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He cut her words off as he pressed her against the closed door, his hands firm yet gentle on her waist. His lips crashed against hers, demanding and heated, and Yvette gasped into his mouth. He pulled back just enough to whisper against her lips, his voice a low growl.

“I have waited all bloody night to do this,” he murmured, his breath warm and heavy. “You looked breathtaking in this dress,wife. Drove me mad.”

Yvette’s lips parted, but no words fell from them, which Killian quite preferred. Less talking, more kissing.

He couldn’t think—not with his body pressed against hers. His hands framed her face as if she were something precious, which she was, if he were being utterly honest.

“You’re beautiful,” he rasped, his voice thick with desire as he traced the line of her jaw with his lips. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Her hands found his shoulders, clinging to him as the heat of his kisses burned away her composure.

“Killian…” she whispered, her voice trembling.

His response was a low groan as he claimed her lips again, this time slower, deeper. His restraint hung by a thread, and Yvette felt the intensity of his need in every touch, every kiss.

The rest of the world faded away. In that moment, nothing else mattered but the fire between them.

The first thing Yvette felt upon waking was the emptiness beside her. Her fingers brushed against the cold, untouched side of the bed, and her stomach churned. She told herself she had agreed to this arrangement—a pragmatic understanding between twoindividuals thrust into a union neither had planned. Still, the hollow space felt like an accusation.

He had made it a big deal, hadn’t he? Insisting on retreating to his own room afterward.

Yvette huffed, turning her face into the pillow. If they were to spend their nights together in moments of closeness, why should they part ways like strangers when dawn broke? She didn’t mind that they slept in separate rooms, but on nights like last night, it should be totally alright for them to sleep in the same bed.

A soft knock broke through her thoughts.

“Come in,” Yvette called, sitting upright.

The young woman entered, curtsying briefly. “Good morning, Your Grace. I’ve brought?—”

“Daisy,” Yvette said absentmindedly.

The maid blinked, tilting her head. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but my name is Agnes.”

Yvette pressed a hand to her forehead.

“Of course. My apologies, Agnes.”

Agnes simply smiled and began laying out a selection of gowns. Yvette stared at the fabrics, her thoughts still circling the previous night. She shouldn’t dwell on it, she told herself firmly. There were more pressing matters to attend to.

Once dressed, Yvette stepped into the hallway, where laughter echoed. She turned to see Fiona and Maisie at the end of the corridor.

“Duchess!” Maisie squealed, dashing toward her.

Yvette crouched just in time to catch the girl in a warm embrace. “Good morning, my sweet girl. Did you sleep well?”

Maisie nodded enthusiastically. “I missed ye last night! Papa said I had to go to bed early because ye were at a ball,” the little girl cried out with a soft accent.

Fiona approached with an amused smile. “Maisie wouldn’t stop asking when you’d wake. She’s convinced you’re hiding something exciting about the ball.”

Yvette laughed softly, smoothing down Maisie’s hair. “Well, how about this? I’ll make it up to you today.”

Maisie’s eyes lit up. “Can we play dolls?”

“Actually,” Fiona interjected, looping her arm through Yvette’s. “I had a better idea. Why don’t we take a stroll around London?It’s been years since either of us have properly walked through town, and I think it’s high time we familiarize ourselves again.”

Yvette hesitated briefly but nodded. “A fine idea. What do you say, Maisie?”

The little girl clapped her hands, and their small group was soon ready to head out.