Seven was too bloody loud as he circled and jumped around Sasha's feet. West was still frozen in his spot, blinking in disbelief as she bent down to gather the dog in her arms with a smile.

He did not even realize he was holding his breath until he heard her say to Seven, "I missed you, little rascal."

The air he was holding in was snatched from him. Her voice the deafening silence despite Seven's whimpers and tiny barks. Or perhaps it was just him, wrapped in a bubble of disbelief and ringing silence. Or maybe he was merely having an illusion. Too many months without her, of constantly knowing she was out there somewhere; many nights of watching her carriage outside his villa in Coulway, aware that she was inside, barely getting a glimpse of her.

Days ago, she sent him a message she was to become the new Mistress of the Court of Flowers. She knew he would not like it; he was certain of it. Yet she did it because she was free to make her own decisions as Darcy. And it was undeniably an advantageous one.

His jaw tightened as he watched her bury herself in Seven's neck, cradling the dog into her arm while him, West Blackwood, Duke of Eaton, her lover and fiancé whom she had not touched or shared a breath in months, was standing a few paces away, motionless like a useless marble statue, put to shame by Seven's eager and greedy whimpers.

"Right," Darren said rather awkwardly, clearing his throat. "I will leave you to it." And before anyone could ask for it, his valet walked out of the room and locked the door.

She turned away from him and walked to the door, unlocked it, and gently placed Seven outside with one last pat and a whispered promise. The dog whimpered, wagging its tail, ran off.

Then she straightened and quietly closed the door. The sound of the lock vibrated in the air around them. Slowly, she turned and faced him, her brown hair swept to the side, her bluish-grey eyes smiling at him with a bittersweet smile.

For a long breathless moment, as if the world had stopped turning to watch the two of them face each other, West found himself just staring, just taking in the entire form of her. To watch her walking around ballrooms in the arms of another man, prince or not, had been torture. And now, to watch her standing there in front of his study door, knowing she would soon disappear back into the very place he did not want her in, was agony.

Her eyes asked why he just stood there. He wanted to say he could not move, or was afraid to. But he had no words. She looked utterly calm, remarkably composed, as she always tried to be since they agreed to do this. But West knew better. It was all a façade, a product of her powerful will to achieve their goals. And when he saw her open her mouth just a tiny bit and heard the shaky breath that escaped her, he rushed toward her. Three long strides and he pulled her into his arms, crashing her against his length and buried his face in her hair, just right there in the crook of her neck and shoulder.

Her arms wrapped around him and West believed he heard her whimper, although she would never admit to it later. He breathed the smell of her, a fragrance he only had a hint of whenever he would deliberately walk past her in the parties they attended while she was with Rothsker.

Swallowing the tears lodged in his throat, blinking away the fiery liquid at the back of his eyes, West pulled back and cupped her face in his shaky hands. Her eyes were glimmering with unshed tears. Her mouth quivered and his nostrils flared.

"I love you," was all he could whisper. It was barely a whisper, even. It was a sigh.

"And I you," she whispered back, her tone with a hint of amusement. "Will you kiss me now?"

His jaw tightened. "Darling, I'm afraid that if I do, I will never let you walk away," he admitted, but he did it anyway.

He bent his head and opened his mouth over hers, and the same overwhelming sensation of having her in his arms this way came over him. Her mouth was pliant, welcoming, hungry, and eager as he was. The taste of her tongue gave him a hint of the tea she had earlier, one he ought to have had with her.

But no matter, she was here. He did not even know for how long. He did not want to ask. It could be an hour, a day, or a week. More than that would be a blessing.

"Take me to bed," she begged, her arms tight around him.

He groaned and swept her in his arms. And carried her to the settee. "Will we have time for a decent bed later?" he husked, his entire being in a rush because he did not know for how long he could have her. He laid her on her back against the soft cushion before climbing on top of her, his hands busy with her cloak and the skirts of her dress.

She chuckled, and he almost cried. "We have much more than that," she said in reply, a promise.

"Will this bed do, then?" he rasped against her jaw, his teeth scraping against her skin. Desire and lust were suddenly overpowering that there was shamelessly no room for more. Carnal, yes, but it was still them. It was her. This was him with her. And that was the difference.

The rustling of the fabrics between them as they pulled and tugged was nowhere close to the pounding inside his chest. His mouth devoured her as his hands traveled to her familiar planes, discovering them anew, igniting the passion which, in the past, had been the only thing they had. Everything else that came afterward was being put aside, stripped with each garment he peeled off her. Except for love. Making love to Sasha would always be just that—love. However he may do it, in whatever manner or place, it would always be that.

She let out a shaky breath as his mouth covered her breast over her thin chemise, her hands raking his hair. She tugged at the strands, arching her hips as she felt him between her legs, bold and impulsive.

"This bed will do for now," she said with a long, hot breath as he eased himself inside her, finding home.

"I'm sorry," he achingly groaned in her ear as he moved, unapologetically careless and rough.

But she was Sasha, and her response would always amaze him. She met his force with equal measure, his hunger with greed, and his need with whimpers of want.

Later, sated and fully aware of each other, West pulled her up, wrapping her in her cloak with no intention of putting the rest of her clothing into place; he gave her a long, lazy kiss. He swallowed, lost in her bluish-grey globes. She wrapped her legs around his hips, the skirts of her dress pooled around her hips and thighs. Neither of them was ashamed of the state they were in. It felt natural for them because this was them.

"You are beautiful," he whispered, kissing the tip of her nose. "And you are stupid."

She chuckled and nuzzled her face against his neck, inhaling deeply as her arms wound around him. Moaning as he kneaded her breast, traveling to her waist, then her hips, she smiled against his neck. "I knew you were going to say that, Your Grace," she said.

Pulling her head back, she raised to her knees and looked down on him, her hair a beautiful mess around her, a few strands glowing yellow against the sunlight. She shrugged off her cloak, smiling down at him, saying nothing.

He knew her plans. He knew why she was doing them. His heart did not agree, but she was right. She had to leave him again soon. He pushed the thought at the dark corners of his mind, focusing to the now.

The dress fell to the floor, followed by her drawers, leaving her with nothing but her chemise; his dress shirt flew to the back of the settee.

The lovemaking was slower this time. And quiet, even. They savored, they stared. He tucked damp locks of hair behind her ear as she moved above him. He trailed soft kisses on her brows, her nose, the corner of her lips.

Words were silent as they succumbed to their body's needs. Just a few more moments. Just another afternoon.

Just another day.

⠒♣◆♣⠒

"Where do they think you are now?" West asked.

After their time in the study, they locked themselves in his bedchamber where dinner was served.

They made love again late that night. This time in bed. In the privacy of his bedchamber, they took their time. They talked and teased. They laughed. Then they were silent again.

Hours later, they ordered for a bath which they were sharing now. As West lathered soap on her shoulder blades from behind her, he finally asked the question.

"They think my flower has locked me away inside his villa for two weeks to bid farewell before I leave him to return to Belcourt."

West scoffed. "And Rothsker is willingly staying inside his villa for the entire two weeks?"

She smiled, turning her head to the side to plant a kiss on his hand there. "Yes."

He let the quiet sound of the night from the open window reign, trying to guess what she was thinking. But then he realized that with Sasha, he may be right but he could also be wrong for she would always do the unexpected.

"I'm afraid, darling," he said, stopping his task to wrap his arms around her under the water, suddenly overcome with fear. "Just stay here," he choked. "With me."

"Very tempting, darling, but I have things to do inside Belcourt."

"You can do them outside where it is safe."

"You know I'll never be safe outside. Not now at the very least."

His jaw tightened. She was right. If she left Belcourt, she would never be safe. She could marry him and he could offer her protection, but too much was at stake. They would be targeted—she would be targeted.

"I will not be long," she whispered. "Before you know it, I will be out."

"I would love to know how you plan that to happen, love," he wryly said.

Her answer was a chuckle and a sigh. "You know who I want to find in Belcourt."

The High Priestess.

As if she heard his thoughts, she added, "Once I unveil her identity, West, we will know who to focus our attention to. Knowing who is in control means know what they want."

"And knowing what they want means knowing their weakness."

"I see you have been practicing chess."

He scoffed. "And the rumors about Napoleon?"

"We cannot say," she said with a sigh. "The longer I am surrounded by the Belles, the more I realize that genuine information is scarce to find. It is nothing but high-society gossip, West, as far as I am concerned. There are whispers, but if Belcourt has any connection whatsoever with Napoleon, I would like to be the first to know. The proof the Circus found last year could be circumstantial. We need to prove it first."

"I heard that Sutherland is drawing soldiers out of the battlegrounds."

"To what? To send them to Napoleon or to send them home?"

He kissed her shoulder. "That we are uncertain."

"The mission into the Stanway estate was fruitless."

"Not entirely. We realized Stanway has something to hide."

"Have you sent Reginald a note?"

"Done, my lady," he said, unwrapping his arms and gently guiding her around so she faced him. Cramped in the tub, they snuggled closer. "He will relocate as advised." Grabbing her hands in his, he relished on the satisfying soapy glide of his thumbs against the back of her fingers. His light blue eyes searched hers. "And Ruby?"

She nodded. "Fine." Her hands ran up his chest and shoulders. "Willoghby?"

He smiled. "Still wondering when he'll get killed. Otherwise, he is fine."

Her fingers slowly raked through his damp hair. "I am afraid I will be insatiable tonight, West."

He groaned, feeling her slide against him under the water. "A man can only have enough energy, darling," he complained half-heartedly, bending down to take the tip of her breast into his mouth.

"You do not have to move," she whispered in his ear as she lowered herself unto him.

⠒♣◆♣⠒

The next day was different. They spent it outside in the meadow with Seven. They walked along the uneven paths in the woods nearby, holding hands, talking about their plans for the future, of where she would disappear and hide if forced to escape Belcourt; of how he would get to her; or if they could change Belcourt, where they would wed and who would she love to be at the wedding.

They dreamed for hours, loudly, as if they were willing the wind to carry them to God Himself.

They would stop and kiss now and then, their muffled laughter echoing with the sound of crickets and animals hiding behind bushes.

Then later that afternoon, they had tea in the garden. West said they had to stay outdoors. "One glance at a door that led to any room is dangerous when I'm with you," he told her, taking her hand in his over the table whilst leaning his cheek with the other to stare at her. "I have twelve more days to be with you. It seems a lot, now that I think of it."

Sasha playfully narrowed her eyes. "You seem to want to be rid of me."

"No, quite the opposite. I want to lock you in the room. It would be the best reward for me; and a good punishment for you." He sighed and leaned back into his chair, letting go of her hand. "Sometimes, I stare at you and I hate you. But then I love you enough to reason that you are doing the right thing."

This time she laughed. "That is precisely what I feel whenever I look at Rothsker." She leaned over and took his hand. She bent down and kissed it. "I look at him and then I suddenly hate him because he is not the man I want to be with, but I love you enough to bear it."

"He seems to be the fun kind."

"He reminds me why I prefer the brooding sorts," she said with a sigh.

"I am not a brooding sort."

"Do not jest, West. You are." She shrugged. Leaning back into her chair, she let the sunlight wash over her entire form. "Rothsker is too... shall I say untamed?"

"He had been living on his own too long. His father was a presence he never felt but always knew was there."

"St. Vincent seems more established than him, don't you think?"

"St. Vincent is a child."

"Yes, and Rothsker is an infant."

He looked around. "Should we go back inside before anyone hears us talk so unkindly about Rothsker?"

He knew they were safe here. The garden was walled and could only be accessed by anyone who gained entrance into the estate.

Before he could add another witty remark, she jumped to her feet without another word. He followed behind her, not knowing where she intended to go, certain what she had in mind.

He cleared his throat when she continued down the corridor to the library. "That's not the way to a bed, darling."

"What are you talking about, Your Grace?" she laughingly asked without turning. "You are my bed."

He caught her from behind and hitched her to his side with so much ease.

"West!" she hissed, laughing at the same time. "Put me down!"

"I'm sorry, darling," he replied, turning to the door that led to the library. "I am but a bed. I hear nothing."

The slamming of the door and the muffled laughter were carried down the corridor that afternoon.

For the first time in many months, the servants at Everleigh felt the manor come alive again.