Spring came late to Merrow.
The trees seemed reluctant to bud; the fields hesitated between brown and green. Rain, persistent and chilly, turned the lanes to soup. The house, with its thick walls and deep eaves, held damp like a memory.
Rowan prowled.
Livia watched him from the library window one drizzly afternoon and knew he was thinking of London.
“Bored?” she asked, without turning, as he shifted restlessly by the hearth.
He snorted. “Utterly.”
“You may go and count spoons with Mrs. Talbot,” she suggested. “She has been complaining of mismatched sets.”
He made a face. “I would rather muck out stables.”
“Then you may,” she said. “Eames was asking yesterday if you’d forgotten where the barn is.”
He threw himself into the armchair opposite hers with theatrical despair.
“I am a duke,” he said. “Men are supposed to come to *me* with their troubles.”
“They do,” she said. “You merely also must go to *them.* That is called… being useful.”
He huffed a breath of reluctant laughter.
She set aside the book she’d been reading—one of Amelia’s scandalous novels, which she would never admit she was enjoying—and folded her hands in her lap.
“You want to be in Town,” she said.
He flinched. “Do I?” he hedged.
She eyed him. “You have been standing at the window every morning, counting the mail coaches. You ask Whitlow for London papers the moment they arrive. You sigh when Lady Agnes mentions Gunter’s ices.”
He sighed again, out of sheer contrariness.
“I do not blame you,” she went on more gently. “You grew up with London as your… natural habitat. Clubs. Balls. Gambling hells—”
He winced.
“Ah,” she said softly. “There it is.”
He stared at the fire.
“I have not stepped into a gaming house since…” He trailed off.
“Since before your father died,” she supplied.
“Yes,” he said. “Not once. Not even when we were in Town for the wedding.”
“I know,” she said. “I noticed.”
His mouth twisted. “You notice everything.”
“Not everything,” she said. “But you.”
He looked up at that, his gaze sharpening.
“You miss it,” she said quietly. “The cards. The… feeling.”
“Yes,” he admitted, surprising them both. “I do.”
“Why?” she asked, without accusation. “Truly.”
He leaned his head back against the chair, eyes on the ceiling.
“When you sit at a table,” he said slowly, “with cards in your hand and stakes on the cloth, the world… narrows. All the noise, all the expectations, all the ghosts—it all falls away. There is only the next card. The risk. The possibility.”
“Of loss,” she said.
“And of gain,” he said. “For a moment, you feel… powerful. Clever. Like fate is something you can shape with your fingers.”
She understood more than he might have expected.
Numbers had done something similar for her once.
Ledgers had given her an illusion that if she just arranged everything correctly, nothing bad could happen. No debts. No illness. No death.
An illusion.
“Cards lie,” she said gently. “Numbers can, too.”
“Yes,” he said. “I know that. I know now that every hand I won at my father’s expense was stolen from our tenants. That every bottle I emptied in triumph was bought with someone else’s bread.” His jaw tightened. “I know. But knowing does not erase… craving.”
She shifted to the edge of her chair.
“What brought this on?” she asked. “Beyond the weather.”
He hesitated.
“A letter,” he said at last. “From Fenton.”
Her spine stiffened. “What did that… man… want?”
He smiled faintly at her tone. “Apparently, word has reached him that the Merrow coffers are not as empty as they once were. He wrote to suggest a ‘friendly’ evening at cards next time I am in Town. ‘The old set,’ he says. ‘Like old times.’”
“Grain,” she said automatically.
He huffed a laugh. “Very good. I was not, in fact, about to accept. But I would be lying if I said the thought of sitting again at a table, for just one *night*, does not… tug.”
She studied his face.
“Do you… want my permission?” she asked. “Or my prohibition?”
His gaze snapped to hers. “Do you intend to forbid me?”
“I intend,” she said, choosing her words, “to tell you what I think, and then trust you to decide whether you are the man you wish to be, or the one you were.”
He flinched as if struck.
“I do not… trust myself,” he admitted, very quietly. “Not fully. Not yet.”
“Then,” she said, more gently, “you borrow my trust. And my caution.”
He swallowed. “You would forbid it, then.”
She breathed.
“Yes,” she said. “I would.”
His jaw worked.
“Not because I fear,” she went on, “that you will lose money. We can afford to lose a night’s stakes. I forbid it because I fear what you might *gain.* The taste. The thrill. The argument in your head that says, ‘I am wiser now. I can control it.’ That is the voice that ruins men.”
He closed his eyes.
“You are not wrong,” he said.
“Of course I am not wrong,” she said tartly. “I am rarely wrong.”
He laughed weakly.
She rose and crossed the small space between their chairs, standing beside his.
“Rowan,” she said. “Look at me.”
He did.
“You do not need cards,” she said. “You do not need that rush to feel… alive. Or clever. Or powerful. You are all of those things already, in ways that do not require anyone else’s ruin.”
His throat worked. “I do not… always feel it.”
“I know,” she said. “But I see it.”
Silence stretched.
He reached for her hand, fingers trembling.
“Then I will write to Fenton,” he said. “And decline. Politely.”
“Ruin his pleasure,” she advised. “Tell him you prefer your evenings sober and your money in your own ledger.”
His mouth curved. “He will think I have grown dull.”
“Good,” she said. “Dullness will save your soul.”
He tugged her hand, drawing her down to perch on the arm of his chair.
“What,” he murmured, “if I wish to feel… some excitement?”
She rolled her eyes. “You have a wife. A factory in Derby. A school to run. Tenants to manage. What more do you require?”
He bent his head, teeth grazing lightly at the tendons of her wrist.
“Something,” he said softly, “that does not come with ink or mud.”
She felt that tug low in her belly.
“You are incorrigible,” she whispered, though her hand turned in his grip, her fingers sliding into his hair.
“Yes,” he said, his voice a little rough. “But at least I am incorrigible in your direction now.”
***
He did write to Fenton.
Livia watched him.
He sat at the desk in the library, pen poised, brow furrowed in unfeigned thought.
“What,” he asked after a moment, “is a word that sounds polite but carries the sense of ‘go hang yourself’?”
“‘Unfortunately,’” she said promptly.
He chuckled. “You are wicked.”
“Use it wisely,” she said.
He wrote.
*My dear Fenton,*
*I am obliged by your invitation. Unfortunately,*—he underlined the word lightly—*my present concerns do not permit me to devote an evening, or my resources, to cards. You will, I am sure, understand that the responsibilities of marriage and estate must take precedence over past amusements.*
*Should you ever wish to discuss drainage, crop rotation, or the relative merits of Derbyshire looms, I remain,*
*Yours,*
*Merrow*
He sanded it, sealed it, and handed it to Fletcher.
“See that this goes into the post,” he said. “At once.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Fletcher said.
When the door closed, Rowan sagged back in his chair.
“There,” he said. “One temptation down. Fifty thousand to go.”
“Fifty thousand?” Livia asked, amused.
“Approximately,” he said. “I am very weak.”
“You are,” she said. “But you are also… stronger than you think.”
He stood, crossed to her, and framed her face in his hands.
“Livia,” he said, very softly. “I have never wanted to be strong for anyone before. Not like this.”
She swallowed.
She wanted—suddenly, fiercely—to tell him she loved him.
The words rose, hot and frightening.
She bit them back.
“Then,” she said instead, “do not be strong for me. Be strong for yourself. I am simply… a convenient excuse.”
He smiled, though something searching flickered in his gaze.
“You are many things,” he said. “Convenient is not one of them.”
He kissed her.
The taste of ink and resolve lingered.
***
Spring grudgingly softened into something like summer.
The school under Miss Hartley’s sharp eye flourished. Children, cheeks chapped but eyes bright, began to read house signs aloud as they walked with their mothers. Mrs. Dobbins’s boy wrote his name with a pride that made Livia’s chest ache.
The Derby manufactory, under a new regimen of repairs and reduced greed, creaked slowly toward solvency.
Not all news was good.
One hot, sticky afternoon, Whitlow rode up from the village, his horse lathered.
“Your Graces,” he gasped, bursting into the blue parlor where Livia and Rowan were reviewing a list of roof repairs. “There’s been a… development.”
Rowan set down his pen. “Whitlow. Sit. Breathe. Tell us.”
Whitlow gulped water from a glass Livia thrust at him, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, uncaring of propriety.
“Harcourt Trading,” he said, looking at Livia with something like apology. “One of your ships. The *Prosperity.* She’s late.”
Livia’s heart lurched.
“How late?” she asked, her voice too calm.
“Three weeks past the latest expected date,” Whitlow said. “No word at any port. No sighted along the Channel.”
Her pulse hammered.
“Storms?” Rowan asked. “Pirates?”
“Could be anything,” Whitlow said. “Or nothing. She may limp into harbor tomorrow, battered but whole. Or…”
He did not finish.
Livia stood.
“I must go to London,” she said.
Rowan was already nodding. “Of course.”
Whitlow frowned. “Your Grace—”
“I must go,” she repeated. “The *Prosperity* carries not only goods but contracts. Insurance. Loans. If she is lost, there will be… repercussions. Men will suffer. We must move quickly to mitigate.”
Whitlow hesitated. “Mr. Harcourt asked me—begged me—to tell you that he can handle it. That you should stay here. Settle Merrow into your bones before you throw yourself back into the City’s jaws.”
She felt a flash of affection for her father, fierce and painful.
“He cannot,” she said. “Not alone. He will try. He will ruin his health in the attempt. And he will make… rash bargains.”
Rowan rose and came to stand beside her.
“Then we go,” he said simply.
“No,” she said, just as simply.
He blinked.
“No?” he echoed.
“Merrow needs you,” she said. “The Derby venture is in its early stages. The school must be watched. The tenants. The repairs.” She gestured at the list on the table. “If we both go, we leave this place at a critical point, vulnerable to backsliding.”
His jaw worked. “I will not let you face this alone.”
“You will not,” she agreed. “You will be here. Holding this end of the rope. While I hold the other.”
“That is not what husbands do,” he said, frustration cracking in his voice. “We do not sit at home while our wives sail into storms.”
“I am not sailing,” she said. “I am taking a coach.”
He did not smile.
“Rowan,” she said, more softly. “What would you do in London that I cannot? You have influence, yes—but in drawing rooms. I do not need drawing rooms. I need the Exchange. The insurers. The captains. They know me. They will listen to me. You… would be a symbol. A very handsome one, but not as useful.”
He flinched slightly at the accuracy.
“And here,” she continued, “you are not a symbol. You are… necessary. To Whitlow, to Eames, to Miss Hartley, to Mrs. Talbot. To me.”
He exhaled slowly.
“So you wish to go alone,” he said.
“With Alice and two strong footmen,” she said. “And my father at the other end. I will not be alone.”
He stared at her for a long moment.
“If anything happens to you,” he said quietly, “I will never forgive myself.”
“If anything happens to the *Prosperity* and I *do not* go,” she said, “I will never forgive *myself.*”
They stood, toe to toe, stubborn to the bone.
Whitlow, wisely, remained silent.
At last, Rowan closed his eyes briefly.
“You are determined,” he said.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He opened them.
“Then I will not… forbid you,” he said, the word tasting sour. “I cannot. It would be hypocritical, after all the speeches I have made about not… caging you.”
Her chest eased a fraction.
“But,” he added, eyes burning, “I will make terms. As you would with any risky venture.”
Her brows rose. “Terms?”
“Yes,” he said. “You will not travel at night. You will stay only in reputable inns. You will carry a pistol.”
“I cannot even lift a pistol,” she objected.
“Then Whitlow will teach you,” he said. “In the yard. Today.”
Whitlow choked. “Your Grace, I—”
“Do you disagree that she should know how?” Rowan asked, steel under the politeness.
Whitlow’s mouth snapped shut. “No,” he said. “I do not.”
“And you will write,” Rowan continued to Livia. “Daily. Even if only a line. I do not care if it is about ports or porridge. If I do not receive a letter, I will ride to London myself and drag you home by your hair.”
“Dramatic,” she murmured.
“Grain,” he said faintly.
She almost smiled.
“Agreed,” she said.
He stepped closer, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her neck.
“If you die,” he whispered, so low Whitlow could not possibly hear, “I will burn England down.”
She swallowed hard. “Then I shall endeavor not to.”
He kissed her, hard, as if imprinting something.
Whitlow stared resolutely at the wall.
***
That night, in their bed, the between-space before sleep felt sharper.
Rowan lay on his back, staring at the canopy as if it had personally offended him. Livia lay on her side, watching him.
“We could wait,” she said softly. “A few days. See if word comes.”
“No,” he said. “You are right to go now. I simply… loathe that you are right.”
“I am accustomed to it,” she said.
He huffed a breath.
“Livia,” he said after a moment. “When my father died, I realized how much of my life had been spent waiting. For his approval. For his temper. For his money. For some sign that I mattered. I will not spend this marriage waiting in the same way. For disaster. For you to decide you have had enough. For everything to crumble.”
She reached out, her hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady thud.
“I am not your father,” she said. “And I am not the sea. I do not take without warning.”
He turned his head, looking at her.
“No,” he said. “You give. Infuriatingly.”
Her throat tightened.
He reached up, fingers brushing her jaw, then sliding into her hair.
“Make love to me,” he whispered. “As if you might not for a fortnight. So that when you are in London, speaking to grizzled captains with tar in their beards, you remember there is someone here who…” He stopped.
“Who?” she prompted gently.
“Who belongs to you,” he said quietly. “Entirely.”
The words undid her.
She bent, kissed him, slow and deep.
They moved together in a way that had grown, if not easy, then known.
Each shared gasp, each whispered name, each awkward, laughing tangle of limbs etched another line into the map they were drawing over each other’s bodies.
Afterward, breathless, she lay with her face buried against his throat, his arms wrapped around her as if he could hold her in place by will alone.
“I will come back,” she said into his skin.
“See that you do,” he murmured.
His hand smoothed down her back, slow, soothing. His breathing evened.
She lay awake long after he slept, listening to the wind outside and the steady beat under her palm.
Tomorrow, she would leave.
For the first time since they’d married, they would be truly apart.
The thought frightened her more than the prospect of the Exchange.
Not because she doubted herself.
Because, she realized with a slow, dawning clarity that stole her breath, she dreaded not seeing *him* for two weeks.
Hearing his ridiculous remarks.
Watching him argue with Eames over pigs.
Feeling his hand brush hers at table.
She pressed her face closer, eyes stinging.
“Oh,” she whispered soundlessly into the dark. “Oh.”
The word she had held back in the library, in the carriage, in the woods, bloomed in her chest, undeniable now.
She loved him.
It was terrifying.
It was too late to do anything about it.
She smiled, against his throat, a little wildly.
Well, she thought. I suppose I had to catch up eventually.
He stirred, half waking, murmured something incoherent that sounded like her name, then slept again.
She closed her eyes and let herself, finally, rest.
In the morning, she would go.
And she would come back.
She had, at last, something more than ledgers to return to.
***