AN if you look closely you'll notice that both jonathon and grace have mega power kinks and that's how you know they'll make this thing work.
Things were quite tidy after that. Grace managed the Alehouse and choked down her protests at being called 'Mrs. Chesterfield.' She sent off letters to potential buyers for the furs still in lock up (not to Samuel Grant, the traitorous bastard), and got on very nicely. When she saw Chesterfield in public, they were perfectly civil. Really, he could be quite biddable once she tore out his claws.
And then the liquor stopped coming in, and Grace knew she had made yet another problem for herself.
Oh, she'd done her best to bully and charm her suppliers in turn, but they all said the same thing: they had no alcohol for her.
"I don't think you realize, but I am the new governor's wife," she'd finally hissed, her last, pathetic card.
The man before her fidgeted nervously. He was an overdressed wine peddler that somehow acted like he was still in France. Grace wasn't sure, but she suspected he had come over for the war in the south and conveniently forgotten to return to his homeland.
"Oh, ah, well, this is very uncomfortable," he stammered.
"What is?"
"Well, ah, it's just…it was the governor that made the decree."
Grace closed her eyes and resisted the urge to push the man off a cliff. Him and Chesterfield both, the meddling, arrogant prick. She'd always known he was the kind to throw snowballs with rocks inside them, but this was a snowball wrapped around pig shit and he knew it.
"I'm sure you could go to him about your, ah, liquor license," the peddler continued.
"Liquor license," she scoffed, turning on her heel. She'd tracked the man down in the middle of the road in hopes of surprising him into a sale. Clearly, whatever threats Chesterfield had made, they were serious. Grace stalked away to find some pace warm.
She had maybe enough alcohol to last the week. Her French brandy suppliers hadn't returned since Benton's raid, and the idiot bounty hunters that had swept through looking for Declan had guzzled more than their share.
Maybe if she watered down the whiskey, fed it only to the drunks…but no, someone would slip and give the wrong cup to the wrong person and then she'd have to explain to a room full of trappers and soldiers why her quality had plummeted. Also, her father had taught her the trick and she despised everything it stood for. She'd been fourteen when she swore to never cheat her guests like her father had done. Hence the French brandy.
"Upset there, love?"
Grace didn't even bother to hide her jaw grinding as she turned to see Chesterfield, looking offensively comfortable in his new black cloak. No matter how brutally cold the air became, he always seemed to shimmer with heat.
"What exactly do I need to fix for my liquor license?" she spat.
"Oh, Grace," he said, with a 'tut tut' that made her want to black his eye. He recognized enough anger in her face to not lecture her on proper manners and greetings. "A decent woman like yourself supplying rough, untrustworthy men with spirits. Who knows what sort of unwholesome things could arise when you get their blood up?"
Grace rolled her eyes, not sure where to start with that load of horse shit.
"You're doing this for jealousy?" she finally demanded. "Afraid some idiot beaver trapper will take a grab at me?"
"Oh, no, I know you can defend yourself," he said, like she hadn't defended herself against him with her teeth. "But it wouldn't be Christian of me to expose you to any such situation. Not as your new husband."
It wouldn't be Christian of him. It was Fort James, not the land of the damn Quakers.
Grace stood there fuming, horridly aware of how things had turned. This was what she got for descending into Chesterfield's level of brutality. He responded back with a scheme that even she hadn't expected. She'd be impressed, if she weren't staring down the throat of a drunkard's riot.
"Take a walk with me," he said, sweeping her along because they weren't idiots and both knew it hadn't been a request. Grace rolled her eyes again but let him take her arm like they were properly married, not a pair of connivers that stepped on hearts and throats alike to fulfill their aims.
They went a short ways before he said anything. Chesterfield clearly reveled in the world looking at them as a pair.
"Your interest in the Alehouse confuses me, Grace," he said. He looked ahead like he was commenting on the chances of snow. "You spend all this time making it as good as it can be, and yet you fail to use your greatest asset."
"You, I'm assuming."
"Exactly."
"Maybe I would, if every favor from you didn't have to be bartered and bought. Bleeding me dry doesn't exactly engender trust."
"And what hardship have you endured at my hands, Grace?"
She gave him a long, flat look. "Keeping me from stocking the Alehouse comes to mind."
"Because you wouldn't listen otherwise," he said, shaking his head like he couldn't believe she couldn't see the truth of it for herself. "I tried to get your attention all sorts of other ways, but you couldn't find the time of day."
"For a man that promised not to bother me after I joined you," she said, the euphemism thick and disgusting on her tongue as tar, "you're certainly doing your best to become a nuisance."
"This isn't a personal matter," Chesterfield said, brushing off his word like dust. "It's all business."
"'Business' suggests there's something for me to profit from."
"It's like you said, Grace—this partnership can only be successful if there's give and take."
She looked away. He was so damn infuriating.
"And what's your give?" she asked.
"You've remained at the Ale House," he said, like it was obvious. "The business is yours, your time is yours, everything." He stopped, catching her arms to make her face him. "Your life is yours to live. I just expect to be in it."
She gave him a long, unwilling look. The cold, brutal part of her said this was just another step to the thing she wanted, but the more unpredictable, human part of her wanted to spit at the cost.
Grace looked out toward the sea, huffing out a breath. She had known this would be hard, distasteful, even, but she could not throw everything away just because she didn't want to sacrifice.
"Of course," she said, finally. "But it's hard when you attack the things I hold dear."
Chesterfield sighed through his nose. He was clearly biting back a retort of his own, which Grace couldn't help but wonder at.
"Let's start fresh," he said, finally letting go of her. "Let's work together, Grace, as you once suggested."
She narrowed her eyes, testing his sincerity. Her first thought was for the alcohol she still needed but the second was taken with how very useful it would be, if Chesterfield offered to break himself for her.
"No more tricks?" she asked.
"None."
"And you won't impede the working of my business anymore?"
"If you back me as you said you would. I promise it'll be worth your while."
Grace considered him, working her jaw. The deal sounded as sweet as it would ever be, but Chesterfield had a terrible habit of renegotiating terms without her knowledge. Then again, he might think twice with the tangible threat of her wrath lurking around the corner.
"The liquor vendors will give me all I need, tomorrow?" she asked.
"First light."
"Fine," she said, folding her arms. "What is it you have in mind?"
Grace hated wearing dresses. She'd gotten on as a girl, tromping around in her delicate boots and excess layers because her father had demanded it. The moment he'd decided to give up caring entirely, she'd gone straight to the tailors and never looked back.
But, of course, now Chesterfield needed her to wear one.
Some days, he made it very hard to not throw something at his head. The only reason Grace had agreed, of course, was because there was money to be made.
A nearby governor and fellow member of the Harbor Bay Company had warmly invited himself and his friends to Fort James. Why, neither Grace nor Chesterfield could be sure, since Benton had been left in frosty silence. Then again, maybe these men wished to endear themselves to the captain that so very comfortably deposed a noble and a governor. It was frightfully Continental, after all.
So Grace had to grind her teeth, not fidget with her stay, and try not to be sick as the corset squeezed out her will to live. If she and Chesterfield managed to look suitably loyal and respectable and utterly unambitious, then this retinue of powerful, self-important men might just make their schemes that much easier. If anything was out of place, Grace was certain a turn over of power wasn't far around the corner.
Chesterfield had also dressed for the occasion. No one would mistake him for a nobleman, but he cut a clean figure with his maroon vest and tidy new coat. He looked like a tiger pacing restlessly in a new jeweled collar.
"They'll be here any minute," he grunted.
"I know," she said.
"They'll be expecting a fine bred prat like Johnson to be waiting for them, not fucking us."
Grace looked at him, then put a hand on his arm. "Jonathon, calm down. You're no nobleman, there's no point in pretending to be. You've gotten this far without it, we'll be fine. Just be polite, stick to business, and don't look like you want to put their heads on a pike if they annoy you."
Chesterfield gave her half a look, which she promptly returned.
"Every time you talk about Johnson, you look ready to rip off his arms. The man's dead and you still look like you want to piss on his grave."
Chesterfield grimaced and looked back at the door. He tugged at his cuffs and cursed under his breath.
Grace gently took his shoulders and turned him to face her again. She made her voice as comforting and quiet as she could, like they were the only two in the world that had breath in their lungs.
"It's as you said," she told him. "Changed habits bring changed temperaments. They may seem big and impressive, now but so will you, once the role has time to fit."
He looked down at her, shock exposing itself for a moment. "You believe that?"
"Of course."
"And what about you?" he asked, that baffling bit of sincere confusion on his face again. "If they judge me, they'll come after you."
Grace smiled and brushed off the shoulders of his suit.
"What could they possible criticize me for? I'm the wife of the governor."
Chesterfield gave a flutter of an eyeblink, then caught her hand. "That's right. And I'll prove your faith in me."
Grace smiled again, because she expected nothing less.
When the visiting governor and his two friends entered, there were the complimentary say-nothings of conversation Grace always guessed happened at these sorts of things. None of the men had come with their wives, which Grace appreciated. She didn't have time to play double talk in another room while Chesterfield was left alone to broker their futures.
Grace studied their guests, wondering what on earth had brought them to the New World and what skeletons they had hidden in its fresh soil. The lord and governor, Sutherby, was fussy and reminded her of Governor Threadwell, albeit before he became a lewd drunk. He tittered and joked, but watched Chesterfield very closely indeed. The youngest member of the entourage was a trader named Scholes. Grace guessed from his accent that he had been born and raised in the colonies. He was not particularly handsome, but he breathed charm rather than air. He also flirted quietly with Grace when Chesterfield wasn't looking. She wondered if he would be so bold if he knew Chesterfield would likely string his entrails across the treetops if he caught him at it. And then there was the last member, a magistrate named Woodhull. He was stuffy, straightforward, and held all the humor of a recently woken bulldog. He made polite conversation, reprimanded the merchant's friendly manners, and looked tried every time Sutherby made a spotty joke.
In all, they were wonderfully without guile and very easy to please. Grace just had to play the part of the housewife and cast a few awed looks here and there. Thankfully, she was spared the trial of having to look ignorant and uninformed by a miscalculation on Sutherby's part. He had attempted to startle them by bringing Grace's position in the Alehouse, his bland little smile clearly hiding a smug bit of satisfaction. Chesterfield responded with an equally innocent smile and reminded Sutherby that creating warm food and a comfortable home was the work of a woman, and wasn't it admirable that Grace was able to do it for so many? Scholes had promptly agreed with Chesterfield and flashed Grace a winning smile, making Sutherby bluster and change the subject before he lost too much ground.
"Tell me, though, Chesterfield," Sutherby eventually said, toying with his fork and knife. "I'd heard you were quite close with Lord Benton while he was here, his right hand, even. Then, of course, you arrested him."
"Lord Benton was a man weak to power," Chesterfield said boldly. Grace glanced at him, worried he might offend their clearly powerful guests, but he wore his words well. "He abused the powers granted to him by the Harbor Bay Company, abused his men, endangered this fort, and dishonored the great name of our king. I could not sit by and let such vicious actions stand."
"My husband didn't relish his role in any of it," Grace said, eyebrows pulled in the sincerity of her lie. He had thrived on every second and they both knew it. "But he was duty bound to see order and respect restored to the name of Fort James."
"I have seen for myself the way power corrupts," Woodhull said. "It can turn even the best into mad dogs."
"And, well, we've all heard whispers of how it made Lord Benton turn," Scholes said into his wine.
"I wish they were only whispers," Grace murmured.
"Yes, well," Sutherby hummed. "One could argue that such dogged strength is needed out here in the wilderness, as it were. The Harbor Bay Company can hardly afford sloppy leadership when everything else seems to be going to the dogs."
"And that is a strength I intend to deliver," Chesterfield, just as he should. Sutherby considered him over his wine glass.
Grace watched him intently. She could practically taste all of the prestige, all of the connections, all of the resources the man had to offer.
Chesterfield placed his hand on her knee. Grace breathed in slow, not looking away from Sutherby. But Chesterfield didn't squeeze her leg or push his advantage by sneaking his fingers farther along her skirt. His hand just stayed there, waiting, seeking reassurance.
Grace exhaled and put her hand over his.
"I suppose this is a time that tries us all yet rewards the best," Sutherby declared.
"Oh, absolutely," Scholes murmured, taking a drink of wine and giving Grace a look that tore through every single useless layer of her gown. "Rewards always find those that know what to do with their head."
Grace gave him a cool smile and looked at Sutherby. "But what are people, other than the company they keep?" she asked, and he preened and pretended to be bashful.
It was so obviously everyone at the table thought she and Chesterfield sincere, duty bound, and interested only in the good of Fort James. What laughable nonsense.
The moment their guests were gone, Grace headed upstairs to get out of her damn skirt.
"Did you see that?" Chesterfield asked, eyes bright, following after her as she climbed the stairs. "Those idiots actually believed us."
"They believed because we gave them wine and unearned compliments." Grace couldn't help the smile that undercut her words, because she was excited, too. Certain victory always made her giddy.
"They believed because men of power trust power," Chesterfield corrected. She opened her mouth to counter, but he wasn't actually wrong so she let his comment stand.
"Where's that bell," she muttered, stepping into the bedroom. "I want to get out of this thing and go home because it starts snowing again."
"Grace, you needn't be in such a rush," Chesterfield told her. "We've plenty of time, yet."
"And in that time, it's definitely going to snow," she reminded him. She had to swallow her excitement before it made her stupid and reckless. "Unless you wish to conjure up a carriage for me, so I don't have to walk all the way back to the Ale in the cold."
Jonathon said something she guessed was clever in response, but Grace didn't hear over her cursing as she tried and failed to undo the back of her dress. The corset would be the death of her, she was certain.
"Would you please get the servant girl to come help me?"
"I've hands enough." The feather brush of his fingers on her back was enough to make her shiver.
Grace lightly swatted at his hands. "I don't trust you not to have other plans."
"Of course I do. Grace, we are so much farther along than either of us could have deemed being alone." He put his hands on her elbows, leaning closer. "We deserve to celebrate."
Grace gave him a long, unimpressed. A part of her agreed, but that was the part she was not listening to.
"All you ever want is sex," she said. She had learned that criticism went along much better if he thought it harmless grousing. It stuck in his head, though, and it never took very long for him to start correcting the behavior.
To her surprise, Chesterfield looked down. He considered his hands, self-consciously pulled them from her.
"I want to make you happy here. I want this to be a place that you choose to sleep."
"And how will that change or improve things? We worked just fine today, regardless of where I sleep."
"Other than I had to chase you down to even inform you of the dinner."
"Right. That reminds me. You need to give back my bloody liquor, or you'll have a mob on your hands, Christian worries or no," she said, stabbing an accusatory finger into his chest.
He grinned and took her hand. "You'll get it tomorrow, as promised. I just needed your attention."
"Most people usually say my name."
"Grace."
"Mm?"
"Grace."
His face was very close to hers, now, his nose barely brushing her cheek, his lips placing their words on hers.
Grace stepped back, swallowing down the shiver that danced across her back and hands and stomach. She remembered very keenly how his hands had run over her body. It echoed across her, the memory of it and the anticipation for more bouncing around under her skin.
She sat down pointedly in the chair. She was in control, she was in control. Chesterfield might have planted a few terrible thoughts in under her skin, but Grace was the one that decided how she felt and what she wanted.
"I'm not doing anything tonight," she told him flatly. "Get the bloody maid so I can go."
"And why do you so insist to change?" he asked, recovering very quickly indeed. Grace almost raised an eyebrow. He was learning this game much faster than she would have liked.
"If you'd like to put this on and find out, be my guest."
Chesterfield considered her, then stepped close. She watched him, wary of his next move, until he knelt in front of her.
"What're you doing?" she asked.
He didn't answer, but said, "I liked hearing you say you were my wife."
"Yes, well, it's been a fact for a while now."
"But I liked hearing you say it. I liked hearing you call me your husband."
Grace was ready to give another clipped response, but instead gasped when she felt him touch her leg. It was just her calf, it was smothered beneath all the layers of skirts between, but it was a touch she was not used to feeling.
"Jonathon. I have to go."
"You sat down, " he reminded her.
Grace toyed with the idea of getting up, saying to hell with it, walking home in her dress and praying some idiot wouldn't look too closely at what lay beneath her cloak in the dark. But his hand was beneath her skirt now, leaving just the nothing barrier of her stocking between.
And, well. She liked seeing Chesterfield on his knees.
"Tonight we charmed the lords of this land. They don't see us as a threat. Then we sell the furs, turn more profits, cut down the lawless misery that's carving these shores apart. Then, who knows. We'll be the ones everyone looks to for guidance, for permission."
His hands reached her thighs, making Grace bite her tongue. She wasn't going to gasp or say anything stupid that showed just how nervous and thrilled his touch made her.
She stared at him, fighting to keep her breath slow. Her skirt bunched up around his arms, revealing her legs. Chesterfield kept her gaze until his hands finally found her hips and he looked down at her knee. He kissed it, slowly, then up farther, then his head was between her legs.
Grace bit her cheeks, fists clenching in the air to keep from making a sound. She wouldn't let him know how very much she liked this, how it made her so dreadfully weak. Her body wasn't just another tool on his belt, it was hers, hers, hers.
And then he tried to pull away, too soon, and Grace snatched hold of his hair. They were both still for a long, terrible moment, both trying to parse out exactly what this all meant.
Chesterfield came to his conclusion first.
Grace didn't bother hiding her moans this time. She'd already lost that battle of wills, and anyway, she'd be a fool to not let him know exactly what she wanted.
She couldn't stand his self-satisfied smirk when he finally looked up at her. It was indecent and smug and so deliciously dangerous. Think of all the things you have missed, that smile said, knowing that there wasn't a thing she could say to counter him.
He pulled himself up so their faces were level, his knee resting on the chair between them. He leaned in to kiss her, but Grace turned her head away.
"I'm not letting you kiss me like that," she told him.
Chesterfield just scoffed and kissed her neck, open mouthed and searing as always. He kissed her ear, her jaw, then tried for her mouth again.
"I told you no," she said, turning her face the other direction.
He huffed and stepped away to rinse his mouth from the pitcher on the dresser. Grace pushed her skirts back down and stood, trying for some semblance of dignity, or control, or something. Her hands still shook from the aftershocks of his touch.
Chesterfield turned back to her, eyes sweeping up and down her body like he expected some part of her to be wound tight with lust rather than defiance. He walked back, stopping just a breath away. When he glanced up to meet her eye, his gaze was every bit as filthy as Scholes' had been.
"Don't tell me you're still so eager to get out of that dress," Chesterfield murmured. Shivers broke out across her body because she wanted more.
Grace lifted her chin. Fine. Fine. She was already neck deep, she might as well control the rest of her descent.
"Oh, I am," she said, then kissed him hard.
It was so startlingly easy to get out of their clothes this time. Her whole body wasn't gripped with fear, now, when Chesterfield's mouth skated across her collarbone as he undid her bindings. She picked open just enough buttons on his vest for him to yank it over his head. When his hands found her bare skin, Grace didn't think of it in terms of him taking her body away. This time, she noticed just how very easily he caved to her as well.
Grace pushed him done onto the bed and straddled his hips. His tongue was in her mouth and his hands were on her back and thigh, and when Grace rocked her hips forward he groaned very prettily indeed.
Grace had never cared much for sex, filtered as it had been through rough tavern goers and uncouth women. It was men taking what they wanted and leaving the women with children, shame, or injury. But now that Grace had had it for herself, now that she knew what power could come from it, she doubted she could ever get enough.
Chesterfield arched his back as she kept rocking, every part of him taut. It was so obvious what he wanted—money, power, prestige, Grace, but he wanted those things to want him, too. So Grace whispered her web of sweet nothings, telling him how well he had done, how far he had come, how much she enjoyed his body against hers. She whispered them over his lips and he drank them from her tongue.
"Faster," he grunted, hands grabbing hold of her hips, guiding her, making her move the way he needed. Grace's breath caught, his finger tips dug into her hip bones, and he grit out curse after curse until he was done.
He pulled her down to kiss him, slowly, luxuriously. Time didn't matter as he wound his hand through her hair, trailed his palm over her side.
"Tell me you're not still afraid," he whispered, their faces so close that their breath caught on each other.
Grace studied his face before his gaze found hers, a flick of his eyelashes and then he saw her in her entirety. Last time, she had turned and run and he'd been chasing her ever since. But then, he'd always been chasing her, following the trail she had laid down for better or worse.
She suddenly wanted to know what would happen if she let him catch her.
"I'm not," Grace murmured. She brushed his hair back from where it had fallen over his forehead, traced the patch of grey by his temple.
He looked down again, hesitating, hesitating.
"Does this mean you'll stay?"
"For the night," she promised, and Chesterfield pulled her closer, as if to make sure she kept her word.
Grace found she didn't mind waking up next to Chesterfield. She was warm, the bed was soft, and there was something strangely satisfying about feeling his arm thrown over her side.
Grace looked over his face in the almost dawn light. She didn't know what to do when he was so calm. He was already awake, barely, and gave her the laziest blink. He could be so handsome when he wasn't threatening bodily harm.
She grimaced at the trail of cold air that snaked over her shoulder and nestled deeper under the covers.
Chesterfield smiled and kissed the edge of her mouth once she was close enough.
"I don't want to get out of bed," she muttered. She huddled closer to him, thankful for once that he was a furnace. No wonder he could run around in just his cloak.
"This is why I kept insisting you stay," he said, a pleased smirk on his lips. Grace rolled her eyes and thumped his chest.
"I'm talking about the cold, you arrogant prick."
"That's no way to speak to your husband."
"You're making me regret being so nice last night."
"Ah, don't be like that," he said, kissing her again, more precisely this time.
Grace gave in, her hand looping through his arm to hold the back of his head. They were tangled together, arms and legs fitting wherever they may. Grace pushed herself a little more upright, chancing the cold air for a better position as he ran his teeth over her lower lip.
Chesterfield kissed her again and again and then once more, slow like he was sipping wine or savoring a piece of cake. He moved on top of her, chest curving to match her almost-sitting position.
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he kissed her neck. She bit back a smile as his beard skated over her skin, almost tickling her. Grace ran her hands over his shoulders, exploring each muscle and bone—
Grace frowned at a rough patch of skin, then ran her fingers over it again. She barely registered Chesterfield tense before he had shoved them apart, one hand snatching her wrist while the other pinned her against the wall.
Grace stared at him in the dark, stunned. He was panting, his eyes wild and ringed with an animal madness that usually ended in blood. He hadn't grabbed her throat, though, just her shoulder. That was a good sign, wasn't it?
"Jonathon," she said quietly, hands held up in submission. "Jonathon, calm down. What just happened?"
He shook his head, a tiny gesture that never let him break his gaze. He looked ready to bolt, and the moment he got on his feet was the moment Grace lost control of him.
"Jonathon," she said again, trying to pull her hand free. He tightened his grip, whole body tensing with the motion. Grace considered him, then made a decision.
"If you're going to get out of bed, go. Otherwise, lay back down. The air is freezing."
He stared at her, weighing her words. Was he going to call her bluff? Shit, she had not expected this but she should have, she should have, she should have she was a damn fool.
His grip tightened on her wrist and shoulder, Grace bit back a grimace. Then finally he let go. He was still taut like a dog straining against its rope, but the raw need to battle his way out had left his face.
"You…know what that was, right?" Chesterfield's voice was barely there, almost breaking halfway through.
Grace refused to let herself blink. The feel of his scars haunted her fingertips, especially when she thought she knew where they had come from.
"Your father…" she began, then pressed her lips tight.
"I—I didn't think—no one's ever know what they were before," he said awkwardly. The fight petered out of him bit by bit, leaving a man Grace didn't quite recognize.
"May I see it?"
His eyes flicked back to her face, his wariness and mistrust palpable even in the quarter light.
The last time they had been naked, it was Chesterfield that had seen too much, catching her confusion and fear and anger and lust. Now it was Grace's turn, and all she could see was how wounded the man before her was.
Grace thought that he wouldn't respond, and then she would have to find some other path out of this. And then Chesterfield turned, jerkily, uncertainly, twisting just enough for the scars on his back to be exposed.
It cut Grace's breath from her chest. The scars were angry, even for their age, puckered and raised from the hot iron his father had used. The marks were uneven, like Chesterfield had flinched from the pain of it and making the iron touch him again What sickened her the most was the third burn slashing its way through the other two, like his father had figured he'd top them off.
Grace raised her hand and traced the barest edge of his scar, then pulled back when she felt him flinch. She gently turned him back around with the lightest touch of her fingertips.
He eyed her, still uneasy. Grace just looked into his face, insides twisting. She hadn't thought his story true, never mind so horrific.
Her gaze dropped to the scar cutting across his collarbone. She had noticed it earlier, but thought nothing of it. Now he seemed to be nothing but a collection of scars, never mind how fit and healthy the rest of his body was. Grace touched it for only have a second, then pulled back. He hadn't given her permission for that one.
"Come, lay back down," she murmured.
He hesitated again, clearly not sure whether this was a trick. But Grace just offered him a small smile.
"You must be tired," she whispered. "Here, sleep. We have time enough. It's alright, Jonathon. We have time."
He let her guide him back down, settling his body against hers. Grace stroked slow, easy patterns across his shoulder blades, breathing slow as she waited for his pulse to steady.
Eventually, Jonathon wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck. Grace pressed a kiss into his hair and closed her eyes.
AN all I can say about that chair scene is that it's historically accurate and if knowing about the period appropriate absence of underwear isn't a good use of a history degree, I don't know what is ¯\_(ツ)_/¯