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kyber-queen · 3 years

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of silver and steel (wolffe x f!reader regency AU)

Summary: Reader is a mercenary hired to protect Duke!Wolffe without his knowledge. Shenanigans ensue.

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: One (1) innuendo, mentions of weapons, an exorbitant amount of pride and prejudice-esque Female Gaze

Author’s Note: Hey guys! I wrote this MONTHS ago and found it sitting in my files and thought I'd just post it so I don't forget about it again. Lmk if you'd be interested in me writing any more of this!

***

Your reflection stared back at you from your vanity mirror. Your face was painted in the fashion of the time—cheeks flushed coral and lips stained a Persian rose-red. You smiled to yourself, smoothing your hands over your bodice—it was a deep forest green, with a bold golden line down the center. It was your personal favorite, and it would serve your purposes well that evening. One gloved hand lifted elegantly from your form to hover over the objects adorning your vanity. You settled over an elaborate golden-hilted dagger. You tested its weight in your hand before guiding its tip to the rim of your bodice, sliding the weapon into the pre-stitched gap in the fabric. Only the hilt remained visible, but against the golden embroidery, it appeared altogether unrecognizable as a dagger, taking the form of an ornate golden cross emblazoned across your chest. You hummed in approval.

You were to be attending a gala tonight, with the proceeds benefitting the construction of a second dormitory within the orphanage in the capitol, Coruscant. It was sure to be a rather raucous event—the more rambunctious of the younger nobility had accepted the invitation—but your mind was far from drinking and gallivanting. You were there for one explicit purpose: to protect the Duke. The Duke did not know this, of course. From what you had heard, Duke Wolffe Fett was a rather imposing figure, and this combined with his military service made him rather vehemently opposed to the notion that he was unable to protect himself. His brothers had solicited your services as a mercenary in secret after the Duke had experienced three separate attempts on his life, all of which he had managed to fend off on his own.

Your mission was quite straightforward—make the Duke’s acquaintance, and remain nearby should trouble arise. Nerves prickled at the tips of your fingers. While quite comfortable with a blade in your hand, you were much less well-versed in these hierarchical social scenarios. Your eyes flicked back up to your reflection in the mirror, your gaze centering in on the cross adorning your bodice. Your gloved fingertips dragged across the textured surface of the dagger hilt. You looked the part of the elaborately dressed nobility; all you needed to do now was match their mannerisms.

***

The ballroom hummed with energy. Conversation and music flowed freely through the air, the Ladies in their best gowns and the Lords in their sharply pressed suits intermingling in small groups. Wolffe strolled from cluster to cluster, making his necessary introductions but never remaining in one group too long. He preferred to remain on the fringes—he was here for the benefit of the orphanage only. The hedonistic tendencies of his contemporaries at these supposedly charitable gatherings often disagreed with his more refined sensibilities. Wolffe had hoped he could escape the evening without engaging in the drunken small talk he so despised, but an old family ally beckoning him forward was a clear indication otherwise.

Wolffe now stood stiffly amongst a small circle of aristocrats, his features set firmly as he made tense conversation. The socialites were already quite inebriated, and the donation ledger had long been forgotten in favor of partaking of the complimentary spirits.

Wolffe cleared his throat.

“Sir Roger, have you yet had the opportunity to tour the orphans’ asylum in Coruscant?”

The man looked at Wolffe incredulously.

“Why in the blazes would I do that?”

Wolffe’s eyes narrowed. The man, obviously too taken by liquor to remember his station, placed a casual hand on Wolffe’s shoulder.

“You must have learned by now, my good man, that events like these,” The man gestured to the throngs of aristocrats conversing in clusters about the ballroom, “Are merely a justification for drinking and merriment,”. The man punctuated his sentence with a particularly loud hiccup.

Repulsed by the man’s uncouth behavor, Wolffe took a step back. The man’s hand fell from his shoulder. Wolffe opened his mouth to respond, but the smooth lilt of your voice drew his attention.

“Perhaps, Sir, were you not so unfeeling toward the plight of the needy you would see the larger purpose of events like these,” you quoted. The man stepped back, stunned, effectively making room for your presence.

Wolffe turned to you, his eyes catching yours for a moment before turning back to the aristocrat.

“I find myself in agreement with the Lady. This ‘justification for drinking and merriment’ will provide the funds to house at least a hundred needy children,” Wolffe’s lip wrinkled slightly in disgust, and the man fell entirely silent. “Good day, Sir,”.

The man turned to make his exit, leaving you alone with the Duke. He watched the drunkard stumble away, shaking his head slightly before fixing his intense gaze on you. Before he could say a word, you extended a snifter of brandy in his direction. He accepted the drink, tilting his head slightly at the gesture.

“I’m glad we can agree, Sir…” You trailed off your sentence, waiting for the Duke to fill in the blank.

“Duke Wolffe Fett,” He offered.

You widened your eyes in feigned surprise.

“Your Grace,” You murmured, dropping into a curtsy.

You rose, and when you met his eyes you noticed his eyebrow was raised slightly. He was one of the highest-ranking noblemen in Coruscant—had you presented yourself as too oblivious?

The Duke sipped his drink as you reeled for something to say.

“It’s unusual for a man of your status to have such high regard for personal involvement in charitable contribution,”.

Wolffe glanced up from his drink, pausing to look you over.

“Is there a question in there or are you merely observing?”

His tone was difficult to read—you assumed this was an invitation to inquire more directly.

“Why exactly does a young Duke such as yourself harbor so much respect for the common people?”

Wolffe hummed.

“It is my duty as a ruler to defend and uplift my people. There is no honor in wasting away your days indulging in mindless drink and frivolity,”.

You nodded in assent, falling into what you hoped was a pleasant silence.

The Duke seemed content to stand wordlessly at your side, and you understood that the less you spoke the less of an opportunity you had to make a faux pas. Your eyes darted about the room—having made your introduction your mind now focused entirely on detecting any plausible threats. You glanced over to his brothers, Boost and Sinker. They appeared engaged in conversation, and you quickly turned your attention elsewhere. A man stepped in front of the string quartet, clinking his glass. You feigned attention, scanning the crowd as pieces of the man’s speech filtered in and out of audibility.

“…And with that, let the dancing begin!”

Wolffe rolled his eyes, taking another swig of his drink

You watched as several ladies scurried to the floor, eager to partner with the gentlemen that had made their way to the open space in the center of the room. You watched closely as the many pairs began to twirl in rhythm with the string quartet. It was more crowded on the dance floor—here, on the fringes, the Duke was exposed. Keeping him hidden and occupied among the many dancers would complicate the efforts of any potential assassins. Was it within a lady’s right to ask the Duke to dance?

“Sir, would you grant me the pleasure of accompanying me on the dance floor?”

Wolffe’s head whipped to your direction—he seemed tense. You glanced over your shoulder, wondering whether he had spotted someone behind you. Neglecting to observe the presence of any potential assailant, you turned back to the Duke and affixed him with your most charming smile.

“As you wish, my Lady,”.

He offered his elbow, and you placed your gloved hand over his lightly. You strolled in tandem to the dance floor, and at the next pause in music, you each took your place across from each other in the line of dancers. Your eyes locked on his. One of his eyes was golden-brown, gleaming in the candlelit ballroom. The other seemed to be tinted white, with a long vertical scar reaching from just above his brow to the apple of his cheek. He was quite handsome, you noted. His gaze was intense, never seeming to leave your face, even as you pressed your gloved palm against his to begin the dance. His hand was quite large, and you felt its heat through the thin silk of your glove. Your breath stuttered as he brought his other hand to your waist. He gripped you firmly, each individual fingertip making its presence known as they pressed into your bodice. You inhaled, bringing your attention back to the task at hand.

You placed your other hand at his upper arm. He wordlessly lifted your hand to his shoulder, his eyebrow quirking slightly as he began to lead you through the dance. You felt your cheeks grow warm.

The music grew livelier, and the Duke shifted both his hands to your waist. His thumb pressed against the dagger concealed in your bodice as he lifted you into the air. The metal pressed, cool and foreboding, into your stomach. You masked your shocked gasp with a breathless giggle as your feet once again contacted the ground.

You stumbled, stepping to the right instead of the left. The Duke’s hand dug into your waist, pulling you sharply to the correct direction, and by coincidence, closer into his chest. He was warm. You offered a quiet ‘thank you’ at his correction, and he nodded stiffly. You felt the flexion and tension of his shoulder muscles under your palm. He was strong, you noted. This combined with his previous corrections caused your cheeks to heat even more than you thought possible. Focus on the mission. The music ceased, and before you could speak, his hand was gripping your forearm and he was dragging you off the dance floor.

You made eye contact with Sinker and Boost, the latter giving you an inquisitive look as Wolffe led you away from the ballroom. You turned your wild gaze back to the Duke. His fingers tightened around your forearm, gripping you hard enough to leave a bruise. He led you down a hallway, flinging open the first door he saw and roughly pulling you inside.

“Sir, I—”

He yanked you around so your back flattened against his chest. One hand gripped your upper arm while the other splayed across your midriff, pressing down uncomfortably. Pressing the flat edge of your dagger into your stomach. He knew.

His voice rumbled from deep within his chest, his breath hot against the junction between your shoulder and your neck.

“I value candor quite highly—why exactly are you here?”

Your breath hitched, and the pressure on your abdomen increased. You remembered Boost and Sinker’s words—he mustn’t know of your arrangement.

“I don’t know what you mean, Sir, I—” You squirmed against his iron grasp as he cut you off.

“You are no actress, my Lady,”.

You cursed yourself silently. You had been so focused on securing the Duke’s safety you had forgotten to ensure your own. Your hand flew to the hilt of the dagger against your chest, but the Duke’s hand on your upper arm caught your wrist with almost inhuman speed.

“What are you here for? To kill me?” His voice was a snarl.

Adrenaline flooded through your veins, your heart racing.

You drove your heel into his insole, using his shock to wrench yourself from his grasp. You drew your dagger from your bodice with your free hand, your other wrist still encircled within his grip. You gasped for breath, instinctively preparing for a fight. As your mind caught up with your body, you recognized your position and lowered your dagger. Your agreement to secrecy wasn’t worth a life.

“To protect you,” you panted.

Wolffe scoffed, his intense glare centered on your face.

“Your brothers hired me—Sinker and Boost. Said there had been attempts on your life, that they wanted me to look after you,”.

Your eyes searched his, praying that he would believe you. The Duke was a fearsome opponent—if this escalated further, you couldn’t guarantee either of you would walk away injury-free.

The door flew open, Boost and Sinker stumbling into the room.

“Are you both alright? What happened?”

Wolffe’s shoulders fell, and his grip on your wrist loosened. Your hand dropped from his grasp. Recognizing that the situation had been diffused, you reinserted the dagger into your bodice.

“A slight misunderstanding on my part,” Wolffe offered to his brothers before turning to you, “I apologize, my Lady,”. He bowed slightly before offering you his arm.

His gaze rose from the floor to your eyes and he looked at you expectantly. You cocked your head, content to let him stew for a moment. The man did drag you by the wrist across the entire ballroom, after all. His eyes narrowed. You returned his intense gaze before smiling slightly when an unrecognizable emotion flashed across his features, pleased that you had managed to get under his skin.

You took his arm tentatively, and he led you back out to the ballroom.

***

Two weeks had passed since your attendance at the charity gala. Boost and Sinker, though initially concerned by the events of the evening, had maintained that you remain in the area should they require your services once more. Your payment from that night would cover your stay at the local inn twelve times over. The town was quaint—its center held a tavern, a church, a few scattered shops, as well as the inn at which you were staying. You had inquired as to where the Duke’s residence was on your second day in town, finding out from the barkeep that his estate lay a few miles from the town outskirts.

The barkeep had said it was a lovely piece of property. He himself had not had the pleasure of visiting, but he had heard tales of its rolling green hills, lush forests, and the clear brook that bubbled just on the edge of the terrain. While you acknowledged the appeal of the property, your mind was much more entranced by its rather solemn proprietor. Your admittedly dull days were spent deep in thought, poring over your final interactions before the evening had ended.

Wolffe led you back into the ballroom, back to the deserted corner in which you two had been conversing before you had suggested some dancing to lighten the mood.

He motioned to a table with his head, pulling out a chair for you to sit in before taking a seat himself.

His eyes, intense and intoxicating, seemed to bore right through your soul. It was unsettling, yet something about his gaze resonated deep within your chest. Your cheeks flushed, against your will. You took another cursory glance about the room, ensuring that no suspicious figures had made themselves known.

“So, you’re a mercenary?”

Your eyes flashed back to the Duke, a slight smile creeping across your face. You nodded.

“I trained with a well-respected swordsman for quite a few years. Took a few odd jobs here and there as a sellsword, but my ‘unusual’ position made me much more suited for espionage. People rarely notice an extra woman in the household—makes it easier to slip in, do what needs to be done, and slip out,”.

Wolffe’s gaze lingered on your face.

“I find it hard to believe that no one would notice you,”

You snorted, crossing your arms and leaning back in your chair. The Duke raised an eyebrow in response. Your behavior could hardly be described as refined—despite your earlier attempts—yet something about your casual air drew Wolffe in more than he’d like to admit.

“Tonight was a one-off. Typically, I’m much more discreet,”.

Wolffe shook his head with a barely-there smile.

“Oh, I’m sure,”.

A knock at the door of your room drew you from your recollections. You grabbed the handle of your dagger from the nightstand before peeking into the door’s spyhole. A courier stood, impatiently shifting from foot to foot, with a letter in hand. You opened the door.

“From Duke Fett,” the courier spoke, before darting off to deliver his next letter. Ensuring that no one had followed the boy to the inn, you closed the door behind you and tore open the letter.

It had been closed by an elaborate red wax seal, and you rolled your eyes before dropping the envelope to the ground. Typical nobility.

You scanned the letter quickly, noting the elegant handwriting marking the page while pacing the floor. It was a dinner invitation. You gulped.

Your experience with the nation’s nobility was admittedly quite limited, and you dreaded making yet another grave social error. Still, the Duke intrigued you, and anything was better than holing up in this godforsaken inn for yet another evening. You searched for your quill to pen a reply, but on a second reading of the letter, you noticed that the author had made no mention of an RSVP. The Duke had simply stated his wish for your presence at dinner. You assumed that he was not a man used to the denial of such wishes. You placed your quill back into its case, and readied a gown for the evening ahead.

***

A carriage was at your door three hours later. You took one last glance in the mirror—your gown was a deep blue, with a concealed pocket hidden within its skirt. Your dagger rested comfortably against your hip. You turned away from your reflection to meet the footman at the door. He helped you into the carriage before taking his seat at its front. You watched as the town slowly faded from view, little buildings being replaced by the moor surrounding the town. Low-lying shrubbery and taller grasses swayed in the wind, flashes of purple and green arraying the tawny scenery. You spotted a swatch of trees in the distance. The barkeep had mentioned something about a forest, right? That must be the edge of the Duke’s estate.

The carriage rumbled along the road, until the well-kept path grew over with the same grasses blanketing the moor. You furrowed your brow. Were you in the right place? Your hand travelled to the dagger at your hip. One could never be too careful, you reasoned.

The carriage stopped abruptly, nearly shaking you from your seat. Before you stood a large iron gate, flanked on both sides by tall evergreens. The footman stepped off the carriage to open the gate, its doors swinging open to reveal a wide cobblestone path. The horses’ hooves clacked rhythmically against the stone. Your eyes traced the path, following it to where it met its end and widening at what you saw.

Fett Manor was, quite simply, breathtaking. Dark grey stone, blanketed in ivy, rose up tall from the well-maintained gardens. Candles flickered in the many windows, giving the manor a gentle glow as it imposed upon the dusk-reddened sky. The carriage stopped at the crest of the U-shaped drive. You looked out at the tall oak doors, tentatively stepping out of the carriage and refusing the footman’s aid.

You marched up the front steps, tapping your knuckles gently at the door. You glanced over your shoulder at the footman, and to your surprise, he was already gone. The clacking of the horses’ hooves was still audible—the footman must have headed back to the livery stable.

The large doors swung open smoothly, and you were greeted by the sight of a kind-faced elderly woman. Her hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and her simple dress indicated that she was part of the staff. You offered a gentle smile.

You introduced yourself, dropping into a deep curtsy. The woman gave a small chuckle.

“There’s no need for that, dearie. I’m just the housekeeper,”.

Your cheeks heated as you rose from your curtsy.

The woman motioned for you to enter. You stepped inside tentatively, observing the high ceiling and grand staircase. The floors and stairs were solid and wooden, and the décor was elegant if not a bit dated. The manor seemed to walk the line between homey and formal. In your time as a mercenary, you had learned that a person’s surroundings could tell you much about their character. What did this tell you about the Duke?

“This way,” the woman spoke, leading you through the great room and into the dining room.

Boost and Sinker were already seated at the long oaken able, grinning when they saw you enter.

“Good evening, gentlemen,”.

The formality seemed to drip from your tone. Were you alone, you might have laughed at the pretense.

They offered you a greeting in response, before diving into the meat of the conversation.

“My lady, before our brother arrives, we have to ask you something,” Boost stated.

“Ask away,” you smiled.

“I’m sure the inn is quite nice, but would you consider staying at the estate? Just last week, the gardener spotted someone attempting to enter the premises through the back gate. Wolffe dealt with em’, but he’s been on edge, lately. Might do him good to know he’s not the only one on the lookout all the time,”.

Sinker exchanged a look with his brother.

Fett’s estate was certainly preferable to your rather cramped room at the inn, and if nothing else, you could spend your days wandering the moors instead of your one-room apartment.

“I accept,”.

“Accept what?”

You spun in your seat to face the Duke. He rolled his overcoat off his shoulders and took a seat at the head of the table, directly opposite you.

“We have a new houseguest, Wolffe,” Sinker grinned.

Wolffe glanced incredulously at Boost, as if to check whether or not he had heard his brother correctly. Boost shrugged as Wolffe settled into his seat at the head of the table.

“She’s gonna stay in one of the spare rooms so she can keep an eye out for you—maybe you can get some real sleep for once,” Boost said with a grin.

Wolffe nodded slowly.

“Alright,” he turned to address the housekeeper, who stood patiently in the doorway. “Mrs. Nu, would you mind preparing a room for our guest?”

The woman nodded swiftly before exiting the room with a twirl of her skirt, leaving you alone with the Duke and his two brothers.

“So you’re an assassin, right? Does that mean you always carry a weapon—”

The Duke cleared his throat rather loudly, interrupting Sinker’s stream of questions.

“Was your stay in town pleasant, my lady?”

You nodded.

“Very much so, your grace. I’d like to thank you for your invitation to dinner this evening, as well,”.

A sommelier materialized from behind you, filling your glass half-full with a dark red liquid.

“Mulberry wine,” Boost clarified. “The cook makes it himself in the summertime,”.

You uttered a quiet ‘thank you’ to the sommelier before taking a sip. It was sweet, the flavor of summer-ripened berries fresh and warm on your tongue. You set the glass back down on the sturdy oak table, taking a moment to admire its fine craftsmanship. Your eyes flicked back up to the Duke, whose gaze met yours as he raised his own glass to his lips. His accented voice cut the silence.

“Did you find time to visit the bookseller while in town? I’m told he has a new translation of The Odyssey in stock,”.

You shook your head.

“I’m afraid I didn’t. Are you quite partial to Homer’s works, sir?”

“I am, my lady,”.

You grinned.

“I myself prefer Virgil, but I cannot cast blame on your respect for the Blind Poet,”.

Wolffe hummed in approval as your eyes darted over to his brothers, who had been watching your exchange with increasing interest. Sinker cleared his throat.

“Are you fond of riding, my lady? I’m sure the Duke would be pleased to have you accompany him," Sinker paused, blinked, and in an instant turned as red as the Manor's garden roses. "--on his journey into town, that is. You could collect your belongings from the inn, as well,”.

Boost snorted as Wolffe choked on his drink. Your eyes widened as you absorbed what you hoped was an accidental innuendo. Your face rivaled Sinker’s in redness. Your mind reeled for a response, hoping to smooth over the embarrassment.

“I—I do have some experience on horseback. I’d like to visit the bookseller—if the Duke doesn’t mind the company, of course,”.

Your gaze traveled back to the Duke’s face.

“I’d be much delighted, my lady,”.

You smiled lightly. It was settled.

***

Your first night spent in Fett Manor was nothing if not memorable. After a rich dinner rife with conversation, you had been lead by Mrs. Nu to one of the most luxurious rooms you had seen in your life. A silk nightdress rested across the fine linen bedspread.

“I figured it would be more comfortable to sleep in than your corset, dearie,” Mrs. Nu had said.

Comfortable had been an understatement. You woke up late in the morning feeling more well-rested than you had been in years.

You tugged the down comforter up to your chin and extended your legs under the covers with a sigh. Light filtered in through the window, covering the room in a golden haze. You needed to get up.

You flipped back the covers with an exaggerated sigh, your bare feet meeting the cold wooden floor. You scooped up your gown, which you had rested carefully on a rather stately chair in the corner of the room. Your fingers coasted over the hem of your nightdress—you made a mental note to thank Mrs. Nu for lending it to you.

Once you had redonned your significantly less comfortable gown, you opened the door to your room and strolled down the spiral staircase to the great room.

The house felt surprisingly empty—a glance at the clock told you it was later than you had previously thought. Still, unease prickled at your spine. You peeked around the corner into the kitchen—it was empty, save for a plate of scones that had been left out from breakfast. You took one in your hand, biting into it as you continued your search.

A clang from outside the manor caught your attention. You hastily made your way to the side door, flinging it open with one hand as your other curled around the dagger in your dress. Your scone fell to the floor, forgotten.

Your lips parted in astonishment. The door had opened to reveal the Duke, with an elaborate silver spear in hand. His broad chest rose up and down as he spun the weapon with surprising speed and grace for a man of his size. Your eyes traced the strong lines of his arms, following all the way down to where his hands wrapped tightly around the spear. You drew in a sharp breath.

The Duke turned abruptly, lowering the weapon as recognition crossed his features.

“I apologize for the interruption, your grace,” you stuttered out, sheathing your dagger back into your skirt.

“It’s alright, my lady,” Wolffe assured. He rested the spear against the garden wall. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, thank you,”. Your eyes danced back over to the spear. “An unconventional choice of weapon,” you noted.

The Duke’s eyes followed your gaze over to the spear before locking back on your face.

“I am a man of unconventional tastes,” he replied.

You nodded politely. He intrigued you––his skill with a weapon was undeniable. You had assumed you’d be able to hold your own against him in a fight before, but his use of the spear certainly changed the game. You made up your mind to review defensive tactics against spears once you returned from the bookseller. Wolffe posed no iminent danger to you, but he did present himself as a rather attractive sparring partner. You grinned slightly.

Wolffe turned back around to his spear, wiping off the point and grip with a silk cloth before making his way to the door. You followed, nearly tripping over a rosebush as your skirt caught on its thorns. His hand came to your shoulder instinctively. You inhaled sharply.

“I—I’ll have the stable boy ready the horses,” he murmured. He left your side in a swirl of disturbed air, the slam of the door to his study cutting through the morning silence. You huffed. You supposed his abruptness was typical for his demeanor and not a reaction to some perceived slight against him. At least you’d have time to eat.

You plucked another scone from the kitchen counter. You strolled over to the window near the wash basin, looking out the window to examine the property. Just behind the glass lay the garden where the Duke had practiced his spear-wielding. Further on, you saw a well-manicured lawn, and even further––at the base of the hill––trees sprung up at the lawn’s border. The forest stretched as far as you could see, though in between the thick evergreen branches you were certain you spied a glimpse of running water. That must have been the brook the barkeep had talked about.

Satisfied with your cursory examination of the terrain, you turned back around to face the kitchen, leaning comfortably against the countertop. To your left was an array of fine china, and to your right sat a full shelf of exotic spices. You meandered over to the spice rack, selecting a small jar of saffron and allowing the weight of the glass to roll across your palm. That small jar was worth as much as three weeks of your income. Despite the luxury he lived in, you knew the Duke was far from selfish. After the charity gala, you had examined the donor breakdown. Wolffe had contributed enough to singlehandedly sustain the orphanage for at least a year. Your brows furrowed. Typically, you were quick to figure out these old-money types, but the Duke seemed to be a conundrum. He was quiet, but made use of the words he spoke. Intelligent, with a military background—you suspected that was how he obtained his scar. He was wealthy, but if he didn’t give so much to charity, he’d surely be one of the richest men in Coruscant—aside from the king, of course. As you returned the saffron to the spice rack, your fingers caught on a small leather-bound notebook. You pried it out from between the thyme and oregano, flipping back the cover to reveal pages of recipes in neat, structured print. You noticed Wolffe’s name under one of the more recent ones. You chucked to yourself—he seemed to be full of surprises.

Another glance out the window revealed two horses––one black and one white––stationed just outside the garden walls. You darted out of the kitchen to the front door, almost startled when the Duke emerged silently from his study to walk at your side.

“Do you ride side-saddle, my lady?”

“I do,” you offered, curtsying slightly as he opened the heavy oak door and motioned for you to exit.

The white horse had already been fitted with an elaborate leather saddle, nicer than anything you had ridden on in your life. Hell, you rode bareback most of the time. You turned to Wolffe, whose lips curved into the beginnings of a grin. You smiled in return.

“Can I—” you motioned to the horse.

“Be my guest,” he replied.

***

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