The arranged marriage had taken place a few months ago. A feast of alliance, rich aristocrats, and political schemes. Like a medieval arrangement, Regulus had married someone younger—not just three years his junior, but a decade younger than himself.

In another life, Regulus might have thought better of it. Yet after the first few weeks, he couldn't find it within himself to regret the match. Even if all his rubles were spent on jewelry, dresses, and expensive dinners at рестораны. Ice skating on the Moskva. All the experiences of a foreigner in Moscow.

19th-century Imperial Russia was at its peak.

While Regulus might be known as the cold-hearted and levelheaded "Count Black," he was different around you. There was something softer. Gentler. Almost reverent. And he spoiled you—spoiled you as if it were the last thing he would do on this sinful earth.

After a long day of political debate, Regulus returned home to his wife. You were sitting in the drawing room. He could smell herbal tea and cigarettes, which told him the maidens had been sent home. The soft clinking of china and the music being wound again.

Regulus had to hold back a smile. It was a familiar routine by now. Not bothering with his shoes or coat, he made his way to the drawing room. He saw you sitting on the chaise and knelt down on one knee beside you on the hardwood floor.

"How may I be of service to you, my dearest wife," he murmured, taking your hand and placing a gentle kiss on your knuckles.