The invitations arrived like snow.
Balls. Dinners. Musical evenings. Afternoon teas. Breakfasts that ran until noon.
A duke newly engaged was a spectacle. A duke newly engaged to a merchant’s daughter was a phenomenon.
“I feel,” Livia muttered one evening, staring at the silver tray groaning under the weight of creamy envelopes, “like a joint of meat displayed in a butcher’s window.”
“Flattering meat,” Harcourt said, peering over her shoulder. “Look, there’s the Marchioness of Vernham. She’s never deigned to notice us before. Must’ve tripped over her own skirts getting to the ink.”
“She wants to see if we can hold a fork,” Livia said. “Properly.”
“You can,” he grunted. “You use a damned knife on most folks.”
She sighed.
“Which of these do I have to accept?” she asked.
“None,” Harcourt said. “You don’t have to do a damned thing you don’t want to.”
“That is not true,” she said. “I have to appear at least civil, or we make Rowan’s position harder than it already is.”
Her father’s mouth twisted. “You’re not obliged to be the *duchessiest* duchess who ever duchessed, girl.”
“No,” she agreed. “But I am obliged, if I accept this, to make it work. That means I cannot turn my back on the world he inhabits. Even if I would rather be at the docks.”
He regarded her thoughtfully.
“You’re certain about this,” he said quietly. It was not a question about balls.
“Yes,” she said, feeling the truth of it in her bones. “Terrified. But certain.”
“Hmph.” He scratched his beard. “Then you pick whatever of these things you can stand. I’ll grunt at the rest.”
In the end, they accepted a handful: a dinner at Vernham House, an evening at the Wescott’s (Lady Agnes insisted), a musicale hosted by a wealthy banker’s wife who had always treated Livia with wary respect, and—inevitably—a ball at Lady Tansley’s.
“She’ll eat you alive,” Amelia said with relish when Livia told her. “But think of the look on her face when you arrive on His Grace’s arm.”
“I am trying not to,” Livia said, fastening the clasp on her bracelet with fingers that trembled only slightly. “I should prefer to think of… not tripping.”
Rowan came to escort her.
He had sent a note ahead—*I will be at Harcourt House at eight*—as if his arrival were a matter of practical convenience, not a small siege on her nerves.
When he stepped into the hall, however, all pretense of practicality swooned.
He wore black.
Not mourning black—no, his coat was the deepest shade of blue-black, the cloth catching light in a way that made it hard to decide precisely which color it was. His waistcoat was silver-gray, his cravat an immaculate white. The starkness of it made his hair look brighter, his eyes darker.
He stopped dead when he saw her.
Livia had chosen, after a minor battle with Mrs. Barstow, a gown of deep wine-red satin with a simple neckline and a fall of lace at the sleeves. It was not the height of fashion. It did, however, make her feel like herself, not a confection.
Rowan’s gaze traveled from her hair, coiled and adorned with a modest comb, down over her shoulders, her bodice, her waist, the fall of the skirt.
He swallowed.
“Livia,” he said softly.
“You are late,” she said, because if she did not say something prosaic she might say something she could never recall.
He glanced at the clock. “I am precisely on time.”
“Then you are late in my head,” she said. “I have been waiting since noon.”
His mouth curved. “I apologize. I was… delayed by a troublesome tenant.”
“Whose name is Procrastination?” she suggested.
“Fear,” he admitted.
She blinked at the candor, then smiled faintly.
“You look…” he began, then stopped, shook his head as if clearing it. “You look like trouble,” he said finally.
Her brows rose. “Trouble.”
“Yes.” His eyes glowed. “The kind a man willingly throws himself into, knowing he will never crawl out unchanged.”
Heat prickled along her skin. She made herself laugh.
“You should not say things like that in front of my father,” she said.
Harcourt snorted from the doorway to the library. “I’m deaf when it suits me. And I like him better when he’s honest.”
Rowan inclined his head to Harcourt, then offered his arm to Livia.
“Shall we?” he asked.
“We must,” she said.
They stepped out into a night that smelled of frost and coal smoke, the carriage waiting.
“Are you ready to be stared at?” he asked as they settled inside.
“I have been stared at before,” she said. “When I made my first appearance at the Exchange, half the men there looked at me as if I were a dancing bear.”
“And how did you manage them?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“I ignored them,” she said. “And spoke to the only one who spoke to me as if I had a brain. My father.”
He smiled. “You will not be able to ignore *all* of them tonight.”
“No,” she said. “But I will not be alone.”
He reached across the small space and took her hand.
“Never,” he said quietly. “Not if I can help it.”
Her fingers curled around his.
She did not pull away.
***
Vernham House’s ballroom glittered.
Crystal chandeliers scattered light across polished floors. Gilded mirrors doubled the already dazzling crowd. Women shimmered in pastels and jewels; men in dark coats moved among them like shadows.
Conversation hummed, a constant low buzz punctuated by occasional shrieks of laughter.
As Livia and Rowan entered, a ripple passed through the room.
Heads turned.
Livia stiffened. Rowan’s hand tightened slightly over hers where it rested on his arm.
Lady Vernham, a handsome woman of middle years with an appraising gaze, swept toward them.
“Your Grace,” she said, curtseying with just the right degree of deference. “Miss Harcourt. We are delighted to have you.”
“Lady Vernham,” Rowan said. “Thank you for your welcome.”
“Welcome?” She smiled. “You are the entertainment, my dear duke. We have all been simply dying to meet your bride.”
Livia’s spine did not soften. “I am not yet his bride, my lady.”
“Fiancée, then,” Lady Vernham amended smoothly. “You will forgive us if we are… eager. It is not often we see such an… interesting match.”
“I imagine not,” Livia said.
Rowan’s arm was solid beneath her fingers. She took strength from it.
Lady Vernham’s eyes sharpened. “Do not be alarmed, Miss Harcourt. There are some in this room who will sniff, of course. But there are others who are… delighted.”
“Delighted?” Livia echoed.
“Yes.” Lady Vernham’s smile took on an edge. “We are in urgent need of new blood—and new minds. If the entire peerage keeps marrying its second cousins and ignoring the counting houses, we’ll all be on the street within a generation.”
Rowan choked.
Livia’s opinion of Lady Vernham lifted several degrees.
“I am pleased,” she said, “to be considered an… infusion.”
“Excellent.” The marchioness patted her hand. “Now, do a turn about the room with His Grace. Let them all have a good look. Then come back and sit by me. We shall watch them squirm together.”
Livia found herself smiling.
“Thank you, my lady,” she said.
Rowan bent closer as they moved away.
“I am not certain whether she wishes to use you or protect you,” he murmured.
“Both,” Livia said. “I approve.”
They walked the perimeter of the room.
Conversation dipped as they passed. Fans fluttered. Men nodded. Women whispered behind gloved hands.
Livia kept her chin up and her gaze level.
She recognized several faces.
Lady Tansley, lips pursed, eyes cold. Her daughter, pale and tense. Mrs. Dovecote, already whispering to Mrs. Finch, whose lorgnette trembled with indignation.
Livia let her gaze slide over them as if they were furniture.
“You are doing very well,” Rowan murmured.
“You sound surprised,” she said.
“Not surprised,” he said. “Impressed.”
A younger woman, cheeks pink, stepped forward hesitantly.
“Your Grace,” she breathed. “Miss Harcourt. May I… congratulate you?”
Rowan smiled. “Thank you, Miss—?”
“Brierley,” she stammered. “Catherine Brierley.”
Livia recognized the name: a baron’s daughter, modest dowry, keen eyes. She had once overheard Miss Brierley asking pointed questions about rents in a corner at a musicale, only to be hushed by her mother.
“Miss Brierley,” Livia said. “That is kind.”
“It is…” The girl swallowed. “It is… good… to see. That is all.”
Her gaze met Livia’s, something like fierce hope in it.
Livia’s heart squeezed.
“Come and take tea with me one afternoon,” she said impulsively. “We can speak… away from this.”
Miss Brierley’s eyes widened. “I—thank you. I should like that.”
Her chaperone, hovering nearby, looked both alarmed and pleased.
As they moved on, Rowan bent his head.
“You collect strays,” he murmured.
“I was once one,” she said.
“You still are,” he said. “My favorite.”
Heat threaded through her.
“Behave,” she muttered.
“Impossible,” he said.
***
They danced.
Rowan claimed the first set, as was his right. As they stepped onto the floor, the crowd drew back, making way.
The music began.
“You truly wish to do this?” he asked under his breath as they turned.
“Yes,” she said. “If I refuse to dance with you in public, they will say it is because I am ashamed.”
“Of me?” he asked, lips twitching.
“Of them,” she replied.
His laughter was a low, delighted thing.
“You are cruel,” he murmured.
“Honest,” she corrected.
“You are honest,” he conceded. “And unusually graceful. Considering you spend your days at a desk.”
“I practiced,” she said.
He raised a brow. “For me?”
“For humiliation,” she said. “To avoid it.”
“We must find a way to practice… other things,” he said, voice dropping.
She stumbled, just slightly.
His hand tightened at her waist, steadying her.
“Rowan,” she hissed.
“Yes?” His eyes gleamed.
“You are doing this on purpose.”
“Absolutely,” he said.
She bit back a smile.
As the dance carried them through turns and figures, she was acutely aware of his hand at her back, the warmth of his palm through the thin stuff of her gown, the occasional brush of his thigh against hers when the steps brought them too close.
Desire coiled, hungry.
He felt it; she knew he did. His pupils were wide, his jaw tense.
When the music ended, applause rippled.
Rowan bowed. Livia curtseyed.
“You survived,” he murmured as they moved off the floor.
“I did,” she said. “Barely.”
“Shall I rescue you to the refreshment room?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Go and speak with your peers. Reassure them that you have not entirely lost your mind. I shall sit with Lady Vernham and plan my conquest of the world.”
He gave a mock-groan. “You make it sound so dull.”
She squeezed his arm. “Go.”
He did, reluctantly.
She watched him cross to a knot of gentlemen, his shoulders straight.
They watched him, too. Assessing. Weighing.
He had brought scandal into their midst by offering for her.
He had also, she realized, brought himself.
If they sneered, they sneered at him as much as at her.
The knowledge steadied her.
She went to Lady Vernham’s sofa and sat.
“Well?” the marchioness demanded. “Had enough of the menagerie yet?”
“Not quite,” Livia said. “I have just begun.”
Lady Vernham’s eyes gleamed. “Excellent.”
***
Scandal, Livia learned swiftly, was not a single event.
It was a tide.
At first, it came in small waves: lifted brows, whispers, the occasional pointedly cold shoulder.
Then the pamphlets began.
“Have you seen this?” Amelia burst into Harcourt House one morning, waving a sheet of cheap paper.
Livia took it, brow furrowing.
*On the Present Decay of Aristocratic Virtue and the Rise of the Counting-House Cat*.
She read.
By the third paragraph, her hands shook with fury.
The anonymous writer—though the style screamed of a certain hack who lived near Fleet Street—had used her as a symbol. Not of new blood and sense, as Lady Vernham had, but of corruption. Of the vulgar invasion of trade into the sacred halls of the nobility.
*“When dukes stoop to take mates from behind the counter,”* it read, *“what hope has England of preserving the dignity of its ancient lines?”*
“It is remarkable,” Livia said through her teeth, “how little one can say in so many words.”
Amelia snatched it back and tossed it into the fire.
“I will not have it under your roof,” she snapped.
Livia blinked.
“Amelia—”
“No.” Amelia’s cheeks burned. “They say these things because they are frightened. Of you. Of what you represent. You terrify them. Good.”
Livia sat down abruptly.
“I confess,” she said, “I do not feel terrifying. I feel… sick.”
Amelia softened. “I know.”
She sat beside her, their shoulders touching.
“It will pass,” Amelia said. “They will find some other scandal. Someone else to shred. You must not… let them in.”
Livia thought of the words on the page, the contempt.
“I have spent years,” she said slowly, “letting no one in. Building walls. Using numbers like bricks.”
“And now?” Amelia asked.
“Now,” Livia murmured, “I have let someone in. He is… very large. He fills many rooms.”
Amelia made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh.
“Livia,” she said, half exasperated, half admiring, “you are the only woman I know who would describe a fiancé in terms of his… spatial occupation.”
Livia huffed a breath.
“I do not know how to do this,” she admitted in a rush. “Any of this. I know how to balance books. I know how to negotiate contracts. I do not know how to be… looked at like this. Admired and despised at once.”
Amelia considered.
“Perhaps,” she said slowly, “you do it the way you do everything. You learn. You watch. You adapt. And you do not give an inch you cannot bear to lose.”
Livia stared at her. “You should not be as wise as you are.”
“I read novels,” Amelia said airily. “All my wisdom comes from fiction.”
Livia laughed despite herself.
The pamphlet crackled as the fire devoured it.
***
Rowan received his own share of commentary.
Some of it came in the form of arch warnings from men he had once caroused with.
“Take care, Merrow,” drawled Lord Fenton, a rake with a deceptively mild manner. “These merchant girls are all very well for a lark, but to wed? Think of your children.”
“I am,” Rowan said coolly. “Often.”
Fenton blinked. “Well. If you insist on being earnest, I shall have to remove you from the list of entertaining companions.”
“Do,” Rowan said. “You were not high on my list in any case.”
He walked away, pulse pounding.
He did not, however, walk alone.
Others—men who had seen their own estates fray under the weight of neglect—sought him out quietly.
“You’re brave,” muttered Sir James Copley after cornering him near a card table. “Or mad. But I’ll be damned if I don’t admire it. I’d have done the same if I’d had the sense.”
“You may still,” Rowan said.
Copley snorted. “My wife would kill me. She barely forgave me for marrying *her,* and she only had a small brewery in Manchester.”
They shared a grim little laugh.
Rowan realized, gradually, that he was no longer only the subject of gossip.
He was becoming a point of reference.
A line in the sand.
Men and women were choosing sides, consciously or not.
He had chosen his.
He would have to live with it.
He intended to.
***