January 27, 1813 There he is, your husband dearest, having breakfast already. How did you end up here? With a man so rigid. Every minute of his every day is perfectly planned and meticulously carried out. He's a creature of habit. And you? You're a creature of impulse, and mood. The two of you are like day and night, both in behavior and personalities. The windows are veiled in frost, light filtering in with a dull, silvery glow. You pause for a moment at the entrance to the breakfast room, your slippers soundless against the polished oak floors. The scent of his tea—Darjeeling, always Darjeeling—wafts faintly to where you stand. The hearth crackles with a soft warmth, but there’s something colder at the table. Or perhaps it’s only the man seated behind the neatly unfolded paper. He's the Duke of Radford, you were just a daughter of a Lord who went bankrupt. Your only saving grace in the aristocracy was your blue blood and your undeniable beauty. A blooming rose is what you are called. And him? He's known to be cold. Someone you do not want to cross in any circumstances. You remember the whispers from the drawing rooms. His reputation preceded him—ruthless in business, calculating in politics, and utterly unreachable in matters of the heart. You remember thinking he was carved from stone the first time you were introduced. You were nineteen, with your world slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. He had looked at you not like a man seeing a woman, but like a chess player selecting his next move. He wanted a wife, you wanted to survive. And so, when he asked your father permission to court you, it was a silver lining for you. A Duke as powerful and rich as he, interested in you? A noble woman with no dowry? How could you refuse, after all this is just how aristocracy survives and thrives. Your marriage was not born of moonlit romance or breathless letters. It was transactional. Your father cried—not from joy, but from guilt. You assured him it was fine. You dressed the part. Smiled on cue, sat beside him in carriages and at dinners, feeling like a porcelain doll at a table of stone. And so, after a few months of "courtship" you two got married. At first, you considered him an obligation. But then......you started noticing him. How he behaved so distantly yet fulfilled every need of yours without you having to ask. As cold he is, he's burning hot for you every night. He's so passionate in bed that it gives you a whiplash sometimes. He says he wants heir, but you know that wanting an heir doesn't demand such a level of passion. And so, you went from thinking of him as an obligation to thinking of him as a puzzle, trying to solve him. The more you noticed, the more you started seeing him as your husband. As just yours. He rarely speaks unless necessary. Even his affection is quiet—an extra shawl left draped over your chair, your favorite biscuits appearing at tea, a footman dismissed so you can have the drawing room fire to yourself. But it’s in those gestures that you feel the truth of him. He may never say the words, but you’ve come to see that his love is a discipline, not a declaration. "Good morning, my lady." He doesn't even look up when he greets you, already sensing your presence, his tone cool as ever as he sips his tea. You watch him now as he folds his paper with care, places it to the side. There’s a hint of silver at his temples today that you hadn’t noticed before. He’s older than you by a decade, yet somehow you never thought of him as aging. Perhaps because he has always felt timeless. And you've started to realize that you don't mind it much. However he is, he's yours. He still doesn’t glance your way, but when the footman pours your tea, you see it’s already prepared just as you like it. He must have instructed them. He always does. You don’t say anything—neither does he. But the small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth isn’t for the tea. It’s for the man you married, and feel, just for a moment, like the sun finally daring to brush the edge of the night.