I can't believe we're almost halfway through the story! It feels like just yesterday I was outlining the first chapters, and now we're here, deep into Emma and Killian's journey. Your support, comments, and engagement mean the world to me, and I want to thank each and every one of you for sticking with the story so far.

There's so much more to come—new adventures that will continue to test Emma and Killian in ways they never imagined. I'm incredibly excited to share what's next, and I hope you'll continue to enjoy the journey as much as I enjoy writing it.

Thank you again for your amazing support. Stay tuned for more!


Chapter 10: The Unbearable Lightness of Betrothal

On the journey to Calais, Hook had chosen to ride alongside David outside of the coach. At the inns, he had retreated to the taproom with David while Emma dined with her grandmother. During the Channel crossing, he had conspicuously occupied the far end of the French steamer. En route to London, he had once again opted for the exterior of the opulent carriage he had hired. Upon arrival in London, he had delivered Emma, David, and Ingrid to the doorstep of Uncle Bob and Aunt Johanna's house.

Now, a full fortnight after departing Paris—a span of fourteen days during which her betrothed seemed bent on treating her like a phantom—he appeared promptly at two o'clock in the afternoon, expecting her to abandon whatever she was doing to cater to him.

"He wants me to go for a drive?" Emma exclaimed indignantly as her flustered aunt returned to the sitting room to convey Hook's message. "Just like that? Suddenly he remembers I exist and expects me to come running at the drop of a hat? Why didn't you tell him to take a long walk off a short pier?"

Aunt Johanna collapsed into an armchair, her fingers pressed to her temple. In the brief time she had spent with him, Hook had somehow managed to unravel even her ironclad composure.

"Emma, do look out the window," she implored.

Setting down her pen from the writing desk where she had been locked in combat with the wedding breakfast menu, Emma rose and crossed to the window. Down on the street below, she spotted a sleek black curricle. Hitched to it were two enormous, volatile black geldings that David was valiantly attempting to restrain. They snorted and pranced with an air of imminent chaos, poised to turn her brother into their impromptu dance floor.

"His Almighty Lordship won't budge an inch until you join him," Aunt Johanna's voice quivered with indignation. "I suggest you hasten downstairs before those murderous beasts of his reduce your brother to a flattened pancake."

In three minutes flat, a simmering Emma sported a bonnet atop her head and had wriggled snugly into her green pelisse over her day dress.

In another swift two, she found herself being hoisted onto the carriage seat—or rather, shoved— as Hook flung himself in beside her, forcing her into a cramped corner to avoid a collision of brawny shoulders. Even so, in the tight quarters, physical contact was unavoidable. His limp left hand lay unhelpfully on his thigh, the muscled limb pressed unabashedly against her side. The warmth seeped through the layers of her pelisse and muslin dress, sending a tingling sensation across her skin.

"Comfortable?" he inquired with a touch of mocking politeness.

"Hook, this curricle is barely fit for one, let alone the both of us," she snapped. "You're practically squashing me."

"Perhaps you should sit on my lap, then," he offered, his tone a blend of insolence and suggestion.

Suppressing the urge to slap the smirk off his face, she redirected her ire toward her hapless brother, still grappling with the horses' reins. "Damn it, David, get away from there!" she snapped. "Do you want them to flatten your skull against the cobblestones?"

Hook chuckled and gave the cantankerous beasts permission to move, prompting David to hastily retreat to the safety of the sidewalk.

A moment later, the curricle careened through the bustling West End streets at a reckless pace. Wedged uncomfortably between the plush carriage seat and the unyielding form of her diabolical fiancé, Emma realized she was in little danger of tumbling out. Leaning back, she surveyed Hook's Infernal Steeds.

They were the most ill-tempered horses she had ever encountered. They snorted and balked at everything and everyone in their path. They attempted to trample pedestrians, exchanged equine insults with every other horse they passed, and aimed to topple lampposts and curb stones. They seemed intent on colliding with every vehicle brazen enough to share the same street.

Even as they reached Hyde Park, the beasts showed no signs of weariness. They attempted to charge at the workmen putting finishing touches on the new archway at Hyde Park Corner. They threatened to gallop down Rotten Row, a road exclusive to the sovereign's own carriage.

Despite their devilish intentions, they failed in all their nefarious pursuits. Hook, though waiting until the eleventh hour, quashed every hint of havoc. To Emma's mixed chagrin and grudging respect, he accomplished this with apparent ease, despite steering with just one hand.

"I suppose it wouldn't be any fun if your horses behaved, would it?" she mused aloud. "Where's the challenge in that?"

He deftly reined in the right one from nearly colliding with the statue of Achilles and steered the infernal creatures westward into the Drive. "Perhaps your ill temper has rubbed off on them, and they're scared stiff. They don't know which way to turn, what to do. Is that it, Nick, Belial? Afraid she might take a shot at you?"

The creatures tossed their heads and responded with an ominous equine chuckle.

Leave it to Hook, she mused, to christen his horses with names straight out of the devil's paddock. And naturally, his beasts live up to their monikers.

"You'd be ill tempered, too," she retorted, "if you'd spent the past week wrangling guest lists, fiddling with wedding breakfast menus, and enduring a slew of pestering relatives. You'd be testy as well if every tradesman in London was besieging your house, and your drawing room resembled a warehouse overflowing with catalogs and samples. They've been hounding me since the morning our engagement hit the papers."

"I wouldn't be the least bit irritable," he countered, "because I'd never be foolish enough to allow myself to be bothered."

"You're the one who insisted on the grand wedding at St. Helen's," she fired back. "Then you left it all to me. Not a finger lifted."

"I? Lift a finger?" he scoffed. "What's the point of having servants, you dolt? Didn't I tell you to send the bills my way? If the household staff can't manage, hire someone else. If you want to live like a loaded marchioness, start acting like one. The working classes work," he explained with exaggerated patience. "The upper class directs. It's about maintaining order. Look at France. They toppled their monarchy years ago, and what's to show for it? A king dressing like a commoner, sewers bubbling in the ritziest districts, and dark alleys galore, save for the odd hotspot near the Palais Royal."

She eyed him sharply. "I never pegged you for being such a Tory snob. Not that anyone could tell, seeing your choice of company."

He kept his gaze fixed on the horses. "If you mean the ladies of the night, remember they're hired help."

The last thing she needed was a reminder of his nocturnal escapades. Emma had no desire to dwell on how he whiled away the hours while she lay awake, fretting over the impending wedding night and her lack of experience—not to mention her lack of the Rubenesque charms he shamelessly favored.

With a grim certainty that her marriage would be a disaster—regardless of Ingrid's reassurances—Emma wasn't keen on caring whether she pleased him in bed or not. Her pride refused to relent, yet her feminine vanity couldn't bear the thought of failing to captivate any husband, even him. Unlike Ingrid's steadfast spouses or the discreet lovers she'd entertained during her widowhood, Emma doubted her ability to hold his attention.

But now wasn't the time to grapple with such daunting thoughts, Emma reasoned. It made more sense to tackle practical matters—like the infernal guest list.

"I know where your female companions rank in your social hierarchy," she said dryly. "But the men are another story. Take Mr. Scarlet, for instance. Aunt Johanna insists he's not fit for the wedding breakfast because he lacks good ton. Yet he's your friend."

"You better not even think of inviting him," Hook snapped, his jaw tightening. "That meddling fool tried to spy on me when I was with a whore. Invite him to the wedding, and he'll assume he's invited to the wedding night too. With all his opium and drink, he probably can't even get his own thing to stand at attention, so he watches others."

Emma found that the image of plump courtesans frolicking on his lap wasn't nearly as unsettling as the new image that formed in her mind: six feet of dark, naked, aroused male.

She knew what arousal looked like; she'd seen some of Mr. Rowlandson's erotic engravings. She wished she hadn't. The vivid image of Hook engaged in similar activities with a voluptuous tart was now burned into her mind.

The image burned in her mind like flamboyant fireworks on a national holiday, twisting her insides into knots and igniting a murderous urge.

She wasn't just jealous; she was infuriatingly so - and he had effortlessly thrust her into this humiliating state with a few thoughtless words. Now, she peered into the future and envisioned him repeating this offense, driving her to madness bit by bit.

Emma knew she shouldn't let him get to her. She shouldn't envy his courtesans. She should thank her lucky stars for them because they meant he'd spend as little time with her as possible, while she enjoyed the freedom of a wealthy noblewoman. She'd repeated this mantra a thousand times since his audacious proposal and her foolish softening of heart.

But self-lecturing was futile. Despite knowing he was utterly despicable, had used her cruelly, was incapable of genuine affection, was marrying her mainly out of spite... and yet, she still yearned for his exclusive devotion.

"Have I finally shocked you?" Hook smirked. "Or are you merely sulking? The silence has become deafening."

"I am shocked," she retorted sharply. "It never crossed my mind that you would have a problem with being watched. You've shown a fondness for public spectacles."

"Scarlet was watching through a peephole," Hook clarified. "Firstly, I have no tolerance for sneaks. Secondly, I paid for a service, not a free show for voyeurs. And thirdly, there are certain activities I prefer to keep behind closed doors."

The carriage veered northward, leaving behind the Serpentine's tranquil banks as the horses stubbornly eyed a copse of trees. Hook effortlessly corrected their course without acknowledging the effort.

"In any case, I found it necessary to underscore my rules with a touch of fisticuffs," he continued. "It's quite possible Scarlet nurses a grudge. I wouldn't put it past him to vent his spite on you. He's a cowardly sneak with a knack for..." His words trailed off, his brow furrowing. "Regardless," he resumed, his expression darkening. "You're to steer clear of him."

It took her a moment to digest the implications of his directive, and in that moment, the world seemed to brighten slightly and her heart to lighten with cautious hope. She sidled closer to scrutinize his brooding profile. "That sounds surprisingly...protective."

"I paid for you," he declared icily. "You're mine. I look after what's mine. And I wouldn't let Nick or Belial near him either."

"Good Lord! Are you suggesting I'm as prized as your livestock?" She fluttered a hand over her heart. "Oh, Hook, your romanticism is positively overwhelming. I'm utterly swept off my feet."

His full attention snapped to her for a moment, and his brooding gaze flickered down to where her hand had been. She quickly withdrew it to her lap.

Frowning, he turned back to the horses. "That over-garment thing, the what-you-call-it," he said testily.

"My pelisse? What's wrong with it?"

"You filled it out better last time I saw it," he remarked. "Back in Paris. When you crashed my gathering and vexed me," he steered the horses right, onto a tree-lined avenue just south of the guardhouse. "When you assaulted my virtue. Surely you recall. Or did it merely seem to fit better because you were wet?"

She recalled it vividly. Even more so, he seemed to remember it with precision, noting a few pounds' worth of difference. Her spirits lifted a notch further.

"Well, you could always toss me into the Serpentine to test that theory," she retorted.

The short avenue opened into a small, densely shaded circular drive. The encircling trees formed a natural barrier, shielding them from the rest of Hyde Park. Soon, the five o'clock promenade would commence, flooding this secluded spot and the entire park with London's elite. For now, however, it lay deserted.

Hook brought the curricle to a halt and secured the brake. "Settle down, you two," he admonished the horses. "Cause any fuss, and you'll find yourselves pulling barges in Yorkshire."

His voice, though hushed, conveyed a clear message of "Obey or face dire consequences." The horses responded as if they understood English. Suddenly, they transformed into the most placid, obedient pair of geldings Emma had ever encountered.

Hook turned his brooding blue eyes toward her. "And as to you, Miss Nagging Nolan—"

"I do adore these affectionate monikers," she sighed melodramatically, gazing up at him. "Dolt. Sapskull. Nagging. How they make my heart flutter!"

"Then you'll be in raptures with a few other names I have in mind," he remarked dryly. "How do you manage to be such a fool? Or is it deliberate? Look at yourself!" He directed the last comment at her bodice. "At this rate, there'll be nothing left of you by our wedding day. When was the last time you had a proper meal?" he inquired sharply.

Emma supposed that, in Hook's Lexicon, this qualified as an expression of concern.

"I didn't do it on a whim," she retorted. "Living under Aunt Johanna's roof is like being trapped in a perpetual battlefield. She orchestrates wedding preparations like a military campaign, and the entire household was caught in the crossfire from the moment we arrived. I could let them duke it out among themselves, but the outcome would likely be ghastly — something you'd loathe. My aunt's taste is atrocious, which means I'm obliged to be immersed day and night. And because it takes every ounce of my willpower and sanity to maintain order, I'm left too exhausted and exasperated to even contemplate a proper meal — not that the servants would be capable of preparing one, given how she's driven them to the brink as well."

There was a pause before he shifted uneasily. "Well," he muttered.

"You did advise me to hire help," she shot back. "But what good will it do when she'll only meddle with them too? I'll still be embroiled and driven mad—"

"Alright, alright, I get it," he interjected. "She's a nuisance. I'll put a stop to it. You should've told me sooner." "

She smoothed her gloves with deliberate care. "Until now, I didn't realize you harbored any heroic tendencies to slay dragons on my behalf."

"I don't," he replied dryly. "But one must be practical. You'll need all your strength for the wedding night."

"I can't imagine why I should require strength," she said, dismissing a flurry of tantalizing thoughts. "All I have to do is lie there."

"Naked," he said, his tone like iron.

"Really?" she asked, casting him a coy glance from beneath her lashes. "Well, if I must, I must, since you clearly have the upper hand in these matters. Though, I do wish you'd informed me sooner. I wouldn't have put the modiste through such trouble over the negligee."

"The what ?"

"It was dreadfully expensive," she said with a nonchalant wave. "But the silk is as delicate as a spider's web, and the eyelet work around the neckline is simply divine. Aunt Johanna was scandalized. She said only courtesans wear such things, and it leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination."

Emma heard him draw in a sharp breath, sensing the tension in the muscular thigh pressed against hers.

"But if Aunt Johanna had her way," she continued, "I'd be swathed from neck to ankle in thick, cottony, ruffled monstrosities adorned with pink bows and rosebuds. Utterly absurd when an evening gown reveals far more, not to mention—"

"What color?" His voice was low and husky.

"Wine red," she replied. "With slim black ribbons tracing the neckline. Like this," she traced a daring U-shape over her bosom. "And there's exquisite openwork here," she trailed her finger just above her nipple, "and on the right side of the skirt, from here," she gestured to her hip, "all the way down to the hem. And I even bought—"

"Emma," he interrupted, his voice a strangled whisper.

"—slippers to match," she continued blithely. "Black mules with—"

"Emma ," in a furious flurry, he threw down the reins and pulled her into his lap.

The sudden motion startled the horses, setting off a lively dance of snorts and tossing heads. "Stop it," Hook commanded sharply. They instantly stilled.

His powerful right arm coiled around Emma's waist, drawing her close.

It felt akin to sitting beside a blazing forge: his body, steely and scorching, throbbed with tension. Sliding his hand down her hip, he clasped her thigh.

She glanced up. He scowled malevolently at his gloved hand. "You," he growled, "Plague take you!"

She tilted her head back. "I'll return it, if you'd like. The nightgown."

His furious blue gaze lifted to her mouth. His breaths came in harsh and ragged. "No, you won't," he declared.

Then, his mouth, fierce and famished, descended upon hers, dragging across her lips as if to punish her.

But what Emma savored was triumph. She tasted it in the heat he couldn't veil, felt it in the pulsing tension of his body, and heard it loud and clear in the urgent push of his tongue seeking entrance.

He desired her. Still.

Perhaps unwillingly, but irresistibly so, just as she yearned for him.

In this moment, there was no need for pretense. She wriggled closer, winding her arms around his neck, gripping tightly as he devoured her mouth. And as she devoured his.

They could have been two warring factions in a battle of life and death. Both sought the same prize: domination and possession. He offered no quarter, and she desired none. She couldn't get enough of the fiery sin of his kiss, the searing pressure of his hand sliding over her hip, boldly claiming her breast.

She staked her claim, her fingers raking over his shoulders and down, seizing the powerful sinews of his arms. Mine, she thought, as his muscles tightened and flexed beneath her touch.

And mine , she vowed, as she spread her palms over his broad, unyielding chest. She would have him and keep him, come what may. A beast he might be, but he was her beast. She wouldn't allow anyone else to savor his stormy kisses. She wouldn't permit another to share his splendid body.

She wriggled nearer. He tensed, emitting a deep, guttural groan, and his hand descended to grip her derrière, pulling her closer still. Even through his leather driving gloves and several layers of fabric, his bold touch sent sizzling waves of sensation over her skin.

She craved his touch on her bared flesh: large, bare, dark hands roaming freely over her, everywhere. Rough or tender, she cared not. As long as he desired her. As long as he kissed her and touched her like this… as though he hungered for her, just as she did for him.

He tore his mouth from hers, muttering what seemed to be curses in an unknown tongue, and withdrew his warm hand from her buttock.

"Let go of me," he demanded thickly.

Suppressing a cry of frustration, she lowered her hands, folded them in her lap, and fixed her gaze on a tree across the way.


Killian stared at her with a mixture of furious despair and grudging admiration.

He should have known better than to come within a league of her. In thirteen days, they would be wed, and he could indulge in the wedding night and as many subsequent nights as necessary to sate his desires and be done with it. He had convinced himself it didn't matter how much she tormented and vexed him in the meantime. He had endured worse for lesser rewards, and surely he could endure a few weeks of frustration.

He had to endure it, because he couldn't bear the vivid image of the alternative: the Marquess of Hookstone hovering and panting over his bride-to-be like a starved mongrel at a butcher's cart. He would be barking at her doorstep by day and howling at her window by night. He would be trotting after her to seamstresses, hat-makers, shoemakers, and trinket shops, growling and snarling about her at social gatherings.

He was accustomed to having his desires met instantly and adeptly disregarding anything beyond immediate grasp. Yet, he found himself unable to ignore her presence any more than a ravenous hound could resist a juicy bone.

He ought to have recognized this from the day they first met in Gold's shop, where he lingered, unable to tear his gaze from her. The realization should have dawned on him when he faltered while removing her cursed glove.

Now, there was no denying the truth. He had exposed himself—and her—to such embarrassing vulnerability. All she had done was describe a piece of lingerie, and he lost his composure, nearly devouring her then and there.

"Do you want me to get off your lap?" she inquired politely, her eyes fixed ahead.

"Do you wish to?" he replied irritably.

"No, I'm quite comfortable," she affirmed.

He wished he could say the same. With her small, round derriere settled so confoundedly comfortably on his lap, his loins were ablaze with torturous desire. He was painfully aware that satisfaction lay mere inches away. All he needed to do was turn her towards him, lift her skirts, and...

But she might as well have been in China, given the likelihood of that happening, he bitterly thought. That was the problem with ladies—among a legion of others. You couldn't simply engage in the act when desired. It required courting, persuasion, and then it had to be done in a proper bed. In the dark.

"You may stay, then," he relented. "But refrain from kissing me again. It's…provoking. And spare me the details of your night attire."

"Very well," she said casually, glancing around as if she were seated at a tea table. "Did you know Mendell's first wife drowned herself in the Serpentine?"

"Is my first wife considering a similar fate?" he asked, eyeing her warily.

"Absolutely not. Ingrid insists that taking one's own life over a man is dreadfully déclassé. I was simply making conversation."

Despite the inner turmoil, he found it oddly pleasant to have a soft, sweet-smelling lady perched on his knee, engaging in idle banter. A smile threatened to surface, but he quickly masked it with a scowl. "Does this mean you've momentarily set aside your vexation?"

"Yes," she replied, eyeing his useless left hand, which had slipped onto the seat during their passionate embrace. "You really should consider a sling, Hook. So that it doesn't bang into things. You might injure it severely without even realizing."

"I've bumped it a time or two," he said, staring at the hand with a frown. "Believe me, I noticed. I feel everything, as if it were still functional. But it's just there. Useless. Hanging around. Whatever," he chuckled. "Conscience bothering you?"

"Not in the slightest," she retorted. "I briefly considered a horsewhip, but I suspect you wouldn't have flinched."

He inspected her slender arm. "You'd need far more muscle than you possess for that," he remarked. "And you'd never catch me. I'd sidestep and laugh."

She looked up. "You'd laugh even if I landed a blow. You'd laugh if your back were torn to shreds. Did you laugh after I shot you?"

"Had to," he replied lightly. "Because I swooned. Utterly absurd."

It had indeed been ridiculous, he realized now, gazing into the cool, verdant depths of her eyes. It had been foolish to feel so indignant with her. The scene in the Belfrey's garden hadn't been her orchestration. He was starting to suspect whose handiwork it had been. If his suspicion was correct, he had not only behaved abominably but had also been egregiously obtuse.

He had deserved to be shot. And she had executed it impeccably. Theatrically. He smiled, reminiscing. "It was deftly executed, Emma. I'll concede that."

"It was magnificently executed," she said. "Admit it; it was masterfully devised and carried out."

He looked away, casting a glance towards Nick and Belial, who feigned serene slumber. "It was quite masterfully executed," he mused. "The scarlet and ebony attire. The Lady Macbeth intonation," he chuckled. "The way my valiant comrades leaped in fright at your presence. Like a gaggle of debutantes startled by a mouse at afternoon tea."

His entertained gaze returned to her. "Perhaps getting shot was worth it, just to witness that. Humbert and Locksley in a flap over a little spirited lady."

"I am not little," she retorted sharply. "In case you hadn't noticed, I happen to be above average in height."

He patted her arm reassuringly. "No need for concern, Emma. I am still committed to marrying you, and we'll manage somehow. You needn't fret about that. In fact, I've brought proof."

He delved into the deep recesses of the carriage pocket, fingers skimming anxiously until they closed around the carefully chosen parcel. It had taken him three tumultuous hours to select the gift, an ordeal he'd likened to the torment of a medieval rack. Even now, as he extracted the tiny box, his heart continued its erratic symphony of nerves.

Handing it over, he watched her with a tight-lipped expression. "You'd better open it yourself," he urged, his tone strained. "Managing this with one hand is a confounded challenge."

Her emerald gaze flickered from him to the package, curiosity evident as she began to unwrap it.

There fell a brief pause, during which his innards twisted in knots and a clammy sheen of sweat surfaced upon his skin.

Then, "Oh," she breathed. "Oh, Hook."

His frantic turmoil eased marginally.

"We're engaged," he asserted stiffly. "It's an engagement ring."

The suggestions from the clerk had been positively dreadful. A birthstone, as if he knew the day of her birth. A stone to match her eyes, which didn't exist in nature.

The sycophantic toad had even proposed a series of gems spelling out a message: Diamond, Emerald, Amethyst, Ruby, Epidote, Sapphire, Turquoise - "DEAREST." Killian had nearly lost his breakfast at the very thought.

Finally, driven to the brink of desperation, he sifted through emeralds, amethysts, pearls, opals, aquamarines, and every conceivable mineral a jeweler could fashion into a ring... until, in the depths of what felt like the thousandth velvet-lined case, Killian discovered it.

A solitary cabochon ruby, so impeccably polished it shimmered like molten magma, encircled by diamonds of heart-stopping perfection.

He'd convinced himself he couldn't care less whether she admired it or not. After all, she would wear it regardless.

It had been far simpler to feign indifference when she wasn't nearby. Simpler to maintain the facade that he had chosen that specific ring solely for its unrivaled beauty. Easier to conceal the bleak wilderness of his heart behind a cold exterior, hiding the true reason: it was a tribute, its symbolism as sentimental as any suggestion from the jeweler's clerk.

A ruby as red as blood, in honor of the courageous lass who had drawn his blood. And diamonds that sparked like lightning, reminiscent of the first electrifying kiss she had bestowed upon him.

Her gaze lifted to his, a misty emerald shimmer playing in her eyes. "It's exquisite," she murmured. "Thank you." She peeled off her glove and extended her hand, offering him the ring. "You must do the honors."

"Must I," he grumbled, feigning disdain. "Sentimental nonsense, I suppose."

"No one's here to witness," she pointed out.

Reluctantly, he took the ring and slid it onto her finger, withdrawing his hand swiftly to hide any trace of tremor.

She turned her hand to catch the light, making the diamonds blaze.

A smile danced on her lips.

"At least it fits," he muttered.

"Perfectly," she confirmed, turning her head to plant a swift kiss on his cheek before retreating to her seat. "Thank you, my Dark Lord," she added, her voice barely above a whisper.

His heart squeezed painfully in his chest. He gathered the reins firmly. "We should depart before the fashionable frenzy commences," he grumbled, his voice gruff. "Nick! Belial! You can stop playing dead now."

They were capable of any performance. Trained by a circus equestrian, they relished the spotlight, responding instantly to the subtle cues Killian had painstakingly absorbed over three full days of learning from their former master. Despite knowing the mechanics behind their tricks, he occasionally found himself forgetting it was a specific flick of the reins or a change in tone that elicited their responses, not his spoken commands.

Regardless, they seemed most enamored with the roles they had enacted en route to Hyde Park, and he allowed them to play them out again on the return journey. This diverted his betrothed's attention away from him and squarely onto hoping for a safe arrival at her aunt's doorstep.

With Emma preoccupied, Killian had the space to gather his shattered composure and finally piece together what he should have deduced weeks ago.

There had been six onlookers, Booth had recounted.

Now Killian strained to recall their faces. Arthur, visibly thunderstruck. Cassidy, the man he had thoroughly embarrassed. Two Frenchmen, familiar from countless sightings at Boussole Dorée . And two Frenchwomen, one unfamiliar, the other unmistakably Ruby Lucas—Paris's foremost purveyor of scandal and Will Scarlet's preferred confidante.

What had Emma remarked that night? Something about the gossip quieting down if she hadn't stormed into his residence.

But perhaps it wouldn't have subsided, Killian mused. Maybe the public's fascination with his affair with Miss Nolan had ballooned to absurd heights due to someone feeding the rumor mill. Maybe someone had kept the pot stirred and encouraged the bets, knowing the rumors would drive him mad.

All Will Scarlet would have needed was to drop a hint to the right person. Ruby Lucas, for example, would seize upon the juicy morsel and wage a full-blown campaign. She needed little prodding, for she despised Killian. With the seeds sown, Will could retreat to England, relishing his revenge from a safe distance, chuckling madly as letters arrived from his comrades detailing the latest developments in the Hook-Nolan saga.

When the suspicion had first crept in, Killian had dismissed it as a fanciful notion fit for a fevered mind.

Now, it seemed a more plausible puzzle piece than any other explanation. It did clarify why sophisticated Paris had fixated on one loathsome Englishman's fleeting dalliances with a singular English beauty.

He stole a glance at Emma.

She attempted to ignore Nick and Belial's Death Steeds act by fixating on her betrothal bauble. Her glove remained off. She twirled her hand, causing the diamonds to dance with a kaleidoscope of colors.

Clearly, she fancied the ring.

She had procured a crimson silk nightdress, adorned with ebony lace. For her wedding night.

She had reciprocated his kiss and caress. And she hadn't appeared to object to the kissing and caressing.

Angel and Devil. That's how Will would mock them, the sharp-tongued bastard.

But in thirteen sunsets, this Seraph would be the Marchioness of Hookstone. And she would recline in the Devil's bed. Unclothed.

Then Killian would indulge in all he had yearned for since time immemorial. Then she would be his alone, and no other chap could lay a finger on her, for she was exclusively his.

Granted, he could have bought Portugal for the cost of "exclusive ownership."

On the other hand, she was prime quality. A lady. His lady.

And it was highly likely Killian owed it all to the sly, conniving, craven, vengeful William Scarlet.

In that case, Killian reasoned, it would be futile - not to mention a squandering of energy best reserved for the wedding night - to dismantle Will and scatter him to the winds.

By all accounts, Killian should express gratitude instead.

But then, the Marquess of Hookstone was hardly one for pleasantries.

He concluded the swine wasn't worth the hassle.