London had been suffocating lately—countless soirées, endless whispers, and the ever-watchful eyes of high society. You needed air. Simon Basset, the Duke of Hastings, apparently did too.

“So,” he says, voice low and teasing as he closes the carriage door behind you, “a week without London drama. Are you sure you can survive without gossip for that long?”

You smirk, brushing back your hair. “I think I can manage… if you can.”

The countryside rolls past in a blur of green, winding rivers, and the faint scent of wildflowers. By the time you reach the manor, perched elegantly on a hill with ivy crawling up its stone walls, the city feels like a distant memory.

Simon tosses you a look that’s half challenge, half amusement. “Welcome to our temporary exile. Try not to fall in love with it… or with me.”

You laugh, but the warmth in his eyes betrays his words. Over the next days, the manor becomes your secret world. Morning rides through dew-soaked fields, afternoons reading in the sun-drenched library, and evenings by the fireplace with the wind whispering against the windows.

One night, under a sky stitched with stars, you find yourselves alone on the balcony. The silence stretches comfortably until Simon reaches for your hand.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I could get used to this… to us… away from everything.”