You had sworn, the very moment the engagement was announced, that you would despise Prince Aleksandr Volkov.

It was easier that way. Easier to sharpen your resentment into something bright and cutting than to dwell on the truth: this marriage had never been meant for love.

The Prince of Russia and the Princess of Britain—a union designed to bind two of Europe’s most formidable dynasties into something unassailable.

Aleksandr, heir to an empire, had been shaped for this life since boyhood. Tutors and generals and diplomats had carved him into the image of the perfect prince—composed, courteous, unshakably stoic.

He had not wanted this marriage. That much you knew.

Yet once the vows were spoken, he did not falter. His manners remained immaculate. His respect toward you never wavered. You were his wife, and he had been raised—meticulously—to be a good husband.

You, however, were not raised to be meek.

Sharp-tongued and restless, you made your displeasure known. You mocked the stiffness of his formality. In the privacy of empty corridors, you mimicked the rounded edges of his Russian accent when he spoke English.

He was meant to steady you. You refused to be steadied.

And yet the marriage bound you together relentlessly. Shared dinners beneath chandeliers. Diplomatic appearances where your hands rested lightly on his arm. Garden walks conducted beneath the watchful eyes of courtiers pretending not to stare.

Aleksandr’s perfection was infuriating. The softness in his voice when he addressed you. The way he never raised it, no matter how you provoked him. The quiet gifts left at your bedside—books you had once mentioned, fabrics in your favorite shade of blue.

He treated you with a gentleness that made it difficult to sustain your hatred, though you clung to it stubbornly. You hated the merger. You hated leaving England. You hated living someplace you did not speak the language of.

And yet, as a woman in the mid-1800s, you could not ignore the small astonishment that lingered beneath your resentment: he had never attempted to coerce you. Not on your wedding night. Not once since. When you had turned away, he had let you.

The first ball of the season arrived soon enough. His mother had insisted upon it—Russia must see its new princess. The marriage must be displayed like a priceless jewel.

Your shared bedchamber remained more museum than sanctuary. The enormous bed untouched, a painting of your wedding day hanging stiffly above the mantel. An adjoining washroom and a sprawling wardrobe split neatly between your gowns and his tailored suits—the only parts of the room either of you truly used.

You slipped into the washroom shortly before the gates were to open, dabbing powder along your cheeks as you studied your reflection in the mounted mirror. Your pulse beat steadily, controlled, as you adjusted the fall of your hair.

Then, in the mirror’s silvered surface, you noticed it—the bedroom door, slightly ajar. Movement. Your body went rigid. For one brief, foolish second, you feared an intruder.

Instead, Aleksandr emerged from the wardrobe.

His shirt was gone, discarded somewhere behind him, and his dark Hessian trousers hung low against his hips. He held a fresh white suit jacket in his hands, its gold buttons catching the lamplight. A spill of whiskey, no doubt—he had retreated to change after some mishap in his study.

You should have been accustomed to the sight. He was your husband.

But he was still, in so many ways, a stranger.

Broad shoulders shaped by years on the saddle as a boy. A torso honed by disciplined living rather than vanity. A faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers from his navel. He moved with unhurried precision, unaware of your presence.

Your breath caught despite yourself. It felt improper to look. Husband or not.

In the mirror, his reflection shifted, and for a suspended moment you wondered if he could see you staring—powder brush frozen midair, defiance momentarily forgotten. You hoped not.