NO MERCY, MY DUCHESS

The grand ballroom of Blackmoor Manor, usually a bastion of refined elegance, buzzed with an unusual fervor. Tonight marked the engagement announcement of Duke Julian Lancelot Blackmoor, and every titled family in the county had converged to witness the union of two of the most powerful houses. Among the glittering assembly, Lady Livia, a woman whose vivacious spirit often chafed against the rigid confines of society, found herself a reluctant participant. She was here for one reason only: her best friend, Lady Eleanor, the Duke's illegitimate sister. Eleanor, a woman of sharp wit and an even sharper tongue, navigated the throng with a practiced ease Livia envied. "There he is," Eleanor murmured, a hint of something unreadable in her tone, as she gestured towards a man who commanded the room simply by existing. Duke Julian Lancelot Blackmoor. He was everything the rumors claimed and more. Tall, with an austere handsomeness that spoke of chiselled marble rather than flesh and blood, he moved with an almost predatory grace. His eyes, the colour of a winter sky, seemed to miss nothing, and his reputation for an unshakeable calm was legendary. No scandal, no whisper of impropriety, had ever dared to cling to his name. He was, in essence, untouchable. Livia had heard tales of his formidable intellect, his vast fortune, and his unwavering principles. She'd expected a stiff, unyielding man, perhaps even a boring one. What she hadn't expected was the subtle current of power that emanated from him, a silent hum that drew the eye and held it captive. Eleanor, ever the pragmatist, wasted no time. "Julian," she said, her voice cutting through the polite murmurs, "allow me to introduce my dearest friend, Lady Livia." The Duke turned, his gaze sweeping over Livia with an unnerving thoroughness that made her feel as if he were dissecting her very soul. A polite, almost imperceptible nod was his only acknowledgment. "Lady Livia," he stated, his voice a low baritone that seemed to resonate through the polished floorboards. "A pleasure." His words were devoid of warmth, a mere formality. Before Livia could formulate a witty retort – a skill she usually excelled at – another presence swept into their small circle. Lady Clara, the Marquess of Ashworth's daughter, Julian's intended. Clara was a vision of cool beauty, adorned in silks and diamonds that seemed to shimmer with her every dismissive gesture. Her eyes, the colour of a stagnant pond, flickered over Livia and Eleanor with an unmistakable air of disdain. "Julian, darling," Clara purred, her voice dripping with an artificial sweetness that grated on Livia's nerves. She linked her arm through the Duke's, her gaze returning to Eleanor with a pointedly raised eyebrow. "And you are...?" Eleanor's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but her composure remained intact. "Lady Eleanor," she replied, her voice level. Clara's lips curled into a faint, unpleasant smile. "Ah, yes. The... other sister. And your companion?" Her eyes, narrowed now, scrutinised Livia from head to foot, a silent assessment that concluded with an audible sniff of derision. "So very... simple." Livia felt a flash of heat ignite within her. Simple? Her, Lady Livia, whose wardrobe, though perhaps not as ostentatious as Clara's, was always impeccably chosen and perfectly tailored? Whose wit was sharper than any diamond Clara possessed? The injustice of the remark, delivered with such open contempt, stung. A seed of resentment, dark and potent, began to take root in Livia's heart. Later, as the festivities wound down, the seed of resentment had blossomed into a thorny bush of indignation. Clara's snobbery festered in Livia's mind, replaying in an endless loop. "Simple." The word echoed, grating on her nerves. A mischievous, albeit foolish, idea began to form. Revenge. Small, petty, perhaps, but undeniably satisfying. A few days later, under the pretense of visiting Eleanor, Livia arrived at Blackmoor Manor. The sprawling estate was a labyrinth of echoing corridors and grand chambers, a testament to generations of Blackmoor wealth and power. Her plan, hatched in the quiet fury of her private chambers, was simple: find Lady Clara's room and wreak a small, harmless havoc on her meticulously arranged gowns. A few snips here, a splash of water there – nothing irreparable, just enough to spoil the grand display. Armed with a pair of embroidery scissors and a mischievous glint in her eye, Livia slipped away from Eleanor, feigning a sudden desire to explore the manor's legendary library. Instead, she found herself tiptoeing down a deserted corridor, her heart thumping a nervous rhythm against her ribs. She had quizzed a maid earlier, subtly, about Lady Clara's usual chambers. The maid, an older woman with a perpetually harried expression, had mumbled something about the "west wing, second floor, at the end of the hall, next to the Duke's private study." Livia found the door. It was grander than the others, adorned with a more intricate carving, and she assumed it belonged to the Duke's illustrious betrothed. Gently, she turned the handle. Unlocked. A small smirk played on her lips. Clara, for all her airs, was remarkably careless. She slipped inside, the heavy door closing silently behind her. The room was bathed in the soft, diffused light of a grey afternoon. It was... not what she expected. The air hung thick with the scent of old leather and pipe tobacco, not the delicate floral perfumes Livia associated with Clara. Rows of imposing bookshelves lined one wall, crammed with weighty tomes. A large, ornate desk dominated the centre of the room, piled high with ledgers and official-looking documents. Medals and awards glinted from a display case. This was no lady's bedchamber. A cold dread began to creep up Livia's spine. This was the Duke's chamber. Julian Lancelot Blackmoor's private sanctuary. Her prank, it seemed, had gone spectacularly, terrifyingly, awry. Curiosity, however, warred with her rising panic. She couldn't resist. Her eyes scanned the room, lingering on the spines of books, the intricate carvings on the furniture, the faint scent of something both masculine and undeniably alluring. He was known for his formidable intellect, and the sheer volume of books was a testament to that. She imagined him here, late at night, poring over texts, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then, she heard it. The faint sound of splashing water, accompanied by a soft, rhythmic thrum. It came from beyond a heavy oak door at the far end of the room. The bath chamber. And, given the sounds, it seemed the Duke was currently... indisposed. A morbid fascination took hold. She shouldn't. She absolutely should not. But the thought of witnessing the unshakeable Duke in a moment of vulnerability, even from afar, was too tempting to resist. Slowly, cautiously, she approached the door. A sliver of light escaped from beneath it, accompanied by a wave of humid, steamy air. She pushed the door open, just a c***k. The room beyond was shrouded in a thick mist, hot and heavy. The air was saturated with the scent of a masculine soap, clean and invigorating. Shapes were indistinct, blurred by the steam. She could just make out the raised edge of a large, claw-footed tub. The splashing continued, a slow, steady rhythm. Livia took another step inside, her eyes straining to pierce the mist. The floor, she realized too late, was slick with condensation. Her foot slid. Her arms flailed wildly, desperate for purchase. A small, choked gasp escaped her lips as she lost her balance completely. Her world tilted. She plunged forward, arms outstretched, her scream tearing through the steamy air just as she collided with something warm, firm, and undeniably... naked. A startled grunt erupted from beneath her. Water sloshed violently, cascading over the edges of the tub. Livia, disoriented and mortified, found herself sprawled across the Duke of Blackmoor's broad, wet chest, her face pressed against the curve of his neck. The steam, which moments before had obscured everything, seemed to part, revealing the stark reality of their horrifying predicament. His eyes, those impossibly calm, winter-sky eyes, were wide with shock, staring directly into hers. The unshakeable calm had vanished, replaced by an expression of utter disbelief. He was, as she had suspected, entirely naked. And so was she, or at least, felt as good as. Her light muslin gown, soaked through, clung to her body like a second skin, offering no modesty whatsoever. The scream she had emitted, combined with the cacophony of the splashing water, had evidently reached beyond the confines of the bath chamber. Footsteps thundered down the corridor, growing closer with terrifying speed. Urgent voices, hushed and then increasingly loud, echoed outside the Duke's chamber door. "Your Grace! Is everything alright?" a male voice bellowed, followed by the metallic clang of armour. The Duke, still submerged and entangled with Livia, closed his eyes for a brief, agonizing moment. His jaw was clenched, a muscle ticking furiously in his temple. He let out a long, slow breath, a sound that bordered on a groan. Then, the main chamber door burst open, revealing a flurry of shocked faces. Servants, guards, even a bewildered Eleanor, peered into the room. Their eyes, wide with alarm, swept from the opened bath chamber door to the overflowing tub. The steam, still thick, swirled around the figures within, but it couldn't hide the undeniable truth. Lady Livia, soaking wet and utterly disheveled, was entangled with the naked Duke of Blackmoor in his private bath. The silence that descended upon the room was absolute, heavy with the weight of scandal. Every pair of eyes widened further, fixated on the undeniably compromising position. Julian Lancelot Blackmoor, the paragon of impeccable conduct, the Duke whom no scandal ever touched, was now irrevocably compromised. And Lady Livia, whose petty act of revenge had taken such an unexpectedly dark turn, was at the very heart of it.