Morning came shrouded in mist.
The lawns of Merrow Park lay under a soft veil, the trees rising like shadowed sentinels. Livia wrapped her shawl tighter as she stepped out onto the terrace, breath puffing white in the cold air.
Rowan waited by the bottom of the steps.
He was bareheaded, his fair hair damp with the mist, a cloak draped over his shoulders. He looked more like a man in a painting of some mythic hunt than a duke about to walk his grounds with a merchant’s daughter.
“Miss Harcourt,” he said, bowing. “You are prompt.”
“I asked *you* to walk,” she said. “It would be rude to keep myself waiting.”
He smiled. “Your father and my aunt are still at breakfast. Whitlow is hiding in the study. We have, by my reckoning, an hour before anyone comes looking for us.”
“An eternity,” she murmured, descending the steps.
His gaze caught on her as she came down, lingering for a moment at the curve of her throat above the high collar of her cloak.
“Shall we?” he asked, offering his arm.
She hesitated only a second before placing her hand on it.
They walked in silence at first, the gravel crunching softly underfoot. The path led around the side of the house, past a small, frost-touched rose garden, and on toward the rising line of trees.
“It is… quieter than I expected,” Livia said.
“You expected a constant chorus of birds?” Rowan asked.
“I expected… more sound. From the house. Servants. Carts. Something.” She shrugged. “In London, there is never this… emptiness.”
“It is not empty,” he said. “Just… still.”
“You like it.”
“Yes,” he admitted. “Do you?”
She considered. The quiet made her thoughts louder. Dangerous.
“I… am not sure,” she said honestly. “It is… beautiful. But unnerving. As if I am being listened to.”
“By whom?” he asked, amused.
“By the house. The trees. Your ancestors.”
“Ah,” he said. “Them.”
“Them,” she agreed, a little wryly.
They entered the small wood. The air changed, muffled, smelling of damp earth and old leaves. The path was narrow but clear, the underbrush cut back.
Rowan slowed his step to match hers where the ground sloped.
“I came here often as a boy,” he said quietly. “When my father was in one of his moods. Or not here at all. It was… my refuge.”
“You hid,” she said.
“Yes.” He glanced at her. “Do you judge me for that?”
“I hid, too,” she said. “When my mother was ill. When Father shouted at doctors and lawyers and the world.” She smiled faintly. “I hid in ledgers.”
“Comforting, rational ledgers,” he murmured.
“Yes. They did not lie to me. They did not die on me. They—” She broke off, swallowing.
He stopped.
“Livia,” he said softly. “I am sorry. I did not… know it was like that.”
She laughed, brittle. “How could you? I do not speak of it.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because the story people prefer is simpler,” she said. “A merchant’s widow, a devoted daughter, a fortune built. They do not wish to hear of blood on handkerchiefs and nights standing in hallways listening to my parents argue over treatments we could not afford.”
“Treatments,” he said slowly, “that you can now buy ten times over.”
“Yes.” Her fingers bit into the fabric of his sleeve. “It is a cruel equation. And pointless. She is gone.”
He covered her hand with his.
They stood in the misty wood, the damp and the silence wrapping around them.
“You built this,” he said quietly. “With your father. From that.”
“Yes.”
“And you do not wish to lose it,” he said. “Or hand it to someone who will not… value it.”
“No,” she whispered. “I do not.”
“I will not squander your mother’s shadow,” he said.
Her throat closed. “You say the most… disarming things.”
“I am only telling the truth,” he said. “She is part of this. Whether we speak of her or not.”
She turned to face him fully.
His hair was beaded with tiny droplets of mist, his lashes darkened. A faint smudge of stubble shadowed his jaw. He looked less like a duke here, more like a man.
“Aren’t you frightened?” she asked abruptly.
“Of you?” he returned.
“Of this,” she said. “Of… binding yourself. Of giving someone else the power to wreck you.”
“Yes,” he said, very simply.
She blinked. “You are…?”
“Terrified,” he said. “That I will fail you. That I will fall back into old habits. That I will not be able to protect you from people who sneer. That you will wake up one morning and realize you have tethered yourself to a man you… cannot bear.”
His mouth twisted. “And yet, I find the thought of not asking you to bind yourself to me… worse.”
Her breath came shorter. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, his eyes holding hers with almost painful intensity, “for the first time in my life, I have met someone who might actually see me and… stay. Who might not be dazzled by the name or repelled by the mess. Who might, if I work very hard and if I am very lucky, come to… care for me. As I am. Not as I pretend to be.”
Tears pricked, sudden and unwelcome, at the back of her eyes.
“You think very highly of me,” she said, her voice unsteady.
“No.” He stepped closer, their bodies almost brushing. “I think very clearly of you.”
“You are asking,” she whispered, “for… dangerously much.”
“I know.” His hand tightened over hers. “And I offer… everything I have. Which is not enough. But it is… all.”
She stared up at him, breathing the same damp air, feeling his warmth seep through their layers of cloth.
“You have not asked me,” she said, “what I fear.”
“I thought,” he said gently, “you might tell me if you wished.”
Her mouth trembled. “I fear… losing myself.”
He did not flinch.
“I fear,” she went on, the words spilling now like a dam broken, “waking up and realizing I no longer know my own mind because it has been chipped away by a thousand small cuts. A comment here, a demand there. ‘Do not speak of business, Livia.’ ‘Do not correct me, Livia.’ ‘Do not embarrass me, Livia.’” Her voice shook. “I fear being… isolated. Caged. Smoothed down into something… palatable.”
She sucked in a breath. “I fear loving a man who says now that he admires my sharpness, and hearing him, ten years hence, rebuke me for it because some lady has whispered in his ear that a proper duchess does not… argue.”
His grip on her hand tightened until it almost hurt.
“If I ever say such a thing to you,” he said, each word deliberate, “you may remind me of this moment. You may throw it in my face. You may strike me with whatever is to hand.”
“I shall keep a ledger nearby,” she said shakily.
“Good.” A ghost of a smile flickered. Then his face sobered. “I cannot… promise you that I will not, in moments of weakness or pride, wish that you were less… yourself. We are all selfish, at times. But I *can* promise you that if I fall into that sin, I will listen when you call me on it. And I will be… ashamed.”
“That is not a comfortable promise,” she whispered.
“No,” he said. “But it is an honest one.”
They stood, breathing, the mist weaving around them.
“Miss Harcourt,” he said, after a long moment. “Livia. I will not ask again after this. I will not harry you. But… I must say it once, plainly.”
Her pulse thudded.
“Will you,” he asked, voice quiet but unwavering, “consider marrying me? Knowing all this. Knowing I am… flawed, frightened, and… very much already entangled with you in ways that have nothing to do with money.”
She closed her eyes for a heartbeat, then opened them.
“I have been considering it,” she said. “Every hour since we met.”
He drew a shaky laugh. “So have I.”
“My answer,” she said slowly, choosing each word with care, “is not yet a vow. Not… formal. Not to be repeated in front of clergymen or lawyers.”
He held very, very still.
“But here, in your woods, with your ancestors probably scandalized—” She took a breath that seemed to draw him closer. “Yes, Rowan. I will consider it. Seriously. Soberly. With my father. With myself. I will not… turn away. I will walk toward this. Toward you.”
His eyes closed briefly, as if in pain. When he opened them, they burned.
“You make it sound,” he said hoarsely, “like marching into battle.”
“It is,” she said. “Of a sort.”
“And your… inclination?” he pressed, unable to help himself.
She lifted her free hand, touched his cheek.
His breath hitched.
“Strong,” she whispered. “Very strong.”
Something in him seemed to snap then—a tight thread of restraint.
“Livia,” he said, her name a raspy plea.
She knew, with the bone-deep certainty that came from a lifetime of reading people, that he would not take without asking.
She also knew she did not want him to ask.
Not this time.
Not when everything between them already felt so weighted with thought and consequence.
“Rowan,” she said. “Shut up.”
His eyes flared, then refocused on her mouth.
“Is that,” he managed, “a request?”
“It is,” she said. “An instruction.”
He gave a strangled sound that might have been a laugh and then—slowly, so slowly she could have stopped him at any point—he leaned in.
The first brush of his lips against hers was almost unbearably gentle.
A question, not a claim.
Heat flared through her all the same, sharp and shocking. She made a small, involuntary noise; his hand flew from her hand to her waist, steadying.
He drew back a fraction. “Too much?”
“Not… nearly,” she heard herself say. “Enough.”
His eyes darkened to storm.
He kissed her again, less tentatively now.
His mouth was warm, his lips firm but coaxing. He angled his head, fitting them more closely. Her hand, without her consent, slid up to his shoulder, fingers curling into the damp cloth of his cloak.
He made a sound in his throat that vibrated through her, deep and approving.
The world contracted to the points where they touched: his hand at her waist, splayed possessively; her palm against his shoulder; their mouths moving together in a rhythm that felt both foreign and instinctive.
She had never been kissed before.
She had thought about it, in idle, abstract ways. Wondered what it might be like. She had dismissed the sighing girls’ talk of fireworks as theatrical.
She had not expected this.
This… *ache,* this sudden, dizzying awareness of her own body. The way her breasts felt heavy, sensitive; the way heat pooled low in her belly, a throbbing wanting that had nothing to do with reason.
He tasted faintly of brandy and something uniquely his own. His tongue brushed her lower lip, a feather-light question. She gasped; he seized the opportunity and deepened the kiss.
Heat shot through her.
Her fingers dug into his shoulder. His other hand slid up her back, pressing her closer until her front was flush against his chest, the hard plane of him unmistakable even through their layers.
She felt, very clearly, the firm ridge of his arousal where their bodies brushed.
Shock jolted through her, mingled with an illicit thrill.
He jerked, as if realizing at the same moment, and tore his mouth from hers with a whispered curse.
“God,” he rasped, breath ragged. He stepped back, hands lifted as if surrendering. “I’m—Livia, I’m sorry. I—”
She stared at him, lips swollen, heart pounding.
“You are not—” Her voice came out husky. She cleared her throat. “You are not the only one at fault.”
“I should have—” He broke off, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I knew this was a bad idea.”
“It was an excellent idea,” she said, a little wildly. “Just… perhaps not prudent.”
He gave a strangled laugh. “You are… extraordinary.”
“You are…” She stopped, the words *dangerous* and *necessary* battling on her tongue.
He dragged in a breath, forced his hands down to his sides.
“I promised,” he said, voice steadier, “not to let… heat… make your decisions for you. I intend to keep that promise.”
“I know,” she said softly.
“I will not… press you,” he said. “Beyond this. Beyond what you ask for. But if you—” His jaw clenched. “If you wish to experience… more… before you decide, you have only to say so.”
Her blood roared.
“Experience,” she repeated faintly.
“Yes.” He met her gaze squarely. “I do not mean… full… consummation. That will wait for vows. But there are… other things. Kisses. Touch. Pleasure. That do not bind you legally but might… inform your choice.”
Her mouth went dry. “You would… offer me that.”
“I would offer you the world if I could,” he said simply. “Offering you… this… is the least I can do.”
Heat and mortification warred in her. “Most men would not—”
“Most men,” he said sharply, “are used to taking what they want and leaving women to bear the cost. I have done enough of that in my life, in other ways. I am… done.”
Silence hung.
“Thank you,” she whispered finally. “For… trusting me. With that… offer.”
He exhaled. “It is perhaps mad. But then, so is much of this.”
She found herself stepping forward, closing a little of the distance he’d created.
“Rowan,” she said, “I will not… use you. For… experience. As if you were some… brothel fable.”
His mouth curved, though his eyes remained heated. “I admit, that is not a role I have ever aspired to.”
“I want,” she said, forcing herself to be honest, “to want you… for yourself. Not for what you can do to my body.”
He swallowed. “You do not…?”
“I do,” she said quickly, flushing. “Obviously. But that is… not enough. I have seen men and women mistake… lust… for love, or even for respect. It burns away and leaves ash. I will not build my life on that.”
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them.
“I would not let you,” he said quietly.
The path between them felt narrower now, but more solid.
“We should go back,” she said, though every part of her protested.
“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Before I forget every promise I have made this week.”
They walked out of the woods in silence, the air between them humming.
At the edge of the lawn, the house came into view, solid and expectant.
Livia stopped.
“Rowan,” she said.
He turned. “Yes?”
She drew a breath. “When we return to London, my father will speak with Mr. Channing. There will be papers. Settlements. Terms.”
“Yes,” he said. “I expected as much.”
She met his gaze steadily. “When those are in order, and when I have… sat with this… a little longer… I will give you my answer. In public. In front of them. And I will not take it back.”
His throat worked. “And… in private?”
“In private,” she said softly, “I have already… begun.”
He stared at her, something like awe in his expression.
“You are going to ruin me,” he said.
“You are already ruined,” she said, a smile stealing over her mouth. “I am merely… reorganizing.”
He laughed then, helpless and genuine.
“Very well,” he said. “I submit to your… reorganization.”
“Good.” She lifted her chin. “Now walk me back. We must not let my father suspect we have been compromising each other in your woods.”
He choked. “Livia.”
“Yes?”
“Do not say things like that where Aunt Agnes can hear you,” he begged. “She will never let me live it down.”
“I shall be very proper,” she said sweetly. “In public.”
“And in private?” he asked before he could stop himself.
She glanced at him from under her lashes, a spark in her eyes that made his knees weak.
“In private,” she said, “I make no promises of propriety.”
He nearly walked into a tree.
They returned to the house, both a little dazed, both acutely aware that something had shifted.
Not yet a vow.
Not yet safe.
But the line between them, once so carefully drawn, had been smudged by lips and truth and mist.
Behind the library windows, his ancestors watched, their painted faces unreadable.
If they disapproved, Livia thought, they could do very little about it now.
She had ships on the river, coin in the bank, ink on her fingers.
And a duke who had kissed her in the woods and offered her—not salvation, not a rescue—but a chance to build something new out of both their wreckage.
She intended, very carefully, to take it.
***
They left Merrow Park the next day, after more inspections, more discussions, more crackling exchanges over supper. The carriage wheels ground over gravel; the house receded.
Rowan stood on the steps, watching until the Harcourts’ carriage vanished over the rise.
Beside him, Lady Agnes snorted. “Well, you’ve gone and done it.”
“Done what?” he asked, not taking his eyes off the empty road.
“Fallen in love with a woman who can bankrupt you,” she said cheerfully. “And save you. All at once.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “Yes.”
“Good.” She patted his arm. “Now let’s see if you’re man enough not to muck it up.”
He watched the horizon a moment longer, then turned toward the house.
Inside, in his study, a blank sheet of paper waited.
He sat, dipped his pen, and began to write.
Not ledgers this time.
A letter.
To Livia.
Setting out, in plain ink, all the terms they had not had time—or breath—to say aloud.
Outside, the last of the mist burned off.
In London, by the time his letter arrived, Livia would have spoken with her father, with Channing, with herself.
And somewhere between ink and woods, numbers and lips, a decision would form.
One that would change both their lives.
One that would set the tone for every heated argument, every shared ledger, every kiss that had yet to come.
***