AN It's been a year and I still have very strong feelings about how Grace should have handled Chesterfield. Also, season three is almost here, so basically we're just seeing how many thousands of words I can devote to a Very Bad Idea before canon completely annihilates me.
Jonathan Chesterfield was vicious, smart, and terribly dangerous, this Grace knew. But he also had the stunning habit of showing her his underbelly, and she had not made it this far for nothing.
So when he, her newly made husband, attempted to kiss her, Grace saw all the possibilities that went with it. She saw all the dangers, of course. The thought of Malcolm Brown's mangled face, Chesterfield's hand at her throat, the cold you'll have to get in my bed, it all swirled in her mind and made her pull away. But when he kissed her again, she bit her tongue and thought of an excuse.
"I need time, Jonathon," she said hurriedly, hands on his chest in an effort to both keep him back and to placate him.
"Just give into it, Grace," he said, mouth turning in an attempt to find hers. "Your father is a mirage, so is Harp. This is not—" His words trailed off as he kissed her neck, his beard scraping against her skin.
Grace sucked in a breath and grabbed his face, holding him before her when what she wanted to do was shove him back and break a candlestick over his head.
"You said you didn't want to take my independence," she blurted, seeing the sparks of anger in his eyes. "Don't make me do this. Let me choose. Give me a day and I'll—I'll come back."
The words were vinegar on her tongue, but she didn't blink, didn't grimace, didn't dig her nails into his face.
"I'm tired of your games, Grace," Chesterfield growled, taking another step forward.
Grace moved with him, palms still pressed flat on his cheeks. "One day, Jonathon. When have I ever broken my word?"
The answer was plenty of times. Promises were pie crusts or primroses to Grace—easily broken and never meant to last, anyway. But Chesterfield wasn't meant to know that.
"Please, Jonathon. Just…let me have this night, and then you can have the next."
He eyed her, gaze cold and seeing far too much. She had thought him a fool, once, a big, stupid brute that reveled in blood and pain. That had been her first mistake. Chesterfield was savage, yes, but he was just as cunning as she. While Grace had so smugly thought she had him fooled with all her lies and easily wrought explanations, he had pieced together a horribly accurate picture of her. And still he wanted her like a dying man craved breath.
"And what if you run away or concoct some clever scheme in the meantime?" he asked, voice low as a ripple of thunder.
"I'm sure you'll think of something," she said, brassy and bold because this time, at least, there was no lie. There couldn't be. "Burn down the Ale, cut out my tongue for a liar. You could personally stand outside—outside, mind—my room the entire day, if it makes you feel better. But I promise you, I am coming back. Partnerships are built on give and take, after all."
Maybe Chesterfield saw something in her face, because his gaze flickered along with his resolve.
"One day," he said, then pulled back to show he wasn't so easily ruled. "Don't test me, Grace. You're not getting that letter if you do."
"Never," she said, heart still ragged against her ribs.
She looked down at the ground, then touched his chest again. It was small, a tiny gesture, really, but she knew she was well on her way to catching his heart in her palm.
"Thank you, Jonathon," she murmured, then left the room.
Grace didn't look to see if he watched her leave, just like she didn't check the letter in her boot until she was safely locked away in her room in the Ale.
The next day she made good on her promise, because Chesterfield would rain down hell and suffering if she did not. And (and this was the thing that she clung to), the more he trusted her word the easier it would be for her to make it law.
She did consider other options, of course. Slitting Chesterfield's throat when he kissed her, fleeing into the woods, burning down all of Fort James because she hated this place and would rather climb from ashes than be made a house pet, but no. Those were rash, careless things to do. She would swallow this poison if it made her immune to all others.
Chesterfield looked almost surprised when she was led into the parlor. And maybe even a little relieved, but she was too anxious to really dwell on that.
"I almost didn't think you would come," he said, tilting back his head.
"Business at the Ale, as usual," she said, hands clasped tight to hide her shake. Grace knew what she was doing and she knew the benefits but something inside her still screamed at the necessity of it. "But I'm here now. Besides, I'd rather go to you than have you come to me."
If Chesterfield was bothered by the vague accusation, he didn't react. He instead watched her, eyes tracking every move. Grace didn't like this damnable stillness he'd found. He was much easier to control when he didn't take time to think.
"You were insistent that I come," Grace said. "Have you changed your mind?"
"Not likely," he scoffed. Chesterfield stood, still watching her. He was dressed down as before, in his black shirt and newly-made vest. His sleeves were rolled up again, revealing his forearms. The sight of his skin made her wonder where the brand was, if his story had even been true.
She swallowed hard and looked at his face.
He gave her a slight smile, one without much humor. "You needn't look so worried, Grace."
"'Worry' isn't what I'd call it," she said.
"Then what?"
In that moment, her traitor heart squirmed and asked very quietly what about Declan?
She set her jaw. This was for Declan—no, for her, his life was just a benefit—but why did she care, he had made it so obviously clear that he didn't—not in that way at least—she needed to shut up shut up shut up—
Chesterfield gave her another not-quite-amused smile, snapping her out of her thoughts.
"Let's just go," she said, shrugging out of her coat. She felt inhumanly hot all of a sudden, her heart beating faster and faster the more she waited.
Chesterfield watched her, waiting just long enough for her to settle her coat on the back of a chair, then led her upstairs.
Grace focused on breathing. It had been hard the first time she had arranged another man's death. It had twisted her stomach to horde secrets and feed people lies. First times were always terribly hard, especially when it was something that couldn't be undone. But she grew accustomed to them, just like anything else.
Besides. Even if Chesterfield proved too unwieldy to fall under her thumb completely, there were always more secrets for her to learn at his side. Men usually weren't at their best with their trousers on the floor.
The bedroom was pretty enough, with the bright plaster turned honey gold by the fire. The bed stood big and intimidating, glaring at her as she stepped in. Another door nestled in the far wall, making Grace wonder at the size of the house. It was no estate house, but it certainly outdid the dull cabins and homes that populated the fort. The desk seemed to be the only thing Chesterfield had touched all day, with his cloak and cast over the chair and a bottle of win sitting next to the glasses.
"Would you like a glass?" he asked, gesturing at the bottle.
"Don't tell me it's a wedding present," she said, feeling somewhat safer with her usual spiny armor in place.
"Just…something to make you more at ease."
She didn't know what to do with the hope in his eyes, so she nodded and pretended to examine the room again.
The wine was good, but it mostly reminded her of her fight not to come here after a bottle and a half of her own whiskey, so she only drank some and then set the glass down.
Chesterfield was close enough that she could feel his heat on her back. He touched her arm, barely, and she set her shoulders.
His kiss wasn't frantic like the day before, but it was too…everything. Heated, desperate, needy, dangerous, final. Grace's panic rose in her throat and she choked on them both. She was going to be sick, she was going to be sick and he would be furious and then he'd probably gut her because strangling was too clean.
Grace turned away, almost coughing on her fear.
Chesterfield's voice was ice. "Don't tell me this is going to become a habit. Grace, I—"
"Just—shut up," she snapped, throwing out a hand like she could catch his words in her fist. "Just—I'll be fine, just let me breathe for one fucking minute."
"And how am I—"
"Jonathon," she said, voice breaking—dammit, she had promised herself that he would not see her break—and yet coming out all the same. She turned and let him see the fear on her face because she couldn't hide it, but she could certainly lie about it. "I just…I'm afraid. This frightens me and I hate that it does but I can't stop it, so just…let me be afraid."
Chesterfield stared at her, too many thoughts flitting across his face for her to pick any single one out. He furrowed his eyebrows and stepped closer. "Grace, I never meant—this isn't meant to be a punishment. No harm will come to you."
"It's not that," she laughed, though a bit of it was. "I told you. I'm afraid that being Mrs. Chesterfield will leave me lame. No power, no freedom just…bed warming."
"You have to know I'd never want that," he said, voice almost soft. She could barely make herself look at him. "I don't want a woman that sits quietly by. I value you because you're brave and clever. I'd never try to strip you of that."
But he would have her tamed, just as she would have him. They were wickedly perfect in that way.
"This is about making us stronger, not cutting you down," he continued. He touched her elbow and she made herself look at him rather than flinch back. "If we hold nothing in reserve from one another, think of all that could be made."
That was it. She just had to think of all she could do with the power of a governor in her hand. There was always some blood for the benefit of peace.
Grace let out a slow breath, then shook her head. She looked at the window, the darkness outside bleeding in through the light curtains. This was it. She had spent the whole day trying to think her way out of this, spent weeks on it before even that, and this was all she could fathom. If she traded away this little piece of herself, Jonathon Chesterfield would give her the world. This wasn't for her business or for Declan's survival or for the people Chesterfield would so gladly turn into shrapnel for his own ends. This was about Grace and how she could get exactly what she wanted.
She stepped out of Chesterfield's reach again and picked at her over shirt. Grace shrugged out of it, then looked at him. He devoured her with his eyes, ready to devour her with his lips.
Grace kissed him once, a tiny thing, really, but just enough to get her feet under her. Then she tried again, and then Chesterfield was kissing her back. His hands were on her hips, fingers burning and spread wide to consume as much of her as possible. Their bodies were pressed flat, he was kissing her, he was kissing her like he would never taste her again.
And then he slowed, mouth opening so that his tongue found hers. His hands clutched at her blouse, pulling it free from her breeches. Grace gasped when his hands found her skin. She had never been touched there before, certainly not like this. It was dizzying, watching all of her barriers be broken and knowing that she should protest, fight, escape, but also knowing that she had chosen to destroy them from the beginning.
Her breath caught when his hands crept up her spine, when his kisses trailed to her neck. Grace closed her eyes. The pit of her stomach kept flipping, first from nerves, then dislike, and then some strange sort of…enjoyment? Chesterfield walked them back to the bed, and the devil inside Grace wanted this. Not him, but this.
Things became hazy after that. She was on the bed and he was pulling off her boots and she fumbling with his vest and shirt and then he had her flat and ran his hands down her front like he was stroking gold. She stopped breathing when he reached her hips, her thighs. Every part of her tingled, terrified and anticipating.
Chesterfield pulled off her breeches, the cold air hitting her skin like stones. He learned over and kissed her hip, close and yet not what she wanted. Then he took off her shirt, leaving her utterly bare. She pulled him down because she was no pretty maid to be acted upon. Chesterfield tugged her leg up around his waist, his hands exploring her body. pulling off his trousers as well.
Grace didn't remember if she spoke. She couldn't remember when it stopped feeling painful and just felt good, or when it had stopped mattering that this was Chesterfield. All she knew was that Chesterfield's cock was hard and her mind was weak. He spread kisses and whispers across her skin, making her feel mighty and worshipped because she was a goddess, she was wonderful and beautiful, because stay with me, Grace, stay with me, stay, stay, stay.
She didn't. Once they were done—done, don't be so foolish, you've committed to a lot more yet—she eased off the bed and picked up her clothes. She was cold and clumsy, barely even herself.
Chesterfield sat upright and kissed the small of her back, right on her spine.
"Don't go," he mumbled into her skin. "There's so much more I can do."
She put her hand on his head, barely running her fingers through his hair. She couldn't deny the terrible thrill at his willingness to beg.
"I—I have to go," she muttered, pulling away before he remembered himself and made her stay. Breeches, shirt, over shirt—where were her stockings, surely they hadn't been kicked under the bed—
Chesterfield caught her shoulders and turned her around, kissing her hard on the mouth. She could still taste the wine on his lips—after everything? No, surely it was gone, but then why else was she acting like this?—could feel the hollow need on his tongue. Now was the time to go or he'd never let her leave.
Grace backed away, half-dressed, clutching her boots to her chest. They stared at each other in a wretched moment of clarity, seeing each other for exactly what they were: twisted and desperate and full of fear.
Grace disappeared behind the door. She yanked on the rest of her clothes as she hurried down the hall, snatching up her coat on the way out.
No one stopped her, no one looked at her. She managed to make it to the Alehouse and up to her room without any incident.
Her hands still thrummed with excitement and confusion because she had done exactly as she had asked, but she was certain, certain, that he had fallen this round.
The next day, the reward posters were taken down around Fort James.
Maybe it was a mistake for Grace to not return over the next week. She'd meant to, of course, if only to step in and make sure Chesterfield didn't get any ideas while her back was turned. But she was haunted by the last moment she had seen of him, both of them so exposed, so terribly honest. Grace had always assumed greed, lust and cunning was the bedrock of their relations, in one way or another. She hadn't actually expected (allowed) there to be anything more sincere. And she certainly didn't want to admit that sex with Jonathon Chesterfield had been anything but repugnant. If it had been anyone but him, she might have even said it was nice.
But, of course, she didn't go, and there were consequences for it.
Chesterfield blazed into the Alehouse when Grace least expected it. She wouldn't have put it past the bastard to have timed his entrance just so.
"Jonathon," she said, trying hard to not sound alarmed.
"Back," he growled, sweeping past the bar.
Grace allowed herself to exchange one brief look with Mary, then slipped into the back. Chesterfield stood waiting, watching her with the stillness of a wolf. She pulled the curtain, careful not to turn her back to him. He didn't look angry, but there was a calculating edge to his wickedness.
She was really starting to miss the days when he had been hobbled by masters. He was proving much too capable on his own.
"Well?" she sighed, cocking her head. "What're you here for?"
"You've been awfully absent from the governor's house over the last week, Grace."
She raised her eyebrows. "You're here because you're lonely?"
"I'm here because you haven't been honoring your commitments as my wife. Did I somehow leave you unsatisfied?"
Grace cursed and shot a look at Mary, whom she could see through the barrels separating the bar and the back room. She grabbed Chesterfield's arm and pulled him deeper into the room.
"Keep your voice down, people can hear you."
"I wouldn't have to speak in the open if you came to the privacy of our home," he growled.
"I have my own obligations," she told him, eyes narrowed. "I will not set them aside so you can feel waited on."
"This isn't—" He scowled and grabbed her shoulders. Grace tensed in spite of herself, readying herself in case he tried pinning her against the wall again.
Again. She was courting the devil with this dance of hers, and she was a damn fool to forget it.
Chesterfield hesitated, then eased his grip on her. He remained close, though, finally lowering his voice.
"This isn't about me, Grace. It's about us. Tell me you didn't enjoy our time together, that you wouldn't like it again. This is only the beginning, as I've always said. With you at the governor's house, just imagine the things we could achieve, the plans—"
"Move into the governor's house? I would have thought the week of my not being there would have made it clear enough." Grace broke free of his grasp, lip curling. She knew she should be careful, but there was something so gratingly simple about his confidence. Of course she would enjoy his touch, of course she had gone astray for wanting anything that existed outside of him.
"I told you, I'm not your pet. Whatever fantasy you've concocted can go straight in the latrine without my say so."
Chesterfield's jaw ticked. "I have tried to be reasonable—"
"Reasonable! By threatening and forcing me to do what you want at each turn? That's not what I'd call reasonable. You kept your part of our deal, and for that I'm thankful, for the sake of all of Fort James. But do not think I'm indebted to you for it."
Chesterfield grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her back onto the table. She sucked in a breath as her legs were knocked from under her and she landed hard on her backside. His fingertips dug into her arms, enough to promise a bruise. Violence, always violence with this man.
"If you're so bent on putting your business duties first," he began, voice barely a growl. His eyes roved over her face, settling somewhere near her mouth. "Then I will remove it from your care. As governor and your husband, I claim ownership of the Alehouse. If it continues to distract you, I'll let whatever groveling pissant I choose be responsible for its services."
"The Ale is the property of my father," Grace hissed. "I run it in his stead. You cannot—"
"Can't I, Grace?" He looked at her, then, eyes wide and brutal as ocean ice. "Either you start respecting your responsibilities or I burn this place to he ground with all the legal might I have."
She struggled to control her breath, to calm own, to think of a plan and stop antagonizing him further. He was threatening her livelihood, of course, her freedom, but he wasn't threatening her. Not like he had before. At least, not yet.
Grace glanced around, thinking, thinking, then nodded. It was a shaky thing, but it seemed to satisfy him. Chesterfield eased his hold on her, but still held her in place. When his gaze dropped to her mouth again, it seemed more like an afterthought.
"I long for the day," he murmured, dipping his head closer, "when we no longer go to war like this."
He stopped back, finally giving her room to breathe. He turned on his heel, then paused.
"Don't stay away long, Grace. I mean it."
He was gone barely a moment before Mary appeared, pretty face pinched with worry.
"Did he hurt you?" she asked.
"No," Grace said, sliding off the table. She resisted the urge to rub her arms and make Mary even more upset. "He just doesn't know how to speak a language other than brute force."
Grace didn't need to see Mary's face to feel the reproach rolling off her. It was well earned, after all. She had bedded a tiger and expected it not to scratch. That was probably why she never did any of the dirty work herself, anymore. Grace had been hurt enough, she didn't see the need in adding more to the pile.
"What are you going to do?" Mary asked, voice low. "You can't just…he can't do this to you."
"Oh, don't worry," she said with a casual hand wave. She would have to deal with Chesterfield directly. No more of these half measures, they only complicated matters. "I intend to explain that to him in a way he fully understands."
Grace arrived at the governor's house just after dark the following day. She smiled at the maid, then waved her off.
"I can see myself in on my own, thanks," she said. The girl looked uncertain, but nodded and slipped away. No one in Fort James knew what to make of her marriage to Chesterfield, but then, no one had known quite what to make of them on their own, either.
Grace glanced through the parlor, the dining room, the side hall. Chesterfield wasn't in any of them. She rolled her eyes and pulled off her coat. Her steps were quiet as she climbed the stairs. The door was cracked at the end of the hall, spilling out light from the fire place. She held her breath, then eased it open.
"What is it—" Chesterfield began, turning at the desk. He stopped when he saw her, a look of vague disbelief on his face. "Grace, you—why are you here?"
"I suppose...you could say I saw reason." She let out a short breath, because even now those words were hard to say. You were right, Chesterfield. She didn't intend to grow accustomed to saying them. "I don't want to be at war with you, either."
"Then you see what changes have to be made," he said, standing up. "Focus more on us, on the furs we still have to sell. Our plans needn't be crouched in the dark any longer."
"I just have to move in?" she asked.
He bounced his leg and lifted in chin in a show of confidence he didn't feel. "It would be easier, yes. And…more comfortable."
"Comfortable," she echoed. "I was plenty comfortable at the Ale."
"More pleasurable, then." He eased closer, wearing that half-lidded look that was becoming so easy to read. "Don't tell me sharing a bed was so terrible."
"We were barely on the bed, from what I remember."
"And whose fault is that?"
Grace looked down, shifted slightly. She didn't want to think about her panicked escape the week before.
"It wasn't…unpleasurable," she admitted.
"If you were around more often, we'd be able to repeat it," he whispered, half a smile on his face. He was so confident at getting what he wanted that he could already taste it, Grace was sure. He was near enough now that she could feel his breath on her cheek.
Grace looked up at him. "Sit down," she whispered.
Chesterfield pulled her with him as he found the chair, mouth already on hers. She straddled his waist and his hands spread over her thighs like they were a revelation.
Grace was starting to get used to his beard. It had shocked her the first time they had kissed; rough and unrelenting on her face. But she was adjusting, learning like she always did.
Chesterfield kissed her deep and slow, teeth tugging on her lower lip. Her hands were in his hair, and he groaned when she tugged his head back to get a better angle. His breath stuttered when she rolled her hips against his, once, twice, enough to make his cock start straining beneath her.
His hands clenched in her shirt, bunching up the fabric in a valiant effort not to tear her clothes off that instant. His touched burned, greedy and puling as his hands transferred to her side.
Grace kissed his jaw, then down to his throat. He let out a sigh that was almost a word as she placed an open-mouthed kiss on his Adam's apple.
"It could always be like this, Grace," he murmured, pulling her closer like any space between them was an offense. "Just think how good we could be."
She shushed him, breath pooling over his skin. She kissed along the cord in his neck, teeth just barely trailing his skin. Then bigger, sweeping kisses on his throat, all teeth and tongue as she rocked her hips, making him hold her all the tighter. He groaned, completely open for her to read.
Grace twined her hands through his hair again, then clenched her fist and yanked his head back. He sucked in a gasp as she bared her teeth against his throat.
"Don't you ever threaten me or my business again," she snarled. "I may be your wife, but I am first and foremost your partner, and I will not be treated as less."
"Grace—"
"Be quiet," she hissed, yanking his head back again. His hands tightened around her hips, clearly ready to throw her off, but then he realized the danger of her teeth on his skin.
"That's right," she told him. "I could have killed you just now, and you'd have never been the wiser. Threaten me again, and I swear I'll rip out your throat with my fucking teeth."
He was still for a long moment, then nodded. Grace let go of him and got off his lap. He eyed her with a look that was a tangle of anger and awe and wanting.
"Not above violence now, are we, Grace?"
"I'm never above getting what I want, " she told him. "Don't threaten me again, Jonathon."
He didn't move as she backed out of the room, then vanished down the hall.