Updated Apr 18, 2026 • ~13 min read
Chapter 15: The First Kiss
Emmeline
Emmy attends three more balls over the following week—exhausting events where she performs being the devoted Duchess while London society watches and judges and whispers about whether her marriage to the Duke is real or just the sham Cordelia claims it to be—and by the time they leave the third ball on a Thursday night Emmy is emotionally drained from the constant scrutiny and desperate for the privacy of the carriage ride home where she can drop the performance and just exist without being watched.
The Duke helps her into the carriage with the same careful courtesy he’s been showing all week—keeping her close at every event, dancing with her exclusively, demonstrating obvious attentiveness that’s either excellent acting or something more real—and Emmy settles into her seat expecting their usual quiet ride home where neither of them acknowledges how exhausting the performance has been.
But instead of maintaining his typical silence, the Duke surprises Emmy by speaking as soon as the carriage begins moving.
“You were incredible tonight,” the Duke says, and there’s genuine admiration in his voice instead of just polite acknowledgment. “The way you handled Lady Markham’s invasive questions about our marriage—that was brilliant. You gave her nothing useful for gossip while still being perfectly polite.”
“I’m getting better at the performance,” Emmy says, proud of herself for navigating increasingly difficult social situations without the Duke having to rescue her. “Learning what to say and what to deflect.”
“It’s not just performance anymore,” the Duke observes. “Is it? You’re actually comfortable in society now. You belong there.”
Emmy considers this—whether she’s truly comfortable or just getting better at hiding her anxiety—and decides that maybe there’s truth in what the Duke is saying, that maybe she’s started to believe she deserves to be the Duchess of Ashford instead of just feeling like an imposter playing a role.
“Thank you,” Emmy says quietly. “For defending me tonight when Lord Pemberton made that comment about charity cases. I know you hate confrontation, but you still spoke up for me.”
“He was being deliberately cruel,” the Duke says, his anger still visible even hours after the incident. “Suggesting I married you out of pity instead of actual desire for a wife. He deserved to be put in his place.”
“You told him you married me because I’m the only woman you’ve met who isn’t intimidated by your scars,” Emmy recalls, still touched by the Duke’s unexpected defense. “That was… that was kind. Even if it’s not entirely true.”
“It is true,” the Duke says, turning to face Emmy in the dim carriage interior. “You’re the only woman since Caroline who’s looked at me like I’m a person instead of a monster or a tragedy. From the very first night when you came to beg for mercy—you were furious and desperate but you weren’t afraid of me. You weren’t flinching from my face or my reputation. You were just… present. Real. Unintimidated.”
Emmy’s breath catches at this admission, at the Duke being vulnerable about something so personal, and she doesn’t know how to respond except with equal honesty.
“I never saw a monster,” Emmy says quietly. “I saw a cold man who’d been damaged by loss. But not a monster. Never that.”
The Duke is looking at her with an intensity Emmy has never seen from him before—like he’s trying to memorize her face or understand something that confuses him—and the silence between them shifts from comfortable to charged with something Emmy can’t quite name.
“Thank you,” the Duke says finally, his voice rough. “For defending me tonight. When Cordelia cornered you near the refreshments and tried to convince you to annul our marriage for your own good. For telling her exactly where she could take her opinions about what’s good for you.”
Emmy smiles despite herself, remembering the satisfaction of telling Lady Cordelia that Emmy would rather stay married to a cold distant duke than give Cordelia the satisfaction of destroying their marriage.
“She was furious,” Emmy recalls with some pleasure. “I don’t think many people refuse her advice so directly.”
“She’s not used to losing,” the Duke observes. “Especially not to women she considers beneath her. You’ve humiliated her just by existing successfully as my wife.”
“Good,” Emmy says with more vehemence than she intended. “She deserves humiliation after what she did to you. After how she treated you when you came home from war.”
The Duke is quiet for a moment, and Emmy sees something complicated flash through his expression in the dim carriage light.
“You’re remarkably bloodthirsty on my behalf,” the Duke observes with what might be amusement. “I didn’t expect you to be so protective of a husband who’s barely been present in your marriage.”
“You’re more present than you think,” Emmy argues. “These past weeks in London—dancing with me, defending me, staying close even when I know you hate crowds and social situations—that’s presence. That’s more than I expected from our arrangement.”
“I hate seeing people hurt you,” the Duke admits. “I hate watching Cordelia make digs about your background or Lord Pemberton suggest you’re not worthy of your position or any of them question whether our marriage is real. It makes me want to destroy them all for daring to judge you.”
“That’s very protective,” Emmy observes, her heart doing complicated things in her chest. “Almost like you actually care about me instead of just defending your property.”
The Duke’s expression shifts to something vulnerable and uncertain.
“Is there a difference?” the Duke asks quietly. “When the property in question is someone I—” He stops abruptly, like he’s said more than he intended.
“Someone you what?” Emmy prompts, leaning forward because this feels important, because the Duke almost admitted something significant before stopping himself.
“Someone I care about,” the Duke finishes, and his voice is barely above a whisper. “More than I should. More than I intended. More than is safe.”
Emmy’s breath catches completely at this admission—the Duke acknowledging actual care instead of just duty or obligation—and she reaches out without thinking to touch his hand where it rests on his knee.
“Why isn’t it safe?” Emmy asks. “To care about your own wife?”
The Duke looks down at Emmy’s hand on his, and when he speaks his voice is raw with pain Emmy hasn’t heard from him before.
“Because everyone I care about leaves,” the Duke says. “Dies or abandons me or both. Caroline died trying to give me an heir. My son died before he could even take his first breath. Cordelia rejected me for being damaged. My parents are long gone. Everyone I’ve ever loved has left me destroyed in their wake. Caring about you—actually letting myself care—means risking that devastation again. And I don’t know if I’m strong enough to survive it.”
Emmy’s chest aches at hearing the Duke’s fear laid bare, at understanding suddenly why he maintains such distance even when he clearly wants connection, and she moves closer on the carriage bench until she’s sitting beside him instead of across from him.
“I’m not going to die,” Emmy says firmly. “I’m not Caroline. I’m strong and healthy and I’m not going anywhere unless you drive me away with all your careful distance.”
“You don’t know that,” the Duke argues. “Caroline was young and seemed healthy too. Until she wasn’t.”
“Life doesn’t come with guarantees,” Emmy agrees. “But living in fear of loss means never actually living at all. Is that really what you want? To spend our entire marriage keeping me at arm’s length just to avoid potential pain?”
The Duke is quiet, his hand turning under Emmy’s so their fingers can intertwine, and when he looks at her his ice-blue eyes are less empty than Emmy has ever seen them.
“I don’t know what I want,” the Duke admits. “I thought I wanted safety through distance. But these past weeks—being close to you, defending you, actually being present in our marriage—it doesn’t feel safe. It feels terrifying and necessary and more real than anything I’ve felt in five years.”
“Then maybe stop trying to be safe,” Emmy suggests gently. “Maybe try being real instead.”
The Duke looks at her with an expression Emmy can’t read—desire and fear and vulnerability all tangled together—and his free hand rises to cup her cheek with surprising tenderness.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” the Duke says, his voice rough and low. “How much I want things I shouldn’t want. How hard it is to maintain distance when what I actually want is to—”
He stops again, clearly struggling with saying whatever comes next, and Emmy leans into his touch while her heart races at the intimacy of the moment.
“What do you want?” Emmy whispers. “Tell me.”
The Duke’s thumb brushes across her cheekbone, and Emmy sees the exact moment he stops fighting whatever he’s been resisting—sees his careful control crack completely—and then his mouth is on hers in a kiss that’s nothing like what Emmy expected from her cold distant husband.
It’s desperate.
Hungry.
Like he’s been drowning and Emmy is air, like he’s been starving and she’s sustenance, like he’s held back for so long that now that he’s finally allowing himself to touch her he can’t be gentle or controlled about it.
Emmy gasps at the intensity, and the Duke takes advantage of her parted lips to deepen the kiss while his hand tangles in her carefully arranged hair and his other arm wraps around her waist to pull her closer.
She kisses him back with equal desperation—months of loneliness and longing and wanting her husband to actually see her as desirable pouring into the kiss—and she doesn’t care that they’re in a moving carriage or that her hair is coming undone or that this is completely inappropriate.
She just cares that the Duke is finally kissing her.
Finally touching her like he wants her instead of just tolerates her presence.
Finally being real instead of performing distance.
The Duke breaks away first—breathing hard, his forehead resting against Emmy’s while they both try to catch their breath—and when Emmy opens her eyes she sees something vulnerable and almost frightened in his expression.
“I’m sorry,” the Duke says, already pulling back and creating distance. “That was inappropriate. I shouldn’t have—”
“We’re married!” Emmy interrupts, refusing to let him retreat after finally breaking through his walls. “Kissing your wife isn’t inappropriate. It’s the opposite of inappropriate.”
“In name,” the Duke says, using that same phrase he’s used before. “We’re married in name. This complicates things.”
“How?” Emmy challenges, following him as he retreats to the opposite carriage bench. “How does kissing your wife complicate a marriage?”
“Because I can’t—” the Duke stops, his hands clenching into fists. “Because if I let myself actually want you, if I let myself care enough to be intimate with you, then I’m risking everything. I’m risking losing you. I’m risking the devastation of watching another wife die. I’m risking opening myself up to pain I barely survived the first time.”
“So you’d rather live in a marriage where we never touch?” Emmy asks. “Where we perform devotion publicly but maintain complete distance privately? That’s not sustainable, Sebastian. Eventually one of us will break from the loneliness.”
“I know,” the Duke admits, and he sounds defeated. “I know this isn’t fair to you. I know I’m failing as a husband. But Emmy, I don’t know how to do this differently. I don’t know how to let you close without being terrified of losing you.”
Emmy’s anger deflates at the raw pain in his voice, and she moves back across the carriage to sit beside him again, taking his clenched hands in hers.
“Then be terrified,” Emmy says gently. “Be terrified and do it anyway. Because the alternative—living our entire marriage at arm’s length just to avoid potential pain—that’s not protecting either of us. It’s just making us both miserable.”
The Duke looks at their joined hands, and Emmy sees him struggling visibly with how to respond.
“I don’t know how,” the Duke admits quietly. “I don’t know how to be vulnerable without falling apart. How to let you close without the fear consuming me.”
“Then learn,” Emmy suggests. “Slowly. One step at a time. You kissed me tonight. That’s a start. Maybe tomorrow you try something else. Maybe eventually you figure out that I’m not going to disappear just because you care about me.”
The Duke is quiet for the rest of the carriage ride, but he doesn’t release Emmy’s hands, and when they arrive at the townhouse he surprises her by walking her to her chamber door again instead of just saying goodnight in the entrance hall.
“I care about you,” the Duke says when they reach Emmy’s rooms, and his voice is rough with emotion. “More than I should. More than I intended. And it terrifies me. But Emmy—tonight when I kissed you—that wasn’t performance. That wasn’t pretending. That was real.”
“I know,” Emmy says, her chest tight with something that might be hope. “I could tell.”
The Duke looks like he wants to say more—or maybe kiss her again—but then the familiar shutters come down and he steps back to create distance.
“Goodnight, Emmy,” the Duke says.
“Goodnight, Sebastian,” Emmy responds, and she watches him walk away down the corridor while telling herself that one kiss is progress even when it leads to retreat, that vulnerability followed by fear is still better than no vulnerability at all.
He kissed her.
After three months of marriage, he finally kissed her.
And it was desperate and real and everything Emmy has been wanting.
Even if he’s terrified of what it means.
Even if he immediately retreated behind his walls afterward.
Even if he still can’t bring himself to cross the threshold into her chambers.
Progress.
Painful, incremental, barely noticeable progress.
But progress nonetheless.
And Emmy clings to it while she prepares for bed alone in her beautiful empty chambers, touching her lips where she can still feel the pressure of his kiss, remembering the desperation in how he held her.
He cares.
He admitted it.
And maybe—just maybe—eventually caring will be enough to overcome his fear.
However long it takes.
However many steps forward followed by steps back.
However much patience is required to help a broken man learn to love again.
Emmy promised she would wait.
And after tonight’s kiss, she knows exactly what she’s waiting for.
The moment when the Duke finally stops being afraid.
And lets himself actually live.
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