1784

You’d just given birth to your second child—sweet little Angelica—and your husband, Alexander, had been nothing short of a miracle. Between rocking cradles, changing swaddles, and practicing law, he somehow managed to be everywhere you needed him. And bless him, he really was trying.

But lately, your postpartum hormones had gone completely feral.

And your husband has never looked sexier.

The tailored suit clinging to his frame, the way he cradled the baby in one arm while lecturing Philip in the other, the authoritative tone he used when telling people what to do, and the glasses.

Good Lord, the glasses.

You were rocking Angelica in your arms, fussing at Philip to stop climbing the furniture again, when Alexander breezed into the room, kissed your forehead, and offered to take both children so you could rest.

And you were over there—leaking milk and thinking, my God, I need to climb that man like a tree.

Later, while strutting down the hallway like you weren’t in a perpetual state of exhaustion, you caught a glimpse of something… divine. You took a few steps back and peeked into his study.

And there he was.

Hunched over his desk, jabot askew, deep in thought as he scribbled something down with a quill. Glasses perched on his nose. Hair swept back neatly, save for that one disobedient curl brushing his temple. His jaw was tense in concentration, brows furrowed, and you just stood there like a starved woman at a feast.

You clutched the doorframe.

This man really had the nerve to look like that in broad daylight. In your house.

Rude.