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He made his way back up to her mouth, and she pulled his shirt loose and got it off him. She pressed her palm flat to the scar at his ribs—the old one she had noticed months ago and never asked about—and felt the steady beat of his heart underneath.

“I want to touch you,” she said, her breath scorching as she panted against his mouth. “Properly. The way you wouldn’t let me last time.”

“It wasn’t the right moment.” His voice had gone rough at the edges. He was watching her hand on his chest.

“Is this the right one?” Her eyes were twinkling with mischief.

She did not know where it came from, but…she felt lighter than she had since she married him…almost as if she were walking on clouds…and she wanted to play with him.

His eyes roved over her face for a beat before they changed, the pupils dilating. He took her hand and moved it unhurriedly down over his stomach, over his waistband, and she could feel the heat and hardness of him through the cloth before her fingers reached the buttons.

“Yes,” he said, biting out the words between his teeth. “This is the right one.”

She worked at the buttons. Her fingers were less steady than she would have liked. He waited, his forehead dropped to hers, his breathing controlled and even above her, and when she got her hand inside and closed it around his cock, a short, rough sound came from the back of his throat, and his hand came down over hers.

“Here.” He wrapped his fingers around hers and showed her the grip, firmer than she would have dared on her own; and then the pace, building from slow to fast, and when her thumb grazed across the slick tip, his hips drove forward involuntarily, and his whole frame went rigid.

“Like that?” she said, her own core turning molten, to the point where she wanted to grind down against his thigh.

“Yes.” The word came out torn. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

She kept the grip the way he’d shown her: firm and proactive, driving her fist in the same building rhythm.

He was hot in her hand, harder than she’d been prepared for, and the feel of his skin was unexpectedly soft over what lay beneath. She found the pace by feel—faster, tighter—her thumb catching the slick tip on each upstroke, and when she got the angle right, his teeth closed on a sound.

She watched his face, the line of concentration between his brows, the cords of his neck, and the way his chest rose and fell unevenly. He had one hand braced against the headboard and the other gripping her hip, and she could feel that grip tightening as she heard his breathing change above her, the pace of it going ragged.

“Harder,” he said, teeth pressed together. “Yes…there. Please.”

He came hard, his hips snapping twice, his face pressed into her hair, a low, broken sound at her ear. She felt the heat of it across her fingers and kept moving until he made a low, protesting sound and caught her wrist.

She felt, she had to admit, disproportionately triumphant about the whole affair.

Juliet returned from cleaning her hands at the washstand, came back to the bed and lay down beside him with his arm loose around her shoulders.

He drew her in against his side, and she put her hand on his chest, over the slow, settling beat of him.

“We are not,” he said, after some time, “going to produce an heir tonight. I want to be certain of things first.” His hand moved in one slow pass down her arm and back up. “Before we come to that.”

She tipped her head up to look at him. He was looking at the ceiling, the line of his profile quiet in the near dark.

“What things?” she said.

He looked down at her. His eyes were steady on her face.

“That you are here because you want to be,” he said. “Not only because of Eloise.” He held her gaze. “I need to know that when all of it is settled and there is nothing left to run from… you will still be here.”

She opened her mouth, but a knock came from below, stealing whatever moment she had to speak. It was not a servant’s measured tap, really, more like three hard blows against the front door, repeated immediately, with the urgency of a man who did not care what hour it was.

Adam sat upright. She sat up beside him, and she watched him go from still to moving in one motion: shirt on, buttons done by feel, coat off the floor, before she had taken two full breaths.

“Stay here,” he said.

She threw her wrapper on and followed him into the corridor. Below, she could already hear Grieves ascending at a pace no butler willingly achieves, and then his footsteps on the stairs—and the second sealed letter in his hand. Plain wax, no crest, the same unidentified hand as the first.

Adam took it, broke the seal, his eyes already scanning the scribbles on the paper. He read it twice. She watched his eyes track the lines from the top again. When he folded the letter and looked up, she could see his mouth set and decided.

“What?” she said. “Adam. Tell me.”