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M atthew awoke to the golden light of morning spilling through the curtains of their London townhouse, casting a warm glow over the woman nestled in his arms. The contrast was stark—only days ago, he had awoken to the gentle rock of the sea, the scent of salt and wood filling his lungs.

Now, he lay in a grand bed, surrounded by opulent furnishings, yet some part of him missed the raw simplicity of their voyage.

Waking beside Beatrice on the ship had been different, unrestrained, filled with an unspoken understanding that had deepened their bond.

Now, as she stirred in his arms, the reality of their new life together settled around him.

He had never thought he would crave the comfort of domesticity, yet here he was, utterly bewitched by the woman he once considered his adversary.

A slow smile curved Beatrice’s lips. "Good morning, my lord."

Matthew pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Good morning, my love. Are you ready to face the world again?"

She sighed contentedly, stretching against him before nuzzling closer. "Not yet. But I suppose we must."

He watched as she rose and crossed the room, the early light catching the delicate curve of her form before she slipped into a dressing gown.

Seeing her move through their shared space, so naturally, so confidently, sent a new warmth through him.

There had been a time when marriage had seemed like a prison sentence—chains dressed in lace and obligation.

He had vowed never to be caught in such a snare.

And yet, here he was, craving every moment of it.

And, watching her now, he knew he would never again wish for distance.

He wanted this always—mornings filled with her teasing glances, nights spent tangled together, a life built side by side.

She caught him staring as she adjusted her hair before the mirror and arched a brow. "If you continue looking at me like that, Matthew, we shall never make it downstairs," she teased, walking over to him.

He smirked, catching her hand as she reached for his cravat. "Perhaps that is my intent."

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was soft as she expertly tied the knot, smoothing it over his waistcoat. "You shall behave, my lord. We have guests awaiting us."

"A tragedy indeed," he murmured, leaning in to kiss her.

By the time they entered the drawing room for luncheon, Matthew felt a renewed sense of purpose.

This was more than just a social gathering—it was their first true step into society as husband and wife.

He wondered how many of these guests had speculated about their union, whispered behind fans and exchanged knowing glances.

Would they see the truth today? That he had not been trapped or coerced, but had willingly, irrevocably, chosen Beatrice?

Today was not just about reentering society; it was about declaring, without hesitation, that Beatrice was his, and he was irrevocably hers.

The muted scents of beeswax polish and spiced cakes, blended with the elegant clink of fine porcelain teacups against saucers as laughter rippled through the room.

The sunlight pouring through the floor to ceiling windows caught against the gleaming silver cake forks and crystal decanters of sherry, casting a warm glow over the gathering while a soft breeze rustled the curtains, carrying with it the faintest scent of the city beyond.

Beatrice stood beside him, radiant in her lavender gown, her laughter ringing clear as she spoke with Charlotte, the Duchess of Ravenscroft.

Across the room, Matthew’s mother, the dowager countess, sat stiffly, a cup of tea poised delicately in her grasp.

His uncle observed with reluctant approval, his gaze drifting toward Beatrice with something that resembled amusement.

Mathew could not help the grin he hid behind his tumbler. His mother and uncle may not be altogether pleased, but they were warming to Beatrice. He had every confidence they would come to adore her every bit as much as he did.

“I must say,” Charlotte mused, taking a sip of her tea, “this adventure of yours seems to have been quite the ordeal. Abduction, high seas, a forced proximity that led to love. It sounds positively scandalous. I do hope you shall write it all down. It would make for excellent reading.”

For a fleeting moment, Beatrice wondered—if she had read such a story in a novel years ago, would she have believed in its happy ending? In the idea that a woman like her could capture a man like Matthew? She offered a dismissive laugh. “I daresay it might be too unbelievable, even for a novel.”

Lady Frances smirked. “Oh, I do not know, Beatrice. Some of us find adventure quite enticing in our stories. And, from what I have heard, your tale had all the elements of intrigue, romance, and dare I say, peril?”

“I certainly would not call it romance at the time,” Matthew interjected, earning a teasing nudge from Beatrice. He smirked, watching as the assembled company laughed. “But I suppose I have rather changed my stance on that.”

Johnathan Seton, Duke of Hargate, leaned back with a knowing grin. “A man held captive on a ship by a beautiful woman? Some would say you lived a dream, not a nightmare.”

Charlotte laughed. "And yet, I do not recall hearing that you put up much of a fight. If I remember correctly, your letter to Ravenscroft was filled with more frustration about being captured than complaints about your captor."

Matthew smirked at Beatrice. "Ah, but captivity is a different thing when one’s captor is as cunning and beautiful as my wife."

Beatrice placed a hand over her heart, eyes wide with mock innocence. “Cunning? My lord, you wound me. I believe I was merely… persuasive.”

James, Lord Blackwood chuckled. “That is one word for it.”

Selina, Lady Blackwood added, “And yet he is the happiest prisoner I have ever seen.”

The dowager countess took a measured sip of her tea.

"I suppose there is something poetic about it. A rogue captured by a woman just as incorrigible. One wonders whether the ton will find it charming or scandalous.” She studied Beatrice for a long moment before adding, “I suppose there is something to be said for a woman who refuses to be cowed.” A flicker of amusement crossed her features before she turned her attention back to her tea.

Beatrice’s father, who had remained relatively quiet thus far, finally spoke, his tone light with amusement.

“I must admit, when I first heard of your unconventional courtship, I had my concerns. But then, I remembered whose daughter you were, and suddenly, it all made sense.” He raised his glass.

“To my daughter, who has ever been unconventional, and to her husband, who has evidently found himself a match in every way.”

Beatrice could scarcely contain the warmth blooming within her. Her father's words settled deep, wrapping around her heart and, filling her with an unexpected sense of pride.

Charlotte teased, “You realize all of London is waiting to see if you will behave like a proper lady or scandalize them all over again.”

Beatrice’s smile lingered, though there was a flicker of something else in her expression—excitement, perhaps, or a hint of nerves she would never voice aloud.

She had faced storms at sea, defied expectations, and yet the thought of stepping into a grand ballroom, all eyes upon her, sent a different sort of thrill through her veins.

Still, if she were to stir gossip once more, she would do it on her own terms. "Scandalize them?

" she mused, arching a brow. "Now, Charlotte, do you truly believe I would be so bold? "

Lady Frances set aside her teacup, “I do hope you have prepared yourself, Beatrice. Every woman at the ball will be taking notes on how to capture a rogue of their own.”

"I cannot decide if I should be horrified or impressed," Edward murmured, swirling the brandy in his glass. "Perhaps both.”

As the gathering continued, Matthew met Beatrice's gaze, a silent invitation passing between them.

Without a word, she inclined her head ever so slightly, and he extended his hand.

Their fingers brushed as she took it, the touch lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

With an unspoken understanding, they moved in unison, slipping onto the terrace, into the cool embrace of the evening air.

He drew her close, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. "Are you ready for tonight, my love?"

"Are you?" Beatrice smirked, though her fingers lightly traced the fabric of her gown in a fleeting moment of contemplation.

Had she truly tamed him? She lifted her chin, pushing the thought aside.

"I imagine Lady Frances has the right of it, and every woman at the ball will be keen to know just how I managed to tame one of London’s most notorious rogues. "

Matthew caught her hand, pressing a lingering kiss to her wrist. "I was never tamed. Only enchanted."

She laughed softly, curling her fingers into the lapel of his coat.

“I used to dream of my debut season, of how I would dance at my first grand ball. Later I grew disenchanted with the whole ordeal and spent my time hiding in corners or figuring out ways to avoid society. But now… I care only for how it feels to stand beside you.”

His heart swelled at her words. He cupped her face gently, his thumb tracing the delicate curve of her cheek.

"Then let us stand together, my love, for the rest of our days.

" He pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, his arms tightening around her as if anchoring himself to this moment, to her, to the future they were forging together.

And as he held her close, the city lights flickering beyond, Matthew knew—no matter the whispers, the speculation, or the scrutiny—there was only one undeniable truth: he would choose her. Again and again, in every lifetime.