Chapter 19
Lizanne
Dusk at the vineyard did something with the light that no production designer could have faked—a heavy, gold warmth that draped over the terrace and made the whole world look magical. Long tables ran the length of the stone, dressed in cream linen and trailing ivy.
There were clusters of pillar candles, white orchids that looked like they’d grown there by accident, and a string quartet playing period pieces Lizanne recognized from her own show.
Every detail was sharp—the wax seals on the menu cards, the bunches of dried lavender, the calligraphy that looked like it had been hand-inked by someone who cared.
Rose hadn’t cut corners. She had built a Regency fever dream in the middle of California.
Dana Maloney caught up with Lizanne near the terrace entrance, a glass already in hand.
“It’s remarkable,” Dana said. She played Lizanne’s daughter on Gilden Duchess with a commitment that sometimes made Lizanne feel genuinely maternal—an unsettling feeling, considering Dana was barely ten years her junior.
“The muslin on the chairs is actually period-accurate. And where on earth did she find white peonies in October?”
“I’ve learned to stop asking,” Lizanne said. “She just makes things happen.”
“The cake,” Dana said, gesturing toward the display. “Please tell me that isn’t a real Regency cake. Those things are—”
“There’s a traditional one and a regular one,” Rose said. “The traditional one is for the cameras and anyone who wants the authentic experience.”
“What’s in it?” Dana asked.
“Suet. Dried fruit. Enough brandy to concern a doctor.”
Dana’s face contracted and she shuddered, her blonde hair wafting in the air. “And the other one?”
“That one’s for eating.”
“Flavor?”
Rose’s mouth twitched. “It’s a surprise….”
Lizanne looked at her. “We agreed that anything was fine as long as it wasn’t lemon.”
“We did agree on that,” Rose said, her voice smooth as silk.
The cake cutting happened at nine, while the light was still holding for the crew.
They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, hands overlapping on the knife, while the cameras circled like sharks.
Rose was close enough that Lizanne could smell her—something floral and warm that didn’t come from a bottle.
It was an awareness that hit Lizanne in the center of her chest before she could build a defense against it.
They cut the cake. The crowd cheered. Someone in the back was clearly three glasses of champagne ahead of everyone else and whooped. Rose plated two slices and handed one to Lizanne.
“If you put that cake in my face,” Lizanne said, smiling for the cameras, “there will be consequences.”
“I would never,” Rose said. “I’ve always hated that. It’s food. It’s meant to be enjoyed.”
Lizanne looked at her and thought: This is real. Or at least I want it to be.
She took a bite.
The lemon hit her right in the taste buds—sharp, sour, and unmistakable. She held her expression through sheer, professional grit. She had twenty years of acting experience behind her; she wasn’t going to give Rose the satisfaction of a flinch while the red light was on.
She took a second bite.
“Delicious,” she told the room, smiling broadly while the citrus made her molars ache.
Rose leaned in, her voice a low murmur meant only for Lizanne’s ear. “You forced me into this show,” she said. “Eating a piece of lemon cake is the absolute least you can do.”
Lizanne swallowed the cake with as much dignity as she could muster and said nothing. Rose smiled, satisfied and amused. There was no malice in this.
As far as pranks went, it was actually pretty damn hilarious.
The waltz was also Rose’s idea. Regency-appropriate.
The quartet had been briefed and the guests formed a loose ring around the floor.
Lizanne put her hand at Rose’s waist and Rose’s hand went to her shoulder.
They found the beat within two bars—Rose could dance, a fact Lizanne added to her mental ledger.
Lizanne’s focus narrowed until the only thing in the world was the woman in her arms. She was aware of her hand on Rose’s waist in a way that had nothing to do with the steps; she wanted to pull her closer, to close the gap.
Rose seemed to have the same idea. Her hand on Lizanne’s shoulder shifted from a formal grip to a flat, warm palm against the silk of Lizanne’s dress.
They turned. Rose’s fingers pressed in, just slightly.
“Thank you,” Rose said. “For what you did earlier. With Daisy.”
“It was—”
“Don’t tell me it was for the cameras.”
“I wasn’t going to.” Lizanne guided them through the turn. “The instinct just... hit me. I’ve never thought of myself as someone who was good with children. I don’t go looking for those situations. But she went down and I was moving before I could think.”
“The instinct was always there,” Rose said. “Whether you noticed it or not.”
They danced, and as the lines between the performance and the reality started to blur, Lizanne realized she was losing her place in the story.
By eleven-thirty, the last guests had gone.
Rose and Lizanne drove back home, accompanied by Loraine, the producer, and John, the cameraman who’d been assigned to get the closing beat footage—the two brides, alone, the day done. Another team, consisting of Ben and Klaus, was focused on Quinn and Kayla as well as, on occasion, Marigold.
They made their way into the kitchen, getting into position, a glass of wine in each of their hands.
“We just need a few shots,” Loraine said. “You read the suggestions we sent?”
“Yeah,” Lizanne replied. For certain scenes, the network liked to give them prepared lines to use or improvise on. And apparently, they’d had something specific in mind here.
The lines were adequate. Lizanne started her delivery, but somewhere in the middle of the third sentence, she just stopped. Adequate wasn’t enough anymore, not with Rose standing there in ivory lace with her hair falling out of its pins.
She threw away the script. She talked about how walking down that aisle had felt like something she hadn’t prepared for. She talked about seeing Rose come toward her, how she’d felt. That skipped heartbeat. That tingle that had covered her skin. Her voice even cracked as she spoke.
The camera guys traded a look. The sound tech adjusted his levels. Nobody stopped them.
When the crew finally cleared out and the room went dead silent, Rose turned to her.
“Those weren’t the lines.”
“No.”
“Lizanne.”
“The true version was better television.” She didn’t look away. “It was also better than lying when I didn’t have to. You looked... you looked extraordinary today, Rose. I actually had butterflies. I don’t remember the last time that happened.”
“Lizanne,” Rose said again, her voice dropping an octave.
“Rose.”
Rose kissed her.
It was Rose who moved first, which caught Lizanne by surprise for about half a second before the surprise turned into a different kind of heat. Rose’s hands were in her hair and Lizanne’s were at her waist and the world just... ended at the kitchen walls.
The room was dark. They were still in their dresses. Lizanne’s hands found the buttons on Rose’s spine, and Rose pulled back just long enough to breathe out a “yes.” The silk fell away.
They made it to the marble kitchen island in a mess of mouths and hands.
Lizanne’s dress was a logistical nightmare as much as Rose’s had been.
Once they were out of the silk, Lizanne hoisted Rose onto the cold marble.
Rose made a sharp, caught sound at the temperature of the stone, and Lizanne felt it in her own spine.
She pulled back to look. Rose was a mess—hair undone, lipstick smeared, wearing nothing but her gold earrings.
Lizanne put her mouth to Rose’s collarbone.
She moved lower, to her breast, taking a nipple between her lips and drawing on it with a slow, agonizing pull.
Rose’s hand came up, pressing into the back of Lizanne’s head.
Lizanne took her time, her tongue circling until Rose’s hips shifted on the marble and she let out a low, wrecked sound.
Lizanne moved to the other side, relentless, until Rose was whispering her name in a voice that had no composure left.
Lizanne moved down. She kissed Rose’s stomach, the soft skin of her belly.
Rose’s breathing was a frantic, shallow thing now.
When Lizanne pressed her lips to Rose’s inner thigh, Rose shivered.
Lizanne stayed there, her mouth against the heat, purposefully avoiding the one place Rose wanted her.
Rose made a frustrated sound that Lizanne found incredibly satisfying.
She moved to the other thigh. The same slow, teasing pressure. Rose’s fingers tightened in her hair.
“Lizanne.”
“Mm.”
“Stop being... just stop.”
Lizanne moved up an inch and stopped again.
“I will leap off this counter if you don’t… Ohh….” Rose threatened, though there wasn’t an ounce of conviction in it.
Lizanne smiled against her skin and finally put her mouth where it belonged.
The sound Rose made when Lizanne’s tongue first moved through her was immediate and raw.
Her hips bucked off the marble. Lizanne put a steadying hand on Rose’s stomach and held her down.
She focused on the slick heat, the specific spots that made Rose’s breath catch, the rhythm that made her say Lizanne in that fractured, desperate way.
She tasted her, moving in slow, deliberate strokes until Rose was getting wetter with every pass and her thighs were pressing hard against Lizanne’s shoulders.
Lizanne circled her tongue and Rose’s back arched.
She looked up for a second. Rose was completely undone—chest heaving, lips parted, eyes wide.
Lizanne went back to her, feeling Rose shudder.
She varied the speed, reading the tension in Rose’s body, knowing exactly when to pull back and when to push.
Rose’s hips moved in a frantic rhythm and Lizanne matched it, her hands gripping Rose’s thighs now, pulling her closer.
Lizanne slid a finger inside her.
Rose’s breath stopped. Then came a long, shaky exhale as Lizanne began a deep, steady rhythm, her mouth still working against her. Rose was tight and hot and focused, and Lizanne curled her finger, finding the exact spot that made Rose’s body contract and her hand slam against the marble.
“There,” Rose choked out. “Don’t stop.”
Lizanne didn’t.
She kept the pace, her fingers deep, her mouth relentless, until Rose was climbing toward something that had nothing to do with thought. Her thighs trembled. Her hips rocked into every stroke. The hand in Lizanne’s hair had given up trying to direct anything; it was just holding on for dear life.
The tension in Rose snapped. Her hips pushed forward and held, her whole body pulling taut as she came. The sound she made was low and raw.
Lizanne stood up slowly. Rose reached for her immediately, pulling her into a deep, thorough kiss—tasting herself on Lizanne’s mouth without a hint of hesitation. Then Rose’s hands found Lizanne’s hips and slid lower.
“Your turn,” Rose whispered.
She walked Lizanne back until her thighs hit the kitchen table, then sat her down with a firm push to the shoulders. Rose stood between her knees and looked at her—that same systematic, thorough look she gave everything—and then put her mouth to Lizanne’s neck.
Lizanne’s eyes drifted shut.
Rose’s hands were confident. She knew what she was doing.
She lingered over Lizanne’s breasts, her mouth and fingers working until Lizanne was gripping the edge of the table and her breathing was a wreck.
Rose moved lower, a line of slow, punishing kisses down Lizanne’s stomach, her hands sliding to the backs of Lizanne’s thighs.
Rose knelt.
She pressed her lips to Lizanne’s inner thigh with the same infuriating patience Lizanne had used.
“Rose.”
“Mm.” The sound was muffled against her skin, the sound of someone who was exactly where they wanted to be.
“If you stop now, I will—”
Rose put her mouth on her.
Lizanne didn’t finish the sentence.
Rose’s tongue moved through her slowly. Lizanne’s fingers tangled in Rose’s hair as her hips tilted forward. Rose held her steady, taking her time, thorough and maddening until Lizanne’s composure shattered piece by piece.
Rose’s tongue circled her and the pressure built until Lizanne was making sounds she’d have been mortified by in any other room. Rose read every sound, adjusting, responding.
She slid a finger deep inside Lizanne, and Lizanne’s head fell back.
Rose’s tongue kept the rhythm while her finger curled, finding the perfect spot.
Lizanne dug her fingers into Rose’s shoulder and let herself be taken apart.
The pressure built in long, rolling waves, and Rose didn’t rush it; she just held the pace, keeping Lizanne right on the edge until Lizanne’s hand pressed over her own mouth and she came—hard, her body shaking, Rose’s name a muffled sound against her palm.
Rose’s mouth stayed on her through every shudder until Lizanne finally held her still.
The kitchen went quiet.
Lizanne sat on the table, hand still over her mouth, while Rose rested her forehead against Lizanne’s knee. They both breathed like they’d run a marathon.
Rose looked up.
“That,” Lizanne said, when her voice finally worked, “was definitely not in the contract.”
Rose’s mouth curved. “Consider it a wedding gift.”
Lizanne looked at her—undone, warm, and finally, actually seen. She felt something settle in her chest, moving into a space it hadn’t occupied before. It wasn’t just the sex. It was the weeks of pressure finally running out of room to stay contained.
She reached out and brushed the hair from Rose’s face.