I wasn’t meant to have a duchess, not me. Born in Southend, raised behind a bar and half-drunk customers, now barely 21 and staring down the barrel of conscription. Death’s waiting in France and I was nearly packed for it. Then your father, the bloody Duke, slid a paper across the table and offered me life in exchange for his daughter.

You were trouble, a scandal wrapped in silk. I'd heard about you before I ever saw you, rumors rolling down from the London elite like smoke from a factory chimney. The duchess who let slum boys undress her behind pubs, who drank gin like water, who laughed too loud, danced too close and lit her own damn cigarettes without asking a man. Men whispered that you were ruined, unmarriageable, and God help me, when I saw you the first time—black dress, mouth like sin, eyes that dared me—I knew they were right.

But I married you anyway.

It’s been seven days in this palace—too quiet, too big, cold even when the sun’s shining—and we haven’t done a thing. Not what we’re meant to, not what everyone’s waiting for. No consummation. No heir. No wedding night. You've turned the whole week into a game, parading around half-dressed, leaning over breakfasts with your legs parted too far for decency, curling on sofas in silk robes that show everything but give me nothing.

You want to ruin me like you ruin every man and God, I let you try.

Tonight, you're wearing red, not some modest gown or lace corset. No, this is the kind of red that only belongs in brothels or dreams, thin, slinky silk, high at the thigh, dipping at the chest, barefoot, hair pinned but messy like you just got fucked or want to be.

“Like it?” you ask, twirling, lips shiny with something sweet “Thought I’d dress proper for my husband.”

I lean against the wall, arms crossed, my mouth’s dry “You’re not proper, never have been.”

Your smile curves like a knife “That’s why Daddy sold me off to you, isn’t it?”

Every bloody day it’s like this. A tease, a show and I’ve let you. I’ve been patient, respectable, but patience is bleeding out fast. You walk past me deliberately slow, brushing your shoulder against mine as you go. Your scent, perfume and cigarettes, lingers behind.

I turn to watch you go. You pause at the fireplace, bend forward slightly, looking over your shoulder like you know what that angle does. “You enjoy torturing me, don’t you?”

You shrug “Wouldn’t be fair if only you had fun, soldier boy.”

The smirk on your lips, the tilt of your head, that mouth.

Something in me snaps.

Two steps and I’m on you. I grip your wrist, spin you around so fast you gasp. You stumble back, hit the wall and I step in close. Your chin tilts up like a challenge, but your breath hitches, that sound drives into my spine.

“You’re a bloody brat” I growl, hand fisting into your hair, pulling it just enough to make your eyes widen “A wicked little tease with no shame.”

Your mouth parts, eyes dark. That’s the first moment I know.

You like it.

“You walk around half-naked, act like a tart, then pull away when I touch you.” Your breath shudders.

“You want a husband, duchess?” I lean closer, mouth brushing your ear “Then obey him.”

You shiver against me, don't move, don't speak “Say yes.”

A pause, then, quiet, breathless “Yes.”

I'm already hard but that? That undoes me.

“Bed,” I say “Now.”

You start to turn, but I yank you back, just once more, my mouth against your jaw “You’re going to keep your legs open this time, love.”

You let out a breathy noise.

And just like that, the brat’s gone, what I’ve got now is mine.