A Scarred Duke’s Reluctant Bride (Preview)

Chapter One

Nathaniel Ashcombe, Duke of Raventhorne, sighed as he arrived at the gentlemen’s club nestled in the heart of Liverpool—the last place on earth he wanted to be.

There had been a time when he would have enjoyed the company, the conversation, the easy camaraderie of the men. But those days were long past. Now, every glance in his direction carried an unspoken truth: he did not belong. And he was no longer sure he wished to.

The ride had been long; three hours of jostling discomfort that left him stiff and aching. His broad shoulders burned from the effort of remaining upright in the carriage, every rut in the road a reminder that his body had never quite healed as it ought, that he would never quite be free of his past.

He dismounted at the entrance of the club with a sharp breath, adjusting his gloves with deliberate precision before stepping inside.

The warmth of the place was immediate, thick with the scent of pipe smoke, brandy, and the heavy musk of too many men in too small a space. Conversations hummed in low, steady waves, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. It was a place of routine, of power… contained in the tilt of a head or the raising of a glass. Nathaniel knew his role in such a setting, but it did not mean he welcomed it.

He stepped further in, and threads of silence, subtle yet perceptible, wove into the air around him. Heads turned, and he felt the weight of their regard settling upon him like a mantle he had never asked to bear.

It was always the same. A flicker of curiosity, a careful shifting of eyes—people never wished to be caught staring, yet they always stared. His presence in any room made men uncomfortable and women retreat. He had long since given up hope that anyone would look at him without flinching.

A normal man—a whole man—someone to be desired. That was a fate he had abandoned the day his flesh had burned. They did not gawk, not outright, but the movement of their gazes was predictable. They would meet his right eye first, then dart instinctively to the left before quickly flicking back, as if ashamed of their own betrayal.

And grateful that they are not similarly marked. 

But today, something was different. As he walked through the corridors, past open doors and between groups of men, it was as if they had come to some agreement. The usual dance of aversion did not occur. Instead, their eyes landed on his left side and remained there, where the burns crawled and pocked, warping into his hair. 

His stomach twisted with an old, familiar coil of unease. He forced himself to hold steady, to appear unaffected, though the sensation was not unlike being an animal caught in the sights of a hunter. He was not prey—he would not be prey—but still, the tension in his spine wound tighter. There was something unbearably lonely in it. The way he was seen, the way he was always watched but never truly known. Would there ever come a day when someone looked at him and saw more than the scars? When someone’s gaze would linger, not in horror, but in something softer?

No, he reminded himself. That’s not what he wanted. Not anymore. 

“Your Grace,” came a voice from his right. Lord Henshaw, stout and red-cheeked, raised a glass in greeting, his gaze mercifully fixed on Nathaniel’s face as a whole, rather than dissecting it into tolerable and intolerable halves. “Join us, will you? We were just discussing the latest tariffs. Dreadful business.”

Nathaniel inclined his head and made his way forward, aware with every step that the room had not quite resumed its previous state. Even as conversation trickled back to life, he could feel the awareness of his presence, the hushed murmurs carried just below the threshold of comprehension. The quick chatter about unfortunate souls. 

He took his seat at the table, pressing his hands together to keep them still. The meeting commenced, but the weight of the stares did not abate. It clung to him, whispering across his skin like the ghost of old flames. He had been accustomed to looks of discomfort, of curiosity, of pity. But today, there was something different. Today, there was scrutiny.

He suffered it, if only for his duty. If Nathaniel was anything, he was a good and honest duke who believed in working hard for his tenants. And for all his faults, Nathaniel had never abandoned duty. But sometimes, late at night, he wondered if there might be something more waiting for him beyond his responsibilities. A life not dictated by scars, but by something else. Something he dared not think about.

If it weren’t for duty, he would never attend such meetings, but the announcement of the latest land taxations meant the entire economy was going to be hit, and so the lords gathered to discuss what to do next. 

The discussion was as tedious as it was necessary. Lord Montgomery droned on about the unfair burden placed upon landowners, his voice thick with indignation, while Lord Ellingham countered that without taxation, the country’s coffers would be depleted beyond repair. Nathaniel sat through it all, listening without contributing much. He understood both sides, but what mattered to him was how these decisions would impact the farmers and tenants who relied on him.

“The increase is untenable,” Lord Carrow declared, his heavy brow furrowed. “If these rates hold, half of my tenants will not make it through the year. And then what? Do we simply evict them all and let the land rot?”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group, though like Lord Ellingham, the others also maintained that sacrifices were inevitable. Nathaniel, tired of the endless circling, finally spoke.

“Eviction is not an option,” he said, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise. “Not for those of us who value the stability of our estates. If our tenants fail, we fail with them. Raising rents or tightening conditions will only drive them to ruin faster. There must be another way.”

A brief silence followed before Lord Henshaw nodded. “You are right, Your Grace. But what do you propose?”

Nathaniel hesitated. He had no perfect solution, only the certainty that what they were discussing would end in suffering for the people who worked the land. “For now, we must petition for a slower implementation. More time to adjust before the full weight of taxation takes effect. And in the meantime, those of us who can afford it should take on a greater burden ourselves.”

Predictably, this was met with some disapproval, but no outright rejection. It was the best they could do for now.

As the meeting concluded and the lords began to disperse, Nathaniel turned to leave, rolling his shoulders to shake off the lingering stiffness. He had endured enough scrutiny for one evening. He was tired of this, of all of it. Of rooms that fell silent when he entered. Of eyes that never truly met his. Of being a man feared and pitied in equal measure. Something would have to change. But before he could make his way to the door, a firm hand clapped his shoulder.

“Nathaniel, a moment, if you please,” came the familiar voice of Lord Alfred Drawlight.

Nathaniel sighed but didn’t shake him off. “If I say no, will you let me be?”

Alfred grinned. “You wound me. Have I ever forced my company upon you?”

Nathaniel gave him a flat look.

Alfred chuckled. “Very well, perhaps a time or two. But tonight, you truly must indulge me.” Without waiting for a reply, he drew Nathaniel aside into a quieter alcove near the club’s book-lined walls. He reached into his coat and produced a sealed envelope, pressing it into Nathaniel’s hands.

Nathaniel frowned, turning the envelope over in his fingers. “And what is this?”

It was a ridiculous notion—hope. And yet, as his fingers traced the sealed edge, something unfamiliar curled in his chest. He had resigned himself to his fate long ago. But what if—just for a moment—there was another path?

“Correspondence,” Alfred said breezily. “Have you heard from the man I put you in contact with?”

Nathaniel slipped the letter into his coat, already regretting engaging. “Not yet.”

Alfred sighed. “Well, do not tarry. It’s a good opportunity.”

Nathaniel shot him a wary glance. “And what, precisely, do you consider a good opportunity?”

Alfred hesitated just a fraction too long before answering. “A chance to set things right. To make arrangements.”

Nathaniel’s posture stiffened. “Arrangements?”

“You know as well as I do that you cannot remain as you are forever.” Alfred’s voice was light, but there was steel beneath it. “You are a duke, Nathaniel. Dukes require heirs.”

Nathaniel’s lips pressed into a thin line. That was one aspect of his duty that he had always evaded. He could not, in good conscience, force a woman to marry a man such as he, and he couldn’t imagine one coming to him voluntarily. It was not merely his face either, unfortunate though that was. He, by nature, had a fiery temper, one that seemed to continuously simmer just below the surface. He knew himself to be cold and quiet, stiff almost. It was not the life for a fair maiden. 

“If this is another of your lectures—”

“It is not a lecture,” Alfred cut in, his tone still warm, though tinged with mild exasperation. “Only a gentle nudge. As a friend.”

Nathaniel exhaled sharply through his nose. “A friend, is it? And here I thought friends did not meddle in each other’s affairs.”

“Oh, but they do. The best ones meddle shamelessly.”

A reluctant smile almost tugged at the corner of Nathaniel’s mouth, but he suppressed it. “And you fancy yourself my best friend?”

“Obviously.” Alfred grinned. “Though I believe I may be your only friend if your charming disposition at social events is anything to go by.”

Nathaniel scoffed. “I do not need a nursemaid, Alfred.”

“No, but you do need a wife, whether you like that fact or not,” Alfred countered smoothly, his amusement fading into something more serious. “I know this is a difficult subject, but you must see reason. The dictums of society are unrelenting, and your refusal to engage will only isolate you further.”

Nathaniel’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. “So you believe I am incapable of finding a wife on my own?”

Alfred’s expression softened. “I believe you will not seek one. And that is where I come in.” He hesitated before adding, “I plan to have my cousin visit soon. She’s intelligent, well-mannered, and—”

“No.” Nathaniel’s voice was quiet but final.

Alfred sighed but didn’t press further. He had known Nathaniel long enough to recognize the limits of his patience.

But before the conversation could end, another voice interjected from nearby.

“He should take any help he can get,” a man remarked with a smug lilt.

Nathaniel’s spine went rigid. The words, casual as they were, ignited something raw and volatile within him. He turned sharply, his breath quickening, his vision narrowing.

Alfred, ever perceptive, caught his arm before he could take another step.

“Nathaniel, don’t,” he said quietly, his grip firm.

For a moment, Nathaniel considered tearing himself free. The rush of humiliation, of barely restrained fury, clawed at his throat. He had tolerated much in his life, but the idea of being pitied, of being seen as a man so wretched that he required others to make his decisions for him—he could not stomach it.

But Alfred’s hold remained steady, and his gaze held something almost pleading.

With great effort, Nathaniel forced himself to breathe, to steady the pounding in his skull. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, his pulse roaring in his ears.

The cold night air struck him the moment he stepped outside, shocking in its clarity. He did not stop until he reached his carriage, his hands trembling as he climbed inside.

As the wheels turned and the club faded into the distance, a bitter thought settled in his mind.

A cursed fairytale creature, he thought darkly. A beast who must return home before dawn.

***

The ride home was long, made longer by the weight of Nathaniel’s thoughts. The streets of Liverpool had grown quiet, the city settling into the hush of late evening, but inside his mind, everything roared. The meeting, the scrutiny, Alfred’s persistence… it all simmered beneath his skin.

The carriage rocked over uneven stones, the dull ache in his shoulders growing sharper with every jolt. He had endured worse pain. Far worse. And yet, something about that evening left him restless, like an ember smoldering beneath damp wood, unable to catch fire but refusing to die out.

When they arrived at Ashcombe House, his townhome on the outskirts of the city, the lamps were being cast out by the footmen, though the remaining light flickered shadows across the façade. It was a stately residence, imposing in its dark stone, but lacking the grandeur of Raventhorne Hall. A temporary dwelling. A place of transition.

He climbed out of the carriage, rolling his shoulders as he stepped inside. 

“Your Grace,” Spratling greeted him with a bow. “All the lights have been doused, and the gas lamps are taken care of. Everything is as it should be.”

Nathaniel inclined his head. “Thank you, Spratling. You may retire.”

The butler hesitated for a fraction of a second. It was barely noticeable, but Nathaniel saw it. He had never needed anyone’s concern, yet his servants were trained to observe, to anticipate needs before they were voiced. Spratling, ever watchful, seemed to consider whether he ought to say more.

Wisely, he did not. With another small bow, he retreated, leaving Nathaniel alone.

The silence was welcome. For a moment, he stood in the dimly lit foyer, stretching his fingers before pressing them into his temples. A long sigh escaped him before he moved toward his study, his pace slow, measured.

The envelope Alfred had given him lay exactly where he had tossed it on the desk, a thing of unassuming parchment, sealed with a wax insignia that meant nothing to him. Yet he felt its presence as though it had been burning a hole through the wood.

He picked it up, broke the seal, and slid out the contents.

A letter, predictably formal, written in an elegant yet impersonal hand. He set it aside, his attention drawn instead to the stiff piece of ivory tucked beneath it. He turned it over.

A miniature portrait. Nathaniel stared at it. 

The woman depicted was not beautiful. Not in the way society demanded, at least. Her features were plain, her expression serious, but there was something in the line of her jaw, the way her lips pressed together, that held him captive. Strength. Determination. A quiet defiance in the eyes that suggested she was not a woman who wilted easily.

For a long moment, he simply looked at her. He had no interest in this arrangement, no desire to entertain Alfred’s interference in his affairs. His entire existence rebelled against the notion of being bound to someone, and especially one chosen by others.

And yet, he could not shake the peculiar sensation creeping through him.

He should set the painting down. He should discard it, push it aside, forget it altogether. Instead, his thumb brushed absently over the gilded edge of the frame. Who was she? And why did she seem impossibly, infuriatingly, like someone he ought to know?

Nathaniel exhaled sharply, snapping himself back to reality. With a scowl, he placed the painting face down on the desk and reached for the letter. He scanned the words. There was nothing unexpected. A description of her lineage, her virtues, the usual platitudes about temperament and suitability.

A transaction in ink. Disgust curled in his gut.

He folded the letter with unnecessary precision and placed it back inside the envelope. The miniature, however, remained on the desk, the woman’s painted eyes hidden from view but still lingering in his mind.

Shaking his head, he crossed the room and pulled open a drawer, sliding the small painting inside before locking it with a decisive twist of the key. Out of sight. It should have been enough.

But as he turned back, extinguishing each candle one by one, the darkness pressing closer with every breath of light extinguished, he knew it was not. He knew she would remain in his mind for some time longer. 

He climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, moving through the house like a ghost, careful and quiet. Spratling had said all the lights were out, but still, Nathaniel glanced at the gas lamps along the walls, ensuring they were truly off. Truly safe. 

The fire in the hearth had been reduced to glowing embers, and he let it die without adding another log. He had no love for flames.

He lay down but did not sleep.

He knew the nightmares would come. They always did. Fire, the scent of burning flesh, the unbearable heat. His body remembered even when his mind did not wish to.

But tonight, the darkness brought something else.

A face.

Not a ghost, not a shadow from his past, but the image of a woman he had never met, painted in careful strokes and tucked away in a drawer he had locked himself. Nathaniel turned onto his side, pressing his forehead into the pillow, willing himself to push her from his mind.

It was no use. The last thought before sleep finally took him was not of fire, nor pain, nor the endless weight of expectation, as it usually was. It was of her.

Chapter Two

The morning light filtered weakly through the thin curtains of Eleanor Blythe’s small bedchamber, casting a pale glow over the simple furnishings. She stared at the ceiling for a long moment, willing herself to move, but there was little urgency. It wasn’t as if she had much to look forward to.

Once, she might have leapt from bed with purpose, but that was before. Before the town had turned its back on her. Before whispers followed her like ghosts through the marketplace. Now, there was no one to expect her, no one eager for her presence. She was a shadow in her own home, and even the creaking of the floorboards beneath her feet seemed louder than the voices that spoke to her.

The house was already stirring when she stepped into the corridor. Somewhere downstairs, Cook was clattering about in the kitchen, though she would not look up when Eleanor passed through. She never did anymore. The scent of fresh bread wafted through the air, but Eleanor knew better than to linger. She would take what was left when Cook had finished with Father’s meal.

At the bottom of the staircase, she paused, listening for any sign of her father. It was better to gauge his mood before encountering him, though their interactions were sparse and predictable. If he spoke to her at all, it would be to request a mend in his coat or inquire after the household accounts.

She walked toward the small room she had turned into a makeshift study, settling into the worn chair by the desk. The ledgers waited, ink and parchment forming a life of quiet duty. She traced a finger over the spine of the account book before opening it, inhaling the faint, familiar scent of paper and dust.

A knock at the doorframe made her look up. It was Mary, one of the younger maids, shifting on her feet as she held out a small cup. “Miss Eleanor, I saved you some tea. It’s still warm.”

Eleanor blinked, surprised, before offering the girl a warm smile. “That is very kind of you, Mary. Thank you.”

Mary hesitated, then set the cup gently on the desk. “You work too much,” she said, almost in a whisper. “You should let me help sometimes.”

Eleanor shook her head with a soft chuckle. “And what would I do with myself if I let you take over my tasks?” She lifted the cup, inhaling the faint traces of honey and herbs. “This is a great kindness, truly. But do not let Cook catch you sneaking things for me.”

Mary grinned, mischief flashing in her eyes. “She won’t if she’s not looking.”

Eleanor laughed lightly; the sound unfamiliar in the quiet house. “Then I shall trust you with this grand conspiracy. Thank you, Mary.”

The maid nodded and disappeared down the hall, leaving Eleanor alone once more. She sipped the tea slowly, warmth spreading through her chest. She would go through the estate’s accounts, as she did weekly, then spend a little time doing the one thing that still brought her joy—embroidering her skirt with panels of flowers. 

Eleanor had barely opened the ledger when the sound of her father’s voice carried through the hall.

“Eleanor Blythe. Come to my study this instant.”

She froze, her fingers stilling against the ink-stained ledger. It was rare that her father summoned her for anything beyond a mumbled request for mended clothing or a remark about household expenses. 

She swallowed hard, smoothing her skirts before making her way to his study. The door was half-open, but she hesitated a moment before stepping through.

Her father sat behind his great mahogany desk, fingers laced together, eyes fixed on her with the same cold detachment she had grown used to. The room smelled of tobacco and old paper, a suffocating combination.

“You never call me Norrie anymore,” she said lightly, attempting to keep her tone steady. “It is sad that I am always Eleanor to you now. I’m still the same person, you know.”

His expression did not change, not that she had truly expected it to. “Sit down.”

She obeyed, clasping her hands in her lap.

Her father exhaled sharply, as if even having this conversation pained him. “You must understand, Eleanor, that your situation is precarious. After what you did with Mr. Forrester, you will struggle to find a husband.”

She stiffened. “What I did?” Her voice barely concealed her anger. She had tried to explain herself time and again, but no one would listen. 

“You brought shame upon this household, Eleanor, and you know it. Everyone knows it!”

“I did nothing but accept his attentions,” she insisted. “Tokens of friendship, his letters. I expected—” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “I expected a proposal.”

Her father scoffed. “Expected? That was your mistake. You were unchaperoned with him, exchanging letters. You knew better. If you had only—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Regardless, it is done. We have argued about it enough. The town will not forget, and neither will the gentlemen who might have once considered you. You are, for all intents and purposes, tainted goods.”

Eleanor clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to argue further. She had fought this battle before, and it always ended the same way. With her father’s dismissive wave and a reminder of her diminished prospects.

She straightened her spine. “Then why summon me? If no one will have me, as you say, what does it matter?”

He reached into a drawer and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “You are to be married.”

The words struck her like a physical blow. For a moment, she could only stare, heart hammering against her ribs.

“Married,” she echoed numbly.

“Yes.”

Her fingers gripped the arm of the chair. Marriage was supposed to be filled with love, with romance. That’s how she always imagined it to be, as she had thought it might have been with Mr. Forrester. Not whatever this was. 

“Married to whom?” she asked.

Her father set the paper aside. “To a duke. So you should be pleased.”

A humorless laugh bubbled up in her throat. “A duke? Do not insult me, Father. No duke would have me.”

“There is one.”

The unease curling in her stomach deepened. If a duke were to lower himself so dramatically then there must be something dreadfully wrong with him. Her father was merely landed gentry, certainly no match for a duke. And then there was the fact of her scandal. 

“I fear there must be a trick to it.” she stated, knowing there was more to it. 

Her father hesitated, and that alone made her breath turn shallow. He tapped a finger against the desk, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“It is the Duke of Raventhorne.”

Eleanor’s blood ran cold. For a moment, she was certain she had misheard. She’d never met the man, but she knew that name. Everyone had heard of the Duke of Raventhorne. 

“The Duke of Raventhorne?” she repeated slowly. “The same man whose estate burned to the ground? The same man whose temper is…” she paused, searching for the right word. “Unpredictable?”

Her father’s expression darkened. “Mind your tongue. He is soon to be your husband.”

“Mind my—” Eleanor shot up from her seat, her hands trembling. “You would have me marry a man who is said to throw fits of rage that last for days? Whose servants tremble at the sound of his voice? They say he is…” She swallowed. “That he is not well.”

“Rumors,” her father said sharply, waving a hand in the air. “Exaggerations.”

“And if they are not?”

He pushed back his chair, standing so they were level. “You have little choice, Eleanor. The alternative is remaining here, unwed, and watching your reputation sink further into disgrace. Do you think this town will ever let you forget what happened? Do you think your life here will ever change?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, the weight of his words pressing down on her like a stone.

Her life in this town was over. She had known it for some time and had expected something like this to happen, but hearing it spoken so plainly left her feeling as though the walls were closing in. The Duke of Raventhorne. A man shrouded in gossip and shadow, whose very name sent shivers through the drawing rooms of polite society.

But what was the alternative? A lifetime of isolation, of being ignored in her own home, of enduring her father’s cold indifference and the town’s whispered condemnation? She couldn’t even be certain that her father would continue to support her if she refused. 

She closed her eyes for a brief moment. When she opened them, she straightened her shoulders and met her father’s gaze.

“I will do it,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her father nodded, already dismissing her decision as settled. 

“We leave tomorrow morning,” he said, not looking at her. “Prepare yourself.”

Eleanor turned away, but the air in the study felt heavier now, as though it had wrapped around her like a noose.

She had chosen escape.

She just prayed it was not taking her into something worse.

***

The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and dying leaves as Eleanor stepped outside, exhausted from a night of little sleep and far too much worry. Her father had said little since their conversation the day before, and he remained silent as he stood beside the waiting carriage while the driver finished loading their meager belongings.

She turned, letting her gaze linger on the house she had called home for so many years. Willowmere Cottage was not grand, but it was familiar. Its stone walls and ivy-covered façade had sheltered her, for better or worse, and though it had never truly felt like a home, it was the only life she had known. Now, she was leaving it behind, setting out on a journey from which there was no return.

The soft murmur of voices drew her attention.

They were not alone.

A small crowd of neighbors had gathered along the edge of the lane, their expressions a mixture of pity and unease. The news had spread fast, as it always did in small towns. Some whispered behind gloved hands, others did not bother to hide their concern. Eleanor caught fragments of conversation. Their words meant to be just loud enough for her to hear.

“The Duke of Raventhorne…”

“A beast, they say.”

“His face… hideous, burned beyond recognition.”

“He’ll lock her away, just like he’s locked himself away.”

Eleanor’s pulse quickened, her fingers tightening around the folds of her cloak. She had heard the rumors before, but now they felt heavier, pressing in on her. Now, they were no longer merely rumors about some stranger she would never likely meet. 

Suddenly, a firm hand seized her wrist, a body lunging toward her. Eleanor gasped, turning to find one of the older women of the village peering at her with sharp, knowing eyes. The woman’s grip was stronger than expected, her fingers cold against Eleanor’s skin.

“You listen to me, girl,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Rumors abound, but not all is as it seems. Follow your heart, and don’t let fear make your choices for you.”

Eleanor blinked, startled. “I-I don’t understand.”

The woman released her just as suddenly as she had grabbed her, stepping back into the crowd. “You will,” was all she said.

A shiver ran down Eleanor’s spine.

Her father cleared his throat impatiently. “Get in the carriage.”

She hesitated only a moment longer before obeying, climbing into the dark, enclosed space. The door shut behind her with a decisive click, and as the carriage lurched forward, she dared one last glance through the window.

The journey was long and silent. Two days of endless roads, cold inns, and the rhythmic jostling of the carriage. Her father barely spoke, and when he did, it was only to ask after practical matters—whether she needed food, whether she would stretch her legs at the next stop.

Eleanor found she did not mind the silence. There was little left to say, and it allowed her to think, to prepare herself for whatever was to come. 

As the afternoon faded into evening on the second day, the landscape began to change. The hills grew wilder, the trees taller, their branches twisted from the sea winds. A creeping mist clung to the ground, turning the world into something formless and gray. The closer they came to their destination, the heavier the fog became, curling around the carriage like ghostly fingers.

She had known the Raventhorne estate was isolated, but she had not expected this. The Irish Sea was close. She could smell it in the air, the sharp tang of salt mingling with damp stone. The road narrowed as they approached the manor, winding through darkened fields and towering hedgerows.

And then, at last, Raventhorne Hall emerged from the mist.

It was vast, stretching into the fog like a forgotten relic of another time. Its stone walls were darker than she had imagined, its windows tall and narrow, reflecting nothing but the empty sky. A great house, once magnificent, now shrouded in shadow.

She could almost picture it burning. Flames licking at the walls, black smoke curling into the sky, the grand silhouette of the house crumbling beneath the weight of fire. A blurred, painful watercolor of destruction.

The carriage slowed, then came to a halt. Eleanor swallowed hard as the door was opened. The cold air rushed in, biting at her skin, and she stepped out onto the gravel drive. Servants moved quickly, whisking away their belongings without a word.

The house loomed before her, its windows dimly lit, its grand entrance framed by towering stone columns. 

And then she saw him.

At the top of the wide staircase leading to the first floor, a figure stood in the shadows. Tall. Poised. Unmoving. She could not see his face, only the outline of his form, rigid as though prepared for battle.

Nathaniel Ashcombe, the Duke of Raventhorne. A man she had never met. A man she would soon call husband. For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, before the butler stepped forward and bowed. “Your Grace,” he said, voice low and measured. “Miss Blythe has arrived.”

Eleanor swallowed, gathering what remained of her courage. And then, with slow, measured steps, she ascended the stairs, toward the man who would decide her fate.