A cold, biting rain began to fall in earnest, washing the filth of the docks over the planks. Elenora swallowed the bile of fear and anger.
"A Minister of the Crown has no contingency for a missing carriage?" she hissed, her voice low and furious.
Darius didn't flinch. He grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the narrow, rat-infested alleyways that branched away from the main wharves.
"Contingency implies predictability," he retorted, glancing back toward the 'Silent Swan.' "They knew we were here, Elenora. They didn't just steal a coach; they signaled they were watching. This isn't bad planning; it's a security breach. Someone high up knows of our arrangement."
The truth chilled her more than the damp air.
He moved quickly, pulling her through tight, dark passages. She had to place her hand on his back to keep from falling on the slippery cobblestones. Every time her fingers brushed the expensive fabric of his coat, the unwanted intimacy of their situation surged between them.
"We need to move through the early markets," Darius stated, stopping briefly to check the direction. "Blend in with the lowborn workers heading into the city. Stay close. Don't speak."
They emerged onto a narrow street already bustling with laborers, coal-stained and weary, beginning their day.
"Put your arm through mine," Darius ordered, his eyes sharp.
"Absolutely not," Elenora retorted, pulling back.
His gaze cut her. "Do you want to look like a pair of lost nobility, or a wife and husband arguing over last night's debts? They will respect a man controlling his shrew more than two strangers."
Before she could object, he seized her arm and threaded it roughly through his, his hand closing over her glove just above the wrist. His touch was firm—a mixture of possessiveness and necessity.
"We are poor, exhausted, and irritated," he murmured, leaning his head close to hers. "You are tired of my gambling debts, and I am tired of your complaining. Play the part, wife."
Elenora gritted her teeth, hating the title, yet finding a strange, fierce heat in his proximity. He was a solid anchor against the chaotic stream of humanity. She focused on his movement, letting his iron grip guide her, pretending the warmth of his body wasn't the only thing keeping the chill at bay.
They ducked into a small, abandoned storage room off a side street, seeking a brief respite from the damp and the crowd. The room was cold, smelling faintly of mildew and old sacking.
Elenora pulled her arm away, needing the space to breathe. She noticed Darius was breathing heavily, leaning against the wooden wall. She saw the dark, wet stain on the shoulder of his coat, a mark she hadn't seen before.
"You're hurt," she observed, her voice automatically shifting to the cool, analytical tone she used when assessing damage to her properties.
"A scrape," he dismissed. "Happened when I opened the ship's hold. It means nothing."
Elenora moved toward him. "It means infection. Turn around."
He hesitated, a rare moment of vulnerability flickering in his eyes before he slowly complied. Elenora gently pulled his coat back, revealing a jagged, shallow cut just below his shoulder blade. It was bleeding sluggishly.
She found a clean cloth and pressed it firmly to the wound. The pressure forced him closer to the wall, his head almost touching her own.
"You hate the nobility so deeply," she began, the quiet of the room making her confession almost involuntary. "Yet you are choosing to marry the very essence of it. Why such an extreme measure, Darius? The money isn't worth this."
Darius sighed, a low, frustrated sound. "It isn't about the money, Elenora. It's about the lie. My mother was a maid in an Earl's house. I watched them treat her like refuse while they patted me on the head. They thought they owned the very air I breathed. I rose not to destroy them, but to prove I am un-buyable."
He paused, the heat of his breath close to her ear. "And you, Duchess? You chose to marry your enemy. That makes you stronger than any of them. You chose survival over sentiment, which is the only language I understand."
Elenora was silent, processing the bitter truth of his past.
They navigated the remaining streets and eventually reached a non-descript industrial area.
Darius led her to the top floor of a soot-stained building. He unlocked a heavy door to reveal a spacious, if modest, apartment. It was clean, filled with stacks of ledgers and maps—a functional fortress.
"We are safe here," Darius announced, closing the bolt firmly.
Elenora took off her damp coat. Darius turned from the door, his gaze travelling slowly over her—from her disheveled lavender hair to the mud streaks on her velvet dress. He looked tired, bruised, and victorious.
He crossed the floor toward her, not with menace, but with a strange, possessive intensity. He raised a hand, his thumb gently wiping a speck of mud from her cheekbone.
"Your dress is ruined, Duchess," he murmured, his voice husky. "Your reputation is shredded, your freedom is gone, and you are trapped in my apartment."
He stepped closer, their eyes locked. "Are you exhausted, Elenora? Or are you finally beginning to enjoy being out of your gilded cage?"
Elenora looked at him—the man who would be her husband tomorrow—and felt a terrifying surge of something that was neither fear nor hatred.
"I am beginning to understand that cages are merely a matter of perspective, Minister," she replied, her voice steady.