X enia sat opposite her mother in the cozy kitchen of their family bakery, the scent of bread rising nearly overwhelming her. They shared a simple meal amidst the quiet hum of the midday lull.
Her mother’s features, usually softened by a maternal smile, today were etched with lines of concern. “I cannot pretend to be oblivious to the chatter that’s been stirring through the village,” she said eventually.
Xenia’s hand paused mid-air, a crisp crust of bread halfway to her lips. She searched her mother’s face, frowning as she sensed where the conversation was heading. “You’re referring to Simon, aren’t you?”
Her mother nodded, reaching across the table to still Xenia’s restless fingers. “Lord Kinnerton,” she corrected gently, though the underlying message was clear. “You must consider the difference in your stations... It’s all anyone can talk about.”
Surprise flickered in Xenia’s blue eyes, giving way to a spark of frustration.
She withdrew her hand, tucking an errant strand of black hair back into her bun.
“When was Simon reduced to nothing more than his title in this house?” Xenia countered.
He was her Simon, first and foremost, beyond the reach of any societal decree.
Her mother sighed. “You know how fond I am of him. But fondness cannot shield you from what people think. His rank... it casts a long shadow over any possibility of a...” She trailed off, leaving the unsaid match to hang heavily between.
Her mother’s words struck a chord within her, thrumming with the same rhythm as the dogged pulse of her own desires.
Her hands clenched beneath the table, her nails pressing crescents into her palms. She wished to push away these constraints, to continue with the life she knew, unburdened by the weight of titles and whispers.
She wanted to stand firm, to hold on to the friendship with Simon.
People were talking about her relationship with Simon, and they didn’t know what that relationship truly was. They thought she was hoping for a proposal, an escape from her life in the bakery. If they knew how intimate she and Simon were, they would run her out of town.
Xenia’s gaze shifted, taking in the familiar walls of the kitchen, the sturdy table that had borne witness to countless meals and conversations.
This was her world, and she was bound to it, just as she was bound to the expectations that governed it.
But within her, a fire was kindled, a determination not to let go of the love she harbored, not to succumb to a future written by others’ hands.
She pushed her chair back, the legs scraping against the wooden floor, standing abruptly. “You of all people know Simon and I have been friends since we were very young. Our friendship isn’t some fleeting fancy to be snuffed out by idle chatter. It is longstanding and genuine.”
Her mother sighed, her eyes softening with a maternal blend of worry and resignation.
“Darling, I know you hold your friendships dear, but we must also think of your future. The viscount must make a match to please his grandfather, and if Owen planned to propose, he would have by now. However, a friend knows a man, Mr. Harwood, the widower who owns the farm just past the mill. He’s a good man, kind, with two small children who need a mother’s care. ”
Pausing, her mother studied her reaction. “Marriage to him would offer security, practicality. He could provide for you, protect you from the unpredictability of life.”
Xenia felt the air in the room grow heavy, the suggestion settling around her like a shroud. Her heart rebelled against the thought, yet she knew her mother spoke with love, seeking to shield her from the potential heartache that loomed on the horizon of her uncertain future.
Her mind whirled with images of Owen and Simon. They both expressed a wish for their lives to continue as they were now, sharing their love between the three of them. But she couldn’t tell her mother that. She must continue to voice the same objections she’d used before.
“Mama, I appreciate your concern, but I cannot—I will not—be pushed into a marriage of mere convenience. I’ve seen love, the genuine kind that lights up one’s entire world, like you and Papa. That is what I seek. That is what I shall wait for.”
* * *
After closing the smithy for the day and washing up, Owen decided he needed the company of a certain woman, the one filling his heart. As much as he’d enjoy bedding her again, at the moment, he only wanted her company.
He found Zee in the bakery, kneading dough as if to punish it for some grievous mortal sin. What had distressed her?
“Good evening, Zee. I thought you might fancy a walk. These warm evenings won’t be with us much longer. Best we enjoy the warmth while it lasts.”
She wiped her hands on her apron, leaving white marks on the stained cotton fabric, and smiled, her shoulders dropping slightly. “A walk would be delightful. Let me divide up this dough and we can walk while it rises.”
When they stepped outside, the last rays of sunlight painted the cobblestone street with a golden hue, and Zee took a deep breath, tipping her head back, eyes closed. Beside her, Owen matched her pace.
A comfortable silence enshrouded them, the sort born from years of time spent together. They passed Mrs. Tibbets’ flower shop, its windows aglow with the soft light of candles flickering in the encroaching dusk.
A dog darted out from an alleyway, its barks slicing through the quiet of the evening.
It chased after phantoms down the street, lost in its own world of imagined pursuits.
Owen’s gaze, however, fixed upon Zee, his eyes tracing the tension in her shoulders that belied the calm facade she had so meticulously constructed.
“You’re quieter than the church on Monday morning. What’s weighing on you?”
She looked down at the pavement, lips pursed. “Mama’s pressing me to marry. She’s even found me a match with a widower with the two little ones. She says that’s as good a life as any other I might expect.”
Owen could see the struggle in her eyes, the way they darted away as if to hide the raw desperation clawing at her composure. Her hands fidgeted, fingers gnarled together.
He stilled, his breath hitching as the gravity of her situation sank into his bones.
The thought of Zee marrying anyone other than himself ignited a fire within him he’d long kept at bay.
Picturing her as Simon’s wife was difficult enough, but no other man could have her.
“I promise you, this will not be your fate.”
“I tell Mama not to listen to what the gossips say. Thankfully, no one has discovered the truth of my relationship with Simon.” She met his gaze, her brow wrinkled. “I can’t continue to fool myself that we can go on as we are.”
“Simon and I will put an end to these idle whispers.” He gently cupped her cheek before catching himself, mindful of being observed. “We’ll find a way. You deserve happiness, and not the kind that’s decided for you by others’ wagging tongues.”
His assurance seemed to steady her, if only slightly, as the tension in her shoulders eased. Owen knew the risk of his words—promises made in the face of uncertainty—but for Zee, he would move mountains or, at the very least, confront Simon about his insistence they remain as they are.
His heart hammered against his ribcage as he escorted her back to her doorstep.
The warmth of the night air did nothing to ease the icy knot of dread that had formed in his stomach.
He squeezed her hand, holding it a bit longer than necessary, as he was reluctant to let her go.
He longed to hold her in his arms and promise her that nothing would ever hurt her.
“Good night, Owen,” Zee whispered.
“Good night,” he replied. As she turned to enter the safety of her home, his mind raced with a fervor that matched the intensity of their parting glance.
He strode away, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as the weight of the decision pressed upon him. Marrying Zee himself—it was a solution so simple. He loved her, she loved him.
The only thing holding him back was that stupid pact. As Owen saw it, the pact only benefitted one person—Simon. As matters stood, Simon could continue to dally with Zee while marrying a high-born lady and raising a family with her.
Why hadn’t Owen seen that before now?
“I’ll do this for her,” he murmured to himself. “I’ll ask for her hand.”
He’d already told Simon he wished to marry her, but he’d foolishly agreed not to.
Their resultant relationship, if it could be called that, seemed like the perfect answer.
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy sharing her in bed.
He could as easily gain a painful erection by watching Zee ride Simon’s cock as he could while feeling her around his own.
And the sensation of Simon’s cock sliding against his with just a thin bit of flesh separating them inside her.
.. Fuck. He got hard thinking about it. If he married her, they could continue these trysts, if Zee wished.
But it would be his decision, not Simon’s.
He could then tell the viscount when he was permitted to enjoy the salacious pleasures his wife offered.
He gritted his teeth. This would likely lead to the end of his friendship with Simon. He questioned if the viscount was strong enough to put aside the jealousy he claimed he’d feel if Zee married. As much as the knowledge hurt, he had to do what was best for Zee.
Instead of returning home, Owen went to the stables and saddled his horse. If Zee’s mother was planning a wedding, there was no time to waste. He must tell Simon what he intended to do.