The marble courtyard of the Shahi Rajmahal gleamed under the sun, its stones warm beneath your bare feet. Beyond the carved arches, the peacocks screamed, their tails glittering in the light, and the wind carried the faint scent of cardamom and rosewater. A servant lingered at the edge of the hall, nervous, unsure if it was proper to watch his commander-in-chief—Viscount Hugh Rose, the Iron Hand of India—sparring with his Rajput princess.

But you laughed, loud and unafraid, the sound carrying through the carved pillars like music. Your sword clashed against his, silver striking silver, the echo sharp and bright. Hugh’s jaw was tight, his eyes narrowed in concentration, the sun cutting across his angular, pale face. He was a soldier even here—stance perfect, grip unyielding, every movement precise.

You danced around him, quick, light, teasing. A flick of your wrist, a sweep of your skirt, and you slipped past his guard. He growled low in his throat, spinning, the edge of his blade grazing yours with a hiss of steel.

“You cheat,” he muttered, though his lips almost curved into a smile.

“You are too slow, my lord,” you shot back, circling him, anklets chiming as you moved. “An Udaipur princess does not wait for mercy.”

The next strike came hard—his blade pressing against yours, pushing you back until your spine brushed the cool pillar. His height dwarfed you, his shadow falling long over your face. But your eyes sparkled, and instead of yielding, you twisted, your sword slipping free in a sharp arc, nearly knocking his from his hand.

Hugh barked out a laugh—short, startled, genuine. It was a rare sound from him, the kind his officers never heard, the kind the soldiers would never believe. For them, he was iron. For you, he was just Hugh, your foreign husband who stumbled at Sanskrit hymns but tried anyway, who grimaced at chilies but ate every bite you offered, who now looked at you as though the battle was already lost and he didn’t mind in the least.

Your blade pressed lightly against his chest. “Victory is mine.”

He dropped his sword without hesitation, hands rising instead to catch your wrists, to hold you still. His voice dropped, low and rough, not meant for soldiers or officers, but for you alone.

“Victory was always yours, my sweet darling.”