"I don’t understand," Livia said.

"We cannot let anyone from Beaumont’s recognise you," he explained. "If the wrong person sees you walking through London, word spreads. Then Beaumont hears." He shook his head. "You have to change your look, your name. You have to become employable by respectable nobles."

Livia looked down at herself. The gown she wore belonged to one of the household servants, borrowed until proper clothing could be arranged. It fit poorly around the shoulders and slightly too tightly around the chest, a problem Richard found he wasn’t particularly bothered by.

"Oooooh..." she sighed. "I don’t think there is much that can be changed about me."

Richard’s eyes swept over her. "Why don’t you leave it to me?" he asked.

That should have frightened her. Leave it to me. Men had said similar things before. Beaumont had said them. Her father had said them. Even Henry had said them. Men always wanted women to surrender decisions neatly into their hands.

Richard’s version felt different. He reached for the door handle to his chamber. "Is that all," he asked casually, "or do you want to come in with me? I’m sure I will not recognise you without clothes on."

She sighed again. "Will you stop doing that?"

"I can’t help myself." He pushed the door open slightly, leaning closer with wicked satisfaction. "It is very satisfying watching you fluster."

"I don’t get flustered."

Richard smiled. It was useless to argue with her. He would not win. He had learned that much already. Livia could be half-dead, half-dressed, half-starved, and still find the strength to argue. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

So instead of answering, he moved a little closer.

Livia’s eyes narrowed at once. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

She opened her mouth to respond, but his fingers came up gently, brushing the loose fall of her hair back from her face. The words died in her throat.

There was still a small healing scar near the side of her head, half-hidden beneath the strands. Richard’s smile faded.

He touched her carefully. The sight of that scar offended him. "Does your head still hurt?" he asked.

"No," she whispered.

Richard’s gaze dropped briefly to hers. He was too close, and his fingers were still near her hair, and the corridor had suddenly become far too narrow for a house this large.

Livia made to take a step back. His other hand came down to hold her by the waist enough to stop her from retreating. Her breath caught anyway.

"I don’t bite, Diana."

"I didn’t say you did."

"That just translates to you don’t have to close up whenever I come close," he said.

Livia looked away. The problem was not that she feared him. If she feared him, it would be simple. She knew what to do with fear.

Richard was dangerous because he made her laugh when she wanted to be guarded. Because he offered help. Because he saw the real her, not the one from Beaumont’s brothel.

"I just..." she began, then stopped.

Richard waited. His silence gave her too much room to hear herself. "I..."

What was she supposed to say? That she didn’t want him to come close because her will might break because she was grateful to him?

He looked at her and then her eyes caught him completely off guard. "God," he breathed. "Your eyes."

"My Lord—"

"I’m going to kiss you. Please."

Please. He had begged. He — Richard Montague had just requested a kiss. Henry would absolutely love this. If Henry ever found out, Lionel would never hear the end of it.

What was happening to him? This wasn’t him. He didn’t say please, surely not for a kiss. He didn’t feel his pulse in his throat just because her eyes were undoing him and her breasts were pushed against his chest.

His gaze dropped to her lips. They had parted — in protest or acceptance, he genuinely couldn’t determine. Her eyes were unsure. Wide and dark and very, very unsure. His fingers tightened at her waist. Stay, he thought. Don’t move. Just — stay exactly where you are and let me—

He just wanted to know. That was all. What she felt like. What she tasted like. One answer to one question and then perhaps he could locate his sanity and return to being a reasonable man. He leaned in.

Slowly... Giving her every opportunity to decide. His lips were a breath away from hers — close enough that the distance was a technicality, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her exhale — when she moved.

Away.

Fuck!

"I’m sorry." She stepped back, and the absence of her was unreasonable. "I’m sorry — I — I can’t." Her voice was unsteady. Her eyes wouldn’t quite meet his. "Excuse me."

And then she was gone — slipping past him with her head down.

"I said please," Richard whispered. He stood there like an idiot, one hand still half-raised, staring at the empty space where she had been.

Livia ran all the way back to her room, ignoring the sharp warning in her head with every hurried step. By the time she reached her chamber, tears were stinging her eyes. She shut the door, rested her back against it, and slid to the ground. "Henry, where are you?" she whispered, hugging her knees. "Please, where are you?"

The duke didn’t deserve her rejection. Richard was arrogant, wicked, shameless, and far too pleased with the sound of his own voice, but he had also saved her life. He had given her shelter. Food. A nurse. A room. A future that did not involve Beaumont or some old man with coin and a dying body. He had offered her work when she asked for dignity.

She didn’t want to be ungrateful. She had made a commitment to Henry. Foolish perhaps. Fragile, certainly. But it was hers. She did not plan on breaking it, not unless she had done her very best.

*****

Richard’s mission to transform Livia was well underway. In the days that followed, several things were done to her, most of them unpleasant and all of them expensive. A woman from Richard’s household staff took charge.

"This hair," the woman announced, lifting Livia’s long strands with two fingers, "is memorable."

"I thought that was good."

"Not when we are trying to hide you."

So the hair went first. Not all of it, to Livia’s relief. But the long strands that ha once fallen below her back were shortened to just below her shoulders. Then they altered the colour with dark walnut rinse and herbal washes until the familiar shade deepened.

Her skin came next. She was bathed in warm water scented with rosemary, lavender, and rose petals. Her hands were softened with almond oil. Her face was gently washed with milk, honey, and rosewater until it glowed. She had to go through this everyday of the week.

Her wardrobe changed too. Gone were borrowed servant gowns and anything that clung too closely to Beaumont’s memory. In their place came respectable dresses of wool, linen, and silk, modest enough for noble households. Veils were included to match her outfits, useful for church, travel, and any moment when she needed to lower her face without raising suspicion.

At some point, Livia began to fear that she was digging herself into an even bigger debt with Richard.

The gowns. The shoes. The gloves. The veils. The hair treatments. The scented baths. The endless little bottles of oils and washes that appeared in her room. It seemed beauty itself had accounts with the Duke of Kingsmere.

How was she supposed to repay him for all of this? She had asked for work, not a rebirth. Every time a servant laid out another dress, Livia felt both grateful and trapped. Richard had said nothing of repayment. Men who stated their price were easier to understand.

Still, she could not deny the mirror. The woman looking back at her was not Livia from Beaumont’s. Her hair now fell just below her shoulders, darker, neater, pinned with elegance beneath a thin veil. The gown she wore was modest but fine, a soft, respectable thing that made her look educated, not available.

Soon, it was time for her to be presented. Richard had made sure to stay away from her all week, claiming he needed to test the theory that he would not be able to identify her at first glance.

It worked out well enough for Richard anyway because he had been feeling a little shitty since their encounter outside his bedroom door.

He had pushed too far. He knew that. The memory still embarrassed him, which was new and unpleasant. He had said please. He had leaned in. He had wanted to kiss her when she was still bruised and held back by whatever promise she was holding onto for that blasted merchant named Henry.

He promised himself he would not let it happen again. He did not want her thinking he was being an asshole because of where she came from. He did not want her imagining that because he had pulled her from Beaumont’s alley, he now expected her to fall into his bed out of thanks.