The afternoon crowd on Bond Street parted around Livia Harcourt as smoothly as water.
It was not that they yielded to her on purpose. Most of them did not even see her, not truly. They glanced over a young woman in a well-made but unfashionably sober pelisse, escorted by a maid rather than a mama, and dismissed her as another merchant’s daughter running errands.
Only a few looked closer and went still.
“Is that the Harcourt girl?” murmured Lady Tansley to her companion, her lips barely moving as they strolled in the opposite direction.
“Indeed,” the younger woman replied, fan twitching. “They say she *counts money.* Herself.”
“Dreadful,” Lady Tansley said serenely. “Though of course we must support her. The dear child has been so… *unlucky* in love.”
Unlucky. Livia nearly snorted aloud. She caught herself in time and smoothed a gloved hand over the reticule at her waist instead.
Unlucky implied that she wished for success.
She passed the glittering windows of Rundell and Bridge, the opulent displays of shawls and French gloves. Finer carriages than hers crowded the street, crests flashing. She spotted at least three young ladies she knew by sight, all dressed in frothy confections of silk and tulle, mothers hovering nearby with hawk-like attention.
They were hunting.
In a less charitable mood, Livia might have called it that aloud. Today, she kept her thoughts behind her teeth.
“Miss?” Alice, her maid, ventured beside her. “Mrs. Barstow said the modiste’s bill would be ready by three.”
“So she did,” Livia said, rousing herself from contemplation of just how many diamonds were on display in one tiny shopfront. “Let us not keep her waiting. She considers it a personal insult.”
They turned down a smaller street leading to Mrs. Barstow’s establishment. It was quieter here, the bustle of Bond Street fading. A hackney rumbled past; a boy shouldered a crate.
Livia had almost reached the modiste’s door when a familiar voice, smooth and unmistakably amused, cut across the damp air.
“Miss Harcourt. I begin to suspect that fate does, after all, favor me.”
She went very still.
Slowly, she turned.
Rowan Everly, Duke of Merrow, stood at the curb a few yards away. He wore a dark blue coat that fit his shoulders as if it had been cut with sinful intent, a buff waistcoat, and boots polished to a soft gleam. His hat was in his hand, his fair hair ruffled slightly by the wind. Behind him, a Merrow carriage waited, discreet but bearing his arms all the same.
He smiled—not the flippant, drawing-room curve she’d expected from his reputation, but something quieter. Genuine. Surprised, even.
“Your Grace,” she said, dipping a curtsey because she could hardly pretend not to know him now. “I suspect fate has more pressing matters than arranging meetings between dukes and merchant’s daughters on side streets.”
“Then perhaps it is Providence,” he said lightly. “Or the ineffable laws of commerce.” His gaze flicked to the sign over Mrs. Barstow’s door. “You are here to settle your account?”
Her mouth twitched despite herself. “Of course. I pay my debts.”
“An admirable habit.” His eyes warmed. “I find myself aspiring to it.”
She understood, then, that he had offered her a small advantage. He had named his own weakness before she could.
“You are far from Lincoln’s Inn, Your Grace,” she said. “Do you so enjoy the scent of new bonnets?”
His gaze slid over her shoulder, assessing the modiste’s windows, the street. With a flicker of something like mischief, he stepped closer.
“To tell you the truth,” he said, lowering his voice a fraction, “I was taking refuge.”
“Refuge,” she repeated. “From what? Rampaging creditors or predatory mamas?”
His smile flashed. “The latter. The former tend not to haunt Bond Street at this hour.”
“Give them time,” she said. “I’m sure they’ll discover the appeal.”
He laughed, the sound rich and low. A few passersby turned to look.
Livia became abruptly aware of the picture they made: a duke and a woman in plain pelisse, speaking with easy familiarity in the middle of the pavement.
Gossip was like tinder in this part of town. One spark—
“I did not mean to… waylay you,” he said then, as if sensing her unease. “I had no notion you’d be here.”
“Nor I, that you would,” she returned. “Do you always stroll alone on Bond Street, Your Grace?”
“Not always.” His tone shifted, turning practical. “Mr. Channing’s offices are but a few streets away. I had business with him this morning. I found myself with an hour before I am due at my aunt’s.”
“Your aunt,” she said, surprised. “The Dowager Marchioness of Wescott?”
“So titled,” he confirmed. “Though she prefers to be known as Lady Agnes, and will tell you at length how titles are a nuisance when one wishes to get *anything* done.”
Livia’s brows rose. “I confess, I did not imagine you had any aunts who disdained titles.”
“Oh, I have one of everything,” he said dryly. “Devout aunt, frivolous aunt, terrifying aunt. Lady Agnes falls somewhere between the last two.”
“And you are due with her—”
“In an hour,” he said. “Which gives us, if you are willing, perhaps ten minutes to walk together.”
Alice made a faint, strangled sound behind Livia. Livia ignored it.
“Walk together,” she repeated.
“Along this very safe, very public street,” he said. “Chaperoned by your maid, under the ruthless gaze of Mrs. Barstow if we go that way.” His eyes flicked to Alice with polite acknowledgement. “Good afternoon, Miss…?”
“Alice, yer— Your Grace,” Alice stammered, curtseying so abruptly she nearly lost her balance.
He inclined his head, utterly serious. “Miss Alice. May I borrow your mistress for a short circuit of the street?”
Alice’s gaze flew to Livia as if she’d been asked to hand over the crown jewels.
Livia considered.
It was not *done.* She should refuse, make some delicate excuse and disappear into the warm, judgmental confines of the modiste’s shop.
But she was so very tired of being dictated to by rules written by women with far fewer interesting things to do than she.
“If we are to… consider a partnership,” she said slowly, “we will be seen together in public eventually, Your Grace. Might as well grow accustomed to it.”
His eyes gleamed. “An eminently practical argument.”
She turned to Alice. “We shall walk as far as the end of the street and back. You will be at my elbow, as always.”
Alice swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, miss.”
“And I,” Rowan said lightly, offering his arm, “will endeavor not to ruin your reputation entirely in a quarter hour.”
“If anyone’s reputation is at risk,” Livia murmured as she laid her fingers on his sleeve, “it is yours. Imagine what the *ton* would say if they saw you consorting with a woman who knows how to multiply.”
“They would say,” he replied, as they began to move, “that I have at last acquired some sense.”
***
They walked in a measured pace, the carriages and pedestrians flowing around them.
For the first few steps, Livia was acutely aware of the warmth of his arm under her glove. The fabric of his coat was fine, but there was muscle underneath, solid and… distracting.
Focus, she ordered herself.
“You have spoken with your father?” he asked after a moment. “About our… conversation.”
“Of course.” She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “He would never forgive me if I made such deliberations alone.”
“And his view?”
“Guarded,” she said honestly. “He is… intrigued. Resentful that circumstances place his daughter in such a position. Protective.” Her mouth quirked. “You made a better impression than you might have, Your Grace. He called you ‘no worse than the rest’ over his soup last night.”
Rowan winced. “High praise indeed.”
“He also said you listened more than you spoke. That he had not expected that of a duke.”
“That was my mistake,” he said. “I shall be sure to talk of nothing but myself next time.”
“Do,” she murmured. “It will reassure him that the natural order of things is preserved.”
His shoulder shook faintly with amusement.
“And you?” he asked more quietly. “What is *your* view?”
She hesitated. “Unsettled.”
“Unsettled,” he repeated. “In an entirely adverse way, I hope.”
“In an… ambiguous way,” she said. “There is sense in what you offer. I have no illusions that any marriage I make will be free of… compromise. At least with you, the compromises would be set out in black and white.”
“I am delighted to be thought as romantic as a contract,” he said dryly.
“You were the one who spoke of treaties,” she retorted. “Do not complain now that I take you at your word.”
“I have no complaint,” he said, then paused. “Though I should like, if possible, to add something to the terms beyond rent rolls and warehouses.”
Her throat tightened. “Such as?”
“An… agreement,” he said carefully, “that if we do this, we will each strive not simply to *endure,* but to… like one another. To find reasons, daily, to be glad of the choice.”
Something in her chest gave a dangerous little twist.
“That is not a thing that can be written into a settlement,” she said.
“No,” he agreed quietly. “It can only be… practiced.”
She did not know what to say to that.
They reached the corner, turned. The wind tugged a loose tendril of hair from her bonnet; she lifted a hand to secure it. His gaze dipped, then flicked away, as if he wished to be polite and had to actively remind himself how.
“You asked,” she said, breaking the silence, “how you might prove that this marriage would not be… one-sided.”
“I did.”
“And you said you prefer deeds to words.”
“I do.”
“Then tell me,” she said, “what deed you have in mind.”
He drew a breath. “I have several. But the first… requires your cooperation.”
“I am listening.”
“I intend to invite your father—and you, if you consent—to Merrow Park.”
She blinked. “The country seat.”
“Yes. I would have you see exactly what state it is in. I will not have you enter blindly.” He glanced down at her. “You know, from the ledger, the numbers. But numbers are… abstract. I would have you see the land, the people whose lives we would be… rearranging.”
“You would… show me your tenants,” she said, surprised.
“They would be *our* tenants, if you married me,” he said simply. “You have a right to see the true cost of what you are considering. And a right to refuse it.”
Her heart gave a small, startled flutter. “Most gentlemen would show a prospective bride the best of their houses. The ballrooms, the portrait gallery. Not the… tenant cottages.”
“I do not have much to boast of in ballrooms at present,” he said, unruffled. “The roof leaks in one corner.”
“That is… unfortunate.”
“Easily mended,” he said. “A leaking estate, less so.”
She could not help it; a laugh escaped her. “You have a gift, Your Grace, for making ruin sound almost appealing.”
“My governess always said I had a talent for making mud pies sound like plum cake,” he said. “It is a curse.”
She gave him a long, sideways look. “You had a governess who baked plum cake?”
“No,” he said gravely. “But she read it aloud very convincingly.”
She startled another laugh, this one lighter. A gentleman passing them turned his head briefly; Livia ignored the prickle of his curiosity on her cheek.
“You would invite us to Merrow Park,” she said, circling back to the point. “When?”
“As soon as you might be spared from your father’s business,” he said. “A fortnight from now, if that suits. We will travel separately; I would not wish to subject you to my aunt’s conversation for two days in a carriage.”
“You intend to bring Lady Agnes?”
“I do not intend to bring her.” His lips twitched. “She has already *decided* to come, to see whether I have entirely lost my head.”
“Then I shall at least be in good company,” Livia murmured.
His gaze sharpened. “Does that mean you are… inclined to accept?”
“It means,” she said carefully, “that if my father agrees, I will come and see for myself. I do not promise more.”
“I would not trust a promise of more from you at this stage,” he said. “You are far too thorough.”
“You make that sound like a flaw,” she said.
“On the contrary.” His tone dropped. “It is probably the most attractive thing about you.”
She went still for a fraction of a second.
“Probably?” she echoed, her voice a touch breathless.
“The competition is… significant,” he said. “But yes. Your refusal to leap without looking is… bracing.”
She could not decide if she wanted to smack him or kiss him.
The latter thought shocked her so much she nearly missed her step. She caught herself, pulse skittering.
“Are you in the habit,” she managed, “of telling women you admire their caution?”
“I am not in the habit,” he said slowly, “of admiring women for anything beyond their compliance.” His jaw flexed. “That is… my shame. But if I am to do better, I must begin somewhere. With you, perhaps.”
The words lodged somewhere uncomfortable and warm.
“We have reached Mrs. Barstow’s,” she said, stopping.
“So we have.” He looked up at the sign, then back at her. “Thank you for walking with me, Miss Harcourt.”
“Thank you,” she replied, “for… presenting your mud pie with such candor.”
He laughed again, quick and delighted. “I shall endeavour to provide cream at Merrow Park, at the very least.”
“You may write to my father with particulars,” she said, releasing his arm. “He will consult his calendar. And his conscience.”
“And you will consult your ledgers,” Rowan said.
“Of course.”
He paused, his gaze traveling over her face, lingering for a heartbeat at the curve of her mouth.
“May I hope,” he said quietly, “that you will also consult your… curiosity?”
Her breath hitched. “Hope is free, Your Grace.”
His eyes darkened, just for an instant. “It is,” he agreed. “For now.”
He bowed, lid-lowered in impeccable politeness, then stepped back. “Miss Alice. A pleasure.”
Alice squeaked something that might have been assent.
Rowan turned and walked back toward Bond Street, his stride unhurried. Heads turned as he passed; whispers rose like a tide.
Livia watched him go, the space where his arm had been suddenly colder.
“Miss,” Alice whispered, wide-eyed. “He’s… he’s…”
“Yes,” Livia said shortly. “He is.”
She reached for the modiste’s door handle too briskly and nearly tore it off.
As the bell jangled and the warm, perfume-laden air of Mrs. Barstow’s establishment wrapped around her, one thought repeated itself under the fashionable trills and rustles.
A fortnight. Merrow Park.
Mud pies and ledgers.
And a man who spoke of like and not love, but whose eyes had heated when he looked at her mouth.
No, she decided, she was not unlucky at all.
She was in danger.
***
Rowan’s aunt waited for him in a drawing room that smelled faintly of lavender and lemon oil and the faintest hint of gunpowder.
The last was not a trick of memory. Lady Agnes kept a pistol in the bottom drawer of her writing desk “for vermin,” by which she meant mice, unwelcome suitors, and occasionally bishops.
“You are late,” she said, as Rowan entered. “That means you have either been pinned in a corner by Lady Trescott’s daughter or hiding in a shop.”
He kissed her cheek, accepting the brusque tap she gave his arm in return. “The latter, as it happens.”
“Ah.” She leaned back, studying him with sharp blue eyes. “Have you been buying cakes or courage?”
“Neither. I have been walking with Miss Harcourt.”
Lady Agnes’s fashionable cap, adorned with a militant spray of black feathers, quivered. “You have *seen* her, then.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And what?” he asked, though he knew perfectly well.
“Do not play dumb with me, boy,” she snapped. “You know what. Is she a simpering fool, a hardened harridan, or something in between?”
He smiled. “None of the above.”
Her brows shot up.
“She is… very much herself,” he said. “Direct. Intelligent. Too intelligent for the comfort of most men. And… rather irresistible, if one has a taste for being corrected.”
Lady Agnes barked a laugh. “Ha! I knew it. I told Channing, I said, ‘If this girl is as clever with figures as you say, my idiot nephew will either run screaming or fall headlong.’ Which is it, then?”
He hesitated. “I am… walking. Not running. Not falling.”
“Liar,” she said comfortably. “You have that look about you.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’ve finally found something more interesting than yourself.” She poured tea for him without asking, slopping a little into the saucer. “Do you like her?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
“Well, that’s more than half the battle.” She thrust the cup at him. “Sit. Tell me everything. Does she have claws?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Does she use them on you?”
“Repeatedly.”
“Better.”
He laughed, tension easing. Lady Agnes might terrify half of upper London, but she had always been kind to him in her way. Lacerating, but kind.
He told her of Harcourt House, of the blue parlor and the dockside talk. Of Livia’s steady gaze over the ledger, of her questions and barbed humor. Of her insistence that this would not be a love match, said as if she were trying to stave off some softer hope inside herself.
“And you invited them to Merrow Park,” Lady Agnes concluded, sipping her tea. “Bold. I thought you’d try to sell them the London house first, all gilt and plaster.”
“I will not lie to her,” he said. “Not in marble, not in gilding, not in anything.”
“Hmph.” She eyed him. “Does she *know* how bad it is?”
“She has read the ledger,” he said. “She may understand it even better than I do.”
“She’ll be the first wife in the *Peerage* to demand quarterly reports,” Lady Agnes mused. “I might take up residence just to watch.”
Rowan snorted. “You’re coming whether I like it or not.”
“Of course.” She leaned forward. “Now listen to me, Rowan. You may like this girl. You may even, in time, develop a fondness that looks suspiciously like love if you are not careful. But do not you *dare* forget that you are asking a great deal of her.”
“I know,” he said.
“No, you *think* you know.” Her voice sharpened. “You are asking her to leave a world where she is *respected*—if grudgingly—for her mind, and enter one where it will be considered a deformity. You are asking her to lend her fortune, her labor, and her back to the task of propping up a house that has done nothing to earn her but a name and some portraits of dead men in wigs.”
He flinched; she pressed on.
“You are asking her to stand beside you while other women, who have never added two and two in their life, look down their powdered noses at her. And you will not always be in the room to glare them into silence. Do you understand that?”
“Yes,” he said quietly.
“Do you?” She held his gaze until he shifted. “Because if you do this, you must be prepared to *choose* her. Over them. Over their good opinion. Again and again. In public. Loudly."
“I will,” he said. The vow surprised him with its force. “If she will have me, I will not let them… tear at her. I am done with pretending spineless men are my peers.”
Lady Agnes’s expression softened, just a fraction. “Good. I always hoped you had a backbone in there somewhere. Your father tried his damndest to beat it out of you.”
“He trained me well in what not to be,” Rowan said, a thread of bitterness showing.
“That he did.” She patted his hand once, brisk. “Now. Arrange this visit. Show her your leaking roofs and your decent tenants and your ragged dignity. Let her see you out of your London armor. And for God’s sake, do not fabricate a single thing.”
“I will not.”
“And if she says no,” Lady Agnes added, “you will thank her politely, pay what debts you can, and learn to live smaller. You will not go haring after some other girl with a purse and half her mettle.”
He met her gaze steadily. “If she says no, Aunt, I will… know I have lost something I may never see again.”
“Yes.” Agnes’s tone gentled in a way that made his throat tighten. “But better know it and bear it than trap some poor fool into this mess. Understood?”
“Understood,” he said.
She sat back, satisfied. “Good. Now drink your tea. It’s dreadful when it’s cold.”
He obeyed, the bitter brew oddly comforting.
Livia Harcourt had agreed, in principle, to come to his home. To stand on his soil, walk his fields, touch the stone of his house.
If he could not show her honestly who he was there, he did not deserve her help.
Rowan set the cup down, feeling something inside him settle, stubborn and unyielding.
This would not be a performance.
It would be a test.
And for once in his life, he intended to pass.
***