The Belgrave townhome shimmered in golden light, a tasteful blend of wealth and pretense. Lady Honora Belgrave reclined on a velvet chaise, legs crossed, a small satisfied smile curling her lips as she leafed through a society paper. Her light blue silk gown was cut to perfection, emphasizing her elegance, one she had cultivated like a weapon.
A younger cousin perched nearby, watching her with eager admiration.
"Honora, you're grinning. What is it?"
Honora's gloved hand lifted the newspaper slightly. "Only the end of a little fairy tale. Evelyn Ashcombe's father has bankrupted himself over some mining folly."
"Truly?"the cousin asked, surprised.
"Mm. They'll soon be forced to sell their estate. Her brother is a good-for-nothing. Her father's begging invitations like a tradesman's wife." She snapped the paper shut with a crisp flick. "I suppose even a swan must shed her feathers sometime."
The cousin hesitated. "You used to be such friends."
Honora's smile thinned.
"Friend?"she sneered.
"She was always admired. Always adored," she said lightly, though her voice held an edge. "Teachers fawned over her. Artists begged to paint her. And then Julian Hartmoor…" she trailed off, eyes flashing. "Well. Let's just say Evelyn had a habit of attracting what wasn't meant for her."
The cousin said nothing, sensing danger in asking too much.
Before Honora could indulge her victory further, the drawing room door opened. Her mother, Lady Agatha Belgrave, swept in, all pearls and tension.
"Honora, have you heard the news?"
Honora blinked lazily. "That Evelyn is ruined? Yes, I was just delighting in it."
"Then you'll be less delighted to learn she is now engaged."
A pause. "To whom?"
"The Duke of Wycliffe."
The words landed like a slap. Honora sat up straight, her eyes darkened. "You're mistaken."
"I assure you, I am not. It's been arranged privately. There will be an announcement before the season ends. Lady Rosalind Wycliffe herself brokered the match."
Honora's lips parted, but no sound came. Her cheeks flushed red, then pale.
"How...how could she..."
Lady Agatha gave her daughter a pointed look, full od disappointment. "You were too slow, darling. I warned you last year to be more forward at the Wycliffe house party, but you simpered and waited. Now it's Evelyn who shall wear the duchess's coronet."
"She's a ruined girl from a ruined family!" Honora snapped. "What could she possibly offer him?"
Her mother raised an eyebrow. "Apparently enough."
Honora stood abruptly, knocking over her tea in the process. Her cousin jumped.
"She always lands on her feet," Honora hissed, pacing. "Even when she should be flat on her back."
Lady Agatha gave a delicate sigh. "You can still do better, Honora. But you must learn to strike before your prey is claimed."
Honora didn't respond. Her fingernails bit into her palms as her teeth sank into her lower lip.
The fire crackled in the grate, casting amber shadows across the room. Decanters gleamed on a sideboard, the scent of aged brandy curling through the heavy air. Nathaniel stood by the window, one hand resting on the sill, watching rain snake down the glass.
Behind him, Sir Gideon Vale lounged in a leather armchair, legs crossed, glass in hand. His expression, as always, was unreadable—somewhere between amusement and concern.
"So," Gideon said finally, "you're marrying a penniless girl."
Nathaniel didn't turn. "Is that a question or a statement?"
"It's both," Gideon replied smoothly. "Evelyn Wren. Beautiful, yes. Graceful. But hardly a logical choice. There are at least a dozen eligible daughters with money, connections, and no recent scandal dragging behind them like a rotting carriage wheel."
Nathaniel was quiet for a moment then he said "And yet I chose her."
"Yes, and I'm asking why."
Nathaniel turned slowly, the firelight throwing angles across his cold face.
"You've known me long enough, Gideon. Do I ever make choices I haven't thought it through?"
Gideon sighed. "That's precisely what concerns me," Gideon said, swirling his brandy. "Because it seems you're thinking about her quite a lot."
Nathaniel didn't answer. He crossed the room and poured himself a drink.
"You've seen her," he said finally. "She's… composed. Intelligent. She doesn't fawn, she doesn't beg. Even sitting in that decaying drawing room with her father clutching to nerves and her brother avoiding eye contact, she carried herself like someone untouched by ruin. That kind of dignity is interesting."
"And dangerous," Gideon said flatly. "Especially in a wife you intend to keep obedient."
Nathaniel's jaw ticked. "I don't need her obedience. I need her presence. Her silence. Her signature."
"Ah," Gideon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "So it's a game. A performance."
Nathaniel met his eyes over the rim of the glass. "You'd be surprised how useful a duchess can be in the right hands."
"Useful, yes. But inconvenient if she decides to stop playing her part."
There was a silence then thick, heavy.
Gideon's voice dropped.
"Does she know what you are?"
Nathaniel's expression didn't change. "She knows enough."
Gideon leaned back again, watching him. "Just remember that girls like Evelyn Ashcombe, even when fallen, still carry a dangerous sense of self. You think she's compliant because she said yes. But women like that never forget who they were. And they don't like cages, gilded or otherwise."
Nathaniel drained the last of his drink. "Good."
"Good?"
He set the glass down with a quiet clink.
"Let her fight a little," he said, almost to himself. "Let her test the bars. It'll make what follows more honest."
Gideon's brows lifted, but he said nothing.
Whatever Nathaniel's true reason was for choosing Evelyn Ashcombe, it remained locked behind those cold gray eyes.
And Gideon, for all his insight, could only wonder how much of the game was control and how much was desire.
The Morning Room at Wycliffe Manor
The pale light of late autumn filtered through lace-curtained windows, casting long shadows across the morning room. The fire had only just been lit, and the scent of peat mingled with the faint perfume of dried lavender tucked into the corners.
Juliana Wycliffe stood by the window, one hand lifting the edge of a curtain. Outside, the gardens lay still, rimmed in silver dew. Beyond the hedgerows, the stables were beginning to stir—the sound of hooves, a distant call from the stablehands.
She was nineteen—on the cusp of womanhood, yet not fully rid of girlish mischief, slight of frame but tall for her age, with high cheekbones and a mouth that rarely stayed shut when something interested her. Her hair, thick and dark as her brother's, tumbled in untamed waves down her back, defying the pins her maid had fussed over. Her eyes, however, were all her own—strikingly green, too clever by half, and always watching.
Wrapped in a pale lilac morning robe, she looked more like a heroine in a novel than the demure daughter of a noble house.
"Mrs. Bramble," she said, still gazing out the window, "why is Nathaniel marrying her?"
From the armchair, Mrs. Bramble snorted, a sound halfway between disapproval and age-softened amusement.
"Gracious child. He's a duke, ain't he? Dukes marry. That's what they do."
"Yes, but why her?" Juliana turned now, her expression curious. "She's lovely, I suppose. Elegant. But it's sudden. Nathaniel doesn't do sudden."
The old nursemaid; her white bun wobbling slightly as she poured tea clicked her tongue and offered no immediate answer. Her hands, though gnarled with age, moved with practiced grace.
"The Ashcombe girl has a good name. Even if her family's fallen a bit."
> "A bit?" Juliana raised her brows. "There are rumors that their estate's in debt, the brother drinks and gambles, and their father can barely keep the family afloat. It's practically a scandal waiting to happen."
"Then why're you asking me if you already know all that?" Mrs. Bramble passed her the tea with a suspicious glance. "Or are you just hoping I'll say something scandalous?"
Juliana took the cup but didn't smile. "I don't need scandal. I need the truth. Nathaniel doesn't fall in love. He calculates. I don't believe he's marrying for love. But I wonder if he marrying to feel something again. Or… to possess it."
That gave Mrs. Bramble pause.
The nursemaid looked up then, the lines around her eyes deepening with concern.
"Be careful how you speak,Milady."
She shrugged. "I'm only thinking aloud."
"Your brother's always had a taste for dangerous things," Mrs Bramble said slowly. "Even as a boy. He'd climb where he wasn't supposed to. Pick fights too clever to win. There's a wildness in him, underneath all that polish."
Juliana didn't say anything.
There was a long pause. Outside, the stable bells rang once, and the breeze shifted.
"Still," Juliana added, more to herself, "she's very pretty. I don't dislike her, this Evelyn Ashcombe. I've only met her once, and she barely said ten words. But she carries herself like someone who's used to being watched. If anyone could stir Nathaniel awake, it might be her."
Mrs. Bramble snipped a thread and set aside her work.
"Don't poke at things that don't concern you, child."
"But they do concern me," Juliana said, her voice teasing but tinged with truth. "She's going to be my sister-in-law. And we all know what happens to women who enter this house with stars in their eyes."
Mrs. Bramble rose to gather her things. "Then let's hope Miss Ashcombe is smart enough not to look up."
Juliana sipped her tea and said nothing for a long while. But her eyes drifted again to the window, to the distant figure of a man saddling a horse, one of the new stablehands, a broad-shouldered figure with strong arms and the easy confidence of someone not born to service.
Her lips parted slightly. She didn't notice the way her cheeks warmed.
"Perhaps," she murmured to herself, "ruin runs in the family."