countessofsussex

[countessofsussex]

𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒, in the brinksmanship of it all, in the delicate balance between provoking and seducing. Somewhere beneath her cheekiness pulsed the faint, unyielding truth: that she wanted his fire to meet hers, that she longed for him to rise to her challenge and break through her stubborn defenses. But she’d rather choke on her own pride, violently, than admit it out loud. The silence grew, stretched thin as a violin string, and Alexandra reveled in it, savoring the delicious ache of suspense. She shifted her weight, one boot scraping against the worn floorboards with idle rebellion, as though she were bored of the stalemate even while her blood raced. Her gaze never wavered, locking with his own like two predators circling in the same cage. There was a thrill in that defiance, a wild heartbeat that drummed at her ribs and made her mouth curve upward into a half-smirk that tasted of recklessness. Her arms folded across her chest; her eyes betraying the truth of her mood, gleaming with that mischievous light he knew all too well, the one that made her seem equal parts trouble and temptation. ❛ Oh, don’t give me that look,❜ she drawled, her voice soaked in honey. ❛ You think a stare like that is enough to put me in my place? You’ll have to do a hell of a lot more than brood at me, cowboy.❜ And Alexandra did not lose battles like this, not when so much of her identity bloomed when standing her ground, on sparring with wit and stubbornness. ❛ Besides, ❜ she added, her voice dipping into a sly murmur, her brow lifting in deliberate provocation, ❛ I imagine you wouldn’t know what to do with me if I did behave. ❜

Her smirk only deepened when she remembered what had drawn that look from him in the first place; his low, clipped request that she pull her shirt down, modesty restored, propriety neatly tucked back into place. Her fingers twitched at her side, betraying a flicker of instinct, to smooth the edges, to swallow her fire before it burned too bright. But she stamped it out, ground it beneath the heel of her defiance. Her head tilted, golden strands of hair slipping across her cheek, and she let her gaze rake over him slowly, deliberately, savoring his tension the way some might savor a glass of whiskey. She thought of giving in, just for a moment. Of tugging the fabric into place, playing the obedient one, if only to watch the relief, or perhaps the triumph, flicker across his face. But obedience would taste too much like surrender, and Alexandra had never enjoyed the flavor. 

❛ . . . Sweet of you, my love, ❜ she breathed, her lips curving into another wicked little smirk. ❛ But it is far too hot to adhere to modesty, I’m afraid.❜

⠀⠀⠀𝓘𝐓'𝐒 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄. Had plenty to do there, and there's definitely no shortage of land that needed minding to after that. But none of that had mattered. Not after Spencer had looked up and caught the brief ( and not subtle ) slack-jawed stares of a few hired boys. Not after he'd followed their line of sight and found them stealing glances of what belongs to him. The sweltering sun hung close to zenith, and there, directly underneath its rays, Alex stands. A sculpture carved of untamed, unapologetic, and unbothered marble. Specks of dust and dry grass swirl about her. Her golden curls damp at her temples. And her stomach, proud and round with his baby, gleaming with sweat, is exposed beneath a shirt tied way too high. The fabric rides up as she rakes through the pasture, dangerously near the underswells of her chest. Sudden tension gathers in his spine. The sight of it, the sheer audacity of her, ignites a savage heat in his blood. Something primal unravels within Spencer, and his purpose shifts from simple rancher to man driven purely by visceral instinct. It's not modesty that flares in him, or a desire to tame her, but a need to protect. To guard what is sacred and his; not meant for the greedy, gawking eyes of boys who can't even begin to understand what it means to worship something as precious and holy as her. A low sound rumbles in Spencer's throat; a discontent hum, a quiet growl, a warning meant for everyone who isn't him.

⠀⠀⠀With his jaw flexed tight, Spencer leans his scythe against the fence and makes his way towards her, a visible furrow between his brows. She must’ve felt the shift in the air, because by the time he reaches her she’s already turned to face him. Her voice teases and her mouth curves with maddening mischief, as though she's oblivious to what she's doing. It damn near stokes something unhinged within him. He fills his lungs with steadying breath, lips twitching — a brief smile that does not reach his eyes. He steps in close, towers over her as if trying to shield her with the breadth of his body. One hand finds home on her stomach, fingers spread wide over the curve where his child grows, both possessive and gentle. His other hand lifts his hat from his head, angling it with calculated purpose against the side of her belly still exposed to the world, to block the worst of the stares still lingering across the yard

⠀⠀⠀❛ Pretty darlin' . . . ❜ he murmurs in a low rasp, half-reprimand, half-plea, his eyes drowning in hers like he's staring into fire; dangerous, radiant, and only his to drink from. Spencer's fingers drift from the warm skin of Alex's stomach to her face, to graze his thumb along the line of her jaw. He’d thought war had beaten the softness out of him. Thought the hunter in him had buried any man that knew how to want tender things. But she’d made a liar of him, this woman. She’d made him soft and feral and fiercely protective all the same. A romantic, she calls it.

⠀⠀⠀❛ . . . baby'll come out tan as a copper penny if you don't cover up. Go on now sweetheart, pull it down. ❜

[countessofsussex]

𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇, 𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐄. The weight of exhaustion on her bones had simply dragged her under and kept her there. But some small shift in the house, a faint creak, the ghost of hoofbeats through the floor, had pulled her back slowly from the shore of sleep. Her arms went instinctively to gather what wasn’t there. The small, warm heft of John was missing, and for a moment she let her hand rest on the dent in the mattress, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself. She could picture it easily: Spencer with that patient half-grin, sweeping their son up like a prize he would protect like gold. She’d tried, at first, to surrender to the quiet, to burrow deeper into the hollow his absence had left beside her and pretend she could sleep again, though the bed was too empty now, her arms too used to the weight of their son . . . and curiosity drew her up instead. She rose, barefoot, her dress trailing whisper-quiet against the floorboards. A glance out the window arresting her mid-step.

There they were.

Framed in the spill of a dying sun, Spencer sat astride the old gelding; John a tiny echo of him in miniature perched in front. The child alight with joy, hands in the horse’s mane, mouth open in a squeal she couldn’t hear but felt in her bones. And all at once, Alex found herself moving before she could think of a reason not to, slipping down the stairs; the back door opening with the faintest sigh, spilling her out into the scent of thawing earth and horsehide. For a moment, she kept to the shadowed edge of the porch, watching as they rode the yard’s wide loop. Now she could hear him; low, gentle words folding one into the next like the murmur of water over stone. She lingered there, half-hidden, listening. Her chest ached with it, this man she’d met on another continent, under another sky, who had once been little more than a restless stranger to her and now was the center point of her world. She thought of the woman she’d been before him, before this life: her edges sharper, her heart guarded as though a country at war. That version of herself would never have imagined she’d stand here barefoot in the dirt, hands idle because she wanted for nothing more than this view. Gratitude filled her in a slow, aching swell. Gratitude for the man, for the boy, for the quiet, for the way the wind tangled her hair and smelled faintly of hay. Alexandra let her skirt brush the grass as she closed the distance, resting her palm lightly on John’s small knee, her gaze flicking between the boy’s delighted face and the man holding him. ❛ Thought I’d find you two out here conspiring, ❜ she teased. ❛ What’s the verdict, hmmm? Teach him to ride before he can spell it, or perhaps wait until he’s out of nappies? ❜

John babbled something in reply—nonsense strung with laughter—and she laughed too, smoothing a hand through his hair before letting her fingers linger against his cheek. Her eyes found Spencer’s then, and the words she’d been keeping close all day swelled to her lips. The news had been pressing against her ribs since morning, sweet, insistent. ❛ . . . . Well, you might want to start thinkin’ about expandin’ your borders, cowboy. ❜ She drew the moment out, the smallest pause to watch confusion flicker before the realization began to take root. ❛ You’re gonna have another ridin’ up here with you soon. ❜

⊹⠀➸⠀*⠀˖ ❨ 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 @countessofsussex ❩

⠀⠀⠀𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘'𝐒 𝐋𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐓𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄, he'd gone back inside the house to his family. To see if John, over a year old now, had finally lost his latest battle against sleep, to recover strength from his wife's smile. What he finds makes him chuckle, sends away the ache in his limbs and revitalises him. Alex is curled sideways on the bed, hair splayed wild across the pillow, their son nestled against her warm chest . . . babbling sweetly to himself. She must've hoped to hold him, to hum lullabies until he'd fallen asleep — only to surrender before he had. Clever boy. Spencer stands in the doorway a long while, just looking. Watching the way her fingers still curl protectively around John, the way her brow smoothed at last, free of the fatigue she'd been wearing for months. Their son, content in his defiance, toys aimlessly with the ribbons of her dress, his delicate voice soft and half in song, as though he's trying to mimic Alex's lullaby. The whole damn scene makes Spencer's heart clench with both awe and love; to think that this is his to keep. As quietly as his boots allow, he crosses the room, gently easing their son from her arms. Alex barely stirs, only sighs softly, betraying the depth of her exhaustion. While one arm cradles John, the other reaches to grab the knitted blanket Aunt Cara had left on the wooden chest. With tender care, Spencer lays it over Alex before leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead.

⠀⠀⠀❛ I've got him. Sleep, darlin’. ❜ He murmurs against her skin, lets his lips linger for a moment, before heading back outside. For a while, Spencer just carries John through the yard, pointing at things worth noting. He hadn’t planned for more than that. Maybe introduce him to one of the mares, let his tiny fingers brush a soft nose or tangled mane, get him used to the scent of hay and horse, to the sound of hooves and snorts. But impulse got the better of him. Half an hour later, they're saddled up and circling slow through the yard on an old gelding with a kind temperament. Spencer keeps his son snug against his chest, one arm wrapped protectively around the boy’s middle, the other holding the reins to guide the horse in steady, unhurried rhythm. John had squealed at the first step forward, but is now beside himself with delight. Giggles bubble from his chest with each stride, his hands clapping, then reaching for the horse's mane with unrestrained enthusiasm, ❛ Easy now, cowboy. Be gentle or you'll send us both flyin’. ❜ Spencer mutters quickly when those little fingers got a bit too brave with the tugging. The horse, carefully chosen for its patience and tolerance, just snorts, coaxing another squeal from John. There's a swell of something overwhelming within Spencer's chest, a tide that floods quick and fierce. He leans down to press a kiss to his son’s wispy curls, a besotted smile tugging at his lips. This—this is the meaning of life. This is happiness.

⠀⠀⠀❛ You proud of yourself, huh? Put your mama right to sleep. Not many can do that, she's more stubborn and untameable than a wildfire. You got that from her, y’know. Got a whole lot from her. Lucky kid, you are. ❜ He says as they ride out toward the fence line, just as the the sun starts to sink low and cast everything in rich gold. He stares out at the vast fields and mountains, inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of thawing earth and new grass, a lingering chill tucked beneath the early spring air. Then he tells John stories; about the ranch, the cattle, the elk, the barn cats that rule the hayloft and his mama's heart. He tells him about the way the land changes with the seasons, and how each part of it would one day belong to him, this bright-eyed boy who couldn’t stop pointing at birds and laughing at the leaves in the wind. When the breeze rises a little too cold, Spencer guides the horse in a slow return towards the house. And on the way, he even speaks of his brother — the first John.

⠀⠀⠀❛ You’re named after one of the best men I ever knew, son. My brother, John. One day I’ll tell you all about him. About how brave he was, how he looked after me when nobody else was here. Way before you and your mama came along. But for now . . . how ’bout you close those eyes for me, hmm? ❜

[countessofsussex]

𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑’𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋, though she had come to know them in so many different languages: the grip of urgency, the patient mapping of her spine, the idle graze against her hipbone when he passed her in the kitchen. The warmth of his palms through her dress bled into her skin, into the ache she had learned to carry without complaint, and for a moment it was almost enough to make her forget there had ever been such a thing as fear. She had wondered if the name might hit like this. She had hoped. Alexandra had learned quickly that Spencer was not a man who gave away the inner workings of his heart easily; the rare times he did, it was like a breach in a dam, and now here it was, the flood in his eyes, the pull of his breath, the way his voice faltered and then came low, aching. She’d been prepared for him to cry, but not for the way it would utterly gut her to see his cheeks wet. It was vulnerability, stripped of all artifice, nothing but bone and truth. She had fallen in love with that man, the one who was both steel and skin, who did not shy from feeling when it mattered most. Her hands rose slowly to cover his wrists where they held her face, the pads of her thumbs brushing over the quick, strong beat there. She needed him to feel it too . . . that they were alive, still tethered here under the noise and the light, still belonging to one another in every way that mattered. The fireworks painted him in restless color, gold edges and sudden scarlet, and she thought she might never forgive the night for ending. Alex leaned back against him, letting her spine curve into the comfort of his frame. ❛ John gets it from you, ❜ she murmured, warmed by affection and edged with the faintest thread of awe. ❛ That stubborn streak. That wildness. ❜

Another kick, softer now, rippled beneath her skin, a rolling stretch, as if the child had settled in at the sound of his father’s voice. Alexandra’s fingers slid down to find his again, guiding them both over the taut swell of her belly until their hands overlapped. She laced her fingers with his, holding him there. The life they had made in defiance of all the reasons fate might have given them not to. Her thumb brushed across the curve of his knuckles, memorizing the shape of his hand against her own. The world could burn itself to cinders around them, but this moment would remain, she's certain of it. She lingered in it, feeling him breathe, feeling the way his body seemed to curve instinctively around hers, for the way he might pull her nearer.

❛ You’re going to have to share me soon, you know. ❜

⠀⠀⠀𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐌𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐒. It doesn't matter how many times he feels the ripple of life under her taut skin, it always undid some old and hardened fragment of him, breathed light into every haunted part. Each kick, so small but confident, sparks wildfire within him, makes him tremble with excitement to finally meet their kid. War never taught him how to believe in miracles. But she had. Loving her had. Witnessing her strength, in the face of all adversity, had. And their baby was nothing if not additional proof of the purest miracle. As Alex tilts her head back against his chest, soft relief emanating from her, Spencer cannot resist leaning down to steal a lingering kiss from the place her pulse beats strongest. Her throat, warm and sweet, just beneath his lips. Her body reacts to him, subtle but unmistakable; the quiet hitch of breath, the way she presses closer. He smiles against her skin, a grin that borders on smug. But it fades when their son kicks again, more demanding this time, and he feels her tense. A flash of pain, quick and quiet, but enough to shatter him. It guts him, the damn helplessness. The inability to shield her from this, from the battle that's coming for her. He's a man made to kill, to protect, yet he can do absolutely nothing useful to help her. It ruins him. Spencer supports her stomach in one hand, the other wraps around her upper body and curls gently at her jaw, reverent, desperate.

⠀⠀⠀❛ I'm sorry, honey, ❜ he murmurs, voice low against her temple. His eyes squeezed shut, his jaw tight, ❛ I’m sorry I can’t do no more to settle all the pain. ❜ His heart wrenches and twists in his chest, the raw sentiment true and vulnerable. Then she speaks again, gives him something profoundly generous, and his heart stills entirely.

⠀⠀⠀I believe his name should be John, she'd said.

⠀⠀⠀It hits him square in the chest, forces breath from him in one long exhale. The name echoes louder than the fireworks, stirs something indescribable within him, something that rises quick and relentless. It awakens memories that lived deep in his marrow. John. Spencer's mind floods with images; his older brother caring for him, not only in the dark days after their parents had died, but all throughout boyhood. John had protected them both. Had fed him, calmed him when fear threatened to swallow him whole. He had taught Spencer how to track elk, how to shoe a horse, how to load a rifle with small, trembling fingers. And when there had been no one left but them at the ranch, John hadn't cowered. He'd stood tall and encouraged Spencer to do the same. Now, his legacy would live on, and it means more to Spencer than he ever could've expected. The weight of it almost startles him — how deeply it does settle in his chest.

⠀⠀⠀When he breaks from the surge of memories, when the haze fades and Alex comes back into view, his cheeks are wet and he's blinking furiously. He didn’t cry often. Not until he'd met her. She'd softened him, peeled the callouses from his soul. Healed parts of him that shunned feeling things, anything, so deeply. With a pitiful sniffle and a low grunt, Spencer gently turns her toward him, his palms rising to cradle her ravishing face with the softness of someone holding something holy.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Goddamn woman . . . ❜ he murmurs through a fragile smile, leaning in to press his forehead against hers, just to steady himself. Just to breathe her in, ❛ you wreck every bit of pride I've got. And hell, I love you for it. ❜ Tenderly, he kisses the space between her brows before pulling back just enough for their eyes to collide. ❛ I'd like that. Thank you. ❜ His voice is as soft as he can muster, thick with emotion. His gaze then drops to her belly with a faint flicker of playfulness, ❛ hey now, son . . . John, be kind to your mama, you hear? I know you're impatient and space is tight, but you gotta ease up. Ain't no need to be kickin’ like a colt. ❜

[countessofsussex]

1923 ‧ The War Has Come Home

[countessofsussex]

𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐀 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃, 𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐇, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐔𝐋𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓—but so, too, was love when it was as deep as theirs. Alexandra leaned into him as if she were water returning to its riverbed, drawn by the unrelenting current of affection; the slope of her back met with the solid plane of his chest, knowing there would never again be a softer place to land than this. Than him. And even now, eight months swollen, with the ache of tomorrow pressing constant against her spine and ribs, she surrendered to it willingly. Every inch of it. Her body. Her breath. Her future. And he held it all in his hands. The fireworks cracked overhead; shards of burning color stitched into dusk’s skin, a violent, jubilant pageant of light and noise. But she scarcely noticed. Not when Spencer was near. His hands cupped the underside of her belly, and he lifted—just enough to ease the weight she’d been carrying all day—and in that moment, Alexandra could have wept. Her fingers drifted down to join his own, tracing over his calluses, his knuckles, the scar near his thumb she’d kissed a dozen times. ❛ Tired is my new religion, darling, ❜ she murmured, voice velvet-wrapped and edged with mischief, though her body sagged into his in surrender. ❛ But I’m also too stubborn to let it win just yet. Besides... ❜ She tipped her head back, her neck arched to bare itself to the night air. The sky opened above them, a tapestry unspooling with each bright burst. She found herself awed by a nation’s chaos made beautiful. By the warm press of her husband’s chest at her back. ❛ How could I go in now, when the stars are being rewritten above me? ❜

And when the baby kicked again, this time firmer, a light gasp escaped her, delighted, rising from her chest like a bird startled from the hedgerow. She laughed, breathless, head turning to brush her temple against his jaw, as though tethering herself more firmly to the man who had given her this strange and splendid new life. ❛ He knows you’re near, ❜ she whispered. ❛ I think he always does. You settle us both. ❜ Still, as silence curled in the brief intermittent between sparks, a shadow passed behind her eyes. There were storms that even Spencer, for all his strength and silence and unshakeable devotion, could not shield her from. She carried that knowledge like a stone beneath her ribs. The possibility, the risk, the awful, mortal edge of motherhood. She refused to name her fears aloud . . . of rupture, of blood, of the possibility that she might give everything and not make it back. She was not afraid to meet it, but she was afraid of what it might take from him. ( From them. ) Spencer already knew. He carried the fear behind his eyes like a soldier bearing a secret wound. And what good would it do, to hand him hers as well?

Instead, she gave him something else. A talisman. A way forward. Her gaze found his, the color of dusk and battlefields and everything that had refused to kill him. ❛ . . . I believe his name should be John. ❜

⠀⠀⠀𝓗𝐄'𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏 𝐒𝐄𝐓 𝐔𝐏 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 because Jacob had barked his name and Jack had patted his back and told him it's his patriotic duty. But every minute spent away from Alex had his skin itching and his eyes drifting; towards the fence line, towards her, his heart wrapped in something he no longer had words for. Because love didn’t cut it. Not anymore. Hadn't for a while. Spencer had been so goddamn eager to share this with her — her first Fourth of July. Had wanted her to laugh at the absurdity of it all, to roll her eyes at the excess and chaos, at the unapologetic loudness of it. He'd once been a man hardened by war, made into stone by the things he'd seen. But Alex had unspooled him entirely, reshaped him into something tender and light. He craved her nearness like breath, needed her voice, her scent, the feeling of her silken skin against his calloused hands. Especially now, when she braved the final stretch of her pregnancy, when the sight of her so swollen with his child stoked something primal in him. Hunger, pride, worry. So yeah, as soon as the final banner has been hung and the last box of fireworks checked, he makes a beeline for her.

⠀⠀⠀He spots her leaning against a fence, bathed in waning twilight, a gleam of sweat on her brow. And her stomach, their child, full and proud beneath her dress. Greedily, he drinks in the sight of her, his heart lurching in his chest, aching with disbelief that this impossible creature is his wife. And that she is here. Everything narrows to her, the rest of the ranch, every person and sound fades. Christ, he loves her so damn much. Even more so when she raises her voice to call out to him, a siren's beckon cloaked in a wry tease, snatching him by the collar and dragging him home to her.

⠀⠀⠀❛ This is real food right here, sweetheart. ❜ He calls back, gesturing to the piles of meat and potatoes gleaming with grease, ❛ not the stuff we had in Marseilles. What was that shit again? Rice rolled in flour? Godawful. ❜ He counters with a wide, roguish grin. Instinctively, his arm snakes around her waist to draw her into him, pressing her back against his chest. Above them, the fireworks begin to crescendo, sparks of blue and red dotting the sky. But he barely lifts his head to watch. What spectacle could rival her? Both of his palms sail to the underside of her belly, and with incredible care he lifts — easing the burden of their son's weight. This simple act, this small relief, is all that Spencer can give her in the face of what's coming . . . and the helplessness of it frustrates him. It's selfish maybe, but to soothe himself his nose buries in the damp crook of her neck, and he breathes her in. A soft kiss there, one behind her ear, and one to her temple, before his voice drops low,

⠀⠀⠀❛ You not tired? Been a long day. You shouldn’t be standin’. Not in this heat. ❜ He murmurs, thumbs moving in slow circles against the firm curve of her stomach. She would hear it in him — he knew she would. The quiet worry beneath the wonder. The knowledge that she stood at the edge of something he couldn’t protect her from, no matter how furiously he wanted to. ❛ Tell me what you need. ❜ Those were the words that have become prayer, spoken several times a day now. A plea for her to voice her every wish; however big or small, Spencer would leap without hesitation.

[countessofsussex]

There's something you should know about me. I'm a very jealous lover. I will not share you with your demons. So we must find them and chase them all away.

1923 | "War and the Turquoise Tide"

[countessofsussex]

⊹⠀𖥸⠀*⠀˖ ❨ 𝐂 𝐎 𝐔 𝐍 𝐓 𝐄 𝐒 𝐒⠀𝐎 𝐅⠀𝐒 𝐔 𝐒 𝐒 𝐄 𝐗 ❩⠀⊱⠀a highly selective and private roleplay blog devoted to 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒙𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒂 𝒐𝒇 𝑺𝒖𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒙 ( 𝑫𝒖𝒕𝒕𝒐𝒏 ). Inspired by the Yellowstone prequel 1923, this portrayal is rich with personal headcanons and alternative timelines. Mature content present. 21+ only. This is a sideblog to @museanthology. Written by Snow. ✧ * ⋆

❈ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ᭝ 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐒 & 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐒. ᭝ 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 ༉ 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓. ༉

⊱ 𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 : ⠀ ᭝ @trailwrought, @starlitsonnets

[countessofsussex]

⊹⠀𖥸⠀*⠀˖ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 @trailwrought

𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐀𝐓𝐒 and the pale-gold hush before sunrise, driven by that impulse the ranch had already inspired into her bones. The summer air billowing under the loose chambray shirt she’d hastily knotted beneath her breasts. She’d meant only to spare herself the heat, though it left her belly bared, the smooth swell of motherhood glinting with perspiration and soft dust motes. In another life, perhaps she might have hidden the proof of her expectancy beneath corseted cotton and averted gaze. ( Good girls kept their mysteries under lock and key; they certainly didn’t heft feed buckets with a curve of child proclaiming itself to the sun. ) But the baby was heavy today, and the way the breeze caught against her skin was almost a relief. A small mercy. Her hands dust-streaked, fingers curled around the rough wooden handle of a rake she’d been using to spread fresh hay. Sweat gathered at her temples; the strands of her hair sticking to the curve of her neck. Then she felt it. A prickle at the back of her neck. She turned her head, just a little, and caught sight of him watching from a distance. Across the paddock he paused mid-stride, hat brim shadowing eyes that nevertheless gleamed like burnished brass. Heat bloomed across her cheeks, mingling with the flush of honest exertion. For an instant shame and pride tangled like wild grapevines, and she inhaled, brushing a stray tawny curl from her temple, lifting her chin to meet his gaze. She was flushed from labor, from sun, from him.

❛ . . . I thought you were working on the fence line, ❜ she called, voice light, teasing, ❛ was it that you missed us too much, hmmm? Could scarcely bear being apart any longer? What a romantic you've become. ❜

[countessofsussex]

⊹⠀𖥸⠀*⠀˖ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 @trailwrought

𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐀 𝐃𝐈𝐃 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐘, Alexandra had swiftly realized; it did grandeur, grit, and an uncanny fondness for explosives. There were no fireworks in England — at least, not the sort that burst across the sky with such unabashed bravado. The Fourth of July had once been nothing more than a novelty to her. Something foreign, loud, and garish. It was not lost on her, the irony, that she had grown up surrounded by titles and land, history etched into stone and blood, and even so, only now, here in the wild and sun-seared margins of this country, did she feel anything close to legacy. Her hand smoothing instinctively over her belly, thumb tracing lazy, possessive circles over the taut linen stretched there. Her ankles ached from the weight, and her spine had begun its nightly protest, but she didn’t yet retreat indoors. Eight months now. The baby stirred often, mostly at night, as if drawn by stars, by music, by the rhythm of footsteps and fiddles and fireworks. It kicked now, lightly, a flutter under her ribs that made her hand drift instinctively to the spot. She stroked the curve of her belly as if to soothe it, or perhaps herself. A wide-brimmed straw hat sat forgotten at her side on a fence post, and her hair was twisted up, though strands had fallen loose to stick to the delicate sheen of sweat on her neck.  Children ran barefoot over the grass, sparklers hissing in their hands like tiny dragons on string. Dogs barked at the noise, tails wagging, teeth flashing. From the porch came the dull thud of boots, the clink of glass bottles, and the sound of someone—she thought it might be Elizabeth singing a tune that wasn't quite in key. Somewhere, someone set off a firecracker too early, and the sharp burst ricocheted across the ranch like a gunshot softened by distance. They do love their noise, she thought with fond exasperation, eyes tracking the embers that drifted toward nothingness. These Americans set the heavens alight for the sheer pleasure of watching them fall. She turned toward the long tables groaning beneath the offerings of the ranch wives: iron skillets of cobbler still bubbling at the edges, platters of brisket glistening dark as lacquer, bowls mounded with something called “ambrosia” that looked suspiciously like fruit banished to a snowdrift of whipped cream. Overhead, bunting flapped; star-spangled rags whipping themselves into frenzy at every uprush of wind. A soft snort escaped her. Subtlety, thy name is not America. Even so, she felt her heart rise like a startled skylark when she spotted him through the throng— Spencer, hat pushed back, collar unbuttoned, skin gilded by the last leak of sunset. The look in his eyes made those fireworks seem like mere flint sparks. I have traded coronets for calluses, marble for mud. She pressed her hand to her belly again, felt the reassuring thump. And I have never been richer. She lifted her glass, a jam jar filled with iced tea so sweet it could melt a lesser woman’s teeth, and arched a brow in regal mockery. ❛ Darling, ❜ she called, loud enough for a few bystanders to grin, ❛ I remain convinced your nation’s independence was declared solely to justify this… culinary anarchy. ❜ She gestured grandly toward a hillock of precariously stacked hot-dogs and hamburgers. ❛ And I fear if I consume one more mayonnaise-laced potato, our child may be born as one. ❜

[countessofsussex]

𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 to navigate dukes and debutantes; Spencer Dutton’s ( their ) ranch, it seemed, would require an entirely different skill set. She’d survived London society, continental scandals, and three brutal seasons of couture corsetry — surely, one rusty tractor could not defeat her. Sweat traced a line down her back beneath the linen of her blouse, soaked into the waistband of her trousers, darkening the fabric at her spine. Her golden curls had begun to unravel beneath the broad leather brim of the cowboy hat he’d nestled onto her head, the strands clinging to her temples in delicate, damp ringlets. Her cheeks flushed fiercely — one that spoke of sun and exertion and the stubborn grit of a woman trying, failing, trying again. It was absurd, in a way that was almost painful, how badly she longed to belong here. There had been no reason for it to seize her the way it had: this sprawling, aching wilderness. But from the moment she’d seen it stretch out beyond the train window, brutal and golden and utterly unyielding, she had felt it sink into her chest like a splinter. She had not yet dislodged it. ( She hadn’t wanted to. ) So when she’d seen the tractor parked lopsided in the field, half-swallowed by the tall grass and time, something in her had leapt at the challenge. An opportunity to plant herself in this foreign soil and insisting she could grow. Now, perched beside him on the worn, groaning tractor seat, her knees brushing his as they rocked slightly with its weight, she felt her breath stick in her throat. She could feel his fingertips ghosting along her arm, light as dusk, and it made her exhale through her nose, only to keep from making a sound. Alex looked down at the levers, the dials, the faded labels worn from decades of sun and hands far rougher than hers. Her brows pinched. It shouldn’t be this hard, she thought. She’d navigated foreign languages, lied beautifully at customs, dined with men who would’ve destroyed nations over a single look from her. But none of those moments had made her feel as raw as sitting beside this man, this land, this life she had not been born to and yet found herself craving like breath. You gotta turn the key, or we ain't movin' an inch, no matter how hard you stomp on that pedal. 

She blinked.

Oh.

Her hand reached for the ignition, fingers brushing over the worn metal. It felt too small for the power it wielded. That, she thought, was true of many things. The key turned with a soft clink, and the tractor shuddered to life beneath her, a beast grumbling at being roused, coughing dust and years into the wind. The whole machine vibrated beneath them, and for a moment, she feared it would shake her heart loose from its ribs. ( If the land wished to test her, it would find the former Countess neither soft nor sorry. ) 

❛ . . . And what happens if I forget how to stop her? ❜

⊹⠀➸⠀*⠀˖ ❨ 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 @countessofsussex ❩

⠀⠀⠀𝓣𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐆𝐎𝐃, but not even its brutal blaze can smother the spirit of the woman beside him. No, not his Alex. Stubborn, determined, and ever defiant in the face of discomfort. Regal even when sweat clings to the golden curls at her temples and her breath falls shallow in the heat. Her mind had been made up the moment she spotted the small tractor through the prairie dust and dry grass. Her request to learn how to operate the machine had come with the sharp cadence of an aristocrat’s command ( as it often did — she was fire and moxie incarnate, and it undid him in the sweetest way ). There's precious little in this world that he’d deny her; feels like sacrilege to even entertain the thought. And seeing her move through his land — becoming part of it, eager, curious, unafraid, ignites something achingly reverent in him. So Spencer had only said alright then, sweetheart, secured a cowboy hat onto her head, and led her out into the field with a near boyish smile. The tractor groans beneath their weight as he helps her climb aboard, his palms steady at her waist, guiding her up with tender care. He hops up in swift pursuit, settling in beside her; knees brushing, her heady perfume mingling with the scent of hay, heat and home. He rolls up his sleeves before one arm moves instinctively to lay around her shoulders, the other gesturing toward the rust-bitten dashboard.

⠀⠀⠀❛ She's an old lady, so steering’s stiff and you'll have to coax her a little. Stick’ll shift you forward if you ask kindly enough. Gas pedal there. Brake beside it, press it gentle, she don’t like to be surprised. ❜ He explains, voice low and warm, fingertips tracing idle patterns against her arm. Then he leans back and gives her space to explore and discover on her own, all while prepared to act should something go sideways. And when she looks up at him from under the leather brim of her hat, inquisitive, lips pursed and brows furrowed in concentration ( frustration ), Spencer can't help himself — a chuckle rumbles in his chest.

⠀⠀⠀❛ Darlin’, ❜ he teases, an amused grin tugging at the edges of his mouth, while something deeply profound tugs at his heart, ❛ you gotta turn the key, or we ain't movin' an inch, no matter how hard you stomp on that pedal. ❜