The Duchess & Dude

As Duchess Celene of Westglade, I was expected to be dignified, graceful, and composed.

Which is why it was extra humiliating when I fell face-first into a mud puddle in front of half the royal court—and a half-naked mercenary who looked like sin and trouble had a baby.

He blinked down at me from atop his extremely tall horse, one eyebrow quirked in amusement.

"Graceful," he said, utterly straight-faced.

"I will have you flogged," I hissed, mud dripping from my tiara.

"Only if you buy me dinner first," he replied with a grin so charming it made me forget how to summon a proper threat.

I had the distinct displeasure of learning his name was Dude. Just Dude. Like a man who forgot to finish his own sentence.

Unfortunately, he was also the only sword-for-hire with the skill to protect me during my upcoming diplomatic tour—one crawling with assassins, rebels, and gossiping noblewomen.

"Let me be clear," I told him on the first night, "I don't like you."

He nodded sagely. "You don't have to like me, Duchess. You just have to look at me longingly across a campfire once in a while. For morale."

I nearly stabbed him with my fork.

He saved my life—twice. Once from bandits, and once from an overcooked pheasant. Both times, I begrudgingly thanked him.

We fought constantly. He called me uptight. I called him insufferable. He winked. I blushed. He smirked. I fantasized about smothering him—with kisses. And maybe a pillow.

By the fifth near-death encounter, I was fairly certain I was in love.

One night, beneath the stars, I caught him staring at me—not with smugness, but with something almost reverent.

"I think you're the bravest person I've ever met," he said.

I scoffed. "Because I haven't strangled you yet?"

"No. Because you still believe in duty. Even when it hurts."

My breath caught. I didn't say a word. I just kissed him.

Hard.

I never went back to court. Turns out, being a duchess is overrated.

Being loved by a mercenary who drinks from flowered teacups and calls me 'Your Grace' in bed? Infinitely better.

Also, I'm fairly certain he's writing poetry about me behind my back.

If he ever lets me read it, I might just marry him.