutes of this journey unbearable.”
“Five?” he repeated. “Optimist.”
She turned her head to the window, more to collect herself than to watch the passing houses.
The truth was: beneath the tart replies, beneath the deliberate coolness, she was… rattled.
The church had been a blur. The reception, a storm. Faces, hands, words. So many eyes.
Here, now, there were only his.
The thought of what came next—of a room with a bed and no excuses—made something in her chest flutter oddly between panic and want.
As if hearing the flutter, Rowan shifted forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, bringing his body closer without quite crowding hers.
“Livia,” he said, his voice low. “Look at me.”
She forced her gaze from the blurred streets and met his.
“I know,” he said, “that all of this… this day… has been for the world as much as for us. The vows. The church. The toasts. The speeches from your father that nearly killed three elderly ladies.”
Despite herself, she laughed, the sound shaky. “I did think Mrs. Dovecote might faint when he mentioned card-sharps in the third pew.”
“Indeed,” he said gravely. “But this next part is not for them. It is not a performance.” His eyes held hers, intent. “It is for you. And for me. No one else.”
Her breath eased out, slowly.
“I know that,” she said.
“Do you?” he asked softly. “Because I very well remember what it is like to feel… watched… even in private. To feel I must *be* something, even when no one is there to see it.”
Her fingers curled on her skirt. “My father watches ledgers in his sleep.”
“And you,” Rowan said gently, “watch yourself.”
Her throat tightened.
“I do not want,” he went on, “our first night to be another ledger entry in your head. Another duty. Another line item in the long list of things you must do correctly.”
“I…” Her voice failed her.
He shifted to the seat beside her in one smooth movement, the carriage rocking slightly. He did not touch her yet, but his nearness changed the air.
“I want us to enjoy this,” he said. “To be ridiculous, if we must. Awkward. Honest. To laugh, if something is absurd. To stop, if something hurts or feels wrong.”
Her heart thudded.
“I am not…” She swallowed. “You do not marry at my age and remain entirely… ignorant.”
He smiled faintly. “No. But you have, I think, been spared the worst sort of knowledge. The kind passed in whispers by girls who have known only clumsy boys and brutish husbands.”
“And you,” she said, “have not been spared anything.”
He huffed a humorless breath. “No. I have… practical experience.”
Heat pricked her skin again. The thought of his body with other women should have repulsed her. It did, in part. But it also made something else twist low in her.
“Livia,” he said, leaning nearer, his gaze steady, “whatever else I have done, however else I have used my body in the past, this is different. *You* are different. I am not bringing old games into this carriage. Or into that room.”
She believed him.
She did not know how she knew; she simply did. Perhaps it was the way his voice roughened. Perhaps it was the letter he had written, folded now against his heart with hers.
“All right,” she said quietly.
He exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath as tightly as she had.
The carriage slowed.
Her stomach swooped.
He reached for her hand, his fingers warm and sure. “One more question,” he said in a low rush, as if the wheels were rolling over his words. “Do you wish to go through with everything tonight? Fully?” His gaze searched hers. “There is no… clock. No rule that says we must tumble into bed like animals because a vicar waved his hands.”
Her cheeks flamed. “You would… wait?”
He nodded once. “If you wish it. I will not like it,” he added with a flicker of humor. “I may suffer greatly. But I will live.”
Nerves and something like shame tangled inside her.
“I…” She looked down at their joined hands, at the gold band on his finger and hers. “I do not… wish to wait.”
His breath caught.
“But,” she said, forcing herself to continue before desire could swallow sense, “I also do not know how far… I will be able to go… before my head overrides my body. I cannot promise I will not freeze.”
“Then we will stop,” he said simply. “Or slow. Or switch to reading poetry. God forbid.”
A laugh burst out of her, helpless.
He smiled, a real, unguarded thing.
“I will not take anything you are not ready to give,” he said. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
She nodded, throat thick.
“Good,” she whispered. “Because I am not yet certain… what that is.”
The carriage drew to a full stop.
Outside, voices. Servants. A door opening.
Rowan squeezed her hand once, then let go.
“Whatever it is,” he said, “we will discover it together.”
She drew a breath, deep and steady.
“I suspect,” she murmured, “that is the most dangerous thing you have ever said to me.”
He offered his arm.
“Come, duchess,” he said. “Let us see if my ancestors’ bedchambers can withstand you.”
***
Merrow House—Rowan’s London residence—was not grand by ducal standards.
By Livia’s, it was a palace.
The entrance hall was large but not cavernous, the staircase curving rather than sweeping. Paintings in gilt frames lined the walls, more landscapes than portraits; the floor was a checker of black and white marble worn smooth. The air smelled faintly of beeswax and the ghost of flowers.
Staff had been put on reduced display; only Fletcher and Mrs. Talbot, brought from Merrow Park for the Season, waited with a few essential footmen.
“Your Grace,” Fletcher intoned, bowing as Rowan and Livia stepped inside. “Welcome home. And my felicitations.” His gaze flickered to Livia with cautious warmth. “Your Grace.”
The title landed on her shoulders like a weight and a cloak all at once.
“Thank you, Fletcher,” Rowan said. “I believe Mrs. Talbot will show Her Grace to her rooms.”
Rooms.
Plural.
A ridiculous, shivery awareness went through her.
Mrs. Talbot curtseyed. “Your Graces. If you’ll follow me? We’ve put things as near to rights as we could. London dust is a sneaky thing.”
Rowan hesitated half a step.
“I will join you in… an hour,” he said to Livia. “If that suits.”
Her cheeks heated; her stomach fluttered.
“That will be… sufficient time,” she said, hoping she sounded more composed than she felt.
He bowed over her hand, lips brushing the back of it—formal, almost chaste, but his eyes said very different things.
“I am at your disposal,” he murmured. “Entirely.”
Mrs. Talbot coughed discreetly.
Livia followed the housekeeper up the stairs.
The bedchamber assigned as hers—and, she gathered, as *theirs*—occupied the corner of the first floor, two tall windows looking over the square. The walls were papered in soft cream and pale gold; a large bed draped with simple ivory hangings ruled the center of the room like a quiet monarch. A fire burned steadily in the grate.
“His Grace gave orders that it was to be made comfortable,” Mrs. Talbot said, moving with brisk efficiency to adjust a curtain. “Not… overdone.”
Livia’s skin prickled. “Overdone?”
“Too much velvet,” Mrs. Talbot said dryly. “Too many cupids. Some folk think a marriage bed needs… ornament. His Grace said it needed warmth. And clean sheets.”
Livia choked. “That sounds… like him.”
Mrs. Talbot’s eyes twinkled. “Aye. He hasn’t much patience for frippery.”
The adjoining dressing-room had been arranged for Livia’s use, her trunks already unpacked, gowns hanging in the tall wardrobe, linen laid neatly in drawers. Alice, who had come ahead with Mrs. Talbot, bobbed a curtsey, cheeks pink.
“Your Grace,” she breathed, then clapped a hand to her mouth.
“It is still only me, Alice,” Livia said, though her own voice shook.
“For now,” Mrs. Talbot muttered, just loud enough for only Livia to hear.
Livia stared at the bed.
“Alice,” she said faintly, “I shall require… assistance.”
“Of course, miss—Your Grace,” Alice said, rallying.
Between them, they undid buttons, unlaced stays, removed pins. Livia submitted to it numbly, feeling as if each layer of fabric contained a sliver of the life she’d known until now.
When she stood in only her chemise and a fresh wrapper, Alice’s eyes shone suspiciously.
“You look beautiful,” Alice said fiercely. “Proper beautiful. Not like them silly girls all dressed up like cakes. Like… like you.”
Livia’s throat closed. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Talbot, practical as ever, set a small tray on the side table: a glass of something that looked like brandy, a carafe of water, two cups.
“Just in case,” she said. “For nerves. Or thirst. Or awkward silences.”
Livia made a strangled noise. “Is it… always so terrifying?” she blurted, before she could stop herself.
Mrs. Talbot paused.
“No,” she said slowly. “Not always. Sometimes it’s… funny. Sometimes it’s quick and unsatisfying. Sometimes it’s… nice. Sometimes…” She smiled, a little wistfully. “Sometimes, if you’re very lucky, it’s something that makes you glad to be alive.”
Livia’s fingers twisted in the belt of her wrapper. “I do not know what to expect.”
“Good,” Mrs. Talbot said. “Neither does he. Not with you. That’s a fair start.”
She patted Livia’s shoulder once. “We’ll leave you now. You shout if you need anything. Or if you wish us to throw a bucket of water at His Grace.”
Alice giggled.
“Mrs. Talbot,” Livia whispered, horrified and grateful all at once.
“Just so you know your options,” the housekeeper said serenely, and shepherded Alice out.
The door closed.
Silence fell.
Livia stood alone in the middle of the room, the fire’s crackle suddenly very loud.
Her heart thudded.
She moved to the window, parted the curtain a finger’s width, and looked out.
The square outside glimmered with lamplight, carriages rolling past. In one of the opposite windows, a woman brushed her hair in silhouette. Life, elsewhere, went on, indifferent.
There was a glass on the table.
She eyed it, then picked it up and took a swallow.
Brandy scorched its way down. She coughed, eyes watering.
“Fool,” she muttered to herself. “You negotiate contracts worth thousands. You have stared down captains twice your size. You are not going to be undone by one man and a bed.”
A knock sounded, soft.
Her stomach leapt.
“Yes?” she called, astonishingly hoarse.
The door opened a fraction.
“May I come in?” Rowan’s voice, low, uncertain.
“You are my husband,” she said, not turning. “You need not ask.”
“Livia,” he said. “I will *always* ask.”
Something in her clenched and gave way.
“Come in,” she whispered.
The door closed behind him with a quiet click.
She heard his footsteps on the carpet, the rustle of his coat as he paused.
“You are drinking without me,” he observed gently.
She turned.
He had removed his coat; his waistcoat and cravat were still in place, though the latter had been tugged a fraction loose. His hair was slightly mussed, as if he’d raked his hands through it. He looked… less like the polished duke of the church, more like the man who had stood in a damp field and argued with her over yield percentages.
It was absurdly comforting.
“Mrs. Talbot left it,” she said, lifting the glass. “She appeared to think we might need… assistance.”
“She is a wise woman,” Rowan said. “May I?”
She handed him the second glass.
He poured for himself, then set the decanter aside.
They faced each other across the small table like conspirators who had forgotten the plan.
“Well,” he said.
“Well,” she echoed.
He smiled a little. “I confess, in some of my less… admirable imaginings, there was less talking at this point.”
“You had me speechless?” she asked, arching a brow.
“In some,” he said. “In others, you were saying very interesting things.”
Her cheeks heated. “Rowan.”
“Shall I spare you the details?” he asked gently.
“Yes,” she said fervently.
He took a sip of brandy, then set the glass down.
“Come here,” he said softly.
She went.
He met her halfway, one hand lifting to touch her cheek with infinite care, as if she were made of spun glass and temper.
“Wife,” he murmured.
The word sent a shiver down to her toes.
“Husband,” she returned, a little defiantly, as if claiming something.
His eyes went dark with something fierce and pleased.
“That,” he said, “I could grow used to.”
“I should hope so,” she said. “You will be hearing it for some time.”
“And I,” he said, “intend to earn it.”
He bent his head and kissed her.
It was not the chaste brush of lips under the vicar’s watchful eye, nor the stolen heat behind the reception’s potted plant.
This kiss was… claiming without haste, deliberate without cruelty.
He tasted of brandy and something that was slowly becoming familiar: Rowan. His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, warm and steady. His other settled at her waist, fingers spreading against the thin fabric of her wrapper.
Her hands, with a mind of their own, rose to his shoulders.
He took his time.
He did not delve immediately, did not push. He coaxed. Press. Retreat. A soft nip at her lower lip that made her gasp, a stroke of his tongue that licked into that sound.
Heat spilled through her, slower but deeper than before.
She swayed; his hand at her waist tightened, drawing her closer until the length of her body met his.
She felt, very clearly, the hard line of his arousal.
Shock flared, then a lick of answering heat.
He made a small sound in his throat and tore his mouth from hers, resting his forehead against hers, breath ragged.
“If I have to stop every time you make that noise,” he said hoarsely, “this will take all night.”
“What… noise?” she managed.
“The one that sounds like you have just discovered something indecent and want more of it,” he said.
Mortification and laughter tangled in her chest.
“I did not—” she began.
“You did,” he said firmly. “And it was the most beautiful sound I have ever heard.”
She made a strangled protest; he chuckled, the vibration pressed against her chest.
He stepped back a fraction, his hands on her shoulders.
“Livia,” he said, voice steadying. “We are about to cross a line. One we cannot entirely step back over. Are you still… willing?”
Her heart thudded, but the fear that rose now was not of him.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Just… do not rush.”
He smiled, slow and wicked and yet somehow so very gentle.
“I have been waiting for this,” he said, “since you scolded me over my ledgers. I am not about to squander it in a hurry.”
She laughed, the edge of nervousness blunting.
“Good,” she said. “I should hate for your reputation to be poorer than your estate.”
He groaned. “You wound me.”
“Not yet,” she murmured, surprising herself.
His pupils blew wide.
“Merciless,” he breathed. “My merciless duchess.”
He drew her toward the bed.
Ev
ery step felt like a chapter.
He did not undress her in a rush.
He paused at the edge of the bed, his hands resting lightly at her waist.
“May I?” he asked, fingers brushing the belt of her wrapper.
“Yes,” she said, amazed at how calm she sounded.
He loosed the knot, slowly, and eased the fabric from her shoulders.
It slid down, pooling silently at her feet.
She stood in her thin chemise, the firelight painting shadows along the curve of her collarbone, the rise of her breasts, the line of her hips.
She fought the instinct to cross her arms over her chest.
Rowan’s gaze moved over her, not in a greedy, grabbing way, but in something like… reverence.
“Beautiful,” he said, no mockery, no embellishment.
Her throat closed. “You do not have to say—”
“I am not in the habit of lying when no one can overhear me,” he interrupted softly. “Not to you.”
Her skin prickled.
“You are allowed,” he added wryly, “to look your fill as well.”
She had looked, of course. In glimpses. From across rooms. In the woods, his coat wet and clinging.
Now, he removed his waistcoat, his cravat, his shirt.
She watched, transfixed.
His chest was broad but not overly so, defined by honest muscle rather than contrived display. A faint trail of golden hair led down from his sternum, disappearing into the waistband of his trousers. There was a pale scar along his left side, a thin line.
“What is that from?” she asked, pointing before she could think better of it.
He glanced down. “Fence. When I was sixteen. Thought I could jump it on a dare. The fence disagreed.”
“You absolute fool,” she said, without heat.
“Yes,” he said cheerfully. “You have married a man who once tried to impress his friends by flying.”
“I shall keep that in mind,” she muttered, though her gaze did not leave the path of that scar.
His trousers came next.
She looked away, then forced herself to look back.
If she was to do this, she would not go into it half-seeing.
He stood before her in only his smallclothes now, the evidence of his desire straining against the linen.
Heat flooded her face; something low in her tightened.
He watched her watching him, a flush along his own cheekbones.
“If at any point,” he said hoarsely, “you wish to stop—”
“I know,” she whispered. “You have said.”
He nodded once.
He guided her backward, slow, until the backs of her knees met the bed.
“Lie down,” he said quietly.
She did, heart pounding so loud in her ears she was certain he must hear it.
He followed, bracing his weight on his forearms so he did not crush her, his body a warm, solid wall along hers.
The feel of him—skin, heat, weight—was… shocking.
His mouth found hers again.
This time, she met him with less hesitation.
He groaned softly into her lips, his hand sliding up along her side, careful, the calluses at his fingers catching on the fine weave of her chemise. When his palm brushed the curve of her breast, even through linen, she gasped.
He went very still.
“Too much?” he asked, breath ragged.
She shook her head, unable to find words.
His thumb stroked, gently, over the pebbled peak.
Pleasure darted, electric and sharp.
Her hips shifted without her consent.
He bit back a curse.
“Livia,” he whispered. “If you keep doing that, I will disgrace myself.”
She laughed, breathless. “You are very… easily undone.”
“I have been holding myself together by will alone for weeks,” he said through his teeth. “Do not test it.”
She exhaled, giddy.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, his hand exploring with a tenderness that made her ache.
This was not clumsy pawing. He was careful, attentive, testing and waiting. When she gasped at a touch, he returned there. When she stiffened, he shifted.
He trailed kisses along her jaw to the hollow of her throat, where her pulse fluttered wildly.
He sucked lightly there; she arched, a soft cry escaping.
“God,” he muttered against her skin. “You’re… responsive.”
“I warned you,” she panted. “I may… not know everything… but I am not… dead.”
He laughed, a low, delighted sound, then took her earlobe gently between his teeth.
Whatever reply she’d been planning shattered.
His hand left her breast, slid down, over the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip, lower still.
He paused, his fingers resting at the top of her thigh, not pushing, just there.
“May I?” he asked again, voice dangerously rough.
She swallowed.
She had imagined this, abstractly. A hand between her thighs. Pressure. Heat.
She had not expected the way her body seemed to lean toward his touch, desperate.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”
The word surprised them both.
He drew in a sharp breath, then slid his hand up under her chemise, the linen lifting to his wrist.
He found her.
The shock of his fingers against her—there—was almost too much. She jerked, a half-formed protest, half-whimper.
“Hush,” he murmured. “Easy.”
He did not plunge or push. He stroked, light at first, as if learning her. As if mapping.
Her head tipped back, a helpless sound leaving her.
He made a noise that was almost a growl.
“Livia,” he breathed, as if the word itself steadied him. “Tell me if—”
“Do not stop,” she gasped.
He did not.
What followed was not violent. It was not, as some whispers had suggested, pain and duty and endurance.
It was… discovery.
Of how her hips moved when he touched in a certain way. Of how his own breath stuttered when she said his name in a ragged tone she did not recognize as her own. Of how the world could narrow to a single point of sensation, sharp and bright.
When the tightness inside her finally snapped, pleasure crashed over her in a wave so powerful it frightened her.
She might have cried out; she did not know. The bed, the fire, the ceiling—all of it blurred.
When she came back to herself, her fingers were digging into his shoulders, her chest heaving.
He was watching her.
Not with smugness. Not with triumph.
With awe.
“Beautiful,” he whispered again, as if he could not help it.
Embarrassment tried to rise; he pressed it down with a kiss, soft and anchoring.
“Are you all right?” he asked against her lips.
“Yes,” she said weakly. “No. I do not know.”
He chuckled, a little breathless. “That is… a fair assessment.”
Her body hummed, languid and alive. The tight ball of tension that had sat under her ribs all day had… shifted. Not vanished, but altered.
He shifted against her.
She felt him again, hard and hot at her hip, the thin barrier of his smallclothes no protection.
Guilt pricked.
“You…” She swallowed. “You have done… all of that… and I have done nothing.”
His mouth quirked. “Oh, you have done quite a lot to me.”
“You know what I mean,” she said fiercely.
His eyes softened. “Livia. You owe me nothing. Not tonight. Not ever. I am not keeping a tally.”
“I am,” she said.
He blinked. “You are?”
“In my head,” she said. “I cannot help it. It is… how I am built. You have given. I… wish to give. If I can.”
Desire scorched his features.
“You can,” he said hoarsely. “But I will not ask it of you. Not now. Not like this. Only if you… *want* to.”
She looked at him—this man who had, in an hour, rewritten most of what she thought she knew about desire.
She *did* want… something. To see. To know. To not be quite so wholly inexperienced beside him.
“Show me,” she said, surprising herself again. “What I can do. If I… choose.”
His breath left him in a rush.
“God help me,” he murmured. “You are going to be the death of me.”
“Is that a no?” she asked, trying for tart and landing somewhere near curious.
He laughed, raw and honest.
“It is a *yes,*” he said. “But only if, at any point, you wish to stop, you tell me. I will not… erupt in a fit of manly despair.”
“You have never done anything in a fit of manly despair in your life,” she muttered.
“Not true,” he said. “There was that fence at sixteen.”
She laughed, giddy. “Very well. Show me.”
He guided her hand.
She learned, quickly, how his breath hitched when she touched in certain ways. How his eyes shut, then snapped open, as if unwilling to miss a moment. How his control strained, and then, with a hoarse cry buried in her shoulder, broke.
It was… not disgusting. Not frightening.
It was… intimacy, in a form she had never imagined.
Afterward, when the bed was a tangle of sheets and limbs and her chemise was somewhere near his knee, they lay side by side, staring at the canopy.
“Well,” she said.
“Well,” he echoed.
“That was…” She frowned at the ceiling, searching for a word.
“Educational?” he suggested.
She snorted. “Yes. And… more.”
He turned his head, studying her.
“Are you… sorry?” he asked quietly. “That we did not… finish everything this first night?”
She knew what he meant.
“No,” she said. “Are you?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lower, along the curve of her throat.
“Oh, painfully,” he said. “In certain respects. But in others…” He exhaled slowly. “I am… glad. We have time. I would rather build than… crash.”
She lay there, warm and sore in pleasant ways, and realized she agreed.
“We are not very good at doing things the simple way, are we?” she murmured.
“No,” he said, shifting closer so their shoulders touched. “But I have never yet found ‘simple’ to be as rewarding as ‘complicated and utterly worth it.’”
She smiled into the dimness.
“Go to sleep, Rowan,” she whispered. “Tomorrow, there will be people. And questions. And my father.”
He groaned. “Do not mention your father while I am naked in bed with you. It does unfortunate things to my… morale.”
She laughed, the sound softer now. “Very well. I shall keep him as a weapon for when you misbehave.”
“You mean I have not already?” he said, mock-affronted.
“You have only begun,” she said. “I have a lifetime to discipline you.”
“Duchess,” he murmured, stunned and wicked all at once, “I am counting on it.”
***