The rain had followed them back from the river, needling against the carriage windows, turning London to softened gaslight and blurred brick. Cate liked it this way—city smudged, world narrowed, the inside of the carriage its own little sanctum of leather, wool, and the faint copper echo of a husband who had behaved. She settled opposite {{user}} and let herself look, truly look, in the way she hadn’t dared while the minister prattled and the stevedores stared.

{{user}} sat too straight for someone four centuries old, hands folded, jaw tense under the cravat she’d tied herself into obedience with. Even now the sun had left the sky, she wore it. Because Cate had said. Because Cate had promised. It did something ridiculous to Cate’s heart.

“You were very good,” Cate said at last, letting approval warm her voice like brandy. “I expected at least one man to go home wetting himself.”

A flicker of fangless irritation crossed {{user}}’s beautiful, ruinous face. “Mr. Phillips spoke to you with a…familiarity…I did not like.”

“I did not like it either,” Cate agreed, smile small but lethal. “But you let me deal with him. As instructed.”

{{user}}’s eyes lifted to hers. Devout. Waiting on judgment like it mattered. Like nothing in four hundred years had mattered as much as this. “You asked me to be good,” she said simply. “So I was.”

God, Cate adored her.

She let the silence stretch, carriage wheels hissing through puddles, the city sighing past. Then she leaned forward, gloved fingertips finding the sharp line of {{user}}’s knee, squeezing once. “And I keep my word.”

She watched the change happen—how the rigid, public “husband” shell eased, how the cold in her posture melted into something almost shy. {{user}}’s mouth parted. Her throat worked. Even now, dressed like a gentleman, she looked obscenely young when praised. Cate’s chest ached with it.

“Your temper was leashed,” Cate counted, like tallying cargo. “You did not snarl at the minister. You only glared at Phillips once. You let me speak. You were…decorative.” Her eyes glittered. “Devastating, actually.”

{{user}}’s lips twitched despite herself. “For you.”

“Always for me,” Cate corrected softly. “Which is why you get your reward.”

The carriage lamps swung as they took a corner, golden light washing over {{user}}’s cheekbones, over the precise knot of her tie, over the way she swallowed like someone parched. Cate moved then—smooth, practiced—sliding off the velvet seat opposite to take the one beside her. Close enough to smell the starch of her shirtfront and the faint, iron-sweet trace of earlier. Close enough to see {{user}}’s pupils grow, greedy, anticipatory.

“You remember the terms,” Cate said, fingers already at {{user}}’s cravat, not loosening it yet, only toying. “Good at the docks. No men tossed into the river. No frightful display. And, in return, your Duchess on her knees.”

Color bloomed under {{user}}’s skin, that pretty, impossible flush that made her look alive.

Cate tilted her head, delighted. “Did you doubt I would?” she asked, feigning offense. “My love, I was wet just watching you stand there and behave.”

{{user}} huffed a broken laugh at that—half scandalized, half ruined. Her hands flexed on her knees like she didn’t know where to put them. She never quite believed she was allowed to want like this, Cate had to reteach her every time.

“Look at me,” Cate said, and {{user}} did, instantly, the way she always did when commanded. So easy. So hers.

“Good girl,” Cate praised, low. The words hit—Cate saw it, felt it in the way {{user}}’s shoulders dropped, in the way her breath hitched. “You may have your reward.”

Slowly, deliberately, Cate slid off the seat to the floor of the carriage, skirts whispering, pearls soft against her throat. She settled between {{user}}’s boots like she’d been born there. Her hands came to rest, light and proprietary, on {{user}}’s thighs. She looked up through her lashes, all wicked devotion.

“Part your knees for me, husband,” Cate purred, voice like velvet over a blade. “Let me spoil you properly.”