He smiled, that crooked, utterly devastating smile that made her heart stutter even now. “It still feels as though I must earn the privilege of touching you.”
She leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. “You have already earned it. And then some.”
He pulled her into her arms, one hand slipping between her legs as his mouth claimed hers.
They did not leave the bed for hours.
When they did, it was only because their stomachs reminded them they had neglected basic needs in favor of more urgent ones.
The inn’s common room was quiet—only an elderly couple near the hearth and a young woman scrubbing a table in the corner. The innkeeper greeted them with a knowing smile and two mugs of tea.
Johnathan insisted on making Frances sit near the hearth while he fetched breakfast from the sideboard.
“You should not be attending me,” she protested.
“Too late,” he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “I have made it my life’s mission.”
She watched him as he crossed the room—tall and confident despite the slight favoring of his wounded arm. Her heart tugged as she saw the way the scullery maid stared after him, slack-jawed, clearly caught in the wake of his charm.
Frances suppressed a smirk.
Yes. He was hers.
When he returned with a plate of warm oatcakes, smoked ham, and boiled eggs, he sat across from her and offered a mock bow.
“Your Grace,” he said.
The title sent a ripple through her—new, untested—and she straightened instinctively, breath catching as though the name had weight upon her shoulders she had only just begun to feel. But not unwanted.
“Duke of Mine,” she returned.
He laughed, low and affectionate.
They ate slowly, trading glances and quiet remarks about the inn’s peculiar decor, about William and Maximilian—who had joined them yesterday, but apparently left at first light, slipping a note under the door that read we trust you not to do anything idiotic. But if you do, do not get blood on your wife—and about what came next for them.
“We will need to return to London eventually,” she said between bites. “Face the consequences. I do not wish to delay.”
“I am not worried about the scandal,” Johnathan replied. “They can call me a rogue. I am one.”
Frances reached across the table and took his hand. “And what am I?”
He looked at her. “You are the storm that broke me and the shelter that saved me.”
Something unspoken coiled inside her.
He squeezed her fingers. “We are the Duke and Duchess of Hargate. A title that can be traced back to the Norman conquerors. They will forgive us.”
After breakfast, they walked through the village arm in arm, passing flower carts and wool merchants, families bustling about with baskets, and little children chasing dogs through the square.
Life here moved slowly.
Unbothered by dukes and elopements and English scandals.
Frances let her shoulders drop, a slow breath easing past her lips as the tension uncoiled from her spine.
She tilted her head back and watched the clouds drift past. “Maybe we could live here.”
Johnathan raised a brow. “Become reclusive Highland romantics?”
