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Chapter Text

Rosewood Manor, Hertfordshire

"We must be wicked, indecent, and positively scandalous." 

The words spilled from Lady Mary Margaret Blanchard’s lips, trembling with deliciously forbidden promise. Which was ironic, really, since the young lady was so innocent that she probably wouldn't know scandal if it walked up and kissed her good morning.  

Such rebellious ideas were completely new to Emma Swan. And yet, she couldn't look away. Could it be that her own secret, a completely impossible plan—the one she'd been dreaming about for months—was finally about to work?   

“Wicked!” chorused the small gathering of young ladies, the word rolling off their tongues as if it were dipped in temptation itself. The distant strains of an orchestra seeped through the drawing room doors from the grand ballroom beyond, reminding them of all the people who'd pushed them aside and forgotten about them.

Mary Margaret stood up gracefully, her ice-blue dress whispering across the Aubusson carpet. "I refuse to accept my fate," she declared, each word sharp and clear. "We're all over twenty-two—time isn't waiting for us, and our chances at marriage are getting worse with each passing season. So tell me—what do we really have to lose?”

They were the wallflowers, after all. Modestly charming but far from the dazzling belles who drew every eye. They lacked the glittering accomplishments, the influential families, and the substantial dowries that lit the fires of gentlemanly ambition. Instead, they were relegated to the background, overlooked like wallpaper, as the eligible suitors of society pursued brighter prospects. 

"I dare say you may have a point, Mary Margaret," Lady Ruby Lucas, usually poised, broke into a conspiratorial grin. "I've been on the shelf since I turned eighteen," she continued with mock solemnity, "and I swear each season feels like a slow, agonizing descent into obscurity."  

The rest of the group exchanged determined looks. This was a conversation they’d never dared to voice, yet the relief in the air was palpable. 

"We all dream of families, don’t we?" Mary Margaret pressed on, voice softening but still carrying its edge. "Or, at the very least, a single moment—just one—where we dare to defy society’s rigid rules and taste freedom." 

A charged silence settled over the room, every young woman perched on the edge of her seat, poised at the brink of something deliciously dangerous. Anticipation crackled in the air like a storm about to break.

"We long for love," sighed Miss Aurora Everhart, her cheeks flushing like a stolen sunset. Everyone knew she was hopelessly in love with Phillip, the Marquess of Sands—a man so blissfully unaware of her devotion, one might think he’d gone blind to all things romantic.  

“We want love, even passion,” Mary Margaret declared with a dramatic flourish, “and we’ve weathered more seasons than I care to count. We are the wallflowers, fated to a future barren of advantageous matches and grand romances." 

The nods transformed into wistful sighs. 

Restlessness pricked at Emma, a delicious sense of something wicked and wonderful hovering just out of reach, begging to be seized.  

“How glorious it would be," Emma mused, her voice soft but brimming with mischief, "if, just this once, we indulged in a bit of scandalous fun."  

Emma’s heart held a rather unconventional obsession—one man, to be precise: Killian Jones, the Duke of Hookshire. A figure so elusive, he might as well have been a myth or a particularly dashing ghost. Yet, in Emma’s mind, he was the key to rescuing her family from the jaws of financial ruin.  

Or at least that's what she told herself. After all, what could be more brilliant than making society believe she was engaged to a duke she'd never even met? 

In their world, success was a game of connections—who you knew and how grandly they could pave your way to Almack's, to glittering soirées, and to coveted opera boxes. Emma didn’t just need the Duke of Hookshire’s name to save herself; she needed it to secure the futures of her sisters. Without it, Elsa and Anna were fated to slip into obscurity, shackled by meager connections and even more meager coffers.  

The patronage of a duke, however, would throw open the gilded doors of the ton as if she held the key to the city. Their current dire straits had already pushed Elsa into a most unfortunate position as a lady’s companion, fending off the oily advances of a lecherous rogue. Their little cottage—practically an exile—was falling apart. Their mother's widow's pension barely covered having a cook and keeping up appearances. As the eldest, Emma felt the pressure to make a good match weighing on her shoulders.   

She rose gracefully, smoothing invisible creases from her gown—rose-colored, of course, for she could still afford optimism, if not a dance partner. Not a single gentleman had approached her tonight, but the ballroom was brimming with women boasting wealthier dowries and shinier prospects. Emma and her friends had become all but invisible, mere spectators to the pageantry of the ton.  

"It’s high time we stopped waiting for gentlemen to discover their courage," Emma declared, her voice laced with steel. "Especially when our connections and social standing pale in comparison." 

Her friends turned their gazes on her, brows lifted in curiosity, sensing that the evening’s discourse was about to take a decidedly more daring turn.

"We can no longer afford to blend into the wallpaper," Emma continued, her words crisp as she surveyed the room filled with brighter, richer blooms. "We need to be something far more dangerous than wallflowers. We need to be seen."    

The room practically buzzed with excitement as the women rose, a palpable current of electricity crackling between them. "We must pledge to pool our resources and help each other become more than just society’s floral arrangements, doomed to fade in the background." Mary Margaret’s voice dropped conspiratorially. "Besides... none of us has ever been truly sinful, have we?"  

What followed was a whirlwind of laughter and plotting, all laced with a delightful sense of rebellion. Oh, how improper it all was—and how wonderfully so. Emma could only hope they would summon the courage to follow through with their scandalous ambitions. Tonight, it seemed, was not just a soirée but the dawn of a daring new chapter in their lives.

"Papa has accepted Lord George Spencer's proposal," Mary Margaret announced later, when the group had dispersed and only Emma remained. Her tone was as casual as if she were discussing the weather. "He informed me this morning, and I find it utterly unbearable." 

Emma gasped so loudly it could have echoed across the ballroom. "No! That can't be! The man is older than your father!" 

A mischievous gleam flickered in Mary Margaret’s eyes, completely at odds with the dire news she had just dropped. “Oh, I know... but I have a plan.” 

“A wicked plan?” 

"Oh, Emma," Mary Margaret replied, her smile widening into something wonderfully conspiratorial, "a deliciously wicked plan, and it involves David Nolan."  

Emma’s eyes widened. "The Earl? The most notorious flirt in London?" 

A blush, unmistakable and rather telling, crept up Mary Margaret’s cheeks as she cast her gaze downward, feigning modesty. "Yes," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.  

Emma, momentarily stunned, took a step back. With a sudden surge of inspiration, she retrieved her reticule, fumbling slightly as she extracted a folded newspaper clipping. She cleared her throat, her voice slightly shaky but determined. "Well, as it happens…I have a plan too."  

The idea was so bold, so scandalously brazen, that Emma had barely dared to give it breath until now. "I've been thinking about this forever, Mary Margaret, wondering if I was going crazy. But tonight—tonight you've made me feel brave enough to try. There has to be more to life than just following the path everyone else wants us to take. We can't let society, our fathers, or heaven forbid, our brothers, control our lives."   

Mary Margaret darted to the door, locking it with a sharp, satisfying click. "Now, what crazy scheme have you come up with?"  

Emma thrust the paper toward her, eyes gleaming. "I think I've found the answer to all my family's problems." 

With a quick flick of her wrist, Mary Margaret scanned the paper. “What am I looking at?” 

"My father always said that in this world, climbing the ladder of success doesn’t depend on talent alone—connections are the real currency."  

A familiar pang tightened around her heart, but she shoved it aside. Four years had passed since her father’s death, but the wound was still fresh, the ache sharper with each new weight life piled on her shoulders. 

“Mary Margaret, read the part I’ve marked.” 

Her friend cleared her throat with a lady-like precision, adjusted her gaze to the circled section, and read silently.  

Emma already knew every scandalous word by heart—the article had practically scorched a hole in her reticule over the past three weeks.  

Rumors abound that the elusive Duke of Hookshire, once the infamous ‘dashing rapscallion’ darling of the ton, is prowling for a bride. His long absence from society has only fanned the flames of speculation. Who will be the lucky lady to ensnare his mysterious, untamable heart? The Scrutineer regrets it cannot confirm these whispers, as the duke hasn't been seen in years. Is this just another whimsy of the rumor mill, or is there a kernel of truth to this tantalizing gossip? We eagerly await any morsels our readers may provide, with full assurance of discretion.  

Mary Margaret raised an eyebrow, her expression a perfect mix of curiosity and disbelief. "And how exactly does this fit into your big plan?" 

Emma took a deep breath and carefully unfolded a second paper. "This is my announcement. For publication."   

Mary Margaret's eyes widened as she read:

Dear Lady Superior,

It is with immense pleasure that I announce my engagement to His Grace, the Duke of Hookshire. As the Honourable Miss Emma Swan of Hertfordshire, I feel it my duty to address the current chatter surrounding the Duke’s intentions. His Grace currently resides in Ireland, where we plan to settle after our nuptials. In an admirable display of generosity, His Grace has agreed to a prolonged engagement, allowing my younger sisters ample time to secure advantageous matches of their own. I trust you will find this development as thrilling as I do and am certain of your discretion in sharing this delightful tidbit with society.

Sincerely, 

Miss Emma Swan

"Emma!" Mary Margaret gasped. "Do you even know the duke?" 

"Of course not." Emma's lips twisted into a mischievous smile. "But why let a little thing like reality get in the way of opportunity? I plan to ride society's obsession with him straight into a more secure future for my family."  

"The Duke of Hookshire is not a man to toy with lightly," Mary Margaret warned. "The newspapers call him 'the puppet master' for a reason. Even from his self-imposed exile, his grip on the peerage is ironclad. Have you read the political pamphlets? He’s pulling strings left, right, and center."  

Emma felt a knot tightening in her stomach—whether from fear or excitement, she couldn't tell. With her father gone and their fortunes dwindling, this audacious scheme might be her only chance to secure her sisters' futures. Once people thought she was engaged to him, the invitations would come flying in faster than the scandal sheets on a Sunday. The ton would be tripping over themselves to catch a glimpse of the woman who had supposedly tamed the legendary Duke of Hookshire.

Why had he vanished from the social scene? Speculation was a sport among the aristocracy. Some whispered tales of disfigurement, others swore he was scarred from duels, while the romantics thought he was nursing a broken heart—locked away in his grand Irish estate like a tragic hero. 

This gamble was as delicate as a house of cards, one sharp breath away from collapse. Two failed seasons had left her family teetering on the edge of ruin, and Emma had yet to secure anything close to comfort or stability for them. But now—now—she thought she'd found a way to save her family from disappearing into nothing, keeping not just their dignity but maybe even their good name. 

And yet... she couldn’t quite shake the unsettling feeling that orchestrating such a grand deception might earn her more than a social faux pas—perhaps a swift ticket to purgatory.  

A casual name-drop wouldn't do. No, she had to become the betrothed of a duke. Her Aunt Helga, who'd scandalized everyone by running away to become an actress, would probably be proud of her boldness.  

“You’re trusting Lady Superior to weave your tale with her usual flair, but what if the Duke catches wind of it?” Mary Margaret asked, raising an eyebrow.  

Strangely, that particular disaster wasn't even in Emma's top five worries. 

"He hasn't been seen in seven years," Emma reasoned. "He didn't even show up when the papers said he was dead last year. I'd be shocked if he even knew who I was."   

"And if he does?" 

“He won’t,” Emma said firmly. “But even if he did, he’d roll his eyes and dismiss it as just another bit of nonsense from the scandal-mongers. I only need to keep this up until the end of the season. By then, my sisters will have their suitors, and I'll... gracefully... break off the engagement."   

A flicker of sympathy softened Mary Margaret’s gaze. "But your reputation will be ruined."   

Emma shrugged with practiced nonchalance. "Oh, I gave up on finding someone for myself ages ago. It's not like I have men lining up to marry me anyway."   

"You're not thinking about your own happiness," Mary Margaret sighed.  

Happiness? That felt like a distant, foreign concept to Emma. A pang of longing surged through her chest, but she quickly shoved it aside. “My sisters are such treasures—they deserve a chance at happiness, at least. They’ve been nothing but patient, watching our prospects dwindle. And with Father gone, and Mother still mourning not only him but our bleak future…It's up to me to fix things." 

Mary Margaret hugged her warmly, and Emma couldn't help but laugh—a teary, slightly hysterical laugh. "We're really doing this," Mary Margaret declared, her voice filled with something like defiant glee.  

Emma smiled, though her heart was pounding with worry. Yes, we are, she thought, silently hoping she wasn't about to make the biggest—and most dangerous—mistake of her life. 

Two weeks later

Cheapside, London

"Have you seen this?" Elsa stormed, slapping the scandal sheet onto the small, well-worn table in their cramped parlor. The sound cracked through the room like a judge’s gavel, and Emma winced—not from Elsa’s anger, but at the sight of yet another tear in her sister’s faded blue gown. 

"I haven’t had the pleasure of today’s scandal yet," Emma replied casually, popping a tart into her mouth. 

"This is not just gossip, Emma!" Elsa cried, eyes wide with disbelief. "It says—and I quote— ‘Lady Superior has it on good authority that His Grace, the Duke of Hookshire, is engaged to the Honorable Emma Swan of Hertfordshire.’ That’s you!" Her voice wavered in shock.  

Emma's heart skipped. Finally, the bait had been taken.  

Anna, their younger sister, lowered her gothic novel— The Devil’s Elixir , of all things—slowly raising her brow as she glanced between her two elder sisters. “Emma, is there a chance this could be true?” 

Even their mother, who had been quietly positioned by the window, her usual seat of silent contemplation, paused her embroidery. She abandoned her post to sit on the arm of a sagging chair, her icy blue gaze landing on Emma with unsettling intensity. She stretched out her hand for the paper, and Elsa handed it over as if it might burst into flames. 

The weary look in her mother’s eyes was replaced with something far more dangerous: hope. Emma felt it wedge in her throat like an unspoken confession. 

"Is there any truth to this announcement?" 

This was the moment Emma had been dreading. She couldn’t bear to crush the spark in their eyes—but she had come too far now. "Yes, Mama." 

A heavy silence filled the room. Her mother’s gaze narrowed, like she could see through Emma’s carefully layered deception. “I’m astonished,” she said, her voice tight with disbelief. “Why didn’t you mention meeting a duke? Hookshire, of all people! I met him once, years ago, through your father. A charming young man, though he was rumored to have secluded himself after an accident… Why would you hide something so significant? What’s the truth?”   

Emma swallowed, the lie tangling in her throat. "Our communications have been... only letters. I didn’t want to raise false hopes, but we’ve... developed an attachment." Tears pricked her eyes, and for a moment, she almost let the truth spill out.  

Her mother gasped, lifting trembling hands to her mouth. "Could this truly be our salvation?" 

Emma wanted to promise, yes, it was. Even if the promise was built on nothing more than quicksand. 

Elsa raised a skeptical brow. "Honestly, why would a duke choose you, Emma?" 

The jab stung, but she mustered a serene smile. "Why not me? I may not stop hearts with my beauty, but I’m more than presentable. My wit is sharp enough to hold interest, and we are of noble blood, even if Papa was a penniless viscount." 

Elsa tilted her head, her skepticism softening just a shade. "Indeed, anyone would value your qualities." She looked thoughtful. "But what does it mean for us?" 

For the first time in ages, Emma saw a spark of hope in her mother’s eyes. The icy dread in her own stomach began to thaw. 

"It means," Mama declared with a sudden, fierce determination, "we may yet be saved. We’ll have warmth this winter. I won’t have to beg your father’s heir for help. And you," she said to Elsa with a triumphant glint, "won’t have to go back to that dreadful house, scrubbing the floors of your own future."   

Anna, ever the dreamer, clasped her hands together with a gleam in her eyes. "Does this mean I could have a proper debut season?" 

Emma chuckled softly at her sixteen-year-old sister, whose mind had clearly leapt from salvation to grand balls and swooning suitors. "In a couple of years, perhaps," she said indulgently. "An introduction at eighteen would be quite fitting, don't you think?"  

Turning to Elsa, Emma’s voice took on a new resolve. "This season, though, is for you. As His Grace’s fiancée, I’ll have just the connections to introduce you to every eligible suitor worth knowing. You won’t be returning to that dreary house. You’ll be dancing at the finest balls before long."   

At twenty-one, Elsa hadn’t even had a proper debut. When Emma’s own prospects fell apart, Elsa had taken a position as companion to the odious Lady Westergaard. The worst of it, however, was her son Hans—a vile specimen of society whose advances had left Elsa bruised both in body and spirit. The memory of those finger-shaped marks on her sister’s inner thigh still haunted Emma, fueling a fierce, simmering anger. 

Emma had been consumed by rage that night when Elsa confided in her. She had confronted Hans herself, clutching her father’s old pistol. Though he had laughed in her face, Emma had managed to secure Elsa’s release from that house. Hans may have gotten away with his “amusement,” but he hadn’t won the war. No, Elsa deserved better. Anna, too. And Emma would see that they had the lives they deserved—even if she had to sacrifice her own.  

Elsa, still in shock, finally nodded. “But… when will we meet him? The duke, I mean.”   

Emma swallowed a bitter laugh. I pray never . The charade could only last a season before society grew restless with questions—where was the dashing duke, why hadn’t a date been set, and why wasn’t he on her arm, dazzling the ton with his attentions? Emma had only months to secure her sisters’ futures before the deception fell apart.   

She had spent sleepless nights plotting each detail of this delicate illusion. With the last of their coins, she’d buy gowns, shoes, and trinkets that would dazzle the curious elite. Elsa would shine, capturing the attention of suitors, securing a safe and respectable future. As for Emma? She’d slip into obscurity as the “jilted” fiancée, a small price to pay.  

"Sometimes," her mother said softly, her voice trembling with pride and sorrow, "it astonishes me how much you carry for us. You’ve always been so bold, unafraid. I feared this burden might dim your light, but instead, you’ve faced it head-on, carrying what should have been your father’s work. He would be… so proud of you, Emma."  

Emma blinked back tears, swallowing down the thick emotion in her throat. "Thank you, Mama," she whispered. 

They sipped their tea, nibbling on tiny sandwiches filled with nothing but hope and dreams. But the air in the room felt lighter, warmer, as their smiles—small as they were—brightened the space like the first crack of spring sunlight.  

And in that precious moment, the last kernel of doubt within her crumbled.

I won’t fail you.

Two weeks later

Emma was, somehow, officially the fiancée of the Duke of Hookshire—or so the society pages declared. The gossip columns brimmed with rapturous praise, calling her a marvel and a mastermind for winning the elusive duke’s heart. 

Just this morning, a footman arrived, staggering under the weight of invitations—balls, concerts, soirées, and even a rather scandalous house party in Berkeley Square. All addressed to Emma. She, who’d once been lucky to attend the odd tea, now held more social clout than she knew what to do with. 

Emma stared at the dainty pile of invitations in her hands. Oh dear.  

One card was for the Belfrey Tower Marchioness’s grand ball—an event so selective it was practically a legend. She’d never even dreamed of such an invitation, and now it sat on her lap, gleaming with all the promise of her new status. 

The articles were, frankly, absurd. They debated her engagement as if it were some sort of political treaty, deciding whether it was reckless or the most brilliant match of the year. The surge of interest was as overwhelming as it was thrilling. Even Mr. Hopper, their family solicitor, had suggested leasing a townhouse in Mayfair. Mayfair! Emma had almost fainted when he delicately hinted the bill could be forwarded to “the duke’s legal team.” The duke she’d never met.   

Emma was only just beginning to grasp the financial potential her fictitious engagement had unlocked. Though she declined Mr. Hopper’s enthusiastic offer of a Mayfair residence, she spent that night doubling her prayers—partly for forgiveness and partly for guidance in this increasingly ridiculous charade.  

Now, with her plan spiraling far beyond her control, Emma found herself seated opposite Mr. Tom Clark, a solicitor from the prestigious Leroy & Walter’s firm. His business card alone suggested he operated in leagues far above her family’s station, and Emma’s suspicion that something serious was afoot crept in with each uneasy glance he cast around their modest parlor. 

Elsa entered with tea, her gaze darting between Emma and the solemn Mr. Clark, the look in her eyes asking, What on earth is happening? Emma gave her a tiny shrug, as mystified as her sister. Could it be that the Duke of Hookshire had actually heard of her “engagement” and was now about to sue her for fraud? Was she about to be charged for spinning a harmless story into an audacious scheme? 

Once Elsa quietly exited, Emma decided to play it cool. 

"How may I assist you, Mr. Clark?" she asked with a breezy politeness, as though solicitors from elite firms routinely dropped by for tea. 

Mr. Clark gulped, setting his teacup down with an unsteady hand. His awkwardness was oddly reassuring to Emma; at least they were both out of their depth. 

“Miss Swan,” he began, tugging at his cravat. “I, uh, represent the Duke of Hookshire’s legal team.” 

Emma gripped her teacup a little tighter, feeling a chill prickling up her spine. She would have to handle Mr. Clark with the grace of a fencer—swift, precise, and not giving an inch. A hysterical laugh bubbled up, but she forced it down. How had her scheme come this far? 

"Yes?" she asked, her voice steady despite the chaos brewing in her mind. 

“Well, Miss Swan, it has come to our attention that…” He glanced nervously at his notes. “Our client—His Grace—is reportedly... engaged… to you.” 

Emma raised an eyebrow. “Indeed.”  

“The firm has, uh, been asked to inquire discreetly…” Mr. Clark stammered, cheeks pinking, as if he’d just confessed to stealing biscuits. “We were unaware that His Grace had any, er, romantic intentions of the sort.” 

Ah, yes. The team simply wanted to confirm the engagement was genuine—nothing scandalous, just a matter of estates, ledgers, and hearts wrapped in red tape. Naturally. 

Emma wondered why they’d sought her out, rather than asking the duke himself. Surely he hadn’t left his own staff entirely in the dark? 

"Has Killian not shared the joyful news with everyone?" she asked, letting his Christian name roll off her tongue with just enough familiarity to make Mr. Clark shift uneasily in his seat. She smiled serenely, all sugar and silk, though the question was sharp enough to draw blood. “I’m certain he’ll respond to your letters in time. He gave his word."  

Mr. Clark exhaled, visibly relieved. “Mr. Leroy did, indeed, send a letter to His Grace, but we’ve had no reply.”   

“How curious,” Emma mused, tapping her teaspoon on the saucer thoughtfully. “Though perhaps not too surprising. His Grace is rather, ah, preoccupied. Too many affairs, I imagine.” She paused for effect, hoping her invented portrait of the duke as a reluctant pen pal held water. "But how may I assist your office?" 

Mr. Clark’s gaze swept over the sitting room’s worn furnishings, lingering on the threadbare carpet. “It was… no easy task finding you here,” he admitted, his voice tinged with a quiet calculation. “One wouldn’t expect to find the duke’s betrothed residing in Cheapside.” 

Emma’s pulse quickened. “Ah, yes, these lodgings are but temporary,” she said with a serene smile. “My late father’s solicitors are arranging accommodations at His Grace’s request, naturally. Mr. Hooper of Dunn and Robinson is handling it—you must have heard of them?”   

Mr. Clark stiffened. “I have.” 

“They’ve found a splendid townhouse in Mayfair, but Killian”—she let his name linger, enjoying the way it startled Mr. Clark—“insists on only the best. He indulges me dreadfully,” she said, reaching for a biscuit with practiced nonchalance.  

Tom Clark had paled to a rather alarming shade, fidgeting like a man who’d found himself seated on a bed of nettles. "His Grace... sought the services of another firm for this?" His voice was just above a whisper, as though the very idea was unthinkable.  

Ah, there it was—the penny dropping. Their concern wasn’t merely over her engagement, but the cold realization that the Duke of Hookshire hadn’t signed so much as a napkin with their firm. No contracts, no agreements, not even a whiff of marriage settlements.

Drat. Emma frowned thoughtfully, tapping her chin as if weighing some grand decision. “I only recommended that firm because they handled Papa’s affairs. But does your firm think it could assist with finding something more... to His Grace’s standards?” 

Mr. Clark’s eyes gleamed, relief flooding his expression as if he’d been tossed a lifeline. “Absolutely, Miss Swan. Leroy & Walter’s is unmatched in meeting even the highest expectations. By the week’s end, I could arrange a townhouse in Piccadilly or Grosvenor Square for you to view. And we’d be happy to set up lines of credit at the finest shops in London. His Grace will ensure you lack for nothing, and our firm will handle every detail.”   

Credit lines? Heaven help her. This was tumbling out of control. 

Emma’s mind raced. Accepting their offer meant gowns—plenty of gowns. A wardrobe fit for a duchess. Society would never buy her story if she was seen attending balls in last season’s fashions. 

But if she turned down the offer and insisted her father’s firm was handling it, Leroy & Walter’s might grow suspicious—perhaps even alert the duke himself to secure their noble client. 

Best to keep up the charade , she thought. Smiling serenely, she replied, “I find it quite unlikely Killian has truly overlooked your inquiries. I’ll remind him of your efforts.” 

Mr. Clark’s shoulders relaxed with visible relief. Plainly, even the duke’s legal team feared him as if he were a fire-breathing dragon. 

“That would be most welcome, Miss Swan,” he replied, grateful as a man who’d narrowly dodged disaster. 

With that, Mr. Clark unfurled a sleek black leather case—because, naturally, he carried documents like a diplomat about to sign a treaty. Out came papers, a dainty inkwell, and a pen, and soon they were knee-deep in discussions. He asked about drapery preferences (velvet or silk?), furniture styles (regal, but not gaudy?), and whether a modest seven-room townhouse would suit her refined tastes. They even debated the number of servants required to run such an establishment—a duchess, after all, could hardly be caught fluffing her own pillows.   

An hour later, Mr. Clark departed, looking as though he’d just secured peace between warring nations. 

Emma let the faded curtains fall back as his carriage rattled down the street. The web she’d spun was now more intricate than she’d ever imagined, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever find her way out—or if, perhaps, she was just weaving herself into a gilded trap of her own making. 

A few days later, Emma escaped the endless stream of visitors at her new townhouse for a walk in Hyde Park with Ruby. The spring afternoon was cold and gray, matching her unease at how quickly her deception had grown.   

"Are you quite well, Ruby?" Emma asked, noting her friend's thoughtful expression. 

Ruby sighed, her gaze fixed on the damp path beneath her boots. “I’ve much on my mind, and you’ve been less than subtle about your own worries.” 

Emma sighed too. “I never expected this little charade to take on a life of its own. It’s terrifying how quickly it’s spiraled.” 

A wicked grin played at Ruby’s lips, her eyes flashing with mischief. “Oh, but isn’t it just thrilling to be so deliciously bold?” 

Emma chuckled. "Oh, there are moments I quite adore it. Just the other day, I scandalized half of London by daring to ride astride your horse in Hyde Park. I’m sure I’m not the first lady to do so, but the scandal sheets had a field day, and Mama nearly fainted dead away." She laughed, feeling a spark of defiance. “Perhaps I’m a bit of a rogue, catching society’s attention so easily. Let them gossip—it’s the fastest route to a full dance card.” 

“Exactly,” Ruby agreed with a glint in her eye. “Let them talk. Doubt and fear are the enemies of adventure, darling. Embrace the chaos—it’s far more fun than being a ‘proper’ lady.” 

Emma couldn’t help but admire Ruby. With her beauty, famous father, and haunting voice, Ruby could have easily secured a husband if she wanted. She’d even had a single serious proposal—from Victor Whale, the eccentric Earl of Frankenstein—but she’d turned him down without a second thought. 

And why? Because Ruby was Lady Redstar, the beloved masked songstress whose secret identity was known to only a few trusted friends. 

Just then, a shout rang out, and both women turned. A man in a dark tweed coat came bustling toward them, notebook flapping in one hand, briefcase dangling precariously from the other. Instinctively, they moved aside, expecting him to pass, but instead, he stopped right in front of them, a bit out of breath. 

Emma tightened her grip on her parasol, prepared to fend him off if necessary—though with Ruby’s towering footmen nearby, he wasn’t much of a threat. 

The man’s keen brown eyes landed on her, full of curiosity. “The Honourable Emma Swan, I presume?” he asked, catching his breath. 

Emma raised an eyebrow, twirling her parasol as if it were a weapon disguised as an accessory. “And you are?” 

“Sydney Glass, reporter for The Mirror ,” he replied, a sly smile creeping onto his face. “I was hoping you might answer a few questions about your engagement to His Grace, the Duke of Hookshire. Would you spare me a few moments, Miss Swan?” 

There was a gleam in his eyes—a mix of intrigue and ambition—that made it clear he was no ordinary bystander. This was a man who lived for scandal.   

Emma glanced at Ruby, who shot her a look that clearly said: Be daring. Be bold. And of course, be wicked. 

Emma returned Sydney’s smile, her grip on the parasol tightening slightly. “Why, Mr. Glass,” she purred, “I’d be delighted to chat.” 

And so, she did.

Chapter Text

Wexford, Ireland, Blackwater Castle

In the candlelit shadows of his study, Killian Jones, Duke of Hookshire, surveyed Thomas Starkey, his steward and oldest confidant. Starkey’s features were schooled to their usual stoic reserve, but a glint of disbelief slipped through as he spoke. 

"I trust I'm not overstepping, Your Grace, by offering my congratulations on your... nuptials," Starkey ventured cautiously, his words carrying a ripple of astonishment barely masked by his usual composure. 

For a moment, Killian could only blink. The remark hit him as unexpectedly as the time he’d witnessed his younger sister sprinting barefoot through the moors last week, hollering for a reluctant pig to "fly free." And though it hadn’t taken flight, the pig had been recaptured later that day, but he knew better than to tell her so.

The memory tugged a faint smile to his lips, one that must’ve sent a ripple of alarm through the room, if the exchanged glances between his assembled men were any indication. They were likely wondering how his stern features could look even more severe when softened by such an unfamiliar expression. The scars tracing his cheek down to his neck felt taut, as if the old wounds themselves were reluctant to bend. 

Killian’s mask of control rarely cracked. His sister’s spirited adventures once brought him amusement, but now those memories barely stirred anything beyond a vague nostalgia. The emptiness he carried had settled so deeply he could almost believe he wore it as a second skin. He’d once told himself that Alice was enough to fill his life, but even that conviction had worn thin. And so he’d made a decision: Alice would go to England, have her debut, her season—despite her protests. She would despise the balls, the endless suitors, and society’s games, but he wouldn’t let her languish here, on these cold, desolate moors.   

There might be happiness waiting for her out there, even if he couldn't grasp it for himself. 

"Forgive my presumption, Your Grace," Starkey murmured, unnerved by Killian’s silence. 

Killian finished his rum and leaned back, affecting a casual ease. “Nuptials?” he echoed dryly, one eyebrow lifting. “And who, precisely, is my ‘bride’?” 

Starkey’s eyes widened behind his spectacles. “Miss Emma Swan, Your Grace. The news is all over town—” 

“Oh, is it?” Killian interrupted, a vein of sarcasm edging his words. He’d endured gossip before; had been painted as everything from a heartbreaker who shoved lovers off cliffs to a villain who’d earned his scars in violent infamy. He could almost laugh at how inventive the tales grew with each retelling. But this? A fiancée he’d never met? This was a new peak in the town’s creative storytelling. 

The solicitors shifted uneasily, glancing at each other like nervous birds. The tension in their stiff postures was almost amusing; they sat in the expectant terror of men who knew a dinner invitation could be both a rare honor and a torturous ordeal in Killian's world. Declining was unthinkable, yet accepting meant braving his incisive eyes that saw through every half-truth and pretense. 

Killian’s gaze fell over his assembled guests, taking in their tense postures with dark amusement. Had his isolation reduced him to this, surrounded by sycophants? They fawned over him, much like a colony of roaches that thrived in darkness, clinging to him for scraps of power. They were useful, yes, but they clung to him because he was, after all, still a duke. 

The youngest of the bunch, Mr. Clark, who seemed determined to make his mark in the legal world, awkwardly cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I had the... honor of securing a townhouse for Miss Swan after her late father’s solicitor proved lacking. She expressed great satisfaction with the residence on Portman Square.”  

Killian paused mid-sip, momentarily caught off guard. So someone on his payroll had actually met this mysterious fiancée? His usual mask flickered —just a hair’s breadth—a fleeting shift that even the sharpest observer might have missed. 

An odd serenity settled over him—an unfamiliar stillness that seemed almost foreign to his otherwise scattered thoughts. For once, his mind wasn’t consumed by the endless ledgers of profit margins or the angry letters to Parliament that so often occupied him. No, this was... different.  

He let the silence stretch, savoring the absurdity of it all before finally speaking. "Did she?" he murmured, the words rolling off his tongue with deliberate nonchalance. 

The eager young pup, brushing off the pointed glares from his more jaded colleagues, plunged ahead with reckless enthusiasm. “Miss Swan is... well, she’s dazzling, Your Grace. The papers rave about her—clever, charming, a heart of gold. And the whispers of your ‘secret courtship’ have London in an uproar. Frankly, you’re the talk of the town.”  

Killian felt something stir—a rare, unexpected flicker of intrigue piercing his customary apathy. A woman he’d never seen, let alone courted, had woven herself into his legend. Who was she? And what would she gain by attaching herself to his name? 

As he casually swirled the remnants of rum in his crystal glass, absently tracing the puckered scars dissecting his thumb, a smirk ghosted his lips. "This meeting is concluded. I expect your next reports within the month.” 

The solicitors stood, almost tripping over each other to escape. Clark, however, Killian halted with a raised hand. 

“Not you.”

The young man froze, color draining from his face under Killian’s unwavering gaze. "M-me, Your Grace?"  

“Yes.”

As the others discreetly closed the door behind them, Killian leaned back in his chair, fixing his piercing eyes on the young buck like a hawk sizing up a particularly plump rabbit.  

“Tell me, Mr…”

“Tom Clark, Your Grace,” he blurted, as though remembering his own name was an achievement under that stare.  

Killian allowed the silence to stretch, just long enough to let the tension simmer. “You’ve actually met Miss Swan, then?” 

“Yes, Your Grace,” Clark replied, straightening, his voice steadying as he continued. “I arranged her residence and tried to secure her credit at London’s finest establishments—dressmakers, milliners... But she insisted it wasn’t necessary.”  

Killian nodded, his interest piqued. A con artist uninterested in money? Now that was a new twist. She was either a charlatan or diabolically clever.

Who is she, and what game is she playing? 

The lawyer’s voice meandered on, as if each word was a rare jewel he desperately hoped Killian would admire. Some phrases caught like splinters in the corners of his mind, others drifted away into the flickering flames that held his gaze. The jagged scars on his face throbbed—a constant, pulsing reminder of the tempest that had delivered both physical and emotional ruin.  

The ton is enthralled...

All are astounded by your indulgence...

It’s a tale of true love...

A winter wedding...

A duchess at long last...

He almost laughed aloud. The very idea of it was absurd enough to be comical, if only it weren’t so preposterous.  

“I want every paper that has uttered her name sent to me immediately,” Killian commanded, voice edged with cool authority. “And ensure I’m informed of any future mention, without delay.” 

Clark bowed deeply, his face lit by pride. “Consider it done, Your Grace.” 

"Good. Now leave me."  

With a bow, the man departed, a spring in his step. 

The young man left, beaming at his apparent success, but Killian’s thoughts remained elsewhere. Silence descended on the room once more, wrapping around him like a familiar, suffocating cloak. 

He stood, wincing as he gripped his cane, feeling the sharp sting radiating through his spine. The doctors had advised limiting himself to one hour on his feet each day, but he dismissed their warnings. Three hours on his feet was his minimum, a rebellion against his body’s daily betrayal. 

Slowly, he limped through the castle’s grand halls, the familiar scent of polished wood and lemon wax lingered, layered with traces of long-faded perfume from times when the estate had pulsed with life. Memories seemed woven into the very walls, filled with echoes of his family's laughter, his sister’s gleeful shouts as she escaped their older brother’s pursuit. Those days were bright, warm, filled with the camaraderie of a close family.  

But now, the estate was a relic, a solemn space that felt more like a crypt than a home. 

Yet, his sister still needed him. She was out there, and that was reason enough to press on, despite the isolation that wrapped around him. For her, he would fight against the solitude, stepping out of the shadows he had grown accustomed to, even if the effort took every last measure of his strength. 

Each step rattled his bones, his body reminding him of the toll every movement exacted, but Killian refused to call for his manservant or his bath chair. Stubbornness, pride—who knew anymore?

As he descended the grand spiral staircase, the muted thuds of his steps echoed through the silence of rooms long untouched by company. Passing by the drawing room and the ballroom—once lively spaces now covered in dust and shadow—he finally reached his sanctuary: the library. 

This library was no ordinary collection. It was a three-story marvel, filled floor-to-ceiling with books, scrolls, and relics he had gathered from across the globe. The decor radiated richness with deep gold and blue accents, and through six towering windows, the view stretched out over the estate’s expansive greenery, making the land seem less a family home and more a kingdom.  

The room was an eccentric treasure trove, cluttered with relics from his years of travel before the accident. Back then, curiosity had driven him to the farthest corners of the earth, chasing the remnants of lost civilizations and obscure cultures. Every trinket, from miniature sphinxes to elaborate Ming vases, held secrets he’d once been desperate to unravel.  

But since the accident, with his body unwilling to venture far, he’d sent others to pursue these treasures on his behalf. Archaeologists, dealers, and hunters scoured the globe, bringing back pieces as rare and precious as legend. Yet, with each new addition, he felt a strange emptiness. Once, these artifacts would have captivated him for hours, immersing him in long-lost worlds. Now, they merely collected dust, hollow reminders of a passion that had dulled. 

His fingers brushed over his latest acquisition—a jade statue of Kublai Khan, its surface cool with centuries of history. Yet, the thrill he might once have felt was gone, replaced by a new obsession that plagued his thoughts.  

Miss Emma Swan.

Behind the heavy oak doors, his collection stood still, waiting. But today, his mind was elsewhere—on the audacious new presence making waves within his castle.   

“Finally! Out of your meeting at last!” A voice, laced with both irritation and humor, drifted across the room. 

A smile tugged at his lips as he crossed the expanse of the library, winding around tall bookcases that stood like silent guardians. There, sprawled unceremoniously on the plush oriental carpet, was his sister, Alice, in a peach dress already smudged with dirt from one of her usual digs through his relics. 

“Have you been waiting long?”  

“Oh, only two hours,” she quipped, turquoise eyes sparkling with mischief. “But look! A sacramental vessel from the Temple of Seti, isn’t it magnificent? Mr. Nemo has truly outdone himself this time. And there’s a book of hieroglyphs—” She paused mid-ramble, her expression shifting to playful concern as she propped herself up on her elbows. “You look... peculiar. Shall I fetch Dr. -”

He waved her off, amused. “No need. Just... unexpected news.” 

Her brows lifted with curiosity. “Not of the medical variety, then?” 

“Not quite.” 

Relief softened her gaze. “Good news, or bad?” 

“That,” he said, with a glimmer of humor, “depends entirely on your perspective.”  

She rolled her eyes with a groan. “Oh, spare me the philosophy and just tell me!” 

He chuckled, recalling their last playful debate, which had taken place on the loch. “It appears I am betrothed.”  

Alice’s mouth fell open in mock shock as she collapsed back onto a velvet cushion. “Married?! You?” 

“So it would seem,” he replied, still savoring the sheer absurdity of it all. 

Her expression shifted between disbelief and delight. “But how? Should I congratulate you—or extend my sympathies to the poor woman sentenced to endure your eccentricities?” 

He scowled, though her cheeky grin softened the insult. “Charming eccentricities, surely,” she amended with a laugh. “But seriously—how did this happen?”

“As far as I can gather,” he replied, strolling toward a marble statue of Hera, “Miss Emma Swan took it upon herself to announce it. Though I’ve yet to meet her.” 

Alice straightened, her grin vanishing. “A stranger announced her engagement to you? But... why? What on earth would compel someone to—” She cut herself off, her brow furrowing. “Are you... angry?”  

He turned, gazing through the vast windows at the gardens that stretched into misty oblivion. The cold marble against his fingertips grounded him. “Oddly, no,” he murmured, as if testing the words. 

Anger, no—curiosity, yes. 

Outside, the moon was shrouded by clouds, casting a ghostly glow over the gardens below. In the stillness, a familiar silence settled around him, pressing in like an old wound. Yet beneath it, something else simmered. A spark of restlessness, a glimmer of intrigue. 

Who are you, Miss Emma Swan?

Bold, clearly. Daring, without a doubt. No timid young lady would claim his name so brazenly, thrusting herself into the merciless whirlpool of London society. Perhaps she was driven by ambition, or maybe it was something else. Whatever her reasons, she was no shrinking violet.  

Once, Killian had been the jewel of high society—the dashing rapscallion. The daring heartthrob that every woman whispered about, and every gentleman feared. But those days had faded - no longer the reckless heartthrob women swooned over, he had become their cautionary tale — a brooding shadow at the edge of their fantasies. Despite the power he still wielded in the political arena, his influence inked into the most biting editorials of the day, no lady dared seek his favor. Not that he minded. He, too, had given up on romance, his heart a hollow shell, his masculinity no longer the potent force that once set pulses racing. 

But now, impossibly, he had a fiancée. 

A woman who, with one bold announcement, had thrown London into uproar. 

Behind him, the soft rustle of paper indicated Alice’s return to her scrolls. She knew him well enough to sense when his mind was elsewhere, and when it was best to leave him there, undisturbed.   

Yet something in Killian had shifted. The familiar pang of loneliness, as cutting as a honed blade, felt strangely dulled. In its place, something stirred. It wasn’t anger, nor the simmering resentment he often felt toward the world. 

No, this was... anticipation.

A fortnight later, Killian’s desk was buried beneath a fresh wave of scandal sheets and society gossip, courtesy of Mr. Clark’s remarkable efficiency. Spread before him like a banquet of nonsense, five neatly stacked publications awaited his attention: The Mirror, The Mystic Ledger, Fable Frontier, The Enchanted Enquirer , and, perhaps the crown jewel of absurdity, Wishing Well Weekly , a paper that seemed to cater to readers with a taste for gossip as rich and cloying as treacle.  

The publications shared a ravenous appetite for frivolity, each one dedicating columns upon columns to Miss Emma Swan’s every appearance, every statement, and possibly even her every breath, chronicling her life with the fervor of a botanist cataloging rare orchids. 

Killian’s fingers hovered over an article from The Mirror , a piece claiming to feature an interview with Miss Swan herself. His interest piqued—and not without a touch of disbelief—he began to read, his eyebrows climbing higher with each brazen line.

Reporter: "Society has not glimpsed the Duke for many a moon. What insight can you offer on that?" 

Miss Swan: "Oh, the Duke is a great lover of solitude. He values his privacy most highly.” 

Killian paused, imagining the cheek with which she must have delivered this line. Did she accompany it with an arched brow? Perhaps a coy tilt of her lips? The sheer nerve of her words was... impressive.  

Reporter: “Might we expect the Duke in town this season?” 

Miss Swan: “Gracious heavens, no. The Duke much prefers the serene embrace of the countryside. But he writes me the most charming letters.”  

Killian felt a smirk tug at his mouth. Letters? Charming, were they? The only correspondence he’d sent recently was addressed to Parliament—and he doubted the ministers would describe his tone as anything remotely charming. 

Reporter: "And where does the Duke's rural refuge lie?" 

Killian could almost hear her responding laugh. Was it a low, throaty chuckle? A sparkling, coy giggle? 

Miss Swan: “Oh, Mr. Glass, I couldn’t possibly reveal such intimate details. My dearest Killian would never forgive me. His confidence is sacred.” 

He nearly choked. My dearest Killian? Sacred confidence? He pictured the hapless reporter, likely hanging on her every word, utterly captivated as she wove her magnificent web of fiction.  

Reporter: "And what does he write to you?" 

Miss Swan: “The most delightful letters. And poems!”  

Killian’s expression twisted into one of incredulity. Poems? Good heavens, how far did her audacity stretch? He could just see her, batting her lashes in mock humility as she spun her tales, perhaps even blushing for dramatic effect.   

Reporter: "Does the Duke lavish you with gifts?"  

Miss Swan: “Oh, of course! He sends me the most thoughtful and fitting presents for a couple so deeply in love. Books of poetry, eloquent verses—why, he adores me, and I, in turn, adore him.”  

Killian’s grip on the page tightened. Adored her, did he? Showered her with gifts? The gall of her imagination was nearly poetic. 

Reporter: "So, is yours a love match?" 

Miss Swan: "Absolutely! He indulges me shamelessly.”

He snorted aloud. Shameless indulgence , indeed. The vixen seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of cheek. Did she imagine him lying about his study in lovesick raptures, quill in hand, composing odes to her beauty by candlelight?

Reporter: “Will the Duke be returning to the House of Lords soon? His wisdom is lauded, his influence unmatched.”  

Miss Swan: “Oh, we find politics dreadfully dull, Mr. Glass. Our conversations are far more inclined toward matters of the heart.”  

Killian’s chest shook with silent laughter. Politics, dull? He who had delivered more pointed speeches and launched more political volleys than anyone in his position could count was, according to Miss Swan, now engrossed in matters of the heart. It was a concept so foreign, so utterly absurd, that he almost admired her for it. 

With a chuckle, he leaned back, musing over her clever fabrications. She was more than a socialite weaving pretty lies—no, Miss Swan was as sharp as a serpent’s tooth. While society clamored to piece together her tales of romance and mystery, she was playing her own intricate game, a round of chess while everyone else fumbled with checkers. 

With a weary sigh, Killian turned his gaze to the heap of scandal sheets cluttering his desk, each page brimming with the ink-stained absurdities of London society.

The Wishing Well Weekly —a publication as whimsical as it was relentless—rambling on about Miss Emma Swan, the so-called "boldest lady of the season." She had, it seemed, been spotted once again strolling through Hyde Park—alone, save for her lady’s maid, who trailed behind her mistress like a forlorn parasol. With almost gleeful condescension, the writer drew attention to the lack of any personal phaeton or carriage, as though Miss Swan’s crime was one of scandalous vehicular inadequacy. 

The irony of such trivial criticisms wasn’t lost on him. Last week, the papers had made a mockery of her unrestrained laughter, describing it as a social misstep of the highest order. He could practically hear the sound—a bright, unselfconscious echo cutting through the manicured restraint of Hyde Park. 

And then, of course, there had been her boots, worn down and faintly scuffed—a detail blown into full scandal by the gleeful pens of the press. One could almost imagine their next target would be the cut of her petticoat. It was all enough to make him chuckle. 

So, Miss Swan, what exactly is your aim here? 

Curiously, despite all her flair for causing a stir, she hadn’t demanded anything beyond the townhouse his solicitor had secured. No jewel-encrusted trinkets, no extravagant whims. She had made no move to capitalize on her fabricated engagement beyond this modest lodging and had maintained a silence that piqued his curiosity more than any theatrical demand could have. What was her endgame, he wondered? What did she truly want?  

Turning another page, he sifted through the array of clashing perspectives on his alleged fiancée. For some, she was a rebellious marvel, a figure who had sparked waves of admiration and envy with her bold, unconforming spirit. Yet, Lady Superior, one of society’s most biting commentators, had a far less generous view, wielding her quill like a saber to slice through Miss Swan’s reputation with characteristic severity. 

The article began with all the haughty confidence one might expect from the infamous Lady Superior. “We must, with all due solemnity,” she wrote, “declare Miss Swan’s latest exhibition—a spectacle that has seen her return to Hyde Park, astride a horse, no less!” Such audacity, the columnist went on to muse, had not been seen since Lady Ashley Boyd’s notorious escapades a decade ago, “and we all recall how that story ended.” The article dripped with thinly veiled disdain as it posed the question of the Duke’s possible reaction to his supposed fiancée’s scandalous displays. The notion was laughable.   

But not every commentator was so sharp-tongued. Another piece, in marked contrast, framed the exact same incident as a veritable act of rebellion, a bold strike against society’s shackling norms. This writer almost pleaded with the Duke to embrace his “fearless future duchess,” casting her as a rare spirit too vibrant to be confined by petty convention. It amused him to see the growing divide in society: one half swallowing Miss Swan’s outrageous claims as sugar-coated truth, the other waiting hungrily for her downfall, yet both equally mesmerized by her.  

Killian leaned back, considering the peculiar path Miss Swan had carved for herself. Sailing deftly between admiration and scandal, she had become a figure who captivated and unsettled in equal measure, moving through the merciless tides of London society as if born to them. But Killian knew better than to believe this was mere whimsy. No one as cunning as she plunged headlong into the public eye without a scheme. Her performance was too smooth, too calculated.

The question, then, was not if she had a plan—but what it entailed. 

A wry smile tugged at Killian's lips as he reached for the inkwell and quill. With a gentle flourish, he pulled a sheaf of paper from his drawer, preparing for battle. There was only one worthy adversary for his pen today—the woman whose antics had woven themselves into his mind like an uninvited guest with no intentions of leaving.  

Dear Miss Swan…

He paused, his quill hovering above the paper. What could he possibly say? Demand an explanation? Warn her that her little charade had been seen through? He smirked. That would be far too predictable, and predictability bored him to death. 

Damn her for being so perplexing , he thought with a shake of his head. She was a riddle wrapped in silk and scandal, a puzzle that was both infuriating and enticing. And though it seemed absurd, he found himself enjoying the challenge. It was a ridiculous position to be in—spellbound by a woman he'd yet to meet, a woman who had lied to the world about him, no less. 

His heart gave an unwelcome, unbidden lurch, pulling a reluctant sigh from his lips. Curse his curiosity. 

He abandoned the idea of writing to her and instead began a new note, one crafted with a sharper edge.

Mr. Clark,

Secure a phaeton and a matched pair for Miss Swan. Arrange for their stabling and care. Ensure that under no circumstances should Miss Swan be made aware of our discussion. Persuade her to accept these items as befitting the fiancée of a duke. Let it be known that I had no involvement in this arrangement. 

The Duke of Hookshire. 

A self-satisfied smirk crossed his face. The request would no doubt confuse young Clark, but he trusted the man’s discretion. And the phaeton itself? That was a test. Miss Swan had sidestepped every opportunity to profit from her scandalous claims, yet surely no one could resist a properly elegant carriage and a fine pair of horses. If she accepted, then perhaps her motives were less innocent than they seemed. 

Just then, a brisk rap on his study door broke his focus. Without waiting for an invitation, the door burst open, and in skipped his sister, Alice, her face aglow with a mischief he recognized all too well. Cradled fondly in her arms was a small, rosy bundle. 

She had found the pig. 

More remarkably, she seemed to have convinced the cook to let her keep it, an outcome Killian could scarcely believe. In her other hand, she brandished a newspaper like a trophy, her eyes sparkling with triumph. 

“Dear brother, have you seen this delightful little piece?” she asked, stifling a chuckle. She waved the paper before his face. “I do believe I’ve won our wager. Miss Swan is quite the stunner!” 

Killian felt a flicker of surprise at this revelation, one that immediately gave way to an unexpected pang of intrigue. In the recesses of his mind, he’d imagined Miss Swan as a rather plain creature, perhaps even strategically so, an unassuming figure using her charm to capture society’s attention. But now he recalled their recent wager—he had been so certain she would be anything but a beauty. 

“Is she?” he murmured, attempting to sound uninterested, though his curiosity betrayed him. 

“Oh, absolutely,” Alice said, her voice practically brimming with admiration. 

With a resigned sigh, Killian took the paper from Alice’s outstretched hand, and his gaze fell upon a cartoon—a sensational illustration that portrayed a glamorous woman with an extravagant, feathered hat, gloved fingers pressed coyly to her lips. Beside her knelt an exaggerated version of himself, bouquet in hand, love letters spilling from his pockets, gazing up with the air of a hopelessly smitten fool. 

Killian blinked, and then, to his own surprise, a laugh rumbled up, rich and unrestrained. 

Alice’s eyes sparkled with delight. “You laugh !” she gasped, wonder dancing in her voice. 

Killian raised an eyebrow at her, still amused. “Don’t behave as though it’s some grand rarity.” 

“Oh, it is a rare thing,” she countered, grinning. “I daren’t hope for such genuine amusement unless… perhaps you’re intrigued by this ‘enchanting’ creature?” 

“Enchanting?” he repeated with mock indignation. “Perhaps I should’ve kept those scandal sheets to myself.” 

Alice rolled her eyes in an exaggerated fashion. “And yet you didn’t,” she teased. “You kept your little secret hidden, leaving me to puzzle over the truth of it all!” 

Just the previous week, he had been so engrossed in the scandalous columns that he hadn’t noticed Alice entering the room until she was nearly upon him. “Why, Killian, I never took you for one to linger over gossip columns,” she had exclaimed, her voice a perfect imitation of intrigue. “How fascinating that your attention is so sharply focused on every line concerning Miss Swan! Truly, I can hardly wait to meet her myself!” 

He had turned to find her grinning, her expression full of mischief—the kind that always ended in a wager. 

And so, a bet had been made. Was Miss Swan a buxom brunette, in line with his usual tastes? Or was she completely unremarkable, perhaps with a nondescript figure? Petite or voluptuous? He had claimed, with a feigned indifference, that her appearance was irrelevant—her antics alone held society in thrall. Alice, however, was insistent that a woman with such a reputation for boldness must surely have looks and charm to match her spirit. 

Now, as his eyes traveled over the garish cartoon, he tried to discern something—anything—from the exaggerated figure of a petite woman, a veritable explosion of feathers crowning her hat. Not terribly helpful. 

Then, there was the second wager. Would Miss Swan be fair-haired or dark? He had wagered on dark, of course; Alice, her optimism as unshakable as ever, had placed her coin on fair. Naturally, the sketch remained maddeningly ambiguous, offering no hints to solve that particular mystery. 

And then, the final wager: when would Miss Swan announce their supposed wedding date? He had predicted never, of course, while Alice—ever the romantic—had wagered on December, insisting that Miss Swan’s flair for drama wouldn’t allow her to miss the opportunity for a grand holiday wedding. 

“I just finished reading the latest account of your ‘first encounter’ with her,” Alice chirped, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, how I wish I could meet Miss Swan! She must be positively brimming with boldness and wit. I can hardly imagine what deliciously outrageous story will emerge next!” 

Killian grunted, trying—and utterly failing—to suppress the strange intrigue this troublesome stranger had sparked in him. Miss Swan, with her unchecked audacity, seemed to possess an uncanny ability to weave herself into his thoughts, pulling him into a game he hadn’t agreed to play. 

“I’m quite convinced that once you finally meet her, you’ll fall hopelessly in love,” Alice declared, her voice shimmering with all the earnestness of young, naïve optimism. 

Killian allowed a faint smile to tug at his lips, amused by his sister’s certainty. Love? The very idea seemed as foreign to him as the farthest shores of some uncharted land. Romance hadn’t been on his mind in years, locked away with other notions he considered as idle as they were impractical.

And for this curious creature who appeared only in ink-stained columns? Impossible , he assured himself.  

And yet, here he was, indulging her audacious antics, tracking her so-called exploits like some hapless schoolboy enthralled by adventure tales. He’d read through every column, every cleverly embellished story of her spirited declarations and shameless charm. The more brazen her antics, the more captivated he felt. She was a breath of chaotic life cutting through the monotony of his own carefully managed world—a world fortified by books, business, and the cold certainty of solitude.  

In some obscure way, Miss Swan had come to represent the wild spark he had extinguished long ago. She was a magnetic distraction, forcing him to confront the creeping restlessness that had settled over him, pulling him from the quiet refuge he had built to shield himself from life’s entanglements.

Somewhere within him, something dormant stirred—a part of himself he had long considered lost or irrelevant. 

What would you do if I came for you, Miss Swan? he wondered, feeling a challenge spark to life. Would you retreat? Try to disappear? Or would you stand your ground… confront me… compel me to chase you further?  

One thing was certain: before the season ended, he would have his answer.

Chapter Text

A few days later, Killian found himself reclining in the eastern gardens with Alice. Their sanctuary was soon invaded, however, by a duo of figures who rarely ventured into the countryside but who had now descended upon his estate, their curiosity unmistakably piqued by recent gossip. His godmother, the Countess Darling—a woman of impeccable taste and wit, beloved by his late mother and respected by all for her scathing tongue—and his rakish friend Robin Locksley, the Earl of Sherwood, whose mischievous charm was as infamous as his loyalty. 

Killian suspected this wasn’t merely a social visit; they had been drawn here by the swirling rumors of his supposed engagement to a certain Miss Emma Swan—a mystery woman whose name had flooded the scandal sheets. By all appearances, Lady Darling and Robin had materialized unannounced, crossing the threshold of his isolated estate with faces alight with intrigue, like moths drawn to the flame of society’s juiciest tale.

Naturally, they had expected to find him in the drawing room, but Killian had sidestepped tradition, preferring the quiet of his beloved gardens. Here, he found refuge amid a fragrant world of roses, jasmine, and a tangle of forget-me-nots, where he could let go of the façade of indifference and slip into the comfort of memory. This garden, rich with spring blossoms, was a balm, a place where he could indulge fleeting thoughts of family, companionship, and the possibilities he’d long since tucked away—dreams of a wife, children, a future he had convinced himself was a foolish fantasy.

With each breath, the sweetness of the garden stirred memories he rarely allowed himself to revisit—his father’s thunderous laughter, his mother’s gentle songs, the delighted shouts of his brother and sister during their childhood games of hide and seek. This place, once brimming with life, had become a sanctuary for the quiet ache he harbored deep within. 

Lady Darling, as expected, was the first to break the peace.    

"Killian, my dear," she declared, with a tone that suggested she had traversed vast deserts and stormy seas to be here, “the scandalous rumors swirling about you have forced me to brave this…frigid fortress you call home. Now, tell me—is it true you’ve pledged your heart to Miss Emma Swan? I nearly spilled my tea when I heard the tale! The absurdity of it—especially the details of your supposed courtship!”  

Killian raised an eyebrow, a wicked glint sparking in his eyes. “Oh yes, dear godmother, it’s all true. It seems we crossed paths a few months back when her carriage happened to lose a wheel in this godforsaken corner of the land. Naturally, we fell madly in love at first sight.” He paused, letting the absurdity settle. “We spent those hours immersed in profound discussions on art, poetry, and the greater mysteries of life—chief among them being how to repair a wheel with only mud and a rock.”  

Lady Darling gave an exaggerated gasp, her hand flying to her throat as if she were fending off the vapors. Her elaborate, azure turban tilted precariously with the movement, like some rare bird bobbing in distress. “Oh, Killian, how positively splendid! The very moment I heard these scandalous rumors, I simply had to brave the horrors of travel to uncover the truth myself! And you know how I detest the road—with all those dreadful highwaymen lurking around every bend!” 

Killian smirked, amusement sparking in his eyes. He was well aware of his godmother’s exaggerated aversion to any journey longer than a quick trot across town. Yet, despite her perennial complaints, Lady Darling never failed to arrive in full regalia. Today was no exception: her empire-waist gown, draped with a cascade of pearls and jeweled embellishments, made her look every inch the indomitable lady of society. The immense earbobs dangling from her ears sparkled in the light, each one about the size of a small chandelier. She practically dared any highwayman foolish enough to cross her path.

“Thrilled for you, my dear, of course,” she declared, giving him a look of maternal pride, “but why are you here —tucked away from the world—when all of London is buzzing about your engagement?” Her question was posed lightly, wrapped in the feathery tones of polite curiosity, though her keen blue eyes, strikingly similar to his late mother’s, held a genuine concern. “I hadn’t a single inkling you’d ever entertained thoughts of marriage.”  

Killian allowed himself a brief smile, though it was edged with a trace of irony. Once, perhaps a decade ago, the vision of a wife and family had seemed a certainty, a chapter waiting to unfold in his life. Now, however, that vision had faded to something like the weak flicker of a candle at the mercy of a draft. He imagined his godmother must be wondering who, indeed, would line up to wed a duke confined to a chair and bearing the kind of scars both seen and unseen that society found difficult to ignore. 

“Perhaps it’s the allure of title and fortune,” he mused, affecting a tone of mock solemnity, as if the prospect of being courted for his wealth alone was an exhausting inevitability. 

Lady Darling blushed faintly, her expression softening. “I didn’t mean to imply—” 

“Think nothing of it,” he cut in with a wry grin, letting her off the hook with a wave of his hand. 

But despite his dismissal, he saw her gaze shift—just for a fleeting moment. Her eyes flashed to the scarred skin on his cheek and traced his blemishes to where they continued below his neck cloth. Inevitably, her gaze then dropped to his wheeled chair, as though they might somehow hold the answer to his fate. Lady Darling, however, was a seasoned veteran of social decorum. She snapped her gaze back to his face almost instantly, regaining her poise with the flawless grace of the high-born.  

“I only hope,” she ventured gently, her voice layered with an unusual solemnity, “that Miss Swan won’t… reconsider.”  

Ah yes, that particular specter. He had no need to ask what Lady Darling was alluding to. The story of his broken engagement had long since been circulated throughout every drawing room and ballroom of the ton , like a well-worn tale retold for each new debutante season. The Marquess of Shelley's daughter—Lady Milah, beautiful, vivacious, and the toast of society—had been, once upon a time, his intended. But upon seeing him after the accident, her perfect mask of delight had shattered in an instant, replaced by horror.

He could still recall the stricken look in her eyes, her pale hand pressed to her mouth as if the sight of him had been too much to bear. When the doctors confirmed that he would never walk again, nor, in their less-than-discreet language, fulfill certain other “obligations” expected of a husband, she had fled. Dramatically, theatrically, leaving behind a cascade of heartbroken tears as she ran—not unlike the heroine in one of those gothic novels Alice loved so much.

But it hadn’t been Milah’s departure that had wounded him. No, it was the slow and uncomfortable revelation that he hadn’t cared for her as deeply as he’d once believed. Her beauty, her charm, her ease within society—they had been mere distractions from the hollow space within him. In truth, her heartbreak had felt like a faint, distant echo, as though her grief was more for the vanished prospect of a duchess's title than any true affection for him.

Since then, Killian had come to terms with his reality. He had little hope or expectation that a woman would someday look past his scars and his chair, and somehow embrace both him and the limitations that defined his life. Such a woman would be extraordinary indeed, and he wasn’t fool enough to seek out a unicorn in a sea of Thoroughbreds. 

Memories, however, were rarely so compliant. They lay coiled within him, murky and insistent, like fog seeping through a cracked window, blurring the sharp edges of reality. Killian had never been one to flee from the specters of his past; he understood that evading them would only strengthen their grip, feeding them until they claimed his nights as their own. No, he faced his memories head-on, with the resolve of a sailor braving a tempest at sea. His mind had become a forge of sorts, burning through cherished recollections until only charred remnants remained, hollowed out and brittle. It twisted his stomach into a sailor’s knot, but he never flinched. He knew that repression bred darker shadows than any waking memory could. 

In those early years, his mind had been a battlefield where survival and sanity waged a relentless war. He emerged from it all with armor forged from trauma, wearing his scars like a second skin, facing each day’s waking nightmare with a sardonic grin and an ironic quip. Even so, the nights remained merciless. He would often wake drenched in sweat, his heart pounding as if trying to shatter its way free from his chest, his body reliving the searing agony of that night. The fire that had devoured his past haunted his sleep, a merciless replay orchestrated by his own mind.  

This very manor had borne witness to that horror. The east wing—where the fire had claimed his parents, his older brother, and several of their staff—had also stolen the carefree child he had once been. Yet, amidst the flames and fury, he had saved one life. His sister, Alice, then just seven years old. The memory of that night slithered through his mind like a serpent, whispering its bitter reminders: the acrid smoke filling his lungs, the sharp sting of burning flesh, and the desperate blur of motion as he fought through the inferno. With Alice pressed against his chest, he had hurled them both through a window in a last desperate bid for survival. It was raw instinct, an act of sheer willpower and blind determination. 

The doctors called it a miracle that Alice had emerged unscathed, untouched by the flames that had ravaged him, though Killian couldn’t help but feel that fate had played a cruel hand. The heavens had unleashed a torrential downpour only minutes too late, as though some divine hand had chosen to rain down mercy just a breath too late. The irony, cruel and precise, was not lost on him.

Memories of Liam and Alice offered bittersweet reprieves from the darker shadows of his mind. He remembered Liam as the stalwart elder brother who had always seemed larger than life. Even as a child, Liam exuded a sense of purpose and command that drew people to him. Killian could still see the way Liam would ruffle Alice’s hair, calling her “Little Star,” and lifting her onto his shoulders so she could “touch the heavens.” Liam had been their protector, their guide, and their rock, a figure whose strength had seemed unshakeable.

Though Liam was meant to inherit the title of duke, he saw himself more of a military man. The duties of governance, estate management, and navigating the treacherous waters of aristocracy never appealed to him. His heart belonged to the battlefield, to the camaraderie of soldiers, and the rigid discipline of martial life. Thus, when the time came, the title was passed to Killian, the spare. It was a role he had never expected to fill but one that he accepted with the same grim determination that had seen him through the fire. For Killian, the dukedom was not a crown to be worn but a mantle to be borne, a duty owed to his family and those who served them. And so, the spare became the duke, stepping into a life he had neither sought nor desired, yet shouldering its weight with unflinching resolve.

“Tell me, Killian, why on earth are you tucked away in this manor, rather than making the rounds with your so-called betrothed?” came Robin’s voice, pulling him back to the present. His friend leaned against a rose-covered trellis, watching him with a roguish smile that barely masked his curiosity. “I had to abandon the utterly delightful company of an actress—an accomplished one, mind you—just to come and hear this tale.”  

Killian’s gaze shifted subtly to his sister, Alice, who was delicately arranging roses in a porcelain vase nearby, her focus unwavering. Her composed expression didn’t hide the faint amusement in her eyes. Robin’s dramatic accounts of his “accomplished” paramours were beginning to test Killian’s patience, particularly with Alice in earshot. He would have preferred her understanding of “accomplished” remain untainted by Robin’s flair for colorful anecdotes.  

Just then, the butler arrived with a freshly pressed scandal sheet, setting it down with silent precision before retreating with a bow. His quiet exit only underscored the tension—and the entertainment—of the moment.  

Alice chuckled as she fussed with her roses, a knowing sparkle in her gaze. "I daresay Killian has been far too absorbed in reading the latest escapades of his soon-to-be duchess," she teased, casting her brother a mischievous look. "It’s only a matter of time before he realizes that she’s become his newest—and perhaps most prized—addition to his collection of curiosities." She paused, her smile widening. "I, for one, can’t wait to see the moment the dragon within him awakens to claim this peculiar treasure for himself.” 

Robin, momentarily baffled by her poetic flair, gave her a quizzical glance, only to have Alice wink back, delighted by the confusion she had stirred. 

Killian stifled a sigh. Clearly, his sister was in desperate need of a proper introduction to London’s society, with its polish and poise. Her wit was growing far too sharp, her impertinence more than a little unchecked. The ton would either devour her or, he feared, find her all too delightful. And yet, despite his worries, he cherished Alice just as she was—spirited and unaffected by society’s shallow demands. He couldn’t quite stomach the idea of her being “refined” to suit the whims of the social elite.  

Turning to Killian with a frown, Robin’s skeptical gaze was fixed on him. “I must admit, mate, I’m baffled that you’d take an interest in a woman with neither connections nor fortune,” he said, leaning back with a nonchalant yet probing look. “Viscount Swan left them as penniless as a church mouse, and the new heir’s about as useful as a cracked teapot. Not exactly the makings of a duchess.”   

Killian allowed himself a small, enigmatic smirk. Wealth and titles had never been what drew him in, and if Miss Emma Swan’s unconventional spirit had anything to offer, it was intrigue. And how long had it been since he’d allowed himself to feel intrigued by anything—or anyone? He could hardly recall the last time a person, let alone a woman, had stirred such interest in him.  

Robin let out a dramatic sigh, adopting the air of a man put upon by another’s romantic follies. Crossing his legs with a practiced ease, he glanced down at his polished boots, clearly pleased with himself. “I’ll say this much for her—she’s inventive. Original, even. Rumor has it you indulge her whims with remarkable enthusiasm.” He picked up the scandal sheet, his eyes skimming over the latest gossip. “By all that’s holy! Poetry? Serenades? Sunrise rides through the mist? When did you become the very model of a lovelorn Byron?”  

Killian rolled his eyes, but Robin’s words struck a chord, and he snatched the scandal sheet back, his irritation laced with reluctant amusement. The audacity of her claims—these romantic flights of fancy she had attributed to him—was as infuriating as it was fascinating. How dare she paint him as some dashing, poetic knight-errant? And all without his consent, all while keeping herself at an elusive distance. She was a deceitful little minx, indeed.   

Lady Darling, ever the consummate instigator, couldn’t resist pressing the matter further. "Killian, dear," she purred, her voice brimming with carefully feigned innocence, "is it true? Could the impossible be unfolding? Are you truly considering marriage with this... most unconventional of creatures?"  

Killian paused, choosing his words with calculated nonchalance. He had no intention of revealing how Miss Swan’s audacious antics had woven their way into his thoughts. "There’s been a slight... misunderstanding between Miss Swan and myself. When the matter is resolved, I’ll be sure to clarify our... relationship."   

Across from him, Robin looked positively scandalized, nearly toppling from his chair. "Good Lord, man! What on earth does that mean? Are you planning to head to London to 'resolve' this misunderstanding?"   

London. Just the mention of it conjured a bitter taste, the unwelcome reminder of why he’d stayed away for so long. Years ago, a single misstep during a heated debate in the House of Lords had altered the course of his life. In front of an audience of the ton 's most merciless critics, his legs had failed him at a crucial moment. He’d fallen—literally and figuratively—before the Bank of England’s entire assembly, and that collapse had etched itself into his memory with the unforgiving sting of humiliation. Worse than the fall itself were the whispers, the sideways glances, the murmured judgments that coiled around his reputation like an iron chain.

“God above, his scars are ghastly.”

"He’s a cripple..."

"Not the duke he should be."

After that day, he’d retreated to the countryside, determined to escape the ton ’s unblinking eyes. The scandal sheets had already had their fill of his misfortune, and he had no intention of serving himself up as fresh fodder. The townhouses, the drawing rooms filled with fawning debutantes, the tiresome ballroom rituals—they could flutter and simper without him. His interest in the seasonal parade of feigned charms and petty gossip had been snuffed out for good. 

Instead, he’d thrown himself into the quiet, solitary work of recovery. What began as tentative minutes of mobility outside his bath chair eventually stretched into hours, each one a hard-won triumph over the limitations of his body. His influence over parliamentary matters was wielded from afar, carried by trusted allies who echoed his views. He became content—if such a word could be used—to remain ensconced in the quiet sanctuary of his estate.  

And yet… here he was, inexplicably caught in the magnetic pull of a woman he hadn’t even met. Miss Emma Swan. Her brazen audacity, the sheer cleverness of her schemes—it was as if she were a puzzle crafted solely to confound him. It defied logic, truly. Why should a man like him—a duke who had sworn off the charms of society—feel this growing, insistent pull toward a woman so entirely outside the realm of his life? 

Even as he tried to dismiss it, he knew he was being pulled from his self-imposed exile by a spark he couldn’t entirely deny. What might he do when he finally met this notorious schemer? Even he hadn’t the faintest idea. But one thing was certain: it would be anything but a dull encounter.

Emma’s heart practically danced as she watched her sister Elsa glide across the ballroom, looking every bit a queen. Elsa’s smile was warm and mysterious, as though she held some delightful secret, and when she curtsied before Baron Wintermore, it was a vision of pure grace. Rising from her bow, she was effortlessly swept into the baron’s arms. Her emerald gown shimmered beneath the chandeliers, casting light like fireflies, and her silver slippers sparkled with each elegant step. 

The baron himself, a picture of charm, twirled Elsa around with such ease that they seemed like a couple plucked from a fairy tale. To Emma, they were without a doubt the most captivating pair in the room—heads turned, and whispers floated through the crowd. It was already their second dance, and the baron’s attention was fixed firmly on Elsa.  

It was all unfolding just as Emma had hoped. She had carefully placed Elsa in nearly every dazzling event in town over the last few weeks, and now, the gentlemen were practically queuing up to dance with her sister. But there was one small twist in Emma’s plan: while the rogues and gallants flocked to Elsa, their glances had started drifting toward Emma, too. 

At first, she was baffled by the sudden interest, but soon she found it amusing. She noticed how these admirers, drawn to whatever was new and intriguing, tried to win her over with the same tired compliments. With a raised eyebrow and a smile that hinted she was in on a private joke, Emma graciously declined their offers to dance or take a turn around the garden. Let them pursue someone else who cared to play along. 

Her elevated “status” did come with some perks—like the finely appointed carriage, complete with perfectly matched horses, which had been Mr. Clark’s thoughtful touch. Still, her personal ledger held far less charm; the mounting debt to the Duke had reached such an absurd sum that she could hardly think of it without a wry laugh. 

“Elsa and Baron Wintermore are positively enchanting, wouldn’t you say?” murmured Miss Lily Page, a co-conspirator in their little girl’s club, her words floating lightly above the hum of the waltz. 

Lily might not have been one of society’s celebrated beauties, but she had her own quiet charm. Dark waves framed a face more intriguing than any painting, with rich, mahogany eyes—deep, unreadable, and holding plenty of secrets. She had once dreamed of love with a young baronet, only to watch him marry an heiress with a yearly fortune and a smile as icy as her wealth. Society had been slow to forgive Lily for the scandal of being jilted—a stain that clung to her reputation.  

“Imagine if he proposed tonight,” whispered Ruby as she joined them, holding a glass of punch and brimming with mischief. “I’d say he’s already halfway there.”  

“We can only hope Elsa keeps him dangling until there’s a ring on her finger—or even better, until the marriage certificate is signed,” Lily replied with mock despair, though there was a glimmer of an old wound behind her playful tone. “Affection shown too soon can be a dangerous thing. Wouldn’t want her to… overplay her hand.” She took a dainty sip of champagne, casting a knowing look toward the dance floor.  

Ruby leaned in, clearly pleased. “Emma, I must say, your plan is unfolding brilliantly. They’re quite the pair, don’t you think?”  

“And let’s not forget the best part—our dear baron brings in ten thousand a year and has two estates,” Mary Margaret chimed in, hurrying over with flushed cheeks that could have been from excitement… or something more. Her lips looked ever-so-slightly swollen.   

Had she been kissed? 

Ruby’s eyes sparkled. “That terrace stroll looked positively thrilling,” she teased, her voice full of sly curiosity. “Tell us, Mary Margaret, have you finally gone a little wicked?”  

“Wicked? Me? Never,” Mary Margaret protested, though her smile—and the way she adjusted a lock of her dark hair—suggested otherwise.   

While Emma had shared her bold matchmaking scheme with her closest friends, Mary Margaret kept her own romances a mystery, only dropping the faintest hints about her flirtations with London’s very own ‘Prince Charming’. She promised to reveal more once she was sure of her own intentions, keeping her friends on edge like a seasoned card player, showing only enough of her hand to keep them guessing.   

It had only been a few weeks since Emma had stepped into the role of "Emma Swan, the mysterious and supposedly betrothed fiancée" of a reclusive duke, unseen in London for years. At first, the charade had felt thrilling, almost like a private joke—but now it was teetering on the edge of disaster. The gossip columns were practically feral, dissecting her every move and eager to plaster her name—and that of the phantom duke—all over their front pages.  

Surely, it was only a matter of time before the duke himself—whoever he was—caught wind of her scheme. The thought of his reaction sent a chill down her spine. But if Baron Wintermore were to propose, maybe she could wrap up this nerve-racking act with her dignity (mostly) intact. 

“Miss Page, may I have the pleasure of the next dance?” the baron asked, his voice as smooth as velvet. 

Lily’s eyes went wide with surprise; it had been two full seasons since a gentleman had asked her to dance. Her lips trembled with the beginnings of a smile. “I would be delighted, Lord Wintermore.”   

With a grace that masked her surprise, Lily curtsied and let herself be swept onto the dance floor. Emma’s heart warmed—if she hadn’t been sure the baron was a good match for Elsa before, his kindness toward Lily sealed it.   

Elsa turned to Emma, cheeks flushed and eyes shining with excitement. “Oh, Emma, isn’t he the most charming, kind-hearted gentleman?”   

Emma matched her sister’s glowing smile. “He does seem rather delightful.” 

“Oh, sister, I love him. I’m absolutely certain,” Elsa declared, clasping her hands as though trying to keep her excitement contained.

Emma gave her a teasing smile. “Do tread carefully—you’ve only just met, and while he seems quite taken, there’s no declaration yet.”  

Elsa’s gaze drifted off dreamily. “But when two souls connect, does it matter if it’s been two weeks or two lifetimes? He’s everything I could wish for! His manners are impeccable, he loves poetry as much as I do… Emma, I just know he’s going to propose.”  

Before Emma could respond, a booming voice cut through the room’s gentle hum.  

“The Duke of Hookshire!” 

Emma’s stomach plummeted, ice trickling down her spine. 

For a dizzying moment, the ballroom spun, her corset squeezing tighter, and the air grew cold and sharp, draining every bit of warmth as dread wrapped itself around her like a vice.

It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over her, and for one wild moment, Emma wished someone would slap her—just to snap her out of this looming nightmare. But no such relief came.

The murmurs spread like wildfire through the ballroom, swelling into a wave of shock that eventually crashed into stunned silence. The announcement settled over the room, holding everyone in a breathless pause. 

Killian Jones, the Duke of Hookshire, had arrived at the ball.  

A heartbeat passed. Then another. The air felt thick and heavy, as if the very walls were holding their breath, waiting to see what would happen next.  

I’m going to faint.

Emma’s thoughts raced. For weeks, she’d carefully pieced together every scrap of information on the elusive duke, counting on his reputation as a mysterious recluse to shield her from discovery. The papers described him as a man who avoided society, one who loathed scandal and had withdrawn after a tragic accident. He was, by all accounts, someone so remote that the idea of him suddenly materializing at a social gathering seemed absurd—impossible, even. 

So why was he here?

The threat of a scandal—the sort from which there was no return—loomed dark and heavy. Emma’s daring charade, so carefully crafted, now teetered on the edge of disaster, ready to unravel in front of everyone. Her stomach churned with dread, twisting tighter with each passing second. She’d risked everything: her family’s name, her own reputation, and, worst of all, Elsa’s chance at happiness—all for the sake of this reckless deception.  

There could only be one reason for his sudden appearance: to expose her, to publicly deny her claim, and leave her reputation in ruins.  

Her legs practically screamed for her to run, to escape the ballroom as if the devil himself were in pursuit. But she forced herself to stand tall. If she was going to face this, she’d do it with every ounce of grace she had left. Running was for cowards and people who hadn’t wrapped themselves up in such an intricate web of lies.   

And then, as if pulled from her very nightmares, the man in question appeared on the landing. His entrance was as dramatic as a thunderclap. A wave of astonishment rippled through the crowd, sparking gasps and hushed whispers that seemed to ricochet across the room.   

"Is it truly him?"

“No one has laid eyes on him in seven years!” 

“What could possibly make her want to marry a man like that?”   

“His fortune, of course! What else?”  

He was seated in a wheelchair. 

And his face…

She struggled to breathe as her eyes fixed on the smooth, ivory mask covering half his face—a mask so beautifully crafted it seemed almost like a haunting piece of art. It was eerie and compelling all at once, a presence that drew every eye in the room, even though he hadn’t spoken a word.  

This couldn’t be the duke. And yet, somehow, it was. His broad shoulders moved with effortless strength as he turned the wheels of his chair, his gaze steady and purposeful as he reached the top of the staircase.  

Emma’s fingers went numb, and her champagne flute slipped from her grasp, shattering on the floor in a sound that cut through the stunned silence like a knife. The echo filled the ballroom, and as if in response, the crowd parted, giving her an unbroken line of sight to the man who now held her fate. Her friends moved closer, their faces carefully composed but betraying flashes of worry. They understood all too well that the delicate threads of her scheme were dangling on the brink of disaster.  

Fans fluttered as onlookers tried to conceal their murmurs behind polite expressions. 

“Look at her! She’s gone pale as a ghost.” 

“Oh dear, why is she so shocked to see her own fiancé?” 

“Well, can you blame her? Just look at him!”  

The weight of it all crashed over her like a tidal wave. How? Every piece of information she’d gathered had assured her he’d never show his face in society again. He was supposed to be a ghost—a mysterious, untouchable figure who’d withdrawn completely from public life.

Until now.

“Emma, you must confront him,” Ruby whispered, her tone urgent and unyielding. “If you don’t, it will be an absolute disaster. You can’t run now. The scandal would be insurmountable.”  

Dread settled around her throat, making it nearly impossible to breathe. Her legs—weak and traitorous—staggered forward before faltering. How on earth was she supposed to face him, let alone explain this ridiculous charade? But no choice remained. His sharp gaze swept the room, focusing on no one in particular yet taking in everything, as though he were the ruler of this glittering world—and she the fool who had unwittingly pulled him out of hiding and into the searing light of society’s attention.  

Why now? Why, after years of seclusion, had he decided to emerge at this precise moment?   

Her mind raced, desperately grasping for answers as reality closed in. She had been so sure, so confident, that her daring ruse would fade into obscurity long before he took notice, let alone cared. But no. Somehow, she had succeeded in pulling him from his remote lair, and with him came the reckoning she hadn’t anticipated. 

Dear God, what am I to do?

Gathering her courage like a queen donning armor, Emma took a deep, steadying breath, her spine straightening with resolve. There was no turning back now; the only path forward was directly into the lion’s den. She would confront him—this man, this Duke, this impending disaster—without letting a trace of her inner turmoil betray her. This was a man who, with a single word, could have her branded a fraud and tossed into a cold, damp cell faster than anyone could say “scandal.” The threat of ruin, not only for herself but for her sisters, hung in the air as heavily as the crystal chandelier above.  

Around her, the throng of curious onlookers seemed immobilized, captivated by the magnetic pull of the masked figure at the top of the stairs. Each of Emma’s steps felt precarious, her legs like jelly masquerading as bone. She wove through the crowd, her passage leaving a wake of whispers that rippled outward like well-aimed arrows. At the base of the grand staircase, she finally met his gaze: piercing blue eyes that locked onto her as if he were a hawk, and she, the unfortunate prey.  

She ascended, each step a defiant victory over her screaming instincts to turn and run. His manservant, one hand resting on the wheeled chair, seemed as taken aback by her bold approach as the rest of the audience. At the top of the landing, she was unmistakably in the center of the ton’s watchful curiosity. If this were a play, she stood center stage, painfully aware that she had not rehearsed her lines.  

His eyes, sharp and glittering behind the elegant porcelain mask, held her captive. The silence between them was thick, like the air before a summer storm, yet Emma managed a graceful curtsy, not a single tremor showing as she dipped her head.  

“Your Grace,” she began, her voice miraculously steady despite the churning storm of panic beneath her composure. “What an unexpected delight. I must say, I am quite pleased.”   

A glimmer of surprise flickered across his face, followed by a spark of curiosity—and, perhaps, the barest hint of admiration. Her words hung between them like a challenge, igniting a ripple of excited murmurs that traveled swiftly through the crowd. 

Please, don’t disavow me here, not in front of Lady Belfrey’s guests , she thought, a silent prayer that sharpened her focus as she carefully chose her next words. She needed her words to be as precise as a tightrope walker’s steps. 

“Shall we take a stroll in the gardens?” she suggested, her tone soft, just enticing enough to draw him into a more private setting where perhaps, with any luck, her fabrications could be finessed and managed.   

His gaze lingered, sliding from her face down to her décolletage in a way that felt both possessive and maddeningly deliberate. The effect was like a cool breeze trailing along her spine—simultaneously exhilarating and unnerving. A surge of nervous anticipation knotted in her stomach, willing him to break the tension, to say something that would give her some sense of his intentions. 

He radiated power—arrogance encased in brocade—and she felt adrift in his presence, desperate to keep herself afloat. Wild ideas of escape flitted through her mind, each more ridiculous than the last. Could she fake a fainting spell? Manufacture an urgent need to leave? Claim a “ladies’ emergency” and bolt?  

The silence stretched on, unbearably taut, every breath between them palpable. Finally, he spoke, his voice slicing through the tension with ruthless precision. 

“Miss Emma Swan, I presume?”

The sound of her name on his lips sent a jolt through her, a shock that was equal parts fear and thrill. She managed to nod, though her mind scrambled to calculate her next move. She had risked everything on this gamble, and now, at last, the Duke himself had entered the game.

Chapter Text

Beneath his seemingly casual tone was an unmistakable challenge, and woven into that, a warning. A warning she could neither dismiss nor fully process without her stomach doing nervous flips.  

Before Emma could come up with even a half-clever response (or any answer that wouldn’t lead straight to disaster), Lady Belfrey’s commanding clap signaled the orchestra to begin a waltz. The music swelled, and couples moved to the floor, eager to flaunt their practiced steps and momentarily distracted from the drama on the staircase. It seemed few things could steal the attention of high society like the opportunity to show off their waltzing skills. 

Lady Belfrey then appeared beside them, her face aglow with triumph barely concealed behind a mask of sugary politeness. She dropped into an exaggerated curtsy, practically bowing, her voice sweet as syrup. “Your Grace, what an unexpected delight,” she purred, her smile stretching just a touch too wide. Her eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of a hostess who had just ensnared the season’s most sought-after guest. “I’ve sent word to my husband. He’ll join us shortly.” 

Her gaze faltered slightly as she took in the duke’s face and then, with barely disguised discomfort, his wheelchair. For once, even Lady Belfrey seemed unsure of how to carry on smoothly—her fingers twitching, as if wondering whether to politely acknowledge the chair or pretend not to notice it at all. 

Meanwhile, Emma’s mind was spinning with one escape plan after another: run home, pack immediately, vanish before sunrise. Each idea seemed infinitely smarter than standing here, waiting for the duke to unveil whatever terrible truth he’d uncovered. She was certain he’d come fully prepared, and as his gaze caught hers once more, she felt her options shrinking by the second. 

As if he could sense her inner turmoil, the duke’s voice cut through her thoughts, smooth and mocking. “I shall have a word with Belfrey,” he said, dismissing the marchioness with a tone that left no room for objection, “but first, I must speak with my… beloved .”

Emma froze.

Oh, no. He knew.

He’d seen every last, mortifying line in the gossip columns. 

Lady Belfrey gave a quick curtsy and disappeared, likely thrilled to be just a spectator to the evening’s unfolding drama. Emma, however, felt anything but thrilled.  

“If I’m not mistaken,” the duke continued, dark amusement coloring his tone, “Belfrey has a small drawing room down this hall. It should give us the privacy we need, Miss Swan.”  

Privacy. Away from the crowd, her friends, and, most worryingly, her escape routes? Absolutely not. 

But under his unwavering gaze, her usual quick wit seemed to desert her. She saw his lips curve in a faint smirk—he’d noticed her hesitation and was enjoying every moment of it. Emma narrowed her eyes. How infuriatingly perceptive he was.  

“Of course, Your Grace. Lead the way,” she managed, injecting as much confidence into her voice as she could muster.   

He veered toward the hallway, and Emma, with some reluctance, followed, all too aware of the curious eyes that trailed her. As her supposed fiancé, the duke could escort her off for a private discussion without raising too many eyebrows. But if he thought she’d simply let herself be cornered, he’d badly misjudged. She mentally marked every potential exit they passed, vowing to keep at least one door cracked open. 

The duke’s manservant, who clearly anticipated his every move, maneuvered the wheelchair with practiced ease, speaking to his master in Greek as they moved down the corridor. Each quiet word only heightened Emma’s surreal sense of the moment, and her heart pounded louder with every step.

What was she doing, following him like a lamb to the slaughter? And speaking of slaughter—was this where he planned to verbally dismantle her? 

“I believe this is the drawing room,” the duke remarked, his tone too casual, as they stopped in front of a modest door. 

With a nod, his manservant opened it, revealing a cozy study shrouded in warm shadows, where a fire crackled low in the hearth. For an instant, the room’s inviting glow bolstered her spirits, but the comfort was short-lived. The duke murmured something to his manservant, who bowed and then, as if by magic, produced a silver-handled cane.   

Emma’s eyes widened as the duke took the cane, rising from his chair with an air of indifference. 

Oh . He could walk.

And walk he did—tall and commanding, with a confidence that suggested the cane was more an accessory than a necessity. His posture was flawless, his steps deliberate. As he approached, Emma found herself almost helplessly drawn to his face—his mouth, in particular, was distractingly well-formed, with lips that held a hint of softness, entirely at odds with his stern demeanor. His dark trousers were expertly tailored, and his waistcoat—a rich, deep red—popped against his black jacket and perfectly knotted cravat.

The so-called reclusive, “frail” duke radiated an understated strength that unsettled her far more than she cared to admit.    

Curiosity burned in her throat: How had he come to be in that chair in the first place? But she pushed it down. She had more pressing concerns—like avoiding her own social annihilation.

He gestured for her to enter first, and Emma stepped into the room, trying to project a calm she didn’t feel. The quiet snick of the door closing felt ominous, like a lock sealing shut. 

She turned quickly, determined to keep at least a sliver of control. “I believe, Your Grace,” she said, her words a little too quick, “that the door should remain slightly ajar—for propriety’s sake.”  

One eyebrow arched as he studied her, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes, entirely too unsettling. 

“Should it?” he replied in a lazy drawl, as though he found some private joke in her request. 

Her rehearsed arguments fell away. “Yes, of course.” 

His gaze held hers, a silent duel for control sparking between them. There was a glint of challenge there—perhaps even a touch of mockery—that made her wonder if he wasn’t enjoying her unease a bit too much. “I assumed,” he said smoothly, his tone deceptively light, “that you wouldn’t want our conversation overheard by the ton .”   

Every instinct screamed at her to brace herself. He stood there, upright and utterly composed, his cane held firmly like a scepter, his calm both daunting and unyielding. Emma felt her confidence slipping, her bravado cracking. 

Then he spoke again, his voice low and cutting, each word deliberate. “How do you dare?”    

The question sliced through the air, scattering her composure. She felt a chill down her spine, but she forced herself not to—she couldn’t —back down now. Straightening, she gathered what dignity she had left, wearing it like armor.  

“I was desperate and foolish,” she admitted, her voice strained yet steady. 

The duke tilted his head, studying her like a rare specimen he’d found by accident. His gaze was far too piercing, too perceptive, and it made her wish she could melt right into the floor. 

“And why, Miss Swan,” he asked, his voice softening to a dangerous murmur, “are you pretending to be my fiancée?”  

Every instinct screamed at her to spin a tale, to conjure up an elegant excuse that might appease him, but the weight of her deception pressed down, leaving no room for escape. His gaze remained fixed on her, sharp as a hawk’s, and she forced herself to stand firm. “Your Grace, I am truly mortified by my intrusion into your life,” she replied, her voice steady, though her heart was anything but calm. 

A flicker of a smile played at his lips, so brief she wondered if she’d imagined it. 

“I highly doubt,” he drawled, amusement lacing every syllable, “that a woman as resourceful as you is ever truly mortified.”

Emma took a steadying breath, readying herself to explain the reckless, tangled plan that had led her here. “It was… a miscalculation,” she said carefully, choosing her words. “I crafted a scheme that, in hindsight, caught your name far more tightly than I intended. My aim was simple: to protect my mother and sisters from ruin. I hoped to secure for them a modest life, with only the appearance of means. I vow to repay you every penny spent on the townhouse, the carriages, the gowns—all of it,” she added, cheeks warming under his scrutiny. “Once my family is settled, I’ll take work as a governess, and with budgeting, I imagine I could repay it all in… perhaps a decade.”    

The absurdity of it lingered in the air. A full decade to repay her debt, as if that were reasonable. And then, to her surprise, he smiled. Not the cold, cutting smile she’d braced herself for, nor the mocking smirk she’d half-expected, but a smile of genuine amusement. 

Why was he smiling? Had she truly been outwitted by a man who had taken leave of his senses? 

"You… you're not furious?" she ventured, her composure slipping. 

The duke’s brow arched in mild amusement, as if even the idea of anger was a matter for his personal inspection. “No,” he replied, that single syllable lingering, as if it held some private jest.

His eyes— those eyes, the color of stormy seas, sharp and unreadable—held her firmly, while the firelight cast shadows across his face, giving him an almost mythic quality, more creature of legend than man. Every movement radiated quiet authority, the ease of a man who knew his own influence and was entirely comfortable with it.  

But who was this man? 

“May I ask why, Your Grace?” she managed, her last threads of poise unraveling. 

He leaned closer, his gaze gleaming with unsettling amusement. “Would you prefer that I be vexed with you, Miss Swan?”    

“Certainly not,” she replied, flustered by his calm. “It’s just… I’d envisioned every possible reaction you might have, and none of them—not one—has turned out quite like this. I confess, Your Grace, I’m entirely at a loss to understand your reaction.”  

A new smile curved his lips, slow and deliberate, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that this was all some twisted game to him. His composure, his lack of fury—none of it made sense. For all she knew, he could be suppressing something entirely undignified... flatulence, perhaps. She’d heard stories of gentlemen infamous for such restraint—or lack thereof—in a lady’s presence.

The thought brought an embarrassed flush to her cheeks, and her inner musings must have shown, for his gaze grew more intent.

“Care to share your thoughts, Miss Swan?” he asked, that wicked gleam in his gaze intensifying. 

“No,” she stammered, the warmth in her cheeks refusing to cool, even as she turned away. She moved to the hearth, seeking a moment to collect herself, words spilling out far faster than she intended. “I fear I’ve already squandered whatever goodwill you might have had toward me—though I doubt I’d have drawn much interest, even if we’d met under more… traditional circumstances.”  

Splendid . She was babbling. Under his watchful gaze, she felt less like the capable woman she knew herself to be and more like a blushing debutante fumbling with her fan. Determined to regain some control, she lifted her chin and glanced past his shoulder, only to find the half-mask he wore thoroughly unsettling. Don't be a goose, she scolded herself, before locking eyes with him once more. His gaze was a shade too intense, shadowed by the flickering firelight.  

Emma couldn’t help but wonder how the duke positioned himself so precisely within the fire’s somber glow, casting his features in sharp relief, as if he and the shadows were old friends. Perhaps he found solace in darkness, an ally that both concealed and revealed him at will. 

Realizing she was drifting into speculative nonsense, she cleared her throat, clinging to composure. “Might I ask, Your Grace, what exactly you plan to do about… this predicament?”

One of his brows arched in mild amusement. “Considering the unusual circumstances, I think a touch of informality might be in order. Please, Emma—call me Killian.”  

Killian . The name took root in her mind, unsettlingly intimate, like a familiar melody she hadn’t realized she knew. This wasn’t just a name; it was a subtle invitation into the dangerous domain of his world, as if he were asking her to exchange masks. Was he genuinely offering a closer connection, or was this simply another part of his game?  

Determined not to let him unsettle her, she tried to sound composed. “You seem rather… quiet, Your Grace,” she ventured, hoping for a calm tone but feeling more impatient than poised.

He chuckled, his voice a smooth warmth, edged with just enough sharpness to throw her off balance. “I find observation immensely satisfying,” he replied, his lips quirking into an infuriatingly knowing smile. 

“Observation of what , exactly?” she asked, feeling her grasp on the conversation slipping.

A pause followed, thick with meaning. For someone who supposedly avoided social interactions, he appeared entirely at ease, even entertained by her confusion. Either isolation had robbed him of conversational finesse, or—far more likely—he was thoroughly enjoying himself.    

“Observation of what, Your Grace?” she repeated, her patience fraying. 

His gaze fixed on her, unyielding. “You, Miss Swan. You are quite fascinating to observe,” he said, each word as smooth as it was deliberate. “I’ve followed your… accomplishments in society with interest.” 

Her heart skipped, a flash of unease running through her. “My… accomplishments?” 

“The columns, the society pages. They seem to worship your every move, as if you were a goddess striding among mortals,” he continued, his voice low and almost conspiratorial, as though divulging a well-guarded secret. “They liken your laughter to a nightingale’s song, your smile to sunlight breaking through the grayest of skies. And your charm—a swan gliding effortlessly across the water, serene and graceful, with a storm just beneath. Fitting, wouldn’t you say, Swan ?” 

Reporters had hounded her relentlessly, hungry for every scrap of rumor about her supposed engagement to the reclusive duke. No wonder they’d taken liberties, fabricating tales of his “lavish praise.” But now, the idea that he might have actually read those absurd stories filled her with dread. Did he think she was some desperate romantic, eagerly latching onto a few courteous words and turning them into grand gestures? Did he assume she’d woven this whole elaborate lie just for the thrill of seeing herself called “charming” in a gossip column? 

A blush unfurled up her neck, igniting her cheeks as mortification bloomed within her. Spectacular , she thought, precisely what I needed—to be tangled in the snare of my own ridiculous charade.  

"I spent my journey here pondering just what kind of woman Emma Swan might be," the duke drawled, his voice cool and slick as polished marble. "I imagined you in many guises. A wily charlatan, perhaps, borrowing my name as a clever tool of convenience? Or a jewel thief, maybe, slipping into grand estates under the tidy pretense of my reputation? Or simply a bored socialite, poking at trouble for her own amusement." He leaned closer, his tone darkening, words steeped in velvet menace. "Naturally, I also considered the most efficient way to... dispose of you." 

Emma’s heart lurched. Dispose of her?  

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but 'dispose' feels a bit…sinister, don’t you think?” she managed, her wry smile a fragile shield against his chilly words. 

But he didn’t even blink. The visible half of his face, veiled in shadow beneath that unsettling mask, remained maddeningly impassive. So, humor is lost on him, she thought, annoyance prickling despite herself. 

Just a hint of reassurance would be enough. One word, Duke , she silently implored. Yet he merely examined her like some relic in a forgotten museum—curious and faintly amusing, yes, but certainly not worth addressing. The muted laughter and champagne-laden revelry drifting from the ballroom seemed to mock her, a spectator to her precarious balancing act.  

Mustering every ounce of composure, she lifted her chin, refusing to let him see her flinch. "I never intended any harm, Your Grace," she said, each word measured, unwavering. "I borrowed your influence as nothing more than a brief favor. Had I known it would reach your ears, I wouldn’t have dared. I hope you can trust in my sincerity."    

He took a deliberate step toward her, and instinctively, she retreated, feeling herself swallowed by the shadows he cast. The mask’s dark lines sharpened the gleam in his eyes, making his expression unreadable—yet disconcertingly intense. 

“Does that justify your audacity, Swan?” he asked, the bare use of her last name—stripped of any polite prefix—sounded like both a reprimand and an invitation. An invitation to what, exactly, she didn’t dare guess. 

The chill in his tone crept down her spine, leaving a shiver she wished she could ignore. But, to her vexation, it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant sensation. Quite the opposite, in fact—it rattled her to realize how keenly she felt the thunder of her heartbeat, the sudden warmth flooding her senses, making the air feel almost stifling. Focus , she urged herself, wrestling her thoughts back into line before they could stray any further. 

“Certainly not,” she replied, doing her best to keep her voice steady. “But perhaps it might soften your opinion of me, even just long enough for me to attempt to set things right.” 

The duke’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile that sent her pulse racing and did nothing to calm her nerves. Quite the opposite—it confirmed her suspicion that the duke was an unusual man, far more complex than she’d initially thought. 

Seeking a bit of distance and perhaps some courage, she moved toward the sturdy oak desk, lighting a small candle. Its flame flickered to life, casting a faint glow that, for a moment, reassured her. But when she turned back to him, the candle seemed to only deepen the shadows around him, and there he was, half-hidden in the dim light, smirking beneath that mask. He was enjoying this. Of course he was.    

Gathering herself, Emma took a deep breath, her voice coming out far steadier than she felt. “A scandal would destroy my family. Please, Your Grace,” she said, unable to hide the urgency in her tone, “I trust in your sense of honor not to let this situation become a torment. So tell me—how do we go forward?”  

Inside, her thoughts raced with dread and the smallest flicker of hope. If he exposed her, whispered a word of her deception, then poor Elsa was as good as ruined. The baron, with all his talk of Elsa’s virtue, would vanish, and as for Emma herself? She could already picture the scandal and disgrace, or worse—being branded as mad and shut away somewhere, all hope of helping her family gone.  

The duke tilted his head, the movement so calculated it sent a chill down her spine. The smirk deepened, and his voice softened, rich with amusement. “You presume me honorable without knowing the first thing about my character? How wonderfully trusting, Miss Swan. Or is it flattery, hoping to sway me in your favor?” His tone dropped, silky with mockery. “You are indeed an intriguing puzzle.”  

That undercurrent was back—that unsettling hint of amusement that left her far more off-balance than outright anger would have. His gaze held an intensity she couldn’t quite read, something both unsettling and oddly… inviting, as though he were quietly pulling her into his confidence without saying a word. What was he after? If he were bent on revenge, he could have publicly humiliated her, or handled this with swift, legal vengeance. Instead, he had come all this way, closing the space between them as if she were the only thing worth his attention.  

The realization made her heart pound, a mix of dread and something far more confusing. Could he possibly find her audacity… intriguing? 

Her pulse quickened as the thought landed, caught somewhere between anxiety and a spark of anticipation. 

“May I ask, Your Grace,” she began, keeping her voice steady despite her racing thoughts, “what exactly do you plan to do?” 

The silence that followed seemed to grow heavier with each beat. She could almost feel her pulse thrumming in her ears as she waited, practically willing him to break the silence. Just say something , she pleaded internally. 

Finally, with a ghost of a smile, he said, “I think I shall do… nothing.” 

The tension broke as a nervous laugh escaped her, half-formed and just as quickly cut short. She slipped off a glove and pressed her hand to her forehead, struggling to ground herself. It all felt surreal, as though she were standing on a precipice with no solid ground in sight. Maybe clarity is overrated , she thought wryly.   

“Are you quite well, Miss Swan?” His tone was crisp, his use of her surname slicing through her composure, as if he enjoyed watching her reaction. 

“Oh, well,” she replied, voice a bit shaky as she tried to regain her footing, “I was caught in the rain yesterday and woke with a mild fever, so it’s entirely possible that this is all just some fever dream.” 

The Duke cocked his head, eyeing her like some strange specimen under a magnifying glass. His gaze was sharp, almost predatory, and a small smile played at his lips. “You are quite the curiosity, Miss Swan. I like that.” 

The word “curiosity” hung between them, thick with meaning. This was starting to feel less like a conversation and more like one of those strange dreams that left you wondering what was real. His warmth, his intensity—it all set her on edge, a far cry from the propriety she was used to. What on earth was happening here? Any sensible person would have made a quick exit. Yet here she was, riveted, feeling the inexplicable urge to understand this mysterious man—and to navigate this whole encounter without any social fallout.  

“Why do you wear a mask?” she blurted out before she could stop herself, curiosity momentarily overpowering her caution. “The ton loves nothing more than a mystery, and you, Your Grace, are providing quite the spectacle.” 

He froze, utterly still, and the sudden silence was so intense she wondered if he’d even taken a breath. 

“My face is scarred,” he said at last, his voice flat and precise, as though he were recounting a dull fact. 

Oddly enough, there had been no mention of this in any of the scandal sheets she’d combed through. For once, it seemed that the gossip mongers had missed something truly personal. She felt an unexpected rush of relief—it was a rare mercy in her world of whispered scandals and hushed revelations.  

“Show me,” she murmured, the words spilling out before she could think better of them. A boldness she didn’t quite understand was taking over, a curiosity she couldn’t contain. She lifted her chin, steady and unflinching, daring him to push her away. In for a penny, in for a pound , she thought, feeling her heart beat just a bit faster.

A low chuckle escaped him. “Not only are you unusual, Miss Swan, but astonishingly audacious.” His eyes gleamed with dark amusement, a spark that seemed to edge on mischief. “Tell me, is this part of some grand plan of yours?”  

She took a steadying breath, unnerved by his knack for twisting her words into riddles she couldn’t quite solve. 

With a single step, he seemed to close the distance between them, shrinking the room until the very air felt dense and charged. How did he manage that? she wondered. Was it just the weight of his presence, or did he carry some peculiar magic along with that cane?  

“I only wish to see the face behind the mask,” she said, keeping her voice calm even as her heart raced. “It’s disorienting to speak to someone so… obscured. No hidden motives, I assure you.” 

He touched two fingers to his chest, tapping lightly in a steady rhythm, his gaze sharpening with a look that felt like judgment. “How terribly disappointing,” he replied with a sigh, as if she’d somehow failed some unspoken test. 

Disappointing? She’d summoned every bit of courage she had to ask him something so brazen, and that was his response? Oh, the nerve!  

Still, she held her ground, feeling swept up in his strange, magnetic energy. He was all sharp edges and hidden meanings, every look and word a riddle she couldn’t crack. She hated to admit it, but he intimidated her—not just because of his title, the mask, or his unnerving wit, but because he wielded all three so naturally, leaving her to keep up or be left behind. 

But showing weakness was simply not an option. Her mother’s voice rang in her head, a lifelong lesson in restraint: Composure, Emma. Never appear witless or vulnerable before men like him. And yet, why should she care what this infuriating duke thought of her? 

“Your Grace seems quite determined to uncover some grand scheme behind my simple request,” she said, tilting her head with a look of mock innocence, daring him to challenge her. “I’d hate to disappoint such intense curiosity. Tell me—are you truly the Duke of Hookshire, or some exceedingly clever imposter here to beguile me?” 

His grin widened, making her pulse race in rebellious defiance. 

“Is that really the best you’ve got?” he asked, shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh of disappointment. “Do you honestly think I could be anyone but Hookshire?” He gestured to himself, the mask, the very air around him, as if his identity was as unmistakable as his confidence. 

She met his gaze, unflinching. “Yes, I do believe you’re the Duke,” she replied finally. For all his theatrics, only the real Duke of Hookshire could have seen through her deception so thoroughly.  

“And why do you think I bothered to come all this way to find you?” he asked, his voice dropping into a tone as sharp as it was unsettling. 

“Am I truly the only reason for your presence, Your Grace?” she managed, a slight tremor breaking through her usually steady tone. 

“Indeed.” His voice softened, his words like a confession meant only for her. 

Dear God. That single word, and the intense look in his eyes, made her feel as if he were laying her bare, seeing right through her defenses. She swallowed, struggling to keep her voice steady. “I… I can’t quite understand, Your Grace. You haven’t shown anger, and I can’t seem to grasp your true purpose here. If only I knew your intentions…”  

His fingers tightened around the silver head of his cane, the movement subtle but commanding. “Miss Swan,” he said, his voice low and unyielding, “do you really think that idle gossip—those endless whispers of my name, hollow and relentless—would draw me here, across the sea from Ireland? Do you imagine I left my estate, left my solitude, just to hear more pretense from your lips?”    

Her heart hammered in response, and she fought to keep her face neutral. His half-smile was maddening, just a hint of something darker, like a doorway into secrets she couldn’t begin to understand. He was impossible to read, and that made him all the more dangerous.  

She met his gaze, her mouth dry and her stomach twisting with nerves. The entire situation felt like a game she didn’t quite understand—a high-stakes one where the rules, and even the pieces, were a mystery. But whatever game the duke was playing, he was no storm raging aimlessly. He was something more intense—a storm with its focus entirely on her.

“You’re different, Miss Swan,” he said, his voice softening in a way that surprised her. “In the quiet of my chambers, thoughts of meeting you have kept me restless. At first, I wondered if you’d bewitched me somehow, if isolation had made me vulnerable, prone to… fascination. But isn’t everyone drawn to the unusual, the vibrant? You’re a splash of color in a grey world, a breath of fresh air in the stifling sameness. Bold, bright, and entirely captivating among the mundane.” His words were so unexpectedly sincere that they left her reeling, catching a glimpse of something within him she hadn’t anticipated. 

What was he saying? His words were like warmth crawling up her spine, quickening her pulse. She swallowed, her throat suddenly tight. “Your Grace…” 

His confession had struck her harder than any scolding. Her reckless plan, her daring deception—somehow, it had stirred something real in him. And now, hearing him call her bold, bright… it left her breathless, her composure hanging by a thread. Whatever game they’d been playing, he was no longer pretending. He wanted something genuine, and that realization made her heart race. 

"What is it you require of me?” she managed, her voice tense but steady, torn between frustration and a strange, undeniable pull toward him. 

“Honesty, Miss Swan,” he said, his words low and almost like a promise, rich with both warmth and an underlying edge. “Let that be the ground we stand on, moving forward.”  

Honesty. The word itself felt daunting, spinning in her mind. Could she truly offer him that, after all her lies and pretenses? She took a breath, steadying herself as she held his gaze. “Your words suggest… that you see something lasting between us, Your Grace,” she whispered, trying to keep her voice level. “I doubt it’s realistic, but—” She paused, her heart thudding. “I vow to be honest from here on out.”  

It was the very least he deserved after how she’d used his name so shamelessly. 

Behind the mask, his ice-blue eyes sparkled with a sharpness that seemed to cut right through her. For just a flicker of a moment, she thought she saw something unguarded—a glimmer of vulnerability, like a candle flame caught in a draft. But then it vanished, his lashes lowering as he regained his composure. When he looked back up, his expression was cool and unreadable.    

“Tell me,” he asked softly, his voice smooth but with an edge, “why do you want to see the face behind the mask?” 

Emma’s hands tightened reflexively. He’d asked for honesty, and she would give it—even if it meant stepping out into uncertain territory. “Maybe,” she began, voice laced with a subtle provocation, “I want to see the face of the man who stirs such troublesome impulses within me.”   

A shadow of a smile played at the corners of his mouth, his head tilting slightly as if to acknowledge her boldness. “Oh?” he replied, his eyes flashing with a sharp glint of amusement.  

Their eyes locked, and she felt a shiver of thrill, like the first crack of thunder before a storm. In that charged moment, an understanding sparked between them, something undeniable and exhilarating: he enjoyed her defiance, just as much as she enjoyed challenging him. 

“My heart races, my palms feel clammy, and I have a thousand reckless thoughts spinning in my mind,” she admitted, her voice steady despite the thundering of her pulse. “And yet, I feel more alive right now than I have in years. It’s like reaching the next chapter of a story you don’t want to end.” She smiled, almost to herself. “A strange blend of fear… and excitement.”  

His gaze softened, a glimmer of delight in his eyes as he breathed out a single word, “Ahh.” It lingered in the air, smooth as velvet and leaving her pulse thrumming with a dangerous kind of wonder.   

In his quiet exhale, there was something victorious, as if he were savoring a win she’d unknowingly handed him. Almost without thinking, Emma leaned in, her voice softening to a near whisper. “Your Grace… let me see your face.”  

When had she crossed this line? At what point had she shed the layers of decorum she’d so carefully cultivated? Her mother’s warnings about restraint felt worlds away. Honesty , she reminded herself—it was both her excuse and her defense, though her curiosity felt ready to break free like an untamed thing. 

Silence filled the space between them, thick with tension, almost humming with unspoken possibilities. His satisfaction was clear in the subtle curve of his lips, the glint in his eyes. She half-expected him to draw this moment out, to keep her waiting. Yet, as the fire crackled, he moved. In a single, smooth motion, he lifted his hand and removed the mask. 

The unveiling was quick but monumental, and Emma felt her breath catch as she took in his face, unmasked and entirely exposed. Her pulse raced, each beat louder in the silence as she stared at him fully—no longer hidden, but still impossibly magnetic.  

The contorted skin on his face held a morbid elegance, an almost grotesque allure, contrasting with the striking beauty of the man himself. Her breath quivered on her lips, settling into the silence of the room like a ghostly whisper. Across his left cheek, down to his jawline, and tracing his neck, a brutal network of scars wove a tale of violence and resilience. Emma marveled at how a man who radiated such authority and poise bore these fierce reminders of past suffering. The contradiction was magnetic—a raw imperfection that only amplified his stark, masculine allure. 

Without the mask veiling his features, the sharp, defiant carve of his cheekbones hinted at power barely leashed, while his lips, once soft and sensual, now held a chilling, ruthless edge. And his eyes—now free of the mask's shadow—gleamed with a dark sapphire brilliance, radiating an intelligence that was both sharp and unnervingly perceptive. The unscarred side of his face was disconcertingly smooth and dusted with dark stubble, untouched by the slightest crease of laughter or frown. As if he drifted through life untouched, his heart a fortress guarded, every emotion meticulously concealed from the world.  

As he took a slow, deliberate step closer, Emma held her ground, determined not to flinch under his steady gaze. There was a calm intensity about him, like the hush before a storm, and she felt an undeniable pull, her curiosity sparking to life. Between them stretched an invisible thread, taut and unbreakable, binding them in a way she couldn’t yet explain.  

In that charged silence, she made a brief mental note to tally up the champagne she’d had—clearly, not enough to account for the warmth rising in her cheeks or the strange, undeniable pull that seemed to draw her closer to this man. 

His gaze swept over her, cool and detached. “The last time I attended a ball without my mask,” he began, his voice low and smooth, “at least nine ladies fainted. Their gasps of horror still echo in my ears.”   

Emma raised an eyebrow, mildly intrigued. How had that little scandal managed to escape her notice? She shrugged, letting a hint of playfulness slip into her tone. “That must have been some years ago, then.”   

“Seven years if I recall correctly.” 

“I’ve yet to meet anyone with quite that level of… delicate sensibilities.” 

At that, his gaze sharpened, an intensity in his eyes that sent a ripple of warmth down her spine. “Tell me, Miss Swan,” he murmured, his voice as soft as it was challenging, “are you not frightened?” 

Emma held his gaze, her own steady, despite the racing of her pulse. “I would make for a poor excuse of a lady if I were frightened by someone simply because they’d faced misfortune,” she replied carefully, letting each word settle between them. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

For a long, tense moment, he held her gaze, the silence between them stretched tight. His eyes seemed to look through her, searching for something deeper than her words, perhaps answers even she didn’t have. The corners of his mouth, once set in a firm line of control, now revealed faint grooves, betraying a discomfort he was clearly trying to mask. He’s in pain, she realized, noting how he shifted his weight, leaning more heavily on his cane without surrendering an ounce of his authority.

It dawned on her that beneath his pride was a fierce resilience, a fire life had tried to smother but couldn’t. The thought made her heart race with a warmth that had nothing to do with the heat of the room and everything to do with the man standing before her. Perhaps a life of safe, quiet restraint would be easier—but here, matching wits with him, she couldn’t imagine feeling more alive.  

Then he gripped his cane tighter, his knuckles white as he seemed to brace himself against some invisible weight. He took a step forward, and she caught a barely noticeable falter—a stumble so small it would’ve escaped most, but not her. Instinctively, she reached out.

He moved at once, brushing her hand away with an icy precision, though she was quicker, her fingers catching his arm. “Your Grace!” she exclaimed, her voice betraying her own heartbeat, fierce and unwavering.  

His eyes narrowed, turning glacial as he stared down at her, an unspoken command freezing the air between them. He stood as rigid as steel, pride battling pain as though even leaning on her, for the briefest moment, would be too much to bear. 

Slowly, she let him go, though she kept her stance steady, unwilling to back down. If he thought a harsh look would make her retreat, he was sorely mistaken. 

Emma saw the strain in his face, the pride that held him upright despite the pain in those fierce blue eyes. Beneath that guarded exterior, she glimpsed something raw and vulnerable—a locked room within him, long buried and forgotten. Her chest tightened, surprised by the intensity of her empathy. He carried more than just scars; he bore a weight most men would crumble under.  

And yet, he stood there—defiant, unyielding. Captivating.  

Finally, he extended a hand, and, though she wasn’t sure why, she let him take hers.  

“Forgive me, Swan,” he murmured, his voice unexpectedly soft, with an edge of something unguarded. “I’m not accustomed to anyone touching me… other than Alice.”  

Alice? Her heart twisted unexpectedly, the word lingering, sharp. She swallowed, unable to name why the idea of his lover felt like such a blow.  

His thumb traced a slow, lingering line along her wrist, sending a shiver through her. “My sister.” 

Her breath released in a whoosh. “I… I didn’t wonder at it.” 

“Liar,” he whispered, his lips curving with amused delight. “Your eyes give you away, Swan. They’re like an open book—and an entertaining one, at that. It’s a wonder you’ve managed to deceive anyone at all.”  

He leaned in, and before Emma could collect her thoughts, his lips brushed hers with the gentlest touch, like a secret shared. The edges of the world seemed to soften, fading into nothing as warmth spread through her, and her breath caught at the surprising softness of his kiss, her senses heightened as he lightly grazed her bottom lip, drawing her to respond.   

“You really are quite the innocent,” he murmured against her lips, his voice low and velvet-smooth, as if savoring the discovery. 

Emma stumbled back, blinking, her heart racing. “Why did you kiss me?” 

The question hovered between them, though part of her already knew the answer—one she wasn’t ready to acknowledge. There was something undeniably exhilarating about how he unsettled her, stirring up a curiosity she’d long kept tucked away, hidden under layers of common sense and her father’s endless praise of her “good judgment.” Yet here she was, heart pounding, reason slipping, caught up by a man who defied all logic.  

“You are my betrothed,” he replied at last, with a touch of humor, as if he found the entire situation a delightful bit of theater.  

Dear Lord . There was a sly edge to his words, something worldly and playfully wicked, but underneath, she sensed a seriousness that left her breathless. His gaze held hers, intense and unrelenting, and she could feel her pulse quicken under it. “You seem… unsettled. And perhaps you should be. But I do hope you’ll give me a chance to make amends.”  

"I'm hardly unsettled. As I mentioned, you invite close examination, and I find myself quite… intrigued by this supposed engagement.”

Intrigued? What an understatement. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought. "Are you saying you'll let me play the role of your fiancée?"  

His eyes gleamed, betraying a trace of amusement she couldn't quite read. It seemed unlikely a man of his standing would entertain such a scheme. What could he possibly gain from such a charade?   

"Why?" she demanded, suspicion edging her voice. "I’ll not be kept as your mistress,” she added, coolly defiant. She’d heard that proposition enough times before; it stung—the presumption that a woman without fortune or title would entertain such indignities. “If that’s why you kissed me—”   

His gaze sharpened, irritation flashing briefly as he cut her off, his voice like ice, chilling her with its finality. "You needn't worry about seduction. You can set that notion aside. I have no... physical interest in you, nor will I ever.”   

The bluntness of his response hit her like a splash of ice water. “But… you kissed me,” she stammered, struggling to find words. 

He cut her off again, this time with a statement so stark it left her reeling. "I am impotent, Miss Swan. Seduction will never be a concern between us.” 

His admission landed like a thrown gauntlet. The tension thickened, the finality in his words clashing with the spark of frustration that flickered in his gaze before his usual guarded expression reasserted itself.   

“I... I am dreadfully sorry,” she managed, the words falling inadequately short. Impotent? Seduction? Clearly, she was missing some crucial piece of the puzzle, but she dared not show her confusion. He was a living contradiction—aloof yet commanding, with a presence that was both magnetic and unrelenting. Whatever limits his body might know, his authority and control were unshakable.

“If this is not about affection,” she said at last, gathering her resolve, “then let’s dispense with riddles. What is it, exactly, that you want from me?” 

His smile unfurled slowly, deliberately, and with a charm that was, quite honestly, disarming. “Perhaps,” he said lightly, “we shall be friends.”  

“Friends?” she echoed, a little taken aback.  

“Aye,” he nodded, as if suggesting something entirely ordinary. 

Emma’s skepticism sharpened her tone. “Surely you didn’t come all this way simply to propose… friendship?” She could sense there was more beneath the surface; he wasn’t the sort to waste effort on idle pursuits. There were layers to his motives—depths she was still trying to discern.  

His gaze settled on her, sharp and gleaming. “Perhaps kissing friends,” he suggested, his eyes dancing with amusement even as his voice remained perfectly controlled.

A rush of warmth flooded her cheeks, a mixture of surprise and fascination. Kissing friends? The notion was absurd, and yet it brought a thrill that buzzed beneath her skin. She, of all people, tangled up in such a scandalous suggestion? She could hardly believe it, and yet here they were, standing at the edge of something improper and, undeniably, exciting. 

“No more kissing,” she whispered, though her voice wavered, betraying her own uncertainty. “Not unless you plan to follow through with this engagement, Your Grace. I am, after all, a respectable lady.”   

The words slipped out before she could consider them, but his playful expression instantly cooled, replaced by a look far more reserved. His lips pressed into a thin, humorless line. 

“Never that, Miss Swan,” he replied quietly, the edge in his tone unmistakable. “I will never marry.”

Chapter Text

Miss Swan’s almond-shaped eyes, with that hint of green, held a quiet allure, each glance a subtle invitation that was hard to resist.

“Never?” she echoed, her voice soft and curious, as her gaze lingered on him with a feathery lightness, drifting to places polite society might deem off-limits. “You’ll never marry?”   

“Correct,” Killian replied, his intrigue sharpening. “And I’d prefer not to discuss it again.”  

Her eyes widened, framed with artless charm, as she regarded him with a mix of innocence and curiosity. Draped in a gown of deep blue silk that clung to her like a whispered promise, she stood petite and captivating. The soft rose sash around her narrow waist highlighted the grace of her figure, while the gown’s neckline, adorned with tiny pearls, drew his eye to her collarbone and shoulders, a gaze he disciplined himself not to let wander further.   

But it was her face that captured him most completely. High cheekbones, a fine, straight nose, and golden curls that framed her skin in a way poets might struggle to describe. Her full lips, caught under her teeth as she gave them a thoughtful nibble, added a sweetness to her expression, a faint overbite lending her an endearing, unstudied appeal.  

Yes , Killian thought, struck by her presence. Miss Swan was, without a doubt, the most captivating woman he had ever encountered. 

He hadn’t overstated his curiosity about her, nor the pull that had brought him to London. Each mention of Miss Swan in the scandal sheets had been like a siren’s call, irresistible and laced with the kind of intrigue he rarely felt. The audacity of it all—of her very presence using his name in whispers, setting off a thrill he hadn’t anticipated—was both maddening and exhilarating.   

And now, standing face-to-face with her, he realized meeting her hadn’t satisfied his curiosity—it had only intensified it. What had been a spark of interest had become a blaze of fascination, each thought more persistent than the last. It was as if Pandora’s box had been opened, letting loose a wild surge of intrigue in his chest. Utterly absurd. And absolutely irresistible.   

Miss Swan was more than he’d anticipated, her layers revealing themselves in ways that defied expectation. To think, she had never been kissed before tonight—no young rake, no roguish charmer had laid claim to her lips. If anyone had tried, they had failed marvelously. There was an innocence to her, untouched by London’s usual mix of schemers and opportunists.   

She moved with a natural grace, punctuated by a charming wit. She’d tried to keep the tone light more than once during their conversation, though the delicate pulse at her neck hinted at her nerves. Still, she stood her ground. Few women had the resolve to face his scarred face without flinching or a fainting couch at the ready.  

But what surprised him most? He had expected someone skilled in deception, perhaps even a master of it—a woman with as many masks as a stage actress. Instead, Miss Swan’s sweetness and softness were startlingly genuine, not part of any cunning act. And when vulnerability flashed in her eyes before she looked down? That, he found, was the most intriguing layer of all.   

He couldn’t help but admire her courage—the audacity it must have taken to pose as his fiancée, a bold move that spoke volumes about her determination. She was gentle, yes, but beneath that softness was a spine of steel. The pride and flicker of self-reproach he saw as she held onto her deception showed him something rare: a woman who, for the sake of her family, would not hesitate to take up such a bold ruse again if needed.  

Though his posture remained as composed as ever, her presence stirred something in him—a mystery he felt compelled to unravel. She was an enigma, a riddle cloaked in quiet confidence, and each glance, every subtle shift in her expression only stoked his curiosity further. And beneath that curiosity lay an unfamiliar urge: a desire to claim her, a fierce longing that seemed to bypass all reason.  

Foolish, of course. What could he offer her beyond a title? Certainly not the pleasures of the flesh. The thought of her carrying his child, her skin flushed with the glow of fulfillment, was a dream he could never realize. No, what he offered would only lead to the same cold isolation that had been his closest companion—and, in time, it would trap her as well. 

Her gaze flicked back to him, settling on his scarred face with a steady resolve, no trace of hesitation. She raised her chin, a delicate act of bravery that tugged at something deep within him. “I believe it’s time I returned to the ballroom, Your Grace,” she said, her voice composed but holding a quiet strength. 

“Then go,” he murmured, though his eyes lingered on her a beat too long, daring her to stay.  

She closed her eyes briefly, gathering her resolve, and then, with a graceful curtsy, whispered, “I bid you good evening…Killian.” 

Ah , his name on her lips. Gentle, hesitant, but laced with a warmth that stirred something unexpected and deeply unsettling within him. That soft utterance—so personal, so unguarded—marked a boundary crossed, and there would be no turning back. 

“I imagine I’ll enjoy our arrangement quite a bit, Miss Swan,” he said, his voice edged with a knowing charm. “Expect me at Portman Square tomorrow, by noon. I trust my welcome will be suitably… cordial.”  

She stilled, her hand gripping the back of a chair as if the ground had shifted beneath her. “Your Grace, I—”  

“We shall discuss the terms of our engagement then,” he concluded smoothly, a glint in his eye that left no room for objections. 

Miss Swan’s gaze flickered between agitation and disbelief, her reply swallowed up by her surprise. 

Ever the gentleman—or at least a man who knew how to play the role—Killian lifted her hand and placed a polite kiss on her gloved knuckles. It was a pity, he thought, that his lips met only silk and not her skin. Turning on his heel, he moved to the door, where his servant and the bath chair were waiting. He eased himself down, a silent breath of relief escaping as he welcomed the reprieve.  

The journey to London had been punishing, days of jolting carriages and hours in the saddle, every mile increasing his discomfort in ways he refused to admit aloud. The inns along the way offered little comfort, reminding him that even sleep could be a cruel adversary. Pain, it seemed, had decided to travel alongside him. 

“To the carriage, Your Grace?” Smee, his attentive manservant, asked gently, recognizing his master’s need for a quiet end to the night.  

“Aye,” Killian replied, already plotting how he could avoid as much company as possible until tomorrow. He’d have a note sent to Belfrey at first light—a reunion long overdue. Though they’d once been close friends, Killian’s self-imposed exile to Ireland had left many things unsaid between them.   

But Smee, whose curiosity was seldom subtle, couldn’t resist. “Did the meeting go as planned, Your Grace?”  

Killian clenched his jaw. Naturally, his staff would be on tenterhooks for any juicy detail, practically licking their lips at the idea of scandal. They’d been downright improper in their eagerness as he packed, and he’d even caught the butler in the servants’ hall reading aloud from the scandal sheets, as if narrating some epic romance. Every servant had gathered, hanging on each exaggerated tale as though he were the protagonist of the season’s most thrilling plot.   

Curse them , he thought, though he couldn’t quite keep a smile from twitching at the corner of his mouth. 

“It went better than expected,” he allowed, recognizing that their nosiness was largely his own fault. Over the years, he’d let such familiarity run unchecked, and his household had become as lively and dramatic as a theater troupe. 

Smee looked almost triumphant. “Very well, Your Grace,” he replied, a little too pleased. 

As his chair moved smoothly down the hall, Killian felt Miss Swan’s eyes on his back, sharp and questioning. He had no idea why he felt this relentless pull toward her, like a rogue wave that refused to release him. It was lunacy, plain and simple. She could never be his mistress, nor his duchess. Even the notion of “friendship” was a desperate attempt to hold onto some sense of control, to quiet the wild, new emotions she’d stirred in him. 

No doubt he’d rattled her, thrown her off balance with his bold insistence. She was likely just as baffled as he was. 

That makes two of us, Swan…

The next morning, Emma sat by the window of their townhouse, her posture calm and poised even as her thoughts churned. From her perch, she could see the small garden below—a pocket of order in the middle of her chaotic plans. Draped in a rose-colored armchair, which now felt almost taunting in its luxury, she opened the notebook on her lap. Its inked numbers stared back at her, cold and condemning: the staggering debt she owed the Duke of Hookshire. 

Nearly a thousand pounds. An impossible sum, as distant as the moon itself. 

After meticulous budgeting, relying on the modest wage of a governess, she had managed to calculate that she could gather about half—if she could manage for several tight, exhausting years. With a sharp sigh, she shut the notebook. How foolish she had been to follow that silver-tongued solicitor’s “advice” to lease an elegant townhouse, furnish it richly, and hire unnecessary staff. She’d thought turning down such grand gestures would raise suspicion. Yet even after the fortune she’d poured into this pretense, the duke had still found her. 

And somehow, with calm, unnerving confidence, he’d declared they were to be—friends? The idea was absurd, preposterous… and strangely enticing. Befriending the Duke of Hookshire felt as dangerous as it did alluring, but it held a spark of possibility. Connections, power, influence—all bound up in one intriguing figure. Could this alliance, unlikely as it was, help her family, secure her sisters’ futures?

Desperate as she was, it seemed like a risk worth considering.

And she was nothing if not willing to take a gamble.

Which explained why she felt so frayed, despite her calm exterior, and why she hadn’t slept a wink since the night of the ball. By now, the rumor mill was likely working overtime, with society’s finest weaving together the juiciest bits: the Duke of Hookshire, back in town after years away, paying a visit to her of all people? Mischief was brewing, and she felt its hum in the air as surely as she felt the sunlight spilling through the windows.   

Her mother had spirited Anna away for a genteel picnic, while Elsa had gone off for a ride with the baron, her maid trailing dutifully as chaperone. Meanwhile, Emma had orchestrated the Duke’s visit with the precision of a general, keeping the event discreet for fear her family would turn the day into a full production of excitement and fuss. Keeping it quiet hadn’t been easy, especially after Elsa, sworn to secrecy, had all but floated at the sight of the Duke at the ball. Still, by the time her family returned, Emma expected the whispers would have spread faster than a scandal in a drawing room.   

She had carefully postponed any introduction of her family to the Duke until she felt more in control of this odd arrangement he’d suggested. Friends , he had called them. Friends! The term lingered in her mind with a note of wry disbelief. Kissing friends? The very idea made her cheeks prickle. As if she were some naive debutante, easily dazzled by a strong jawline and a few charming words. No, she wasn’t about to be swept off her feet so easily—or so she told herself. Yet the memory of his kiss still slipped into her mind, unwanted and unsettling.   

She scowled, lips pressed into a firm line. Her plan had been bold, a little reckless even, but she was determined that his involvement didn’t entitle him to carte blanche over her life or her dignity. No liberties would be taken here, she vowed. The Duke of Hookshire might have charmed half of London’s high society, but here, in her home, there would be rules— her rules.  

In preparation for his visit, Emma had orchestrated every detail with care. She chose her most flattering day gown, its fabric draping elegantly, like a soft whisper. Her hair, coiled and pinned to understated perfection, would have made any Parisian stylist jealous. The drawing room had been aired until it felt as fresh as the garden beyond, and vases of roses and tulips stood watch like floral sentries, each petal in flawless order. The finest tea was procured, the cakes arranged with near-military precision. 

When the butler finally announced, “His Grace, the Duke of Hookshire,” Emma felt a quiet surge of both relief and satisfaction. 

She rose with practiced ease, revealing nothing of the quickened pulse beneath her calm demeanor, as he entered—a portrait of impeccable style. No cane or wheeled chair this time, and every detail of his attire flawless: black breeches, polished knee-high boots, a dark blue jacket tailored so precisely it seemed like an extension of him, and a cravat tied with such mastery it might have solved riddles on its own.

Their eyes met, a quiet but charged connection across the room. In the light streaming through the windows, his scars were more visible—each one a mark of untold stories, battles won and lost. Her curiosity itched to ask about them, about what had left him so marked. But she held back; it was far too soon to breach those walls, and any question now would be unforgivably forward.    

He carried a presence that filled the room, not just with authority but with a hint of mischief, like a cat deciding whether to toy with the mouse before it. Yes, he was every bit as imposing as she’d remembered—broad-shouldered and sure of himself—but was there, just for an instant, a glimmer of something softer? A hint of vulnerability?    

Could it be that he was nervous too? Surely not. And yet…  

Emma took a steadying breath, dipping into a graceful curtsy. As she rose, her eyes remained modestly lowered, hiding the flutter of her heart beneath her calm exterior. "Your Grace, it’s a pleasure to see you again."    

He raised an eyebrow, his voice steeped in maddening confidence. "I don’t believe a single word of that," he replied smoothly.  

She arched her brow, keeping her gaze fixed on the impeccable knot of his cravat, as if it might reveal some hidden meaning. "Believe what, Your Grace?"  

“This charming display of sweetness and regret,” he replied, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You incorrigible minx.” 

His words were like a splash of cold water, and her eyes snapped up to meet his, wide with surprise. She stifled the urge to respond with a quick retort—one that would cut him down to size—but years of restraint held her in check. They stood, locked in a wordless clash, his gaze amused while hers simmered with carefully controlled irritation.    

He prowled further into the room, his movements unhurried, as if he were claiming it inch by inch. “Am I to believe you’re truly delighted by my presence and not at all… apprehensive?” 

The nerve. Apparently, the Duke of Hookshire wasn’t one for polite small talk. She met his gaze evenly, summoning her calm. "Why, naturally not. Aren't we to be... friends?" She forced the word out, lacing it with a thin layer of civility, as if the notion weren’t utterly absurd. 

"I can see you’re holding back, Miss Swan,” he murmured, his voice smooth, teasing. “It seems I’ve ruffled a few of your feathers." 

Emma managed a smile, though it felt taut. "A lady," she replied, her voice deliberately light, "must never be uncivil, as you must know." She let out a small, carefully placed laugh, hoping to ease the taut line of tension strung between them. 

His eyes sparkled with that maddening mix of amusement and challenge, a look that hinted he lived to get under her skin. "Ah, but isn’t the real skill in causing mischief while wrapped in ladylike decorum? Quite an art, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Her breath caught slightly. His audacity was… remarkable. Was this a sparring match or a dance? She couldn’t be sure. “So, what brings you here today, Your Grace?” she asked, keeping her tone cool. “A bit of witty repartee? Or perhaps you’re here to discuss the terms of our arrangement ?”   

That smile—oh, that infuriating, unreadable smile—only grew deeper, sending an unexpected ripple through her. This man was a puzzle, and she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to solve him.    

“Well then,” she continued, keeping her tone measured, “do sit down. I’ll have tea brought in.”  

He lowered himself onto the sofa with a slow, cat-like grace, as though this exchange were nothing more than a mildly entertaining pastime. As if summoned by his arrival, Mrs. Wilson appeared with the tea tray, her eyes wide with barely restrained curiosity. She placed the tray down, glancing at the Duke with an expression somewhere between awe and nervousness. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” Emma murmured, grateful for the brief distraction as she focused on pouring the tea. Her fingers fumbled slightly—was it because of his intense gaze, tracing her every move with a lazy, almost predatory attention? She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was studying her, noting each reaction, waiting for her to slip.    

She handed him a teacup, which seemed almost absurdly delicate in his large, surprisingly refined hands. She noticed the faint lines of old injuries across his left hand before catching herself. Best not to linger there, she reminded herself, quickly redirecting her gaze to his face. 

He took a measured sip, his gaze fixed on her over the rim of his cup, watching with an unnervingly precise intensity. Placing the delicate porcelain back onto the walnut table, he spoke almost nonchalantly, as if discussing the weather. “I happened upon an overly enthusiastic journalist lingering near your doorstep. Quite eager to chat. I decided not to indulge his… curiosity.”  

Emma’s pulse quickened as a flicker of panic rippled through her composed exterior. “Your return has stirred things up. The rumors about me have revived with full force. You…you have been away for years. It’s still strange that you are actually sitting before me.” 

A faint smirk played at his lips—a flash of amusement so fleeting it almost went unnoticed. He remained silent, letting the weight of his scrutiny settle on her, as if he found pleasure in watching her attempt to mask her unease. The air between them felt charged, like a storm on the brink.   

"Miss Swan—" 

"Your Grace—" 

They spoke at once, their voices overlapping. He paused, his eyes gleaming, clearly entertained by the awkward collision. Was this a game to him? It certainly felt like one, with him holding all the cards.   

“It seems,” he drawled, his voice velvet-smooth, “that we’re both eager to understand the... nuances of this arrangement.” 

Emma forced a light laugh, though it felt stiff, refusing to let him steer the conversation. She needed to regain control, to stop letting him set the tone. “I must admit, Your Grace, I’m at a bit of a loss as to what this ‘friendship’ could possibly offer you. What is it, exactly, that you hope to gain?”   

A flicker of something deeper—something shadowed and complex—passed across his eyes, hinting at layers beneath his polished exterior. “Very little catches my interest these days,” he mused, his voice smooth and elusive as silk. “But when it does, I make it my business to explore it completely… until I’m entirely satisfied.”   

Emma’s pulse quickened at his words. “And when you’re… satisfied?” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, yet charged with tension.   

“Then I move on,” he said, as if it were the simplest truth. “To the next intrigue.”    

A shiver ran through her. This was no ordinary man—he gave the impression of one who collected hearts like curiosities, fascinated for a while before moving on to something new. Whatever this arrangement was becoming, she would need to maneuver with precision. This was a man who could draw someone into his world and, just as easily, leave them behind.    

"I see," she replied, taking a steadying sip of tea, the porcelain cup a delicate shield between them. “But let’s be clear: no one has forced my hand here. My family remains in the dark, and I intend to keep it that way.”    

His eyes glinted with something close to approval, though his expression stayed inscrutable. “Very well.”  

“And just so we’re perfectly aligned,” she continued, her tone taking on an edge, “this agreement of ours remains confidential. No rumors, no hints that might make their way through society’s endless grapevine?”  

His smile was sly, as if he held all the winning cards. “For a price, naturally.”    

Of course , she thought, suppressing a sigh. “The price of… friendship?” she asked, carefully, her words laced with caution. 

He drummed his fingers lightly on the chair’s arm, the soft rhythm heightening the tension in the room. “Hmm.” 

"And what exactly does this friendship involve?” she asked, bracing herself for whatever unexpected answer he might have in store.   

“We’ll spend time together,” he replied, the words sounding more like a command than an invitation. “I’ve never quite taken to befriending a lady before… especially one as thoroughly intriguing as you, Miss Swan.”  

She blinked, astonished. Could it really be that straightforward? The arrangement seemed tilted in her favor, yet she couldn’t quite grasp why he —a man accustomed to dealing with countless social climbers—would want something as simple as her companionship.   

Then, in a heartbeat, a thought struck her, one so surprising it left her quiet.   

He is lonely.

The realization struck her silent, leaving her to gaze at him with a new, unsettling curiosity.   

The realization hung between them, and she found herself looking at him with a new curiosity. Who was this man, really? Beneath the polish of wealth and status, behind the scars and that self-assured air—what had led him to seek her out? The desire to understand the mystery of his life, his long absence, and his sudden return stirred within her. “How do you see this friendship, Your Grace?” she asked, keeping her tone cool but tinged with intrigue. “You must know how... unusual this sounds.”    

“Ah,” he replied, his voice smooth as silk, “leave that to me.”  

She almost laughed at the absurdity but felt a surge of boldness. “Just so we’re clear,” she added, lifting her chin slightly, “there will be no impropriety.” Her tone was light, edged with a touch of daring. 

His eyes gleamed with amusement, as if her defiance was the best entertainment he’d had in years. “Lady Mills is hosting a ball tomorrow evening. You’ll accompany me. After that, perhaps the theater—I could use a proper night out. And maybe a visit to the museum. Anything that catches my fancy… and naturally, I’ll require your charming company.”   

Her heart skipped at his words, though she dismissed the feeling as quickly as it came. "You’ve been away too long, Your Grace," she replied with a smirk. "Lady Mills is a formidable hostess—famed for her sharp tongue and flawless guest list. Her summer ball is the event of the season." She raised an eyebrow for emphasis. "And, I assure you, despite any recent... attention I may have received, I am definitely not on that list."   

He gave a faintly dismissive sound, as if society’s conventions were no more than a passing annoyance.   

"You’ll receive an invitation."   

His confidence was infuriating, that effortless assurance, as if he could mold reality with a mere wave of his hand. The worst part? She didn’t doubt he could. 

Then it struck her—if he already knew of the ball, he must have been invited. Naturally. Every hostess in London must now be vying for the attention of the elusive Duke of Hookshire. She shot him a sideways look. "The ball is tomorrow, Your Grace. And if, by some miracle, I receive this fabled invitation, I would attend with my mother and sister."   

The duke’s smile shifted, softening his otherwise severe expression into something almost… charming. It was startling, really, how one smile could briefly draw attention from the scars etched across his face. She wondered, not for the first time, why he’d bothered with a mask at the ball, only to leave it behind so casually today.  

"You honor me, Miss Swan," he murmured, his voice rich and smooth, though the glint in his eyes betrayed a quiet calculation.  

For a ridiculous moment, she wondered: could he actually be courting her? Impossible, of course. Their “arrangement” was nothing but an elaborate act—a performance designed to stir society’s curiosity and stop just shy of a scandal. But the idea still unsettled her, thrilling and disconcerting at once. 

If they succeeded, her family’s fortunes might rise overnight, drawing suitors for Elsa, bolstering Anna’s future… all of them benefiting from the spectacle. But when their charade inevitably ended, she would be the one left exposed. Society’s memory for scandal was longer than any apology, and “abandoned by a duke” would become an unshakable shadow over her reputation. Scandal, once whispered, left stains like ink—impossible to remove and difficult to escape.  

She found herself weighing the risks. Six months—that’s all she would need. A six-month engagement could elevate her sisters into good marriages, and after that... well, her own future would matter far less. 

Tentatively, she allowed a small, guarded smile to flicker across her lips, her mind already mapping out her next moves.  

And then he dropped his bombshell.

“I’ll need your presence at my estate in Ireland for a week or two—without a chaperone,” he said, as casually as if he’d invited her to tea.   

For a moment, she simply blinked, stunned. “I beg your pardon!” she sputtered, thoroughly scandalized. 

“You heard me, Swan.” 

“But surely I did not, Your Grace,” she replied, barely keeping up with her own disbelief.

“I’m a man who values his privacy,” he continued smoothly. “While you’re under my roof, I won’t have some chaperone scribbling notes for the gossip pages. Idle speculation is a nuisance I won’t entertain. I trust this won’t be... inconvenient?”  

Inconvenient? The audacity! “Your Grace, I could never accept such an outrageous suggestion,” she said, her voice taut with indignation. “To go unchaperoned to Ireland? Unthinkable!”  

His gaze turned cold, like ice descending. His blue eyes sharpened, carrying an unmistakable warning. “I’m not offering the luxury of negotiation.”  

She lifted her chin, unwilling to be intimidated. “I cannot travel unaccompanied. My reputation would be torn to pieces.”   

He took another unhurried sip of tea, clearly savoring her indignation. “How amusing,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips, “that you suddenly clutch your pearls over propriety. After devising this entire scheme, Swan, I doubt you’re quite as delicate as you pretend to be.”   

His brow lifted with that maddening precision that almost made her want to hurl her teacup at his head. The flush rising in her cheeks betrayed not only indignation but a trace of something else entirely—a quickening heartbeat under his infuriating gaze. Yes, he was impossibly arrogant, but there was an undeniable magnetism beneath that smug demeanor that she couldn’t quite ignore.  

With an infuriating calm, he set his teacup down, reclining back as if they were merely discussing the weather. He stretched his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles, the perfect picture of a man entirely unruffled by the tension he’d just created. “A woman of your... adventurous spirit shouldn’t be so quick to balk at a hint of impropriety,” he said, his words like velvet over steel.   

Emma straightened, her spine going rigid. “I won’t be coerced into throwing aside propriety. Whatever you think of me, Your Grace, I am not the reckless fool you seem to believe,” she replied, each word clipped and precise.   

The air between them practically hummed, tension stretched to the breaking point. 

“Ah, yes,” he responded with that maddening smile, the one that said he was confident he’d already won. “Your careful choice to masquerade as my fiancée—a pinnacle of prudence, surely.”   

She blinked, momentarily thrown off guard. But she quickly recovered. “Allow me to reassure Your Grace,” she replied, voice cool and steady, “there was no enjoyment in that particular performance. It was simply a regrettable but necessary course of action.” 

“Regrettable?” His smile grew, carrying a strange mix of amusement and—admiration? “Tell me, Swan, how old are you?”   

The unexpected question threw her off balance. “Three-and-twenty,” she answered, puzzled. 

“Three-and-twenty,” he repeated thoughtfully, as if the number intrigued him. “Not exactly the shy debutante in need of constant chaperoning, then. A resourceful woman such as yourself could navigate the... nuances of my terms without so much as a hairpin out of place—if she chose to.”   

His tone was calm, almost conversational, but the challenge in his words felt like a gauntlet thrown. He wasn’t budging.  

“Your Grace—” she began, but he interrupted, his voice soft but firm, the underlying threat impossible to miss. 

“Agree to my terms, Miss Swan, or we end this arrangement here and now.” His eyes held hers, cold and unyielding, like a man who was used to getting exactly what he wanted.  

Emma’s heart skipped, a rush of panic pulsing in her ears. For a long, tense moment, she was speechless, while he sat there, maddeningly calm, as if her entire world wasn’t teetering on the brink.   

“The Season is no small thing, especially for my sisters,” she managed finally, her voice steady by sheer force of will. “Everything I’ve done—all the sacrifices—have been for them. They need me now more than ever.”  

He remained unmoved, his expression unreadable. If her words stirred any trace of empathy, he hid it effortlessly.  

“They’ll manage a fortnight without you,” he replied with a hint of dry indifference, as if a trip to Ireland were as trivial as an afternoon walk in Hyde Park. 

Desperation tightened in her chest. “I owe you much, Your Grace, but surely there’s another way I can repay this debt—something less…” Her voice faltered, searching for the right word, “… compromising.”  

He looked at her slowly, as if savoring her discomfort. “I’ll make arrangements with my godmother, the Countess of Darling,” he said, as easily as one might order a new pair of gloves. “She’ll see to it that your sisters are welcomed. Her blessing will open doors that even your careful watch couldn’t unlock.”  

Emma’s breath caught, her pulse racing. The Countess of Darling—a pillar of high society! Her influence was practically a golden ticket, and the duke was offering it as casually as an afternoon tea. “You would truly do that for them?” she whispered, barely keeping the tremor out of her voice.   

“Aye,” he replied, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, though a flicker of amusement at the edge of his lips suggested he was enjoying her astonishment. “And if it calms your delicate conscience, my sister Alice will come with us. She’ll play the  overzealous chaperone, no doubt, with great enthusiasm.”   

Emma blinked, momentarily thrown by the unexpected softness in his tone. The mention of his sister seemed to strip away his usual icy edge. So, the duke had a vulnerable side beneath all that detachment. Interesting.  

“Your sister lives with you in Ireland?” she asked, her tone carefully casual. 

“She does,” he replied, his gaze sharpening, though a spark of humor flickered in his eyes. “She’s quite familiar with your… reputation, Miss Swan. I believe she’s read every scandal sheet detailing your bold behavior.”   

Emma raised a brow, caught between amusement and annoyance. Was he truly calling her a heroine of the gossip columns? Perhaps this was her chance to steer the conversation in her favor. “How flattering, Your Grace,” she replied with just enough sweetness to make her sarcasm clear. “May I propose how long our…engagement should stand while we explore this so-called friendship?”

A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as though she’d just delivered a private joke. “No.” 

The blunt refusal landed like a splash of cold water. “Your Grace—”  

“The duration,” he continued, voice smooth and unhurried, “will be decided not by any timeline, but by my interest.”  

Ah, there it was—the crux of his proposition, the unspoken condition hidden beneath his polished words. No set timeline, only his fickle curiosity to measure the length of their agreement. She straightened, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. The second he grew tired of her, she’d be discarded as casually as a gown gone out of fashion. It was clear he wasn’t interested in the reasons behind her charade. No, his attention was piqued by the mystery of a woman he hadn’t quite figured out. 

How thoroughly maddening. 

And yet, she felt an unexpected thrill. This was a man who could have any number of society’s finest ladies hanging on his every word, and who could easily charm the most celebrated beauties of the ton. And yet, here he was, drawn to her—a perennial wallflower who had never truly held society’s gaze.  

Her heart betrayed her with a small flutter. “I will… make myself available, Your Grace,” she managed, her voice steady, despite the warmth rising to her cheeks.  

His eyes gleamed with satisfaction, like a hunter pleased with his catch. He lifted his teacup in a mock toast, his lips curving into a self-satisfied smile. “Then we are agreed.” He drained the last of his tea, as if sealing the deal with a final, triumphant sip. 

The familiar creak of the front door announced the inevitable arrival of her mother and sister, punctuated by their light, hurried footsteps and cheerful voices echoing down the hallway. Emma stifled a sigh, bracing herself for the approaching whirlwind. She stood quickly, smoothing her gown as if it might somehow shield her from the flurry of questions about to descend. 

The duke, utterly unfazed by the commotion, rose with a relaxed grace, his hands clasped behind his back like a king awaiting his court. Power radiated from him in quiet waves, his face as unreadable as ever.  

Emma, on the other hand, felt a twinge of apprehension. But she held onto her composure with a well-practiced smile, one that had survived many a social ordeal. 

"Emma! You’ll never believe what I’ve just—"  

Her mother’s jubilant entrance came to a screeching halt as she caught sight of the duke. For one glorious second, Emma thought her mother might actually faint, a hand dramatically flying to her chest. But alas, her mother’s fortitude held. Her astonished gaze darted between Emma and the imposing figure of the duke, barely concealing her surprise. 

“Mama,” Emma managed, clearing her suddenly dry throat, “may I present His Grace, the Duke of Hookshire. Your Grace, my mother, Viscountess Ingrid, and my younger sister, Miss Anna Swan.”  

Both women dipped into curtsies, their movements flawless and perfectly synchronized. Anna, however, couldn’t quite manage to look the duke in the eye, her gaze flitting around as she tried valiantly to avoid staring at the scars on his face. The Viscountess, however, seasoned in society’s ways, showed no such hesitation. Her expression softened, eyes bright with a look that hovered between admiration and ambition—a look that suggested she saw matrimonial prospects unfolding right before her eyes.  

"The pleasure is entirely ours, Your Grace," her mother beamed, as if a duke standing in her drawing room was the crowning achievement of her social dreams—which, Emma suspected, was entirely accurate. 

To Emma’s surprise, the duke stepped forward and executed a bow with such polish it could thaw the iciest heart. If she hadn’t known better, she might have thought he was thoroughly enjoying himself. 

“Lady Ingrid, the pleasure is truly mine,” he said smoothly. “And Miss Anna, I’ve heard only the most glowing things about you. Utterly charmed.” 

Emma watched as her mother and sister flushed in perfect unison, completely enchanted. He had morphed from reserved aristocrat to effortless charmer in the blink of an eye, his words so expertly crafted that they left no room for anything but delighted smiles. 

Her mother, practically glowing, eagerly offered more refreshments with the kind of hopeful desperation one only feels in moments of social victory. He declined, of course, but with such polite warmth that it felt like a compliment in itself. He even made a casual promise to visit again—with his godmother in tow. At this, her mother’s eyes shone like stars, and Emma half-expected her to swoon into a chair on the spot.  

Before leaving, the duke cast one last glance at Emma—a look full of silent promises that set her pulse racing. And then he was gone, leaving the room suddenly feeling far too empty. 

Anna was quickly sent off to the smaller sitting room, but Emma wasn’t so fortunate. Alone with her mother, she felt the weight of her gaze settle on her, sharp and expectant, as if she were some fascinating specimen pinned beneath a magnifying glass. 

“When you first declared the duke your fiancé,” her mother began, her voice deceptively soft, although her eyes gleamed with a sharpness that could slice through the thickest of pretenses, “I confess, I struggled to grasp it. Even after the announcement appeared in the papers, I entertained the idea that perhaps... it was all an elaborate fiction. You’ve always been so bold, so... irrepressible. I wondered...”  

“How extraordinary that you should think such a thing, Mama,” Emma replied, her tone the picture of serene politeness, even as her heart hammered against her ribs. She settled onto the sofa with an exaggerated calm, her fingers smoothing out a phantom wrinkle in her gown. “Shall I ring for more tea?”  

Her mother dismissed the offer of tea with a graceful flick of her wrist, seating herself beside Emma like a detective poised to unveil a long-suspected truth. "The duke’s return has been the single most intoxicating subject in every respectable parlor. Just this morning, I encountered Lady Jekyll and Lady De Vil, both nearly delirious with curiosity. I had no choice but to feign perfect knowledge of his dramatic reappearance at last night’s ball—and of course, the rather scandalous rumor that you vanished alone with him for a suspicious length of time."  

Emma winced inwardly but maintained her outward poise, clinging to composure like a shipwrecked sailor to driftwood. She reached for her mother’s hand, trying to channel a calm that she didn’t feel. "Mama, I owe you an explanation. I should have spoken with you this morning. His Grace’s arrival was as unexpected to me as it was to everyone else. He wished to… surprise me." The words sounded hollow even to her, and she hurried to fill the silence. "We had... a private conversation."  

Her mother’s fingers tightened around hers, a familiar pressure that was as much a demand for truth as it was a source of comfort. "And did this private conversation manage to address the... necessary matters?"  

For a brief, dangerous moment, Emma nearly collapsed into her mother’s embrace. It had been so long since she had allowed herself the luxury of vulnerability. Ever since her father’s death, she had become the family’s unwavering pillar, keeping the household afloat, providing the illusion of stability, making sure everyone else felt secure. For over five years, she had been the silent strength behind it all. But now, her lips quivered, her throat tightened, and she felt the unbearable temptation to let everything spill—to surrender, just for a moment. 

Her mother’s eyes, sharp and knowing, fixed on her with that well-honed maternal gaze, the one that had coaxed confessions of stolen sweets and misplaced brooches from her daughters in their youth. Emma felt a flush of guilt creep up her neck.  

"The duke..." she began, her voice wavering as she tried to push the words past the lump in her throat. "The duke has invited me to his estate in Ireland... for several days." 

The temptation to craft a neat little lie tugged at Emma, but she was far too drained to keep up the charade with the one person she loved most. Now that the entire world seemed ready to accept her engagement to the duke as gospel truth, perhaps it was time to drop the pretense. She needed her mother’s counsel more than ever. “There is one condition, though, Mama," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "He has stipulated... that there be no chaperone.”  

Her mother’s hands slipped from Emma’s, a sharp gasp escaping her as a thoughtful frown etched itself across her otherwise composed features. “Well!”  

Emma rushed to fill the silence, words tumbling out as she attempted to explain away the audacity of it. “I don't believe the duke harbors any—any improper intent, truly. I think he merely wishes to get to know me without the ever-watchful eyes of society peering over our shoulders. His sister lives there, as does a governess. It will all be... entirely proper." She trailed off, though her words carried none of the certainty she had hoped for. If only her heart weren’t thrumming with an intoxicating mix of dread and anticipation. Good heavens, what is wrong with me?   

To her surprise, her mother’s stern expression softened, a warm smile playing on her lips. She wrapped an arm around Emma’s shoulders, her voice light and teasing. “Ah, my dear, sometimes a gentleman requires the absence of a chaperone to summon his courage,” she said, her eyes twinkling mischievously, the faintest blush coloring her cheeks. “That’s exactly how it was with your father and I. A few stolen moments—an unexpected meeting in the gardens—and well, the rest was history.” She sighed, caught in a pleasant reverie. “Perhaps the duke merely needs such moments with you. And let’s not pretend, Emma—you’re three and twenty, and the duke, by all accounts, well into his thirties. You’re both sensible adults, publicly attached. What harm could possibly come from it?”

Emma’s jaw practically hit the floor. Was her mother—the epitome of decorum, Viscountess Ingrid—encouraging her to behave, well, improperly? This was the woman who had once barred her from attending a garden party because her hem was scandalously one inch too short. It had always been her father who indulged her rebellious streak, not her ever-righteous mother. “Mama—” 

“I’ll make discreet arrangements,” her mother continued, undeterred, “to let the right people know that you’ve gone to visit your dear Aunt Johanna in Derbyshire for a week or so. You know, she’s been feeling rather poorly.” 

“Mama!” Emma protested again, her voice strangled in disbelief. 

Her mother stood, towering over her with a serene but unwavering smile. “If the duke has the chance to truly see your heart, as I do, he would be a fool not to make you his duchess,” she murmured, her voice thickening with barely-contained emotion. “And I want that for you, Emma. Not just for what a match like that could mean for our family, but because you deserve it. You deserve a place in this world, a man who recognizes your worth.” Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but her posture remained regal, as always. “My dear, fortune favors the bold. And you, my dear, have never lacked for boldness.”  

With a final swirl of her skirts, the Viscountess swept from the room, leaving Emma utterly dumbstruck, a dizzying cocktail of excitement and sheer panic swirling in her chest. 

Fortune favors the bold?

Was that all the permission she needed to march her heart straight into certain ruin?  

Not that she had any intention of throwing herself at a duke—especially one as maddeningly inscrutable as the Duke of Hookshire. Certainly not a man who could toss her aside like yesterday’s fashion when the novelty wore off. 

And yet... 

The memory of his lips—barely brushing hers—flickered through her mind like a ghost’s whisper, warm and lingering. She could still feel the heat of his arms around her, still catch the faintest trace of his cologne that had wrapped itself around her senses like a spell. And the way he had looked at her— truly looked at her—as though she was something precious. 

Her. Precious. The very idea was laughable. 

And yet... 

She closed her eyes, her hand fluttering to her chest, feeling her heart race beneath her fingers. In the stillness of the room, she whispered to herself, “And yet... also so very, very wonderful.”

Chapter Text

Killian lingered in the shadowed recess of Lady Mills' grand balcony, surveying the spectacle below with a detached amusement. The ballroom was a glittering shrine to London's excess, where the city’s elite mingled like peacocks draped in silks and satins, their jewels catching the chandelier’s light like a sea of restless stars. The air buzzed with champagne-fueled vanity, and a handful of society scribes—strategically scattered throughout—kept their beady eyes trained on the prime minister, the Duke of Montecristo, and of course, their beguiling hostess. Occasionally, their glances slid his way, fingers itching to craft the next day’s headline around the enigma that was the Duke of Hookshire, his face half-veiled by a mask, and his ebony cane gripped like a royal scepter of untold power.  

Fashionable London devoured gossip with the same ravenous appetite it reserved for decadence, and by morning, the ink would be wet with tales of his unexpected return to the capital. He could almost hear the scandalous whispers forming even now—his name swirling like smoke through the eager minds of those who fed off intrigue and illusion.  

An arrow of amusement shot through him, tempered by something softer—nostalgia, perhaps, though he hardly recognized it at first. How odd to find himself missing the absurd frivolity of it all. Once, the season had been his playground, a tapestry of triviality that had offered him amusement and distraction. But after years of self-imposed exile in the Irish countryside, shrouded in rumors of ill health, this gaudy circus seemed almost... quaint.  

Below him, the room pulsed with forced laughter and perfumed vanity. The din of vapid conversation rose and fell, interrupted by the occasional shriek of mirth. But Killian remained aloof, leaning against a Corinthian column like a dark marble statue, an unsolvable riddle come to life. Eyes flicked toward him with a mix of hunger and apprehension, though none dared draw too close. His name floated through the crowd like an incantation, whispered from one pair of lips to the next, always tainted with a frisson of fear and fascination.  

And yet, beneath his practiced mask of indifference, a flicker of unease coiled in his chest. What in the devil was he doing here? He, who had never been governed by reckless whims or untamed passions, now found himself adrift in unfamiliar waters. Even in the days when he danced along to society’s most treacherous edges, and branded a “dashing rapscallion” by those who scarcely knew the half of it, there had always been a method to his madness. A strategy, as cold and calculated as a chess game. He had never surrendered to capricious impulse.  

At least, not until her. 

Since Miss Emma Swan had crossed his path, it seemed that reason itself had abandoned him. She hadn't merely ignited a spark in him—no, she’d unleashed a wildfire, one that demanded both indulgence and dissection. She awoke something raw, primal, and ungovernable within him. She was the enigma he found himself hopelessly ensnared by, and now, impulse was the only strategy he seemed to know.  

Was his existence so bereft of meaning that unraveling Emma Swan had become his greatest challenge? Apparently, yes. For despite every sensible, calculated thought urging him to dismantle her farce and walk away, he could summon no convincing argument to do so. The cold, logical part of him that once sought to expose her as the fraud she undoubtedly was had evaporated, leaving behind only an insatiable need to explore her—to peel away the layers of this maddeningly complex woman.  

Yes, she deserved to be unmasked, but by God, he wanted to be the one to do it.  

“Viscountess Ingrid, Miss Emma Swan, and Miss Elsa Swan,” the butler’s voice rang out, slicing clean through the hum of the ballroom.  

Killian’s gaze snapped to the opposite landing. And there she was— Emma Swan . In a single glance, she seized the very air from his lungs. How or why this woman had the power to dismantle his hard-won composure was beyond him, but the effect was undeniable. She stood at the top of the staircase, poised and radiant, commanding the room without uttering a word. The ballroom, once lively and loud, seemed to hold its breath in her orbit.

The reporters—those insatiable vultures forever hovering, quills at the ready to immortalize the next scandal—immediately shifted their hungry gazes from her breathtaking entrance to the shadowy corner where he lingered. By morning, every gossip rag from London to Dublin would plaster her name alongside his, and Killian could practically hear the feverish scratching of ink as they spun their tales. The helpless, lovestruck duke—reduced to a stammering fool by the mere presence of Miss Emma Swan.  

And, if he were being honest, perhaps just for a heartbeat, they might be right. 

The ton seemed all too eager to embrace the narrative: that he was utterly besotted and hopelessly enraptured by the woman who had so easily become the centerpiece of both high society and his private thoughts. But Killian Jones was not a man known for sentimental indulgences. Love, affection, even infatuation—these had always been distant, irrelevant distractions, reserved for those who didn’t bear the crushing mantle of power. His previous dalliances, while socially dazzling, had never stirred the faintest hint of “adoration.” They had been alliances—precisely arranged, calculated unions built on mutual benefit and ambition. The very idea of a love match had been laughable, and the papers knew better than to suggest such foolishness back then.  

Now, of course, the caricatures gleefully portrayed him as Miss Swan’s adoring lapdog, tripping over his own feet in swooning devotion. Ridiculous, yet undeniably another tantalizing crime to lay at her feet. Miss Swan, it appeared, had made herself an expert in the fine art of disruption. 

And disrupt she did—clad in a striking shade of dark red that made her a ruby amongst the pastel silks and chiffon-clad debutantes, an unapologetic flame among a sea of doves. She dared the room to avert its gaze, and no one did. Least of all him. His eyes followed her, as though drawn by some irresistible pull, lingering on the graceful fall of her gown, the soft, deliberate sway of her hips, the exquisite curve of her waist, and the teasing fullness of her décolletage. She was a vision of temptation, veiled in elegance, and he wasn’t the only one enraptured. A few eager young bucks—green, starry-eyed fools—watched her with open admiration, while a few more seasoned men eyed her with poorly concealed hunger. 

But Miss Swan moved as though oblivious to the effect she had on the room. There was no coy fluttering of lashes, no self-conscious blushes at the barrage of admiring gazes. Instead, she moved with regal composure, her eyes sweeping across the ballroom like a queen appraising her court. There was something quietly sensual about her, a confidence so effortless it mesmerized. In that moment, from his vantage in the shadows, he felt utterly captive to the enigma that was Emma Swan. 

How the fools of the ton had failed to snatch her up remained one of society’s greatest enigmas. She— his fiancée —was a creature far beyond the mere trappings of beauty. She was an intoxicating concoction of wit, allure, and unbridled desire, a woman who, with no more than a glance, could unravel every logical thought he’d ever possessed.  

Killian could only marvel at the breathtaking stupidity of the men around him. Let them fawn and covet all they wished. Miss Swan was his, for now, anyway. And that, he mused with a slow, dangerous smile, was infinitely more intriguing than anything the ton’s clumsy gossip machines could dream up.  

Another figure floated down the grand staircase in her wake, this one wrapped in pale blue silk that draped over her delicate frame like early morning mist. The two women exchanged words, their shared smiles like the lighting of twin suns, casting a soft glow over the entire room. They moved together toward the fringes of the gathering, their presence like a ripple in a still pond, whispers trailing behind them like the remnants of an afterthought. It was then that he realized the second young woman was Miss Swan’s sister.  

Ah , two captivating swans amidst the sea of peacocks. And yet, the men of the ton , in all their typical short-sightedness, seemed more focused on their family wealth and prospects than the sharp brilliance these sisters so clearly possessed. It was tragic, really, how these men could gaze upon such rare jewels and still fail to see their shine.  

Just then, Lady Mills made her dramatic entrance, a blur of gold ruffles and twinkling diamonds, sweeping toward him with all the fervor of a woman whose theatrical instincts had never dulled. “My dear boy! How simply marvelous to see you after so long!” she cried, as though the reunion were straight out of a stage play. “Do tell me it’s truly you beneath that mask, Killian! How I’ve suffered without you— dreadfully !” 

He bent down with the practiced grace of a man accustomed to such flamboyance and kissed her cheek with the appropriate air of gallantry. “Indeed, Cousin Cora, it is I. And I’ve missed you as well,” he said, surprised to find a trace of sincerity in his words. As over-the-top as Cora was, he hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed her unapologetic flair for drama—and her disregard for society’s rigid expectations. 

As he straightened, his gaze instinctively sought Emma’s across the ballroom. There she stood, poised and regal, her eyes locking onto his with a momentary stillness that seemed to freeze the very air between them. Time stilled, the noise of the ballroom faded, and then, with a delicate lift of her chin, she acknowledged him. And that familiar, unsettling warmth surged in his chest once more, leaving him half wondering if a visit to his physician might be in order—because surely no woman, no matter how bewitching, should have such an effect on him.  

Cora’s shrewd brown eyes darted between Miss Swan and the chattering sea of guests below, her curiosity practically tangible. With a sidelong glance, she appraised him, clearly attuned to the ton’s fervent reaction. Several matrons and debutantes, brazen in their curiosity, openly gawked at him, their stares laden with a mix of curiosity and speculative hunger. Killian could feel their gazes crawling over him like a swarm of incessant insects—insidious, relentless, and wholly uninvited.  

“Our dear society is an absurd charade, wouldn’t you say?” Lady Mills remarked with a dramatic sniff. “I’ve gone to great lengths to offer them a night of wonder: the finest dishes, an entire ballroom transformed into some Egyptian reverie—Cleopatra is all the rage, after all—and invited every soul with the faintest whiff of scandal. Yet, all they seem to care about is you and Miss Swan. You’ve managed to steal my spotlight, darling boy.”  

Killian’s smile was the slightest tilt of amusement. “I assure you, that wasn’t my intention.”  

“Ha! You say that now, but the moment you insisted on her invitation, I had a feeling this would be the outcome. So tell me—why was it so crucial Miss Swan grace us with her presence tonight?”  

“It simply was.”

Cora let out an exaggerated huff, clearly miffed by his refusal to provide some juicy morsel she could later sprinkle into conversation.  

“She’s a bit… loud, don’t you think?” Cora leaned closer, her tone conspiratorial. “I hadn’t heard a peep about her family until recently. Scandalous, really. Four seasons and still unwed? At some point, one ought to know when to retire gracefully. Though I’m sure she’d be over the moon to capture your attentions.”  

Killian chuckled, her jab falling woefully short. “You’re hardly one to talk, Cora. You’re as loud and flamboyant as a fireworks display. Miss Swan, on the other hand, is something else entirely—a rare hothouse orchid in a garden of coarse-cut diamonds.”  

Cora’s eyebrow shot up, the skepticism unmistakable. “You almost sound as if you admire her. Could it be that the gossip rags weren’t far off with their tales of your supposed devotion?”  

Killian offered no reply, his gaze unwavering as it followed Miss Swan’s every move through the ballroom. The sharp-edged stares of disapproval and poorly masked envy clung to her like shadows, but she walked with an audacity that demanded attention. The bold crimson of her gown was nothing short of a revelation—daring and defiant. He doubted she would have worn such a color before she became Emma Swan, Society’s latest enigma, the woman who now set the ton ablaze with intrigue.  

He found himself pondering, with growing fascination, who she had been before all of this. Had she always possessed this fierce magnetism, this commanding presence that turned heads and silenced whispers? Or had she once been softer, a quiet figure on the fringes of society, only to transform into the tigress who now prowled through London’s elite, all sharp claws and fearless elegance?  

There was something oddly mesmerizing about the way she carried herself—a deliberate sashay that bordered on defiance, a tilt of her chin that dared anyone to question her place in the room. It was a performance of course, a well-crafted armor of bravado. But Killian couldn’t help but wonder what had forged this creature of fire and steel. What life had shaped her into this unapologetically bold figure, unafraid to stand apart from the simpering ranks of debutantes?  

To simply call her "different" felt woefully inadequate. 

She was the very antithesis of the demure, well-bred wives his mother had once advised him to consider. Odd advice, really, considering that his mother had never been the paragon of propriety herself.  

Miss Swan was a flame in a world of ice, unpredictable as a summer storm—ever-shifting, ever-surprising. There was a rawness to her allure, something untamable and wild, that captivated him in ways no perfectly polished debutante ever had. 

Would my mother have liked you, Emma Swan? he mused silently. Would she have been scandalized by your audacity, or would she, too, have been as spellbound as I am?  

Killian realized, with a sharp jolt, that he'd been watching her far too intently—his eyes tracing the delicate movements of her hands, the subtle tilt of her head, the endearing way her brow furrowed in conversation with her sister. 

“My fiancée is perfect as she is, Cousin Cora,” he murmured, never breaking his gaze from Emma. The words came out like a decree, clipped and absolute. 

“My dear boy—” 

“And I will not tolerate anyone suggesting otherwise,” he added, his tone as cold and sharp as the edge of a well-honed blade. The icy finality in his voice silenced Cora’s next retort before it could even leave her lips. “She will be treated with nothing but the utmost respect.” 

As though conjured by his words, the orchestra struck up the first lilting notes of a waltz. In a moment, both Miss Swans were whisked onto the dance floor, their radiant smiles enough to brighten the entire room. The music swirled through the air like a dream, carrying him with it, though his thoughts remained tethered to one thing—Emma. Her laughter, her elegance, her unapologetic vitality. She stood out like a flame amidst the dim glow of propriety. 

She should be in my arms , he thought, the idea winding through his mind like an unrelenting refrain.  

“You’re staring at your fiancée—quite shamelessly, I might add,” Cora sniffed, her voice laced with disapproval. 

“And I make no apologies,” he replied without a shred of contrition. Why should he? The only regret he harbored was not being the one to claim her for the dance—to feel the warmth of her body against his, to guide her across the floor and, if fortune favored him, steal her away to the terrace for a kiss.  

A kiss. The thought stirred something within him, unexpected and disconcerting. Twice now, in as many hours, the idea had lodged itself in his mind. He hadn't seriously thought of kissing anyone in years—hadn't let his mind drift toward such frivolities. But now? He was utterly consumed by the notion.  

What am I to do with you, Emma Swan? 

Emma lingered at the edge of Lady Mills' ballroom, perfectly content as the reigning queen of wallflowers, having deftly dodged her third offer to dance. One waltz was plenty, thank you. Chandeliers blazed overhead, bathing the room in gilded light where the ton' s finest performed their ritualistic dance of status and desire. 

Silk and satin whirled across the floor, a living canvas of aristocratic ambition. Laughter sparkled and conversations crackled with barely concealed social maneuvering. This glittering arena was not her domain, and Emma knew it—a reluctant guest, an accidental interloper. 

Her presence here was owed entirely to the Duke of Hookshire, who’d orchestrated a last-minute addition to the guest list. That morning's invitation arrived like a diplomatic missive, accompanied by Lady Mills' apologetic note about a supposed "oversight." Her mother and sister had erupted into jubilant chaos, transforming their home into a hurricane of excitement. Hours later, they emerged transformed: gowns pressed to perfection, hair artfully arranged, radiating an anticipation that could power a small city. 

Now, somewhere in the crush of nobility, her mother was undoubtedly weaving her social web, parsing every nuanced interaction for potential advantage. Elsa stood resplendent, her attention fixed on the baron—her adoration so transparent it might as well have been written in skywriting. Emma couldn’t help but note that if Elsa didn’t play her cards carefully, the ton ’s rumor mill would soon be grinding out juicy whispers about their stolen moments. The baron, for his part, looked equally besotted, but without a formal proposal, they were still navigating shark-infested waters. 

With a resigned sigh, Emma deftly plucked a glass of champagne from a passing footman, feeling in that moment like a spectator at a game she neither understood nor particularly wished to play. 

“The news sheets will undoubtedly swoon over your mastery of disinterest,” Ruby drawled, her tone all mockery and mirth. “How does one manage to look so gloriously unimpressed at an event featuring a twenty-piece orchestra and, oh yes, the king—fashionably late, as always?” 

Emma twirled around, a grin lighting her features. “Ruby, how delightful to see you.” 

Her friend, draped in an emerald gown that somehow made her look both regal and untamed, tilted her head with an air of mischievous grandeur. Ruby had always been the rebel of their set, the one who could waltz into any exclusive affair without breaking a sweat—or a single social rule anyone cared to enforce. 

"And you," Ruby countered, "are the most intriguing distraction in this cavernous hall of tedium. My evening has just transformed from unbearable to utterly fascinating." 

Emma laughed, feeling the weight on her shoulders shift, if not entirely lift. “Your company, as always, is a welcome antidote to this festival of self-importance.” 

Ruby’s grin widened, as though she’d just uncovered a delightful secret. “But something’s amiss, darling. Tell me—does your air of tragic despair have anything to do with the infamous Duke of Hookshire?” 

Emma’s stomach gave a treacherous lurch at the mention of him, but she ignored it, keeping her gaze well away from the shadowed balcony where he undoubtedly lingered. Instead, she launched into an animated recounting of the week’s absurdities, earning a series of progressively dramatic reactions from Ruby. 

By the time Emma finished, Ruby’s brows had climbed so high they threatened to vanish into her hairline. “So let me make sure I have this right. You want me to convince the ton that you’ve scampered off to Aunt Johanna’s in Derbyshire, while you’re actually—” she paused for effect—“sneaking off to Ireland with the duke?” 

Emma’s cheeks flared pink, but she nodded, chin raised. “Exactly. The story must be airtight. Let them picture me knitting by Aunt Johanna’s fire while I’m... elsewhere. When all’s said and done, and the scandal sheets have found fresher prey, I’ll set the record straight.”  

Ruby’s eyes sparkled, amusement practically radiating off her. “Scandalous indeed. Now, tell me—are you secretly harboring feelings for the man?” 

“Absolutely not!” Emma’s protest shot out, sharp but far too flimsy for comfort. Even she wasn’t convinced. “I’ve only just met him! He’s... peculiar. Not like anyone I’ve encountered before. Intriguing, perhaps, but hardly romantic. Maybe we could even be—friends? Isn’t it strange how none of us ever becomes actual friends with gentlemen? It might even be an adventure.”  

Ruby arched a brow, the smirk on her lips borderline criminal. “And yet, you seem oddly rattled by this particular ‘adventure.’” 

Emma leaned closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. Ruby, drawn to gossip like a moth to flame, leaned in eagerly. “He said I was to come alone with him. Alone . Without a chaperone. In Ireland.” 

Ruby’s eyes widened, feigning horror with expert theatricality. “How deliciously outrageous!” 

“It’s scandalous, that’s what it is!” Emma huffed, unable to quell the riot of butterflies in her stomach. “The idea of traveling alone with the duke is beyond indecent. But, unfortunately, I have no choice. Madness or not, I’m resolved to endure it.” 

“Endure it?” Ruby chuckled, mischief dancing in her eyes. “It sounds more like an opportunity, my dear.” 

She shot Ruby a fierce glare. “Have you lost your mind? The only opportunity here is for me to hurtle headfirst into ruin!” She paused, clutching her champagne glass a little tighter. “But ruin or not, I can’t risk him retracting our engagement. I’m not foolish enough to test whether that threat was a bluff.” 

“Or,” she purred, “to become his duchess in truth.” 

“Hold your tongue!” Emma shot back, heat rising to her cheeks. The last thing she needed was hope, especially the reckless, perilous kind that Ruby was so adept at planting. 

Ruby, entirely unbothered, shrugged with maddening grace. “If you ask me, this is your chance to charm the duke right into submission. After all,” she added, her grin turning sly, “you do have a rather infuriating knack for it.” 

Emma stifled a groan, but the sound barely left her throat before shock replaced her irritation. The duke had emerged from the shadows, setting the room abuzz with whispers that spread like wildfire. The ton gawked openly, their collective fascination bordering on indecent, as though he were a dangerous predator wandering into their carefully curated menagerie.  

If he noticed the attention—and he must—he gave no indication, descending the grand staircase with a grace so effortless it might as well have been choreographed. The ripple of curiosity in the crowd swelled as he strode without the cane that had once accompanied him. Emma felt a pang of concern, fleeting but real, quickly eclipsed by the sheer presence of him.  

Half his face was obscured by a mask, black filigree with intricate gold and blue detailing, lending him an air of mystery and menace. It transformed him into something both captivating and unsettling, a figure designed to provoke and enthrall.

He moved with unshakable confidence, his slight limp almost imperceptible—though Emma noticed it, and she suspected he was well aware of that, too. As ever, he commanded the room as if society’s gaze were a trifling inconvenience.  

"Do you know why he’s here?" Ruby’s voice, low and conspiratorial, broke through Emma’s thoughts. She had sidled closer, her presence a shield against the inevitable drama.  

"Not the slightest idea," Emma murmured, her eyes fixed on the duke. “But he’s the reason I’m here—he made certain Lady Mills sent me an invitation.” 

Ruby nudged her shoulder with far too much enthusiasm. "Emma, for heaven’s sake—stop staring. You’re practically writing tomorrow’s scandal sheets yourself." 

Heat surged to Emma’s cheeks as she tore her gaze away—or tried to. The effort proved futile; she couldn’t help but steal glances as the scene unfolded. Lords of the highest order—cabinet ministers, ambassadors, men of power and influence—gravitated toward the duke like moths to a flame. He handled them all with practiced ease, his masked face betraying nothing but controlled charisma.  

From her vantage point, Emma studied the duke with a fascination she couldn’t quite suppress. He moved through his circle with practiced ease, entirely unbothered by the ravenous stares pinned to his masked face. Now and then, his lips curved—not quite a smile, more a sharp-edged smirk, sardonic and faintly mocking. Sometimes it resembled a laugh, though its scalding undertone suggested the joke was rarely on him. Whatever he said held his audience rapt, but Emma couldn’t shake the sense of detachment in the air around him. He wasn’t really present—just a player in a spectacle he had long since ceased to enjoy.  

The half of his face left uncovered by the mask was a masterpiece of indifference. Cynicism and boredom etched every line, as though the entire evening were some tedious obligation. He seemed untouchable, aloof. And yet... here he was. Why? 

Then his head turned, as if her scrutiny had reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. Their eyes locked, and Emma’s heart did something altogether unreasonable. She inclined her head in greeting—small, controlled, proper—but his reaction was anything but. Without a glance back at his noble entourage, he cut through the crowd toward her, leaving murmurs and stares in his wake. The ballroom, once bustling with dancers, shifted; it wasn’t a room of movement anymore but one of spectators.  

"Lift your chin. Be arrogant and beautiful. You’re Emma Swan," Ruby murmured slyly before vanishing into the crowd, leaving Emma alone to face the full force of the duke’s attention. 

He stopped before her, and she dipped into a curtsy that felt too shallow for the moment. His bow was flawless, elegant, effortless—and devastating. Something about the warmth in his eyes, soft yet searing beneath the mask, pulled at her composure until she had no choice but to avert her gaze. She fixed her eyes somewhere over his shoulder, focusing on nothing in particular, desperate to steady herself. 

Remember, you’re a piece in the game. He plays; you follow the rules. 

“Would you do me the honor of a dance, Miss Swan?” His voice, low and rich, brushed over her like a physical touch. “I believe the next waltz is about to begin.” 

Caught off guard but determined to maintain composure, Emma dipped her head and placed her hand in his, curtsying again. Before she could fully process the moment, they were on the ballroom floor, the orchestra weaving its spell. His hand found her waist—slow and deliberate—drawing her close enough that she felt the warmth radiating from him. A subtle shift, and they were in motion, gliding effortlessly into the waltz. 

Dear God... we fit. 

The ridiculous thought echoed in her mind as his hand rested lightly on her shoulder, her fingers barely brushing his. They moved with a fluidity that felt natural, despite the unspoken tension threading between them.  

“I must thank you, Miss Swan,” he said, his voice smooth and rich, matching the glide of their steps. “It’s been far too long since I’ve enjoyed such a pleasure.” 

“The pleasure is entirely mine, Your Grace,” she replied, though her words carried a breathless edge she wasn’t thrilled about. 

A faint, enigmatic smile flickered across his lips, leaving Emma to suppress the torrent of questions that threatened to spill. How could a man confined to a wheeled chair just days ago now move with such grace, as if the very notion of infirmity had been a fiction? 

“What do you enjoy, Miss Swan?” he asked suddenly, his tone a curious mix of command and intrigue. 

She blinked, startled. “I beg your pardon?” 

"I’m trying to determine the kind of woman you are," he said, his eyes never leaving hers. "You don’t seem the sort to find endless joy in crowded ballrooms." 

The unexpected question caught her off balance, a reminder of how little anyone had ever cared to ask what interested her. It was absurd, really, how foreign it felt to consider. “Your Grace, I—”  

Before Emma could finish her reply, he faltered. His grip on her waist and shoulder tightened, the force startling enough to draw a sharp inhale she quickly suppressed. His eyes, cool and guarded moments before, darkened with unmistakable pain, though his pride burned just as fiercely. Instinct warned her to stay silent—certainly not to suggest they stop. 

With renewed determination, he twirled her again, their dance transforming into a battle of grace against agony. His hold remained unyielding, his face an unbroken mask of stoicism. Every step spoke of effort, his body clearly at war with itself, but his will overruled it. She moved with him in quiet complicity, pretending not to notice the iron grip or the slight falter in his stride. 

As the waltz ended, he released her. His bow was abrupt, almost perfunctory. His face betrayed nothing, but the tension in his frame was impossible to miss. Emma felt a pang—an ache she couldn’t name—as he turned and vanished into the crowd without a word.

The murmurs started immediately, a buzz of speculation swelling around her. She ignored them, the sense that something was deeply wrong pressing too heavily to care about gossip. 

She hesitated only for a breath before slipping through the throng, driven by instinct rather than logic. Outside on the terrace, the cool night air brushed her skin. A handful of couples lingered, stealing glances and whispers, but none paid her any mind. Emma waited just long enough to be certain no one followed before hurrying down the cobbled garden path.

Her eyes scanned the dim alcoves and shadowed corners where secrets and stolen moments thrived, her heart pounding with urgency as the faint echoes of muffled laughter and hushed voices faded into the stillness of the night. 

She pressed on, scanning the shadows for any sign of him. At first, she almost missed him—until her gaze landed on a stone bench near the conservatory’s entrance, half-concealed by tangled vines and deep shadow. There he was, a striking figure of dishevelment. His jacket and cravat lay discarded beside him, his fingers gripping the edge of the bench as though he might crush the stone beneath them. A sheen of sweat glimmered on his brow, his throat tight with tension, yet his stillness was almost unnerving, his breathing deep and controlled.  

A low, rugged sound escaped him—a groan that reverberated through the quiet garden and sent an unexpected ripple down her spine. Emma pressed a hand to her chest as if to steady herself, her eyes briefly closing under the weight of his suffering. Sympathy swelled in her throat, yet somehow a small, foolish smile tugged at her lips.

He had endured all of this—for a dance. But why? 

He shifted slightly, the shadows seeming to pull tighter around him, obscuring his face. Yet she felt the precise moment his gaze found her. Her breath caught, the ground beneath her suddenly feeling as unreliable as her pounding heart. Every nerve seemed acutely aware of him—the duke, raw and undone, yet still radiating a force that left her rooted to the spot.

He didn’t speak, but his silence carried a demand. The air between them thickened as his eyes roamed over her, unapologetic, stripping away propriety with every passing second. It wasn’t the gaze of a polished aristocrat—it was something far more primal, and it sent heat coursing through her in ways she couldn’t name.  

She glanced back toward the path, unease flickering at the edges of her awareness. The garden was quiet, secluded. Isolated. Her pulse quickened at the realization. But when her gaze returned to him, she found his intensity undiminished, his scrutiny sharper than before. It was as if he dared her to flee—or perhaps, to stay. 

Summoning her courage, she broke the tension with words, hoping to regain some measure of control. “You disappeared as though the devil himself were at your heels, Your Grace,” she said, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear in a gesture meant to steady her nerves. “I… thought it only right to ensure you were—well, that you were alright.”

Curiosity, thou art a fickle beast , she thought, cursing her inability to resist the pull of danger. From the moment their paths had crossed, an invisible tether had drawn her toward the duke—magnetic, intoxicating, and entirely unwise. To find herself alone with him now, in this shadowed garden, was nothing short of reckless. Perhaps it was that infamous rebellious streak—her mother’s favorite lament—that had sealed her fate. 

“Sit with me, Swan,” he said at last, his voice low, his gaze cutting toward an iron chair just barely touched by the glow of a nearby gas lamp. Positioned perfectly, of course, for him to observe her every reaction while remaining cloaked in shadow—a puppet master with an audience of one.  

A whisper of unease crept along her spine. The primal voice inside her hissed a warning: Leave . But she ignored it. The duke was an enigma wrapped in ice and fire, and against all logic, she was drawn to him. Slowly, she moved toward the chair, lowering herself with measured grace. The scent of jasmine and lilies, thick in the air, seemed to close in around them, a fragrant cage. 

“Is there anything I can do for you, Your Grace?” she asked, keeping her voice light, though the tension between them buzzed like a live wire. 

His lips quirked, amusement flickering in his eyes. “A rather dangerous question, Miss Swan. Are you offering absolution—or temptation?” 

Her smile was faint but sharp. “Neither, I’m afraid. Though I can’t help but notice you seem…in great pain.” 

His expression shifted, his amusement vanishing behind a wall of stone. For a moment, he was silent, his gaze hardening. “Leave me,” he said finally, his voice edged with a warning that was impossible to ignore. 

Impossible, but not compelling. Instead of retreating, Emma rose and crossed to the stone bench where he sat. She lowered herself beside him without invitation. The narrow bench left little room for decorum; his shoulder brushed hers, his clenched fist grazing her leg. She felt the tension radiating from him, a man wound so tightly he might shatter at the wrong word.

Heat coursed through her, but Emma stood her ground. She was no trembling debutante to flee at the first sign of discomfort—or danger. Whatever had driven him to endure such agony for the sake of a dance, she wouldn’t abandon him now. Whether it was to lift her status in the eyes of the ton or to reclaim some forgotten joy he’d once found on the ballroom floor, she could only guess. But leaving him alone in his torment wasn’t an option.   

The silence stretched between them, thick and relentless. His fingers flexed against the stone bench, knuckles white, his grip unyielding. A low groan slipped from his lips—a sound so raw and human that it tightened something in her chest—before it was swallowed by his iron will. 

Finally, he let go of the bench, his hand moving to his thigh, fingers digging into the muscle with a desperation that bordered on violence. Muted curses spilled from him, half-formed words aimed at some unseen foe. In the dim glow of the lamplight, she caught the rigid lines of pain etched across his face, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone. 

Her heart twisted. She couldn’t begin to grasp the depths of his agony, but his resolve to master it was staggering. It wasn’t just strength—it was defiance, a refusal to yield to anything, even his own body. The intimacy of the moment struck her, raw and unvarnished, as if she’d wandered into a space too personal to share. And yet, something stubborn and fiercely compassionate in her refused to retreat. She couldn’t leave him like this. 

Her nerves sparked, rebellious and unsteady, but she drew a steadying breath. I can do this , she told herself.   

Deliberately, she reached out, her movements careful, measured—like coaxing a wounded bird from a bramble. Her hand hovered just above his thigh, her hesitation only prolonging the intensity of his gaze. It burned into her, disbelief mingling with something far more dangerous, something unspoken and searing. The air between them crackled with tension, scandalous and unrelenting, but she refused to falter.

At last, she let her hand settle gently on his lower thigh. The contact was slight but unyielding, her touch both a question and an offering. 

Heat surged through her, a blaze that threatened to consume her resolve, but Emma didn’t pull back. The sheer audacity of her actions made her skin prickle, and she half-expected divine retribution—or at the very least, a sharp reprimand. Beneath her palm, his thigh was rigid, the muscles tight with both pain and pride, a battlefield of tension she could feel under her fingertips. His hand remained clenched, his knuckles stark white as if he could will the agony away through sheer force.   

Her gaze flicked upward, and their eyes locked. His stare hit her like a physical blow, searing through her composure. Her cheeks burned, a betraying flush that spread lower, igniting a warmth she couldn’t ignore. Still, she held his gaze, her own defiance tempered with concern. Instead of retreating, she leaned in, her fingers pressing deeper into the hard, unyielding muscle. 

He went rigid, his hand slipping from his thigh to hang limply at his side. The air between them thickened, dense with something unspoken but unmistakable. She could feel the tension winding tighter, wrapping around them like a tether, pulling them into some shared, inescapable gravity.

Emma’s hand moved with care, kneading the taut muscle beneath it, coaxing it to release its stubborn grip on his pain. The heat of his body under her touch made her stomach flip, a restless energy building with every passing second. His jaw was locked, his silence telling her everything she needed to know. This wasn’t just about pain. It was the shock of her defiance, her unwillingness to let propriety dictate her actions. The intimacy of it—so unguarded, so raw—had stolen his words as effectively as the pain had.

And then he found them. 

“You,” he began, his voice low and venomous, the single syllable more a growl than a word. “You are the most brazen, shameless, impudent—” The rest exploded from him, sharp and unforgiving, his fury slicing through the heavy night air. 

Emma froze, her hands suspended in midair as his words sliced through the charged silence. Her head snapped up, meeting his glare head-on. Gone was the mask, stripped away to reveal a face etched with raw fury and sharper edges than she’d imagined. Worse still, he was close—dangerously close. If either of them so much as breathed wrong, their lips might meet. The thought sent a jolt through her, twisting the tension in her gut tighter.  

“How dare you?” 

The words landed like ice on a flame, meant to extinguish, but instead they ignited something reckless in her. Defiance flickered in her gaze, and she shrugged, crafting an air of insouciance that belied the frantic rhythm pounding in her chest. “Are you not in pain, Your Grace? I thought I might help. My father kept horses—he swore by a firm hand to ease their aches after long rides. Surely this is no different.”   

His eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a rasp so jagged it practically scratched her skin. “Comparing me to a beast of burden now? Your audacity truly knows no bounds.” 

Her cheeks burned, but not from shame. No, the flush came from the sheer absurdity of the situation, from standing her ground when every instinct screamed for retreat. “If my audacity offends, perhaps you should be clearer about what you want,” she countered, her words sharper than she intended. The vulnerable edge in her voice was carefully tucked away, masked by a brazen tilt of her chin.

Silence stretched taut between them. He leaned back slightly, retreating into the shadow’s embrace, offering no answer but still radiating a storm of tension. Beneath her palm, his thigh remained a knot of unyielding muscle, his pain palpable despite his stoicism. She could have walked away—probably should have—but the thought of leaving him like this felt unbearable. Stubbornness won out.  

“Shall I stop, then?” she asked, quieter now, her words softer, almost hesitant. 

His lack of response spoke volumes, the tautness in his body refusing to ease. A strange mix of frustration and resolve flared in her chest. Without waiting for permission, Emma placed both hands firmly on his thighs, her fingers pressing into the unrelenting knots of muscle. She worked with careful, deliberate pressure, coaxing tension from flesh that refused to yield.   

Seconds slipped past, the quiet between them growing weightier with each beat. The tension in his frame ebbed, little by little, until the iron rigidity dissolved beneath her touch. Neither of them moved to end it—both, it seemed, reluctant to disturb the delicate thread of understanding that had bound them in the stillness. Then, slowly, his hand came to rest over hers, halting her movements.   

Emma’s breath caught, her eyes lifting to his shadowed face. Her heart pounded furiously, a traitor to her carefully maintained composure. 

“Thank you, Swan,” he said, his voice low, softer now, carrying a trace of something unfamiliar, unguarded. “The pain has eased.”

Her hands slid from his, though the absence left a strange flutter in her chest. “You’re welcome, Your Grace,” she replied, her tone tinged with wryness. “It seems my impudence wasn’t entirely wasted.”  

A faint twitch pulled at his lips—not quite a smile, but close enough to leave an impression, fleeting yet undeniable.   

Silence descended again, thicker this time, more intimate. Emma’s pulse quickened, her thoughts tangling as she wondered if she’d ever feel truly steady in his presence. They were opposites in every way—him all darkness and restraint, her drawn to light and defiance. The gap between them wasn’t just one of status; it was a chasm of temperament. She let out a quiet breath, her gaze wandering to the glimmering fountain in the distance, unwilling to meet his eyes while she felt so utterly unmoored.

“Why did you dance with me?” she asked softly, her voice barely more than a thread in the quiet.   

The pause stretched long enough to make her wonder if he’d answer at all. When he finally spoke, his reply was stark in its simplicity, almost disarming.

“I wanted to.”   

Her heart stumbled, the confession hitting harder than it had any right to. She tilted her head back, letting her gaze drift upward to the vast sky, its stars scattered like spilled jewels. The air felt cooler now, heavier with unspoken truths. “Was it worth it?”   

“Look at me.”

His quiet command gripped her, subtle yet unyielding. Emma tensed, her instincts caught between defiance and surrender, but in the end, she obeyed, lifting her gaze to his. “Come into the light,” she countered, her voice steady despite the rapid pulse betraying her nerves.  

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t. Then, with a deliberate move he dipped his head until their faces hovered scandalously close—dangerously intimate. The soft glow of the moon illuminated his features, throwing sharp shadows that only deepened his magnetism. With infuriating gentleness, he reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. 

Her heart somersaulted. Her knees threatened mutiny. She swallowed hard, her breath catching in her throat, scattering her thoughts like a startled flock of birds. Words bubbled at the back of her tongue—anything to break the spell—but none would come. 

Why, in the name of all that was sensible, had she followed him? 

“It was worth it,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her, velvet-smooth and maddeningly calm. “Thank you for the honor.”  

A gasp escaped her before she could stop it. Curse him and his ability to wield charm like a finely honed blade, cutting through her defenses with practiced ease. Her emotions churned, a chaotic dance she couldn’t quite master. Logic screamed at her to retreat—to pull away from this darkened corner before her resolve crumbled entirely. But something deeper, more stubborn, rooted her in place.  

Perhaps it was curiosity. Or the need to understand the enigma sitting before her. Weren’t connections—be they friendship or something else—built on peeling back the layers, on daring to ask questions no one else would?  

“Why did you stay away... from society?” The words came softly, tentative, as if she were testing the weight of them, unsure if they might shatter the fragile moment between them. 

His eyes flicked to hers, and for a heartbeat, something shifted in his expression. Surprise. Vulnerability, maybe. And then it was gone, replaced by the same unreadable calm.  

His voice, when it finally came, was low and unguarded, each word deliberate, as if pulled from a place he rarely let himself go. “Every time I thought of returning, society felt like a gilded cage—suffocating, shrinking until I couldn’t breathe. The memory of collapsing in the House of Lords... it clung to me, refusing to let go. Those men—friends, rivals, men who once envied me—they looked at me like I was broken, a relic to be pitied. Every scar felt like a failure, even when I knew better. Irrational, yes. But still, it weighed on me.”   

Emma didn’t move. Even her breath came carefully, as though any disruption might send him retreating back into his armor. His words carried no bitterness, no self-pity—only a stark, unflinching honesty that made her chest ache.   

“Eventually, I stopped caring about their pity, but by then, I had no taste for the games. The politicking, the endless dances, the need for a duchess to parade at my side—it all seemed meaningless. My letters carried more weight in Parliament than my presence ever could. And my sister... she needed me. That became my anchor. My purpose.”

His unspoken words hung in the air, heavy yet clear: until now. 

The quiet stretched, thick with the gravity of what he hadn’t said. His gaze lingered on her, softer now but no less piercing, filled with something unspoken that set her pulse racing. Emma felt the pull of it, a thread tightening between them, unseen but undeniable.   

She offered him a small, tender smile, her voice warm as she said, “Thank you for trusting me with that, Your Grace.” 

His eyes held hers, the corners of his mouth curving faintly into something unreadable but magnetic. “You have a beautiful smile, Swan.” 

His voice, deep and edged with something almost predatory, slid through her like a current, making her pulse falter. She struggled to catch her breath. "I—I... thank you," she managed, though her voice wavered as heat crept up her neck. 

“Tell me,” he murmured, his tone threaded with dangerous curiosity, “are Miss Swan - my fiancée - and Emma truly the same? Have you always been this bold, this... defiant?”   

Her breath caught. “Yes,” she admitted, the word so soft it felt like an unguarded confession. 

His smile was slow, deliberate, and utterly devastating, his eyes gleaming as if he’d just stumbled upon the most tantalizing riddle. “Then how has society managed to overlook such a force? It’s a wonder anyone could miss a flame like yours.” 

Her pulse spiked, but she refused to let him see her falter. “Perhaps because I didn’t let them look. To step into this role—your fiancée, charming the ton —I had to let that part of me show. Ladies are taught to hide their true selves, lest we offend delicate sensibilities.”  

“Ah,” he said, a low, satisfied sound, his gaze locking with hers. The weight of it sent a shiver rolling down her spine.  “So,” he drawled, his voice laced with mischief, “no regrets, then? Riding astride—twice. Attending Lady Vidrio’s ball without a corset. Or scaling a tree to rescue that helpless cat, much to the delight of a very grateful child?”   

Her mouth fell open, incredulous. “You’ve been reading the scandal sheets.” 

He leaned in, close enough that his presence consumed the space around her. His fingers skimmed her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw with a tenderness that felt at odds with the heat in his gaze. When his thumb brushed her lips, the contact lingered just long enough to send her pulse into a frenzy.  

A laugh almost escaped her—bright, startled—but she swallowed it down, her breath snagging on the way. Her heart thundered, her mouth dry as parchment. “Your Grace?” she murmured, as though even she didn’t know what she was asking.   

For a flicker of a moment, he looked as surprised as she felt, as if his boldness had caught even him off guard. It wasn’t calculated, his touch; it felt raw, instinctive, as though some ungovernable need had driven him to it. The heat of his fingers lingered, her skin flush and alive, every nerve alight with a tension she couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore.   

Without thinking, she turned her face toward his hand, her lips brushing the pulse at his wrist—a featherlight touch, barely there. Dear God . What had she done? The realization hit like a thunderclap. Her breath halted, her body stiffened, and she froze. So did he. The world seemed to hold its breath.   

Their eyes met, and the look in his—dark, intense, smoldering—pulled her like a riptide. Desire, unspoken but unmistakable, coursed between them, heady and undeniable. Memory surged, vivid and inescapable: their first kiss, the taste of him—coffee, rum, and something wickedly addictive.  

A traitorous flutter ignited low in her belly, spreading like wildfire through her limbs. Longing washed over her in waves—thrilling, terrifying, unstoppable. She wasn’t ready for this. She wasn’t ready for him . 

Panic struck like lightning, and before she could think, she bolted to her feet, the sudden distance a lifeline she grabbed with both hands. She moved quickly but not chaotically, mindful of decorum even in her retreat, though every nerve screamed at her to flee outright. She made it to the iron gate, her fingers brushing the latch, ready to escape this dangerous pull—when his voice broke through the night like a snare.   

“Swan.” 

She froze. One breath. Two. Three. Her pulse rioted in her chest. She turned her head slightly, her voice unsteady but not unkind. “Yes, Your Grace?”   

The silence stretched, impossibly taut, the unspoken weight between them humming like a string ready to snap.  

“We leave for Ireland in a few days,” he said at last, his words low and measured, but the undercurrent—the promise—was unmistakable. 

Her head dipped forward as if bracing against the storm that his words stirred within her. Ireland. Together. The possibilities—the peril—loomed large in her mind, leaving her breathless. 

“Very well,” she murmured, her voice steady though her pulse was anything but. She swallowed hard, her hand still gripping the latch. “We leave for Ireland.” 

Chapter Text

A week after Lady Mills’ ball, Emma found herself rattling along the road to Ireland with the Duke—enigmatic as ever—three days into their journey. Before leaving London, they had made a highly strategic appearance at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, a move designed to whip the ton into a veritable frenzy. And whip it did. If gossip were currency, their outing had made society rich.    

The Duke, cloaked in his signature black and gold half-mask, had played his part to perfection: the aloof, untouchable figure presiding over the theater like a distant god. From their shadowed, sumptuous box, his gaze seemed fixed on the play—a tragic tale of unrequited love and vengeance—but Emma had her doubts. Something in the angle of his jaw, the subtle tension in his hands, suggested his mind was elsewhere, though she couldn’t say where.

For Emma, the real performance wasn’t on stage but in the audience. The ton had practically unsheathed its quizzing glasses in unison, their collective scrutiny slicing through the dimly lit theater like the edge of a blade. Every glance was a silent interrogation, every whisper a new chapter of speculation. Was the Duke’s fiancée a sham? Was this some elaborate ploy? And—most damning of all—how had she managed to ensnare the most elusive bachelor in England?

It had taken her an agonizing few minutes to steel herself, to slip free of the suffocating web of judgment long enough to surrender to the world of greasepaint and illusion. Even then, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that her own life had become a second drama, playing out parallel to the one onstage.

When the final curtain fell, the Duke had escorted her home with all the courtesy required but none of the warmth implied. His silence was a wall she couldn’t climb, and despite her burning curiosity, she hadn’t dared to ask how it felt to return to the theater after so many years. 

She had tried once to break through, offering a harmless suggestion of visiting the museum before their departure. His answer—a curt “no”—had extinguished the conversation as effectively as snuffing a candle. 

As the carriage rattled through the misty moors, their dark trees looming like disapproving sentinels, Emma sighed—long and low, the sound of a woman thoroughly fed up. Three days trapped in this rolling gilded cage, her restless thoughts circling like caged birds, with only the Duke’s frosty aloofness for company, had her itching for escape. 

She peeked through the curtain, catching a fleeting glimpse of him ahead—a shadowy figure astride his towering stallion. He moved through the fog like something half-imagined, there one moment, swallowed the next. Occasionally, he galloped forward, a solitary silhouette against the grim sky, as if off to vanquish some invisible foe. Other times, he lagged behind, a brooding presence trailing the caravan. A maddening paradox on horseback—compelling and confounding in equal measure.   

It was almost laughable, the care he took to avoid her. If he’d painted No Emma Allowed signs on every door, the message couldn’t have been clearer. At each inn, he choreographed their routines like a tactician: separate dining arrangements, staggered schedules, and never so much as a shared glance over tea. His gallantry, however, was impeccable. She had the best rooms, a steady supply of meals she couldn’t finish, and Mrs. Mendell—a chatty, motherly widow who served as her temporary chaperone—riding cheerfully in the second coach. The Duke, it seemed, preferred his luggage and servants to her company, retreating to the other carriage whenever possible. 

It was all so excessively polite, so carefully distant, that it felt theatrical. Emma wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or throw something. Probably both. Worse, no matter how much she stewed, her thoughts kept dragging her back to that garden moment at Lady Mills’ ball. The tension, the almost-kiss that still haunted her. She’d cursed herself a hundred times for not bolting the second she felt the air shift between them. But in weaker moments, a traitorous question whispered through her mind: What if I’d stayed? What if she’d tilted her head just so, closed the agonizing inch between them, and let the impossible actually happen?

The memory burned so vividly it pulled her fingers to her lips, as if they could rewrite the moment—or maybe relive it. She shook herself, letting the curtain drop and leaning back into the plush, confining seat. There was no use pondering what-ifs when the Duke seemed determined to treat her like a specter he was trying to outrun.  

How utterly maddening that a kiss so fleeting—and practically puritanical—had managed to set up permanent residence in her thoughts, while the Duke, no doubt, had filed it under minor distractions . A negligible move in the endless chessboard of society’s games. Was she—Emma—of all people, reduced to a mere pawn in his labyrinth of schemes? The very idea made her want to fling something. Preferably at his perfectly composed, maddeningly unruffled head.  

I am not some simpering, moon-eyed debutante swooning over a man’s smoldering gaze and sharp cheekbones , she seethed inwardly. I have more sense. Far more . And yet, righteous indignation failed her at the crucial moment, yielding to a single, infuriating question: Then why can’t I stop thinking about him?    

A surge of irritation had her glaring out the window again, where the Duke rode ahead with the kind of effortless command that only deepened her annoyance. He barked something to the coachman, gesturing toward the horizon. Emma’s eyes followed and caught sight of the darkening sky. Clouds were gathering , heavy and ominous, promising a storm. Naturally. Ireland, she’d been told, had a fondness for rain, and apparently today it intended to show off.   

The carriage jolted forward, as though even it had grown bored with the journey. Emma let out a sharp breath, snapping the curtains shut and sinking back against the plush cushions with a decisive thud. Her thoughts, unwilling to give her a moment’s peace, leapt ahead to the uncertainties waiting at the Duke’s estate. Would he keep up this infuriating pantomime of aloofness? All that careful distance, those well-timed disappearances, as though she were some inconvenient storm cloud he was determined to outrun? 

She could practically feel the suffocating awkwardness of their future dinners. She, marooned at the far end of some absurdly long dining table, reduced to a decorative afterthought: poised, polite, and wholly ignored. The polished woodgrain would be her only companion while silence dripped from the ceiling like slow poison. Emma groaned inwardly, already bored to tears by the imaginary monotony of it all.  

Or worse—what if he had the gall to extend her stay? As if she’d meekly comply, trailing behind his frosty whims like a docile shadow. If he thought she’d roll over without a fight, he was in for a rude awakening. She’d lock horns with him until he rued the day he mistook her for a wilting flower. She could be stubborn, sharp, and unrelenting. A frostbitten gargoyle had nothing on her when she was properly provoked.  

With a dramatic sigh—for the benefit of no one but herself—Emma reached under the seat and fished out her valise. From its depths, she retrieved her battered copy of The Castle of Wolfenbach and flipped to her place. Let the winds howl, the ghosts wail, and the castles collapse—anything to drown out the maddening spiral of her thoughts.  

What was the point of dissecting the Duke’s glacial demeanor, or worse, replaying that kiss? He’d made himself clear: no proposals, no romantic overtures, no tortured confessions. That moment in the garden that kept looping in her mind like a bad aria? Irrelevant. The man was as romantically inclined as a block of granite. Let Ruby—and heaven forbid, her mother—wax poetic about reformed rogues and brooding aristocrats. Emma had no interest in those fantasies. She lived in reality, thank you very much.   

Her mission was practical, unsentimental, and entirely manageable: be his friend. Maintain the engagement charade for as long as necessary. Exit gracefully, reputation intact, heart unscathed. Simple. Dignified. Clean.  

Because friends don’t kiss. They don’t analyze every flicker of a smile or lose sleep over someone’s maddening silences. Friends certainly don’t entertain foolish daydreams about what might have happened if a kiss had been something more. 

If she stuck to the plan, everything would fall into place. Her family would be saved, her sisters’ futures secured, and her heart? It would remain firmly under her control. Emotions were a luxury she couldn’t afford and, frankly, didn’t need. 

Yes, the plan was perfect. Logical. Foolproof. 

She just had to follow it. 

Killian urged his horse forward, the wind tearing at his coat as storm clouds rolled in like an advancing army. The air thrummed with an electric charge, as if the sky itself shared in his turmoil. This wasn’t just a return to his ancestral home; it was an escape—a desperate flight from the gnawing doubts he couldn’t seem to shake. A man who prided himself on precision and control was now forced to confront the unsettling possibility that he’d acted like an utter fool. 

Whisking Emma Swan away to Ireland, far from the familiar rules and safeguards of her world? Reckless didn’t begin to cover it. The move was audacious, borderline idiotic—and one misstep away from utter disaster. The ton’ s appetite for scandal was legendary, and should even the faintest whiff of impropriety reach their sharpened noses, the fallout would be swift and merciless. His reputation could weather it; hers could not. 

What twisted the knife wasn’t the thought of his own name dragged through the mud. It was the thought of Emma—brilliant, bold, endlessly surprising Emma Swan—sacrificed on the altar of society’s judgment. The very idea of her fire being doused by the cruel, cloying whispers of the ton made his chest tighten. She wasn’t made to tiptoe through their petty games. Her light wasn’t meant to dim under the weight of their suffocating expectations. No, Emma Swan was a force meant to blaze, untamed and unapologetic. 

And damn it all, his thoughts always circled back to her. Emma Swan, with her effortless defiance and wit sharp enough to leave a man reeling. A woman who had gambled her own future for her family’s survival—a move as brave as it was reckless. She was a blend of biting humor and unshakable resolve, constantly keeping him on his toes, whether she meant to or not. 

And then there was her infuriating kindness, the sort that refused to yield even when it cost her. It wasn’t soft or fleeting; it was relentless, the kind that would drive her to carry burdens far heavier than anyone should bear. She was maddening. She was remarkable. She was nothing like anyone he’d ever encountered before. 

Right on cue, Killian yanked the reins, bringing his stallion to an abrupt halt. The horse snorted in protest, but he hardly noticed, his attention drawn instead to the relentless rumble of the carriages approaching behind him. The pounding hooves seemed to jeer at him, mocking the ironclad certainty he’d once worn like armor but now felt slipping away thread by thread. 

He tilted his gaze skyward, meeting the storm with a scowl. The heavens churned dark and furious, as if nature herself had conspired to dramatize his current predicament. A storm in May—how unbearably ironic. Omen or insult, he couldn’t decide. 

A cold raindrop splattered against his cheek, dragging him out of his thoughts. He muttered a curse as another followed, sharp as ice. The estate was at least an hour away, and the road ahead was already threatening to dissolve into mud. The wind shrieked through the trees, rattling branches like they were seconds from splintering. And then, as if to hammer the point home, his top hat sailed off, spinning into the tempest with infuriating grace. 

Killian gritted his teeth, spurred his horse onward, and ignored the chill clawing its way through his coat. He could handle the rain, the cold, the muck. What he couldn’t handle—what he wouldn’t—was the temptation waiting inside the carriage.  

The second coach—his occasional concession to practicality over pride—had gone ahead earlier, likely already waiting at the castle with his wheeled chair and canes tucked neatly inside. He’d refused to ride in it, despite his manservant’s muttered protests. Limping home in defeat? Over his dead body. No, he’d arrive on his own terms, rain, pain, and sheer stubbornness be damned.    

The storm, naturally, had other ideas. With all the subtlety of a tavern brawl, it let loose in a torrent. Rain lashed down in icy sheets, soaking through his coat, pooling in his boots, and doing its best to drown what was left of his resolve. Killian gritted his teeth and barked a command to the coachman, bringing the convoy to a halt.

Sliding off his horse, he swallowed a groan as pain flared up his spine and spread through his legs like fire. He paused, letting the rain disguise the tension carving lines into his jaw. It was a familiar battle—his body’s rebellion versus his willpower—and he’d be damned if he let it win.

“I’ll ride with Miss Swan the rest of the way,” he announced, voice sharp enough to cut through the gale. He started toward the lead carriage, each step stiff but determined. “Hitch Roger to the back. We’re not charging through this storm like fools.” 

Marco, the coachman, sprang into action with an enthusiasm that immediately raised suspicion. He moved with an efficiency that felt just a touch too smug, his work punctuated by a grin that made Killian’s eyes narrow. And then, to top it all off, the cheeky bastard winked . 

Killian scowled, the kind of scowl that should have sent lesser men running. Marco, of course, was not a lesser man. He was infuriatingly immune to reprimand, discipline, and threats of termination—a wily survivor whose competence made him indispensable and whose cheek made him intolerable. For days, the coachman had been dropping hints about how much time his master ought to be spending with Miss Swan, as though Killian required lessons in propriety from someone who thought winking was professional behavior.    

That morning, Killian had suggested, in a tone so polite it verged on homicidal, that Marco might prefer life without his tongue. Marco had laughed. Naturally. And worse, the old rogue had carried on as though the threat were part of their usual banter. 

When the carriage steps finally clattered into place, Killian climbed aboard, trailing rainwater and the unmistakable air of a man conceding defeat under duress. Miss Swan’s reaction was swift but subtle—her eyes widened, her lips parted just enough to catch a breath, and her book slipped from her hands, forgotten in her lap. The picture of composure undone by a single, soaking-wet duke. 

“Your Grace…” she began, her gaze darting briefly to the storm outside, as though trying to puzzle out whether the weather alone justified this intrusion. 

“Miss Swan,” he replied, his voice smooth and unruffled, as though he weren’t currently dripping on the upholstery. “I trust you’ll forgive me for imposing on your solitude. It seems I’ve little choice but to beg the favor of your company for the remainder of this journey.”  

And then she smiled. Not a broad, performative grin, but something small and devastating—just the faintest curve of her lips, the kind of smile meant to exist between two people and no one else. It cut through him with startling precision, like a blade sliding through armor he hadn’t realized was weak.

How the bloody hell does she do that? His pulse betrayed him with a sharp, unsteady rhythm. 

“I see you were forced to join me,” she teased, her gaze darting to the window where the rain lashed with single-minded determination. Mischief lit her eyes, bright and unapologetic, daring him to rise to the bait.    

Killian grunted, a sound that landed squarely between annoyance and reluctant amusement. Naturally, this only made her grin widen, an expression of audacious delight that seemed designed to test the limits of his composure. That grin, he thought darkly, was Emma Swan in a nutshell—impossible to ignore, completely uncontainable, and utterly maddening.   

It wasn’t just her defiance; it was the way she carried it, as though she’d abandoned the shackles of convention and decided to rewrite the rules herself. That was the heart of it, wasn’t it? She was different . The women he usually encountered moved with careful deliberation, as though navigating an invisible map charted by their families and society. Predictable. Restrained. Safe.  

Miss Swan, though? She was anything but. She was a force of nature wrapped in silk and wit—a gale that didn’t just blow through his orderly existence but threatened to rip it apart.

The memory of the garden ambushed him, sharp and unrelenting. It wasn’t just the act itself, though it had caught him so off guard he hadn’t recovered since. It was the sheer audacity of her. He had anticipated everything but that—the poised, proper Emma Swan shattering his expectations in a single, breathtaking moment. It had left him unmoored, like a soldier stripped of his armor in the heat of battle.  

And then there was the theater. Even there, with the collective judgment of the ton bearing down on her like a predator circling its prey, she hadn’t faltered. While he brooded in silence, wrestling with his own demons, she had stood her ground. More than that—she had owned the moment. Under the weight of a thousand cutting glances and whispers, she hadn’t just endured - she had thrived. She turned their scrutiny into a weapon, wielding her poise like a blade and daring anyone to challenge her.  

Amidst it all, as he wrestled with the raw ache in his body and soul, one urge had burned brighter than the rest: to kiss her. Not out of some calculated decision or fleeting fancy, but with a need so raw it eclipsed even the persistent pain in his body.    

The hunger hadn’t abated. It clawed at him, relentless and maddening, urging him to close the infuriating distance between them. He wanted to cup her face, trace the line of her lips with his own, and let the inferno of her kiss burn propriety to ash. He wanted to drown in the scent of her, the reality of her, until nothing else existed. 

This pull defied every ounce of reason. Emma Swan was a world away from the glittering belles who’d once dominated his wilder days—the polished diamonds of the ton who charmed, schemed, and sparkled through endless quadrilles. Back then, his name had been a byword for scandal, his conquests whispered about with equal parts envy and disapproval. His engagement to Lady Milah had been the crowning glory of that era: an alliance of beauty, pedigree, and enviable status. 

Milah had been everything the world expected of a future duchess—graceful, composed, unfailingly elegant. And yet, beneath her surface perfection, there had been an unspoken distance, a cool reserve he’d never cared to breach. She had been a mystery he felt no need to solve, a story he wasn’t tempted to read beyond the title. 

Emma Swan was a different tale altogether. She wasn’t a mystery; she was a challenge, sharp and electrifying, a riddle that refused to be ignored. Every word she spoke, every defiant glance, demanded his attention, sparking a curiosity that reached far beyond fleeting infatuation. She wasn’t a diversion—she was an upheaval. 

She wasn’t just different. She was necessary. A jolt to a soul dulled by years of detachment. When she was near, the hollow ache that had taken up residence inside him fell silent, replaced by something far more dangerous: hope. 

But how long could hope hold against reality? Against the ghosts of his past and the scars that had carved him into the man he was now? How long before the weight of who he could never be crushed it completely? 

A delicate sound—her soft clearing of her throat—dragged him out of the tangle of his thoughts. He blinked, reorienting himself, only to be caught by the blush creeping across her cheeks. It deepened in the dim light, utterly arresting. 

“You’re staring, Your Grace,” she said, her tone straddling the line between amusement and warning. One perfectly arched brow lifted, daring him to deny it—or perhaps to double down if he felt bold enough. 

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. She could try to play unruffled, but the deepening flush gave her away. And honestly, how could he look anywhere else? 

“Surely you know how beautiful you are,” he murmured, the words sliding out with calculated ease. He watched the surprise flicker in her eyes, quickly chased by indignation. Perfect . 

She rolled her eyes. Actually rolled them. As if he were some tiresome child instead of a duke with an impeccable reputation for composure. The irreverence was so unexpected, so perfectly her, that he chuckled—rich and unguarded.  

“You disagree?” he teased, leaning in just enough to pull her gaze back to his. 

Her hesitation was brief but telling. “I think I’m... pretty,” she said softly, as though confiding a secret. “I’ve been told my eyes are lovely. But ‘beautiful’? That feels... generous.”

Her honesty hit him like a splash of cold water. How could she not see it? “Lovely doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he countered, his voice dipping into a quiet murmur meant just for her. “Your eyes are extraordinary. Especially when they’re flashing with that fire of yours. Or,” he added, his tone turning wicked, “when they were practically begging me to kiss you.” 

Her breath hitched—so faint it could have gone unnoticed if he weren’t hanging on her every move. Her lips parted, caught between a retort and disbelief, and just like that, his pulse quickened. For all her sharp wit and bold defiance, she seemed blissfully unaware of the sheer gravity she carried. 

Emma Swan wasn’t just beautiful. The word was too pedestrian, too trite to capture her. She was radiant. 

Killian let a laugh roll out, rich and deliberately taunting. “Was it the word beg that ruffled your feathers?” he asked, his voice laced with mock innocence, though the spark in his eyes was anything but. Her reaction was feeding him, and they both knew it.  

She growled—not a delicate, ladylike sound, but something raw, simmering with rebellion. Her head tilted sharply, her movements as deliberate as a predator sizing up its prey. The flash of heat in her eyes might have sent a weaker man into retreat. For Killian? It was nothing short of thrilling. She wasn’t retreating; she was gearing up for war. 

He really should stop. He knew he should. But she was utterly intoxicating, her spirit so wild and electric it was impossible to look away. Watching her was like standing on the edge of a storm—charged, exhilarating, and wholly unpredictable. Her expressions flickered and shifted like the wind: a spark of annoyance, the blaze of a challenge, and—just beneath it all—a trace of vulnerability so fleeting he might have missed it if he weren’t so completely enraptured.

And like the fool he was, he pushed further. Her fire might consume him, but there was no stepping away now. 

Fate, with its impeccable timing, decided to make its move. The carriage jolted violently, tilting just enough to turn her startled gasp into a full-blown stumble. Before she could fall, Killian’s arms shot out, catching her and pulling her firmly against him. The motion was instinctual, precise and entirely too effective. 

For a fleeting moment, the storm raging outside became nothing more than background noise. All he could focus on was the warmth of her body pressed against his, the rapid cadence of her breath, and the faint scent of lavender and rain clinging to her skin. Her heartbeat thundered against his chest, matching his own in a rhythm that drowned out everything else. 

The moment didn’t last. The carriage door creaked open, snapping the tension like a cold bucket of water. Marco’s face appeared, dripping wet and framed by the swirling chaos of the storm. His expression was a masterpiece of disgruntled apology, as though the universe itself had taken personal delight in inconveniencing him.  

“A tree’s toppled across the road, Your Grace,” Marco declared, flicking water from his hat with theatrical resignation. “No getting through, not unless one of youse hiding a saw somewhere on your person.”  

Killian hissed a curse under his breath, his irritation barely concealing the far more potent distraction of Emma still pressed against him. This wasn’t ideal. At all. 

He shifted, carefully easing her upright, though the memory of her closeness clung stubbornly to his senses. With a sharp glance, he surveyed their surroundings. The moors stretched endlessly around them, bleak and unforgiving under the onslaught of rain. Not a soul in sight. No shelter, no options, just miles of desolate wilderness and a storm determined to make their lives miserable.

Marvelous. Just bloody marvelous. 

“What are our options?” Killian asked, though he was already bracing for an answer that would rival the storm in sheer misery.

Marco, perpetually unbothered, shrugged with a casualness that bordered on infuriating. “We could try the bridge,” he said, as though suggesting they detour for tea. “Bit of a longer route, but it’s doable.” 

Killian’s expression darkened into a thundercloud of its own. That bridge. The one that looked like it had been built on a dare and maintained with crossed fingers and good intentions. He could already picture its warped planks, slick with rain, stretching over a river that, by now, was surely a raging monster eager to swallow them whole. The bridge was, in theory, slated for repairs—but the local engineers seemed to have adopted a “let nature handle it” philosophy. 

“‘Doable,’ you say,” Killian repeated, his voice dry enough to rival the desert. “When, exactly, was the last time you crossed it?” 

Marco scratched his chin with theatrical deliberation, as though recalling the plot of an old epic. “Last week, Your Grace. Held up just fine.”  

“Fine,” Killian echoed, his tone dripping with skepticism. “A glowing endorsement. That bridge is held together by splinters and stubbornness. If the river’s risen with this downpour, we’ll be lucky to make it across without ending up as fish bait.”

Marco, unfazed by the grim prediction, slammed the carriage door shut with an almost jaunty finality. Moments later, the vehicle lurched forward, its wheels fighting against the sucking grip of the mud as rain hammered against the windows in relentless fury.  

“We’re close, then?” she asked, her voice soft but steady, a stark contrast to the chaos raging around them.  

Killian’s gaze stayed fixed on the dismal path ahead. “Less than an hour,” he said, though his tone suggested he wasn’t taking bets. Fortune, after all, had likely decided to sit this one out.  

A quiet sigh slipped from her, carrying more weight than she likely realized. “I must admit,” she said softly, her hesitation threading each word, “I’ve no idea what lies ahead.” 

Killian tilted his head, her honesty disarming. “That makes two of us.”  

Her gaze flicked toward him, sharp with curiosity and just a hint of humor. “That’s strangely reassuring—knowing even you, with all your brooding certainty, are as clueless as I am.”

His laugh came low and warm, filling the narrow space between them. “Happy to be of service.”

“It’s true,” she continued, her eyes bright with mischief. “It’s a relief to think you haven’t masterminded some nefarious plot to do away with me in the Irish wilderness.”

His lips curved, unable to hide his amusement. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m simply undecided about what to do with you once my villainous plots have run their course. Even the most wicked scoundrel must draw the line somewhere.” 

Her laughter rang out, bright and unrestrained, cutting through the storm like sunlight through clouds. For a moment, the tempest beyond the carriage felt distant, no match for the warmth her joy ignited. It amazed him how easily she could shift the air between them, as though her laughter alone could bend reality.

“You’re teasing me,” she accused, her smile as lively as her voice. 

“Perhaps,” he admitted, his grin lingering, a reluctant but willing traitor. 

The fragile peace shattered with brutal swiftness. The carriage jerked violently, slamming them against the walls.

“What in blazes—?” Killian snapped, gripping the bench to keep from sprawling.

The carriage groaned, tilting at a sickening angle, the tortured creak of strained wood a harbinger of disaster. Then it came—the bone-deep sound of splintering as the bridge surrendered to the storm’s fury. 

In an instant, the world dropped away. The carriage hung for a fleeting, weightless moment before gravity claimed its prize. They plunged, the chaos of the storm overtaken by the thunderous roar of the river rising to greet them. Ice-cold water crashed in, swallowing them whole with merciless speed.

Chapter Text

Emma struggled to hold her panic at bay as the duke wrestled furiously with the stubborn carriage door, their elegant vehicle now reduced to a waterlogged tomb. The icy water rose swiftly, turning the opulent coach into a perilous trap. The pressure from the flood made it nearly impossible to wrench the door free. She clawed her way to his side, adding what little strength she could muster to the battle. With a groan of protest and one final, desperate heave, the door finally gave way, and they were both sucked into the raging, bone-chilling current. 

The shock of the water hit her like a sledgehammer, ripping the breath from her lungs in a searing, agonized gasp. Emma flailed, hands clawing at the water, searching for anything solid. Her fingers finally latched onto a splintered piece of the sinking carriage. It was a fragile lifeline, submerging quickly beneath the relentless weight of the flood, but it was all that kept her from being swallowed by the roaring river. 

Rain lashed across her face like shards of ice, each drop a stinging reminder of their peril. She blinked furiously, trying to clear her vision, but the sheets of rain and furious torrents made it near impossible to see anything beyond the chaos. Somewhere in the distance, the coachman’s frantic shouts were barely audible, his voice drowned by the furious roar of the water and the ominous roll of thunder echoing overhead. 

"Can you swim?" The duke's voice cut through the madness, sharp and clear, as he appeared beside her, his eyes blazing with urgency. 

Panic surged anew, a fresh wave of terror crashing over her. "No!" she gasped, her voice nearly swallowed by the storm. "Can you?" 

Whatever his answer was, it disappeared into the wind. In a heartbeat, he twisted in the water, locking his arms around her waist with a strength that both steadied and terrified her. The riverbank was agonizingly close now, just out of reach, separated by the merciless current that fought them at every turn. 

Desperate to help, Emma kicked her legs, trying to push them forward. But a feral growl ripped through the air—"Bloody hell, stop moving!"  

They plunged beneath the surface, the world going eerily silent save for the furious roar of the water surrounding her. The weight of her drenched gown, with its cursed layers of petticoats, dragged her down like an anchor to the depths. And yet, panic never fully seized her—somehow, in the core of her being, she knew he would not let her drown. Another powerful stroke, and they broke free of the water’s grip, gasping for air as the riverbank drew nearer. 

A mad, breathless giggle escaped her—half hysteria, half disbelief—as Killian's hands, unapologetically firm, gripped her backside and hoisted her up the slick embankment with far more brute force than finesse. Emma clawed at the muddy slope, fingers digging into the thick, sodden moss, hauling herself out of the river’s relentless clutches. Soaked and breathless, she whirled around to extend a hand to him. 

But he was already swimming back—toward the sinking wreckage of the carriage now nearly swallowed by the ravenous waters. 

"Killian!" she screamed, her voice a desperate plea, cutting through the wind’s relentless howl. 

He didn’t spare a glance behind him. Instead, Killian pushed forward, slicing through the tumultuous waters toward Marco, who was already waist-deep, frantically working to unhook the horses. The animals were near panic, eyes wild and rolling, their shrill cries barely piercing the storm’s deafening roar. Emma’s entire body trembled as she watched, powerless, while the duke wrestled against the chaos. Together, he and Marco freed the stallions from their doomed harnesses, sending the massive creatures thrashing toward the riverbank. With a sharp slap to their flanks, they surged forward, their muscled bodies heaving through the current until they clambered onto solid ground, slick and shivering but safe.  

And then, as if the river had finally claimed its due, the carriage was gone—sucked into the ravenous depths with terrifying finality. Emma’s breath caught in her throat as her eyes widened in horror, catching sight of Marco vanishing beneath the swirling torrent. 

Oh, dear God!

Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat like a drum of terror. Marco was lost beneath the churning water, and then, without any warning, Killian disappeared too, swallowed whole by the river’s wrath. Fear clamped down on her like a vise, and her hands shook violently as she frantically scanned the surface, every passing second an eternity. The rain lashed her face, blinding her, the icy sting of it mixing with her panic, but still she searched, desperate, pleading silently for their return. 

And then, through the relentless onslaught, Killian broke the surface, gasping for air and dragging Marco’s limp form with him. A ragged sob of relief tore from her chest, but the victory was fleeting. He was struggling, his strong strokes slowed to near exhaustion, weighed down by the unconscious coachman and the brutal current threatening to pull them both under again. 

Panic flared in her chest, fierce and scorching, but desperation was a sharper guide. Emma seized a nearby tree branch, her fingers locking around it like a lifeline, the bark digging into her palms as she thrust the other end into the roiling water. Without hesitation, she plunged into the icy depths once more, the cold biting viciously at her skin, forcing a sharp gasp from her lungs. 

Her feet found purchase on the riverbed—a fragile mercy amid the chaos. Clutching the branch with white-knuckled determination, she felt it groan under the strain, threatening to snap, but still, she pressed forward. Inch by precarious inch, she waded into the churning waters, bracing herself against the relentless current as it swirled higher, creeping up her body until it lapped menacingly at her chin.  

Killian’s gaze caught hers, his eyes dark and intense, a flicker of both warning and relief. He shouted something, but the storm’s howling winds devoured his words before they reached her. It didn’t matter. She could see his determination mirrored in her own. With renewed strength, he kicked furiously, inching toward her with the unconscious coachman in tow.

As he neared, Emma stretched out her trembling hand, fingers plunging into the icy waters to grasp the sodden fabric of Marco’s coat. Her grip tightened, willing the man to stay afloat as she tugged him toward her. Killian groaned, his muscles trembling with exhaustion as he finally stood, waist-deep in the frigid river. Together, they lifted Marco’s head above the water, their combined effort a dance of urgency and survival as they dragged him toward the bank. 

Each step was a war against the crushing weight of the coachman, the river’s furious tug, and the numbing cold that leeched their strength with every second. Emma’s body screamed in protest, but she pushed on, the only thing driving her forward was sheer grit.  

When they reached the embankment at last, Emma shoved Marco’s weight onto Killian and, using the branch once more, hauled herself up the slick slope. Her hands slipped and fumbled, mud and moss making the task near impossible, but with every muscle screaming, she finally made it onto solid ground. Panting heavily, she turned back to help, her hands grasping Marco’s soaked coat, her arms straining as they pulled him free from the river’s icy clutches.  

With one final, bone-weary heave, Killian shoved Marco onto the muddy bank, then dragged himself up after them. He collapsed beside her, chest heaving, soaked to the bone and breathless, the river still roaring behind them as if furious at having lost its prey.

A low, guttural groan rumbled from his throat as he forced himself upright, his gaze locking onto hers with a fierce, unyielding intensity. The fine lines of pain etched around his mouth bore silent witness to the ordeal he'd just endured.    

"Thank you," he rasped, his voice frayed but laced with raw sincerity. "Not many would risk drowning, especially when they can't swim, to save a servant."  

Emma blinked, his words landing with a weight that almost defied belief. "It's a kindness I’d offer to anyone," she murmured, her tone humble, though she couldn’t quite smother the quiet thrum of pride that echoed in her chest. Instinctively, her hand moved of its own accord, brushing lightly across his brow, sweeping wet strands of hair away from his forehead. "You're in pain," she said softly, her voice dipping into something tender. "I can see it in your eyes."  

He stiffened, his gaze sharpening like flint. "It's nothing," he ground out, the shutters coming down as swiftly as they’d opened. But before she could retract her hand, he did something entirely unexpected—he leaned forward and pressed a featherlight kiss to her forehead. The contact was fleeting, yet it unleashed a bewildering rush through her veins—a collision of ice and fire that left her stunned in its wake. 

There was no chance to react before he turned away, the moment vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. His focus shifted back to the motionless figure sprawled in the mud, all business now. "We need to get him out of the rain," he ordered, his voice strained with something deeper than mere exhaustion. In one fluid motion, he hoisted the old coachman onto his shoulder with the practiced strength of a man well-versed in such labor, leaving Emma scrambling to follow as they made their way toward the shelter of the forest, far from the treacherous waters of the ruined bridge.  

The woods, thick with towering oaks and tangled branches, offered a semblance of sanctuary from the storm’s relentless fury. The air was rich with the scent of wet pine, earthy oakmoss, and rain-soaked earth, mingling in a heady, grounding perfume. The grass beneath the trees was thick, plush—an oasis compared to the chaos that had ravaged the riverbank moments before. 

The duke knelt, easing the unconscious coachman to the ground with a gentle precision that belied the raw force he'd used to carry him. His jaw clenched as he pressed an ear against the man’s chest, his features hard with concentration, each second ticking away like the beat of a distant drum. The storm still raged, but here, beneath the ancient boughs, time seemed to slow, the world shrinking to the sound of shallow breaths and the desperate hope that Marco's weren’t the last he'd draw. 

For a long, agonizing moment, there was nothing but the relentless patter of rain and the mournful whisper of wind through the trees. Then, slowly, he straightened, turning to face her with eyes hollowed by a grief far deeper than mere physical exhaustion. 

"One foolish decision," he murmured, his voice raw, every word dripping with a sorrow that cut through the air like the sharpest blade, "and a good man is lost." 

The shock hit Emma like a physical blow, as if the storm itself had turned on her. "He’s… dead?" she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief, the weight of the words crashing over her like a bitter, unforgiving wave.  

Without a word, the duke crouched again, his ear close to the coachman’s chest, his lips hovering near the man's mouth as though willing breath to stir once more. The tension between them thickened, suspended in the air like the last fragile thread of hope. But after a moment that stretched on too long, he sat back, the finality in his gaze more damning than any pronouncement. "No heartbeat. No breath. No warmth. He’s gone."  

For an eternity, neither of them moved. The world itself seemed to pause, holding its breath alongside them, the space between them heavy with the cruel weight of tragedy. 

Emma’s throat tightened, her pulse pounding in her ears. "It can’t be… true," she stammered, her voice barely more than a whisper. "This is… this is dreadful." 

Her chest twisted painfully at the sight of the duke’s naked grief, his agony laid bare. “He has a family—a wife, children... grandchildren," he choked out, each word weighted with the aching knowledge of lives forever shattered.  

"I..." Her voice faltered, the senselessness of it all lodging like a stone in her throat. "I'm so sorry."  

The duke dragged a trembling hand down his face, his features etched in raw torment, eyes clouded with guilt that gnawed at his soul. "Why?" he muttered bitterly, as though the question itself could undo the horror of the moment. "Why did I risk that damned bridge?" 

The anguish in his voice was a sharp blade, slicing through her with merciless precision. Without thinking, Emma sank to her knees beside him, the sodden earth be damned. Gently, she laid a tentative hand on his broad, rain-soaked shoulder, her touch featherlight in the face of such overwhelming grief. "I’m so terribly sorry, Your Grace," she whispered, though the words felt woefully inadequate, fragile as they were against the immensity of loss. The old coachman—gruff, irritable, and so very alive just moments ago—now reduced to silence. "I am truly sorry," she repeated, though it seemed a paltry offering to the storm of sorrow swirling between them.  

"God damn you!" The duke’s roar tore through the air, sudden and savage, shattering the fragile quiet like glass. His fist came crashing down onto the lifeless chest with a force that made Emma flinch. Again, he struck, though this time with less fury, the blow a desperate echo of the first. She opened her mouth, a plea forming on her lips to stop him before the madness consumed him, but then—something impossible happened. 

A finger twitched. 

Emma gasped, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle the scream that threatened to escape. 

“What is it?” The duke’s voice was sharp, his gaze snapping up with the alert precision of a soldier ready for battle, scanning the shadowed woods for any threat. 

“I…I thought he moved,” she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs as if trying to escape the very idea. The storm clouds swirled ominously overhead, the woods around them unnervingly still, and for one irrational moment, every gothic tale she'd ever read seemed to claw its way into her mind. 

His focus darted back to the coachman. Without a word, he bent down, his ear pressed once more to the man's chest, the tension stretching out into what felt like an eternity. Finally, he pulled back, his eyes closing as the reality of the moment carved deeper lines into his face. "No…he didn’t," he said, the words flat, devoid of hope, but his expression was anything but. It was grief, pure and unrelenting, written in every hard line of his face. "He’s gone."  

"Are you certain?" she asked, her voice barely audible, though she already knew the answer. It was etched in the hollow look in his eyes, the despair that hung between them like a veil. 

"Aye," he murmured, bowing his head as though offering a silent, sorrowful prayer to the heavens.  

A dense silence fell over them, thick and stifling, like the weight of unshed words. Emma struggled for something— anything —to ease the raw, jagged wound of loss that still hung in the air. “Your Grace… perhaps we should—”  

A low groan cut her off, rising from the still body at their feet. Emma's heart stuttered, her eyes widening in disbelief. The coachman twitched again, and in her blind panic, she clutched the duke’s shoulder, attempting to pull herself upright. But her limbs betrayed her, and she tumbled backward, landing in the mud with all the grace of a barrel rolling downhill. She rolled, arms flailing, until she finally came to a halt, staring up at the sky in dazed disbelief.  

With an indignant huff, she scrambled to her knees, fighting the slippery muck that clung to her like a second skin. “Did you see that he moved?” she shouted, her voice tinged with incredulity as she pointed toward the twitching form of the coachman. 

The duke’s face mirrored her astonishment, his gaze flicking from her mud-covered self to the once-dead man. Marco, with a sudden, violent jerk, shot upright, coughing up what seemed like half the river. With a rasping growl, he turned onto his side, scowling fiercely. After a few ungraceful, hacking coughs, he wiped his mouth and fixed the duke with a baleful glare. "Did you really have to hit so damn hard, Your Grace?" he grumbled, his voice hoarse but very much alive. 

The duke, still catching his breath from the ordeal, arched a brow, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Yes," he said, his tone gruff but tinged with undeniable satisfaction. "And I must say, Marco, I’m quite pleased to see you’ve rejoined the living." 

He then turned his gaze to Emma, his eyes gleaming with mischief. The tension melted from his features, and before she could brace herself for the onslaught, a deep, thunderous laugh rumbled from him. It was a rich, booming sound, filled with relief, cutting through the storm like sunlight through dark clouds. "Tell me, Swan," he said, barely able to contain his mirth, "did you, by any chance, think Marco had risen from the dead?" 

Emma's cheeks burned with the kind of heat that reached all the way to the tips of her ears, humiliation wrapping itself around her like a corset laced too tight. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she snapped, her temper flaring with the ferocity of a candle snuffed too soon. “I do not think laughter is quite the proper response, Your Grace!”  

Though his expression sobered, the unmistakable glint of amusement still sparkled in his eyes. “Ah, Swan,” he said, his voice softening but still laced with mischief, “you’ve brightened an otherwise catastrophic day. I daresay this moment will stay with me far longer than you'd like." 

With what little dignity remained, Emma struggled to her feet, slipping slightly in the thick mud that clung to her boots like a persistent suitor. Her gown, once the epitome of elegance, was now a sodden disaster; mud plastered to the hem and tendrils of her once-impeccable coiffure clung to her forehead in limp, bedraggled strands. She had never felt less composed, less herself , and yet there the duke was—still sprawled in the mud, his shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter. 

To make matters worse, Marco, who had finally managed to recover from his coughing fit, stood and surveyed the pair of them with a bemused grin tugging at his weathered features. “We’re not far from Greg’s cottage, Your Grace,” he rasped, offering the duke a hand to help him up.  

To Emma’s absolute astonishment, the duke accepted not just the hand but pulled the coachman into a rough, heartfelt embrace—an embrace that would send shockwaves through polite society were anyone else to witness it. Emma stood rooted to the spot, staring at the pair as though she had stumbled upon something private, something sacred. It was scandalous, yes, but it was also… human . The affection between them, unguarded and genuine, was a rarity in her world, and it stirred something deep inside her—something unfamiliar, a flutter she couldn’t quite name. 

She swallowed against the lump forming in her throat as the duke, far from the distant and brooding figure she had known, exchanged a low chuckle with Marco, thumping the man’s back with a warmth that radiated from him like the sudden emergence of the sun after a storm. It was a moment that upended everything she thought she knew about the duke—his impenetrable exterior cracked, revealing a tenderness, a shared history that transcended the barriers of rank. 

Marco muttered something gruff in return, his words lost to the wind, but the duke’s rich laugh followed, resonating through the rain-drenched air. 

“That we are,” the duke replied, a mischievous gleam sparking in his eyes. “Best move on before we change our minds.” Then, in one fluid, almost too-casual gesture, he extended his hand to her. “Come, Swan. Shelter’s not far off.” 

Emma hurried to his side, heart lifting at the promise of a reprieve from the relentless deluge. Without a word, he shrugged off his soaked jacket, draping it over her head in one seamless motion, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Her pulse faltered;she couldn't help but notice how the rain had sculpted his waistcoat to his frame, emphasizing the taut, unmistakable lines of muscle beneath. There was an earthy, raw elegance to him now, a primal energy that tugged at something deep within her.  

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely audible against the drumbeat of the storm. Nestling into the jacket, she thought she caught the faintest trace of him—an intoxicating blend of rain-soaked earth and something warm, like cedarwood. The scent wrapped around her, disarming in its familiarity. 

Fate, with its impeccable timing, chose that very moment to trip her up. Before she could even process her stumble, his arms were there, strong and steady, catching her as if he’d been expecting it. 

“Slippery, isn’t it?” His voice was low, thick with amusement, sending a ripple of awareness down her spine. A rush of heat bloomed in her belly, utterly unbidden but impossible to ignore. 

Before she could conjure a response, he took her hand—his fingers threading through hers with a quiet authority that sent her pulse skittering. His palm, large and warm, enveloped her smaller one, their connection both startling and strangely intimate. For a brief moment, she could do nothing but stare at their joined hands, her mind struggling to make sense of how something so simple could feel so... significant. 

With a gentle tug, he led her forward, their steps falling into an easy rhythm, the rain-soaked world around them blurring into insignificance. Each footfall seemed to stir something unfamiliar inside her, a quiet thrill that swelled with every step. It was absurd, of course—just a fleeting touch of hands—but it felt like a shift. The kind of subtle, seismic shift that tilts the world on its axis, leaving everything changed. 

As they trudged through the muddy forest, heads bowed against the wind’s bite, their hands remained intertwined, and Emma couldn’t shake the curious sensation that she wasn’t just walking toward shelter—but toward something entirely new, something uncharted. And there would be no going back. 

Chapter Text

Emma had never set foot on Irish soil before, and truth be told, she hadn’t spared much thought for the passing scenery as the carriage rattled along after crossing the Channel. Her nose had been buried deep in the pages of her book, leaving her with only fleeting glimpses of the Emerald Isle: rain-drenched hills rolling in endless undulations, valleys so lush they seemed to hum with life, and wildflowers scattered across the lowlands like nature’s own fireworks, bursting with hues so bold they seemed to coax a blush from the leaden sky. 

After what felt like an eternity trudging through rain-soaked, mud-churned paths, they finally broke free into a wide clearing. Before them stood a cottage, quaint as a dream, with a squat stone chimney and a thatched roof that looked as though it had leapt from the pages of a storybook. Emma exhaled, her breath unspooling in relief. The weight of damp fabric clung to her, boots sodden to the point of misery, and the sight of shelter was nothing short of deliverance. 

The coachman, still bearing the evidence of his recent misadventure in the river, reached the door first. He moved with unshaken ease, his hands finding the latch in a single, fluid motion, and swung it open with the unspoken assurance of a man who had done this before. 

The duke hesitated at the threshold, his expression unreadable. He stood motionless, as if caught between past and present, the silence around him thick with the unspoken. Then, drawing a breath edged with reluctance, he stepped inside. Emma followed, acutely aware of the sudden hush. The air carried the deep, earthen scent of peat smoke and damp wood, a warmth that pressed against the lingering cold of the storm outside.  

Stooping, she wrestled with the damp, uncooperative laces of her half boots, fingers stiff with cold but unwilling to tolerate the miserable weight a moment longer. Each sodden knot fought her efforts, but she was determined to be rid of them, a final act of defiance against the ordeal they had just endured. 

At the duke’s arched brow and pointed stare, Emma flashed a shameless grin. “I’d rather not transform this charming little retreat into a marsh.” 

His mouth edged toward a smirk, amusement flickering in his eyes before he reined it in. “Rest assured, Swan, the cottage will endure. The parlor’s just this way—if you’re inclined to warm up somewhere less damp.” 

He led the way with a gait that was slow, uneven, each step an awkward rhythm that tugged at Emma's heart. She fought back the instinct to offer help; he was far too proud for that, and she wasn’t about to start playing nursemaid. 

The so-called parlor was little more than a snug, unassuming space, but its charm was immediate. Two well-worn armchairs stood facing a modest hearth, their fabric softened by years of use. A small, slightly wobbly table with spindly chairs was positioned near the narrow window, and beneath it all, a deep blue rug unfurled across the wooden floor, its rich hue lending an unexpected elegance to the otherwise humble room. The place was simple, but not without grace—unadorned yet inviting, like a space that belonged to itself rather than to the world outside. 

Marco, already tending the fire with quiet efficiency, rose and exchanged a wordless nod with the duke—an entire conversation passing between them in the span of a glance. Emma wasted no time making her way to the hearth, stretching her fingers toward the flames, desperate for relief. Heat surged back into her frozen skin, a sharp, almost painful thaw that sent a shiver rippling through her limbs. A soft sigh escaped before she could stop it, the kind of sound one made only in the presence of true, bone-deep warmth.  

The duke joined her, stripping off his sodden gloves with a practiced flick and tossing them onto the mantel, where they landed with a damp, unceremonious thud. He stretched his hands toward the fire, letting the heat pry the cold from his bones. “The cottage is tidy, the firewood’s stacked, and the larder’s well-stocked—enough to keep us from gnawing on the furniture, at least. The roof was recently rethatched, so we’re as secure as one can be in a cottage bracing itself against the full wrath of the moors.” 

Emma cast a sidelong glance at him. His expression was composed, his profile unwavering, gaze locked onto the fire as if it held some long-awaited truth.  

Her attention drifted downward, settling on his hands. The scars across his left one wove a story she didn’t yet know, a quiet testament to something endured and not easily forgotten. As the firelight danced over them, she noticed the slight rigidity in his fingers, the way they responded with less ease than his right. The injury had left its mark in ways that ran deeper than appearance. 

She looked away before he could sense her scrutiny. 

“So, you think the storm isn’t finished with us?” she asked, her tone edged with weary acceptance. 

“Aye,” he replied, the single syllable cutting through the quiet with a weight that left no room for doubt. 

She swallowed, the memory of the river’s frigid pull still clinging to her. “And where exactly are we now?” 

“This is my groundsman’s cottage,” he said, the words plain but carrying more weight than they should.  

Emma let her gaze drift over the space, taking in its unassuming charm and careful touches. “It’s got the feel of a woman’s hand about it.”

“He’s recently married,” the duke replied, his voice clipped, though a softness lingered beneath it, faint as a breath stolen by the wind. 

Look at me , she urged silently, but his eyes stayed fixed on the fire, unwavering, distant. “I take it they’re away?” she asked, the quiet of the cottage settling between them. 

“Aye,” he murmured, barely louder than the fire’s slow crackle. “They’ve gone on their honeymoon.”  

Her brows lifted. A groundsman with a cottage this comfortable was rare enough, but one who took his bride on a honeymoon? Unheard of. “I see.” 

At last, his gaze shifted to her, and what she found there stole the air from her lungs. Shadows clung to his expression, something hollow and unguarded lurking beneath his carefully controlled exterior. And then—gone. Snuffed out as though it had never been there at all. He withdrew into himself, into the dim glow of the fire, leaving her uncertain if she had imagined that fleeting moment of vulnerability.  

“There’s a footpath leading from here to my estate,” he said, his voice settling into something deliberate, as if drawing a boundary. “It’s a fair walk—two hours, perhaps longer, depending on your pace. Marco will go, bring back help.” 

“I’ll be off at once, Your Grace,” the coachman declared with the kind of gallantry usually reserved for knights embarking on grand quests, straightening his posture as if the weight of duty had just settled upon him. 

“It’s still raining cats, dogs, and every other creature the ark had to accommodate,” the duke observed, his tone dry enough to wick the moisture from the air. 

“And it’ll keep pouring until we need a raft to get out of here,” Marco shot back, flashing Emma a wink brimming with mischief. “Best I set off now. I’ll have help back before you know it.” 

Emma’s brow creased as she caught the mischievous gleam in the old man’s eye. There was an easy irreverence in the way he and the duke spoke, a quiet rebellion against the usual rules of rank. Their banter carried the cadence of long familiarity, the kind built on something stronger than duty. She had to press her lips together to keep from laughing when the duke rolled his eyes with theatrical exasperation. 

Who is this man? she wondered, quietly intrigued by the peculiar dynamic between master and servant. 

“With all haste, Marco. Do return with the greatest urgency you can manage,” Killian drawled, his tone laced with mock severity, though beneath it ran a current of something warmer. “And speak only to those who need to know. Miss Swan’s reputation must remain unblemished, and I have no desire to suffer through court gossip over this debacle.”  

Marco gave a swift, cheeky bow and slipped out the door with a nimbleness that made a mockery of his years, vanishing into the storm. As the cottage settled into silence, Emma felt her stomach tighten. The weight of the duke’s gaze settled on her, heavy and unreadable. 

“Do you think he’ll actually come back soon? And with the right help?” she asked, more uncertain than she intended.  

A low grunt was his only reply—a sound that managed to be both enigmatic and entirely unhelpful. 

Emma folded her arms, a scowl forming. “Was that supposed to be an answer?” 

The faintest flicker of amusement ghosted across his lips. “I’d wager he’ll return once the roads are less treacherous.” 

“And when will that be?” she pressed, impatience sharpening her words. 

“Perhaps in a few days,” he said, far too calm for her liking. 

“ Days ?”she sputtered, disbelief snapping through her voice. “You can’t possibly be serious.” 

He tilted his head, his expression infuriatingly measured. “Two, maybe three.” 

Her gaze swept the compact space, her thoughts in a rapid spiral. Days alone with the duke in such close quarters? An unwelcome thrill coursed through her, reckless and entirely inappropriate. She crushed it at once. This wasn’t an amusing predicament; it was a scandal waiting to unfurl. Unlike the safety of a grand estate, this cottage offered no servants, no chaperones, no convenient veil of propriety. She shot him a wary look, her voice edged with dry humor. “And will you be proposing marriage after?”  

His expression turned to stone, his features set in a deliberate calm. “Certainly not.” 

Her arms tightened around her waist, a knot of unease forming in her chest. “Then surely you realize this is impossible. I cannot stay here with you—not for hours, and certainly not for days. It’s entirely improper, Your Grace.”  

With a sigh that carried the weight of a dozen arguments he had no interest in having, he limped to the door and swung it open, letting the wind and rain slash across the threshold. “By all means, Miss Swan, if propriety is your chief concern, I suggest you catch up with Marco. He can’t have gone far, and I’m sure he’d be delighted to slow his pace for your comfort. Do send my regards to my sister and let her know I’ll return once the roads decide to be hospitable.” 

A sharp pang of guilt lanced through her. She hadn’t even stopped to think why he hadn’t suggested they march back to the estate. She stepped toward him, her indignation melting into concern as she took in the tightness around his eyes, the fatigue carved into his features. “I’ve been thoughtless. You’re in pain, and here I am prattling on about scandal. Forgive me, Your Grace.” 

He cast her a sidelong glance, something unspoken flickering in his eyes—faint, unreadable. “Think nothing of it,” he murmured, his voice threadbare with fatigue. “Do you still wish to go?”  

She clasped her hands together, battling the impulse to flee and the unbearable thought of leaving him behind. He was in pain—far worse than he let on—and the idea of abandoning him now felt not just unkind but unconscionable. The decision settled heavy in her chest, pressing against her ribs, but when she finally spoke, her voice was steady. “No, I won’t leave you.”  

He closed the door with quiet finality, sealing them in warmth and flickering firelight. Instantly, the room felt smaller, the air denser, as if acknowledging the shift between them. Outside, the storm continued its relentless assault, but it had become background noise, distant and inconsequential. He moved toward the hearth, each step more labored than the last, his pain now impossible to ignore. The tension in his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders—he wore his suffering with infuriating stubbornness. 

Guilt coiled in her stomach, sharp and insistent. This man had thrown himself into the jaws of danger for her, for Marco, for the horses, and now he carried the cost of that reckless valor in every strained movement, every tightly controlled breath.  

“Let me help you,” she urged, her fingers twitching with the need to do something—anything—to ease his burden.  

“I am fine, Swan,” he bit out, his tone clipped as he eased himself into an armchair by the fire, each motion deliberate, laced with discomfort. “The storm will pass. We’ll be at the estate before long. There’s no need for dramatics.” 

Her spine stiffened. And then what? He would limp behind closed doors, suffer in silence, and pretend his body hadn’t paid the price for his damn heroics? The thought sent a spark of frustration racing through her veins. “You’re in no state to act like nothing’s wrong. Don’t be so insufferably proud. Let me help. My touch eased your pain in the garden, didn’t it?”  

His eyes flickered with something she couldn’t quite name—pride, irritation, something deeper that sent an unsteady thrill skittering up her spine. 

A wave of regret surged through her. “Look—” 

But before she could finish, his lips curled into a slow, wry smirk, the shift so unexpected it left her momentarily unmoored. “I wonder, Swan,” he drawled, amusement glinting in his gaze, “just how industrious you are.” 

She stared at him, caught somewhere between outrage and intrigue. “I— what ?”  

"Marco won’t be returning tonight—not in this merciless downpour," Killian observed dryly, casting a glance toward the window, where the rain pounded against the glass in relentless fury. That fleeting, impish glint in Marco’s eye before he vanished now made perfect sense. The wily old fox had never intended to fight his way back through this tempest—not unless he’d taken leave of his senses or stumbled upon far more appealing company elsewhere.  

Killian’s gaze flicked back to her, a wicked gleam alight in his eyes. “It seems we will have to serve each other.”  

The words landed between them, unvarnished and irrefutable, sending an uneasy ripple through the already precarious civility they’d managed to uphold. No valet. No maid. No careful web of propriety to keep them in check. Just the two of them—soaked to the bone, caked in mud, and thoroughly ill-equipped to preserve any semblance of dignity. His boots would have to be dealt with. The rest of his sodden attire, too. And as for her own predicament—well, she hardly needed reminding. Her dress clung to her in damp defiance, leaving very little to imagination and even less to comfort. 

Splendid. 

“I see,” she managed, willing her thoughts into order while heat rose traitorously to her face. Her pulse was already halfway out the door, leaving her flustered and breathless in its wake. The treacherous blush creeping up her neck announced itself with all the subtlety of a town crier. 

Killian tilted his head, amusement curling at the edges of his mouth. “Well?” His voice was a slow, deliberate challenge, eyes glinting as if he found her predicament thoroughly entertaining. “Are you up to the task, Swan?” 

Propriety lay in ruins, scattered at her feet, its fragile restraints dissolving into irrelevance. The rules that had kept them in check were no longer merely bent—they were obliterated.  

“Ah, your face—so very expressive,” he mused, his piercing blue eyes alight with unholy amusement. “You wear your distress like a coronation. An open book, one might say.” 

Her arms folded in a show of defiance, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the insufferably leisurely way his gaze swept over her. His smirk was pure indulgence, his scrutiny entirely too pleased, and her own heart—stupid thing—was hammering against her ribs as if conspiring against her.  

“Fret not,” he murmured, his voice dripping with playful mockery. “Drenched alley cats do little for me. But a tigress on the hunt?” His tone dropped to a velvety murmur, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. “That, I must admit, is rather intriguing.” 

The audacity. The sheer, unrepentant gall. Emma exhaled sharply, as if the very act might fortify her composure. “I assure you, Your Grace, I am perfectly capable,” she said, mustering a tone of crisp indifference—though her pulse was making an absolute farce of the effort. If only she could command her infernal blushes to cease their relentless betrayals. 

"Is that so?" His brow arched, the wicked amusement in his gaze deepening. “Then, by all means, prove it. But not before you’re rid of those rain-soaked garments and your hair is dry. I could never forgive myself if you perished on my watch.” 

“I beg your pardon?” she spluttered, utterly taken aback by his brazen suggestion. 

With a theatrical flourish, he swept into an exaggerated bow, a hand pressed solemnly to his chest. “Miss Swan, consider yourself most fortunate—for tonight, and tonight only—I shall have the distinct honor of serving as your lady’s maid.” 

There was no retreating now. Resigned to the sheer absurdity of her predicament, Emma braced herself, drawing in a deep breath as if it might somehow dilute the mortifying heat crawling up her neck. Her soaked clothes clung uncomfortably, leaden and ice-cold, practically pleading for liberation. Casting a quick glance around the snug little cottage, she ventured down a narrow hallway, her footsteps deliberately unhurried, as though time itself might take pity and intervene. 

A linen closet came into view, nestled beside a modest door. Its contents were underwhelming: two well-worn towels, a blanket that looked as inviting as sandpaper, and a pair of plain sheets. Hardly a jackpot, yet in her sodden state, they might as well have been spun from gold. 

She pressed on, entering what appeared to be the bedchamber, and set her sights on the armoire. Its offerings were no more inspiring than the rest of the cottage: two heavy, serviceable dresses and a nightgown that radiated the charm of a farmer’s wife in her twilight years. Emma stared at the garments with a flicker of defeated amusement; they were cavernous enough to double as tents. Beside them hung a couple of shirts—one a dreary beige, the other a washed-out blue—along with a neatly folded jacket and trousers. Hardly the stuff of Parisian runways, but the promise of dry clothing was a balm to her frayed nerves. 

Her fingers trembled slightly as she eased the armoire shut with a muted click. 

“We’ll manage,” came the duke’s voice, low and smooth, breaking through her private turmoil like the strike of a bell. 

Emma flinched, startled by his silent arrival. Lost in the maze of her own thoughts, she hadn’t registered his presence until now. She exhaled slowly, steadying herself before turning to meet his gaze. “I suppose we shall.” 

For a fleeting moment, something enigmatic danced in his eyes—a spark too quick to decode. "Quite the predicament, wouldn’t you agree?" His voice carried a faint edge of wry humor, as if they were discussing tea preferences rather than the charged intimacy of their situation. 

"Yes," she managed, though her tone betrayed a breathlessness she hadn’t meant to reveal. The strange cocktail of nerves and a thrill sharp enough to send her pulse into overdrive was impossible to suppress. Alone with the duke, in this absurdly cramped cottage—she couldn’t decide whether the thought was more unsettling or exhilarating. 

His piercing blue gaze lingered on her, studying her face with a deliberate, almost tactile intensity. "Until Marco returns," he said, his words dripping with quiet implication, "it’s just you and me against the elements, Swan." 

"Which could be days ," she muttered, half to herself, still trying to wrap her head around the absurdity of the situation. 

"Days," he repeated, the single syllable infused with enough unspoken meaning to send her heart careening. 

Her brow arched, suspicion curling through her voice. "You don’t find that... suspiciously convenient, Your Grace?" 

With unhurried precision, he stepped closer, his hand settling on her shoulder—a touch light enough to be polite yet charged enough to be anything but. He turned her gently to face him, his gaze never wavering. "Given the circumstances," he said, his voice lower now, each word deliberate, "I think it’s only fair you call me Killian... Emma ." 

Her breath caught, the sound of her name on his lips unraveling her composure in a way she hadn’t anticipated. It wasn’t just the intimacy of it; it was the quiet claim the word seemed to hold, as though it were meant to exist only between them. She swallowed hard, her heartbeat skittering out of rhythm. 

"Swan," she murmured, the word escaping unbidden, her voice shaky yet resolute. "I rather like it when you call me Swan." 

Why she said it, she couldn’t begin to explain. But the truth of it lingered in the air, fragile yet undeniable, binding them in a shared silence. 

His lips curved into a wicked grin as he leaned in, his breath warm against the sensitive curve of her ear. The space between them felt charged, his nearness a smoldering heat that prickled against her skin. He was reveling in her discomposure—his delight at her expense almost palpable. 

And, heaven help her, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted him to stop.  

“Swan,” he murmured, his voice laced with bemusement, curiosity, and something infinitely more dangerous—a low, thrilling edge that sent her pulse into a riot. Her body, ever the traitor, responded with a slow, insistent warmth that coursed from her toes to the hollow of her throat, setting her nerves alight. “Allow me the honor of drying your hair.” 

A shiver traced its way down her spine, her resolve wobbling beneath the weight of his proximity. “My hair,” she countered, summoning whatever composure she could muster, “is the least of my concerns.” 

As if mocking her bravado, icy rivulets dripped from her brow, skimming her cheeks and neck with infuriating precision. She was soaked through, every inch of her encased in clinging fabric that felt less like clothing and more like an ongoing punishment. And as if her predicament needed a finishing touch, she sneezed—a tiny, mortifying betrayal that made her want to vanish into the floorboards.  

“I’d hate to see you fall ill,” he remarked, the mischief in his eyes unmistakable, “or worse, come down with a fever—all in the name of modesty. We’re alone, love. No one need ever know how... thoroughly we took care of one another. It could be our little secret—a scandalous one, no doubt.” 

Love. 

The way he said it—so effortlessly, so intimately casual—derailed every objection she might have cobbled together. It was a word she hadn’t heard from him before, and it tumbled from his lips with disarming ease, leaving her utterly unmoored. 

Her breath caught, a traitorous blush rising to betray her yet again. She swallowed hard, willing herself to regain a shred of dignity. “You have my permission,” she managed, her voice a whisper that barely masked her anticipation. 

With deft, practiced movements, he reached up and began removing the pins from her hair, one by one. The damp locks tumbled down her back, heavy with rainwater. He seized the towel and set to work, drying her drenched tresses with brisk, no-nonsense efficiency. His touch was cool, methodical—entirely devoid of lingering sensuality. And yet, somehow, that made it all the more disquieting. 

Emma exhaled slowly, only then realizing she’d been holding her breath. The tight knot of tension in her chest began to loosen, though not entirely. Beneath the surface, a spark remained—a dangerous flicker, unpredictable and alive. 

“Shall I help you undress?”

The question cut through the quiet, bold and teetering precariously between practicality and impropriety. It was audacious—scandalous even—but undeniably logical. Her gown, a fortress of hooks and buttons, was designed to require assistance. It was a fact of her life she had rarely thought to question; even under the most modest circumstances, a shared lady’s maid had always been a non-negotiable fixture of her world. 

No one will know.

“Yes,” she murmured, the word escaping as a breath more than a sound. But of course, he heard. 

A shiver traced her spine, not from cold, but from the stark vulnerability of the moment. The reality of her situation settled over her like an oppressive weight. Without a word, he began his task. Each button he unfastened felt deliberate, almost ceremonial—a series of quiet surrenders she hadn’t quite consented to make.  

The drenched fabric slid from her shoulders and fell to the floor in a limp, sodden heap. Now, she stood half-bared in her stays and petticoats—a fragile illusion of modesty that felt entirely inadequate. Her back remained to him, her breath uneven, her heart a wild, erratic drumbeat against her ribs. 

She couldn’t turn to face him. Not now. Not like this. 

“There’s another… pressing matter we need to address,” he murmured, his fingers working the laces of her stays with maddening precision, as though time itself had bent to his leisure. 

Her breath faltered. “And that is?” 

“There’s only one bed.” 

Of all the possibilities she had anticipated, that was decidedly not one of them. 

Emma blinked, momentarily caught between disbelief at his audacity and admiration for his knack for understatement. Her gaze darted to the modest bed tucked into the corner. It was plain but serviceable, just wide enough for two—if two happened to enjoy sleeping elbow-to-elbow. The phrase echoed in her mind: one bed, just one bed . Panic swirled, colliding with the unwelcome thrill his nearness stirred in her chest.  

Her eyes shifted to the armchairs by the hearth—small, rigid, and clearly built for ornament rather than comfort. At best, they could be shoved together into a crude approximation of a makeshift bed… but for her, not him. To exile him to such misery, especially given his injuries, would be little better than cruelty. 

“Are you thoroughly wet?” 

Her head snapped up, meeting the glint of roguish humor in his eyes. For one disorienting moment, her mind veered into scandalous territory, tumbling straight into a thicket of innuendo. A slow, treacherous heat curled low in her belly, and she cursed the warm flush creeping up her neck to betray her. 

She tore her gaze away, fixing it firmly on the armoire as though it might provide the answer to her predicament. “Yes, my clothes are utterly soaked through.” 

“Then shall I continue… assisting you with your stays and petticoats?”  

The question hung in the air like a gauntlet, a challenge draped in the thin veil of practicality. Her pulse thundered in her ears, each beat pounding out an unwelcome rhythm of inevitability. Logic whispered he was right: she was drenched, trembling with cold, and dangerously close to inviting illness. Yet his voice, steady and practical on the surface, carried a rasp that rippled through her like a match struck in the dark. 

Do I dare ? The thought danced through her mind, tempting and taunting in equal measure. 

She swallowed hard, the decision coiling tight in her chest, a precarious knot of resolve and recklessness. 

“Yes,” she whispered at last, the word slipping free as though it had a will of its own. “I certainly don’t wish to catch my death.” 

For the barest moment, his eyes widened, betraying surprise at her capitulation. He stilled, the charged tension between them palpable, a fragile, breathless thread neither dared to sever. This—whatever this was—had caught them both unprepared. The air between them grew heavy, dense with unspoken possibilities, each second amplifying the pulse of something intoxicatingly precarious. 

Her composure clung by a thread, her breath unsteady but measured as she fought the wild flutter of anticipation threatening to unravel her entirely.  

His fingers moved to the laces of her stays, nimble and precise, the rhythm of each motion achingly deliberate. Every gentle tug sent ripples of awareness cascading over her, heightening every nerve, every sense. Her eyelids fluttered shut of their own accord, her heart racing with a traitorous fervor she struggled to suppress. Three and twenty , she reminded herself with forced severity. Not some naive debutante overcome by a mere brush of fingertips. But logic had abandoned her, drowned in the heady rush of sensation that spiraled through her with reckless abandon. 

His movements were maddeningly deft—a deliberate dance of resolve and provocation. With an infuriating mix of confidence and care, he peeled away the layers of fabric that had shielded her, her stays and petticoats slipping free to pool at her feet. She stood there, now clad in nothing but the whisper-thin barrier of a chemise and stockings—armor rendered pitifully inadequate by the intimacy of his gaze. 

“Go behind the screen,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding, tinged with an irresistible gravity that made her breath catch. “I’ll bring water… and a blanket.” 

Her eyes flicked toward the so-called screen—a flimsy contrivance barely worth the name, more a suggestion of modesty than an actual shield. She wondered, somewhat bitterly, if the groundsman’s wife had resigned herself to this graceless lack of discretion, if the lower classes simply accepted the casual exposure of their skin without the same anxious flutter that seized her now. 

She felt rather than saw his quiet retreat, marveling at the near-silent grace with which he moved despite the obvious pain shadowing his steps. Clutching the towel to her chest as though it might somehow preserve her crumbling propriety, she slipped behind the screen—only to freeze in dismay. The fabric was so thin it offered little more privacy than a pane of glass. She could see him with unnerving clarity, which meant, of course, that he could likely see her just as well. 

A fierce blush ignited across her skin, sweeping from her cheeks to the very tips of her toes. How on earth were they supposed to endure this precarious closeness for days without entirely unraveling—or worse, surrendering to the mounting tension simmering between them? 

Before she could spiral further, a basin of water appeared at the edge of the screen, placed there with such quiet precision she half suspected he was a ghost rather than flesh and blood. Then, as swiftly as he’d materialized, he vanished, only to reappear moments later with a second basin and a plain bar of soap—unassuming gifts offered without ceremony or a single word.  

“Thank you,” she managed, her voice caught somewhere between genuine gratitude and an unspoken warning to herself. She couldn’t be certain he heard her, but the faint clink of the basin in response was acknowledgment enough. 

She pulled the basin closer, settling it atop the rickety wooden table with a faint clatter that echoed uncomfortably loud in the charged silence. A glance toward him revealed he had taken the armchair by the fire, lowering himself into its threadbare embrace with a careful deliberation that betrayed his discomfort. She couldn’t tell from behind the inadequate shield of the screen whether his eyes were fixed on her or staring vacantly into the flames, but the possibility of his gaze sent an insistent heat prickling over her skin. 

Her entire body vibrated with the electric hum of impropriety, the weight of the situation pressing down on her like a storm. The room felt oppressively quiet, the stillness broken only by the crackle of the fire and her own uneven breathing. Was he watching? Or had he closed his eyes against the tableau unfolding mere feet away, feigning disinterest to preserve what little decorum remained? 

With trembling determination, she bent to wrestle free her sodden stockings, the damp fabric clinging obstinately to her legs. As she worked, her gaze darted repeatedly to his shadowed form, her unease sharpening every movement. Whatever boundaries had once separated them were now paper-thin, dissolving entirely as she reached for the final layer of her chemise. It slid from her skin in a whisper of betrayal, pooling at her feet. For a moment, she stood utterly bare, her body thrumming with the acute awareness of exposure. She turned her back to the faint silhouette of the duke, her spine a fragile barrier against the firestorm of implications that came with his possible gaze. If his eyes were open… well, let him look. The thought burned hotter than the blush spreading across her skin, yet beneath the embarrassment lurked something deeper, wilder—a thrilling pulse she refused to name.  

The icy water from the basin met her skin in sharp contrast to the heat still simmering beneath it. With brisk, almost punishing movements, she scrubbed herself clean, the washcloth dragging away dirt—and with it, the last vestiges of her composure. Every sensation felt amplified, as if she weren’t just cleansing her body but laying herself bare in a far more vulnerable way. Her trembling hands betrayed her, each stroke charged with the awareness of what she was doing, of where she was, of who waited just beyond the screen. Even the walls of the cramped cottage seemed to press in, heavy with the weight of her reckless exposure. 

By the time she finished, her teeth were chattering from the cold, and her limbs felt stiff and fragile. Wrapping her damp hair into a rough chignon, she wrestled the unruly strands into place with a frustration born of nerves. She pulled the scratchy blanket around her shoulders like a poor imitation of a toga, its coarse fibers grating against her skin. It was far from dignified, but it was the only shield left between her and the charged intimacy that filled the room. 

Peering cautiously around the screen, her eyes landed on him. He sat rigid in the armchair, his head tipped back, gaze fixed on the ceiling as though it held answers to an impossible question. His fingers gripped the armrests with such force his knuckles had turned white, and his posture radiated barely contained tension, as though he were fighting a battle she couldn’t see. 

With quiet resolve, Emma approached, the spare basin balanced carefully in her hands. She set it beside the chair, the soft clink of porcelain against wood slicing through the charged silence. Without hesitation, she lowered herself to her knees before him, the weight of the moment settling heavily in her chest. Her breath caught as she reached for his knee-high boots, fingers brushing the worn leather. He stiffened, his body taut, but he said nothing, his gaze fixed somewhere distant, as though afraid to meet her gaze. 

One boot, then the other, she eased them off, her touch light but firm, careful not to add to his discomfort. The boots thudded softly as she lined them up neatly beside the chair, as if imposing order could tame the chaos pulsing in the room.

Dipping the washcloth into the basin, she swirled it through the cool water, the soap bubbling faintly as she worked it into a lather. Her movements were precise, deliberate, her focus narrowed to the simple task in front of her, though the air between them vibrated with unspoken tension. The fire crackled softly, the only sound to challenge the heavy quiet stretching between them.  

Rising onto her knees, Emma leaned in, her pulse quickening as she reached up to wipe the mud from his cheek and jaw. The cloth made contact, and in an instant, his eyes flew open, their piercing intensity locking onto hers. The force of his stare hit like a physical blow, sharp and unyielding, but she pressed on, her hands steady despite the riot of nerves beneath her skin. She worked with care, her strokes deliberate, the grime melting away under her ministrations.  

Every dip of the cloth back into the basin dragged time into a strange, charged rhythm, her every motion magnified under the relentless heat of his gaze. He didn’t speak, but the weight of his scrutiny seemed to grow with each passing moment, tracking her every move with unnerving precision. 

Her hand faltered as she reached the scarred side of his face. The rough, jagged lines etched into his skin loomed before her, a silent challenge she couldn’t ignore. The tension between them thickened, her hesitation lasting just long enough to become palpable. His eyes—cold, unyielding, and relentless—held her captive, as if daring her to falter. 

But she didn’t. 

Emma exhaled softly, steadying herself as she pressed the cloth to his scarred skin. The muscle beneath her touch tensed, his jaw hardening as though steeling itself against the contact. The uneven ridges of his scars brushed against the damp fabric, a tactile reminder of the wounds he carried. Each careful stroke of the washcloth felt like a delicate negotiation—neither surrender nor victory, but a fragile ceasefire in their unspoken battle. The air between them seemed to thrum with something potent and indefinable. 

His unscarred hand shifted, releasing its death grip on the armrest. A single finger grazed her chin, light as a whisper, yet commanding her gaze with a force that stole her breath. Her eyes lifted, drawn into his as though compelled by some invisible tether. His stare was unwavering, all-encompassing, as if he were sifting through her thoughts and finding secrets even she hadn’t dared acknowledge. 

“How brave you are, Swan,” he murmured, his voice rich and edged with danger, a warning cloaked in silk. 

It wasn’t a compliment—at least, not one meant to soothe. His words hung heavy between them, sharp and deliberate, as if daring her to step further into the uncharted territory they now shared. His hand retreated, reclaiming the armrest, but the imprint of his touch burned against her skin, igniting her pulse in reckless rebellion. 

On an instinct she couldn’t explain, Emma reached forward, brushing a damp strand of hair from his brow. The gesture was small, almost inconsequential, yet the air around them seemed to tighten, charged with an electric kind of stillness. Beneath his measured calm, she sensed the tension coiled within him, a raw undercurrent of emotion held at bay by sheer will. His face—unforgiving in its sharp lines and unrelenting control—was a study in discipline, a mask carved from hardship and bitterness. His expression dared her to push further, but she wasn’t ready to meet that challenge tonight. Not when his ghosts loomed so perilously close to the surface. 

Her hands returned to the basin, the cloth dipping into the cool water once more. But something within her resisted stopping there. This moment—this charged, fragile intimacy—demanded more. More than mere cleanliness. More than the fragile barrier of propriety.

With a daring that sent her pulse careening, Emma reached for his cravat. The silk slipped through her fingers, unspooling with the hush of a well-guarded truth. It tumbled to the floor, forgotten, a casualty of the charged silence between them. Her hands, unbidden but resolute, found the buttons at his collar, undoing them with a slowness that bordered on indulgence. Inch by inch, she revealed him—the sinewed column of his throat, the sculpted plane of his chest, the dark scatter of hair that vanished beneath his shirt. But more than that, she unearthed his scars—jagged, unrepentant remnants of battles fought long before this moment. 

She dipped the cloth again, this time with reverence, pressing it to his skin, tracing the map of his wounds as though they might whisper their stories. Each scar read like an unfinished tale, one she had never been meant to decipher, yet here she was, her fingertips following the ink of his past as though she had the right. Beneath her touch, his muscles tightened, poised as if awaiting some unseen strike, but he did not pull away. He barely moved at all—save for his eyes. They pinned her in place, dark and prowling, watching, waiting, as if one wrong move would tip them both past the point of no return. 

Though he sat like a man carved from stone, his pulse betrayed him. Just there, at the base of his throat, it thrummed—fast, restless, a rhythm at odds with the control he fought so hard to maintain. It was a small thing, a deliciously damning thing, and it sent a thrill racing through her. That single crack in his composure was all she needed. The sight of it, the knowledge that he wasn’t quite as unshaken as he pretended, struck like flint against steel. Heat roared to life within her, unbidden, ravenous, spreading through her veins with wicked intent. 

What would he do if I leaned in and kissed his throat? 

The audacious thought lashed through her, sharp and searing, sparking a battle between restraint and reckless hunger. As if this charged, peculiar moment had loosened something long shackled, a wildness clawing free. Good sense unraveled, propriety scattered like dry leaves in a gale, leaving her defenseless against the untamed heart she had spent years trying to master. 

Rising to her feet, she clutched the blanket with all the poise of a monarch at court, though her heart hammered with none of the dignity. “If you’d be so kind as to stand, Your Grace.”  

He obliged, unfolding himself with effortless command. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with what she hoped was unshakable composure, though her treacherous eyes wavered—just for a breath—on the bare skin at his throat. A fleeting glimpse, maddening in its simplicity, enough to set her pulse skittering. “Am I to play valet now?” she murmured, her voice not nearly as steady as she would have liked. 

“Tempting as that is, I remain perfectly capable of undressing myself,” he replied, mischief threading through his words like silk. “I wouldn’t dream of further distressing your delicate sensibilities, Swan.”  

There it was again—that insufferable, knowing lilt, toeing the line between scandal and jest, slicing through the charged air with infuriating ease. She should have bristled. Instead, she found herself grateful. Banter was safer ground, a welcome reprieve from the unspoken weight pressing in around them. 

“If you could manage something edible, I shall make myself presentable.” 

Something edible? For a moment, her mind went stark blank. She, Emma, who had never done more than summon tea, was now expected to conjure a meal? Absurd. But she had never been one to balk at impossible tasks. Squaring her shoulders, she stalked toward the kitchen, her resolve hardening with every step.  

Flickering candlelight cast feeble shadows over the modest space, illuminating countertops far too pristine for the storm of her thoughts. A quick survey of supplies yielded a wedge of cheese and two apples that looked as weary as she felt. Hardly a triumph of the culinary arts, but it would have to do. 

When she returned, the duke stood by the fire, dressed in borrowed clothes that, infuriatingly, fit him far too well. He raked a towel through his damp hair, exuding an air of maddening nonchalance, utterly undisturbed by the absurdity of their circumstances. 

“Cheese and apple,” she declared with forced enthusiasm, setting their pitiful banquet on the wobbly table as though unveiling a royal feast. 

He approached with measured steps, his movements betraying a quiet discomfort he bore with practiced indifference. Lowering himself onto one of the threadbare chairs, he carried the air of a man far more accustomed to velvet cushions than fraying upholstery. She took her seat opposite him, keenly aware that her only barrier against indecency was the scratchy woolen blanket clinging to her shoulders. They picked at their paltry meal in silence, the air between them thick with unspoken words. The cheese and apples did nothing to soften the tension, and Emma had the distinct impression they were more likely to perish from sheer awkwardness than actual starvation before the storm passed. 

A sudden clap of thunder rattled the cottage, and Emma flinched, her gaze snapping to the rain-streaked window. “Do you think Marco made it to your estate?” 

The duke didn’t so much as blink. “Marco is resourceful. Adaptable. He knows the land better than most. He’ll manage.” His voice was steady, his confidence tinged with finality. 

Another lull settled over them, heavy and unrelenting as the storm outside. Fatigue pressed down on her, and before she could stop it, a most unladylike yawn escaped. She barely stifled a groan as heat flooded her cheeks, darting a mortified glance in his direction. 

“I—I think I shall go to bed.” 

A wicked glimmer sparked in his blue eyes. “There’s precious little else to do,” he murmured, his voice smooth, teasing—an invitation or a challenge, she couldn’t quite tell. 

Emma stiffened, lifting her chin in defiance, and rose as though marching to war rather than fetching a nightgown. She strode to the armoire with determination.

Inside, she found what could only be described as a disaster masquerading as sleepwear—a voluminous, shapeless nightgown, its faded cotton so drab it looked like it had given up on life entirely. It bore an unfortunate resemblance to a tent. A very sad, very unfortunate tent. 

Well. Needs must. 

She ducked behind the flimsy screen, casting off the blanket with a sigh of defeat before dragging the nightgown over her head. It engulfed her, the hem pooling at her feet while the neckline gaped wide enough to threaten catastrophe. Clutching the fabric to her chest in a futile attempt at dignity, she emerged from her meager sanctuary and made straight for the bed, diving beneath the covers with the urgency of a woman fleeing the consequences of her own decisions. Wrapped in a tangle of mismatched linens and regret, she willed herself to disappear. 

For several excruciating moments, she lay there, staring into the abyss of her own questionable choices. What madness had possessed her to embark on this ridiculous journey? Had she truly resisted his so-called “mutual bargain,” or had she all but hurled herself into his web with the enthusiasm of a willing accomplice? Worse still—had he orchestrated this from the start, each step of this scandal plotted with the precision of a master tactician? 

The silence in the room pressed down, thick and expectant, as if the very walls conspired to hold their breath. Emma exhaled sharply, impatience prickling at her skin. Enough of this. With an exaggerated huff, she flung the blankets aside and shot upright, hands landing on her hips, eyes flashing with unfiltered vexation.  

The duke, utterly unbothered, had taken up residence in the armchair, his head tipped back in languid repose, looking for all the world as if he were contemplating the architectural merits of the ceiling beams. 

“Your Grace,” she bit out, each syllable clipped and bristling. 

He lowered his gaze with maddening slowness, one brow arching in effortless insolence. “Are there ants in the bed, Swan?”  

Her glare darkened, met only by the infuriating curve of his lips—a smirk so intolerable it could have been weaponized. Yet she pressed on. “Do you intend to spend the entire night brooding in that chair?”  

“I have little wish to further traumatize your sensibilities,” he drawled, his voice all smooth mockery, as if amusement itself had learned to speak.  

Emma’s nostrils flared, but she held firm. “Your Grace, we are not children. You are a man of honor, and I am a woman of sound judgment.” Her voice wavered at the edges, but she pressed on. “Surely, we can share a bed for one night without succumbing to scandal or discomfort.”  

His gaze swept over her, slow and considering, as if measuring the weight of her words against some unseen calculation. “And you won’t wake at dawn, screaming in terror?” he asked, skepticism threading through his tone, one brow lifted in infuriating amusement. 

Emma’s spine stiffened, temper flaring. “I am not some fragile debutante,” she snapped. 

“No,” he murmured, voice smooth as velvet. “You most certainly are not.” 

With a quiet wince, he pushed himself to his feet, his movements still edged with discomfort, though he bore it with his usual air of nonchalance. “You’re safe with me, Swan,” he assured her, and for once, the teasing lilt softened, sincerity slipping through the cracks. “On my honor, you have nothing to fear.” 

Emma surveyed the bed with the scrutiny of a tactician mapping out enemy territory, tapping her chin as if weighing strategic placement. “You’ll take this side,” she declared, pointing imperiously, “and I shall have the other.” 

Without awaiting his agreement, she seized a pillow and plopped it between them—an absurdly inadequate barrier, but one that provided the illusion of order amidst the chaos. 

“There.” She gave a brisk nod, as if this laughable arrangement were the peak of logic, though her pulse betrayed her with its unruly flutter. Why, precisely, was she so unsettled? They had already endured moments far more compromising than this, yet her nerves had apparently developed a mind of their own.  

With a final breath of determination, she climbed into bed, arranging herself stiffly on her side, back turned to him as though the pillow divider were an impenetrable fortress rather than a feeble afterthought. For a beat, the silence stretched, taut and waiting. Then, the mattress shifted beneath his weight, sending an unwelcome awareness skittering through her veins. 

Emma shut her eyes tight, resisting the maddening pull to glance over her shoulder. He was just a man. A man who, at this precise moment, was entirely too close. 

Eventually, exhaustion took mercy on her, dragging her under. And as sleep claimed her, she welcomed it—grateful for the temporary reprieve from the treacherous battlefield of nerves and temptation.

Chapter Text

A strange sound cut through Emma’s sleep, sharp enough to wrench her from unconsciousness but fleeting enough to leave her stranded in groggy confusion. Blinking against the dim glow of the fire’s dying embers, she became aware of two things: first, that she was perilously close to tumbling off the bed, and second, that she had been thoroughly, almost conspiratorially, tucked in.

Her gaze darted to the duke.  

How, precisely, had she ended up wrapped in a blanket with the meticulous care of a prized relic, while he—His Grace, master of indifference—lay exposed to the chill, his own coverings cast aside as if they had personally insulted him? 

He was sprawled on his back, breath uneven, the rigid control he wore like armor now noticeably absent. His brow was drawn, his jaw tight, as if locked in some unseen struggle.

Then came the sound again—a low, guttural groan, rough-edged and involuntary. That was what had pulled her from the clutches of sleep. 

Her pulse tripped. His hands were twisted in the sheets, fingers clenched so tightly that his knuckles stood in stark relief. Whatever haunted him in sleep had a firm grip, and by the look of it, he wasn’t winning the battle. There was something achingly vulnerable about him in that moment, so unlike the cool, commanding figure who had stormed into her life with all the subtlety of a tempest.

Seeing him like this—so unguarded, so raw—felt like she’d stumbled into some secret chamber of his soul, a place she had no right to be. Yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away. It was intimate, unbearably so, to witness him stripped of all the armor he wore by daylight.  

Another sound escaped him, raw and fractured, sending an involuntary shiver through her.  

Before she could think better of it, Emma’s hand drifted across the bed, her fingertips grazing his tightly clenched fist. The reaction was immediate. His entire body went rigid, muscles coiled as if bracing for an unseen attack. She felt the shift—the precise moment he tore free from the nightmare’s grasp. His breathing, though no longer frantic, remained heavy and uneven. And yet, he didn’t pull away. He let her touch linger, delicate and unspoken, as if the moment itself was on precarious ground. 

“Your nerve,” he rasped, voice rough with sleep, “should no longer surprise me, and yet—” A flicker of something unreadable danced beneath his usual sarcasm. Amusement, perhaps. Or something else, something quieter. 

Emma ignored the jab, her tone steady, undeterred. “You were dreaming. I had to wake you.”  

Instead of answering, he turned his hand, palm meeting hers, his touch warmer than expected. There was no urgency in the way his fingers curled around hers—no claim, no demand. Just intention. As though grounding himself in reality required only this, the simple tether of skin against skin. 

“Always…” he murmured, voice heavy with something that stretched beyond exhaustion. “Every night.” 

The words landed with the weight of old battles, fought too many times to count. Whatever haunted him did not come and go—it resided, an ever-present shadow.

But there was no resistance, no lingering horror. Only the quiet resignation of a man who had long since stopped fighting his ghosts and learned to let them sit beside him.  

Emma’s gaze flicked to their entwined fingers, doubt gnawing at the edges of her resolve. Should she pull away, let this unfamiliar softness fade? Or stay, anchored in a connection they so rarely allowed? 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, uncertain if she was apologizing for waking him or for trespassing on something raw and unspoken. 

“You’ve no cause to be, Swan,” he said, his voice steady, threaded with quiet certainty. 

“I am anyway,” she pressed, barely above a whisper, as though apologizing for something beyond words—a pain she couldn’t name but somehow felt. 

A silence settled between them, taut with the weight of the unsaid. Then, unexpectedly, he spoke. “I like my dreams,” he admitted, voice rough, as if unused to such confessions. 

Emma’s brows knit together, curiosity drawing her closer, nearly closing the space the pillow kept between them. “I thought they were nightmares.” 

For a fraction of a second, something unguarded flickered across his face—a crack in that impervious mask—before vanishing behind the familiar indifference. “When I dream of that night… it’s not only the fire I see.”   

Her gaze flitted to the faint scars tracing the side of his face, barely visible in the dim glow but heavy with meaning. They whispered of battles fought, pain endured, ghosts that refused to rest.  

"I always wondered what caused your pain," she said softly, her voice slipping into the hush between them, a quiet thread binding them closer. 

He exhaled, a low sound neither welcoming nor dismissing, just weighted with the things he chose not to say.  

He offered no further explanation, and she didn’t press, though the temptation to pry curled around her thoughts. How foolish—this restless need to map every shadow in his mind, to bear both the weight of his joy and his wounds. It was a reckless sort of yearning, the kind that tightened her chest, that dared to tread too close to something perilous.  

Slowly, as if sensing the moment’s fragility, she slipped her hand from his and tucked it beneath her chin. The space between them felt less like mere distance and more like a threshold she wasn’t sure she should cross.  

“Would you tell me?” she asked, letting curiosity flirt at the edges of her voice. 

His answer came quietly, as though the thought had never been given voice before. “I’ve never told anyone.” 

“Why not?” she pressed, gentle but persistent, as if coaxing open a locked door. 

He hesitated, then said, almost bemused, “No one ever asked.” 

A flicker of something sharp and unexpected pressed against her ribs. “Perhaps they were too afraid,” she murmured, letting the truth settle between them. “Who would dare?”   

His mouth quirked, his voice slipping into something wry, teasing. “And yet you, Swan, are too brazen to fear anything, aren’t you?” His gaze softened, amusement threading through the words. “Just as you weren’t afraid earlier, risking yourself to help me save Marco. I admire that—your courage.”   

The warmth in his voice landed like an ambush, stealing her breath for a fraction of a second. “I’m glad you do,” she murmured, her voice quieter than she intended—soft, certain, and laced with something dangerously close to longing. 

The air between them shifted, charged with an understanding neither had spoken aloud but both recognized. It wove itself between them, invisible yet unshakable, as if some unseen force had decided their fates should tangle.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, a slow, rolling growl, while rain drummed steadily against the windowpanes. She glanced at the streaked glass, the world beyond blurred and restless. “Perhaps,” she mused, voice quiet but certain, “it’s easier to trust a stranger when you’ve already handed them your secrets.” Then, turning back to him, she held his gaze with unflinching resolve. “On my honor, I would never betray yours, Killian.” 

He studied her for a moment before offering a slow, lopsided smile—an expression that spoke in volumes where words might falter. Some silences, it seemed, carried their own weight.

With a quiet sigh, Emma let her eyes drift closed, the steady rhythm of rain against the roof drawing her back toward sleep.

Then his voice cut through the hush—low, rich, edged with memory. 

“My mother had the most enchanting laugh,” he murmured, and the very sound of it seemed to stir something delicate in the air. “That morning, as I walked toward the breakfast room, it was the first thing I heard—bright, full of mischief. My father had stolen a kiss from her, much to the scandalized delight of my brother, Liam, and my sister, Alice. We always took breakfast together. Alice was never banished to the schoolroom—Mother wouldn’t hear of it. She insisted Alice belong at the table with us.”  

Emma’s eyes fluttered open, but she barely dared to breathe, as if the slightest movement might fracture the spell his words had cast. 

“Later that day,” he went on, his voice smoothing into something almost reverent, “Mother spent the afternoon beneath the oaks with Alice, reading as the sun warmed the lawn. Father, Liam, and I pored over estate matters, though I doubt much was accomplished. We took the carriage into the village—a simple errand, nothing of consequence. That evening, instead of attending the charity ball the entire county had been anticipating, my parents chose to stay in. We dined together—Alice, victorious in securing her seat at the table, barely pausing for breath between stories. Afterward, Mother played the pianoforte in the drawing room, and I…” He hesitated, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing his features. “I sang.”   

The room settled into silence, thick as the storm pressing against the walls. Without thinking, Emma edged closer, drawing a portion of the blanket from her side and draping it over him—a small gesture, instinctive yet startling in its quiet intimacy. He didn’t acknowledge it, not with words, but the corner of his mouth quirked in something unreadable—bemused, perhaps, or simply moved.   

“That night…” His voice dropped, raw and hushed, each word a stone sinking into the quiet. “Alice’s cries woke me. She had somehow stumbled into my room in the chaos. By the time I understood, the drapes were already aflame, smoke thick in the air, swallowing every breath. I grabbed her, ran—or tried to, at least. The west wing was already crumbling. Every exit collapsed into fire. The staircase—gone. There was only one way left.” His fingers flexed slightly against the sheet, his gaze flicking toward the faint scars that lined his skin, barely catching the dim light. “Back through the flames. I carried her. Forced the window open. And jumped.”  

Emma’s breath hitched, her mind conjuring the horror of it in vivid, unrelenting detail. “It must have been… unimaginable.” The words barely formed, too small to contain the enormity of what he had endured. “The fear. The pain. The knowing.” 

His expression didn’t shift, but something in his posture softened, the weight of memory pressing against him. “When I dream of that day,” he continued, voice rough as if the words scraped on the way out, “I see all of it. The laughter at breakfast. The fire. The screams. And that somehow makes the nightmare… worth something.” 

A tight ache settled behind her ribs, sharp with understanding. It made no sense, not in any way she could name, but his confession settled inside her like a truth she had no choice but to accept. “Then I won’t wake you next time,” she murmured, quiet but certain. 

His head tilted slightly, a smirk teasing the corner of his mouth, though his gaze remained guarded, as if he had already said more than he intended. “I’m not sure how I feel about you assuming there will be a next time, Swan.” A pause, then—softer, sincere. “But… thank you.”  

Heat sparked at the base of her throat, creeping up to her cheeks. For once, she was grateful for the darkness, for the way it hid the telltale flush she could do nothing to control. Speech suddenly felt like a dangerous thing—one wrong word, and she might give away more than she should. So she said nothing at all. 

Emma fought the absurd impulse to close the distance between them, to fold him into an embrace as if sheer will could shield him from the weight of his past. His quiet endurance struck something deep within her—equal parts humbling and infuriating. 

For a while, the silence between them was an easy sort of quiet, not empty, but steady. His breathing had slowed, deep and measured. Yet curiosity itched at her, refusing to be ignored. “Are you asleep—?” 

At that precise moment, his voice slipped through the dark. “Are you asleep—?”   

A startled laugh escaped him, low and rich, the warmth of it curling in her chest before she had the sense to stop it. 

"It seems, Swan, we possess an impeccable sense of timing," he mused, his voice laced with amusement.  

She schooled her expression into something neutral, though the corners of her mouth threatened betrayal. “So it would seem. But by all means, you first.” 

A beat passed, and when he spoke again, the teasing edge had dulled, leaving something quieter, more deliberate. “You fascinate me, you know. Ever since you tore into my life, I’ve found my thoughts… unwillingly occupied.”  

Her pulse tripped, words abandoning her entirely. Silence stretched, taut and humming, as she waited for him to go on. 

“You have this maddening way of caring,” he continued, as if speaking more to himself than to her. “It’s effortless, relentless. You would carve yourself to the bone for the people you love. I find that… remarkable.”   

A scoff slipped from her lips before she could think better of it. “Remarkable enough to blackmail me. Truly, the highest of praise.”  

His grin was slow, unapologetic. “Ah, but if memory serves, Swan, our little arrangement was mutually advantageous. A strategic alliance, if you will.” 

She rolled her eyes, unable to resist. “How terribly chivalrous of you,” she deadpanned, every syllable steeped in mockery. 

Reclining with effortless ease, he laced his fingers behind his head, a smirk playing at his lips. “Tell me, Swan, what do you dream of?”  

The question caught her off guard. She blinked, her mind scrambling for an answer. “Well, that’s easy—my sisters—”  

He cut her off, his voice smooth, insistent. "No, not them. For yourself. What do you hunger for?" 

His words landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through thoughts she’d never dared entertain. She stared at him, thrown. No one had ever asked her that. Not once. Since her father’s death, her every waking hour had been consumed by responsibility, leaving little room for idle whims. “I... haven’t had time to dream.”   

In the dim glow of the room, his eyes glinted with something unreadable. “Then dream now. For me.” 

A sharp breath caught in her throat, an unfamiliar shiver ghosting through her. “What are you asking?”   

He leaned in just enough to make the air between them taut with expectation. “Tell me what your heart whispers when no one’s listening,” he murmured, his voice all dark persuasion. “The wishes buried beneath obligation. The ones you smother before they can take shape.”  

Her pulse hammered, a tangle of words caught at the back of her tongue. “And what makes you so sure I have any at all?”  

A slow, knowing smile played at his lips, his gaze steady. “They exist in everyone,” he said, his voice laced with quiet certainty. “From the grandest ambitions to the most secret indulgences. Few have the mettle to chase them. But you, Swan… I’d wager you’re the exception.”  

Something unfamiliar stirred in her—like a locked door creaking open to reveal a room she hadn’t realized was hers. She had spent so long prioritizing others that she had never allowed herself to want anything, not truly. And yet, here he was, handing her the audacity to consider it.  

Rolling onto her stomach, she propped her chin in her hands, slipping into the easy posture of whispered confessions. “Once,” she admitted, a wistful smile tugging at her lips, “I dreamed of becoming an actress. Like my Aunt Helga. Naturally, she scandalized the entire family—disowned, blacklisted, spoken of in hushed tones over tea.”  

His brow arched, amusement flickering in his eyes. “But not by you, I imagine.”  

A soft chuckle escaped her, light as the rain against the glass. “Hardly. I’ve been sneaking off to her performances for years. She’s brilliant—utterly fearless. When we visited before Papa passed, she’d teach me everything about the stage. Mama was horrified, but Papa… Papa turned a blind eye. I think, deep down, he rather enjoyed the rebellion of it all.”   

He studied her, intrigue sparking behind his gaze. “Did you ever consider taking it beyond stolen lessons and childhood fancy?”   

A memory stirred—distant but persistent, like a whisper through a locked door. “Before Papa died, I did,” she admitted. “I wanted to see the world—every corner beyond the suffocating familiarity of Hertfordshire. On my fifteenth birthday, he gave me a globe, the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Egypt, the Americas, China, India—I traced each name with my fingers, vowing to set foot in all of them. Mama, of course, was scandalized. She called it a ‘ fever of reckless ambition ’ and warned me of the world’s countless barbaric dangers. But to me, Hertfordshire was the speck, and the world… the world was an ocean waiting to be crossed.” She huffed a quiet laugh. “She threatened to send me to finishing school to stamp out my ‘unruly whims.’ But Papa—diplomatic as ever—rebranded them as ‘intellectual curiosity,’ so my dreams were indulged. For a while, anyway.”    

His lips curved in a slow, knowing smirk. “Hmm, much like I indulge you now?” 

Something warm unfurled in her chest, the spark of his teasing igniting something she wasn’t sure she wanted to name. “Yes,” she mused, matching his smirk with a playful one of her own. “I’ve decreed it so.”

But beneath the banter, something quieter lingered—an unspoken thread tugging between them. This easy warmth, this strange familiarity… Was it something real, something that could be held onto? Or was she simply indulging in a fleeting illusion?  

His voice gentled, slipping past her guard like silk. “You miss your father.” 

A sharp ache pressed against her ribs. “I do.” 

“How long has it been?” 

Her breath hitched, just for a moment. “Five years.” 

The mattress dipped slightly as he shifted, turning toward her fully, his gaze steady in the low light. “And yet, you’re smiling, Swan.” 

A wistful sigh escaped her. “I was just thinking how strange this is. You and I, trading stories, as if we’re—” 

“Friends?” he finished smoothly, one brow arching with a wicked glint.

Emma stifled a smirk, quietly conceding the truth—never before had she kept such scandalous company. And yet, there was something undeniably intoxicating about the peril he carried so effortlessly. The duke was a contradiction of indulgence and intrigue, promising both destruction and delight in equal measure.  

“It’s rather curious,” she mused, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “I’ve only ever spoken this freely with my fellow wallflowers.”  

“Have I earned the honor of such candidness, then?” His voice was a smooth, lazy drawl, an invitation to dance on the edge of propriety—though every sensible part of her warned against it.  

“Not quite yet,” she countered, her tone light but edged with challenge. And yet, some traitorous part of her recognized how easily she slipped into this verbal sparring with him. He was too sharp, too magnetic, and she admired him—perhaps more than she ought to. Admiration, after all, was the first step toward something far riskier. He would lose interest eventually. That was the way of men like him.  

“So tell me,” he murmured, his voice a low, deliberate caress, his eyes gleaming with far too much wicked amusement. “Are you no longer troubled by the prospect of being alone with me?”   

Emma scowled, refusing to let him see how his words sent a quiet thrill through her. Arrogant wretch. “Your reputation gave me pause, I’ll admit, but I see now it hardly lives up to the legend.”  

His brow arched, that spark of self-satisfaction flickering to life in his gaze. “And what legend would that be, Swan? Do enlighten me.”  

She hesitated, savoring the moment, then let a slow, teasing smile play at her lips. Why did baiting him feel so exhilarating? “Oh, just the one that paints you as a dashing rapscallion,” she quipped, though the quickening of her pulse suggested her heart suspected otherwise.  

A slow, knowing grin stretched across his face, a flicker of wicked amusement sparking in his eyes. It sent her pulse stumbling.  

“Ah,” he drawled, his voice slipping into that impossibly smooth cadence, rich with mischief, “but you’ve omitted the most crucial part, haven’t you? The bit about being fiendishly sinful. Surely, that’s whispered in dark corners too?”  

The heat in his gaze dried her throat, forcing her to swallow before she could muster a response. “I was getting to it,” she countered, her lips curving into a smirk just as sharp. “Dashing rapscallion and fiendish rogue. Quite the scandalous résumé.” 

Her mind, however, whispered something far more dangerous—ruthless, untamed, indomitable. Qualities she had no business wanting, and yet, like a fool, she did.    

His fingers ghosted over her cheek, a fleeting touch, deceptively light. But it carried heat, a slow-burning ember that coiled in her stomach, dangerous in its temptation. A warning, unheeded. 

“And do you believe everything you read, Swan?” His voice was a velvet murmur, low and knowing, a challenge wrapped in dark amusement. She should have stepped back, drawn the line before she lost herself entirely. But she had no intention of retreating. Not tonight. Later, she would blame the storm—the relentless rain pounding against the roof and windows like a restless pulse, the fire casting shadows that curled around them like murmured secrets. The air between them shimmered, thick with something reckless, something electric.  

Desire—unapologetic and insubordinate—stirred inside her, sending her pulse into a wild, erratic rhythm. I want to kiss him , the thought flashed, unbidden, searing through her. And I’m an utter fool for it.   

“Your scowl is positively menacing, Swan,” he mused, that maddening smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “Dare I ask what wicked plots are turning in that head of yours? Murder? Mayhem?”  

The mockery in his tone, the glint of arrogance in his eyes—it only stoked the fire inside her, goading her closer to the edge. 

She had reached her limit. The want, the need to kiss him had become an unbearable torment, a taut string pulled too tight—until it finally snapped. Thought didn’t factor in. Caution was an afterthought. She simply closed the distance. 

His eyes widened, startled, but she didn’t falter, didn’t grant him the chance to object. Her body brushed against his, her lips claiming his in a bold, reckless declaration.  

The kiss was an unpolished collision of urgency and hesitation—a tangle of breath and impulse, utterly graceless. And yet, beneath that clumsy fervor was something softer, something achingly sweet. For a breathless moment, she stilled, anticipation curling around her ribs like a vice, waiting—praying—for him to respond. 

But he didn’t. 

Mortification struck fast and vicious, a scorching tide of regret. She jerked away, pulse riotous, as a quiet, defeated sigh escaped her lips.  

The duke remained infuriatingly still, his gaze unreadable—half-lidded and unreadable, a fortress of composure. For a flicker of a second, she swore she caught something raw beneath the surface—hunger, hesitation, a war waged in silence. Then, as swiftly as it had appeared, it was gone. Indifference slid into place like a well-worn mask. He looked at her as though she were nothing more than an amusing curiosity. 

“To what do I owe this... sudden display of affection?” he drawled, voice a languid stretch of mockery, detached and entirely insufferable. 

“I just...” She floundered, pulse hammering. “I needed to rid myself of that wretched anticipation.” 

A nervous laugh escaped her, and she punctuated it with a dismissive wave, as if the entire moment had been a minor inconvenience—something to be handled and forgotten. 

One brow arched, his curiosity piqued. “Oh? Do elaborate.”  

She cleared her throat, grasping at composure with both hands. “Two days— at least —trapped in this absurdly cozy little cottage with you.” She held up two fingers, as though tallying every agonizing second of restraint. “I’d have gone positively mad with all the... wondering. The suspense was intolerable. So I thought, why not spare myself the torment?” 

She exhaled, striving for an air of practiced indifference. “And now,” she declared, with all the poise she could fake, “now I know.” 

His gaze remained fixed on her, razor-sharp, as though she were an enigma demanding unraveling, a conundrum he refused to leave unsolved. The weight of his scrutiny sent warmth prickling up her spine, despite her best efforts to feign indifference. 

“And what, pray tell,” he murmured, his voice a low, knowing drawl, “do you now know ?” 

“Well,” she began, summoning a nonchalance that did not, in fact, exist, “now I know what it’s like to kiss you—properly, of course.” There. Casual. Unbothered. A perfectly reasonable statement, even if her pulse was hammering like a war drum.  

His smile unfurled, slow and sinful, the expression of a man who had just discovered a most amusing game. “What an injustice,” he mused, voice all dark velvet and mischief. “Truly disgraceful.”   

Her brow knit in suspicion. “What, precisely, is disgraceful?” 

“That you would mistake that —” he paused, gaze dragging lazily to her lips, “enthusiastic slobbering for a proper kiss.” 

Emma’s gasp was immediate, her spine snapping straight as indignation burned through her. " Slobbering ?" 

He nodded, wholly unrepentant, as though relaying the most mundane of observations. “Mmm. My hounds greet me in much the same fashion.” 

A sound—not quite a growl, but something dangerously close—escaped her throat, her fingers curling into fists. “ How dare you !” 

His eyes glittered with wicked amusement, his mouth curving in a way that set her nerves alight. “Ah, my sincerest apologies. I fear I may have bruised your delicate ego.”   

She lifted her chin with as much dignity as one could muster while resisting the urge to strangle a man. “You, sir, likely believe you could do better. But let’s not engage in fantasies, shall we? I recall our first encounter quite clearly, and that sorry excuse for a kiss? I’ve read grocery lists with more passion.”  

His lips twitched—infuriating, maddeningly entertained. “A challenge, Swan? How terribly bold of you. I accept.”  

Before she could launch into a proper retort, he tugged her in, his lips descending with all the calculated precision of a man determined to make a point. 

So she bit him. Hard . 

With a muttered curse, he pulled back, eyes flashing with a mix of amusement and outrage. “Impudent hellion!”  

She flung the blanket aside in a storm of indignation, launching herself from the bed, every movement radiating offended dignity. She marched toward the armchair, her steps a dramatic storm of huffs and frustration. Slobbering , indeed. If she had a single ounce of self-preservation, she’d ignore the scoundrel, retreat beneath the covers, and pretend none of this had ever happened. 

But self-preservation had clearly abandoned her.

Something reckless, something insatiable, had woken inside her—a slow-burning temptation that demanded to be indulged. Or perhaps she was simply too willful for her own good.  

Pivoting sharply, she found him standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, that maddening smirk carved onto his face like a challenge.

Oh, to hell with it. 

She closed the distance in three determined strides, seized his shoulders with unforgiving resolve, and crushed her lips to his. There. Let him dare to call that slobbering. The absolute nerve.  

A startled sound rumbled in his throat as they toppled backward, a mess of tangled limbs and chaotic momentum. She landed squarely on his chest with a most undignified oomph, their foreheads colliding with an unceremonious crack. 

She shot up with a yelp, clutching her skull. 

“God above,” he muttered, rubbing his own temple, “if I’d known you intended to bludgeon me to death, I might’ve prepared a will.” 

“You insufferable—” 

Before she could unleash the full force of her indignation, he silenced her the only way he knew she wouldn’t protest—by kissing her senseless. 

Gone was the teasing arrogance, the infuriating detachment. This kiss was ruinous, deliberate, a slow-burning seduction with no intention of retreat. He kissed her like a man committing something sinful, something exquisite, something he had no business wanting—but refused to deny himself any longer. It wasn’t hurried or careless; it was a study in temptation, an exploration designed to unravel her entirely. Every touch, every movement was a promise, a question, a conquest.  

“Part those lovely lips for me,” he murmured against her mouth, his voice dark with command, thick with promise. 

Emma gasped, her lips trembling apart, an unspoken surrender. And with that, he claimed her completely. 

Desire surged through her, potent and shameless, as his tongue swept in, coaxing hers into a slow, sinful cadence. A teasing bite. A lingering taste. Then deeper, fiercer—a battle waged in wicked strokes and stolen breath. 

A low, unguarded groan rumbled through him, sending a shiver rippling down her spine. Her heart pounded in answer, wild and urgent, as if reveling in this reckless new rhythm they had struck between them.  

Then, with effortless control, he rolled them over, pressing her beneath him. The shift was seamless, inevitable, the weight of him a dizzying reminder of how little resistance she had left. 

This was folly—glorious, dangerous folly. His title, his reputation—mere instruments she had once wielded with careful calculation, pieces on a board she had intended to move with precision. And to him, she was nothing more than a passing intrigue, a puzzle to toy with before discarding.  

So why, then, did her pulse betray her with its frenzied beat, a traitor thrashing against the cage of her ribs? Why did she feel as though she were slipping past the edge of reason, plunging headfirst into something far more perilous than desire? 

Emma cursed the inevitability of it. And worse—the bitter truth that she had no wish to stop.   

This man—this maddening duke—distant where it counted most, was fated to ruin her. She saw it as plainly as a blade poised above a throat, gleaming with inevitability. It was there in the abyss of his gaze—the stark, merciless certainty of it. And yet, for all her resolve, for all the walls she had painstakingly built, she despised him in that instant. Despised him for making her fall. 

“You will break me,” she whispered, hating the tremor in her voice, hating the rawness of the confession. But she held his gaze, daring him to laugh, to cut her down with the razor wit he used as armor against the world.  

No humor met her challenge. Instead, something darker flickered there—dangerous, unreadable. His fingertip skimmed her cheek, leaving ruin in its wake, as if some unspoken grief passed between them, heavy and unrelenting. “You’ll recover,” he murmured, voice like steel, offering no comfort, no illusion of tenderness.

Emma flinched.

No pretty lies. No false assurances to soften the blow. Just the cold, cutting truth. And with it, the first crack splintered through the reckless, traitorous thing in her chest. 

They lay there, trapped in silence, a hush thick with the weight of everything left unsaid. The flickering glow of the hearth cast shifting shadows around them, cocooning them in a secret that would never see daylight. Society would never know of the stolen kisses, the illicit touch, the words too dangerous to be spoken beyond these walls. 

Ruin, perhaps, could still be outrun. 

But I will know , her soul ached in quiet rebellion. And in that moment, the heart she had buried beneath duty and sacrifice stirred, fragile and defiant, as though breathing its first unshackled breath.  

As if sensing the storm within her, he lowered his head. Their noses brushed, a featherlight prelude to disaster, before his lips claimed hers in a kiss that unraveled everything. There was no desperation in it—only possession. He took his time, shaping the moment into something devastating, branding her with slow, merciless hunger. The force of it sent her spiraling, teetering on the edge of something vast and all-consuming. 

Her fingers tangled in his hair, torn between dragging him closer, pushing him away, and pulling him with her into the abyss. 

And she knew, with a certainty that left her breathless—there would be no turning back. 

Desire surged through Killian, a ruthless force that clawed through his veins and took him hostage. The press of Emma’s lips—warm, insistent, devastatingly soft—stripped him of restraint, shattered every carefully laid defense. He had mocked her kiss earlier, dismissed it as unrefined, a jest to keep the inevitable at bay. But now, with her taste sinking into him, her breath twining with his, the joke was on him. He was undone. 

Touch me. Please . The silent demand pounded through him, raw and relentless. He ached for her—not just the heat of her body but the essence of her, the wild, reckless soul that called to his own. He craved her with a hunger that defied sense, that threatened to rip him apart and remake him in the same breath.  

She sighed against him, the smallest, sweetest sound—and it unraveled something deep, something long thought dead. His chest tightened, his breath faltered, and before he could steel himself, his heart—his traitorous, long-buried heart—began to beat anew. Had it truly been so long since he’d felt anything beyond duty and decay? A decade? No—longer. An endless, empty lifetime.  

And then, a second revelation struck, sharp and merciless. His body, dormant for years, stirred with a faint ache of arousal, trembling under the weight of a sensation he had all but forgotten. Shock coursed through him, sharp and unforgiving—a brutal reminder of the years lost to impotence. For ten long years, he had been poked and prodded by doctors, offered the most exquisite courtesans Paris had to offer—only to be met with bitter disappointment. Ten years of nothing.

Until now. 

It wasn’t much—not the swift, undeniable response he craved—but there was a flicker, a breath of life stirring beneath his trousers. And for him, that was everything.  

Emma’s mouth moved against his, warm and seeking, unguarded in a way that made his pulse stutter. She kissed him with an intoxicating curiosity, as if savoring every stolen moment, as if tasting something forbidden and finding herself unwilling to stop. A quiet, needy sound escaped her lips—a plea wrapped in a breath—that sent fire racing through his veins, that shattered whatever resolve he had left. Every muscle in his body tensed, bracing against the surge of emotion rising from the hollow spaces within him, places he had long convinced himself were barren. 

He cradled her face with aching reverence, his thumb skimming the delicate curve of her jaw, while the rough scars of his other hand pressed against her cheek—a tether, a reminder that she was real, that this was real. His kiss deepened, edged with urgency, as if he could coax the fire back to life, force his body to remember what it had forgotten. 

And there it was—a tremor, a faint throb along his shaft—a phantom pulse of remembered pleasure. But still, his body, traitorous as ever, refused to fully rise to the occasion. Frustration curled in his gut, sharp and merciless, but then—Emma gasped, her heartbeat hammering beneath his palm, fierce and desperate, and it sent a fresh jolt of longing through him that tightened his grip. He shifted against her, swallowing down the sharp bite of pain crawling up his spine, a cruel reminder of the limits he despised.  

A soft moan slipped from her lips, feather-light yet devastating, cutting through the fog of his frustration. Then she pushed against his chest, a gentle insistence that shattered the moment. He let her go instantly, breathless, disoriented, as she rolled away. The air between them vibrated with unspoken hunger, their lips swollen, burning from the exchange. 

Emma trembled, her nightgown clinging like mist to her skin, doing nothing to conceal the fevered flush rising along her collarbone, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Her fingers brushed over her lower lip, still wet, still parted in the aftermath, while her gaze—dark, searching—held something fragile and raw. And in that look, he saw it—the distance stretching between them, a chasm of uncertainty and longing that neither of them knew how to cross. 

He drew a slow, measured breath, the air weighted with everything left unsaid. “I’ve frightened you,” he murmured, his voice quiet. 

“No... I’ve frightened myself,” she admitted, the words slicing clean through the moment, cool and unflinching. Honesty, when laid bare, was a treacherous thing—it left no room for pretense, no armor to shield the wound it exposed.  

And in that instant, he understood her completely. 

“Come here, love.”

Her eyes flashed, rebellion sparking in their depths. The tip of her tongue brushed her lower lip—a tell, a flicker of uncertainty beneath her composed veneer. “Are you making an offer, Your Grace?” she asked, her tone threading between provocation and caution.  

A pang struck his chest—sharp, unbidden, unwelcome. “No,” he said, the single word weighted with regret, with the quiet ache of restraint.  

Her cheeks burned, her pride pricked. “Then kindly refrain from taking any further liberties,” she whispered, her voice a tremor of resolve wrapped in silk. “I may have acted on impulse, but I am not in the habit of gambling with my virtue. If I were to yield to your… persuasions,” she continued, the scandalous word barely above a breath, “I would expect nothing less than the security of a marriage in return.” 

The room settled into silence, her quiet dignity a force greater than any raised voice. Lifting her chin, she stood unshaken, drawing strength from an unyielding core. “Our circumstances are hardly conventional,” she said, each word a deliberate choice, spoken not just to him but as a reminder to herself. “Temptation is an unforgiving adversary, and we would be fools to let it best us. I will not falter.” Her voice softened, but her gaze held firm, steady in its plea for him to grasp the weight of what she asked. “And you—” she hesitated, searching his face, willing him to understand—“you must not make yourself its champion. I have no brother to guard my name, no father to uphold my honor. That duty falls to me alone.”  

She looked pale and stricken, shaken yet impossibly luminous. That quiet ferocity, the way her chin lifted in stubborn defiance, only sharpened her allure—turning her into something untouchable yet devastatingly near. Strength suited her. So did that fire in her eyes, the fierce battle between sense and longing. 

His fingers traced the barest whisper of contact along her arm as he leaned in, voice a velvet murmur. “Then, Swan, wield that brilliant mind of yours… and choose wisely.” 

Her resistance only made her more exquisite. She was a study in contradictions—unyielding yet inviting, fragile yet indomitable. Each contrast pulled at something deep within him, something long buried beneath years of indifference. A reckless hunger stirred, not just for the pleasure of her body, but for the dangerous temptation of offering her something far greater.

His name. 

Madness. Absolute folly. Yet as she lay there, raw and unapologetically herself, every untamed piece of her demanding to be met on equal ground, he wanted her. Not just for a night, not merely to slake desire, but entirely. Unreservedly.  

If only…

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling as a hollow ache swelled in his chest, stretching between them like a chasm. That emptiness—he had beaten it into submission once, crushed it beneath grief and rage until it no longer clawed at his ribs. He had buried those ghosts deep, learned to live with their absence. So why now? Why her? Why did this maddening woman make him reckless enough to tempt fate, to reach for something forever beyond his grasp? 

You will break me.

Her words ghosted through his mind, deceptively soft, yet razor-sharp in their honesty. That single confession, laid bare and trembling, had slipped past his defenses and settled in his bones.  

You’ll recover.

His words had been cool, measured—an artful deception. Beneath that façade, he was anything but indifferent. Every inch of him burned with the need to taste her again, to trace the shape of her against him, to drown in the heady intoxication of her presence. But desire was a cruel master when tethered to a body that had long since betrayed him. He was a man stripped bare by fate, carved hollow by years of loss, and there was nothing left in him to give. He had accepted that truth long ago, let it settle deep into his bones. To want more, to reach for something beyond the narrow confines of survival, was the height of foolishness. Dreaming of love, of a life untouched by ruin, was no better than chasing the wind—an illusion that would dissipate the moment he grasped for it.  

What am I even hoping for? 

But her silence held. Not cold or distant, but contemplative—like a tide drawing back before the inevitable pull forward. He felt the tension in her beside him, the war waging beneath her stillness. She had laid down her terms with a clarity that brooked no argument, staked her honor on the battlefield between them. And yet, she lingered. Still here.

It was not surrender he saw when she turned her face toward him again—it was courage. A decision made not in spite of her words, but because of them.

Yet she didn’t pull away as he expected. Instead, she leaned in, her shoulder brushing his—light as breath, warm as dawn breaking over a frozen world. 

“I never knew a kiss could taste like sunshine,” she murmured, her voice so soft it was scarcely more than a thought. 

“And storms,” he countered, the words slipping free before he could restrain them—raw, deliberate, unguarded. 

Killian swore he felt her smile against the silence, a quiet glow that reached into the dark corners of his soul and set his pulse hammering. 

If I don’t breathe, perhaps she’ll touch me again.

And she did. A whisper of fingertips over the jagged scars of his knuckles, her touch reverent, as if granting absolution. A gesture so fleeting, so devastating, it sent something dangerously close to hope unraveling through his chest. 

Ah, yes… Christ.

“I do believe, Miss Swan,” he drawled, his voice rich as sin, “there are boundless opportunities for us as… kissing friends. ”  

Her laughter was a slow, decadent thing, laced with mischief. “You really shouldn’t provoke me so. I can be dreadfully wicked, you know.” 

He arched a brow but kept his gaze stubbornly ahead. If he so much as glanced at her, the last of his restraint would shatter, and he’d find himself scandalously devouring her mouth, honor and self-control be damned. “Wicked, you say?” 

“Oh yes,” she purred, a maddening fusion of innocence and provocation. How in hell did she manage that?  

The firelight flickered between them, its golden glow casting their features in shifting shadow, but neither moved—both caught in the exquisite tension threading the space between them. 

“You’re thinking of kissing me again,” she whispered, voice like silk sliding over steel. 

“I am, Miss Swan,” he admitted, his stare locked on hers, his pulse a reckless staccato beneath his skin. 

“I thought we’d dispensed with formalities,” she teased, lips curling in that sinful, knowing smile. 

“When I need to salvage what’s left of my composure, Miss Swan is safer.” 

Her eyes gleamed, amusement sparking in their depths. “I rather like the way Killian tastes on my tongue.” 

“And I would see it linger there.” 

She moved closer—unrepentant, untamed—the huntress once more, and before he could draw breath, she captured his lips in a kiss that shattered every last barrier he’d so painstakingly constructed. Her fingers wove into his hair, claiming, demanding, and he yielded—helpless against the feverish pull of her.

Her mouth was all scorching promise, her touch a reckless incantation, and the soft, pleasure-laced sighs she released wrapped around him like a spell, each one a treasure he’d hoard in the deepest vault of his soul, where they would haunt him long after she was gone.

Something long dead within him—something he had sworn was beyond resurrection—stirred from its eternal slumber, roused by the violent, aching bliss that tore through him like a jolt of agony and ecstasy entwined. 

Sweet mercy…what in God’s name is this?

Chapter Text

With a snarled curse, Killian wrenched himself from Emma’s grasp and launched off the bed—too fast, too foolish. His muscles rebelled at once, twisting with cruel precision as lightning bolts of pain lanced up his spine. His leg gave out beneath him, traitorous and limp, and he crumpled against the bed with a graceless thud.  

Emma lunged forward, instinct trumping shock, her arms wrapping around him just in time to break his fall. The sheer absurdity of the tangle they landed in—a heap of limbs and ragged breath—hit him square in the ribs. And despite the torment lancing through his body, a laugh burst free—hoarse, wild, and utterly inappropriate. 

"This is not even remotely funny,” she huffed into his shoulder, her breath a searing whisper against his skin. 

With a strained grunt and no small amount of stubborn pride, he rolled to the side, freeing her from the tangle of his limbs. He hauled himself back onto the mattress, jaw clenched, only to be met by pain’s swift, merciless return—an iron tide crashing over him. His legs seized, muscles knotting like ship ropes in a storm, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He’d fought this battle before, earlier that night, wrestled the spasms into submission while she slept peacefully beside him. He’d thought himself victorious. The pain laughed last.  

“Let me,” she murmured, slipping to her knees with quiet authority. She moved with swift grace, shoving pillows beneath his leg like a battlefield medic who’d done this a thousand times. 

A guttural sound tore from his throat—half growl, half groan—as shame nipped at his heels. Being seen like this, stripped down to suffering and sinew, gnawed at his pride like a vulture on bone. 

Her eyes never flinched. Concern blazed steady in her gaze. “Where does it hurt the most? Killian… please,” she whispered, her voice soft as seafoam, firm as anchor chain. “Trust me with your pain—as you did with your memories.”  

Her words landed like a blade wrapped in silk—gentle, but unerringly sharp. Something tight and ancient within him unraveled. With a weary tilt of his chin, he nodded toward his left thigh.  

Without hesitation, she pressed her palms to the muscle—strong, sure hands working into the knots like a sculptor wrestling defiance from stone. Her touch wasn’t delicate. It was something better: deliberate. Resolute.  

He clenched the sheets in his fists, breath stuttering as fire rippled through his leg. Sweat beaded at his brow. Pain threatened to unmake him—not just the physical torment, but the raw, naked exposure of it. He was not a man made for surrender. 

And yet… there was something in her touch. Something steadying. Perhaps it was the quiet strength in her fingers, or the way she met his agony without a flicker of fear. Whatever it was, it circled around his fraying composure and held him together—barely, but enough. 

She whispered soft nonsense as she worked—words without meaning, but threaded with comfort. Her voice wove through the fog of pain like a lullaby sung to a wounded beast. Each time his muscles spasmed, she countered with rhythm, warmth, and stubborn, relentless care.  

And somehow—absurd as it seemed—those sweet, foolish promises of relief began to soften the edge of agony. His mind, desperate for escape, reached for the usual sanctuaries: distant memories, imagined shores. But her hands, her voice, the gravity of her presence kept dragging him back. Kept anchoring him in the now. 

“I could give you pleasures beyond your wildest imaginings,” he heard himself say—words sliding off his tongue like silk dipped in sin, entirely unapproved by the more sensible parts of his brain. His voice was low, hoarse with pain and promise, the grit of it contrasting starkly with the torment burning beneath his skin. Yet his eyes stayed locked on hers, sharp and watchful, savoring the anticipation of her reaction to his deliberate provocation.

Her hands froze mid-knead, her fingers stilled on his thigh as her eyes widened—not in offense, but intrigue. “I’m not sure pleasures are appropriate conversation just now,” she murmured, voice uncertain, thick with something dangerously close to fascination. And yet—she didn’t stop. Her hands resumed their ministrations, deliberate, coaxing knots from muscle as though her touch alone could unmake pain. 

Fascinating. She wasn’t repelled by the ruin of his body. On the contrary, she seemed entirely absorbed, unflinching, utterly focused on the twisted sinew beneath her fingers. 

He watched her nibble her bottom lip, a crease forming between her brows. Her intelligent eyes darted to his face, curiosity flickering behind them like a flame fanned by wind. 

“Ahh... temptation,” he drawled, the word rich and slow, tasting of triumph. “I see it in your eyes.” 

Color crept up her throat, blooming across her neck like a scandalous secret. Her body betrayed her long before her lips did. “I am, regrettably, only human,” she replied, her voice softer now, tinged with a delicious awareness that stirred something feral in him. “Curiosity is... natural. And,” she added with a lift of her chin that dared him to disagree, “since I’m far from a suitable match, propriety seems more like a suggestion than a rule—don’t you think?” 

The idea of Miss Emma Swan tossing propriety aside like an unlaced corset, giving in to something feral and forbidden, sent heat surging through his veins. A throb of want ignited deep in his core. His body, long dulled by pain and memory, remembered—suddenly and acutely—what it meant to burn. 

For one breathless moment, he clung to the feeling, chasing it like a half-remembered dream, willing it to root itself in flesh. 

But no—the betrayal came swift and sharp. Despite the riot in his mind, his cock remained obstinately indifferent, nestled lifeless in the folds of his trousers. He clenched his jaw, fury laced with frustration boiling in his gut.  

Then—her fingers drifted. A subtle shift. A featherlight brush against the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, even through the fabric. It wasn’t a grope or a stumble. It was intentional. Calculated.  

In his mind’s eye, she was already sprawled across the narrow bed, dress rucked up scandalously high, her thighs pale and parted, gaze fixed on him with unabashed hunger. The image struck like lightning—pure and primal. Pain took a back seat as a different ache roared to the surface. 

And just like that, his body remembered how to want. Blood surged, breath caught, and his cock stirred, twitched, then hardened with a long-forgotten urgency. 

The sheer audacity of the moment nearly unraveled him. Could this be real? After countless nights marooned in silence, tormented by hunger that felt more myth than memory—was this finally the end of the ache? 

“If it’s wickedness you crave, love,” he murmured, his voice a velvet drawl laced with sin, “then undress and come to me.” 

Her eyes went wide, scandal blooming across her cheeks in a vivid flush. “You are outrageous , Your Grace!” she gasped, the title flung like a shield, even as her voice trembled with more than indignation. 

“Killian,” he corrected smoothly, a rakish grin tugging at his lips. Somewhere deep in the corner of his mind, the rational part of him blinked in disbelief. Have you lost your mind? 

But she didn’t flee, didn’t spiral into offended modesty. Instead, she stood her ground, her gaze narrowing with something between intrigue and defiance. Her lips quirked, thoughtful, as if she were parsing a particularly wicked riddle. 

“And how exactly,” she asked, voice dipped in disbelief and flirtation, “do you intend to please me?” 

His grin darkened, mischief and hunger sparking behind his eyes. “Undress, climb onto my face,” he said, each word low and deliberate, “and I’ll let my mouth make the case.” 

Her eyes flared so wide he half-expected them to fall out of her skull. 

“Sit— sit—what? ” she choked out, leaping to her feet as though the very notion had lit fire to her petticoats. “I—! You are—! That is the most indecent—!” She flailed, indignant and incandescent, one hand planted on her hip, the other swiping through the air as though trying to physically bat away his lewdness. 

He leaned back on his elbows, entirely unrepentant, smile sharpened to something wicked and predatory. “What, darling?” he purred, eyes glinting like polished obsidian. “You sitting that sweet cunt on my mouth while I feast like a starving man at last supper?” His tone was maddeningly casual, but the heat behind it could’ve scorched paint from the walls.

In his mind’s eye, she was already astride him—flushed, trembling, her thighs spread and slick, her cries muffled by the very tongue that would coax them free. The image struck him like lightning—raw, electric, consuming. 

And tight—God, he could feel it already. The imagined grip of her around him was nearly enough to undo him on the spot. His body responded with ruthless precision, pulsing with a hunger that bordered on feral. 

Killian hadn’t the faintest idea what the devil had seized him to prompt such scandalous bravado. Perhaps it was the delectable shade of outrage that had bloomed across her cheeks, or the startled parting of her lips that begged to be kissed—or bitten. Either way, his impudent provocation had reaped its reward.  

With a noise somewhere between a squeak and a snarl—equal parts mortification and fury—she spun on her heel and fled the room as though he’d suddenly grown horns, cloven hooves, and a tail to match. 

He chuckled, the sound low and unrepentant, rumbling through his chest like distant thunder. Clearly, reparations were in order. A proper apology. Possibly even a grand gesture to smooth her ruffled sensibilities—assuming she didn’t murder him first. 

He began to rise, ignoring the sharp protest of abused muscles—only to freeze mid-motion as she returned, storming into the room like a tempest bearing vengeance. A basin was clutched in her hands like a knight’s shield, and her stride was nothing short of warlike. 

“Swan,” he began, with what he hoped passed for contrition, “permit me to offer my most heartfelt—” 

He didn’t finish. Because at that moment, a cascade of icy water rained down on his head, dousing him in glacial justice. It splashed down his chest, soaked the bed, and obliterated what remained of his dignity. 

He sputtered, blinking through droplets, utterly drenched. “You’ve... wet the bed,” he deadpanned, dripping and scowling, his tone bone-dry despite his decidedly sodden state. 

Her eyes sparkled with vengeful delight, arms crossing as she regarded him with the victorious smugness of a cat who’d just pushed an heirloom vase off a mantel. “Has your ardor cooled, Your Grace?” she asked sweetly, the corner of her mouth twitching into a smirk. 

Something shifted. Subtle, almost imperceptible—but there, coiling low in his belly like smoke catching flame. His treacherous body—sluggish and disobedient for what felt like an eternity—gave a single, hopeful stir. A flicker of heat. A twitch. Barely a breath of desire. 

But unmistakable. 

He froze, muscles locking as the realization struck with more force than the basin’s contents. 

Not imagined. Not a ghost of memory. Real. 

“Killian?” Her voice was softer now, the sharp edges of mockery melting into concern. She set the basin aside with a muted clatter and stepped toward him, her brow furrowed. “Are you all right?” 

He didn’t answer. 

Her alarm sharpened. “Killian—what is it? Tell me. Please.” 

Her hand came to rest on his shoulder. 

And in that singular touch, the universe shifted. The cacophony of pain, the gnawing ache of old wounds—both physical and not—evaporated like mist at sunrise. Everything extraneous fell away. She was his gravity, his still point in a spinning world. 

Without thinking—because thinking would’ve ruined it—he drew her into his arms and onto his thigh, heedless of the protest flaring in every nerve. He swallowed the groan that clawed at his throat, gritting his teeth until the agony dulled to something less feral, something almost tender. Almost peaceful.  

He didn’t hold her with hunger or desperation this time. No urgency. No chase. Just the quiet ache of surrender. Of finding solace in the softness of another soul. He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and lingered there, the moment too full to fill with words. 

“What was that for?” she asked softly, her breath brushing against his chest like a secret. 

“For being my friend,” he murmured, the words scraped raw from somewhere deep, his voice rough with meaning he couldn’t quite say aloud. 

She tilted her head, gaze lifting to meet his. There was no confusion in her eyes, no surprise—just a luminous sort of understanding, quiet and soul-deep. Her lips parted, but sound didn’t follow. Only a breath. A heartbeat. A silence filled with everything unsaid. 

And then—she smiled. 

Not a polite curl of the lips or a flicker of amusement. No, this was sunlight incarnate. A smile so incandescent it made his heart stumble in his chest, as though it had briefly forgotten its purpose. 

“I quite enjoy being your friend, Killian,” she said, her voice a silken thread woven with warmth, comfort, and something dangerously close to devotion. 

As if on cue, dawn breached the horizon—a golden herald sweeping through the room, banishing the weary remnants of night. Sunlight spilled across the floorboards, honeyed and reverent, like even the day itself had paused to bless this moment. 

“I need to see the morning,” he murmured, almost to himself, his voice a hush of awe. 

She didn’t ask why. Of course she didn’t. She merely rested her head beneath his chin, and he felt the silent way she understood. This was his ritual—his reverence. The sacred ceremony of watching the world wake. Each morning, before the weight of reality could press in, he bore witness to the sky’s first inhale, the slow unfurling of light, the orchestral hush before birdsong. 

With slow, measured steps, he drifted down the narrow corridor, each footfall a quiet declaration of defiance against the stiffness plaguing his limbs. At the door, he paused, pulling it open to let the morning breathe on him. The cool air kissed his skin with the lingering perfume of last night’s rain—earthy, clean, and tinged with promise. The sunlight, pale and gold as spun honey, seemed almost drinkable. 

Emma sidled up beside him, her eyes dancing, a sly smile flirting with the corners of her mouth. “Do you ever smile, Killian?” 

“I do.”

She arched a skeptical brow. “When, exactly? Because at present, you look like you’re plotting a very polite military coup.” 

“When the occasion warrants it,” he said with mock gravity, though the ghost of a grin flirted with his lips. 

She gave a shrug, casual as a cat in a sunbeam. “I smile when I wake up.” 

A strange warmth stirred in his chest, a quiet curl of curiosity. “Do you now?” 

“Mmm,” she hummed, contentment softening her tone like velvet over steel. “There’s joy in a new day. I smile at the sunrise. At birds bickering in the hedges. At the scent of wet earth and thunder in the distance. I smile when I lie down, when the world hushes, when dreams tiptoe in.” 

He squinted toward the sky, as if testing her theory, and she laughed—a light, breezy sound that made the morning even brighter. 

“I smile,” she added, mischief flickering in her eyes, “because I am.” 

He chuckled, a low, reluctant sound. “Perhaps you’re merely touched in the head. I’ve heard that lunatics tend to smile for no reason at all.” 

Emma gave an exaggerated gasp, then socked his arm with the gentleness of someone who could cause harm, but chose mercy instead. 

Killian turned toward her, his gaze thoughtful, shadowed. “Perhaps I’ve been asleep all this time,” he murmured, almost to himself. The vibrant parts of him—once sharp as a blade and just as dangerous—had dulled over time, buried under grief, duty, and the cold comfort of routine. But now… now, everything inside him hummed with restless energy, unpredictable and bright.  

It unsettled him. He had always clung to structure, to iron discipline and principles that didn’t bend. He’d defined himself by control—of his body, of his mind, of his fate. 

But Emma Swan? She was a spark in the dry kindling of his soul. Around her, he was all flame and chaos and aching possibility. 

And he wasn’t sure who he was becoming. 

That—more than anything—frightened him. 

A forgotten sliver of himself—a long-buried, exquisitely tender fragment—stirred like embers coaxed back to flame after a winter's sleep. He wanted her, yes, but not merely in the feral, flesh-hungry way he once knew so well. This was something deeper, quieter. He longed to keep her, not as a possession but as a revelation. She was not a conquest. She was a discovery. 

If only... 

If only he dared to let himself believe he deserved such luxury. 

He resisted the urge to inhale her scent too deeply, though the faint trace of chamomile teased at his senses like a memory he hadn’t made yet. If he let it in, he feared it would etch itself into his very bones, linger in his blood, haunt the hollows of him. And he could not afford to carry her essence like a ghost. Not when he had the wealth, the power, and—most dangerous of all—the means to take what he wanted. 

And she could be his... if only for a breath, a heartbeat, a wicked, golden sliver of time. 

His gaze fixed on her, sharp and searching, as if trying to chart the map of his own ruin within the contours of her face. “I like you,” he said, the words rasping from his throat like a confession carved out of stone. 

She quirked an eyebrow, amusement dancing on her lips, but her eyes betrayed a deeper flicker—curiosity edged with something fragile, almost wary. “You say that like it’s a crime punishable by hanging.” 

Damn his selfish, tattered soul. She was the one who had invited this, his darker instincts hissed. But the game had changed. Somewhere along the way, she had stopped being a dalliance and become a reckoning. 

“Perhaps it is,” he murmured, voice frayed at the edges. 

He turned from her then, his eyes drawn to the horizon where dawn was spilling over the land like melted gold seeping through the cracks of night. Mornings had always been his sanctuary, a kingdom of solitude untouched by expectation. Silence was his truest companion—steady, cold, and faithful. It mirrored his losses, echoed his regrets. 

But now, with her presence brushing so close, the silence reshaped itself. It no longer howled. It hummed . It wrapped around them with the softness of unspoken understanding and infinite things unsaid. 

He wanted to share it with her—the hush between heartbeats, the reverence in quiet. She had somehow transformed his tormentor into a balm, made stillness sacred simply by standing in it. 

What do I hope for? 

The question lingered on the edge of his mind, a breath half-drawn, a prayer half-formed. 

And for the first time in too many years, Killian let it stay. 

Emma and the Duke were, quite scandalously, kissing friends. 

Such a title, should it ever reach society’s talon-nailed matrons, would surely have her excommunicated from polite company before the ink on the gossip columns dried. Shocking? Undoubtedly. Improper? Absolutely. Regretful? Not even a little. 

She sighed, a bit irritable at the stiffness of her now-damp, ill-fitting clothing. They’d been only slightly wet before, and with the Duke’s assistance—of all things—she had redressed in her damaged attire. The entire process had been a silent, blushing ordeal. Not exactly the demure morning she’d envisioned, playing valet to a man far too handsome for his own good, and who, incidentally, had just tasted her lips in ways no “friend” ought to. 

They had spent the better part of an hour basking in the quiet bloom of sunrise, a companionable hush settling between them. Only the creaks of the old cottage and the distant yawns of waking nature had broken the stillness. It had been peaceful. Borderline magical. Until hunger—relentless and deeply unromantic—interrupted. 

This forced a trudge to the larder, where they now stood, blinking at the contents. Yes, the shelves were stocked. No, nothing was prepared. It was now a matter of culinary survival. And Emma, for her part, was actively contemplating at least three inventive methods of strangling Marco. The scoundrel hadn’t appeared in hours. Hours. Clearly, he had masterminded this outrageous abandonment. Leaving her alone with His Grace—intentionally, no less. The nerve. 

Killian, of course, took the whole debacle with his usual maddening blend of good humor and effortless charm. He’d vowed that Marco would be flogged, sacked, or at the very least glared at most severely. But Emma was starting to suspect the man had conspired to play matchmaker. 

“I have an uneasy suspicion we’re failing spectacularly,” Killian said, his tone rife with doubt as his gaze shifted from Emma to the tattered recipe in his hands. 

“Not at all!” Emma chirped, far too brightly for someone whose culinary résumé began and ended with boiling water. “I daresay we’re doing brilliantly. We’ve followed every word on that wretched scrap of paper.” 

Killian arched a skeptical brow, his gaze dropping to the amorphous heap of dough before them. “This… thing looks like it was sculpted by a blindfolded child in a thunderstorm. And that’s generous. Mrs. Lucas has birthed some truly epic gastronomic disasters, but this might dethrone them all.”  

Emma’s fleeting sense of triumph deflated with a near-audible hiss, like a balloon meeting a particularly cruel pin. The two of them leaned in over the recipe again, as though proximity might somehow tease out divine baking wisdom from its smudged ink.  

It had been her suggestion—of course—after discovering the recipe and boldly proclaiming that two highly intelligent, functionally capable adults should be able to master the humble art of cake-making. After all, she spoke three languages, painted in watercolors with enviable finesse, and could identify obscure mountain ranges at a glance. Killian, for his part, could debate fiscal reform in nine tongues, had lectured at the Royal Society on planetary orbits, and once solved a diplomatic incident over pudding with a single Latin quip. 

Surely, they could manage one measly cake. 

Or so she had believed. 

“Perhaps… we forgot the eggs,” Emma muttered, squinting at the recipe as though it might spontaneously produce an errata in bold red ink. “I didn’t see any in the larder.” 

Killian cast her a sidelong glance, his eyes dancing with amused mockery. “I’m fairly certain I heard a chicken clucking just outside. Unless I’ve begun hallucinating poultry, which would be quite the turn for a man of my years.” 

They both turned to scowl at the unbaked monstrosity on the counter, which had taken on the tragic demeanor of a sullen lump of clay. 

“Did we add sugar?” Killian asked, the faintest thread of desperation clinging to his voice. 

“That was your responsibility,” Emma replied crisply. “Don’t tell me your formidable intellect has already misplaced a single spoonful of sweetness?” 

The duke slid the heavy earthenware bowl toward him with a devil-may-care grin, as if daring the dough to defy his palate. With the bravery of a man who'd faced far greater perils, he pinched off a lump of the questionable mixture and popped it into his mouth. His eyes widened theatrically, then fluttered shut in exaggerated ecstasy as he released a sound that could only be described as carnal. 

“Well?” she demanded, teetering perilously between hope and horror. 

His expression was one of profound solemnity. “Heavenly,” he deadpanned. 

“Truly?” she asked, skeptical. Not one to be easily duped, she pinched a bite-sized portion and tossed it into her mouth—then immediately gagged. “ Good Lord! ” she choked, nearly weeping as the unholy taste unfurled across her tongue. “We’re going to die in this cottage,” she declared, her voice heavy with despair.  

Killian merely grinned, wicked as sin. “Nonsense. In the event of famine, we’ll subsist on this dough. I’ve endured worse.” 

Emma gawked at him, scandalized. “Worse than this ? What, exactly—boot leather? Gravel stew?” 

Deciding the monstrosity was better suited for compost than consumption, she snatched up the bowl and marched it to the wastebin, where she deposited its contents.

His low chuckle rolled through the kitchen like warm honey, and despite herself, it drew a reluctant smile to her lips. 

He plucked the last apple from the counter with infuriating ease, examining it with mock gravitas. “We’ll share,” he said, offering it to her as though proposing a sacred rite, some ancient, forbidden communion. 

She sauntered over with a sway in her step, leaned casually against the counter, and—without preamble—sank her teeth into the fruit like Eve before the fall. Juice glistened at the corners of her mouth. 

Killian’s gaze flicked from the apple to her lips, then back again. His brow lifted, sardonic. “What big teeth you have, Miss Swan.”

Emma snorted mid-chew, laughter bubbling past her full mouth as she crunched on. 

He took his turn with a bite, then passed the fruit back to her—no words, no pretense, just the comfortable silence of shared irreverence. 

And so they continued, passing the apple between them like conspirators in a delicious crime, never once acknowledging the knife glinting on the countertop beside them. To cut the fruit, it seemed, might risk slicing into something far more delicate. 

Barely a handful of minutes after they had concluded their humble breakfast with that shared apple, Marco finally reappeared at the cottage—much to Emma’s profound and near-desperate relief. The mere prospect of spending another night in such dangerous proximity to the Duke—in the same bed, no less—was enough to set her pulse racing for all the wrong reasons. She was quite certain that if they had , something delightfully ruinous would have transpired. And afterward? She’d be disgraced, awash in regret and societal ruin—while he , no doubt, would dust off his cuffs and carry on unscathed,  his roguish smile intact. 

“I told ye not to worry,” Marco had drawled in his thick, teasing brogue upon arrival, his eyes dancing with indecent amusement as they flitted between her and Killian. The Duke, predictably, did not rebuke his coachman’s impudence. Of course not. He merely smiled—that infuriating, heart-melting smile of his—and murmured that Marco’s timing was, as ever, “impeccable.”  

Emma had countered with her fiercest scowl, though it only seemed to delight Marco further. Yet despite her vexation, her heart softened at the sight of the coachman’s gruff but unmistakable affection for his master. There was a rugged sort of tenderness in his brusque inquiries about the Duke’s well-being, a loyalty that shone through the sarcasm. It was peculiar, yes—but oddly admirable. 

And that, perhaps, was the trouble. In the cocoon of solitude his absence provided, Emma found herself entirely too free to dwell —on the wicked press of his lips against hers, still tingling like the aftertaste of a forbidden fruit… on the way his teasing words had curled around her like silk cords, pulling taut her carefully knotted composure… on the dangerously seductive promise he had whispered like sin against her ear. 

I could give you pleasures beyond your wildest imaginings.

Heavens. It was absurd that she still longed to explore such reckless temptation. Absurd—and entirely true. 

She sighed, sinking back into the carriage cushions with a quiet groan of self-reproach. Eyes closed, head tilted, she allowed herself to drift into the sweet escape of daydreams. There, in the private theatre of her mind, propriety was banished and consequence forgotten. In that sacred, scandalous realm, she kissed the Duke as much as she pleased—again, and again, and again.

Rationality should have intervened, should have demanded she abandon such perilous fantasies. But rationality, as it turned out, was no match for a man like Killian.

And so she surrendered—to the memory, to the longing, to the wild and treacherous wonder of what could have been.

After what felt like an endless symphony of jolts and jounces along the rutted, mud-slick road, the carriage at last glided onto the smooth serenity of a paved drive. Towering elms and dignified beeches flanked the path like silent sentinels, their lofty branches interlacing above to form a cathedral of green. The transformation was striking—the ragged wilderness fell away, replaced by the cultivated splendor of aristocratic grace. 

Emma, her curiosity piqued, parted the curtain with a sweep of her fingers. The view that greeted her stole the breath from her lungs. 

It was like stepping into the pages of a well-worn fairytale. 

She had envisioned the Duke’s estate as something more brooding—perhaps a weatherworn fortress shrouded in ivy and melancholy, the kind of place where reclusive men with tragic pasts went to be haunted. Clearly, she had underestimated both the man and his domain.  

Rolling lawns unfurled like a royal carpet, dotted with wildflowers that danced in the breeze as if choreographed by the hand of nature itself. The earth seemed to rise in reverent homage to the grand edifice that reigned above it. Perched on a gentle hill, the manor loomed—imposing, yes, but not forbidding. Its stone walls shimmered golden in the afternoon sun, its turrets less the stuff of gothic nightmares and more the hallmarks of a dream conjured by some romantic architect. It was no dreary bastion of isolation, but a château born of light, order, and impossible charm. 

With a final lurch, the carriage came to a dignified halt in the sweeping courtyard. A moment later, the door creaked open and a sharp rap announced the unfolding of the steps. And there he was—Killian, poised as ever, one hand extended, the very picture of gallant composure. 

Emma placed her gloved hand in his, descending with care. Yet once her slippers met the gravel, she could not move. She simply stood, momentarily spellbound by the breathtaking tableau around her. 

The austere gray of the manor’s façade was softened by the riotous beauty of nature. Gardens exploded in color—roses in full blush, ivy curling like script along balustrades, and elegant fountains bubbling with effortless grace. A marble Neptune reigned over a pool of sea nymphs, while a proud stag, rendered in stone, gazed skyward in eternal homage to Diana, the moonlit huntress. Beyond the castle grounds, a verdant lawn tumbled down toward a glimmering lake, its glassy surface stippled with tiny islands draped in weeping willows and tangled emerald foliage. 

“This place is… magnificent, Killian,” Emma whispered, her voice awash with wonder. 

Before he could reply, a shrill squeal—whether of delight or distress, she could not discern—rippled through the air.  

Emma’s gaze snapped toward the great stone steps leading to the imposing oak doors, where a lion-head knocker gleamed like a guardian's eye, catching the sunlight with a fierce, golden glint. 

Approaching them were two figures—a young woman and a gentleman—both strikingly fair, as though cut from the same gilded cloth. The girl, resplendent in a gown of powder blue, moved with effortless grace. Her golden curls were gathered into a loose chignon, with delicate tendrils artfully escaping to brush her shoulders. As she drew nearer, the ice-bright gleam in her sapphire eyes echoed the same roguish spark that often lit the Duke’s own—a resemblance that was both unsettling and oddly mesmerizing. 

At her side strode a young man of equal elegance, his features chiseled and composed, though softened by eyes of a deeper cerulean, warm and distinctly welcoming. The familial connection between the pair was unmistakable—mirrored bone structure, the same aristocratic bearing—but it was the quiet confidence in their manner that most betrayed their bloodline. 

As they approached, a pang of self-consciousness swept over Emma. Her eyes flicked downward to her own wrinkled, travel-worn gown—creased, spotted, and undeniably unimpressive. With a futile swipe of her hands, she attempted to smooth the fabric, as if dignity might be ironed back into place. 

“You are beautiful,” the Duke murmured low beside her, his voice brushed with quiet certainty. “You could wear a potato sack and still look like Aphrodite in exile.” 

“Shameless flattery,” she replied under her breath, though the words were betrayed by the blush that warmed her cheeks and the reluctant smile tugging at her lips. His praise—outrageous though it was—kindled a glow she could not easily extinguish. 

Killian’s grin deepened, his eyes alight with playful wickedness, before he stepped forward to greet the newcomers. 

“Killian, thank heavens you’ve returned!” the young woman exclaimed, her voice airy with relief, though her gaze darted swiftly from her brother to Emma, brimming with curiosity she barely attempted to hide. 

The Duke pressed a kiss to the young woman’s cheek—a gesture of such ease and affection it required no explanation—then turned to clasp hands with the gentleman, who, for his part, was not nearly so subtle. His gaze lingered on Emma, eyes keen with interest veiled only loosely by civility. 

Emma arched a single, imperious brow, her scowl sharp and unyielding. The man blinked, clearly startled by her boldness, and to her quiet satisfaction, quickly glanced away. 

“Miss Swan,” Killian intoned smoothly, a mischievous glint tucked beneath the formal cadence, “may I introduce my sister, Lady Alice, and my cousin, Mr. Graham Humbert.” 

“Oh, Miss Swan! I’ve been dying to meet you!” Lady Alice gushed, hands clasped at her waist with unrestrained delight. “Please—call me Alice. I can scarcely believe you’re actually here!” She turned to Graham with a grin as sly as it was sweet. “Miss Swan is Killian’s fiancée,” she added with a singsong lilt, her eyes gleaming with mischievous amusement. 

The girl’s exuberant warmth gently unraveled the tension coiled in Emma’s shoulders. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alice. And Mr. Humbert, likewise.”

Mr. Humbert drew in a sharp breath, his expression shifting from startled to frankly incredulous. “Fiancée?” he repeated, the word landing awkwardly in the space between them, his voice struggling to conceal its disbelief. 

“Oh yes,” Alice purred, her tone positively dripping with mischief as she cast Emma a conspiratorial wink, clearly relishing every moment of the ruse. 

Mr. Humbert blinked once, then again, before composing himself with a polished bow. “Enchanted, Miss Swan. Positively enchanted to make the acquaintance of my cousin’s betrothed.” 

The civility of his words did little to mask the skepticism that lingered beneath.  

As they exchanged a few moments of light conversation, Emma couldn’t help but notice the frequent flicker of Mr. Humbert’s eyes between her and the Duke, as if attempting to solve a riddle he had not been warned he’d be asked. Despite his initial surprise, there was an affable, pragmatic air about him—like a man who had seen too much to be easily scandalized. Alice, on the other hand, was a tempest of cheerful energy—utterly irrepressible, her bright curiosity and unchecked exuberance reminded Emma sharply of her younger sister, Anna, who required near-constant corralling. 

“Miss Swan,” Alice chirped, practically vibrating with excitement, “you must tell me everything about town life and the season—I have so many questions!” 

Emma offered a good-natured smile. “I shall do my utmost, though I’m afraid I’m hardly a connoisseur of London’s glittering festivities. My experience with its many frivolities is somewhat limited.” 

Before Alice could launch into another inquiry, the Duke interceded with characteristic ease. “Miss Swan has only just arrived and will need some rest. She’ll join us later, once she’s had time to recover.” 

Alice visibly wrestled with her desire to press on but ultimately sighed with theatrical resignation. “Very well. Forgive me, Miss Swan—I’ve been frightfully inconsiderate. I do get carried away.” 

As they proceeded into the house, the grand archways and soaring ceilings rendered Emma momentarily mute—an infrequent occurrence. She was struck dumb by the sheer majesty of it all. The Duke’s introductions to his butler and housekeeper followed, and both greeted her not with perfunctory politeness but with a kind of familial warmth that caught her entirely off guard. Their evident delight at her presence within these venerable halls was rare, and Emma couldn’t quite decide whether to be touched or utterly bewildered. 

Noticing the signs of travel still clinging to her—wind-tousled hair, the inevitable creases in her dress—the Duke diplomatically informed his sister they would reconvene in a few hours, after the requisite transformations had taken place. A poised maid named Cecilia was summoned to escort Emma, leading her down a vast hallway so stately it could have belonged to Versailles itself.

Curiously, Emma noted that she and the Duke were being guided in opposite directions. He vanished down another corridor, his valet in silent pursuit, as if even the process of changing one’s clothes required the choreography of court life. 

“Where does the duke retire?” Emma inquired, her curiosity quietly stirred. 

“To the west wing, miss,” Cecilia replied with cheerful alacrity. “Only His Grace sleeps there.” 

How deliciously enigmatic, Emma mused. “I wonder, does he keep enchanted chambers hidden away in that mysterious wing?” she asked, her tone light and teasing, a playful smile tugging at her lips. 

Cecilia blinked, nonplussed, clearly unfamiliar with the tale of Beauty and the Beast. Not that it mattered. Even with the rugged scars that marred the duke’s otherwise striking features, he was no beast. Quite the opposite, in fact—he was all charm and smoldering mischief. 

And the most devastating kisser… 

As they ascended a gracefully winding staircase, Emma took in the unexpected warmth that suffused the castle’s grandeur. Far from the cold severity she had anticipated, the interiors exuded a lived-in elegance. Towering windows on each landing were swathed in cascading lavender brocade, the silk shimmering faintly in the afternoon light. Each curtain bore the ducal crest embroidered in radiant gold thread, and elaborate tassels adorned the pelmets with aristocratic flair. 

Lining the walls were ancestral portraits and an astonishing collection of Old Masters. Emma, whose eye for detail was as sharp as her wit, immediately recognized the brushwork of Rembrandt, Rubens, and Raphael—a veritable gallery hidden within these storied halls. 

Her assigned bedchamber was nothing short of a masterpiece. A harmonious blend of Italian marble and richly carved mahogany framed the space, while a grand four-poster bed, dressed in pale blue damask and cinched with opulent tassels, commanded the room with quiet majesty. Underfoot, a sumptuous carpet in shades of cerulean and slate softened the stone floor, its intricate weave echoing the refinement that surrounded her. 

The lower walls were paneled in dark, burnished wood, lending warmth and gravitas, while the upper half was papered in soft silver, its delicate filigree catching the light in glimmering flourishes. Every chair and chaise longue was upholstered in whisper-soft silk, in muted hues of moonlight and mist. The overall effect was not merely one of luxury—but of serenity. As though the room had been designed to embrace its occupant in gentle, wordless repose. 

“How many rooms does the castle have?” Emma asked softly, her voice tinged with awe. 

“One hundred and ten, miss,” Cecilia replied with evident pride. “And the estate stretches over more than two thousand acres.”  

Emma drifted toward the grand armoire, pleasantly surprised to find her valise already unpacked, her gowns hanging with effortless grace—as though they had always belonged within such a chamber of quiet opulence. 

“A bath will be drawn for you shortly, miss. Simply ring when you're ready, and I shall attend,” Cecilia said with a warm smile before gliding from the room.  

Soon enough, steaming water laced with rose petals awaited her, the fragrance delicate and soothing. Emma sank into the bath with a sigh of pure bliss. The water enfolded her like silk, its warmth seeping into her bones, dissolving the last vestiges of weariness from her journey. As she reclined, eyes closed, her thoughts slipped unbidden to where they most often wandered—back to the cottage, back to him . 

She could almost feel the sinfully satisfying weight of the duke above her, his scent—leather, spice, and something darker—curling around her senses. The memory of his searing kiss still lingered on her lips, refusing to fade, like an ember that refused to die out. 

How could she possibly turn away from the tempest he ignited within her? How could she deny the magnetic pull, when such fierce emotion might only grace one’s life once—if ever? 

She had given him a promise: one week beneath his roof. Seven days. And yet, as unexpected tears pricked the corners of her eyes, Emma recognized the peril she now faced. She liked him—too deeply, too easily. And in the quietest corners of her heart, she feared that by week’s end, she would be hopelessly, irreversibly in love. 

And he… he would ruin her. Shatter her into a thousand glittering fragments. 

Unless—by some miracle—she could win his heart in return. 

The very thought froze Emma in place, her pulse thrumming so wildly it made her feel dizzy. 

The sheer audacity of the thought made her pulse quicken, dizzy with yearning. Part of her recoiled at the impossibility of such a dream. But another part—a part long buried beneath duty, grief, and pragmatism—stirred at last. Could she dare to show the duke that they might belong to one another? That they were more than a fleeting entanglement? 

Surely a man who had sworn off marriage, who had lived so long without a duchess, would never consider her a suitable choice for such a title. Emma scoffed softly at herself, disliking the ache that bloomed beneath her ribs. These were dangerous hopes—dreams she had abandoned the day her father died, when the weight of survival eclipsed the luxury of longing. 

And yet… a reckless thrill surged through her veins. 

What if there could be more with Killian? Not just stolen kisses and whispered promises—but something real. Something lasting. Could she risk everything—her pride, her heart—for the slimmest chance at happiness? 

Overnight, she had become a dreamer. A fool. One who dared to envision a life filled not with sacrifice, but love. And all of it wrapped around the most unsuitable man imaginable. 

I’ll never marry, Miss Swan. 

His voice echoed in her mind. Final. Resolute. 

But still, what harm could come from dreaming? Just for a little while? 

And so, cradled in rose-scented warmth, Emma allowed herself to imagine the impossible: to be the duke’s confidante… his lover… and, most dangerous of all, the woman who might make him fall irrevocably, impossibly, in love. 

The mantel clock chimed the half hour—its third solemn note since Killian had returned with Miss Swan in tow. He had wasted no time summoning his team of physicians to the estate, and afterward, indulged in the rare luxury of a scalding bath, determined to scrub away the grime and fatigue that no cottage basin could ever truly banish. 

Now dressed and feeling somewhat more human, he descended the sweeping staircase at a deliberate pace, his grip steady on the cane in his right hand. Each step sent a jolt of protest through his legs and lower spine—a cruel reminder of the toll exacted by hours spent defying his body’s limits. The bath’s soothing heat and his valet’s expert ministrations had offered only momentary reprieve. Soon, he would be forced to surrender to the indignity of his wheeled chair—loathe it though he did—to alleviate the growing strain. 

Pushing open the door to the library, Killian let it swing shut behind him with a muted thud. He was unsurprised to find Graham already there, lounging near the hearth, feigning interest in a book. His cousin had never been one for quiet contemplation—his appetites ran more toward exhilarating pursuits: women, racing horses, and wagers as reckless as they were lucrative. 

The book snapped shut with theatrical relief. “At last,” Graham drawled, his voice tinged with impatience and thinly veiled concern. “I was beginning to think you’d vanished altogether.”  

Killian crossed the room and settled into the waiting embrace of his wheeled chair, exhaling audibly as the pressure on his back eased. Every muscle in his body pulsed with gratitude for the reprieve. He glanced upward to find Graham watching him, his expression tight with unease.  

Even now, after all these years, it was evident that Graham had yet to make peace with the sight of him in that infernal chair—a stark, immovable symbol of the damage that could not be undone. 

“Had a rough go of it, did you?” Graham muttered, his gaze lingering on the infernal contraption. “Marco told me everything. You took one hell of a gamble diving back into that cursed water for him.” 

Killian’s mouth curved into a faint, rueful smile. “A gamble, yes—but one well worth the risk. He’s alive. That’s what matters.” 

To an outsider, such sentiment might have sounded absurd. But the servants of Blackwater Castle were not mere staff—they were kin. They had borne witness to his darkest days, refusing to let him disappear into the numbing abyss of laudanum or other, more final temptations. When he had lacked the strength to claw his way back, they had anchored him—steady hands in the storm, holding him fast when the shadows nearly consumed him. 

It had taken days of unwavering care, and an elite assembly of physicians from both Dublin and London, to wrest him from death’s grasp. Weeks passed before he could endure another person’s presence, and nearly a year before he could move without constant aid—without the cane, without the steadfast arm of his hovering manservant. But it was the emotional resurrection that had proven most harrowing. Nearly three years had crawled by before he ceased lashing out like a wounded animal, raging at the world as though fury could dull his anguish. The physical pain had been manageable—grief, far less so. 

Graham raked a hand through his tousled hair, exhaling a long breath. “So who is this Miss Swan? When I saw you together, there was... something between you—something warm. But no mention of an engagement. And Alice—she’s been sparkling with mischief ever since.”  

A glimmer of amusement danced across Killian’s face. With wry precision, he recounted the scandalous tale of Miss Emma Swan: how she had ensnared London society with a fabricated claim of intimacy with him, and—more curiously—how she had managed to capture his attention in the process. His lips twitched into a sardonic smile as he finished, “I’d have thought even the gossip mills of Nottinghamshire would’ve caught wind of her by now.” 

Graham’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’re not serious.” 

“I’m afraid I am.” 

“She lied about knowing you?” Graham repeated, his voice tinged with both astonishment and grudging admiration. 

Killian gave a low grunt of assent, his expression unreadable—save for the faintest flicker of a smile he made no effort to suppress. 

Graham shook his head, his expression darkening into a scowl. “Miss Swan is utterly incorrigible. To fabricate such a preposterous tale—and to carry it off so convincingly? Her audacity is nothing short of staggering.” 

Try as he might, Killian couldn’t fully suppress the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

Graham’s incredulity gave way to a slow, knowing grin. His eyes narrowed, assessing his cousin with practiced shrewdness. “You like her,” he said softly, the words imbued with the weight of unspoken truths. 

Killian’s brow creased, his reply deliberately noncommittal. “I’m merely... intrigued.”

Liar. 

“And that’s why she’s here?” Graham pressed, his tone layered with implication. 

“I’m still sorting that out,” Killian replied. Yet even as the words left his mouth, he knew the answer had already begun to take root. 

A rare silence settled between them—thick, contemplative, and edged with the kind of honesty only old familiarity could breed. Graham moved toward the mantel and poured two tumblers of rum. Handing one to Killian, he raised an eyebrow in silent expectation, clearly hoping his cousin might elaborate. 

“Shall we address estate business now,” Graham asked, adopting a tone of studied nonchalance, “or would you prefer to join your ‘fiancée’ and Alice in the rose parlor? I believe your sister is attempting to lure her into a game of cribbage.” 

Killian took a long, bracing swallow of his drink, welcoming the slow burn down his throat. “A few of my doctors are due shortly. I’ll pass.” 

“And if Miss Swan asks after you?”  

“You’re not authorized to comment on my affairs. Let her wonder.” 

Graham grunted in reply, clearly unimpressed but too diplomatic to argue. With a final shake of his head, he exited the room, the door clicking softly shut behind him.  

Left alone in the stillness, Killian maneuvered himself behind the expanse of his oak desk and reached for a sheaf of correspondence from the prime minister—tedious affairs of state he hoped might serve to occupy his fractious thoughts. But before he could lose himself in bureaucratic tedium, a gentle knock interrupted his focus. 

Without waiting for a reply, the door creaked open. Emma peeked in, her expression tentative, curiosity alight in her eyes. 

“Hullo,” she offered, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Killian arched a brow. “Most people wait for an invitation before intruding.” 

Her lips curved into a playful smile. “Yes, well… I’ve never been particularly conventional.” 

That much, he thought, was glaringly obvious. She hesitated on the threshold, scanning the room as though stepping into enemy territory, before finally easing the door shut behind her. Yet she lingered there, leaning against it, unsure—perhaps—whether to advance or retreat. 

"Your sister seemed rather dismayed you chose not to join us," Emma remarked, her tone deceptively light—though her eyes shimmered with something far more pointed. 

"And you?" Killian countered, his voice low and measured, the edge of a challenge threaded through the words. 

Her smile curved wider, mischief flickering behind her gaze, yet she deftly sidestepped the question. “Would you like some company?” 

He reclined in his chair with practiced nonchalance, though the steady thrum in his pulse betrayed his calm exterior. “It pains me to disillusion you, but I’m abysmal at idle conversation.” 

Silence had long been his sanctuary—his armor against the chaos of the world. And yet, here and now, he found himself craving the very thing he had spent years avoiding: the warmth of another’s presence. Her presence. Not just the brush of her skin or the sound of her voice, but the maddening desire to understand her. 

“You seemed perfectly capable at the cottage,” she said softly, the door clicking closed behind her with a sound as delicate as a heartbeat. 

Her audacity—the irresistible boldness she wore like perfume—was a temptation he found increasingly impossible to resist. 

“Miss Swan,” he drawled, his eyes alight with amusement, “a closed door? I expected a greater regard for propriety.” 

A flicker of laughter danced across her lips. “I feel perfectly safe with you, Your Grace.” 

Her gaze drifted to the desk, to the sheaf of letters scattered like fallen leaves. One in particular caught her attention, and he saw the spark of curiosity flare to life behind her eyes. “The prime minister corresponds with you?” 

“Mmm,” he murmured, picking up the letter in question with slow deliberation, “This one congratulates me on my recent engagement and triumphant reentry into society. Apparently, I am to be commended for securing such a charming fiancée.” 

Color rose swiftly in her cheeks, a soft, rosy hue that made him smile—slow and wicked. 

“And this one,” he continued, selecting another parchment, “is an official commendation for our role in the passage of the recent Judgment of Death Act.” 

“I read about it in the papers,” she said, her voice low but filled with conviction. “It sickened me—to think that children were once sentenced to death for stealing a crust of bread. That desperation was treated as a crime punishable by the noose.” She glanced around his study—the towering shelves, the dark paneled walls steeped in knowledge and power. “What you achieved through your legislation... it's extraordinary. And all from this very room, without ever stepping foot in Parliament.” 

He arched a brow, feigning affront. “Is that a note of reproach I detect, Miss Swan?” 

Her gown—rich crimson muslin—whispered against the opulent Persian carpet as she shifted her weight. “Not reproach, Your Grace. Merely admiration.” 

“My body may have been confined to these walls,” he replied, a wry smile curving his lips, “but my mind has always lingered with England… and her wounds.” 

Over the years, Killian had waged his battles from the shadows, wielding ink and intellect with the precision of a blade. Just months earlier, England’s penal code had named over two hundred crimes punishable by death—an archaic system that bore down hardest on the poor. The tragedy that had spurred his unrelenting pursuit of reform had struck far too close to home: a maid in his household had lost her nephew, a boy of thirteen, hanged for the theft of a gold fob watch. 

Killian had uncovered the cruel injustice too late to intervene. 

That grief—quiet, merciless—had once hollowed him. It had dragged him from the abyss of self-imposed exile and handed him a cause fierce enough to challenge the numbness. Into that cause, he poured his sorrow, his outrage—penning petitions, drafting reforms, galvanizing allies. Lord French and other prominent voices in the House of Lords had given those efforts a platform, and together, they’d pushed through the legislation with a roar heard across the kingdom. 

The day the bill passed, the triumph had rippled through every paper in London. It had been a victory not only for justice—but for a man who had nearly stopped believing in it. 

“It gave me purpose,” he said quietly, his voice dipping into something pensive, almost reverent. “A reason to rise that wasn’t tethered to pain. A chance to ensure no other child would swing for a crime born of hunger.” 

Emma studied him, her admiration deepened into something weightier. “You’ve done more, from within these walls, than most men could dream of accomplishing from the floor of Parliament. And still... you remain apart. Hidden.” 

Their eyes met—his dark and distant, hers searching—and for a breathless moment, silence drew taut between them.

“The world and I,” he said at last, his voice a murmur edged in steel, “have reached an uneasy truce.” 

He turned from the desk and rolled toward the hearth, stopping only when he was dangerously near her—closer than reason permitted. The fire crackled behind him, but its warmth was insignificant compared to the heat she stirred within him. And that was when Killian realized, with brutal clarity, the magnitude of his mistake. 

Her scent—faint, heady, a trace of rose and something unnameable—wrapped around his senses, seducing him into a state of exquisite torment. It wasn’t mere desire; it was hunger—ravenous, elemental, and utterly consuming. It gripped him with a ferocity he hadn’t known he was still capable of feeling. 

She stood before him, bathed in the glow of firelight, her beauty unstudied and devastating. She was the kind of woman who deserved reverence, whose every breath should be answered with worship, whose pleasures should be drawn out like a symphony—lavish, decadent, and endless. And God help him, he wanted to be the man to offer them, even if she gave him nothing in return. 

He ached for her. 

To taste her lips. To breathe her in like salvation. His pulse thudded wildly as his thoughts spiraled out of control—his imagination conjuring the feel of her skin beneath his hands, the sweet tremble of her breath as his mouth followed the delicate curve of her throat. He saw himself kissing along that fragile line where her pulse fluttered, coaxing soft, helpless sounds from her lips. And then—he wrenched himself back. 

It was too much. Too vivid. Too dangerous. 

He could see her in his mind—laid bare beneath him, her body trembling under the unrelenting attention of his tongue, her cries filling the dark as she unraveled for him and him alone. The image seared through him like fire. 

And then it broke. 

A bolt of grief and fury ripped through him, raw and merciless. He would never know her that way. Never taste her. Never feel her fingers tangled in his hair as she whispered his name through parted lips. That truth carved through him like a blade, leaving a wound that bled in silence. 

Despair welled up, bitter and thick. His hands shook uncontrollably as the depth of his solitude returned with crushing force. The abyss that had haunted him for years yawned wide again—deeper, colder, more merciless than before. The peace he’d glimpsed in her presence shattered like glass, leaving only the echo of what might have been. 

“Leave.”

The word tore from his throat, harsher than he’d intended, slicing through the stillness like a whipcrack. 

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t protest. For a moment, she simply stood there, her silence weighted with hurt and unspoken understanding. Then, without a word, she turned, opened the door, and slipped away. 

He wheeled to the closed door, pressed his palm against the cold oak as if he might somehow summon her back through sheer will. But she was gone. And in her absence, the emptiness within him grew monstrous. 

Damn his heart. Damn its blind, foolish longing for what could never be his.

Chapter Text

Dinner that evening unfolded as a sumptuous spectacle, a minor miracle his kitchen had managed to conjure with near-military precision. Clearly, the staff had resolved to dazzle Miss Swan, and she, in turn, proved an appreciative audience. She savored each course with undisguised delight, sending her compliments to the cook with every blissful mouthful. It was a far cry from the dainty, performative nibbles of his former fiancée and the society women he once courted. What he had once mistaken for refinement, he now recognized as little more than a tedious pantomime.  

Miss Swan’s appetite, unashamed and spirited, was—paradoxically—her most seductive quality. There was something irresistibly satisfying in watching her devour each dish with the kind of gusto others might have deemed improper. To him, it was disarmingly authentic. When she tilted her head to sample a particularly exquisite course, the graceful arch of her neck seemed almost to taunt him, tempting his imagination with visions of lips and teeth tracing its delicate line. 

She caught his gaze and, instead of looking away with a maidenly blush, she winked. A bold, irreverent wink—brazen as a thief in daylight—that sent a ripple of laughter through his chest. No simpering, no false modesty. She met his eyes, acknowledged his attention, then coolly returned to her meal as though she had not just set his composure smoldering. He was, against his will, thoroughly enchanted. 

Her unorthodox vivacity was proving a balm to the castle’s gloom. In the scant hours since her arrival, Miss Swan had wrought subtle but undeniable transformation at Blackwater. The footmen, usually dour and mechanical, now moved with squared shoulders and the faint pride of men with purpose. The maids, typically discreet as shadows, hovered around Emma with almost comical eagerness, tripping over themselves to secure her comfort. One kind word from her lips was enough to light their faces, as though they were basking in borrowed sunshine.

They even watched, with scandalous fascination, the unspoken sparks that leapt between him and his guest—glances exchanged like contraband, smiles so fleeting they felt illicit. 

And yet he could not blame them. He, too, was caught in her orbit, helpless against her peculiar magnetism. Everyone, it seemed, had fallen under Miss Swan’s spell—none more so than his sister, Alice, who clung to Emma’s every word and laugh as though she were a sudden flare of brightness in their dreary, cobwebbed world. 

“Have you ever dared to ride astride in London, Miss Swan?” Alice asked, her laughter chiming like silver bells caught in a breeze. “I daresay a lady of your boldness would think nothing of such scandal.” 

Emma’s laughter answered hers, warm and decadent, curling through Killian’s chest and squeezing at his heart with merciless precision. 

“The most shocking thing I’ve ever done,” she said, dabbing delicately at her lips with a serviette in a parody of ladylike composure—though her eyes sparkled with irreverence—“was consenting to become your brother’s fiancée.” 

Alice dissolved into peals of giddy amusement, clapping her hands together in delight. “Marvelous! And tell me, have you been to the Royal Museums? Killian will not stop boasting of them.” 

Emma’s brows rose, her expression one of genuine surprise. “You’ve never been to London?” 

A flicker—quick as a shadow passing over glass—crossed Alice’s features. “Not yet, I’m afraid. But I don’t pine for it,” she added lightly, though there was the faintest undertone of yearning threading her words. She tried to mask it with a smile cast toward Killian, as if to reassure him that she was content. But the echo lingered, subtle and persistent.  

It struck him then, as it always did, how much his sister had been denied. Alice was young, incandescent, brimming with life—and yet her world was confined within the stone ribs of Blackwater Castle, her vibrancy dulled by his own stubborn exile. 

Still, she rallied with irrepressible curiosity, peppering Emma with questions—about the theaters, the glittering masquerades at Vauxhall Gardens, the museums teeming with relics of far-off worlds, the candlelit balls and the dizzying whirl of London society.

And Emma, gracious as ever, answered each inquiry with an easy warmth, her words sketching bright, vivid tableaux of places Alice had never seen. Her descriptions shimmered in the air like brushstrokes of color against the castle’s muted grey, offering his sister fleeting glimpses of the world beyond their walls. 

A tide of shame rose and broke against Killian’s conscience. His sister deserved more than the cloistered life he had chained her to. Beyond these brooding walls stretched a world—brimming with light, noise, and opportunity—and he had barred her from it, locking her away in an impenetrable cocoon of solitude. Not even the stiff-necked gentry of Ireland dared intrude any longer; years of turned-away invitations and cold refusals had taught them well enough. Blackwater Castle had become a citadel of silence, its halls echoing with absence. 

This, he vowed, would end. Alice needed more than shadows and his protection—she needed a life, and he would see she had it. 

“Alice will be traveling to town,” Killian announced at last, his voice deceptively calm, though the words landed with the resonance of a gong in the still dining hall. “Naturally, Graham will accompany his dear cousin.” 

The room stiffened into silence. Graham’s brow arched, his sharp gaze full of questions he wisely kept unsaid. 

“To London?” Alice gasped, her fork slipping from her fingers with a muted clatter. “You mean to come with me?”  

“Of course not,” Killian replied, his tone steady but softened at the edges. 

Alice’s eyes blazed with sudden fire. Her slim hands gripped the table as though anchoring herself. “Then I shall not leave you,” she declared, her voice quivering with a storm of emotion.  

“You’re not forsaking me, Alice,” Killian countered, patience threaded with quiet insistence. “You’re going to visit my godmother, Countess Darling. She will show you London’s marvels, guide you through society, and help you carve a place for yourself.” 

“I want no place but here, with you!” Alice cried, her voice cracking under the weight of panic. “And you shall not force me!” 

“Alice—” 

“No,” she cut him off, her tone taut, brittle with vulnerability. “Not now. Please.”  

He stilled. It had been years since he’d seen his sister so undone, her brightness eclipsed by such raw, unguarded fear. His heart clenched with guilt, heavy as stone, knowing his well-meaning resolve had only wounded her. Alice drew herself up with fragile dignity, shoulders squared, chin lifted, but the trembling of her lip betrayed her.

At last, she turned from him, her eyes seeking refuge. 

“Miss Swan,” Alice said with a brittle brightness, forcing gaiety into her tone, “tell me about your sisters. I read you have two—are they near my age?”  

Emma, attuned to the fragile ground beneath their conversation, cleared her throat with soft tact, her eyes shimmering with a quiet empathy that unsettled and soothed Killian  in equal measure. Compassion, in her, was not mawkish but disarmingly genuine—an odd yet oddly comforting thing for him to witness. With a smile both warm and mischievous, she launched into a lively account of her sisters’ escapades, lingering on the younger, Anna, whose peculiar talent for smuggling stray creatures into the house had driven their mother to near madness. 

“I have never heard the like!” Alice burst out, laughter bubbling over her lips in merry waves, momentarily banishing the sorrow that had clouded her features.  

Gradually, the tension melted from Alice’s shoulders, though she kept her gaze carefully averted from her brother, as though looking at him might undo her fragile composure. The conversation soon found its rhythm again, bright and animated, and though Killian made no attempt to join, neither did he retreat. He sat still, listening, as the lively chatter worked upon the atmosphere like sunlight prying open shutters. 

It was laughter that drew his eyes back to Emma. A smile—broad, radiant, unguarded—lit her lips, her eyes sparkling with amusement at something Graham had said. She tilted her head slightly toward his cousin, listening with what seemed polite attentiveness—or was it more than mere courtesy? Did she admire him, perhaps? 

Her quicksilver smiles, the faint blush rising in her cheeks, the teasing glances tossed across the table—all of it struck Killian like a shard of ice. Jealousy. The word rang unfamiliar, alien, bitter on his tongue. He had never known the feeling, and yet here it was, gnawing at him with a cold, unrelenting edge. 

And why should it not? Graham, too, looked captivated. His cousin’s face carried the unmistakable glow of a man teetering on the brink of infatuation. Why shouldn’t he fall for her? He would be a duke one day—handsome, affable, well-mannered. And Emma Swan, with her wild charm and audacious wit, would make him the perfect match. Graham had been prattling for months about finding a wife, and now, through some grim irony, Killian might have delivered the very woman to him on a silver platter. 

He could not eat. He could not pretend to care about the polite discourse drifting across the table—the Irish weather, the latest scandal in Parliament, the endless babble of fashion and gossip. Instead, he succumbed to the dangerous compulsion to simply watch her.

He observed her with shameless precision: the play of expression across her face, the undivided attentiveness she bestowed upon Alice and Graham, the thoughtful furrow of her brow when she listened, the way her laughter seemed to begin in her eyes before it escaped her lips. Even the indelicate manner in which she devoured a dish she particularly enjoyed—so refreshingly devoid of affectation—struck him as a kind of sorcery. 

She lifted her gaze and caught his. For a fleeting instant, Emma looked startled—then, to his astonishment, faintly abashed, as though the heat of his stare had reached her across the table. Her eyes dropped, lashes sweeping downward like dark silk against the porcelain glow of her skin. How had he not noticed before the extraordinary softness of it, that silken radiance which seemed almost to invite the brush of his fingers? 

His gaze drifted to the modest neckline of her crimson gown. The pale slope of her shoulders gleamed like ivory in the candlelight, their simplicity adorned only by a small golden cross that glimmered at her throat. 

For one dangerous heartbeat, he imagined her draped in the family jewels—treasures salvaged from the blackened safe after the inferno that had stolen his parents and brother. So many heirlooms lay untouched since that night, relics of grief entombed in velvet cases. Only Liam’s ring endured, snug on Killian’s little finger. Would not the ruby necklace, simple yet striking, set off her beauty to perfection? 

The thought unraveled quickly into another, darker vision—of her adorned in nothing but those jewels, sprawled across his bed like some decadent siren. His pulse stuttered, and he forced the image away, sweeping it aside like ash from the hearth. He could not—must not—entertain such thoughts about Emma Swan. 

Across the table, Alice’s curious glances flickered toward him, but he ignored them, content to linger in silence, cloaked in his quiet observations. 

When dinner at last drew to its close, he resisted his usual retreat to the solitude of his treasure room. Instead, he followed them into the music room, where Alice—ever the virtuoso—took her place at the pianoforte. Her fingers danced across the keys, filling the chamber with a bright, nimble melody. 

“Come join me, Emma,” Alice called, her voice bubbling with delight. 

Emma accepted readily, gliding to stand beside the pianoforte. Then she began to sing. 

She was dreadful. 

Killian blinked, taken aback—not so much by the tuneless sound itself, but by the sheer, radiant joy with which she delivered it. Her voice tripped and wobbled over the notes like a colt finding its legs, but her eyes sparkled with wicked amusement, daring anyone to call her to account. She knew full well she could not sing, and yet she sang anyway, brazen as ever, and with such unrepentant confidence that he found himself—absurdly, irretrievably—enchanted. 

The audacious creature had the sheer temerity to wink at him, her eyes dancing with impish amusement at his barely concealed dismay. A peculiar warmth arrowed through his chest, lodging somewhere perilously close to his heart. In that instant, he wished absurdly that they were alone—that her woeful voice might lilt for his ears alone, while he basked in the radiance of her smiles and irrepressible delight. 

He gave a low grunt at his own ridiculous fancies. Her voice soared again, discordant enough to make him flinch—yet God help him, he burned all the same. Burned everywhere. 

And it was all for her. 

Killian knew he was tumbling headlong into folly, and worse—he was helpless against it. Desire had taken root in his heart, twining about him with wild insistence, and he could not untangle it. How had he come to crave not merely her presence, but the indefinable everything that was Emma Swan? This was not supposed to happen. She had entered his life as a diversion, a temporary balm against the hollow ache that had long gnawed at him. Logic reminded him she could never fill that emptiness forever—yet his heart rebelled violently at the very thought of letting her go. 

His mind strayed to the cabin. Brief though those hours had been, they glittered in memory as the brightest of his life, even more luminous than the days before fire had stolen so much from him. No woman had ever before stirred such a snarl of needs—primal, tender, impossible to unravel. 

The thought left him torn between dread and exultation. 

“Delightful, isn’t she?” murmured a voice at his left. 

He made no reply, though inwardly he agreed: Emma Swan was delightful…and perilously more besides. 

“I was wrong to think her a schemer,” Graham admitted, his tone shaded with reluctant admiration. “I misjudged her. She’ll make an excellent duchess, should you decide to keep her.” 

Killian’s heart gave a startled lurch, then swiftly retreated into ice, as was its custom. He buried the warmth clawing at the walls of his chest. For years he had not permitted himself hope. Hope was dangerous. Where there was no expectation, there could be no disappointment. No despair. 

Closing his eyes, he drew in a steadying breath. “I have not known her long,” he said at last, voice low, “but a woman like Emma Swan deserves more than a title. A duchess she might be, but she deserves also to be a true wife…a mother, perhaps. She deserves laughter and sunlight, not merely rank. She deserves—” His jaw tightened. “She deserves the world.” 

Graham sucked in a sharp breath. “You are falling for her.” 

“No.” The denial was immediate, instinctive, and absolute. Never that. He was not whole enough to risk such surrender. To fall for any woman was to invite ruin, and he carried enough pain within him to last ten lifetimes. 

“I have eyes, Killian,” Graham pressed. “I see the way she looks at you. As though she wants you—and fears you in equal measure. It’s as if she expects you to wound her. What in God’s name have you done?” 

You’ll break me.

The ghost of her whisper speared through him, sharp as a blade, twisting a knot of anger and anguish deep in his gut. His lips curved in a grim line. “I’ve done nothing,” he said, though the words tasted bitter. Meeting Graham’s gaze, he added flatly, “If you enjoy Miss Swan’s company, you have my leave to pursue her.” 

Shock flared across his cousin’s features, mingling with something darker—desire, unguarded and raw. “Good God, man—are you certain?” 

No. Yes. Both at once. “You are my heir,” Killian said, voice cool, final. “You will be a duke, with wealth and consequence. You admire her spirit—I can see it. Whatever stirrings I harbor for her, they will come to nothing. I will see to that. So if you mean to court her, do so without guilt.” 

And with that, Killian turned and walked away, leaving his cousin to wrestle with the invitation…and leaving himself to wrestle with the shattering ache of having given it. 

The following evening, after a restless night spent wrestling with his sheets and a day squandered drafting tiresome letters to the Prime Minister and Parliament, Killian found himself in the peculiar position of looking forward to a consultation with his physicians. Ordinarily, the quarterly examinations were an intolerable nuisance, but tonight, he almost welcomed the intrusion.

Three doctors gathered in his library, summoned at his command, and Killian was privately pleased by the alacrity with which they had answered his call.  

He sat in his wheeled chair by the open windows, brooding, organizing the thoughts and questions he meant to raise. The silence hung heavy, and when the clock chimed the hour, it struck him that he had let twenty minutes dissolve in idle reverie. With a deliberate turn of the wheel, he shifted his chair to face the trio. His two most senior physicians—Lydgate and Whale—exchanged a glance weighted with professional unease, their brows furrowed in the kind of concern that often preceded unpleasant news. 

Dr. Lydgate, short and stout with a gleaming bald crown and spectacles forever slipping down his nose, had commandeered a wingback chair near the fire. Dr. Whale, the younger of the two, lean and hawkish in frame, reclined on the sofa with casual elegance. The third physician hovered by the mantel, staring rather too intently into the flames, as though they might divulge some medical revelation he had missed in his training. 

Whale cleared his throat, the sound snapping the stillness like a whip. “Your Grace, you appear well. How have you fared since our last visit?” 

That proved the signal for notebooks to spring forth like weapons unsheathed. Pens poised, all three awaited his confession. 

“The pain in my lower back has been more insistent this week,” Killian said evenly. “But I have forced myself to stand and move about more than prudence recommends.” 

“Have you resorted to opium?” Dr. Whale asked, his voice mild, though his eyes betrayed a sharper curiosity. 

At that, Killian’s gut clenched. Memories of that stupefying haze—sweet oblivion masking agony—still lurked too close for comfort. His jaw tightened. “No. Nor have I been tempted.” 

A collective exhalation seemed to ripple through the room, followed by the rapid scratching of pens as his words were captured, dissected, and immortalized in ink. 

“What of laudanum?” 

“I content myself with cigars,” he replied in a dry drawl, then, after a pause, added with deliberate bluntness, “Though lately…there has been something else. A woman. When I think of her, I am seized with a hunger unlike anything I’ve ever known.” His smile was humorless, self-mocking. “My cock stirs. Not for long, but enough to make itself known. Twice now, and only with her. That is a first since the accident.” 

The silence that settled upon the room was sharp enough to cut glass. 

“That,” said Dr. Facilier, his dark eyes sparking with fervor, “is exceedingly heartening news.” He was the youngest of Killian’s physicians, and the boldest—an innovator unafraid to flirt with controversial methods. It was this daring, among other things, that had secured his place on Killian’s private retinue. 

“Your Grace,” began Dr. Lydgate, his tone weighted with paternal caution, “I should not like to foster illusions. In the decade since your tragic misfortune, there has been no such response. It is most improbable—” 

“Not improbable,” Facilier cut in swiftly, a hand darting to Lydgate’s arm as though to stay his pessimism. His voice sharpened with conviction. “I do not call it false hope, Your Grace. From the beginning, I have believed your lack of…response stemmed less from injury than from the sheer brutality of survival. Your body waged a war to mend itself; every ounce of energy, every nerve, every thought was bent to that battle. Desire had no foothold.” 

Killian frowned, his fingers tightening on the wheel of his chair. “It has been years, Doctor.” 

“And your body is still mending,” Facilier pressed. “What you have achieved already is nothing short of extraordinary. Strength, endurance, stubbornness beyond measure—qualities I have not seen in another man. Why should we assume the story ends here? The human body remains a mystery, Your Grace. We know pitifully little of its capacity for rebirth.” 

Killian studied him, the young doctor’s fervor bordering on zealotry, yet ringing with truth. He could not help but recall the grim certainties delivered to him in those first desolate days after the accident. 

“You will never walk again, Your Grace. Nor will you sire an heir.”

That had been the grand decree of one of Dublin’s most eminent physicians, and a second team imported from England had echoed the verdict with grave finality. Yet Killian had defied them all, dragging himself past the teeth-grinding torment and clawing his way back into something resembling a man’s life—walking, however haltingly, when they had sworn he never would. 

When he had collapsed in failure, he had been a beast, feral with fury, snarling at servants to keep their distance. He had crawled then, elbows and palms bloodied, carving grooves into the stone floors in his determination to rise again by sheer will. Memory lanced him now—despair so suffocating it had nearly unmanned him, helplessness that had tasted of ash. 

“Eight years ago, Dr. Whale, you told me with absolute certainty I would never leave this chair. Yet I do so daily—and for hours,” he said in a low edged murmur. 

Something softened in Whale’s pale eyes, sympathy flickering there. “And the cost must be grievous, Your Grace. Your back and legs were broken in a dozen places from that fall. By rights you should not have survived at all, let alone walk. That you do is nothing short of miraculous. But as for…other functions, the remedies we prescribed yielded no results. I confess myself baffled by this turn.” 

He darted a glance at his colleagues, flustered. 

Killian recalled those remedies all too well. Some had been merely ineffective, others grotesquely absurd. Crocodile testicles fried in butter. Goat stones stewed in brandy. A parade of indignities masquerading as medicine. At the time, he’d had no appetite for women anyway; pain and grief had hollowed him out until he was little more than a husk. Even when Jefferson had attempted to tempt him back into his notorious ways with an endless parade of painted beauties, Killian had found himself bored, untouched, unmoved by their fluttering lashes and simpering giggles. 

“I ignored most of the prescriptions,” Killian said now with dry relish. “Goat and crocodile balls struck me as nonsense, and the poultices you concocted, Lydgate, merely managed to inflame my own.” 

The physician flushed crimson. 

Dr. Facilier stepped into the breach, voice velvet-smooth. “Might I inquire, Your Grace, how long you were able to sustain this…reaction with the lady in question?” 

The memory swept over Killian like wildfire—the raw desire of that night, scorching, undeniable. “It was brief,” he admitted, “but it happened.” And truth be told, almost every idle thought of her—her lips, her laughter, the sweet torment of imagining her kiss—stirred the ache in his gut until he felt near-mad with it. 

Facilier cleared his throat, suddenly studious in his avoidance of Killian’s gaze. “Then, with the utmost respect, I would suggest further…experimentation. A sustained encounter, if the lady permits.” 

Killian’s eyes hardened. “She is no courtesan, Doctor. She is a lady.” 

Facilier inclined his head, unruffled. “Of course, Your Grace. But even so, I would counsel…self-ministrations, at least for a time. I have long suspected the impediment lay not in ruined nerves but in the mind itself. Where the mind denies pleasure, the body follows in lockstep. But where the mind awakens—” 

“That is outrageous quackery!” Dr. Whale thundered, surging to his feet, face thunderous. “Self-pleasure weakens the mind, saps the body. It is ruinous!” 

Facilier rolled his eyes in spectacular disdain, an expression quite unbecoming a physician. 

Killian, who knew the debates of society on the subject well enough, felt heat crawl beneath his skin at the suggestion. Facilier had broached the topic before, but he had dismissed it—his world then had been drained of all color, every brightness leeched away, nothing but endless gray. But now…he could see it, feel it: lying upon cool linen sheets, his hand stroking himself to visions of her—Emma, all smiles and sly glances, flashing an ankle, touching, kissing. The long elegant line of her back he had glimpsed when he undressed her in the cabin. The desperate hunger he’d felt to trace her spine with his tongue. 

Memory rose vivid and brutal—her mouth, her murmured sounds of pleasure—and desire slammed into him with violent heat. He cursed low and harsh, snapping himself back from the brink. With uncharacteristic irritation, he dismissed the doctors, though not before extending his customary invitation to dinner, which they accepted with relief.

When the door closed upon them, Killian exhaled raggedly, dragging a hand through his hair. 

What am I to do with you, Emma Swan? 

Killian wheeled himself from the library, the click of his chair echoing down the corridor until he reached his sanctuary. With a low grunt, he levered himself from the confines of the chair, braced, and opened the door. He sank back into the seat, rolled himself inside, and closed the world away. 

A faint rustle arrested him. He stilled, then propelled toward the rear of the chamber, where towering shelves reached greedily for the ceiling. He faltered at the sight before him—Emma, kneeling like a penitent before one of his ancient wooden chests.  

From within, she drew an artifact newly arrived from Egypt. The sunlight struck it as she lifted it high: a necklace hung with a scarab amulet, its carapace gleaming green-black like bottled dusk. She turned it in her hands, fingers caressing the back of the beetle with a reverence that made his breath tighten. Then, with surprising care, she set it back in its nest of linen wrappings and reached again into the chest. 

This time her prize was less holy. He nearly laughed aloud at the sight of the large ivory phallus resting incongruously in her delicate grip.  

Moving with the soundless determination of a predator, Killian slid from his chair, every step a gamble against the pinch in his spine. One foot, then the next—slow, deliberate—until he loomed close behind her. 

“What is it?” she murmured to herself, running her fingertips along its veined ridge with guileless fascination. 

Soft at her ear, his voice brushed like smoke: “I’m not certain I ought to scandalize your tender sensibilities by telling you.” 

She gasped and whirled, clutching her breast as though to cage her racing heart. The pulse throbbed wildly at the base of her throat. “You wretched creature! To creep upon me so wickedly!” 

“Ah,” he drawled, and tapped her nose with one teasing finger. “You deserve a fright. This chamber is forbidden ground, as you well knew. Your impudence grows unchecked.” 

She paused, eyes gleaming with the mischief of a cat cornered but unrepentant. “Oh, don’t be so tiresome. This so-called impudence is part of my charm—and if I am not mistaken, you rather like it.” 

Like it? She was bewitching. Maddening. Irresistible. 

His gaze drank her in, and then, unable to resist, he bent slowly—deliberately—toward the tender column of her neck. He pressed his lips against the delicate flutter of her pulse. “I do like your bold, willful, inquisitive nature,” he whispered against her silken skin. 

And to his own shock, his voice fractured.

“Killian?” Her voice trembled, breathless and tinged with disbelief. 

Common sense clawed its way back into him, and he retreated a half-step. She remained frozen, wide-eyed, clutching the ivory phallus as if it were a talisman. 

“Why are you here, Emma?”

“I…thought perhaps you might keep an enchanted room,” she murmured, her voice stifled, a mixture of awe and mischief. 

“Ah…beauty and the beast,” he said, his fingers brushing lightly over the ridges of the scar on his lower chin, a fleeting caress of memory and menace.

Her gaze dropped, lingering on the ravaged side of his face. “You are no beast—far from it. And as for me…well, I am no beauty.” 

“You are the most exquisite woman I have ever met,” he said softly, almost reverently. “And I have all but kidnapped you with no intent of release. Surely there is a parallel in that story, hmm?” 

Her lips parted in a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, eyes lifted to him, brimming with questions he had no answers for. Questions even he did not yet understand.  

With only the faintest tremor, her voice grew solemn. “Am I to be locked away in a tower, then, released only when summoned to dine with you?” 

“No.”

Their eyes locked, the silence between them charged with a quiet, perilous electricity. Her throat moved as she swallowed, tension etched into every line of her body. “Each moment in your presence…threatens ruin, Killian.” 

“It does,” he admitted.

Her lashes swept downward, shadowing her high cheekbones, but not before he caught the fleeting spark of defiance in her eyes. 

She lifted her chin, steady now, gaze unwavering. “When do I return to London?” 

“When you no longer interest me.”

Her features stilled, surprise darting across her face like a spark. In that heartbeat, he felt the dark satisfaction of a villain—but damnation, it was only the truth, bald and merciless, and neither of them recoiled from it. 

A dangerous gleam lit her gaze. “And what if I interest you forever, Killian?” 

The words landed like a blow. He stiffened, schooling his face into cool indifference while his heart betrayed him with its uneven hammering. 

The impudent minx closed the gap, lifted her hand, and cupped the scarred side of his face. Her thumb traced the ridges with an audacity that stole his breath. The touch was featherlight, devastating. With a groan he couldn’t suppress, his eyes slid shut, and he leaned into her palm. There was a treacherous part of him that liked the taste of forever. It filled the hollow chambers of his soul with reckless promise—most of it involving her lips. 

He tore himself away, the absence of her touch colder than the storm outside. She drew back, lashes lowered in a performance of modesty so unconvincing he nearly laughed aloud. Emma Swan would not recognize demureness if it leapt up and bit her daily. 

“Would you like a tour?” he asked, his tone gruffer than intended. 

Delight sparked instantly in her eyes. “I thought you allowed no guests.” 

“I make exceptions for my kidnap victims.” 

She scowled. He smiled. 

“Ah, Swan,” he murmured, surprising even himself, “you’re a flame without end—and it would be a damn tragedy to watch your fire fade.” 

Her head tilted back, her gaze piercing his. “Why did you say that?” 

He lifted a hand, brushing her cheek with a touch gentler than he liked to admit. “I don’t know. But it’s true.” 

She wrinkled her nose, vexed. “Only lunatics speak without thinking and then claim ignorance of their own meaning.” 

He arched a brow, lips curving. “And I could say the same of ladies who allow their mouths to outrun their sense.” 

Her laugh spilled out, sweet and perilously stirring, her eyes glowing with warmth that unsettled him far more than any storm. 

And not for the first time, he wondered what had forged that indomitable spirit of hers. Had it been the loss of her father, forcing her to bear more than her share long before she ought? Or had years of stifling dictates and suffocating propriety merely driven her to dig deep and unearth the fire that now blazed so vividly in her? 

Killian had never encountered such effortless warmth. “Delightful,” he murmured, almost to himself. 

Emma arched a saucy brow, planting a fist on her hip. “I suppose you once again have no idea what you’re saying?” 

“I meant your laugh,” he returned evenly. 

Her eyes widened with mock surprise. “Careful, Your Grace. I believe you’re tumbling into like with me.” 

“I daresay I am.” And God help him, it was utter folly. 

Emma faltered, and her gaze met his, demanding, fierce, compelling, yet she made no reply for several seconds. 

For the briefest beat, she faltered, her gaze meeting his—unflinching, alive, uncomfortably arresting. Then, with simple candor: “I like you, too. Very much so.” 

He opened his mouth to answer, then promptly discovered he had no words worth speaking. Instead, he turned, dragging himself toward his chair with deliberate motions before wheeling it toward a tall crate. Her natural curiosity, irrepressible as ever, propelled her after him. He smothered a smile. No one but Alice had ever set foot in this room. 

“And what do you make of my treasure chamber?” he asked. 

“It’s beyond exquisite,” she said gaily, her voice alive with wonder. “It would take me years to catalogue every piece. They’re beautiful—and mysterious.” She darted past him with quicksilver energy, stretching onto her toes to pluck a necklace from the shelf. Sapphire and turquoise shimmered in her hands, the golden beads catching the light like captive fire. 

“The plaque claims this belonged to Cleopatra,” she breathed. 

“That is the tale,” he allowed. “Though logic insists she was buried with her treasures. And as no one has yet found her tomb—at least, no one honest enough to admit it—I remain skeptical.” 

Her face lit with fascination. “Still, this must be priceless. And you simply leave it on a shelf?” She held it to her throat, and for one reckless moment, he wanted nothing more than to see it remain there. 

“Consider it my gift to you.”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide.  “What is your gift?” 

“The Cleopatra necklace.” 

“Killian!” she exclaimed, utterly scandalized. “This is worth a kingdom!” 

“It matters not. Please accept it.”

“No.” She rose slightly on her toes and returned the piece to its pedestal, her touch reverent. “It’s outrageous, improper—and you know it.” 

“How shocking, to hear you claim propriety,” he drawled. 

Her laugh bubbled out, low and throaty, and he clung to the sound with the greed of a dragon hoarding gold. 

They spent the next hour wandering his trove of relics. Emma’s questions came in an endless stream, and he—against all odds—answered them with patience. He had no desire to be anywhere else. She lingered over burial masks, rare stones, a coin stamped with Alexander’s profile, and silks that still carried the faint perfume of spice markets. Now she paused before a simple brown bowl, its surface marred by a single hairline crack. Watching her move so gracefully beside him made his chair feel heavier, a constant reminder of what had been taken from him. 

“And this one—Mesopotamia?” she asked.  

He rolled toward his desk, where a globe waited. With a flick, it spun beneath his hand before his finger stilled it. “Yes. Ancient Sumer. Here.” 

She studied the place he indicated, her touch brushing over the globe as if to absorb its secrets. “Italy, Greece, Vienna, Paris, Egypt, Iraq, Spain—you’ve stood in all of them.” Her voice carried both awe and something quieter, harder to name. Then, with a sidelong glance, she asked, “Did I ever tell you the story of us wallflowers?” 

A rush of pleasure shot through him. “So I’ve earned the tale?”  

Her lips curved, sly and soft. “Yes.” 

“Then tell me,” he said, his voice low. And he meant it—he wanted everything she might give him. 

For a moment her eyes betrayed a rare flicker of vulnerability, though she lifted her chin as if daring him to mock her. “There are five of us. My dearest friends. Society labeled us wallflowers because, despite our families’ tireless plotting, the men of the ton seem entirely unmoved.” 

Her mouth pursed in clear disdain. “Why should our worth hinge on whether some overdressed peacock chooses us? We’ve made a pact: to chase the desires in our hearts—especially the wicked ones. My first act of rebellion was claiming to be your fiancée.” She sighed, a wistful lilt in the sound. “Perhaps one day I shall see the wonders of Egypt or wander through ruins where emperors once walked. To see the world as freely as any man…how extraordinary and sinful that would be.” 

The yearning threaded through her voice cut straight to his core. “I’ve no doubt you will,” he said. Her spirit was too fierce, too incandescent, for any other fate.

She rewarded him with a dazzling smile. “And you’ll be my learned guide, won’t you? Do you not ache to travel again? When you spoke of each relic steeped in history, I could almost taste your hunger. It was… beautiful to witness.”  

Killian held her gaze, unflinching. She didn’t blush, didn’t shy away—she stared right back with that irreverent boldness that both unnerved and enthralled him. “I haven’t set foot beyond these shores in years,” he admitted, the old itch clawing at him again. And for the first time, he allowed himself to imagine her at his side, delight blazing in her eyes as she unraveled new cultures, new faces, new worlds. 

“Then let us vow to do it together,” she said lightly, though something richer—deeper—smoldered beneath the jest.

It struck him, that look. Beneath her playful bravado was a longing so raw it nearly undid him. His throat tightened with the ache to put the world in her hands. He dragged in a breath, struggling not to see them laughing in the shadow of the Sphinx, or wading into the blue embrace of the Aegean. Dangerous fancies, yet they gleamed in her eyes as though they were already real. 

He laughed, though the sound carried a hint of sorrow. “My Swan, you’d have no wish to haul a cripple about the globe. You deserve a strapping young buck at your side… and in your bed.” 

Her eyes snapped to his, wide with shock. It wasn’t the slight at his own body that unsettled her, but the blunt invocation of his desire. Heat flared across her cheeks, her eyes darkening as the air thickened between them. She wanted him—God help him, she wanted him every bit as fiercely as he wanted her.

The realization sent a brutal rush of fire through his blood. Killian’s grip tightened hard on the edge of his chair as he forced himself to count—slowly, methodically, backward from ten—lest he do something that neither of them could take back. 

It did nothing to stop the parade of indecent images storming through his mind—her, bare and unashamed, draped in nothing but silk and temptation, dancing to the tune of his pipe. He could command it—demand it—and she would be ruined beyond redemption, her innocence shattered with no hope of repair.  

His will fought the ruthless hunger clawing through him, yet the ache only deepened. If he didn’t take her with his cock, he’d devour her with mouth and hands, wringing every gasp and shiver her body had to give. 

“I am not a man you should want,” he murmured, voice rough. 

“What breathtaking arrogance, presuming to dictate my desires, Your Grace,” she shot back, soft but unflinching. Her eyes, though, betrayed her. Challenge smoldered in their depths. 

Take me, if you dare. 

And he knew—this wasn’t about a stolen night. She was tempting him toward forever. 

“I want to see you naked,” he said flatly. “Strip for me.” 

Her eyes widened with each word, her hand rising instinctively to her heart. 

“You mean to shock me,” she whispered. 

“I haven’t seen a woman bare in a decade,” he replied, unrepentant. “The hunger gnaws at me.” 

“I’ve no doubt countless women would disrobe for you—without the promise of marriage,” she countered.

He rolled closer, his finger tracing the curve of her hip, skimming upward. She didn’t retreat. She swayed—toward him. His pulse hammered with feral need.  

“Yet it is you I want to see,” he said, voice rough silk. His thumb brushed the tender skin at her wrist. “Shall I command you, Emma?” 

Her protest was sharp, though a shade too breathless. “You’re deluded if you think I’d simply obey.” 

“You’re my captive,” he returned, dangerously calm. “You’re entirely at my mercy.” 

Her gaze betrayed her—awareness of her vulnerability, but also a yearning so fierce his hands trembled. He curled them hard against the arms of his chair. “Why, Miss Swan,” he drawled, “I do believe you want to be wicked with me.” 

Her lips curved, soft and sensual, lashes dipping to shield her expression. His eyes dropped to her mouth—lush, pink, made for sin—and restraint shredded under the want of her kiss. 

A harsh breath tore from him as she slowly lifted the hem of her gown, revealing a single stocking-clad ankle. Such a small offering—innocent on its surface—but devastating in its provocation. 

He snapped his gaze to her face, only to find her winking like the brazen little minx she was before dissolving into laughter, daring him to share in her audacity.

With a curse, Killian wheeled toward the door. His hand gripped the handle, but he froze, then turned, his voice edged and dark. 

“I am the villain of this tale, Miss Swan,” he said, each word harsh and deliberate. “Best you remember it.”

Chapter Text

Emma had been at Castle Blackwater for four days, and in that time the duke himself was more ghost than host.

Each morning, Killian vanished behind the magnificently carved door of his so-called treasure room, where he entombed himself for hours. The chamber was no mere hoard but a cathedral of culture—three soaring floors stacked with books, reliquaries, relics, paintings, sculptures, scrolls, and the sort of curiosities one could spend a lifetime cataloguing and never be done. When not sequestered in that shrine, he retreated to his study, where, Emma presumed, he busied himself with the enigmatic duties of a duke—signing weighty parchments, scrawling orders, and otherwise conducting the mysterious alchemy of estate management.  

The rain, constant and implacable, had imprisoned Emma indoors, which did not suit her restless spirit in the least. She was a creature of the open air—fond of gallops across dew-damp fields, long rambles among hedgerows, inhaling the intoxicating perfumes of wildflowers, and basking in the green opulence of nature. Yet, with admirable fortitude, she bore the confinement. She diverted her energies with Sense and Sensibility, plucked like a ripe treasure from the castle’s library. 

Another discovery had delighted her beyond reason: the great library itself, a bibliophile’s paradise that might persuade even the most practical soul into permanent residence, were she of a fanciful, sentimental turn. Three dizzying stories tall, the chamber blazed with shelves upon shelves of volumes, each sumptuously bound in gilt and embossed leather. A ladder on wheels ran along iron rails, promising the thrill of ascent to the highest literary peaks. 

Her social hours were spent with Alice, a charming if overly talkative young lady, whose chatter had the endearing quality of a brook in full flow—pleasant, if sometimes impossible to still. It was through her that Emma learned that Mr. Graham Humbert was first cousin to Killian. Mr. Humbert’s father had gone to his final rest only a year after his brother had died in the fire at this castle, so he was now Killian’s heir. 

Alice had spoken with wide eyes, her voice a fragile disguise for sorrow she could not quite conceal. Emma, with gentle tact, had steered the subject toward the castle’s storied history instead. A few hours later, the girl had vanished into the dutiful company of her governess and tutors, and Emma herself had retreated to her chamber, novel in hand, to pass the evening hours in ink and imagination. 

The day crawled by in the most unsatisfactory fashion, and to Emma’s own astonishment, even her book failed to distract her. Its pages fluttered uselessly against the restless tide of her thoughts, which circled endlessly back to the duke—and to the peculiar question of why she remained under his roof. She had dreaded this visit, imagining all manner of schemes he might weave around her. Yet the very absence of incident bewildered her more than any overt move could have done.  

What if I interest you forever, Killian? 

The memory of his expression struck her again—starved, almost feral, yet shadowed with fear, as though she had dangled before him a fragile hope that might, at any second, be dashed to dust. 

Thunder grumbled on the horizon, and the sky sank into an ominous gloom. Though the clock insisted it was noon, the heavens insisted it was dusk. Emma laid her book aside upon the bed, wrapped a shawl about her shoulders, and slipped from her chamber. Perhaps a different novel—one with sharper claws—might manage to ensnare her thoughts.  

Servants passed in the hall, dipping polite curtsies, their smiles faint. The longcase clock on the landing tolled its solemn count, and Emma, following its sonorous echo, pressed into the library. The heavy oak door swung shut behind her, muting the thunder.

For a moment, she could make no sense of what she saw. 

“Your Grace?” Her voice cracked like a whip. 

The duke was stretched full-length across the carpet, hands tucked behind his head as though in languid repose, though his posture was far too disorderly to be deliberate. His chair stood abandoned by the fire; four hefty tomes lay strewn about him like casualties of some intellectual skirmish. 

“Shall I summon your manservant?” she asked, more tentative than she wished to sound. 

His reply was a grunt, indecipherable. Alarm pricked at her. She spun on her heel, fingers closing over the doorknob— 

A thud. A book smacked against the door above her hand. She whirled back. “Killian!” 

“Summon no one,” he growled, irritation roughening his voice. “I shall be able to move soon.” 

Emma strode toward him, indignation flaring. “You threw a book at me.”  

“At the door, Swan. The door,” he corrected coolly. “I was entirely confident it would not strike you, else I would never have risked it. Now stop shooting daggers at me with your eyes.” 

The quip carried a thread of dry amusement, yet in his gaze—dark, unsettled—she caught a flicker of pain, and beneath it a smoldering temper. That volatile concoction churned her stomach into uneasy flutters. 

The duke looked thoroughly displeased at being discovered in so undignified a state. 

Emma slipped off her shawl and let it tumble onto the sofa with studied carelessness. Her gaze roamed the shelves. “I came to borrow a book.”  

“Did you now?” 

His tone sliced like a blade wrapped in velvet. 

She lingered a beat, then another, before replying, “I was frightfully bored, imprisoned in my room. The rain is insufferable, and you, sir, are an abysmal host. Frankly, I am astonished anyone ever visits you at all.” 

His lips curved into something halfway between a sneer and a smile. “You are not my guest.”  

She folded her arms, brow furrowing. “I’m not?” 

“You are my captive,” he returned, his voice weighted with iron. “And the most provoking creature I’ve ever had the misfortune—or fortune—to encounter.” 

With a spark of mischief, Emma lowered herself to the carpet beside him, mirroring his posture, hands laced behind her head. Silence fell between them, thick and humming, and she became keenly aware that a slight movement would bring her shoes against his. 

Acting on the impulse, she nudged his shin with the toe of her boot. “So, you fell,” she murmured.  

“So, I fell.”

The flat dryness of his tone pinched at her heart. 

“How long have you been lying here?” 

“You ask too many questions.” 

“And you are insufferably boorish whenever you are embarrassed.”  

He grunted, which coaxed a betraying twitch from her lips. “Shall I fetch Smee—or perhaps one of your ever-dutiful servants?”  

“No.” 

“Why ever not?” 

“The reason is of no consequence. It is enough that I do not wish it—and you will oblige me.” 

Turning her head, she studied the stark strength of his profile, chiseled as if it belonged to some ancient coin. To her own surprise, a tide of reluctant admiration rose in her chest. “Would you like me to leave?” she asked, pulse quickening at his contemplative silence. 

“No,” he said at last, quietly but firmly. “It would please me if you stayed.” 

Warmth surged through her, giddy and unbidden, flooding her veins with light. “And yet you refuse my help,” she murmured.  

“You are beginning to know me, Swan.” 

Emma scoffed lightly. “Hardly. I’ve done no more than scratch your surface—though I admit, I would very much like to.”  

His eyes flickered. “To scratch me? How unconventional.” 

She flushed, acutely aware of his body so near her own. “To know you,” she corrected softly. 

As though he felt the weight of her curiosity pressing upon him, Killian turned his head with deliberate slowness, his gaze raking over her in an appraisal so unhurried it made her skin prickle. His eyes glittered with a dangerous intensity, and Emma found herself both flushed and breathless, seized by a strange, unwelcome anticipation. With a muttered curse—low, indiscernible—he looked away. 

What are you afraid of, Killian?  

“Ask me any question,” he said at last, “and I shall answer.” 

“Truly?” 

“Of course.” 

The reckless words escaped her lips before she realized she had spoken them. 

“Do you think of our time in the cabin?” 

Horror flamed in her cheeks, and she clapped both hands to them as though she could stuff the confession back inside. Why, of all things, had she asked that? 

His silence—long, considering, almost amused—made her mortification complete.  

“I do,” he said finally. 

She waited, heart pounding, before blurting, “That is all you have to say on the matter?”  

“Yes.” 

Exasperation flared. “You are an utterly maddening creature!” 

“You still like me,” he returned, rough amusement curling around the words. “It is part of my undeniable charm.” 

Emma scowled, though her blush betrayed her. Before the duke, she had never blushed more than once a year; now he managed to summon it from her daily, like a conjurer with a favorite trick. “I… heard one of the old rumors, when our engagement was announced—that you had been set for marrying the Countess Lydgate.”  

“Lady Milah,” he said dryly, “a woman of inflated sensibilities and a well-practiced talent for weeping pretty tears.”  

“Did you love her?” 

“I enjoyed her company,” he admitted, “but no—it was not love. It was a match devised by our parents. Together, our holdings would have been one of the most powerful in England. My father proposed her, I agreed, and she was content with the promise of consequence and grandeur.” 

Emma shifted on the carpet, angling herself to better study his expression. “Do you regret not marrying her?”  

“No.” 

The speed and certainty of the reply soothed the odd ache blooming inside her. 

“The lady cried off,” he continued, voice flat, “after glimpsing my broken body and scars. Laudanum has blurred most of the memory, but I distinctly recall her fainting three times—and then shrieking to her father that she would not wed a monster.” 

“But you are such a charming monster,” Emma murmured, almost without thinking. 

His mouth twitched, betraying a flicker of amusement. One hand slipped from behind his head, fingers idly tracing the harsh ridge of his scar. “Besides Alice, you may be the only woman who looks upon me and does not recoil. Admirable—or foolish. Likely both.” 

Emma’s voice softened. “I don’t believe they recoil from you, Killian. They recoil from pain. To meet your eyes is to be confronted with suffering they cannot soothe. What words could they offer without sounding insincere, or worse, absurd? So they avert their gaze, and in doing so, behave like cowards. But you—” her voice steadied, “you are one of the most handsome men I have ever known.”  

He gave a low laugh, without warmth. “Then I must conclude your eyesight is woefully impaired.” 

With a grunt, he levered himself onto his elbows, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tightening as though to cage the pain gnawing at him. Stubborn man—he would rather grind his teeth into dust than ask for help. Frustration nipped at Emma, an almost irresistible urge to declare that she did not pity him—that she admired his iron will—but she knew such words would only earn his scorn.  

Instead, she arranged herself into a graceful sitting pose, watching as he heaved and groaned his way into the same. Rising, she crossed to the wheelchair, rolled it toward him, and braced herself for the inevitable storm of temper. Yet when she looked down, the eyes that met hers did not blaze with anger but glimmered with warm amusement. The unexpected gentleness unsettled her, and she stepped behind the chair, hand extended. 

“You are determined to help me, hmm?” 

“I daresay it equals your desire to not ask for it.” 

She held out her hand. He grasped it—not to rise, but to yank her off-balance so that she toppled straight into his lap. With a sharp groan, he fell back, and she sprawled over him in an altogether unladylike heap. Her cheek was pressed against his chest, one leg carelessly flung across his thighs. Emma froze, horrified by the scandalous tangle they now occupied. 

A strangled sound rumbled beneath her ear, suspiciously like laughter. 

“I fail to see what is remotely humorous,” she gasped, bracing her palms against his chest in a frantic attempt to lever herself upright. 

He loosed an exaggerated groan, worthy of the stage. “Merciful heavens, Swan, pray do not move.” 

Her heart lurched. “Good God, I’m hurting you!” She froze again, hovering uncertainly over him. “I’ll… I’ll be gentler,” she murmured, though each careful adjustment of her weight elicited another drawn-out moan from him, longer and more theatrical than the last. Paralyzed between indignation and alarm, she whispered, “I shall shift to your left—hold perfectly still and—”  

A brisk knock cut her short. Emma’s head whipped toward the door just as it creaked open and the housekeeper bustled inside. “Your Grace, I—” 

She gaped—and then, to Emma’s astonishment, the housekeeper’s face broke into the most delighted smile. With an almost girlish clap of her hands, twice for good measure, the woman all but beamed at the sight before her. Certainly no hint of scandalized alarm—no, she looked as though she had stumbled upon a long-anticipated victory. Without a word, she whisked herself out, closing the door firmly behind her. 

“I cannot credit it!” Emma gasped.  

Her gaze snapped downward, and she froze. His eyes glowed with wicked triumph. 

“You vile tease,” she hissed. “You’re in no pain at all! And your servants—your ridiculous servants—are in desperate need of discipline!”

He only laughed. Infuriating man. 

Emma scrambled upright, heedless that her knees brushed dangerously close to his most delicate regions. Rising, she planted a hand on her hip, her glare promising swift retribution, and swept from the library in a storm of indignation.  

She made it only a few steps before pressing her hand to her mouth, suppressing the helpless laughter bubbling up. 

The odious, impossible man. 

Unable to resist, she turned back, slipping through the door as quietly as a thief.  

And there he was—no longer smirking, but sunk into the wheeled chair, his hands gripping its arms in a white-knuckled vise. Pain had carved itself across his face, stark and unyielding. 

Realization struck her like a stone: Killian had never wanted her to witness this. To him, agony was weakness. And he would rather play the clown than let her see him diminished. 

His head lolled back against the headrest, chest rising and falling with shallow determination as though he might conquer pain through sheer will. Emma’s throat tightened, and she moved to him without hesitation. 

The moment her shadow fell across him, his eyes snapped open, blazing. 

“You came back,” he ground out, lips taut with strain. 

She brushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead, her touch feather-light, her voice gentler still. “I came back.” 

He held her gaze, silent, questions flickering in the depths of his eyes that he would not—or could not—speak aloud. Oh, if he only would, perhaps her own heart might finally make sense of these confounding feelings. 

Leaning closer, she whispered, “I forgot my book.” 

Something like appreciation sparked in his expression, though the shadow of pain still clung stubbornly to him. 

“I’ll sing for you,” she offered softly. 

“Dear God, no,” he rasped, a ghost of humor curling the words. “I am already in enough agony.”  

Emma gasped in mock outrage and broke into song. He gave a long-suffering shrug, as though resigned to endure such torture with stoic martyrdom. Yet the pretense betrayed itself: his mouth curved into a smile, the white-knuckled grip on the chair eased, and the frown carved between his brows dissolved into nothing. 

Something bright and startling bloomed inside her—a sudden, dizzying sense of happiness, of belonging—when he began to laugh outright, especially upon realizing that her chosen ballad featured a young lady who strangled a duke in his sleep. 

A short while later, Emma left him contentedly ensconced with a glass of rum in one hand and a book in the other, a small smile apparently cemented to his lips. She grinned to herself, knowing it was her doing. 

In the parlor, she curled into a chaise longue beneath a broad-paned window, watching the rain pelt the sodden landscape in endless silver ribbons. 

“Ahem.” 

The discreet cough tugged her from her reverie. She turned, startled to find the butler standing there, clutching a bouquet of flowers like an offering at an altar. 

She glanced at the butler, startled to see him with a bouquet of flowers in his hands. 

“These are for you, milady. And—” his voice caught, thick with uncharacteristic emotion, “is there anything special you might wish for supper?”  

Emma blinked at him in astonishment, only to catch sight of the housekeeper hovering behind, her face positively radiant. Heat rushed to Emma’s cheeks as her memory flashed with the compromising position the woman had witnessed earlier. Surely, they must think her no better than a light-skirt. And yet—no disapproval lingered in their faces. Quite the contrary. 

The servants stared at her with unnerving pride, with hope glittering in their eyes as if she carried the future of the castle in her hands. One maid had discreetly dabbed at her eyes; another blew his nose into a handkerchief with a muffled honk. It struck Emma that her presence had shifted something profound. A blanket of hope had settled over Castle Blackwater, transforming dour silence into humming energy. Smiles abounded. Footsteps sounded lighter. She had even heard a scullery maid singing while polishing the banisters. 

Do not be so foolish in your hopes, she warned them silently, taking the flowers into her arms. 

Though, if she were honest, the admonition was as much for herself.  

For she stood perilously close to the edge of the most treacherous precipice of all—falling in love with a man who, she feared, had no intention of catching her. 

Killian gripped the binoculars, estate ledgers from Dublin entirely forgotten, abandoned in favor of a far more captivating study. A rueful chuckle escaped him. 

Ladies did not climb trees. At least, no lady of his acquaintance did. But Miss Swan was an altogether different species. With her, he would learn to expect the impossible, to brace himself for the inevitable surprise. She was, he thought, less a woman than a comet—falling from the heavens and lodging herself in the high branches of an ancient elm near his favorite grotto. The hem of her blue day gown fluttered like a banner in the wind. Stocking-clad feet, scandalously bare of boots, dug confidently into the bark. 

She was clearly no novice. 

Several feet above the ground, Emma Swan balanced with careless grace, one forearm draped along a branch at chest height. From the soft shape of her lips and the delight playing across her face, he guessed she was singing.  

Perhaps she had chosen this distant grove not for solitude, but to spare the castle her music. 

At the tree’s base, the remnants of a small encampment: a basket, a blanket unfurled on the velvet grass, and a book abandoned upon it. 

He swung the binoculars back to her. She seemed astonishingly alone, gazing not down but outward—toward the horizon, as though the sky itself were her confidant. He studied the play of expressions across her features, each flicker more revealing than any confession. At last, a look of delicate yearning settled there, and his heart jolted as her lips shaped a single word.  

Killian…

The careful detachment he had so painstakingly constructed around his heart cracked beneath the blow. She sighed his name into the wind, longing etched into her features, one hand pressing instinctively to the hollow between her breasts.

Desire coiled low within him; his chest tightened, and for a moment he was undone—by a woman in a tree, singing to the sky, and whispering his name as if it belonged there. 

An onslaught of shocking—yet wickedly enticing—images stormed through Killian’s mind, visions of Emma that left his head throbbing and his restraint fraying. He wanted to kiss her, again and again, until her cries of pleasure dissolved against his mouth. Such perilous longings had no place in his heart, and yet they raged there all the same. With a savage curse, he yanked the bellpull and summoned his manservant. 

Several minutes after Smee appeared, they rumbled over the vast lawns of his estate toward Miss Swan. 

“I took the liberty of fetching a volume of poetry from the library, Your Grace, when you announced your intention to join Miss Swan,” Smee said in a tone far too knowing. 

Killian grunted. Silence, however, was a tactical error: Smee, taking this as encouragement, prattled on. 

“Cook also dispatched a bottle of wine and a French cake soaked in rum. Miss Swan has a fondness for the treat, I’m told. Cook has been baking them especially for her.” 

Wine and cake. God help him. Still, curiosity pricked. “Miss Swan likes cakes?” 

“Oh yes, Your Grace. Only yesterday she was in the kitchen, swapping recipes with Cook. The staff…” Smee hesitated, then plunged ahead, “well, all of us are rather enchanted. We do hope Miss Swan’s stay becomes…permanent.” 

The hopeful silence that followed was almost comical. Smee audibly held his breath, no doubt waiting for his master to declare Miss Swan’s future. 

Killian offered no such declaration. Smee exhaled an irritated puff.  

His chair rolled to a halt only a few feet from where Emma reclined beneath the elm. Killian said briskly, “Leave me here. I’ll continue with my stick.” 

“As you wish, Your Grace.” 

“You may take the chair back and return within the hour.” 

“And the cake and wine?” Smee asked, with such naked yearning that Killian—despite himself—smiled. 

“I’ll take them.” 

“And the poetry?” 

“Put it in the basket as well,” Killian replied, faintly astonished that he was humoring his staff’s unabashed meddling in matters that ought to concern him alone. 

Smee came round to Killian’s front and solemnly pressed a walking stick into one hand and a small basket into the other, as though presenting sacred regalia. With a curt nod, Killian dismissed him. His manservant struggled—and failed—not to beam like a cat with cream before retreating. 

Killian stifled the irritable growl rising in his throat. His household’s ceaseless matchmaking machinations would need…managing. 

Basket in tow, he strode toward the elm where Emma perched like some reckless woodland nymph. He set it neatly beside The Murderous Monk—an ominous title if ever there was one—and tilted his head back. Emma’s face peeped down through the branches, lips parted in a little “O” of astonished delight.  

“I shall be right down, Your Grace,” she called. 

He ignored her entirely. Tossing his stick onto the blanket, he seized the lowest branch. Fire lanced through his back, a savage reminder of old wounds, but he ground his teeth and kept climbing.  

He would be with her—up there, among the branches and the wind—or not at all. 

Moments later, he drew even with her, breath unsteady, head level with hers while the valley sprawled beneath them in wild splendor.  

Her eyes glowed with mischief and a trace of wonder. “You needn’t have climbed. I would have come down.” 

“I wanted to stand beside you.” 

Her brow arched. “We could have done that perfectly well on the ground.” 

Instead of replying, he reached to pluck a green filament tangled in her curls. “Were you rolling about in the grass, Miss Swan?” 

“I was,” she admitted with a silvery laugh. “I was making a snow angel without the snow.” Her grin was dazzling, her gaze cast briefly to the horizon as though sharing a secret with the wind. 

Killian’s heart stumbled, tripped, and very nearly tumbled headlong out of his chest. 

“It is so wild and beautiful—and blustery.” She patted at her bonnet, which listed precariously to one side, curls rebelliously loosed about her shoulders, teasing her cheeks like golden ribbons. 

He bit back a smile. She was windswept, mussed, altogether improper—and unspeakably enchanting. 

“I can understand why you prefer this untamed sprawl to London. Oh—look at the birds!” she gasped, pointing to a flock of starlings wheeling and folding in perfect synchrony against a sky brushed in lavender and steel-gray. 

“So, we are bird-watching,” he murmured dryly. 

She laughed—a bright, lilting sound that battered his composure far worse than any cannonade. “Bird-watching, land-gazing, sky-dreaming. And the clouds! I could have sworn I just saw a monk plucking a harp.” 

Killian lifted his eyes. A restless gust tore the shape apart before he could fix on it. “I see clouds.” 

“Killian!” She gave a scandalized gasp. “Where is your imagination? Look harder—there, do you see them? A man and a woman dancing. I declare they are waltzing.” 

He made a skeptical, noncommittal sound.  

“You mean to tell me you never spun stories out of clouds as a boy?” she pressed, her tone softened with wistfulness. “Papa and I often did. He taught me the beauty of pretending—that adventure might be coaxed out of even the most ordinary sky.” 

“He sounds admirable,” Killian said after a pause. “My mother would have liked him.” 

“She would have?” 

“My mother also saw constellations of mischief in clouds and stars alike. My father used to say he fell in love with her because she believed the cosmos itself was plotting adventures for her.” 

Emma’s grin bloomed, radiant. “So it was a love match?” 

Killian’s gaze strayed over the valley, his voice roughened with memory. “He met her at a ball. Trodden toes in the crush of a dance floor. She laughed. He said he knew then he would marry her.” 

“How lovely,” Emma sighed. “My mother and father were childhood companions, their estates so close they might have walked into one another’s gardens. Papa claimed he knew at twelve that Mama would be his bride. She was ten and said the same. And then they wonder why their daughters are hopeless dreamers.”  

At that moment a bird—large, magnificent—swooped low and alit on the branch above them. Emma clutched his arm in delight. “Look! Those feathers—glorious!”  

They watched in reverent silence until the creature beat its wings and vanished into the heights. 

“I’ve been thinking,” she said softly. 

Killian’s lips quirked. “Always dangerous. What particular brand of beautiful mischief is hatching in that head of yours?”  

She nudged his shoulder playfully, then cleared her throat. “Our charade cannot last forever…your interest cannot remain endlessly ensnared.” 

He nearly laughed at the absurdity. He could not fathom a world in which she ceased to entrance him. She was clever, audacious, radiant—and she undid him with a single glance. 

“I owe you an astronomical sum, and—” 

“You owe me nothing,” he cut in brusquely. “The rent from the town house is a trifle.”  

“Still,” she persisted, “once our engagement ends, I cannot trespass on your generosity further.” 

“And do you imagine it will end soon, Miss Swan?” 

Her eyes slid to his, sly and sparking. “I would put the same to you, Your Grace. My expectations have been thoroughly overturned. I am not locked in a tower like some swooning gothic heroine, wringing my hands for my virtue whilst plotting to escape the wicked, wicked man who spirited me away from my family.” 

She was laughing at him. And God help him—he adored it. 

He let the back of his hand skim the softness of her cheek. “Do you wish me to play the ravaging beast, Swan?”  

Her pulse leapt visibly at her throat, betraying her composure. 

“You know I cannot stay here forever,” she whispered, her voice a teasing melody. “I thought perhaps you might come to London. The theater, the gardens, even the museum… wouldn’t that be delightful? And we are engaged, so gossip should be minimal, if any.” 

Her eyes shimmered with unspoken promises, and he found cynicism impossible. Instead, he shifted closer on the branch, encasing her in the warmth of his bulk and daring, for a moment, to imagine such promises could indeed be real. 

“Do you suppose you could live here… and be happy?” 

A teasing pout curved her lips. “An extremely perilous question, Your Grace. It implies you plan to keep me captive indefinitely.” 

Before he could respond, she rose onto her toes, leaned in, and pressed a delicate kiss to his brow. Her audacity no longer startled him; it delighted him. She followed with tender kisses along the bridge of his nose and finally, his lips. The softest of brushes, yet they penetrated his cold, lonely heart, igniting a warmth and buoyancy he had long believed impossible. 

He refused restraint. Cupping her cheek with one hand, he dipped his head and claimed her mouth, first gentle, then insistent, then wild and unrelenting. Her lips were a living flame beneath his, sweet, fierce, and utterly irresistible. 

Then, almost cruelly, it ended. He withdrew just enough to seek words—any words—but she remained silent, her gaze wandering over the wild, untamed landscape. Yet her lips held the curve of a secretive smile. He drank it in, spellbound, mesmerized not by the rolling hills or distant horizon, but by her alone. 

They did not speak of the kiss. Instead, she returned to watching the clouds animate with birds, and the lands he governed. The descent from the tree had been tricky, yet Killian had managed it without calamity—though he had barely restrained a groan as his muscles absorbed the jolting impact. On the blanket below, they indulged in the wine and rum cake, Emma perhaps slightly tipsy, if Killian’s keen eyes were to be trusted. At her insistence, he had made snow angels without snow, leaving grass entangled in his hair and clinging to his coat. 

They argued over the shapes of clouds and debated the merits of a headless horseman, imagining him as a champion of London’s downtrodden. Killian, unaccustomed to such banter, found himself strangely foxed, for these conversations were unlike any he had ever shared. They spoke of the orphans of England, of parliamentary reform, and the responsibilities of the privileged. 

Hours passed. A chill settled in the air; the sky deepened to a muted lavender as twilight approached. Yet neither moved to retreat to the warmth of the castle. Nor was Killian surprised when Smee appeared, placing blankets, cushions, and a softly glowing lantern with quiet efficiency before melting away without comment. Emma laughed at his manservant’s discreet attentions, wrapping herself and then him in the warm folds of linen.  

Now Killian sat back against the tree trunk, one leg drawn up, the other extended, providing a makeshift pillow for Emma. Her head rested upon his thigh as she read aloud from The Murderous Monk, her voice soft and engaging.  

His heart found its rhythm once more, uneven and uncertain, and for the first time in many years, he allowed the fragile tendrils of dreams and hope to burrow beneath his icy defenses.