Chapter One

“You needn’t look at me like that.”

Rowena Hale stood before the mirror while her sister-in-law fussed with the fastenings of her gown. The ivory silk dress caught the morning light streaming in through Whitmarsh’s eastern-facing windows, transforming her into something resembling a bride.

If it were not for the complete absence of joy in her blue eyes.

Elowen’s fingers trembled against the pearl buttons trailing down Rowena’s back. “Like what?”

“Like you’re dressing me for a funeral.” Rowena met her sister-in-law’s gaze in the glass. The ivory silk clung to her slender frame, cold against her skin despite the morning sun streaming in through the windows. Her corset bit into her ribs with each breath—a physical reminder that she was still alive, still capable of feeling, even if everything inside her had gone numb the moment Adrian Fairleigh’s scandal had destroyed her. “It’s rather unsettling, you know.”

“Well, you haven’t smiled once this morning. You’ve been…” she paused, choosing her words carefully. “Absent. Are you certain this is the right thing to do?”

“Quite certain.” The words emerged steady, final.

“You haven’t even met him, Rowena.” Elowen resumed her task, her dark brows drawn together, her eyes too knowing. “This is your wedding day. You should feel… something.”

“Should I?” Rowena smoothed the pale silk over her hips, peering at her reflection for signs of the woman she’d been six months ago. But that version of herself—the young woman who believed in love and fairy tales and happily ever afters—felt like a complete stranger now. “What good would nerves serve me?”

Her hands trembled slightly as they settled on her waist. Somewhere on the grounds, a stranger who would have rights over her person, her body, her life, was also preparing for the ceremony. The thought made her stomach flutter—though whether from fear or something else entirely, she couldn’t say.

Elowen stepped back, surveying her handiwork with a critical eye. Her fingers found Rowena’s shoulders, squeezing gently. “You could say no, you know. Even now. Severin would understand if you—”

“No. He wouldn’t.” Rowena turned. “And besides, this is the best option available to me, Elowen. The only option, if we’re being truthful.”

“Because of Adrian.”

It wasn’t a question. The memory surfaced with startling vividness—the ball, the guests parting as though she had the plague, the cold horror in everyone’s eyes…

“Yes.” Rowena moved toward the window, suddenly needing distance from her own reflection, from Elowen’s sympathy, from all of it. Below, staff was bustling around with purpose—footmen polishing the carriages for the guests who would depart after the wedding breakfast, maids laying fresh flowers along the driveway. But none of it mattered. None of it would make this day beautiful or special.

The bitterness surprised her. She’d thought herself past that particular feeling.

Elowen followed, her skirts whispering against the Persian carpet. “You were lured out to the gardens. He touched you without permission, ensured witnesses saw just enough to thoroughly ruin you, and then he had the gall to claim that you’d been the one encouraging him! None of that was your fault, Rowena.”

“The ton disagrees.” Rowena traced the window’s lead pane, the glass cool beneath her fingertips. “And that matters far more than the truth. Adrian knew that when he orchestrated the entire thing. I was simply… too naïve.”

“That’s rot, and you know it. You were trusting.”

“Is it not the same thing?” Rowena glanced at her sister-in-law, her smile brittle. “Trust is a luxury afforded to those who can survive the consequences of being wrong.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sound of staff scurrying about. They stood there—two women in expensive gowns, one in bridal ivory, one in dove grey—both trapped by circumstance and expectation, though at least Elowen’s cage had been unlocked by love.

“Do you think he’s punishing you?” Elowen asked quietly. “Severin, I mean. For what happened.”

“No.” The answer came without hesitation. “My brother is many things—calculating, ruthless when necessary, and far too clever for his own good—but he doesn’t have a cruel bone in his body. If anything, he’s trying to protect me the only way he knows how.” Rowena turned to face her sister-in-law properly. “Besides, a duchess’s coronet carries more weight than scandal.”

“The Duke of Ashfell.” Elowen tasted the name. “Well, I still think it’s extraordinary that you’ve not been introduced. Usually, these arrangements involve at least a meeting or two beforehand.”

“We’ve attended the same balls once or twice, I think. Before…” Before her world had narrowed to whispers and closed doors. “But we’ve never spoken. The Duke’s not exactly known for his social graces.”

“He’s not known for much of anything, is he? Beyond managing his estates and avoiding society.” Elowen settled on the window seat, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve heard rumours about him that are… contradictory. Some say he’s heartless. Others claim he’s simply… broken.”

Rowena nodded. She’d heard them all. The Duke of Ashfell—a brooding widower. A man who’d withdrawn from society after his wife’s death and showed no inclination to return.

“It doesn’t matter.” Rowena moved away from the window. “Whatever he is, he requires a duchess. I require respectability. We’ll suit one another perfectly.”

“Will you?” Elowen stood too, crossing to the dressing table where Rowena’s few remaining belongings sat neatly stacked. “Forgive me for being blunt, but marriage is more than a business arrangement, even if it might begin as one. You’ll be living with this man, Rowena. Sharing his home, his life, his—”

“Bed.” Rowena supplied. “Yes. I’m aware of what a marriage entails, Elowen.”

“And you’re prepared for that, with a complete stranger? One that has a child?”

The question should have sparked fear or embarrassment. Instead, Rowena felt only that familiar numbness—a protective shell she’d grown into since Adrian’s betrayal.

“I’m prepared to do my duty.” She took the sapphire earrings Elowen offered, fastening them with steady hands.

“God, Rowena…” Elowen’s voice cracked. “You sound so… resigned.”

“There’s peace in acceptance, Elowen. You should know that better than anyone.”

“It was different with Severin and me,” Elowen said, reading Rowena’s thoughts with unsettling accuracy. “We were both fighting it. Both determined to not feel anything, to not get attached. That resistance created friction, and friction created heat, and—”

“It turned into love. Yes, I know the story.”

“But…you’ve already surrendered, dearest.”

Rowena fastened her second earring, checking her reflection one final time. She looked perfect. Composed. A bride without a scrap of joy or terror, which seemed appropriate for a marriage that would be devoid of love and passion. “I’m simply… accepting what is.”

“And what of your heart, Rowena?”

“My heart,” Rowena said slowly, “has no say in the matter.”

Elowen opened her mouth to respond, but a knock at the door interrupted them. “Begging your pardon, ladies, but the Duke is ready. His Grace asked me to inform you it’s time.”

“Thank you, William. Please tell my brother I’ll be down momentarily.”

The footman retreated, leaving Rowena and Elowen alone for one final moment before everything changed irrevocably.

“Last chance, dearest.” Elowen caught both her hands, squeezing them desperately. “Say the word, and we’ll call it off. Severin might bluster a bit, but he won’t force you.”

For a heartbeat, Rowena let herself imagine it. Refusing. Running. Perhaps she could flee to the Continent to live in obscurity, free from things like duty and expectation and the cold practicality of a loveless marriage.

Then, reality crept back in—she had no money of her own, no skills beyond embroidery and watercolours and other useless accomplishments expected of gently bred ladies. Refusing this union would mean becoming a permanent burden, would place her at the mercy of Severin’s charity, forcing her to watch from the shadows as society moved on without her.

“I’ve made my choice,” Rowena pulled her hands free gently. “Today I’ll become the Duchess of Ashfell, and that will be enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“For society to forget what Adrian Fairleigh made them believe. For my family to hold their heads high again. For me to have a place in this world that no one can take away.” She picked up her lace gloves, smoothing the delicate fabric with her fingers. “That’s more than I had yesterday.”

Her sister-in-law’s expression suggested she wanted to argue further, but footsteps in the corridor stole the opportunity. Severin appeared in the doorway, tall and handsome in his morning coat, grey eyes assessing his little sister with unreadable intensity.

“Everything is ready.” His gaze swept over her, cataloguing and approving in one efficient glance. “You look beautiful, sister.”

“Thank you.” She accepted his arm, grateful for the steadiness of his presence. “Shall we?”

They descended the grand staircase in silence, Elowen trailing behind them. The entrance hall felt suddenly cavernous, their footsteps echoing hauntingly. Servants lined the walls, offering polite smiles and quiet congratulations that Rowena accepted with appropriate grace.

“I will be right there with you,” Severin assured her as they paused at the threshold and began to walk toward the chapel. His voice carried none of Elowen’s desperate concern—only pragmatic assessment of his sister’s resolve.

“I know.” Rowena looked up at her brother, this man who’d protected her since childhood, who’d arranged this marriage to save her from social ruin, who would probably lie awake at night wondering if he’d made the right choice. “I couldn’t have done this without you. Thank you, Severin.”

Something flickered in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or guilt, or simply the weight of responsibility. Then it vanished behind his usual mask of aristocratic composure.

“Be content, Rowena. If you can.”

Rowena accepted the blessing with a small nod, though the word ‘content’ felt empty.

Elowen embraced her fiercely one final time, whispering promises about writing and visiting—promises they both knew distance would make difficult once Rowena was settled at Ashfell Castle, miles away in the north country.

“It’s time, my lady,” came a soft voice from the doorway.

Rowena’s breath caught. Her corset suddenly felt too tight, her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. Her hands stilled on her skirts. She gathered them once more, then released them, and gathered them again. The walk to Whitmarsh’s chapel would take her through corridors she’d known since childhood, past portraits of ancestors who’d made far happier journeys down this same path.

Her brother offered his arm, and she took it. She glanced one last time at her reflection in the window—the woman in ivory silk who bore no resemblance to the girl who’d once dreamed of love matches and fairy tales—then turned toward the door. Her wedding awaited.

And after that, a life she couldn’t begin to imagine.

The only certainty was that nothing would ever be the same.

Chapter Two

“I won’t wear it!”

Caius paused in the doorway of the guest chamber at Whitmarsh, his hand resting on the brass handle. His daughter’s periwinkle dress waited patiently on the bed, her shoes abandoned on the carpet, and the child herself sitting cross-legged on the floor in her nightdress, arms folded across her chest.

The nanny hovered nearby, wringing her hands. “Your Grace, I’ve tried reasoning with her, but she simply refuses—”

“Leave us.” The command emerged quietly, but there was steel beneath it.

She dropped into a hasty curtsy and fled, the door clicking shut behind her.

Caius crossed to the window seat and lowered himself onto the cushion. “The ceremony starts in minutes, Eleanor. You need to get dressed.”

“I don’t like it when you call me that.” Her head held high in a way that reminded him painfully of Catherine. “Nanny says Mama chose Nell. Before I was even born.”

Caius pinched the bridge of his nose. “Very well, Nell. But you still need to get dressed—”

“Why are you even marrying her?” Her voice wavered between challenge and tears.

“I’ve explained this already—”

“No. You said it was necessary.” She pulled her knees tighter against her chest. “But that’s not a reason. It’s just… what grown-ups say when they don’t want to explain things properly!”

“Lady Rowena Hale will be good for the household,” he tried, aware how hollow the words sounded. “And she’ll…” he trailed off, uncertain how to finish.

“Be my new mama?” Nell supplied, her voice small and wounded. “That’s what Nanny said.”

“Never.” The word came out sharp. “Your mother was irreplaceable.”

“Then why do you have to marry her?” Tears gathered along her lashes, threatening to spill.

Caius’s breath caught as the tears fell.

“I don’t want another mama…” she whispered through tears. “I want my mama back.”

He reached toward her, his hand hovering, uncertain.

Nell flinched away from the gesture, scrambling to her feet. “You don’t even care! About Mama, about me, about anything!” Her voice rose, breaking into a sob. “I wish… I wish it were you who died instead of Mama!”

For a moment, Caius couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything. Then, he moved toward the door, calling for the nanny with a voice that sounded remarkably steady considering the way his hands were shaking.

“See to Lady Eleanor,” he instructed, straightening his cuffs with numb fingers. “She’s upset and won’t be attending the ceremony.”

He escaped into the corridor before anyone could witness the cracks forming in his composure.

“There you are.” Thomas Wycliffe materialised from a doorway halfway down the hall, holding a crystal tumbler that suggested he’d already found Whitmarsh’s liquor supply. “Come. You look like you need this.” Thomas pressed a glass of scotch into his hand. “Drink.”

Caius obeyed, draining half of it in one swallow. The burn helped. Marginally.

“Nell’s on board then?” Thomas asked, settling himself on the edge of a mahogany desk.

“She’s refusing to attend.” The words came out flat.

Thomas’s expression shifted—sympathy warring with concern. “People will notice. Edmund certainly will.”

“I’m aware.” Caius moved to the window, staring out at gardens that weren’t his.

“Are you ready for this?”

“Everything’s been seen to. The contracts are signed—”

“I asked if you’re ready for this, Caius. Not whether the paperwork is in order.”

Caius drained his glass and turned back, holding it out. Thomas refilled it without comment.

“Edmund’s filed guardianship papers,” Caius said quietly, watching amber liquid catch the light. “Legally and formally challenging my fitness as a father. He’s claiming that my daughter needs a stable household, a proper family environment, that I’m…” he stopped, jaw clenching. “Too cold. Too distant to raise her properly.”

“That’s absurd—”

Caius turned to face his friend, this man who’d stood beside him at Catherine’s funeral. “Tell me, Thomas, which part of Edmund’s assessment is inaccurate?”

His friend stood, crossing the unfamiliar room with purpose. “Your daughter is an heiress, Caius. Edmund wants control of her fortune, not her happiness.”

“I know that.” Caius drank again, welcoming the burn. “But I can’t give Nell warmth. I can barely give her presence. I’ve been trying to be the father she deserves, and I’m no closer now than I was when Catherine—” He stopped abruptly, the name catching in his throat like glass.

Thomas gripped his shoulder. “Her death wasn’t your fault. You know that, don’t you?”

“Don’t.” The word came out sharp.

Thomas’s hand dropped, but his gaze remained steady. “Just answer me this—are you marrying Lady Rowena because you believe it will help Nell, or because you believe it will protect you from having to help yourself?”

“Does it matter?” The words emerged quieter than he intended, rough with exhaustion.

“It should.”

“I’m doing what is necessary.” Caius’s reflection stared back at him from the window glass—hollow-eyed, grey-templed, aged beyond his years. “That’s all I can manage anymore, I’m afraid.”

Thomas sighed, the sound weighted with resignation, or perhaps pity. “Then let’s get you married off, shall we? Before your bride—”

“She’ll be miserable with me.”

“Probably,” Thomas agreed with brutal honesty. “Either way…” He adjusted Caius’s cravat with brisk efficiency. “She’s getting exactly what she agreed to. A title. Protection. Financial security. You’re not deceiving her about what this marriage will be.”

“No,” Caius said quietly, watching his reflection straighten its shoulders, smooth its coat, arrange its face into a flawless mask of indifference. “I suppose that’s something.”

Though whether it was enough remained to be seen.

The chapel smelled of old stone and stale incense, the scent trapped in walls that had witnessed centuries of vows. Caius stood at the altar, aware of the sparse gathering behind him—a handful of distant relations, and Edmund Whitcombe positioned in the front pew with that calculating smile he wore like a second skin.

The empty space where Nell should have been shouted louder than the whispers starting to slither through the congregation.

“…didn’t even bring his daughter…”

“… heard she refused to attend…”

“… poor child, first losing her mother, and now this?”

Caius let their words wash over him, his jaw tight, his hands clasped behind his back. Then, the chapel doors groaned open, the ancient hinges protesting, and Caius turned around.

Lady Rowena Hale appeared at the threshold, accompanied by her brother.

Caius’s first coherent thought was that she looked nothing like Catherine—which was precisely the point, wasn’t it? Honey hair instead of dark, catching the light. She was pale and composed, but there was steel beneath that porcelain exterior—he could see it in the set of her shoulders, the way she moved toward him with grace, despite stepping into the unknown.

When she reached the altar, their eyes met, and Caius noticed how exceptionally blue they were—almost belonging in a stained-glass window, not in the face of a stranger he was about to bind himself to for the remainder of his miserable existence.

His second thought was that she looked as wretched as he felt, her jaw set with the same grim determination he’d seen in his own reflection. The tightness in his chest eased slightly—not relief, exactly. But at least they were equally trapped. Severin handed over his sister, then joined his wife in the pews, and Caius and Rowena faced each other.

“Dearly beloved,” the vicar intoned, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “We are gathered here today in the sight of God to join together this man, and this woman, in holy matrimony…”

The ceremony proceeded with relentless efficiency. Caius heard his own voice responding at the appropriate intervals, and when he took Rowena’s hand to slip the ring onto her finger, he noticed her skin was cold, the gold band against her pale flesh resembling a brand marking ownership, rather than a sign of devotion.

When he released her hand, he could still feel the phantom imprint of her pulse against his thumb, but he shoved the thought away.

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

The vicar’s expectant pause stretched into awkwardness when Caius made no move to comply. He’d given his name, his title, his entire future—and that was more than sufficient.

Rowena hadn’t reacted at all; she simply stood there as though the omission hadn’t registered at all.

Relief washed over him—whatever else this marriage might prove to be, at least she had no illusions about it. That, at least, boded well.

The wedding breakfast had been arranged in Whitmarsh’s smaller ballroom, white roses banking every available surface, their cloying sweetness so thick Caius could taste it at the back of his throat, could feel it coating his tongue like sugar gone rotten.

Thomas appeared at his elbow, champagne already half-finished and a devilish gleam in his eye that suggested he was thoroughly entertained. “Its customary to smile at weddings. You might try it sometime.”

“Why? Everyone here knows this is a farce.”

“Yes, but there’s no need to advertise your misery quite so obviously.” Thomas glanced toward Rowena, then back at Caius with an insufferably perceptive look.

Before Caius could respond with a cutting remark, the master of ceremonies stepped forward, clearing his throat. “Your Grace, if you’d be so kind—it’s time for the first dance.”

The announcement rippled through the ballroom, conversations dying as guests turned to watch, scenting fresh material for the scandal sheets. Caius set down his untouched champagne and offered Rowena his arm.

She took it without comment, her touch so light he barely felt it through his coat sleeve—but it was there, nonetheless, a whisper of warmth that shouldn’t have registered at all.

The orchestra struck up a waltz just as Caius placed his hand at Rowena’s waist and felt her spine stiffen beneath layers of silk and whalebone. This close, he could smell that distracting orange blossom scent again, could feel the rapid rise and fall of her breathing.

“Your daughter wasn’t at the ceremony,” Rowena said after they’d completed several turns in silence. Her voice was quiet, conversational.

“No.” Caius kept his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder, willing the music to end. But they moved through the steps, his body traitorously aware of hers—the way her skirts brushed against his legs with each turn, how her breath caught slightly when he gripped her tighter to guide her through a spin, and the warmth of her beneath his palm despite all the layers between them.

“I hope she’s not unwell?”

“She’s upset.” No point in lying.

“Mmm.” Rowena tilted her head slightly, studying him with eyes that saw entirely too much. “Or perhaps she simply dislikes me before she’s even met me.”

That caught Caius off guard. The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself. “Most women would simper about winning the child over, or offer hollow platitudes about maternal instincts healing all wounds.”

She met his gaze directly. “I agreed to be your duchess, Your Grace. I didn’t agree to perform false sentiment or pretend affection I didn’t possess.”

“How refreshingly honest,” Caius heard himself say.

“Is it? You seem unsettled, rather than refreshed.”

“Perhaps I’m reconsidering my expectations of this arrangement.”

Her mouth curved slightly—not quite a smile, but the ghost of amusement. “Well. At least we’re being honest with one another.”

The waltz concluded with a final flourish from the orchestra, and Caius released Rowena, stepping back as guests applauded with tepid enthusiasm.

“We should make our way,” he announced, loud enough for nearby guests to hear. “I’d prefer to be done with this as soon as possible.”

“I am ready at your leisure, Your Grace.”

Caius offered his arm, and she took it without hesitation, her touch still light, still impersonal, still utterly devoid of expectation or hope.

***

The Ashfell carriage waited in the drive—black lacquer gleaming, the ducal crest mounted above the door, and a footman helped Rowena inside with practised efficiency. She settled against the seat, arranging her silk skirts with the careful precision of a woman who’d learned that maintaining appearances mattered even when no one was watching.

Eleanor and her nanny had departed ahead in a second carriage.

Caius settled across from her, flooding the space with the scent of sandalwood and something darker—perhaps tobacco. Her body, traitorous thing that it was, seemed determined to notice, and the carriage suddenly felt half its size.

Rowena kept her gaze fixed on the window, but her peripheral vision betrayed her—cataloguing details about her new husband she’d deliberately avoided thinking of, until now.

He was taller than she’d realised when they’d stood together at the altar, broad-shouldered in a way that made the velvet-lined space feel intimate rather than comfortable. His dark coat was impeccably tailored, emphasising the breadth of his chest, and his hair was threaded with grey at the temples. His face was all severe angles with a sharp jaw that hadn’t seen a razor in days, judging by the shadow along it. He had a straight nose with deep-set eyes that were nearly black, and they were watching her with an intensity that made heat crawl up her neck despite the chill.

Handsome, she supposed, in the way a cliff face was—imposing, unyielding, and utterly indifferent to whether one admired the view or not.

She buried the observation immediately, irritated with herself.

The door clicked shut with decisive finality, confining them. The carriage lurched forward, wheels crunching over gravel, and Rowena watched Whitmarsh’s familiar oaks slip past like a life she’d never quite get back.

“You should prepare yourself,” Caius said. “Ashfell is vast, cold, and isolated. The staff will be… uncertain about your arrival.”

Rowena turned from the window to look at him properly. “Uncertain, or hostile?”

“Uncertain, for now. Why do you ask?”

“Uncertainty can be managed. Hostility, however, requires a different approach entirely.”

Something flickered in his dark eyes—surprise, perhaps, or reassessment. “Uncertain, then. Though I suspect my daughter will provide enough hostility for us all.”

Rowena said nothing, just turned back to the window, watching the countryside roll past, while beside her, her new husband sat rigid as stone, handsome as sin, and utterly unreachable.