Precisely fourteen days after the Duke of Abermont had proposed to her, Vivian stood beside him at the newly constructed altar in his family’s parlor and prayed to God that she was making the right decision.

The old grandfather clock in the hall chimed eight in the morning, signaling the beginning of the wedding. Vivian grasped the bouquet of lilacs tightly in her hand, her knuckles no doubt whitening from the force of her hold. The flowers were the same color as the silk dress she wore, with its lavender netting, spangles, and long train.

She glanced over her shoulder at the assembled coterie. James’s friends and family, for the ceremony had been arranged too swiftly for her to write to her old friends in Devon. She shouldn’t have been surprised by the efficiency with which the Spencer family had arranged the wedding. Everything they did was quick and well organized, with nary a detail forgotten.

Still, she wished she had someone from back home. Someone who’d help her remember that she could remain largely the same person she’d always been, even when surrounded with such opulence. Someone who would console her when the threat on her life made her doubt the wisdom of staying instead of running.

Upon a nod from James, the minister opened his common prayer book and began to read in a sonorous tone, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony...”

Surreptitiously, she peered out from behind her veil at the duke, standing on her left side. Her eyes traveled from his startlingly black crop of hair, those smooth waves she wanted so badly to run her fingers through, to his wide forehead and his rounded chin. This man, with his hawk nose and his serious eyes that seemed to track her every movement, would be her husband. She’d see him every morning and end her days with him.

It had been so long since she’d been excited by the prospect of anything so truly scintillating, she’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

As the minister addressed the congregation, explaining that the purpose of marriage was primarily to procreate, Vivian’s nails dug deeper into the ribbon around the bouquet. She let her eyes drift down James’s frame, her cheeks pinking at the mere thought of being that close to him.

Of being with him. He stood with his strapping shoulders back, his kerseymere coat expertly tailored to display his muscular chest. And his pantaloons, God help her, his pantaloons were skin-tight, the drop front hugging that private area of his body she most certainly should not be pondering.

The masculinity of him almost took her breath away. How positively sinful, to have these stirrings of desire for him when she ought to be focused on pledging her obedience to him.

“I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgement when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed...” The minister’s eagle-eyed glare zeroed in on her, as if he could sense the tawdry turn Vivian’s thoughts had taken. “If either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it.”

Vivian gulped. Would anyone offer a protest? It would make sense if the Spencers didn’t want a lowly governess sullying their aristocratic bloodline. She chanced a glance at Abermont’s three sisters, who flocked her on the right. Lady Elinor schooled her features into absolute blandness. Beside her, Lady Korianna appeared amused by everything she saw. And Miss Spencer simply smiled at Vivian as though she couldn’t wait to welcome her into the family.

Vivian decided she liked her the best.

When no one spoke up, the minister continued. “Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

James didn’t hesitate. The surety in his voice fortified her. “I will.”

The minister repeated the same questions to Vivian, but her focus wasn’t on his words. She saw James. The reassurance in his eyes. His crooked smile. Somehow his presence made her feel stronger—though certainly not more at ease.

And so when it came to be her turn, she said resolutely, “I will.”

When the priest asked who would give her away, Vivian’s heart tugged. She’d always thought Evan would be the one to give her away. If only he could be here!

Instead, Lord Haley came forward, presenting Vivian to the minister. Perhaps that was fitting, for Haley did so remind her of her own brother, with his glib grin and his sandy brown hair.

The minister gestured for her to hold James’s right hand in hers. Silk to the softest kid leather, their palms touched, leaving her wondering what it would be like to feel his hand on hers without such impediments.

“Repeat after me,” the minister indicated. “I, James Alexander Spencer, take thee, Vivian Eloise Loren to be my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

James’s deep voice rang out through the crowded room, rich and clear. His eyes shone with intensity, while the set of his mouth was earnest. He meant every word he said, if Vivian was as adept at reading him as she wanted to believe.

I plight thee my troth.

They loosened hands. She missed the solidity of his contact, the way he made her feel like she wasn’t alone.

As the priest repeated the vows for her, she tried to conquer the anxiety waging war within her. If she said those vows, if she pledged her soul to him, there was be no going back. She’d be his.

Quickly, so quickly she would have missed it had her gaze not been locked on him, James winked. Her heart beat faster, and for a minute, she wished she could speed up time. To get to the point where they were alone—free of this pomp and circumstance. Where they could be simply two people.

She reached for his right hand, covering it with hers. As she promised to love and honor him through all eternity, she gave herself to this marriage. Even though it was a marriage of convenience, even though she didn’t know if they truly would suit as he claimed, even though all the odds were against them...she’d be his wife and devil take it, she’d be loyal to him.

He dropped her hands, drawing from his coat a ring, which he laid on top of the prayer book. The priest handed him the ring, which James held out to her.

“With this Ring I thee wed, with my Body I thee worship, and with all my worldly Goods I thee endow,” he murmured, slipping the ring onto her finger.

She stared down at the gold band. Sapphires twinkled back up at her, shaped to look like leaves encircling a diamond flower bud in the center. It was majestic, surely, yet there was no way she could ever deserve such extravagance. Would she ever feel like this ring was supposed to be hers? Or would she continue to expect another woman to pop out from the woodwork and exclaim that all along Vivian had simply been a placeholder for her?

James caught her eye as the minister bid them both to kneel so that they could join in prayer. You needn’t worry, his eyes seemed to be saying. You are the one I want. Vivian had begun to think his eyes could say as much as his expressive nods.

The prayers became a blur. She repeated the words without fully registering them. With her eyes focused on the ring on her finger, Vivian held onto that unspoken promise.

* * *

The wedding breakfast had ended. The fifty or so odd people that had descended upon Abermont House to attend the ceremony had left to continue celebrating at the neighboring Haley estate. Ostensibly, Richard had agreed to host the house party to give the newlyweds some privacy, but really, he’d always been far better at entertaining.

Normally, James would have breathed an immense sigh of relief at the absence of his guests. Relocating the party meant there was less chance of one of the guests discovering his family’s covert activities, and he’d be able to read his newspaper and drink his morning coffee in peace, the two things he required to start his days off properly.

None of that mattered when compared with the fact that he was alone in the parlor with the woman who had become his wife. The woman he’d sworn to protect.

The woman he’d now whisk away to a safe house under the pretense of a wedding trip.

He ruffled a hand through his hair, resisting the urge to jump up from the settee. That morning, before the ceremony had started, he’d received a letter from Deacon Drake, who he’d left in charge of the organization’s headquarters. His agents had located Sauveterre—but they’d been too late to catch him. The villain was on the move again, possibly to Maidstone.

Which meant he had to get Vivian away from here as soon as possible.

Nixon, another agent with the Clocktower, prepared the coach and four. Arden had packed their tools the night before, and arranged for the necessary bags to be loaded while the rest of the house was distracted with the wedding. A trunk of knives, truncheons, flintlocks, and then Korianna’s addition: enough supplies for three small black powder bombs or one huge explosion. Northley had packed Vivian’s trunk with her old gowns. There was no point in ruining the finer dresses Elinor had ordered for her when they’d be out in the wilderness, far from prying eyes.

Or so he hoped.

The safe house in Guildford had never been compromised. Only twelve agents knew of its existence. For all the servants knew, they were heading toward the shores of Brighton to celebrate their new union.

So now all he had to do was wait. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. What did a man say to his wife? Surely, not that she was in even more danger than they’d originally thought. There was no point in worrying her, not when the plans were already underway.

He tried to think about how his father and mother had acted. Mama had died shortly after Louisa’s birth, so his memories were hazy at best, but he thought his parents had been amiable with each other. He remembered the Lion’s second wife, Thomas’s mother, better. Though the two never had a great love, Juliana and the duke had been partners. The best of friends, supportive of each other.

One look at Vivian and he wanted more than simple companionship, even if he knew he didn’t deserve it. Even if he wasn’t certain he could ever be enough for her.

Vivian saved him from sitting there for the next half hour silently. “It was a lovely ceremony.”

She spoke as though she was commenting on the weather, not her wedding day. This was absurd. If this was how proper husbands and wives discoursed, he wanted no part of it.

He shifted on the settee so that he was next to her. “Vivian.”

She held his gaze. “James.”

He’d been many names over the years. Abermont. The Marquis of Silverton, prior to inheriting the dukedom. Edouard when he’d spent a summer undercover in France. Dupont during his time assisting the Swabian Agency in Switzerland. Falcon to his fellow Clocktower and Alien Office agents.

Prior to today, he’d always felt more at home in these secret identities—free of responsibilities, the past, and societal pressure.

Now, he did not want to be anyone else. He would not be Abermont to her, or even Falcon. He was just James. He had not anticipated how musical his true appellation would sound on her lips. Bollocks, he hadn’t anticipated any of this. She’d changed everything.

“Vivian,” he said again, partially to focus his thoughts, and partially because he wanted to feel her name on his tongue once more. Her name became a commandment in itself. “With God as my witness, I’ll keep you safe. You needn’t fear anything.”

“I know.” Those two simple words packed more of a punch than any long-winded declaration, for she spoke as though her faith in him was a given. “And I do trust you.”

As a spy, missions depended upon his ability to get a target to trust him. In the past, he’d always been successful. In the past, he’d always been someone else.

He did not know if he—James Spencer, not Falcon, not Edouard—deserved her trust.

She watched him, her wide eyes never leaving his face. Under her scrutiny, he felt exposed, as though she could see inside to the depths of his soul. He was transfixed by the delicate curve of her high cheekbones, juxtaposed with the sharpness of her chin. Everything about her was a contrast. Her dainty, petite frame against the strength of her willpower. Her excellence in the more typical occupation of governess against her unconventional love of fencing and mysteries.

“Evan used to say that people were mostly good,” Vivian said.

Evan Loren had only been an agent for the Alien Office for a few years. Long enough that his idealistic bent would have started to wear off—but not long enough that he’d be truly jaded by everything he’d seen.

James had been on missions since he was fifteen. His optimism had been stripped away, little by little, until all that was left was harsh reality. Good people were often driven to do bad things—and bad people often triumphed. He fought for a world he sometimes wondered if he should let burn.

But he kept fighting because he knew no other way.

“I guess I always believed him,” Vivian continued. “We were sheltered in Devon. And when we moved to London, I thought everyone was nice. But my brother was murdered by a madman, and I don’t know why. So how am I supposed to believe the world has good in it?”

He’d asked the same questions after Louisa’s death. God, he still asked those questions.

“The world may not have good in it, but some people do,” he said. “It’s not enough to make up for Evan’s death, I know. But it’s all we have.”

“Revenge is what I need for Evan’s death.” She met his gaze, and the simmering rage he saw in her blue eyes shook him to his core.

He’d been there before. In the moment when he’d hunted down Nicodème, he had felt good. Justified. But he was already so far gone—taking one more life was immaterial to the state of his soul. For Vivian, killing Sauveterre might change her irrevocably. It could take away her chance at healing from her brother’s death. He’d do anything to make sure she still had that chance.

He shook his head. “Revenge won’t bring him back.”

She smiled, full of bittersweet sadness. “I know. But it’ll taste sweet.”

He could think of many things that would taste sweeter and be far more pleasurable. But he tried to shove those thoughts to the back of his mind. She was an innocent, and he had a job to do.

“We are working on getting him justice.” He went to the teacart, picking up the silver tray and carrying it to the table. At least it gave him something to do besides pacing the room. “You will see in time that justice is much better than revenge.”

She picked up the teapot from the tray, pouring tea into the two china cups. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Both.”

She fixed his tea, and he accepted the cup she handed him.

She added a lump of sugar and a splash of cream to her tea. “Revenge is what Sauveterre deserves. I want to make the bastard pay for what he did to Evan.” She paused, her nose wrinkling. “I want to make him pay for what he did to me.”

“And I promise you, we’ll catch him.” He took the tea tray up from the table, bringing it back to the cart. The more space he put between them, the easier he found it to think. Should he tell Vivian what he’d learned about her Sauveterre’s whereabouts earlier? Korianna’s suspicions about her brother being a spy would have to wait until he could safely confide in her about the Clocktower.

He’d promised her they’d work together on this. Though he couldn’t tell her everything about his work, he could at least share the parts that related to her brother’s murder. Enough truth to fulfill the arrangement they’d agreed to, but not enough to put her in further danger.

He turned around, leaning against the cart. “In fact, I’ve already found several leads on Sauveterre.”

Vivian burst up from the settee, coming to stand by him. She carried her teacup with her. “You’ve discovered something?”

“My contacts went to the tavern where you used to write Sauveterre. They interrogated the innkeeper.” He didn’t specify that he’d sent his own agents. Until he moved her somewhere secure and could tell her his true occupation, it was better to let her think that the Runners were doing all the work.

“I wrote that innkeeper,” Vivian said. “He claimed he didn’t know Sauveterre.”

He shrugged. “Let’s just say the Chatham Boar and Deer won’t be receiving any awards for their honest customer dealings any time soon.”

“What did he say?”

“A Frenchman was staying at the Boar and Deer, but he left two weeks prior to their visit.”

Vivian leaned forward, the mug grasped between her two hands. “Do they think it’s Sauveterre?”

“Nothing was left in the room for them to search, but yes,” James said. “The innkeeper remembers him often receiving mail at that point, and the times coincide with your letters.”

“Two weeks.” Vivian deposited her cup of tea on the cart and pushed off, going toward the door. “Two weeks. If we’d just been two weeks earlier…”

He followed her, stopping her mid-step. His hand on her arm fixed her to this one point, though her nostrils still flared, indicating she might flee. So he reached for her hand, the lace of her gloves against his bare skin unnerving him. Whatever wise pronouncement he’d been about to make died on his tongue when she slowly slid her thumb up and down the ridge of his index finger.

He gulped. A futile attempt to calm his racing pulse, for her thumb kept stroking. Her slight touch aroused him more than it should have. More than he’d ever experienced from the connection of their joined hands.

“We are not certain it was Sauveterre,” he managed to gasp out. “And if you’d gone there two weeks ago, without my help, who knows what would have happened to you. The man is a murderer, Vivian.”

Her thumb ceased moving against his. “You don’t have to remind me of that. I’m well aware.”

“I’m sorry.” He hated the sharp stab of pain that crossed her features. The fact that he’d caused that, when all he wanted to do was bring her happiness. His grip on her hand tightened, and he wished he’d never have to part from her. “The idea of you going up against a murderer, unarmed and unprepared, terrifies me. I meant every word of those vows I said today. I’m going to honor and cherish you, but I can’t do that if you’re dead.”

She let out an exasperated sigh, but she did not pull away from him. “I suppose you’re right. Going off half-cocked will solve nothing. But I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me this immediately. We’re supposed to be partners. In more than just this, now.”

“I received the letter today. There was no time to tell you before the ceremony.” He did not move—could not move, for her gaze held his in thrall. “Vivian, we are partners. We’re in this together.”

“Good. Because that’s the only thing I want.” She scooted closer, her hand still linked to his. She was so close now; the hem of her lilac dress skimmed his buff pantaloons. So close her sweet floral scent filled his nose until everything smelled like roses.

Any moment now, the carriage would be ready, and they’d be forced to leave this house. How would she react later to his confession? He didn’t know. But right now, with her so near, he couldn’t hold back any longer.

He leaned down, cupping her chin in his hands. God, how soft her skin felt against his bare hands, softer than he’d ever imagined. He brushed his lips against hers. Gave her a moment to adjust to the feel of his lips on hers, and when she leaned into him, he increased the pressure. She was tentative at first, but she learned his rhythm quickly. She returned his kiss with an equal passion, slanting her lips over his. He couldn’t think of a single reason why he hadn’t spent the last six months doing just this. Kissing Vivian became as natural as breathing—his body moved on its own, a creature of desire and longing.

He broke apart from her long enough to tug her flush against him. Her supple frame fit perfectly between his spread legs. He’d meant to taste her, nothing more. But then her hands slid upward, grasping at his shoulders as though he was the one thing separating her from a shipwreck, and he was powerless to resist her. He hadn’t felt such all-consuming need in years, if ever, for he’d never been one to give himself fully to passion. The women he’d been with before had been experienced, widows or courtesans, as jaded as he was. They’d gone through the motions, each knowing the worth of their own bodies.

Before tonight, he’d always claimed that was how it should be: a trade of information for pleasure, set expectations for an encounter.

He hadn’t been prepared for Vivian. How her sweet innocence could drive him wild. She kissed without artifice or ulterior motive, and it was bloody wonderful. He dipped his tongue out between her parted lips, seeking entry. She opened her lips to him, and he thrust into her wet mouth. Her body shook as he teased her, his tongue toying with her own until she moaned with pleasure. The sound shot through him. He was rock hard, yet he hadn’t even touched her intimately—couldn’t touch her, because if he did he’d lose himself completely. So he kissed her, kissed her until he’d memorized the arc of her lips, until his mouth was numb, until his chest burned with the lack of oxygen.

When they finally broke apart, he stepped back from her. He dared not touch her while his body warred with his mind. His breathing ragged, he exerted every last bit of his willpower to keep from tossing her skirts up and burying himself inside her then and there.

If he didn’t get them on the road soon, he’d stay in this parlor, kissing her. Learning the rhythm of her breaths and the meaning behind every one of her sighs. He ran his hands down his pantaloons, willing his body to calm.

All the bombs he’d disabled, the traitors he’d arrested, and the assassins he’d thwarted in the past would never be as dangerous as Vivian was to him. She was changing him, a little bit at a time, prying away the falseness of his identity and leaving only the real man beneath.