Thomas stopped. They were 2 ft apart. He looked down at her, the rain dripping from his jaw, the rough stubble back on his face. He reached into the pocket of his damp trousers. He pulled out a folded heavy piece of parchment sealed with the wolf crest. He held it out to her.
"Take it," he ordered quietly.
Jane stared at his scarred, dirt-stained hand. Hesitantly, she reached out and took the paper. She broke the seal and unfolded it. It was a legal document. The handwriting was sharp and aggressively slanted. It was a deed of transfer. Jane's eyes scanned the words, her breath catching in her throat. "This..." She looked up at him, her vision blurring. "This transfers the administration of the Fenwick tenant farms to me."
"Legally, not just the administration," Thomas said, his voice dropping into a fierce roar whisper. "The income, the authority, the legal rights. It is entirely binding, signed and witnessed by the local magistrate an hour ago. You cannot be fired. You cannot be evicted. You hold the pursure holdings."
Jane stared at the paper. It was a king's ransom. It was complete, unadulterated security. It was the power she had just accused him of hoarding. "Why?" she breathed.
"Because you are right," Thomas said, stepping into her space, his hands coming up to cup her face, his thumbs, rough and warm, brushed over her cold cheeks. "I have the power. I have the title, and I despise it. I despise the men who cower before it and the women who scheme for it. You never cared about the title, Jane. You only cared about the roof, the dirt, and the people."
He leaned in, resting his forehead against hers. "I am not playing at being a laborer," he whispered fiercely. "I am trying to learn how to be a man worthy of you. I don't want a dependent. I want a partner. Take the farms. Take the manor. Take me."
Jane closed her eyes. The cold rain outside faded away. The fear, the cynicism, the years of bitter defense mechanisms crumbled into dust. She felt the solid, unyielding reality of him against her. He wasn't a fairy tale prince. He was a man with dirt on his hands and a scar on his jaw, offering her the one thing no one had ever given her. Respect.
Jane dropped the parchment. She reached up, sliding her hands around the back of his neck, tangling her fingers in his damp hair, and pulled his mouth down to hers. He kissed her hungrily, a fierce, claiming kiss that tasted of rain and absolute certainty. There was no hesitation. This time, his arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her slightly off the dirt floor, holding her against him as if he would never let go.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing heavily. Jane looked up into his gray eyes, a slow, genuine smile spreading across her face. "You are entirely ridiculous, your grace," she murmured.
Thomas smiled back, the expression transforming his rugged face. "Call me Tom."
"Not a chance," Jane said, stepping out of his embrace and picking up her satchel. "If I am going to run half your estate, I demand appropriate respect. Now, pick up that pitchfork. Barnaby's stall isn't going to clean itself."
Thomas let out a loud, booming laugh that echoed off the stable walls. He picked up the pitchfork. "As you wish, my lady."
Winter settled hard over Fenwick Hall. The snow drifts piled high against the stone walls, but the manor was no longer a tomb. Fires burned in the grates. The roof in the library had been properly patched by a team of local carpenters, paid for by the Duke's personal accounts. Mrs. Gable hummed as she baked bread, entirely unbothered by French culinary standards. The London staff was gone, replaced by men and women from the village who were paid a fair wage.
At 6:00 a.m. on a freezing Tuesday in January, Jane stood in the warm kitchen. She was no longer wearing the faded gray wool. She wore a deep burgundy dress, simple in its cut, but made of fine, heavy material that kept the winter chill at bay. A gold wedding band caught the fire light on her left hand.
She reached up to the highest shelf in the pantry. Behind the flour tin, the paper bag of loose leaf tea remained. She didn't need to smuggle it anymore. Crates of the finest Earl Grey sat in the cellar, but she preferred this bag. She measured out exactly two pinches into the small ceramic pot. The water boiled, turning the liquid a dark, fragrant amber.
She reached for the mugs. One was sturdy brown clay. The other was white porcelain. Missing its handle and chipped at the rim. Jane poured the tea. No sugar, no milk. She wrapped her hands around the hot ceramic, kicked the heavy oak kitchen door open, and stepped out into the biting morning air. The courtyard was covered in a pristine layer of white snow. She walked briskly across the yard, her boots crunching loudly in the silence.
She pushed the stable doors open. The lantern burned low by the main stalls. Thomas was there. He wore a heavy wool coat over his linen shirt, a flat cap pulled down over his dark hair. He was brushing Barnaby, his large hands moving in long, soothing strokes over the horse's flank. He stopped as she walked in. The rugged lines of his face softened into a smile that still made Jane's heart skip a beat.
Jane walked up to the stall and held out the chipped white mug. Thomas took off his leather glove. He reached out, his calloused fingers brushing against hers. He took the fragile, broken cup with the exact same gentleness he had shown on his very first day.
"Thank you," he murmured, bringing the steaming tea to his lips.
Jane leaned against the wooden post, wrapping both hands around her brown mug. "You're going to freeze out here. The ledgers for the North Fields need reviewing. We could do it by the fire."
Thomas took a slow sip of his black tea, his gray eyes watching her over the rim of the cup. "I'll review the ledgers," he said, his rough baritone vibrating with quiet amusement. "But only if my brilliant, terrifying wife agrees to stop outsmarting the grain merchants. They sent me a letter yesterday complaining that the Duchess is merciless in her negotiations."
Jane smiled, sipping her tea. "The grain merchants are parasites. Tell them the Duchess requires fair market value, or they can try buying from the next county."
Thomas laughed softly, stepping closer to her. He reached out, his thumb gently tracing her cheekbone. They stood in the dim light of the lantern, surrounded by breathing horses, exactly where they had started. They weren't a fairy tale. They were dirt, ledgers, calluses, and chipped porcelain. And it was absolutely perfect.