He had given her this. The chance to be seen as respectable. She was truly grateful to him for this opportunity to become something by herself, and she had not really expressed it in so many words.

The problem was that Richard never let anything become serious between them. He always found a way to make a joke. A filthy one, usually.

It was endearing but she knew it was a mask. No one wanted to stay funny all the time unless they were the court jester. And even jesters probably wept into their pillows after spending all day making fools laugh.

When he returned from London, she was going to make sure he listened to her. Properly listened.

He was going to listen and understand just how much she appreciated everything he had done.

Soon, the carriage arrived at the Kingsmere estate. Livia adjusted her veil, and helped herself out before the footman could fully reach her. The evening air was cool against her face, and she took one careful breath, trying to steady the strange fullness in her chest.

She had done well today. Before she could gather herself properly, she felt her body being spun around and slammed into a solid wall of chest.

Richard’s arms were suddenly around her, her body pressed against his, his face buried in her hair.

Her veil went askew. "Oh wow," she laughed, startled, her hands trapped awkwardly between them. "There seems to be a lot of that going round today." She meant Bella’s mother with the warm embrace and the sudden gratitude.

She had no idea what storm was moving through Richard. She did not hear the violent thud of his heart. She did not know he had stood in that courtyard since Lionel left, watching the road like a condemned man waiting for the final bell. She did not know that every sound of wheels, every distant hoofbeat, every shifting shadow had made his heart flip.

She did not know he had been praying she would return. One more evening where she was still here. One more moment before he had to decide whether to be honourable, selfish, or some terrible mixture of both.

After this one more day, Richard did not know what to do.

"Your Grace?" Livia called softly.

The embrace had gone on too long. It was more than a welcome. His hands were firm at her back, and his breathing was unsteady against her hair.

He pulled back. Her lips parted with confusion. She looked beautiful. His. No. Not his. It seemed as if he would finally release her.

Instead, Richard lowered his head and kissed her. It was sudden, fierce, and full of everything he had no right to feel.

Livia froze. The guards saw. The coachman saw. The stable boys saw. Richard was kissing her in full view of everyone.

Completely, publicly, recklessly.

Her hands went to his chest. Her mind stumbled over itself. Did he not know people were watching? He was a duke. She was a woman with a false name, a false history, and a borrowed respectability thin enough to tear under one careless rumour.

What was he trying to do? Ruin her? Behind closed doors, she had not completely minded kissing him. But in front of people? In front of his servants, his guards, his household?

A duke could survive scandal. Women like her were buried by it. She may not have high hopes of being with a nobleman, but if God ever decided she was to marry a guard, a clerk, a tradesman, anyone respectable enough to give her a name without asking too many questions, he would already see her as ruined.

That was how the world worked. A duke could be reckless and still be invited to dinner. A woman like her could lose a future she had not even built yet.

Livia pushed herself away from him. Richard let her go at once, but his hands hovered, his body had not yet accepted the command. "What do you think you are doing, Your Grace?" she demanded. Her voice shook. She was quite sure it wasn’t entirely with desire, though God help her, some of that was there too. It shook with fear, anger, the sudden, painful memory that no matter how fine the gown, no matter how proper the veil, respectability could be torn from a woman in one careless moment.

Richard stared at her, breathing hard. "I was kissing you," he said, as if that explained anything. "And I intend to continue." He stepped toward her again.

Livia quickly moved back frantically until her back hit the side of the carriage. The coachman looked away. The guards stood stiff. "There are people here!" she hissed.

Richard glanced around briefly. "So?"

"So, you do not do that. You do not kiss me like I am already yours to display." Livia was too upset to stop. "Do you not know how the world works?" she asked. "Or have you always been too high above it to care?"

Richard’s jaw tightened. "I have never been one to follow societal expectations."

"You may not," Livia snapped, "but I do, Your Grace. This could ruin me," she said.

"For who?" Richard asked before wisdom could stop him. "For Henry?"

Livia’s eyes turned deadly. She reached up and yanked the veil from her head. The delicate fabric came loose in her fist, leaving her dark and now short hair exposed, her face flushed with fury. "Do you still see me as the whore from Beaumont’s?"

Richard’s brows rose. "What?"

The question struck him so hard he forgot to breathe. That thought had never even occurred to him not even when he wanted her so badly it made him stupid.

"Why would you say that?" he asked.

"Isn’t that what you are treating me as? A whore to be physically used and tossed aside when done?" Livia stepped forward, clutching the veil in her hand. "I was on the way here thinking to properly thank you when you got back from London. I was thinking of how to make you understand what you have given me. A chance to be seen as respectable."