Chapter One

“You cannot possibly expect me to agree to this, Father.”

Lady Cecilia Bedford stood before the Earl of Bedford’s mahogany desk, her hands clenched so tightly in the folds of her sage walking dress that her knuckles had gone white. The morning light streaming through the tall Palladian windows of their newly acquired London townhouse cast long shadows across the Persian carpet, illuminating dust motes that danced between them like tiny witnesses to her distress.

The Earl looked up from the documents spread before him, his expression seemingly carved from granite. At fifty-two, Thomas Bedford still cut an imposing figure—silver threading through dark hair, broad shoulders that spoke of his youth spent riding across Scottish moors, and eyes the same vivid green as his daughter’s, though his held none of her current anguish.

“I expect precisely that, Cecilia.” His voice was measured, brooking no argument. “We didn’t uproot ourselves from Edinburgh and relocate to London merely for the scenery.”

“We relocated because of my humiliation,” Cecilia corrected sharply, her Scottish lilt more pronounced in her agitation. “Because the Duke of Wexford made me look like a laughingstock when he abandoned me at the altar. You said London would offer a fresh beginning, not—not this.”

The Earl set down his quill with deliberate precision. “And what did ye expect this fresh start would entail? That ye would simply drift through London’s ballrooms until some suitable gentleman happened to notice ye? Yer dowry is substantial, but yer reputation…” he trailed off meaningfully.

The words struck like a physical blow. Cecilia turned away, moving toward the window to hide the sudden burning behind her eyes. Below, Grosvenor Square bustled with its usual morning activity—fashionable ladies taking air with their maids, noblemen on horseback, carriages rolling past with liveried footmen. A different world from the one she’d known in Edinburgh, yet somehow just as suffocating.

“The Duke of Devonshire is an excellent match,” her father continued, his tone softening fractionally. “His lineage is impeccable, his estates vast, his—”

“Heart is frozen solid, if the gossips are to be believed,” Cecilia interrupted, spinning back to face him. “They call him the ‘Ice Duke, ’ Father. They say he’s as cold as Highland stone, that he withdrew from society years ago after some scandal, that he trusts no one and cares for nothing save his precious estates.”

“Rumours,” the Earl dismissed with a wave. “Half-truths and embellishments. I met with the Duke of Duskbourne this mornin’, and he assured me—”

“The Duke of Duskbourne was here?” Cecilia’s eyes widened. “You arranged this without even consulting me?”

“I am yer father. Consultation is a courtesy, not a requirement.” He stood, moving around the desk with surprising grace for a man of his size. “The arrangement is mutually beneficial—Devonshire and Duskbourne have been business associates fer years. The arrangement is mutually beneficial. Devonshire needs to restore his family’s standin’ in society, and ye need a husband of unimpeachable rank to silence the whispers about Wexford’s defection.”

The casual cruelty of it—reducing her failed engagement to mere ‘defection’, as though she were a military campaign gone awry—made Cecilia’s throat constrict. She had loved the Duke of Wexford, or thought she had. Had planned their life together, imagined their children, pictured herself as his duchess. And then, on what should have been the happiest day of her life, he had simply… vanished. No explanation, no apology, no word at all save a hastily scrawled note left with his valet:

I cannot do this. Forgive me.

The humiliation had been soul-crushing. The pity, worse.

“When?” The word emerged as barely more than a whisper.

“When what?”

“When am I expected to meet this… paragon of frozen perfection?”

Her father’s eyes narrowed at the sarcasm dripping from her words. “Mock all ye like, but the ton’s memory is long and unforgivin’. The whispers about Laird Wexford’s… desertion will follow ye like a foul odour unless ye replace it with somethin’ far more impressive. A duchess’s coronet outranks a jilted bride in the court of public opinion.

The Earl returned to his desk, shuffling papers with the air of a man eager to move past uncomfortable emotion. “Next week. A formal introduction has been arranged—properly chaperoned. If all goes well, the engagement will be announced within the month.”

A month. Four weeks to resign herself to a marriage of convenience with a man reportedly as warm as a Highland winter. Four weeks before she would become the Duchess of Devonshire, mistress of Ravenscar Hall, and wife to a stranger whose very title inspired dread.

“And if I refuse?” Cecilia asked, though she already knew the answer.

Her father’s expression hardened. “Ye willnae refuse. I have given my word to Duskbourne, and through him to the Duke. The agreements will be drawn up this week. Yer duty is to comply, Cecilia. Not to indulge in romantic fancies that have already proven… unwise.”

The reference stung with deliberate precision. Cecilia bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper, using the pain to maintain her composure.

“May I be excused?” Each word emerged clipped, precise.

The Earl waved a dismissive hand, already returning his attention to his correspondence. “Yer maid is waitin’ upstairs. Try to compose yerself before tea—we’ll be havin’ guests, and I’ll not have ye appearin’ red-eyed and miserable.”

Cecilia left without another word, her spine rigid with the effort of maintaining her dignity. The marble-floored corridor seemed to stretch endlessly before her, every step echoing with finality. By the time she reached her chambers on the second floor, her composure had fractured entirely.

“Milady!” Velma dropped the gown she’d been mending and rushed forward, catching her mistress just as Cecilia’s knees buckled. “Och, lass, what’s happened?”

Velma Morrison had been Cecilia’s maid since childhood—more friend than servant, really, though propriety demanded they maintain certain pretences in public.

“He’s done it…” Cecilia managed through the tears now streaming freely down her cheeks. “Father’s arranged an engagement. The Duke of Devonshire. I’m to meet him next week and marry him within the month.”

Velma guided her to the settee by the fireplace, clucking sympathetically. “The Ice Duke? Och, I’ve heard tales of him. Handsome as sin, they say, but with a heart carved from Highland granite.”

“Is that supposed to be comforting?”

“I’m just sayin’ what’s known, milady.” Velma settled beside her, producing a handkerchief from her apron. “Though I’ll say this—gossips rarely tell the full truth. Perhaps he’s not so terrible as all that.” Velma handed her the fresh handkerchief. “Though between ye and me, milady, a frozen heart can be thawed, ye ken. ‘Tis the ones who pretend at compassion while plottin’ betrayal ye need to be worryin’ about.” She paused meaningfully. “Rather like a certain Scottish laird we need not mention by name.”

Cecilia managed a watery laugh despite herself. “Subtlety was never your strong suit.”

“When has subtlety ever solved anythin’ worth solvin’?” she said with a wink.

Cecilia accepted the handkerchief, dabbing at her eyes. “And perhaps he’s worse! Oh Velma… I cannot do this again. I cannot stand before another duke… risk another humiliation—”

“Ye survived the first,” Velma interrupted firmly. “Ye’ll survive this too, if it comes to that. But…” she hesitated, worrying her lower lip.

“But what?”

“Well… I’m thinkin’ perhaps ye needn’t go into this marriage blind.”

Cecilia lowered the handkerchief, studying her maid’s expression. Velma had that look—the one that usually preceded some wildly impractical scheme. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggestin’ that forewarned is forearmed, as they say. Before ye commit yerself to another duke… perhaps ye ought to know the man ye’re committin’ to.” Velma leaned forward, voice dropping conspiratorially. “I’ve a friend in service at Devonshire’s London house. She mentioned just yesterday that they’re seekin’ a new companion for his elderly aunt. Someone to read to her, keep her company in the mornin’s, that sort of thing.”

The implication hung in the air between them, audacious and impossible and somehow, utterly perfect.

“You cannot be serious,” Cecilia breathed. “Infiltrate his household? Under false pretences? Velma, if I were discovered—”

“Ye won’t be. Who pays attention to a companion? You’d be invisible, free to observe him as he truly is—not the polished version he’d present to his intended bride, but the real man.” Velma’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Knowledge is power, Lady Cecilia.”

Right now, her father held all the cards. But if she could find out whether the Duke of Devonshire was truly as cold as they say, or whether she could bear a life with him… wouldn’t that knowledge be worth the risk?

“Besides,” Velma continued with the confidence of someone proposing something perfectly reasonable rather than absolutely deranged, “what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Ruination? Shame? Getting shipped off to Australia?” Cecilia ticked off possibilities on her fingers, “Being forced to join a convent? Shall I continue?”

“Och, dinnae be so dramatic, Lady Cecilia!”

It was madness. Absolute, unforgivable madness.

And yet…

Cecilia rose, pacing to the window. The afternoon sun had emerged from behind clouds, gilding the square below in honey-gold light. Somewhere in this vast city, the Duke of Devonshire was going about his business, utterly unaware of what was coming his way. She couldn’t help but wonder what kind of man he truly was. The gossips painted him as a recluse, emotionally frozen, and impossible to reach. But they had also claimed Wexford was desperately in love with her—right up until he wasn’t.

Perhaps Velma was right. Perhaps she deserved to know the truth before binding herself to another stranger.

“How would I even gain the position?” Cecilia asked softly. “Surely they’d require references, experience—”

“Dinna fash. Leave that to me,” Velma said quickly, triumph evident in her smile. “My friend can arrange an interview. Ye’d need to dress plainly, adopt a different name, perhaps even soften that Edinburgh accent of yers a wee bit—”

“This is madness.”

“Aye, that it is.” Velma stood, moving to Cecilia’s wardrobe and beginning to sort through the contents with purposeful efficiency. “But no more insane than marryin’ a man ye’ve never properly met, would ye not say, milady?”

Cecilia watched her maid select the plainest day dress—a simple grey muslin with minimal ornamentation—and felt something shift in her chest. Not quite hope, but something adjacent to it. Agency, perhaps. The chance to choose, even if that choice was merely to understand what fate awaited her.

“Hmmm. This is too much. I’m goin’ to have to borrow somethin’ for you to wear, milady.”

“When?” she asked.

Velma’s grin widened. “Tomorrow morning. Yer father mentioned he has business that will keep him occupied all day. Perfect timin’, wouldn’t ye say?”

“Tomorrow?” Cecilia’s voice climbed an octave. “Velma, I cannot possibly… I need time to prepare, to practise, to—”

“Time is precisely what we don’t have, miss. The position could be filled by week’s end, and then where would ye be? Marchin’ blind into marriage, same as before.” Velma laid the grey dress across the bed with decided finality. “Trust me. We’ll sort yer hair, perhaps add a pair of spectacles to change yer appearance a wee bit, and I’ll coach ye on the proper manner of addressin’ a duke. You’ll be grand.”

Cecilia sank back onto the settee, her heart hammering against her ribs. This was either brilliance or catastrophic foolishness, and she hadn’t the faintest idea which.

But she knew one thing with crystalline certainty: she would not—could not—endure another abandonment. If the Duke of Devonshire was truly the cold, heartless man society deemed him to be, better to discover it now, while she still had time to… what? Refuse? Flee? Convince her father she’d rather live as a spinster than as an unwanted wife?

“Very well,” she heard herself say. “Tomorrow morning, then. But Velma… if this goes wrong… if I’m discovered…”

“It won’t go wrong,” Velma assured her with the absolute confidence of someone who had never attempted to deceive a duke. “Ye’ll be right as rain.”

The statement drifted between them, though Cecilia could think of approximately seventy-three catastrophic possibilities of what could go wrong, each more mortifying than the last. But then again, being left at the altar had already checked the ‘ultimate humiliation’ box rather thoroughly.

Cecilia stared out of her window at London’s glittering façade, wondering whether she was about to discover precisely who and what the devastatingly handsome Duke of Devonshire truly was.

And a part of her looked forward to it.

Chapter Two

“I look like a governess who’s lost her way to a particularly depressing funeral.”

Cecilia glared at her own reflection in the cheval glass, adjusting the borrowed dress that hung on her frame with all the appeal of a potato sack. Velma had pinned her vibrant red hair into the tightest, most unflattering bun imaginable, and the wire-rimmed spectacles perching on her nose made her eyes appear owlish and shortsighted.

“That’s the point, milady,” Velma replied, circling her with a critical eye. “Ye’re meant to be invisible, forgettable. A companion is furniture with a pulse—there to serve, but never to be noticed.”

“How utterly depressing.” Cecilia turned sideways, examining the effect. The transformation was remarkable, she had to admit. Gone was Lady Cecilia Bradford, the Scottish beauty who’d once turned heads at Edinburgh assemblies. In her place now stood… no one particularly memorable. “Do I truly need the spectacles? I can see perfectly well.”

“Plain glass, nothing more. But they change the shape of yer face, draw attention away from those eyes of yers.” Velma produced a worn leather reticule, pressing it into Cecilia’s hands. “Now, remember—ye’re Clara Vale, formerly companion to Lady Margaret Ashworth of Yorkshire. She passed last autumn, God rest her soul, and ye’ve come to London seekin’ new employment.”

“Lady Margaret Ashworth,” Cecilia repeated dutifully. “Yorkshire. Deceased last autumn.”

“If anyone asks for specific details, be vague—grief makes memory unreliable, doesn’t it?” Velma’s expression turned serious. “And milady—ye must focus on softenin’ that Edinburgh lilt. London companions don’t sound like Highland lassies fresh from the moors.”

Cecilia practised a few phrases, flattening her vowels, smoothing the r’s that usually characterised her speech. It felt strange on her tongue, like wearing a glove that was made for someone else. Which, she supposed, it quite literally was.

“Better!” Velma approved. “Now, come—the interview is scheduled for nine-thirty, and His Grace despises tardiness.”

The journey to the Duke’s London residence took mere minutes—it was scandalously close to her father’s own townhouse, a fact that sent fresh anxiety coursing through Cecilia’s veins. She’d strolled past the imposing structure dozens of times without truly seeing its elegant architecture, pristine white stone, and windows that seemed to watch the square with cold assessment.

Rather like its master, if gossip was to be believed.

“I’ll wait around the corner,” Velma whispered as they approached the servants’ entrance at the rear of the property. “If ye’re not out in an hour, I’ll assume ye’ve secured the position. If ye emerge sooner…” she let the implication hang.

Cecilia nodded, her mouth too dry for speech. This was madness. Utter, and complete lunacy. She was a lady, the daughter of an earl, about to present herself as a paid companion under false pretences. If she were discovered, the scandal would make Wexford’s desertion look like a minor social faux pas.

But the alternative—marrying a complete stranger—seemed worse than risking humiliation.

She knocked on the door before her courage could desert her entirely, and the door swung open to reveal a stern-faced housekeeper whose expression suggested she’d been weaned on vinegar. “Yes?”

“Clara Vale, ma’am. I’m here regarding the companion position?”

The housekeeper’s gaze raked over her with brutal efficiency. “You’re late.”

“I—I beg your pardon, but I was told half past nine—”

“It’s now two minutes past. That’s late.” The woman stepped aside with obvious reluctance. “His Grace is in the study. This way.”

Cecilia’s heart hammered against her ribs as she followed the housekeeper through a maze of servants’ corridors. The house was immaculate—floors gleaming, brass polished to mirrors, not a speck of dust anywhere. It spoke of rigid discipline, exacting standards, and a household run with military precision.

They emerged into a more elegant hallway, and suddenly Cecilia found herself confronted with wealth on a scale that made her father’s comfortable circumstances look provincial. Paintings by Old Masters lined the walls, their subjects gazing down with aristocratic disdain. Marble busts occupied alcoves at regular intervals, and the very air seemed expensive.

“Wait here.” The housekeeper gestured to a chair outside an imposing oak door, then disappeared without another word.

Cecilia perched on the edge of the seat, smoothing her skirts with trembling hands. She could hear voices from within the study—deep, masculine, discussing something about shipping manifests and import duties. Business, then. Good. If the Duke was occupied with ledgers and accounts, perhaps he’d be distracted during the interview, less likely to scrutinise her too closely, to—

The door opened. A man emerged, tall and broad-shouldered with dark chestnut hair. He was reading from a document, his brow furrowed in concentration, and Cecilia had approximately three seconds to study him before he looked up.

Time slowed down, then fractured entirely.

He was beautiful. Not handsome in any conventional sense—his features were too sharp for that, his jaw too severe, his mouth too uncompromising. But there was something about him, the way shadows played across his cheekbones, the intensity of his black eyes that made her breath catch in her throat.

This was the Ice Duke?”

“You’re the girl for the companion position.” It wasn’t a question. His voice was deep, measured, carrying the clipped accent of England’s finest educational institutions.

Cecilia shot to her feet, remembering to curtsy. “Yes, Your Grace. Clara Vale.”

“Hmm.” He continued reading his document, apparently unconcerned with social niceties like eye contact. “Mrs Whittaker tells me you were late.”

“By two minutes, Your Grace. I apologise—”

“Punctuality indicates respect. Lack thereof suggests either incompetence or indifference. Which one are you, Miss Vale?”

The bluntness of the question momentarily robbed her of speech. “I—neither, Your Grace. I assure you, I hold this opportunity in the highest regard—”

“Words are meaningless. Actions demonstrate character.” He finally looked up from his document, and the full force of his attention settled on her. “My aunt requires companionship in the mornings—someone to read to her, engage her in conversation, provide stimulation for a mind that remains sharp despite her advancing years. Can you read?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“French? Latin?”

“French passably, Latin, less so.”

“Musical accomplishments?”

“I play the pianoforte adequately.”

“Adequately.” His lips twitched in what might have been either amusement or contempt—impossible to tell which. “Most women claim virtuosity regardless of actual skill. Your honesty is either refreshing or strategic. I haven’t decided which.”

He gestured for her to follow him into the study. Cecilia complied, her mind racing. Nothing about this interview matched her expectations. She’d imagined a cursory examination, perhaps a few questions about her references. Instead, she felt like a specimen being catalogued and assessed.

The study was magnificent—floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a desk the size of a small ship, with windows overlooking a private garden. The scent of leather and parchment filled the air, underlaid with something else… sandalwood? Or perhaps expensive tobacco.

“Sit.” The duke indicated a chair before his desk, then settled into his own seat with the fluid grace of a predator at rest. “Your previous employer was Lady Margaret Ashworth of Yorkshire?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue.

“Duration of service?”

“Three years, Your Grace.”

“And Lady Margaret’s death—sudden, or anticipated?”

Cecilia’s mind scrambled. “She’d been in declining health for some months. The end, when it came, was peaceful.”

“Cause of death?”