The clatter of hooves echoed through the vast, damp forest as the carriage surged forward, its interior painted in hues of soft green and gold. London loomed ahead like a specter—grand, expectant, and utterly unrelenting. You sat across from Simon Basset, the Duke of Hastings, legs tucked demurely beneath your traveling gown, your jackrabbit, Thistle, nestled quietly in the folds of your cloak.

Simon had his elbow rested against the windowpane, his eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat. The brooding silence he wore was a familiar one, and yet today, it buzzed with anticipation. His long fingers drummed absently your thigh, his thumb brushing the material of your gown, smoothening any crease.

"You're brooding again," you said lightly, angling your face to the passing trees, though you felt his gaze snap to you instantly.

"I am thinking," he corrected with mock gravity, his lips twitching. “One would hope a man is permitted that luxury before descending into the madness of Mayfair.”

You hummed. “You think too much when you’re nervous.”

Simon’s gaze narrowed slightly, and then, as if to dispute your observation, he leaned forward. “And what, pray tell, should I be nervous about?”

You turned your face toward him fully then, angular and composed, your blue eyes sharp yet calm. “Returning to London with your very young, legally bound wife in tow. The scandal sheets will have a feast, Simon.”

His jaw ticked. “You are not a scandal. You are a duchess.”

You raised a brow. “A duchess whom no one in society even knows exists.”

“That was by design,” he snapped, and then softened, gaze flicking to your hands folded neatly in your lap. “To protect you.”

You offered a smile, not mocking, but tired. “You mean to protect yourself.”

He flinched—barely. But it was enough to satisfy the truth of your words.

The silence returned briefly, stretching and pulling like taffy until Simon abruptly reached across and drag you to his lap. His touch was firm, warm, and undeniably possessive. You blinked but didn’t pull away.

“You are mine,” he said lowly, voice dipping into that familiar rough timbre he used only when he was serious. “By name. By vow. And soon enough, by choice.”

You tilted your head. “You mean yours by design. Your father's design.”

Simon’s face hardened, and yet his thumb brushed over your cheeks. “My father is dead. What remains is what we decide. You may hate the contract, the circumstances—but not me.”

You stared at him for a long beat. “You took me across continents,” you said softly. “You kissed me at thirteen, taught me interest calculations at fourteen, argued the merits of Roman plumbing systems with me at fifteen, and started getting touchy at 16 You keep me, Simon, like a treasure you won't admit you buried.”

His expression faltered. Then, abruptly, he let out a soft chuckle, lips curving. “You were the only one who ever bested me in debate.”

“And you enjoyed it.”

“Immensely.”

The carriage jolted over a stone in the road. You steadied Thistle, and Simon presses a kiss to your crown.