Chapter Text
Smoke fills the dimly lit room, men and women gathered around tables, talking and laughing.
Osha’s not supposed to be here. If anyone found out, the scandal would ruin her and disgrace her family. And yet, she’d found the pamphlet by chance, had seen the name of the speaker, and couldn’t resist. Had spent a solid fortnight scheming with Mae to ensure she could get here safely, and unseen.
But this—the smoking, the drinking, the cards scattered across tables, the raucous conversation—is not what she expected.
She should leave. Turn around and walk out the door, run home and climb into bed, pretend none of this ever happened. And yet, the promise of hearing Mr. Sol speak is too tempting—Osha has spent the past year reading every bit of the man’s writings that she could get her hands on. To see him in person, possibly get the chance to meet him, was something she could only dream of two weeks ago.
I can’t believe you’re finally sneaking out, Mae had said when she’d asked for her sister’s help, and it’s to listen to some lecture on textile manufacturing.
Osha has to admit, a small part of her finds the environment enthralling. The public house is so different from the sitting rooms and ballrooms of Mayfair, all dark wood and forest green upholstery. The owners of the establishment had put out only the minimum of candles required to illuminate the room, and combined with the haze of smoke, it lends the space an ethereal, dreamlike quality. Like maybe anything could happen here. Like maybe nothing is real.
So, though she’s not supposed to be here, though she really ought to leave, Osha steps further into the room.
She looks around, trying to determine where to place herself. There are no chairs arranged before a stage, like she had expected. Instead, there are couches and divans, armchairs and gaming tables, all scattered around the room, designed more for intimate conversation than public speeches, and most of them already contain occupants.
“You look…lost.”
Osha startles at the sound of the languid voice. She hadn’t expected anyone to speak to her—hadn’t expected anyone to even notice her.
Turning, she finds herself facing a man with golden skin, his dark hair disheveled. A layer of grime coats his skin as if he hasn’t bathed in weeks, and he desperately needs to shave. He wears no jacket or hat, no tie or cravat, his waistcoat wrinkled and rumpled shirt scandalously open at the neck. Osha’s never seen a man in such a state of undress, and finds her eyes drawn to his pronounced adam’s apple, even though she knows she shouldn’t.
“First time at one of these?” he continues, and her eyes dart up to find his wide lips quirking to one side. An air of indecency exudes from him. But there’s an amused light in his dark eyes, and though it’s inappropriate for him to be speaking to her, the words are not unkind.
He clearly lacks concern for propriety—but perhaps it’s more acceptable for men to speak to women without an introduction among the common people. And if she intends to remain, she needs to find a place to settle anyway. Why not with this disheveled but not unkind stranger?
Smoothing her too-warm palms over the servant’s gown she’d borrowed—well, to be perfectly honest, stolen—from the laundry, she takes a deep breath. “Is it that obvious?”
“You’re an open book.” His smile grows, his face expressive in a way she’s never seen before, so unlike the members of the Ton who hide their feelings behind masks of politeness. But then he tilts his head to the side, his lank, stringy hair falling across his eyes. “And yet, you’re also a complete mystery. Intriguing. Are you known for contradictions?”
Heat stains Osha’s face. She’s certainly nothing of the sort. She’s a lady, and usually a proper one, when her fascination for the development of machinery and its effects on the lives of the working class don’t get the better of her. And yes, perhaps she’s never been entirely satisfied with the restrictions placed upon her, but what young woman doesn’t chafe a little under the constant observation and ridiculous limitations placed upon them by society? That doesn’t make her any less proper.
She doesn’t know how to respond, so she decides to simply introduce herself. “I’m—”
“No names,” he says, somehow guessing what she intended to say. “It’s so much more…liberating.”
Osha flushes, but something about his words, the idea of complete anonymity thrills her. “Alright.”
“Come on,” he says, playful, energetic. “Let’s find some drinks.”
He leads her deeper into the public house, locating a card table with two open seats and gesturing for Osha to sit beside him before waving to the waitstaff. They bring over wine for Osha and brandy for the stranger, and then he gets dealt into whatever card game is being played. The other players greet him as if they know him, but not by name. Clearly the no-name thing is his general rule, not something just for Osha.
“I’m guessing you’re here for Sol’s talk,” the stranger says, looking sidelong at Osha as he considers his cards. “Quite the droll subject matter for a young lady.”
She bristles instinctively, the way she always does when someone questions her love of reading and learning, her interest in the welfare of the people who live in the county of Brendok. Except this time, she doesn’t have to push the feeling down. She’ll never see this stranger again. He clearly cares nothing for decorum, and it’s as liberating as the lack of names. She has no reason to hold herself back.
“Women are perfectly capable of intellectual thought and caring about things other than dresses and gossip,” she counters as he places cards down on the green felt-lined table.
“I never claimed they weren’t,” he argues back, taking a long sip of his drink, his adam’s apple even more pronounced as he swallows. “Only that your type are generally very sheltered, are they not?”
He knows she’s an aristocrat, and the realization brings the heat back to her face. Open book indeed.
“Of course,” he muses, “you being here does seem to suggest otherwise. Does your husband know that you’re here? Or—no, you’re not married. Your parents, then?”
Across the table, one of the men grabs a passing young woman by the waist and hoists her onto his lap. The woman laughs, wrapping her arms around the man’s shoulders—either they know each other, or the woman is a courtesan, but either way the scene shocks Osha. Her face burns, both at the sight and at the way the stranger so easily reads her.
“I could be married,” she protests. “You have no way of knowing.”
He leans forward, and for the first time Osha catches a hint of his scent instead of the lingering smoke that fills the room. He smells good. Alarmingly good. Citrus and cedar and ginger, and something else, something primal, fundamental. Osha’s not sure she’s ever smelled anything this good in her life, and it makes no sense, given his unwashed state.
And then he speaks, and she forgets all about the way he smells.
“If you were married,” he says, his voice suddenly dropping several octaves, the words low and rough, “you wouldn’t be blushing like that.”
He looks at her with burning dark eyes, and Osha can’t hold his gaze, picking up her wine and taking a longer drink than she should. Something about this stranger, the way he flips from relaxed to such intensity, makes her skin feel too tight. Makes her wonder which is the real him, shivers crawling down her spine.
Perhaps she ought to find a seat elsewhere. But glancing around the room, she sees no better options available.
It doesn’t matter, she reminds herself. She’ll never see him again after tonight. Nothing about tonight matters except hearing Mr. Sol speak, discussing with him the benefits and potential challenges of bringing this new technology to Brendok.
The stranger draws away, settling back in his chair, at ease once more. He makes another play in his card game and is promptly declared the victor. He rakes his winnings toward him, then finishes his drink and signals to the waitstaff to bring him another.
There’s no point pretending, not when he reads her so well, already knows exactly what she is. And what she says to him doesn’t matter. So, for the first time ever, she gives voice to her deepest truth. “I don’t want to get married.”
She’s never even said the words to Mae, though she suspects her sister knows, the same way Osha knows Mae’s deepest truth without having to be told. And yet, one or both of them must wed, and with no father and no brothers, sooner rather than later.
“It’s all anyone seems to want from me, but I just…I don’t know.”
The stranger lifts his new glass of brandy toward her in a sort of salute. “Can’t say I blame you for that.” He takes a long drink, then sets the cup down and accepts a fresh hand of cards from the dealer, shuffling them around to his liking. “So, what do you want, then?”
Osha lifts a shoulder. It’s an unladylike gesture, but here, with him, it doesn’t matter. “I help my mother with the running of our estate, and I enjoy that. But also…” Breathing deep, she prepares to reveal another truth she’s never shared before. “I’ve always wanted to travel. To see something of the world. I know there’s more to life than dinner parties and promenades in the park.”
“I hope,” he says, and he sounds sincere, “that someday you get your wish.”
It is kind of him to say, but it has no bearing on the course of her life.
And then someone calls for attention. The focus in the room shifts to one corner, where two men now stand. One has longish black hair and a kind face, and his companion introduces him as Mr. Sol, their featured speaker. Osha straightens in her seat, ready to hear more about these newly developing technologies and their potential to revolutionize the textile industry.
Beside her, the stranger throws down his hand of cards in favor of knocking back the remaining contents of his cup.
Sol launches into his lecture, and his accented voice is calm, soothing. It should be easy to fall into complete focus on the discussion.
But then the stranger leans over and starts whispering to Osha. After how much work she put into getting here, it should annoy her. She’s here to listen to a great man speak. But the stranger is funny, quipping and inserting his thoughts on the subject. He doesn’t much care for Sol’s assertions about the marvelous world these new technologies will bring, and Osha would wonder why he bothered to come, except that she’s glad he did.
When the talk comes to a close, Osha knows she should leave. But then the stranger brings up one of the main points of the speech and they fall into a debate about the benefits of increased productivity versus the loss of work for skilled laborers. He’s sharply intelligent, and engages her like an equal, giving his complete attention to her as she speaks.
They talk for a long time, any thought of conversing with Mr. Sol somehow evaporating like mist in the morning, until it’s well past the hour she’d intended to return home. Tomorrow—or later today, at this point—will be beastly to get through, and she’ll have no one to blame but herself.
“I should go,” Osha says, reluctant despite herself.
“How are you getting home?” the stranger asks.
“My carriage is waiting by the church on the next street over.”
The stranger frowns. “That’s a bit of a walk.” Abruptly, he rises from his seat. “I’ll escort you.”
“There’s really no need,” Osha protests as she joins him in standing. “It’s not that far.”
But he gestures around them at the increasingly rowdy atmosphere of the public house. More than one woman sits on a man’s lap by now, and some of them are actually kissing. Others engage in loud, drunken conversations, arms waving with exuberance.
“No lady should be on the streets by herself at this time of night, not even for just a few minutes,” he says. “Let’s go.”
There’s no arguing with him, so Osha follows him through the crowded space and out into the cool evening air. It’s refreshing after being in that warm, smokey room for so many hours. The stranger keeps a respectful distance as they walk, until they turn a corner and find the Aniseya family carriage waiting. The stranger knocks on the door to roust the sleeping coachman, then offers his hand to Osha to help her inside, almost like a gentleman would.
Except no gentleman would offer his ungloved hand to a young lady.
Of course, no young lady would accept with her own equally ungloved hand.
And yet, there in the dark quiet of the street, Osha does.
A spark ignites between their bare palms, racing up Osha’s arm. The shock of it almost makes her falter, but the stranger guides her carefully up into the carriage and then promptly lets her go.
“It’s been a pleasure,” he says once she’s settled on the cushioned seat, her still-tingling hand resting on her lap. “I enjoyed our conversation…far more than I expected to enjoy anything tonight.”
“I did too,” she admits, surprised by her own boldness. But she feels more comfortable with this intelligent stranger than any man she ever danced with in a ballroom, feels as if he sees her more clearly after a few hours of conversation than anyone ever has, outside of her mothers and sister. “Thank you for seeing me safely to my carriage.”
It’s hard to tell through the dim, but she thinks his lips quirk in a smile. But he says nothing further, simply closes the door, and then the carriage sets off.
ONE YEAR LATER
Mama is pacing again, a letter in her hand. On the other side of the brightly lit drawing room, Mother Koril pretends to focus on her embroidery, but in truth she watches the dowager countess with as much concern as Osha feels.
“There’s nothing to be done,” Mama finally says, throwing the letter onto a side table. “My family’s money will go to Mae, but the rest must pass to a male heir. There’s no way around it.”
“It is not the end of the world,” Mother Koril says, practical as ever, eyes on her needlework once more. “The twins always knew they would have to marry someday. We will make sure they both secure matches this season, though Mae will be easier to betroth by far.”
She says it matter-of-factly, and Osha strives not to feel slighted, looking down at the sketchbook in her lap. The fact is, Mae is the older twin, she is the one who will inherit their mother’s money—paltry fortune though it is—though neither she nor Mae can inherit their father’s title, or the estate. No, the only way to keep the estate in their hands is for her or Mae to have a son, and for that, they need husbands.
And Mother Koril is right. Though Mama has been fighting their whole lives—ever since their father died when they were infants—to keep hold of the estate without need for a male heir, they’ve always known it was a losing battle. That they would eventually have to marry.
That doesn’t mean either of them want it.
“We must move with haste,” Mama says. “Now that we have the final ruling, we must show signs of progress to ensure we don’t lose the opportunity to secure the estate.”
Mother Koril sets her embroidery aside, standing with a swish of skirts and moving to Mama. The two women embrace, grasping one another’s forearms. “I shall call on Lady Rwoh,” Mother Koril says. “I believe she may be of some assistance.”
Taking a deep breath, Mama nods. Mother Koril kisses Mama on the cheek, a tender gesture that could easily be explained away as a companion comforting her widowed friend, but among their family means so much more.
And then Mother Koril takes her leave to go and call upon Lady Rwoh, whoever that might be.
Mama turns to Osha. “It seems we will be having a far less relaxed season this year than last. I am sorry, dearest.”
“It is alright, Mama.” Osha closes her sketchbook and moves to join her mother in the middle of the room. As much as she appreciates Mama trying to protect them from this, to let them put off marriage for as long as possible, this was inevitable. “Mother was right, Mae and I have always known that we must marry. We will just have to be more dedicated to the endeavor this season.”
Her mother pulls her into a warm embrace, engulfing Osha with the familiar scents of tea and irises, kissing the top of her head. “I wish I could spare you this.”
“It’s fine,” Osha says, then sighs. “I’ll go check on Mae and give her the news.”
Mama nods and releases her, and Osha heads upstairs to her sister’s bedchamber.
Mae lies on the bed in the darkened room, still dressed in her nightclothes with a wet handkerchief laid across her forehead, and she looks over with too-bright eyes when Osha steps into the room.
Closing the door as quietly as she can behind her, Osha moves to sit at the foot of the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Ugh,” Mae says, raising her hand to her head. “I cannot believe that I have a migraine, of all things, on the day of the season’s first ball.”
“I know,” Osha soothes. It’s terribly unfair; Mae has always been the more social of the twins, had loved attending balls last year and was looking forward to tonight. Meanwhile, Osha would like nothing better than to stay home and spend the evening lost in a book. But this is one instance where she cannot take her twin’s place, much as she might wish to.
“The letter came from Mama’s solicitor.”
Pulling the handkerchief off her face, Mae pushes herself up with her hands. “I take it from your expression the ruling was not in our favor?”
Pressing her lips together, Osha shakes her head.
Mae sighs heavily, leaning back against the headboard. “What did Mama say?”
“What we expected,” Osha replies, putting her hand on her sister’s ankle through the blanket. “Time to find husbands.”
Groaning again, Mae lays the handkerchief over her entire face, so it muffles her words. “Perhaps I’ll be fortunate, and they’ll find me someone as old as time, so that he dies a year into our marriage, like our father.”
“Mae,” Osha scolds, because it’s incredibly uncivilized to wish death upon a husband she’s not even met, though she understands the source of the sentiment.
“Don’t act as if you’re any more pleased by the prospect of marriage,” Mae retorts, but draws the handkerchief away. “Better an old, decrepit husband than someone young and virile who’ll try to exert complete control on his wife.”
Osha swallows hard. She’s not sure which sounds worse, but she understands why Mae would fear the latter more.
“Get some rest,” she says, squeezing her sister’s ankle. “I’ll tell Jecki you said ‘hello’ tonight.”
Mae’s cheeks darken with a blush, and Osha charitably pretends it’s due to the headache, then heads to her own room to get in what reading she can before she must start preparing for the evening.
“You’re late,” Vernestra chides as Qimir comes to stand beside her on the outskirts of the ballroom. “Extremely late. There are already people starting to leave. And couldn’t you have bothered to shave properly?”
Qimir ignores his mother’s scolding, watching the other ball attendees spinning on the dance floor to the faint strains of string instruments. He is twenty-nine years old and perfectly capable of arriving where he wants, when he wants, and of grooming himself to his preferred specifications. He’d already cut his hair short for the season, which was more than he’d wanted to do—it makes it so much harder to affect his preferred disguise when he needs a break from the weight of his title and responsibilities.
And as for the shaving, he often finds his bedmates enjoy the brush of facial hair on delicate skin.
“I’m a duke, Mother. How I groom myself doesn’t matter. Particularly not when you’ve already seen fit to make arrangements on my behalf.” There’s no little disdain in the words, for she knows perfectly well how he feels about the subject of marriage. And yet, she’d still concocted some ridiculous scheme to marry him off to the daughter of one of her friends, a girl he’s never even heard of before.
As the head of his family, Qimir can decline the arrangement, of course. His mother doesn’t have the power to force him into anything. Still, he’d agreed to at least meet the girl just to keep Vernestra from nagging, which is why he’s here in a ballroom, a place he usually avoids at all costs.
“You’re approaching thirty, Qimir,” Vernestra replies. “It is time to take a wife.”
“I’m well aware of your thoughts on the matter,” he replies evenly. “Now which one is the Aniseya girl?”
Vernestra scans the crowd, then pauses when she spots her quarry. “There, in the green dress.”
Following his mother’s gaze, he finds a young woman with light brown skin wearing a sage-colored gown standing next to a petite blonde dressed in blue.
In an instant, the situation irrevocably changes.
Even a year later, he recognizes her. How could he not? Such an intriguing young woman.
He’d known what she was the moment she stepped into that smoke-filled room, even dressed in the servant’s uniform she must have borrowed off her maid. Her black curls were too glossy, her brown skin too polished for her to be anything other than a lady. Even now, he recalls the way she smelled like roses, remembers the brightness in her eyes that only someone not crushed under the weight of endless labor and toil could possess.
She’d delighted him that night, with her wit and her intellect, with how fiercely she’d debated him, with her bravery for attending the salon by herself in the first place.
Though he’d thought of her dozens of times since the night they met, Qimir hadn’t expected to ever see her again, much less find her on the opposite end of a proposed marriage contract. Yet here she is, even lovelier than he remembered, being offered up to him like some kind of sacrifice. He recalls what she said last year, her concerns about marriage, her reluctance to wed—a reluctance they share. But of course the family is forcing her into it, as all families force all young ladies.
Should he decline, she’ll be tossed to the next suitor on the list. Qimir knows his peers and cannot think of a single one who would be good enough for her. If she must wed, she deserves someone who will respect her for her keen mind as well as her attractive figure and pretty face.
And, if he’s honest, there’s a part of him that wants nothing more than to possess her, to claim her. He’d thought it even a year ago, looking at her doe-eyes and full lips. Now it’s no longer merely a thought, but a possibility. She could be his.
Perhaps marriage would not be so objectionable with a lovely, intelligent wife.
“I’ll do it,” he agrees abruptly.
Vernestra’s head turns sharply to him. “I thought you wanted to meet the young lady first.”
“Take your victory before I change my mind, Mother,” he responds.
She sighs, but she knows better than to question his sudden change of heart when she’s getting what she wants. “Very well. But you’re not to say anything about the arrangement to her tonight. She’s not yet been told, and her mother wishes to speak with her first.”
Qimir sighs. “Am I forbidden from talking to her altogether?”
“Of course not, that’s why I asked you to come tonight,” she reminds him.
It’s just as well. Better to have a night to reacquaint themselves before thrusting the news of their impending nuptials upon her.
“How soon can it be managed?” he asks. “The wedding.”
Vernestra looks at him with a deep, probing expression, aware there’s something more going on beneath the surface but unable to fathom what it might be. Still, she just gives a little shake of her head to clear it. “Two weeks at the earliest, for the calling of the banns.”
“You will see to the arrangements, along with her mother?” he presses.
“I will,” she agrees, and he nods in satisfaction.
“Lady Rwoh!” a voice calls from behind them.
They turn to find one of his mother’s friends approaching. Vernestra steps away to greet the other woman, and Qimir turns to look across the ballroom again at Miss Aniseya.
Last year, her hair had been loose about her shoulders but tonight it’s swept into an elaborate updo, revealing a beautiful neck. A meagre tiara sits atop her head, and her throat is strangely lacking in jewelry altogether. His mother had told him some of the Aniseya family’s situation earlier this evening, their need for a male heir in order to access the estate’s funds. Even the girl’s dress appears a tad outdated, now that he considers it, though he hardly keeps up with debutant fashions.
Still, he can’t help thinking how perfect she would look in the Rwoh family jewels, in the finest silks and lace money can buy. The more primal part of himself imagines her wearing nothing at all—nothing except gold and diamonds dripping from her neck, her ears, down the valley between her breasts.
As he watches, another gentleman approaches the girls. Qimir feels a sudden flash of possessiveness that he has no right to, not when the girl doesn’t even know they’re to be wed. But it’s the small blonde the man leads out onto the dance floor, immense relief taking the jealousy’s place. Still, Qimir knows himself well enough to understand that he will not be able to tolerate watching her dance with other men for the rest of the night, even what little of it remains—and he berates himself for not coming sooner so that he might have more than a measly half hour with her.
With little time to waste, he makes his way around the edge of the dancefloor toward where she stands, alone beside a large potted palm. She turns to look when he draws near, her gaze at first sliding over him before realization strikes and her eyes race back to his.
“Been to any late-night lectures of late?” he asks by way of greeting.
Eyes wide, she looks him over from head to foot, taking in his attire, so different from what he wore last year, and the way he holds himself, upright instead of slouching. Her face darkens with a blush that makes her look yet lovelier, something that he wouldn’t have thought possible mere moments ago.
But as quickly as the surprise—and perhaps interest?—appears on her face, it vanishes, hidden behind a mask of indifference. “You shouldn’t be speaking to me without an introduction.”
He tilts his head to the side as he considers her, not entirely sure what to make of her reaction. Is she displeased to see him? He remembers their night together so fondly that the idea hadn’t occurred to him. Or perhaps it’s merely the shock.
Offering her a small smile, he presses on. “Is that really necessary, when we know one another already?”
“Do we?” she asks, but there’s an edge to the words that says she remembers him just as well as he remembers her.
Still, it can’t hurt to tease her. “Don’t tell me you don’t recall.”
“I remember meeting a man with your face but an altogether different presentation, My Lord,” she says, and he can see the rapid way her chest rises and falls with—what, excitement? Fear? Nerves?
He can’t help pushing just a little harder, to see how she responds. “Please, call me Qimir.”
The blush on her face deepens. Such a sweet, proper little thing. But he knows what lies beneath: curiosity, a sharp mind, a willingness to go toe-to-toe on the intellectual battlefield.
“You know that I cannot,” she replies.
“Of course,” he concedes—for now. “The informality of our first meeting must have temporarily impaired my judgement.”
But soon, they will be married. There will be no need for formality, then. And someday, when she’s ready, he will hear his name from her lips in every possible manner—whispered, moaned, screamed with pleasure.
Qimir never had much interest in courting rituals, but perhaps he should start looking into them. Someday will come a lot faster if he can turn this arrangement into something more.
“And, to be technically correct,” he continues, “it would be Your Grace.”
He can practically hear the tumblers clicking into place behind her eyes as she understands what he’s saying.
She lowers her gaze, and Qimir wants to reach for her chin, to lift her pretty face back to his. But he cannot touch her yet, at least not like that.
“Tell me, is your dance card already full?”
Her eyes return to his, and she’s blushing again, but she wordlessly lifts her gloved hand so that he may take hold of the little paper card dangling from her wrist. In fact, her dance card is empty, which shocks him for such a pretty debutant. But he’s glad all the same, because he does not enjoy sharing, and also because it means he can claim the final remaining waltz of the evening.
She checks the card to see which dance he’d chosen, and her eyes go so wide, and she’s so pretty and doe-like that Qimir can barely stand it. He longs to take her in his arms, taste that plush mouth. In the last decade, he’s taken innumerable beautiful women to his bed, and none of them ever made him feel like this, like there’s a thirst growing inside him that will never be quenched.
Only two weeks, he reminds himself. Two weeks for the calling of the banns and then he will know the feeling of her lips on his.
The previous song comes to an end, the couples on the dancefloor separating to find their next partners. And then the musicians start up the waltz, and Qimir offers his hand to his future bride.
Her fingers tremble a little when she gives them to him, something inside him roaring with satisfaction to know that he affects her in some way. He only hopes that it is not fear she feels, but something more pleasant, though she’s so young and sheltered that she might not yet know the difference.
Well, if that’s the case, he will take great pleasure in showing her.
And then they’re on the dance floor, and finally he’s able to put his arm around her, draw her near. The scent of roses still clings to her, and she looks up at him with those big eyes, her sweet little body so close to his, and it’s maddening.
Before tonight, Qimir hadn’t valued the years of dancing instruction he received. But now it allows him to effortlessly guide Miss Aniseya around the ballroom, allows him to focus entirely on her as they dance. The rest of the room fades away, until it’s just him and her and the way their bodies move together in perfect synchronicity.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he muses aloud. “Have you continued your clandestine salon attendance since the last time we met?”
Her gaze flicks away, and it is both a blessing and a disappointment. “I do not think that’s an appropriate topic of conversation, Your Grace.”
“You spoke to me freely a year ago.” He keeps his tone warm, inviting.
“A year ago, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”
Qimir understands the freedom in anonymity. It’s a large part of why he enjoys going out in disguise. But he wants her to know that she can be herself with him, her true self, the way she was a year ago.
“Does it change so much? Are you not still the person you were that night?”
“Yes—no—I don’t know.” She’s flustered, endearingly so. And then her gaze lifts back to his. “Why didn’t you tell me that you’re a duke?”
“I was there that night trying to escape my title and my duties,” he explains. “Though I apologize for not being more forthright. It was not my intention to deceive you.” His lips quirk. “I too assumed we would never again see one another.”
“But you knew I was a member of the Ton,” she argues, some of the fire he’d loved so much last year rising to the surface. “You didn’t think it possible we would encounter one another at a ball or some social event?”
“I didn’t plan on attending any,” he explains simply. “I’ve never been much for balls or social events. As I recall, you too were seeking something more than the life dictated by polite society. Is that still your wish?”
The fire in her eyes dies down. Though she doesn’t know that they will be married, she surely must be aware that her marriage is imminent. It kills him a little to see the flame go out of her, but of course she has to assume that whoever she ends up married to will expect her to put aside her own wants and wishes in favor of her husband’s.
Qimir refuses to be that type of husband. He swears in that moment that no matter what, he will never give her cause to stifle or dim herself, when she’s his wife.
But he can’t tell her that yet.
“You can trust me,” he says instead. “I promise not to share your secrets. Besides, you know mine too.”
She gives him a look full of disbelief, and it’s so adorable that he wants to laugh.
“I hardly think anyone will care that a man was out at a public house,” she says, voice full of contempt.
“I agree, it’s unfair,” he replies. “Though I assure you, I wouldn’t completely escape ridicule. A duke who prefers common establishments to White’s? Clearly a sign of madness.”
A small smile touches her perfect mouth, and it feels like being bathed in sunlight, anointed with sacred oil. God, he would do anything to make her smile like that all the time.
“And are you mad?” she asks, but there’s a touch of playfulness in her tone.
He lets himself smile down at her. “I much prefer the term ‘eccentric’.”
Too soon, the dance ends, and they’re forced to step apart. But Qimir doesn’t release her hand, instead bowing over it. “Thank you, for allowing me the honor.”
She doesn’t meet his gaze, her face flushed. “You dance beautifully, for someone who doesn’t care for balls.”
“It helps to have such a remarkable partner.”
The heat staining her cheeks intensifies. What will she look like flushed all over, a light sheen of sweat on her skin, her face contorted in pleasure?
He wants to dance with her again. To have an excuse to continue holding her close. But that would be akin to publicly declaring his intentions, and Vernestra said the girl’s mother wanted to speak to her first. Fine. There will be another ball later in the week, after things have been discussed and announced. He’ll be able to dance with her twice then, spend the evening conversing with her, the last remaining pretense between them gone.
Perhaps then he can get her to open up completely, be fully honest with him the way she was a year ago. Find out more about what she likes and dislikes, what she wishes to do with her life. Until then, he will have to exercise patience. As someone who has been a duke since he was a young child, it’s not exactly something he has tremendous experience with. But for once in his life, he thinks it will be worth the wait.
For now, he watches as she turns and hurries over to her friend in the blue gown. He really ought not let his gaze linger, but he can’t tear his eyes away from her, watching the two girls talking animatedly. And then they both peer back at him, and Miss Aniseya’s face goes darker than he’s yet seen it, stained with embarrassment from being caught looking.
Of course, once the embarrassment fades, she’ll surely realize that he had been looking at her first.
Smiling, Qimir inclines his head to her one last time, then takes his leave.
Osha lays in bed for a long time after the ball, recalling the night’s events over and over.
Never in a million years would she have anticipated that she would see the stranger from the night of Mr. Sol’s lecture again. And yet, not only had she encountered him, but he’s a member of the Ton—a duke.
And far, far more handsome than she’d realized last year in the public house.
Osha has never been swayed by physical beauty before, and yet her heart beats a little fast thinking about his smooth golden skin, the chiseled curve of his jaw, the fullness of his pink mouth. His broad shoulders, filling out his tailcoat so well, his long-fingered hands holding hers as they danced. He’d smelled the same as he did last year, woodsy and citrusy and sharp, and below it all, something divine, something imperative. But more than just his attractive appearance, it was the way he’d looked at her with such intensity, as if his eyes contained entire worlds and he was trying to pull her into them.
Part of Osha yearned to follow.
She’d been so shocked, when first she’d seen him. Overwhelmed by the reality of his appearance, his magnetism. Fear had set in swiftly, that he might tell someone he saw her at the public house, though with a year passed since that night, it would be hard to prove.
But then he’d danced with her so beautifully, spoken to her so intimately, almost inappropriately. Despite the impropriety and the ease with which he’d flustered her, she’d loved each word that spilled from his lips. His voice had been so much lower than last year. Thinking about it makes heat slide through her body, and she wishes she could hear him speak right now. But what would she want him to say?
Her name, she decides. She wants to hear him say her name.
Imagining it leaves a strange, pulsing ache in her stomach, like when she has her monthly bleeding, but different. Hotter. More pleasant and yet also more torturous. She needs to sleep—it’s already well into the small hours of the morning—but she can’t get comfortable when her insides rage like fire.
Rolling onto her stomach, she presses her face to the pillow and wills the feeling to fade. But her mind just keeps summoning the image of his face, the gleam in his impossibly dark eyes, the sound of his voice.
“Please, call me Qimir.”
Qimir. Qimir. Qimir.
Morning comes too soon, and drowsiness clings to Osha as she readies for the day.
It’d taken her so long to fall asleep that she’d slept through breakfast, but she stops by the kitchen on her way to the drawing room for calling hours. Cook sneaks her a jam-filled pastry, which she snacks on as she walks. But when she climbs the stairs and turns the corner, she finds Mama and Mae standing with a gentleman there in the corridor.
Her mother and sister look up at her approach, and the gentleman turns to see what caught their attention, and their eyes meet.
It’s him. Qimir, looking utterly dashing in a black tailcoat and midnight blue waistcoat, a darker blue cravat tied around his neck. Her heart slams into her throat at the sight. Is he here to call on her? Is he—is he going to court her?
Does she want him to?
She’s never wanted anyone to court her before, but she certainly wants something, her body full of a sudden hot longing that makes it difficult to breathe.
But there’s something amiss, his expression tight, almost pained, a stark contrast to both the charm of last night and the easy camaraderie of a year ago.
Approaching carefully, she looks to her mother. “Mama?”
“Osha,” her mother says. “I’d like you to meet Qimir Rwoh, Duke of Bal’demnic. He and Mae are to be married.”
