I know I sound like a broken record, but thank you everyone who is here, reading and commenting, or in any way interacting with the story. You rock!

Huge thank you to my beta ARandomDream for correcting my mistakes ❤️

Happy reading! :)


Chapter 11: Something Borrowed, Something Blue... Something Bloody

On a sun-drenched Sunday morning, the twenty-first of June in the Year of Our Lord Eighteen Hundred Twenty-Eight, the Marquess of Hookstone cut a striking figure before the venerable minister of St. Helen's Church. At his side stood Miss Emma Nolan, only daughter of the late Sir Robert Nolan, baronet.

Contrary to widespread anticipation, the heavens did not unleash their fury upon Lord Hook's entrance into the sanctum, nor did bolts of lightning descend throughout the ceremony. Even when he swept his bride into a fervent embrace that caused her prayer book to tumble, no thunderous roar reverberated through the halls of St. Helen's, though a handful of elderly ladies may have fainted.

Consequently, by the evening of that very day, Mr. Arthur Pendragon found himself compelled to settle his debt with William Scarlet to the tune of three hundred pounds. Earlier, Mr. Pendragon had similarly discharged obligations owed to Lord Humbert, Keith Nottingham, and Sydney Glass, all drawn from various financial reserves.

Mr. Pendragon found himself in a quandary over where and how he would conjure the funds to settle the notes. A decade prior, he had dallied with moneylenders that had cost him two years of abject misery. The terms, he had discovered, were akin to being handed five hundred pounds while agreeing to repay a thousand. He'd sooner have courted oblivion than revisit that sordid transaction.

Regrettably, his current fiscal woes stemmed not from the present debts of honor alone, but from the many prior settlements he had been compelled to make before departing Paris. Reflecting on this bleak reality, he realized he wouldn't be in this predicament had he heeded the lessons Paris had imparted and abstained from wagers involving Hook altogether.

His only win had been a hollow victory, overshadowed by the loss of two hundred pounds to Ruby Lucas. She had insisted Hook had orchestrated an illicit tryst with Miss Nolan in Lady Belfrey's garden—a wager Mr. Pendragon had ruefully lost.

Arthur had managed to recoup his losses when Hook, defying Ruby's assured prediction, failed to play the gallant gentleman when caught. For once, he had adhered to his true nature.

Unfortunately for Arthur's financial prospects, that singular event had been an anomaly. Just a week later, after vehemently proclaiming he wouldn't marry Miss Nolan even if she were presented on a solid gold platter—especially after the enigmatic woman had shot him—Hook had sauntered into Délice with an air of nonchalance and announced their betrothal. His justification? Someone had to tame her unruly ways, and he, with his potent blend of power and malice, seemed the only suitable candidate.

Pondering bitterly over who exactly was taming whom, Arthur slumped into a corner table at Mr. Whale's oyster house with Will.

The establishment lacked refinement, but Will favored it for its artist clientele and affordable prices—a fact that currently endeared it to Arthur as well.

"So, Hook put on quite a spectacle, eh?" Will remarked, tipping his glass towards Arthur after the tavern maid refilled them. "Scared the life out of the minister, chuckled during the 'obey' vow, and darn near dislocated her jaw with that kiss."

Arthur furrowed his brow. "I was certain Hook would drag it out until the last moment, then declare with a flourish, 'I don't,' and strut off as he came."

"You assumed he'd treat her like all the others," Will retorted. "You forgot, mate, those others were just floozies in Hook's aristocratic lexicon—peasant lasses to bed and forget. Miss Nolan, though, she's a proper lady. Whole different ballgame, Arthur. I do wish you'd been there to witness it."

Arthur saw the truth now, so glaringly obvious he wondered how he hadn't figured it out ages ago. A lady. A breed apart.

"If I had been there, you'd be three hundred quid poorer right now," he quipped, voice light but heart heavy.

Will raised his glass, scrutinizing its contents before cautiously sipping. "Drinkable," he declared, "but barely."

Arthur took a hefty gulp from his glass, contemplating Will's words with a serious air.

"Maybe what I truly wish," Will continued after a moment, "is that I had all the facts straight. Things would be drastically different now," he frowned at the table. "If I'd known the truth back then, perhaps I could've dropped a hint your way. But I didn't, because my wife keeps me in the dark. I honestly thought, you see, that Miss Nolan was destitute. It wasn't until last night, when a painter pal who sketches for Midas set me straight."

Mr. Pendragon looked at his friend warily. "What are you saying? Everyone knew David Nolan's sister was flat broke, thanks to him."

Will glanced around, then leaned closer across the table, lowering his voice. "Remember that tattered little portrait Hook mentioned? The one the lass picked up for a pittance from Gold?"

Arthur nodded, absorbing the revelation with raised eyebrows.

"Turns out it's a Russian icon, one of the finest and most peculiar works from the Stroganov school," Will elaborated. "Late sixteenth century, a workshop run by Russian nobility. They crafted miniatures with meticulous care, using pricey materials like gold leaf and setting the frame with gems."

Arthur stared at him, slightly bewildered.

"Clearly worth more than a few pennies," Arthur remarked, attempting nonchalance. "Hook did say she was shrewd," he downed his drink in two quick gulps and motioned for a refill. He wished the serving girl would hurry up. He wasn't eager to hear more.

"Value's subjective, of course," Will continued unabated. "I'd estimate it at least fifteen hundred pounds. At auction, possibly several times more. But I know a Russian who'd trade his kin for it. Ten, even twenty thousand."

Lady Jasmine, daughter of the Duke of Kent, one of the wealthiest men in England, had bestowed upon her fortunate husband a dowry worth twenty thousand pounds.

Such illustrious ladies, daughters of peers, were galaxies beyond Mr. Pendragon's orbital path, their opulent dowries as unattainable as the stars. Miss Nolan, conversely, hailed from the ranks of the minor gentry, akin to Mr. Pendragon himself, her father a baronet of no significant renown.

Reflecting now, Arthur saw a missed chance to court her favor, especially after Hook's public slights and humiliations. In those vulnerable moments, instead of merely offering his coat, Arthur could have played the gallant, perhaps finding himself at the altar beside her today.

Then the icon would have been his, and wily Will could have assisted him in transforming it into liquid gold... ready to be invested. Arthur Pendragon could have settled down with a comely wife, living in serene comfort, no longer at the mercy of Dame Fortune—or, more aptly, the caprices of the Marquess of Hookstone.

Instead, Arthur Pendragon found himself ensnared in five thousand pounds of debt. Though a sum scoffed at by some, to Arthur, it might as well have been a king's ransom. His worry wasn't so much for the tradesmen he owed, but for the notes of hand he'd penned for his friends. Fail to settle those debts soon, and his friends would vanish faster than a mirage in the desert. A gentleman who defaulted on debts of honor was no longer accorded the title of gentleman. That prospect haunted him more than the specter of moneylenders, debtor's prisons, or sponging houses.

He regarded his predicament as dire.

Certain souls could have enlightened him on William Scarlet's uncanny ability to sniff out desperation from leagues away, relishing the chance to exacerbate it. Alas, those wise counsel-givers were nowhere to be found, and Arthur was not known for his sharp intellect.

Thus, by the time they had polished off their meal and drained half a dozen bottles of the barely potable wine, Mr. Scarlet had laid his trap, and Mr. Pendragon had obligingly tumbled headlong into it.


At about the time Arthur Pendragon was careening into a chasm, the new Marchioness of Hookstone's posterior was developing rigor mortis.

She lounged beside her spouse in the sleek black traveling carriage they'd occupied since one o'clock, after departing their guests at the wedding breakfast.

For a man who regarded marriage and proper society with undiluted scorn and revulsion, Hook had displayed astonishing good humor. Indeed, he seemed to derive boundless amusement from the proceedings. Thrice he had implored the quivering minister to speak louder, ensuring no one missed a syllable. Hook had also found it uproariously entertaining to turn their kiss into a spectacle fit for a circus. One might wonder why he hadn't slung her over his shoulder and whisked her out of the church like a sack of spuds.

If he had, Emma reflected dryly, he would have carried it off with all the airs of an aristocrat—or more fittingly, a monarch. She had quickly learned that Hook held his own eminence in lofty regard, a hierarchy where conventional precedence held no sway whatsoever.

He had made his convictions abundantly clear to her aunt shortly after presenting Emma with the heartrendingly exquisite betrothal ring. Following their return home and an hour spent together in the parlor discussing tedious wedding details like guest lists and menus, he had dismissed Emma and engaged in a private discourse with Aunt Johanna. There, he outlined how the future Marchioness of Hookstone was to be treated. The instructions were straightforward.

Emma was not to be bothered, and she was not to be contradicted. She answered only to Hook, who, in turn, answered solely to the king—and then only if he was in the mood.

The next day, Hook's personal secretary swept in with a retinue of attendants and assumed control. From then on, Emma's responsibilities dwindled to occasional directives, while she adjusted to being treated like a fragile yet supremely wise and altogether flawless princess.

Except by her husband.

They had been on the road for over six hours, punctuated by brief stops to change horses that lasted no longer than one to two minutes. At Bagshot, around four o'clock, she needed to use the privy. Upon her return, Emma found Hook pacing impatiently beside the carriage, stopwatch in hand. He had vociferously objected to her taking five times longer for a natural pause than it took stablemen to unhitch and re-hitch four horses.

"All a man has to do," she'd explained patiently, "is unzip and let go. I, on the other hand, as a lady, require a bit more finesse with my attire and plumbing."

He'd chuckled and ushered her back into the carriage, teasing that she was a perpetual nuisance, though that was the natural consequence of her gender, wasn't it? Being born female and all. Yet, when she needed another break just a few miles back in Andover, he'd grudgingly told her to take her time. Upon her return, she found him leisurely sipping ale. He'd jokingly offered her a sip, then burst into laughter when she polished off the quarter pint he'd left.

"That was a tactical error," he'd remarked as they resumed their journey. "Now you'll be demanding stops at every inn from here to Amesbury."

Thus began a flurry of privy and chamber pot jests. Emma had never quite grasped why men found such tales uproariously funny before, but she was beginning to see the humor when narrated by an evilly clever storyteller.

She was presently recovering from a fit of whooping laughter, quite unbecoming of her usual composure.

Hook lounged back in the seat, as was his habit, occupying most of it. His eyes, half-lidded with amusement, crinkled at the edges, and his stern mouth twisted into a charmingly lopsided grin.

Emma ought to have been annoyed with him for provoking such undignified laughter with his crude, juvenile tale. Yet, she couldn't summon the indignation. He looked so smugly pleased with himself.

It was a sorry state indeed to find the Devil himself endearing, but she couldn't deny it. She had an absurd urge to perch on his knee and pepper his wicked visage with kisses.

He caught her staring at him. She prayed she didn't appear as besotted as she felt.

"Are you uncomfortable?" he asked.

"My backside and limbs have fallen asleep," she said, shifting her position a fraction away. Not that one could escape, even in this commodious coach, which is more generous than his cramped curricle. There's still just one seat, and he takes up an exorbitant amount of it. But the air had cooled considerably with the onset of evening, and he was very warm.

"You should have requested a chance to stretch your limbs back at Weyhill," he remarked, his tone casually chiding. "We won't be stopping again until Amesbury."

"I barely registered Weyhill," she retorted. "You were telling one of the most moronic anecdotes I'd ever heard."

"Had it been any less moronic, the joke would have gone over your head," he shot back. "You laughed hard enough."

"I didn't want to bruise your ego," she replied coolly. "I thought you were trying to impress me by displaying the uppermost limits of your intellect."

He flashed her a wicked grin. "When I endeavor to win your favor, my dear, rest assured, intellect will be the least of my strategies."

She met his gaze with steely resolve, though her insides danced with a feverish mix of nerves and defiance. "You're alluding to our wedding night, I assume," she replied coolly. "The 'breeding rights' for which you've paid such an exorbitant price. Well, I imagine impressing me will come easily to you, given your expertise, whereas I remain entirely inexperienced."

His grin wavered momentarily. "Yet you seem well-informed. You weren't the least bit perplexed by what the lady and gentleman were up to in your grandmother's pocket watch. And you appear to have a clear understanding of the services provided by certain professionals."

"There's a distinction between theoretical knowledge and practical application," she countered. "I confess I'm a bit apprehensive about the latter. But considering your lack of inhibitions, I trust you won't hesitate to provide guidance."

Emma hoped he wouldn't grow too impatient with her. She was a quick study and confident she could learn how to please him in short order, if given the chance. That was her main concern—his being accustomed to professionals adept at satisfying his desires. He might quickly tire of her inexperience and discard her for less troublesome companions.

She knew his plan was to deposit her in Devon once he tired of her company.

She knew she was setting herself up for heartache by daring to hope for more.

To most of the world—save a handful of wedding attendees—he was viewed as a monster, and her marriage to him akin to a grim fate. But he wasn't monstrous when he held her close. And so, Emma couldn't suppress her hope for more of those moments, at the very least. Hope, she resolved, was worth striving for.

His gaze had wandered off, preoccupied with a crease that had dared to disrupt his trousers.

"I suppose we should table this discussion for now," he muttered. "It shouldn't be that complicated. It's not like you're vying for top honors in Classics or Mathematics at university."

Only to be at the top in his black heart,she quipped inwardly.

"When I undertake something, I aim to excel," she countered. "I always strive to be the best. Perhaps it's from growing up with so many boys. I had to outdo my brother and cousins in everything, even sports, to earn their respect."

He glanced up, not at her, but out the coach window. "Amesbury," he announced. "About bloody time. I'm famished."


The Doom and Decay of the Joneses found himself gripped by an uncharacteristic fear.

Of his wedding night.

Now, in hindsight, the realization dawned on him like a rude awakening.

Yes, he was aware Emma was a virgin. It had been an incessant nagging in his mind, one of the most perplexing aspects of the entire affair; one of Europe's most notorious libertines consumed by desire for a simple English maiden.

He had known she was a virgin just as he had known her eyes mirrored the hues of a Devon meadow at dawn, ever shifting like the whimsical skies above those deceptive expanses. He knew it as surely as he knew her hair was spun gold and her skin was like creamy velvet. He had known it, and the knowledge had been sweet, gazing down at his bride at the altar. She had worn a silver-gray gown with a delicate blush adorning her cheeks, the epitome of beauty and purity. No other man had touched her; she was his and his alone.

He had also anticipated bedding her. He had envisioned it long and often enough. Furthermore, after what felt like six or seven eternities of waiting, he had resolved to do it properly — in a lavish inn, on a large, plush bed with crisp linens, following a well-prepared supper and a few glasses of excellent wine.

Yet somehow, he had overlooked what being a virgin truly entailed beyond mere untouched innocence. Amidst all those fevered fantasies, he had omitted one critical detail - no previous lovers had paved the way. He would have to break her in himself.

And that prospect, he feared, was precisely what he would do — break her.

As the carriage came to a stop, suppressing an overwhelming urge to command the coachman to keep driving into eternity, preferably until Judgment Day itself, Killian assisted his wife out.

She took his arm as they began their approach to the entrance. Her gloved hand had never felt so woefully small as it did in that moment.

She had insisted she was taller than average, but that did little to reassure a man of his stature and inclinations.

He would hurt her. He would break something, tear something. And if, by some miracle, he managed not to harm her fatally and if the ordeal did not reduce her to a gibbering wreck, she would flee screaming at the thought of him ever touching her again.

She would flee, never to kiss him again, never to hold him, and -

"Well, I'll be tarred and feathered! Look who's here—either a wayward barge just docked or it's Hook himself."

The boisterous proclamation snapped Killian back to the present, jolting him out of his absent-minded state. He had wandered into the inn without a thought, barely registering the greeting, and now found himself following the innkeeper up the staircase that led to the rooms he had reserved.

Descending the stairs was none other than the voice's owner—his old Eton school fellow Rufio, now the Duke of Neverglen. The previous duke, a mere stripling of nine, had succumbed to diphtheria a year past. Killian vaguely recalled signing a condolence note, artfully composed by his secretary, to the grieving mother, along with a carefully blended sentiment of condolences and congratulations to Rufio, the distant cousin. Killian refrained from pointing out that subtlety was akin to pouring pearls before swine when it came to Rufio.

Killian hadn't laid eyes on Rufio since Pan's funeral, where his old schoolmate had been sloshed then and was sloshed now. His dirty blond hair resembled a greasy rat's nest, his eyes were puffy and bloodshot, and his jaw sported at least two days' worth of scruff.

Already on edge, Killian's nerves were jangled further by the prospect of introducing this unsavory character to his delicate, refined, and pure wife.

"Rufio," he greeted with a tight-lipped nod. "What a delightfully unexpected encounter."

"Unexpected hardly covers it," Rufio thundered down the stairs. "I'm thoroughly gobsmacked. Last time I saw you, you swore you'd sooner wrestle a crocodile in Cairo than set foot in England again, and if anyone else wanted you at their funeral, they'd better drop dead in Paris." His bloodshot eyes landed on Emma, and he grinned in a manner Killian found dreadfully indecent. "Well, slap me silly if hell hasn't frozen over. Hook's not only back in Blighty but gallivanting about with a bit of fluff, no less."

Killian felt his composure slip. "I won't inquire as to which rock you've been hiding under, oblivious to my return to London nearly a month ago and my nuptials this morning," he replied, voice frosty though his insides churned. "Theladyin question happens to be mywife."

The duke's booming laughter cut him off. "Wed?" he exclaimed. "Come now, spin me another yarn. Perhaps this bird of paradise is your sister. No, better yet, your venerable great aunt Mathilda."

Knowing full well that any lady beyond the schoolroom would recognize"bird of paradise"as a synonym for "harlot," Killian was certain his wife had sensed the insult.

"Rufio, you've just impugned my honor," he said in deceptively calm tones. "You've slandered my lady. Twice. I'll give you precisely ten seconds to fashion an apology."

Rufio studied him for a heartbeat before grinning broadly. "You always were one for the theatrics, my boy, but that dog won't hunt. I spot a ruse when I see it. Where was your last performance, my dear?" he turned to Emma. "The King's Theatre, Haymarket? I'm afraid I don't malign you in the least. You're clearly above his usual Covent Garden fare."

"That's three," Killian said evenly. "Innkeeper!"

Their host, who had discreetly retreated to a shadowed corner, cautiously approached. "My lord?"

"Escort the lady to her chamber, if you please."

Emma's fingers gripped his arm tightly. "Hook, your friend is half-seas over," she whispered urgently. "Can't you - "

"Upstairs,"he interrupted firmly.

She sighed, releasing his arm, and obeyed his command.

He kept his gaze fixed on her until she had ascended the stairs. Then, turning back to the duke, who still ogled inappropriately after her, his expression a lewd map of his thoughts.

"Prime piece," the duke remarked, redirecting his gaze to Killian with a wink. "Where did you discover her?"

Killian seized his cravat and slammed him against the wall. "You insipid, foul piece of horse dung," he growled. "I gave you a chance,malá I might just have to break your neck."

"I'm trembling in my boots," Rufio taunted, his bleary eyes gleaming with the thrill of conflict. "Do I get the chit if I win?"


A short while later, heedless of her maid's entreaties, Emma stood on the balcony overlooking the inn's courtyard.

"My lady, please come away," Cecilia implored. "It's not fitting for Your Ladyship. You'll fall ill, mark my words, and on your wedding night, no less."

"I've witnessed brawls before," Emma remarked. "But never one on my behalf. Though I doubt they'll do much harm. It seems they're evenly matched. Hook has the size advantage, of course, but he's fighting one-handed. And Rufio is not only robust but drunk enough to be numb to pain."

The cobblestone yard below swiftly filled with men in various states of undress, some in dressing gowns and nightcaps. Word had spread like wildfire, and even at this late hour, few males could resist the allure of a brawl. Not just any brawl, mind you, but one involving peers of the realm. It was a rare treat for aficionados of fisticuffs.

Each combatant had his circle of supporters. Around Hook, half a dozen well-dressed gentlemen had gathered, shouting the usual cacophony of contradictory advice while Hook's valet, Smee, assisted him out of his upper garments.

Cecilia let out a shriek and pressed herself against the balcony door. "Heaven preserve us - they're almostnaked!"

Emma's attention was fixated on one man alone amidst the spectacle. Stripped to the waist, he was a sight that stole her breath.

The torchlight played upon his sleek olive skin, accentuating broad shoulders and muscular arms, casting a loving glow over the hard contours and shifting curves of his chest, adorned with enticing black hair. When he turned, revealing a smooth expanse of back that gleamed like polished marble, its clean lines of bone and rippling muscle evoked the image of a living Roman athlete sculpted from stone.

A tightening sensation gripped her insides, as the familiar heat coiled within her—a pulsing blend of desire and pride.

Mine, she thought, and the notion twinged within her—a bittersweet ache of hope entangled with despair. He was hers by name, bound by laws both sacred and secular. But no decree could render him wholly and truly hers.

That would require a relentless and protracted campaign.

She couldn't help but ruefully acknowledge that the intoxicated Rufio stood a better chance of triumph than she did. Then again, intelligence didn't seem to be his forte, and her battle demanded more wit than muscle.

Emma possessed ample wit, and the captivating spectacle below provided more than enough incentive.

She observed as one of the men fashioned a makeshift sling for Hook's left arm. Then, the two adversaries squared off, standing nearly nose to nose.

The signal was given.

Rufio lunged at his opponent with ferocity, head lowered and fists swinging wildly. Hook, grinning, evaded effortlessly, sidestepping the barrage of punches, allowing the duke to charge with all his might.

Yet no matter how hard Rufio pressed, he gained no ground. Hook danced nimbly, his reflexes razor-sharp—essential, given Rufio's surprising agility despite his drunken state. Still, Hook led him on a merry dance. Each blow that seemed destined to land found only empty space, further fueling the duke's frustration.

He redoubled his efforts, pouring more power into each assault, exploring every angle. One blow grazed Hook's arm, then in a blur of motion, a resounding thwack! echoed through the courtyard, and Rufio reeled backward, blood streaming from his nose.

"A blindside blow, by heavens," Emma murmured. "Caught off guard, as was His Grace, undoubtedly."

Bloody yet undeterred, Rufio chuckled and surged forward once more, relentless in his dogged pursuit.

By now, Cecilia had returned to her new mistress' side. "Heaven help us," she remarked, her plump face creased with disapproval. "Once is quite enough to endure a hit, isn't it?"

"They don't feel it," Emma replied, turning her attention back to the fray. "Until it's all over, that is. Oh, well, done, Hook," she exclaimed as her husband's forceful right jab landed squarely on the duke's ribs. "That's what he wants. Aim for the torso, my dear. The oaf's skull is thick as an anvil."

Fortunately, Emma's cheers were drowned out by the raucous shouts of the gathered spectators, sparing Hook from potentially being distracted—though Emma's spirited counsel might have led to less than ideal consequences for her refined advice to her husband.

In any event, he seemed to have sorted out the issue on his own, and one - two - three - savage body blows finally brought Rufio to his knees.

Two men rushed forward to help the Duke up. Hook stepped back.

"Throw in the towel, Rufio," someone from Hook's entourage shouted.

"Yes, before he turns you into a bloodied masterpiece."

From her vantage point, Emma couldn't quite gauge the extent of Hook's handiwork. Blood was splattered liberally, but noses tended to leak like a broken fountain.

Rufio stood, swaying. "Come on then, insect," he goaded, wheezing. "I'm not done with you yet," waving his fists clumsily.

Hook shrugged, strode forward, and with a few swift motions, knocked the flailing hands aside and drove his fist into Rufio's gut.

The duke crumpled like a rag doll and toppled backward. Fortunately, his friends acted quickly, catching him an instant before his head could kiss the cobblestones. As they propped him into a sitting position, he grinned stupidly up at Hook, sweat mingling with the blood trickling down his face.

"Apologize," Hook demanded.

Rufio took several heaving breaths. "Beg pardon, Hook," he croaked.

"You will also seize the first opportunity to apologize to my lady," Hook added icily.

Rufio sat there, nodding and huffing like a steam engine for a long moment. Then, much to Emma's dismay, he craned his neck toward the balcony. "Beg pardon, my lady Hook!" he called out hoarsely.

Hook glanced up as well, his damp black locks clinging to his brow, and a fine sheen of sweat shimmering across his neck and shoulders.

His eyes widened briefly in surprise when they found her, and an odd, pained look crossed his features. But in the next heartbeat, the familiar, sardonic smirk was firmly in place. "My lady," he intoned with exaggerated gallantry, sweeping her an extravagant bow.

The crowd roared their approval.

She nodded back, longing to leap down from the balcony and into his embrace. "My lord."

One-armed, he had battled his own comrade on her behalf. He had fought with cunning and splendor. He was magnificent. She felt tears welling up, overcome by emotions. She managed a faint smile, then swiftly passed through the door Cecilia held open for her.


Initially unsure how to interpret his bride's troubled smile, Killian assessed the situation and his appearance, arriving at the worst possible conclusion.

The smile and her composed demeanor, he deduced, were merely a façade for the onlookers' sake. It mirrored his own practiced smiles, hiding deeper emotions he could all too easily infer.

Her new husband was a brute.

He had engaged in a tavern brawl like a run-of-the-mill troublemaker.

He was grimy and splattered with Rufio's blood, and sweating and stinking.

He was also half-naked, and the torchlights had cruelly illuminated what he'd hoped to keep shrouded in darkness: his bulky, unrefined physique.

By now, she was likely gripping a chamber pot, tallying her misfortunes—unless she was barricading the door, orchestrating with Cecilia to fortify it with every piece of furniture.

Killian dismissed the idea of freshening up indoors. Instead, he strode purposefully to the pump, ignoring his valet's cautionary words about the nighttime chill and its potential lethal consequences.

Not to be outdone, Rufio sidled up beside him. Together, they endured the frigid dousing while their companions encircled them, voicing astonishment and debating the bout's finer points.

Once their impromptu bath was done, they stood facing each other, shoulders twitching slightly to conceal their shivers.

Rufio broke the silence first. "Wedded, by Jove," he muttered, shaking his head. "Who'd have guessed?"

"She shot me," Killian replied dryly. "Had to be taught a lesson.'Pardon one offense,' as Publilius says, 'and you encourage the commission of many.'Can't have every slighted lady chasing me with pistols drawn. Had to make an example of her, didn't I?"

He glanced around at the others. "Imagine the chaos if one woman is permitted to take aim at the Devil himself; soon enough, they'll all be shooting at us for any minor slight."

The men around him fell into contemplative silence, their faces suddenly grave as they considered the implications.

"I married her as a public duty," he declared solemnly. "There are moments when a man must transcend his own trivial concerns and act in the interest of his comrades."

"Indeed so," Rufio chimed in, breaking into a grin. "But it hardly seems a sacrifice to me. Your lady is quite the sight, I must say—handsome is as handsome does."

Killian feigned indifference.

"I should say beautiful," someone interjected.

"Top drawer," another chimed in.

"Her bearing is positively regal," yet another offered.

"Graceful as a swan," added a fourth.

As his chest puffed out and his shoulders squared, Killian managed to maintain an air of disdain. "Feel free to knock yourselves out crafting sonnets to her magnificence," he said with a dismissive wave. "As for me, I'm off to find something stronger than poetry—a good stiff drink."