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i. I’m falling in love with someone
He’s never believed in love at first sight, but the first time he sees Amory Ames, he thinks he just might change his mind. She's mid-conversation with a woman he will later learn is her cousin Laurel and engaged to a staid, boring sop named Gil.
He's supposed to be ingratiating himself with a German athlete, rumored to be a spy, but instead, he watches her, waiting for the right moment to make his move. Each moment only weaves her spell stronger: her bright laugh, her sharp eyes, her tilted smile.
He’s half in love by the time he makes his way across the room, heart Lindy hopping in his chest. One slip of his hand into hers, and he's stolen her from her dance partner—her fiance, he's already identified. To another man, that might matter, but he's never been one for Society and its rules.
Her eyes laugh up at his, and he thinks, Let’s run away together, you and I. Let's leave this whole damn town and its responsibilities behind.
“Dance with me?” he flirts instead.
***
ii. free & easy is the life I got
He’s known his marriage’s been slipping through his fingers with all the speed of an unbridled horse, but it’s not until he returns home—for that’s wherever Amory is, really—and finds Gil fucking making moon eyes at her that he realizes the precarious waters he’s in. He doesn’t know how to be married, can’t say his father showed him a particularly stalwart example, but he does know when the woman one loves runs off to play mistress of the man she jilted, one better follow if he wants any say.
His superiors aren’t particularly happy when he pulls out of his next mission—he’s been laying the groundwork in Monte Carlo for months —but between wife and country, he’s beginning to think the choice isn’t as easy as country before all.
There’s a reason men like him aren’t supposed to marry.
He lingers in town before making his debut, laying the groundwork and casing the scene like any good spy. It’s not until he sees Amory though, wrapped in Gil’s arms, that he thinks back to the night they first met and wonder, if after all his years of death and debauchery, if this isn’t what karma feels like.
We’re not supposed to end like this, he thinks. So we won’t.
“There you are,” he drawls, when he strolls on to the balcony of the Brightwell Hotel and sees Gil Trent slavering over his wife .
Get your hands off her, he wants to snarl, a sick rush of jealousy rising at the sight of Amory and another man, innocent as she may be. Don't you know I'm acting when I look at those other women? he nearly accuses in a fit of pique.
Gil wisely steps backs, hovering over Amory as if she’s the one in need of protection. From him.
When he smiles, he's sure to show all his teeth. “Wasn't expecting me, I see.”
He won't give Trent another chance.
***
iii. not for the life of me
For a brief, foolish span—less time even that it took to fall in love or forswear his life to King and country—Milo contemplates sharing the lies in his life with Amory. She'd make a wonderful partner, he knows, in crime, sure to be as wonderful with espionage as she is with detective work. She has that innate intuition at problem solving, and better yet, a natural ease with people he's never managed to master. Where he charms, she soothes; he's endlessly pleased with how quickly her suspects find themselves halfway in love with her before the conversation ends.
That is, so long as they know he is the man she comes home to every night—and the only one in her bed.
After the murder of Isobel Van Allen, those thoughts vanish like snow in the sunlight, a pretty dream marred by the muddy ground beneath. He cannot erase the sight of Amory covered in blood, not even months later, not even miles away, safely ensconced in an Italian villa.
He's taken an unknown leave of absence, despite his superiors’ threats, telling them he will refuse any future missions abroad where his wife cannot accompany him. He no longer trusts trouble to avoid her in his absence—they have more in common than he ever realized, or even hoped, but he cannot lose her.
Like his father, he will not survive.
He doesn't share his fears with her, of course. When Nanette asks for his help, he cannot ignore her nor leave Amory behind: his heart Lindy hops in his chest once more.
I'm trying to protect you, he thinks, when Amory sends him renewed looks of betrayal. If he contemplates his decisions too deeply, he knows what she’d say: he cannot afford her logic to overrule the nightmare which has stalked him for months now. I can't put you at risk.
“I need you to trust me, Amory,” he pleads, ignoring once more the nausea in his gut, the cool glass of her eyes.
By the time they reach Beryl Belanger, the hardness is gone from his voice, his smile perfectly genial as he stands at Amory’s side.
***
& that thing called love
Were one to ask, his favorite part of the day is waking up at Amory’s side, sunlight dappling her skin and her warmth surrounding them both. Some mornings, he nestles his head against her breast so he can listen for the dual beats of their hearts, the echoing beat of their pulses. He reassures himself with every thump that she is his and he is hers and together, they are one, they are together, they will never drift so far from each other again.
Any restlessness he has now comes from days spent away from her side, few and far between. The War Office has little use for married spies, it seems. Their questionable loyalties are a risk, his superiors said, and well, Milo’s never been one for following the rules.
Between country and wife, he knows what comes first.
Beneath him, Amory stirs, a quiet little groan that goes straight to his groin. She drives him wild, with her insistence on greeting the day and proper manners. Winnelda’s the best paid maid in England, he reckons, all because his wife fears their love has sullied her virtue.
“You're looking awfully serious.” Amory smiles up at him, secrets gleaming from her eyes. He wants to unravel each and every one.
“I was thinking,” he replies, kissing her languidly between one breath and the next, “that I love only you, Amory Ames.” He smiles ruefully. “Not as romantic as it sounds in French, you know.”
Amory laughs, reaching up to kiss him once more, and he thinks— that's my wife.
I love you, indeed.