Chapter 1
Maplewood Hall, Kent
March 1814
The clouds had settled low over Maplewood Hall, casting the landscape in shades of pewter and ash. A steady drizzle kissed the lead-paned windows, tracing thin rivulets over the glass as if the house itself were weeping. Beyond the fogged panes of Vera Huxford’s father’s study, the skeletal trees of early spring bowed and trembled beneath the wind’s moaning sigh. Even the birds, usually so irrepressible in March, seemed cowed by the gloom.
Inside, the air was still, much too still. The musty smell of ancient vellum and decaying pipe smoke clung to the walls like a faded memory. The hearth offered meagre warmth, its fire now mostly embers, casting no cheer upon the dark-wood interior or threadbare carpet. The study, once Sir Reginald Huxford’s domain, a place of vibrant discussion and brilliant theories scribbled with haste, had grown as faded and frail as its master.
Before her, the marriage contract lay open, unrolled and waiting, a gaping chasm of inked rules and binding promises, none of which seemed remotely desirable. The ink upon the parchment gleamed darkly in the weak afternoon light, as though it knew the weight of the words it bore.
Vera stood motionless before her father’s great writing desk, rigid with the effort to remain composed, the carved mahogany surface cool beneath her fingertips as she battled to calm her racing heartbeat.
Beneath the haze of pipe smoke lingered the subtle but unmistakable scent of laudanum and lavender — a byproduct of her father’s repeated, though futile, attempts at a restful night. Once, the aroma had been a comfort, a reminder of his gentleness. Today, it brought no such solace.
The once-proud study, filled with relics of scholarly pursuits and catalogued curiosities from a brighter past, now felt like death’s antechamber, and Vera had all but resigned herself to a joyless future; an altogether much more sombre fate than that of her childhood dreams.
She knew that today’s business would bring a great deal of relief to her ailing father and provide a much brighter future for her siblings, but it felt more like a sacrifice than a solution. Vera could feel the draft from the poorly sealed windows injecting a sharp nip in the air, but it was not only the cold that gave her cause to tremble.
Her fingers hovered above the document, thin and pale against the rich mahogany surface, as though even her writing hand refused to accept what her mind had already deemed unavoidable. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the quill. It seemed impossibly heavy, as if it too rejected the finality of what was about to happen.
How on earth has it come to this?
There had been no great scandal, no dramatic reversal of fortune. Only a steady, inexorable decline — the quiet erosion of security through grief and misjudgment. Her father’s investments, entrusted to an unscrupulous ‘friend’ he had, most regrettably, trusted as a brother, had been drained beyond recovery.
A man who had now vanished with their future sewn into his coat lining. What remained were debts, a mortgaged estate, and two brilliant children—Olivia and Robert—who deserved more than the slow fade into genteel poverty that they now faced.
“Father,” Vera finally said, her voice calm and steady despite the weight of terror in her chest. “Are you certain this is the only way?”
Sir Reginald cleared his throat softly. “My darling girl, if there were any other option, do you not think I would have taken it?”
His voice broke slightly, the sound brittle as he fought to contain his guilt and sorrow. “I have thought of nothing else for months. This… this… arrangement, Vera, it is all I have left to offer. It is the only means to secure your brother and sister’s futures, and your own.”
She nodded slowly, absorbing his words with the practicality both of her parents had impressed upon her since childhood. Yet inside, her thoughts churned restlessly. It is duty, she reminded herself firmly, nothing more.
“And the earl—Lord Thornborough,” she began carefully, dipping the quill lightly into the inkwell, “did he… did he express no wish to meet before the contract was signed, or exchange letters, perhaps?”
Mr Porter cleared his throat gently, the solicitor’s gaze shifting uncomfortably. “He desires only that you are respectable, educated, and efficient. He did not inquire further, or indicate any other wishes.”
Across the desk, her father reclined weakly in his wingback chair, the blanket around his legs unable to disguise the gauntness that had overtaken his once-robust frame. His eyes—still sharp, still painfully aware—watched his daughter with something perilously close to shame.
“My dear,” her father said softly, leaning forward as if it took great effort, “do you resent me terribly for this?”
She hesitated, her quill suspended above the paper, droplets of ink poised to fall. Her amber eyes met his, searching and thoughtful. “No, Father. I know you had no wish for things to come to this point. It is hardly your fault the world turned… unkind.”
He sighed, the sound heavy and weary with the weight of his burdens. “I wish your mother were here. She would know exactly how to reassure you.”
Vera cleared her throat in an effort to remove all traces of emotional vulnerability before she answered.
“She would tell me to do my duty,” Vera said evenly. “And to find strength in practicality. She always did.”
A quiet fell again, filled only by the soft crackle of dying embers in the grate and the whispering rain outside. Vera considered the paper before her, its demands clear and unwavering.
“I suppose it is not the worst of fates… to become a countess,” her father said in a low murmur, though his voice lacked any hint of conviction.
Vera managed a faint, dry smile. “No,” she murmured. “Not the worst.”
But perhaps not far from it.
The words rang within her mind. How did this become my responsibility? Trading myself over to a scarred recluse to save my family. I am to be bound to a man I’ve never met, known only by rumour and reputation. The Beast of Thornborough Abbey, they call him. A creature of shadows and scars.
“Please… my darling girl… you must not feel this is a punishment,” her father said quietly. “This is… a solution. The only one left to us.”
Vera turned her head slightly to regard him. The man who had once loomed larger than life now seemed shrunken in his chair. His face had grown hollow and pale, his hands too thin as they clutched the woollen blanket across his lap. He spoke the words with conviction, as if hoping he might believe them himself, but it was clear from his haunted expression that he was paying lip service and nothing more.
“I know, Papa,” she said gently, as though speaking too loudly might shatter them both. “It is simply difficult to feel grateful for such a future when it requires the surrender of one’s own.”
His eyes flickered with guilt. “You are not being sold, Vera.”
“No,” she agreed. “Merely… exchanged.” Her father winced. “Do not look so crushed, Father. This is my choice as much as it is yours,” she said finally, more to herself than him. “If this marriage secures Olivia and Robert’s futures and ensures their education and comfort, then it is most definitely a price worth paying.”
Her father nodded, mixed expressions of relief and shame wrestling for dominance as they flitted across his face. “You are so very much like your mother, my dear. Far stronger than I deserve.”
She inhaled slowly and deliberately. Her eyes fell upon the place where her name was to be written—lines left blank for the final stroke of obligation.
It seemed prudent to read what was required of her before signing her life away, but what did it matter? She could not take in the magnitude of what was being asked. In the end, it would amount to the same thing whether she agreed or not.
What choice do I have, when Father sits there with such a vacuous expression, and the twins’ futures hang by so fragile a thread?
She straightened slightly, touching the quill decisively to the paper, the tip scratching firmly against the surface. “Not stronger, Father. Merely determined.” Vera signed her name with measured, decisive strokes—Vera Margaret Huxford—each letter sealing her fate with a grace that belied the knot twisting in her chest.
Mr Porter, seated to one side with spectacles perched low upon his nose and hands folded with professional satisfaction, gave a brief nod of approval.
“Excellent penmanship, Miss Huxford. Quite legible.”
Sir Reginald exhaled loudly in relief.
Mr Porter retrieved the document with care, tapping it into alignment before sliding it into a leather folio. “You will depart for Yorkshire in a fortnight. All arrangements shall be seen to, of course—travel, trousseau, the posting of the banns. You need do nothing more until you arrive at Thornborough Abbey.”
Vera turned to him, her voice composed though her fingers still tingled from the quill. “Mr Porter, may I ask—what precisely does the earl expect from this arrangement?”
The solicitor paused, his pen stilled above the page. His eyes flicked to Sir Reginald and then returned to her.
“As I have said, His Lordship requested a wife of respectable lineage, sound education, and steady temperament. A lady capable of managing a household of stature.”
“Nothing more?”
Another pause. Then, carefully, “He made no mention of beauty, nor of affection. His interests lie in propriety and posterity. In short, Miss Huxford, he seeks a countess—not a companion. To the best of my knowledge, this shall be a marriage of convenience.”
Vera’s throat tightened, though she managed a wry half-smile, carefully hiding the faint sting of insult behind practicality. “Then at least we shall disappoint no romantic expectations. And the settlement?”
“More than generous,” Porter assured her. “Your father’s debts will be cleared in full. The twins’ education is provided for in the marriage articles, as is a small annuity to be held in trust for your maintenance in widowhood. Moreover, Maplewood Hall shall remain in your family’s possession.”
From the doorway, a soft rustle of movement drew Vera’s gaze.
Olivia and Robert stood there in silence, their matching amber eyes wide and uncertain, framed by the gloom of the corridor. Olivia clutched her brother’s sleeve, and Robert—usually defiant and irrepressible—looked utterly stricken. The weight of what Vera was sacrificing for them pressed heavily on him, as if someone had drawn a curtain across the sun. She smiled gently at them. They did not smile back. Olivia’s bottom lip trembled; she was clearly close to tears.
“It will be all right,” Vera assured her siblings gently, meeting their anxious gazes with quiet confidence. “We shall make the best of this, as we have always done. You will see.”
Yet even as she spoke, Vera felt a sharp pang of uncertainty deep within, hidden carefully beneath layers of practised composure. I must be brave, she thought firmly. For all of us.
***
Meanwhile…
At the precise hour that Vera Huxford surrendered her name to a contract inked in duty rather than desire, the man who would become her husband stood at the tall, mullioned window of Thornborough Abbey, his gaze fixed upon the rain-slicked Yorkshire moors beyond.
The sky was iron grey, the colour of stormwater and steel, and the wind had begun its seemingly ceaseless keening against the stones, slipping through the narrow gaps in the ancient glass.
Firelight cast flickering shapes against the panelled walls of his study, dancing over dark wood and shelves lined with dust-laden tomes, untouched for years. It was a veritable scholar’s haven, though the man within its walls had long since ceased to find comfort in books.
Phineas Renwick, the Earl of Thornborough, tightened his jaw as he leaned one hand against the windowsill. His other hand remained curled behind his back, the fingers flexing unconsciously as if they still remembered heat, flame, and betrayal.
“A wife,” he muttered under his breath, the word bitter on his tongue. “Another necessary arrangement. Another transaction.”
Behind him, his estate manager and long-time friend and confidant, Walter Sinclair, sat at the desk, reviewing the contract with his usual quiet efficiency.
The firelight glinted off the wire rims of his spectacles, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepened by thought—or perhaps worry. A former military man, Walter still bore the bearing of discipline, though his injured leg prevented long hours in the saddle. He was, as ever, composed, yet focused.
“The terms are complete,” Walter said at last, lifting his gaze. “The settlement is generous. Sir Reginald was once considered a man of agricultural vision—you spoke of him with some admiration in years past. His daughter is said to be well-educated, from respectable bloodlines. She appears… all things considered, a practical choice for your requirements.”
Phineas gave a sharp, joyless huff of laughter and turned from the window, allowing the firelight to strike the left side of his face. The scarred flesh was pulled taut from temple to collarbone, a grotesque partial mask of healed burns and puckered skin. The ruined half of his face still visibly startled new acquaintances, though few had ever dared comment out loud.
“Practical,” he echoed. “Excellent. I shall have a wife who can tally linens and catalogue preserves. The epitome of every man’s wildest dreams.”
Walter lifted an eyebrow but did not rise to the bait.
“She will not be shocked by your appearance—until the wedding day,” he said instead, his voice measured. “That, at least, is a mercy.”
“I’ve no intention of riding to Kent to parade myself like a show pony,” Phineas replied coolly. “She agreed to the match sight unseen. I am merely returning the favour. Presumably, she has been told of this hideous disfigurement?” he said, gesturing to his extensive injuries.
Walter was silent a moment before closing the folio with quiet finality. “Indeed. We thought it prudent to provide her with a basic understanding. She has agreed to marry you with very little background information, after all. And yet… she may be kind. She may well surprise you.”
Phineas’s lips curled—something between a smile and a snarl. “I am long past surprises, Walter. And further still from kindness. I doubt she will be able to stand to look at me, but this is what it is, and there is nothing I can do about it.”
“Even so, she may bring… companionship.”
Phineas turned fully now, crossing to the hearth and resting one hand upon the mantel. The flames crackled below, their warmth unable to touch the ice that had long since settled beneath his skin.
“I do not require companionship. I require an heir.”
His tone brooked no argument, but Walter said quietly, “Not everyone is intent on making your life isolated and miserable. You do not have to follow the mistakes of others. You do not have to live this life alone.”
That earned him nothing but silence.
A moment later, the door opened—unannounced, of course—and Nathaniel Renwick stepped inside with his usual flourish, one hand holding a fine bottle of brandy, the other already reaching for the sideboard glasses.
“Well, cousin,” Nathaniel said, all affable charm and careless grace, “I hear congratulations are in order.”
Phineas stiffened. “Have you taken to rifling through my correspondence now?”
Nathaniel chuckled, setting down the bottle and pouring two generous measures. “Hardly. Walter mentioned the agreement to my mother, and you know how swiftly information travels in this old tomb of a house. Besides, I thought it my duty to toast the occasion.”
He crossed the room in a few unhurried steps and handed Phineas one of the crystal tumblers. The russet liquid glowed like firelight in the glass.
“To your bride,” Nathaniel said cheerfully, raising his own. “May she be comely, compliant, and completely unaware of the madhouse she’s marrying into… until it is far too late.”
Phineas accepted the glass without drinking, his expression unreadable. Nathaniel, ever adept at feigned good humour, grinned broadly.
“And how did you settle on this particular sacrificial lamb, Renwick? Porter’s suggestion?”
“Sir Reginald Huxford,” Phineas said curtly. “A man of intelligence and principle—once upon a time.”
Nathaniel’s eyes gleamed. “Ah, yes. Kentish fellow. Some unfortunate financial ruin, I seem to recall. Took his ease when vigilance was required—and paid accordingly.”
Walter rose from his chair, closing the folio with a quiet snap. “That is none of your concern.”
Nathaniel raised both brows and sipped his drink with exaggerated innocence. “Of course not. I wasn’t intending to stick my nose where it wasn’t wanted. I’m merely curious. One likes to know the family connections of future countesses. For posterity.”
Phineas’s gaze did not waver from his cousin. “The financial terms are of no consequence to you, Nathaniel. It would do you good to remember that.”
There was steel beneath the calm, and Nathaniel heard it. But his smile only widened.
“Of course. Merely an idle inquiry. You always were so serious, cousin.” He tossed back the rest of his brandy and stood. “Well then. I shall leave you gentlemen to your weighty matters. Do try to remember to look forward to your forthcoming nuptials. A wedding is, after all, supposed to be a happy event, is it not? Something to look forward to.”
As he swept out of the room, Walter muttered, “Vultures always circle before the kill.”
Phineas shot his retreating back a quizzical glance but remained by the hearth, his untouched drink reflecting the firelight like gold in a prison cup.
Walter, by contrast, provided a steady counterbalance to Phineas’s natural cynicism — more sanguine by temperament, and invariably pragmatic. Yet he was nothing if not perceptive, while Nathaniel, for his part, had a marked tendency to entangle himself in matters that scarcely concerned him.
She signed the contract today.
Somewhere in Kent, a young woman had just surrendered her name to his. A complete stranger. A means to an end. He might have thought her unfortunate, but he was hardly better situated.
He closed his eyes briefly. This changes nothing.
“I will not make the mistake of trusting again,” he said aloud, to no one. “Not for beauty. Not for warmth. Not even for hope.”
Behind him, the fire whispered and crackled, but offered no answer.
Chapter 2
Two weeks had passed swiftly, yet the melancholy farewell at Maplewood Hall remained vivid in Vera’s mind as the Thornborough carriage rattled along the final stretch toward her new home.
The physician had deemed Sir Reginald unfit to travel such a long way, or indeed any distance at all, until his strength was vastly improved, so it had been decided that he would stay at home with the children and staff while her cousin, Imogen, accompanied Vera to Thornborough Abbey.
The journey north from Kent was no trifling matter, even in the comfort of a well-sprung travelling carriage fitted with plush velvet squabs and silk-curtained windows to shield against the dust of the road. Days passed in a rhythmic procession of mile markers and changing skies, punctuated by brief halts at bustling inns where ostlers hurried to change teams and maids appeared with steaming trays of broth and buttered bread.
The early stages of the journey wound through the southern counties, where the countryside was broken frequently by towns with red-bricked terraces, neat hedgerows, and the ever-present smoke of industry rising faintly in the distance. As they skirted the outskirts of London and pressed further northward, the roads became narrower, the pace slower, and the scenery ever more wild in its charm.
Vera was grateful to have at least some support at her side for her wedding, but she still felt incredibly isolated and sad as she headed towards a completely unknown future. Still, Imogen’s steady, forthright presence was a small comfort amidst the overwhelming uncertainty.
Father’s frail form and apologetic eyes haunted her thoughts; the twins’ tearful pleading still echoed in her ears. Vera shifted slightly, smoothing her dove-grey skirts, practical yet tastefully simple, chosen precisely for their modesty and utility.
Imogen, her expressive features framed by curling chestnut hair beneath a modest bonnet, broke the silence abruptly. “You do realise what they call your betrothed, don’t you? The Beast of Thornborough.”
“I’m aware of the epithet,” Vera replied evenly, her amber gaze fixed steadily ahead. “But I’m inclined to judge people by their actions rather than baseless rumours. We shouldn’t judge a person by the idle gossip of the ton.”
“How practical of you,” Imogen remarked wryly. “Though practicality may offer scant comfort when facing a husband whose visage sends maidservants—and indeed footmen—scurrying away in fright.”
Vera forced a faint smile. “It is not his appearance that concerns me most, Imogen. Rather, it is his character, which remains a complete mystery.”
“From what I have heard, that has not exactly received glowing praise either,” Imogen replied, never one to embellish the truth with diplomacy when a dose of brutal honesty would dispel the last traces of false hope.
“Thank you for your reassurance, dear cousin,” Vera remarked, rolling her eyes skywards. “You are meant to be offering comfort, not compounding my misery.”
It was not until they crossed into Yorkshire that the true transformation of their surroundings revealed itself, subtle at first—a gentler light in the air, a clearer horizon—before giving way to wide, rolling fields that stretched as far as the eye could see.
The land here seemed to breathe differently, untroubled by the press of population, its serenity broken only by the cry of birds or the lowing of distant cattle. Dry stone walls replaced the manicured fences of the south, and great swathes of moorland, heather-flecked and golden beneath the sun, rolled past like some vast, sleeping beast. For Vera, gazing out of the window with her gloved hand resting against the glass, it felt less like an arrival and more like a slow exhale—a stepping away from the clatter of society into something older, quieter, and infinitely more enduring.
Yet the nearer they drew to their destination, the more keenly the enormity of what she was about to undertake pressed upon her with terrifying clarity.
The carriage finally slowed after what felt like an endless journey, and the looming edifice of Thornborough Abbey emerged from the mist—an imposing structure of grey stone, its sharp gothic arches piercing the leaden sky, while rampant ivy climbed unchecked along its ancient walls. Vera’s heart quickened; her composure, carefully maintained throughout the journey, trembled beneath the intimidating shadow of her future home.
What am I doing? Why would anyone marry somebody they had never met before? Particularly someone rumoured to be a beast? The whole idea is absurd.
They halted before broad stone steps, and Mr Kingsley, the kind-eyed butler, appeared to greet them, his spine impeccably straight, his neatly combed jet-black hair a stark contrast to his pristine, starched white shirt.
“Miss Huxford,” Kingsley intoned formally, his sharp eyes briefly assessing their worn travelling cloaks and modest trunks without revealing judgment. “How lovely to meet you. I am the butler, Mr Kingsley. Welcome to Thornborough Abbey.”
“Thank you, Mr Kingsley,” Vera responded calmly, stepping gracefully from the carriage. “The pleasure is mine, I’m sure.”
Imogen followed, her eyes openly curious as she surveyed her new surroundings.
Inside, Vera felt the hush of servants’ whispered exchanges brush against her senses. She straightened instinctively, drawing her shoulders back and displaying nothing but serene composure.
Agatha Renwick awaited them in the entrance hall—a stately figure dressed elegantly in emerald silk, her dark hair streaked subtly with silver. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, took swift inventory of Vera’s plain travelling attire.
“Miss Huxford,” Agatha’s voice was smooth yet edged with cool appraisal. “You are most welcome. I trust your journey was not too taxing?”
“It was quite comfortable, thank you,” Vera replied steadily, meeting Agatha’s gaze without flinching. “My father deeply regrets his inability to accompany me; his health is fragile.”
“How unfortunate,” Agatha murmured, raising one eyebrow, but clearly not too displeased by the smaller wedding party. “A pity. Such important occasions do usually merit a family presence. One might wonder about priorities, might one not?”
“My father’s priorities lie precisely where they ought—his health and the well-being of his family,” Vera returned mildly, her voice calm but firm.
“Indeed,” Agatha conceded, her smile sharpening slightly. “Well, we shall manage a quiet ceremony, as suits Lord Thornborough’s preferences in any case. My nephew was never one for overly large occasions.”
“Naturally,” Vera acknowledged calmly, careful to betray no offence at the slight.
Kingsley stepped forward smoothly. “I have no doubt you will want to freshen up after a lengthy journey. Allow me to escort you to your rooms, Misses Huxford.”
They followed him along the dimly lit corridors, the occasional portrait or faded tapestry adding to the solemn, and somewhat oppressive, atmosphere. The rooms assigned to them were comfortably appointed yet felt starkly impersonal—the furnishings bland, and the decoration coldly austere.
“I trust everything will be to your satisfaction, my ladies.” Kingsley offered. “Please do not hesitate to call for me if I can be of any assistance. Dinner will be served in the dining room at seven.”
Once they were alone, Imogen removed her bonnet, glancing around with candid curiosity. “They certainly do not trouble themselves much with warmth here, do they?”
Vera sighed softly, removing her cloak. “I suppose warmth is considered an unnecessary luxury.”
Imogen met her eyes frankly. “You seem remarkably composed, considering the situation.”
“What choice do I have?” Vera replied softly, smoothing her hair carefully. “Composure is my armour now. Without it, I fear I might falter entirely.”
Imogen placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “You are stronger than you realise, Vera. And whatever happens, I am here for you.”
***
Phineas stood before the tall windows of the dining room; his reflection fractured in the leaded glass. Rain misted against the clouded panes, dimming the view of the garden beyond. The scent of silver polish and cooking smells filled the air. He listened to the distant echo of footsteps—hers, most likely—approaching the door.
He had not meant to join them so soon, and certainly not early. He’d planned to enter last, to command the moment as one might a battlefield—swiftly and without pause. Yet the impulse to see her—to gauge her reaction—had propelled him forward. It must be done sooner or later, though in truth he detested meeting new people; they seldom concealed their first impressions well.
He turned as the door opened. Vera entered beside her cousin, poised but clearly wary. Her dress was unadorned, her demeanour calm. And then she saw him.
Phineas watched for the flinch. He always did.
There was a flicker as there always was—he caught it—but not of revulsion. Surprise, perhaps. Or restrained compassion. It was a vast improvement on introductions he had battled through in the past. At least she hadn’t gawped at him as if he were an exotic animal—her mouth wide open as if catching flies, or looked openly disgusted at his very presence. Although, he had to admit that he preferred the revulsion. It was far easier to endure than pity.
“Miss Huxford,” he said, his voice low and even.
“My lord,” she replied, her tone controlled and polite.
He inclined his head but said no more. He took his seat at the head of the table, noting how she seated herself with the same careful posture; Vera Huxford was neither meek nor defiant.
Nathaniel arrived moments later, smiling broadly as though entering a drawing room filled with old friends.
“Ah! Our guests of honour,” he said brightly. “Miss Huxford, you are even lovelier than rumour suggests. And Miss Huxford—the other Miss Huxford, I should say—your reputation for wit precedes you.”
“A reputation I did not know I possessed,” Imogen replied, arching a brow.
“A pleasure to discover it now, then,” Nathaniel said with an easy grin, sliding into the chair opposite.
“Pray, call me Imogen,” she replied. “Otherwise, I fear the evening may grow quite complicated — unless, of course, you intend to address us as Miss Huxford One and Miss Huxford Two.”
Nathaniel laughed a little too loudly at Imogen’s witticism, but he had always been rather good at lightening the formality of such occasions.
Phineas said nothing. He simply watched them all—watched Vera.
The soup course arrived, and Agatha’s voice, as always, cut like a silver blade through the clinking of spoons against porcelain.
“Such a modest gown, Miss Huxford,” she remarked, looking at Vera with disdain, her tone dripping with condescension dressed up as poorly feigned admiration. “It is refreshing to see a young woman unencumbered by the vanity of silks and satins. So many brides are more concerned with frippery than fitness.”
Phineas had known it would only be a matter of time before Agatha felt the need to assert her authority with snide comments. While Nathaniel seemed happier to relieve the tension, Agatha couldn’t help inciting it, but it was a good opportunity to see if Vera could hold her own.
Vera looked up from her spoon, her voice mild but steady. “I find that comfort in lengthy travel is more useful than opulence, Lady Renwick, and I am nothing if not practical.”
“How sensible,” Agatha said, with the faintest curl of her lips. “One hopes it will serve you well here.”
Nathaniel chuckled, lifting his glass. “Indeed, Vera—may I call you Vera? —you have already proven yourself a lady of great substance. I can see why my cousin chose you.”
Phineas shifted. “The match was arranged, not chosen.”
“Ah, but even arranged matches may prove fortuitous,” Nathaniel said, with that infuriating gleam in his eye. “Particularly when the bride is young, capable, and—”
“We are not here to catalogue Miss Huxford’s virtues,” Phineas interrupted coldly.
A pause followed. Then Imogen leaned slightly forward. “I, for one, am greatly enjoying the hospitality. Thornborough Abbey is… remarkable.”
Agatha smiled thinly. “It has weathered its share of storms. Not unlike its master.”
The words hung in the air.
Phineas said nothing. Let them speak in riddles. Let them attempt their veiled barbs. He was more interested in Vera’s reactions. Her posture had stiffened just slightly, and yet she never looked away from Agatha. Never allowed herself to shrink under her scathing eye.
Interesting.
“I trust you have some experience with managing a household, Miss Huxford?” Agatha continued. “Thornborough is not a place that runs itself. One must be firm with the staff—particularly when they are accustomed to a certain standard.”
Vera inclined her head. “I have managed my father’s estate these past five years. Though modest, it demanded discipline and care. I am not without experience, Lady Renwick.”
“Ah, yes. Modest holdings,” Agatha murmured, taking a delicate sip of her wine. “How quaint. A little different to an abbey, though perhaps a suitable stepping stone.”
Any more condescending, and she might as well have patted her on the head.
Phineas’s gaze sharpened. The old woman was testing her, needling her, prodding for cracks. But Vera only folded her hands gently in her lap, allowing Agatha to have her moment holding court, and said nothing more.
The fish course came and went. Nathaniel entertained the table with a tale from their boyhood—Phineas riding headlong into the duck pond during a thunderstorm—and was rewarded with polite laughter. Imogen’s was genuine; Vera’s, Phineas noted, was not. Her eyes flicked to him, assessing—perhaps wondering how such a boy had become this man.
As the next course was served, a young footman—barely more than a boy—lost his grip on the decanter and spilled a generous splash of claret near Vera’s plate. The liquid spread quickly across the linen, seeping toward her sleeve.
The footman froze.
“I oh, I am so sorry. I—”
Before Phineas could speak, Vera acted. She rose calmly, took her napkin, and helped the boy steady the tray.
“It is quite all right,” she said gently to the boy who had turned a rather impressive shade of puce. “An accident, nothing more.”
The boy stammered, continuing to apologise profusely.
Agatha tutted softly. “One hopes such mishaps will not become a habit, young man. We are unused to… fragile nerves in this house.”
“Nerves are not exclusive to servants, Lady Renwick,” Imogen replied with a sweet, steely smile. “Even mistresses may falter when provoked.”
Phineas nearly smiled. Agatha looked incensed.
“Put this little mishap out of your head, and bear it no further thought,” Vera said to the young man. “No harm done at all.”
The footman bowed in gratitude and scuttled out of the dining room as fast as he could without breaking into a run.
That was decent of her. Kind.
Agatha rolled her eyes.
Dessert was brought, but Phineas scarcely noticed what it was. He watched Vera’s hands, the way she sipped her wine, the flicker of her lashes when Nathaniel spoke too familiarly.
He cleared his throat, drawing their attention before the cheese and biscuits were served.
“We shall be wed in two days in the abbey chapel,” he said. “A simple ceremony.”
Vera met his gaze directly. “Of course, my lord.”
And she held it—did not blink, did not flinch, did not feign a smile.
He inclined his head. “You are excused whenever you are ready. Both of you. Kingsley will see to your comfort.”
He turned and left the room, the weight in his chest heavier than before—not from dread, but from something infinitely more dangerous. Something like hope.
Chapter 3
The morning of her wedding dawned grey and grim; the sky draped in low-hanging clouds that pressed down with silent insistence. It seemed to have been raining for days, and the sombre weather was doing little to lift Vera’s grave mood.
She wondered if she’d feel any less wretched if the sun was shining, or her own people could have been with her to try to instil a modicum of joy, but she doubted either of those things would have eased her anxieties. She was about to embark on a lifetime of unwanted duty, and despite her penchant for practicality, she was finding it difficult to maintain her usual positivity.
A steady drizzle tapped against the panes of Vera’s bedchamber, each droplet marking time toward inevitability. She stood still as Imogen adjusted the bodice of her gown, a simple creation of cream muslin edged with fine lace. It was not bridal, not truly—but then, neither was this the way she had ever envisaged her wedding.
In the mirror, Vera saw her own reflection. She looked pale, composed, unreadable. Only her eyes betrayed the quiet storm within.
Perhaps I can still fool people into thinking I want to do this.
She was determined to keep her chin up and play the part of the dedicated bride even though she couldn’t feel any more subdued if she tried.
Remember who you are doing this for. She pictured the wide-eyed faces of Robert and Olivia and took a deep breath. This was the right thing to do—the only thing to do. All will be well.
“Well,” Imogen said gently, fastening the final clasp, “you look… rather tragic and quite beautiful. In the grand tradition of noble martyrs —Joan of Arc, Lady Jane Grey, or perhaps Marie Antoinette just before the tumbril rolled away.”
“Is that meant to make me feel better?” Vera offered a wan smile. “From today forward, I belong to a complete stranger.”
“Not just any stranger,” Imogen said dryly, stepping back. “Your stranger comes with a title, an abbey full of secrets, and an aunt who could frost a hearth with one glance. I would not trust that woman any further than I could see her. You want to keep your eye on that one.”
Vera turned toward her, grateful. “You are not making this any easier, you know.”
“Would you prefer I weep? We could both weep together, though I assure you, I have a very ugly cry, and it wouldn’t do for you to wander down the aisle with a blotchy face.”
There was a light knock at the door, but it was opened without invitation.
Perhaps privacy is going to be an issue here as well.
Agatha entered with the elegance of someone accustomed to command. Her eyes swept the room before settling on Vera. “You’re ready then. Good. Simplicity suits you, my dear. So few women can manage it without looking horribly plain. Though I suppose expectations adjust themselves when one marries for obligation rather than affection.”
“Thank you,” Vera said, unsure if it was meant as praise or rebuke, though the latter seemed far more likely.
This woman disliked me on sight. Or perhaps before she even knew of my existence.
Agatha stepped closer, inspecting Vera as though assessing a purchase. “Marriage to a man like Phineas is no light Gothic tale, Miss Huxford. You may find it less a happy ending, and more… survival of the fittest.”
Vera met her gaze evenly. “I assure you, Lady Renwick, I do not expect Gothic tales.”
“Good. Then you will not be disappointed when reality proves rather more… thorn than blossom,” Agatha said, her eyes narrowing slightly.
Vera nodded attentively, allowing her to speak unhindered.
“Before we proceed with your nuptials, I wanted to give you a few words of advice, my dear. Phineas is… particular in his habits, and it would benefit you to recognise these from the outset so we can avoid any teary scenes in the future.”
“Well, thank you, Lady Renwick. I would hate to cause any unnecessary upset,” Vera said candidly, though she couldn’t help wondering why Agatha felt the morning of her wedding was the most appropriate time to inject a further layer of anxiety into the proceedings—nor could she ascertain to whose tears she was referring.
Presumably mine. Did she think her so meek and mild that the slightest thing would tip her over the edge?
“He values his solitude more than most men value their wives and estates. And he does not take kindly to interruption… so it is best not to disturb him unnecessarily,” Agatha continued, as if she were the earl’s mother rather than his aunt.
“Naturally,” Vera replied, steadying her voice.
She adjusted a lace on Vera’s sleeve unnecessarily with slow, deliberate precision.
“And there are parts of the abbey you must refrain from entering. His private study, for instance, and the east wing. It is old, drafty, and… delicate. Some doors, my dear, are better left closed. That is not a suggestion, but a matter of prudence. There are also areas of the grounds which it is best to avoid, but we’ll cover those in time. No need to overwhelm you all at once.”
Vera’s heart beat faster, though her expression remained composed.
“Curiosity, in this house, tends to be… poorly rewarded.” She paused, then tilted her head. “You understand me, I trust? It would be unfortunate if you were to lose your footing before you’ve even found it. Thornborough can be… unforgiving to the unwary.”
“Yes,” Vera said. “You are warning me.”
Agatha’s eyes glittered. “I am helping you. In this household, those who understand the rules tend to remain comfortable. Those who do not, do not last.”
Imogen stepped forward, her voice cool. “How fortunate, then, that Vera excels at learning new rules.”
Agatha’s expression did not flicker, but her gaze lingered on Imogen a moment longer before she turned away. “The ceremony will begin presently. Do not dawdle.”
As the door clicked softly shut behind her, Vera felt the weight of her situation pressing further upon her.
Those who do not, do not last. She shivered involuntarily.
Imogen stepped forward, her voice a soothing presence in the midst of her internal panic. “She does rather have a gift for poisoning the air with every syllable, doesn’t she?”
Vera let out a slow breath. “I feel as though I’ve stepped into a tale where the beast is only half the danger.”
A twisted sort of fairy tale, where the abbey looms ahead—vast, silent, and full of secrets she had yet to uncover. Vera almost laughed, darkly amused. Perhaps somewhere in the east wing, a secret lay hidden—one that could unmake the monster and reveal the man, if only one dared to find it.
Imogen took her hand and squeezed it once, giving her a conspiratorial wink. “Then we’d better ensure this bride has claws of her own.”
Vera took a couple more deep breaths to steady herself.
Imogen pinned a small posy to her gown. “Come, let us see you married.”
***
The chapel at Thornborough Abbey was small and ancient, its vaulted ceiling blackened with age and candle smoke. Stone saints lined the alcoves, their features worn smooth by time and devotion. The air was heavy with incense to alleviate the strong mineral scent of damp stone.
Vera stood at the threshold, her heart thudding so rapidly, she feared it would burst out of her chest. As she began her slow walk down the aisle, she caught Agatha’s eye.
The older woman smiled at her—a polite, decorous smile of ceremony. Yet a moment later, when Vera’s gaze drifted back in her direction, she caught the expression behind the mask. Not approval, and certainly not pride, but something far colder. A thin scowl that quickly shifted into bland indifference the moment she realised she was being watched.
Did I imagine it? Perhaps.
But the twist in Vera’s stomach persisted. What had she done to displease his aunt already? She resolved to try harder, to maintain harmony for the sake of her new household. It was clear that Agatha had taken on the role of Phineas’s mother in her absence. Maybe she was simply being overprotective.
This union was hardly the usual course of things—an arranged marriage, concluded in haste, with no opportunity to become acquainted with her new family. Building such relationships would take time, but the realisation that she was not entirely welcome did nothing to appease her current sense of feeling unwanted and unloved.
Not a single familiar face. No family save for Imogen. No friends. No mother to steady her with quiet resolve. No father to offer pride and good wishes for this… occasion.
Do not think about that now. This is your wedding day, and you must make the best of it. It is all you can do. Focus on Imogen—and do not forget to breathe.
At the altar, the local vicar cleared his throat nervously. Walter stood beside Phineas, his posture impeccable, as ever.
Nathaniel lounged to one side, his expression inscrutable, and his deportment almost too relaxed to be fitting in a chapel. If Vera hadn’t known better, she would have thought he had taken a drink or two beforehand, or maybe he simply didn’t care. Agatha sat alone near the front, her gloved hands folded like a judge awaiting the jury’s verdict.
Phineas stood motionless at the altar, his dark coat sharply tailored, his countenance severe. He did not turn as Vera approached. His gaze remained fixed ahead, the scarred side of his face still turned slightly away.
As Vera reached him, she saw how tightly his hands were clenched. When he took hers to place the ring, she couldn’t help but feel a tremor.
Is he as anxious as me?
Outwardly, he was the picture of calm, but she felt the nervousness radiating from the touch of his hand.
The realisation struck her like a stone tossed into still water. For all his severity, his cold silence, there was vulnerability beneath the surface. A flicker of humanity in the Beast of Thornborough.
His voice, when he spoke his vows, was flat. As though he were reading from a ledger.
“I, Phineas Renwick, take thee, Vera Huxford, to be my wedded wife,” he said, the words falling with ceremonial detachment. “To have and to hold, from this day forward… for better, for worse…”
She looked at him then, truly looked, for the first time that morning. His eyes did not meet hers, but there was a tightness at the corners, a rigidity to his jaw.
When her turn came, her voice wavered only slightly. “I, Vera Huxford, take thee, Phineas Renwick, to be my wedded husband…”
Their hands brushed again as the other ring passed between them. Another tremor.
They were required, briefly, to look at one another—by tradition if not instruction. And so, she did. She met the storm-grey of his gaze, and saw nothing. Or perhaps too much. A wall, not built of disdain but of habit, of hurt layered upon hurt.
She looked away only when the vicar continued, the sound of his voice echoing off the stone, hollow and resonating with a sense of foreboding.
The vicar declared them man and wife with unseemly haste, clearly eager to be free of the tension in the room. The moment passed without a smile, without a murmur of joy — only silence, and the strange, hollow sensation that she would forever be left wanting.
***
The wedding breakfast followed in the formal dining room. Vera sat beside Phineas, though they barely spoke a word to each other for the entire meal. She could feel the weight of his presence, solid and unyielding. Every movement he made was careful, calculated—as though restraining something volatile within.
Walter made polite conversation, speaking of the estate’s livestock, the spring planting, and the condition of the roadways. Imogen, seated across from him, replied with gentle questions and subdued warmth. Her usual sharp wit was softened, particularly given the rather bland subject matter that seemed highly inappropriate for a wedding, and her eyes lingered on Walter with more interest than Vera expected.
Imogen was one of the kindest people Vera knew, but she was not one to shy away from expressing her true feelings. When Walter began talking about the roadways, Vera fully expected to see a flash of Imogen’s usually forthright and spirited nature. A sarcastic remark, or an eye roll at the very least, but she seemed enamoured rather than irritated.
It was an odd thing to notice, really—especially on her wedding day when no such warmth passed between herself and the man beside her. Still, it was oddly comforting to see that someone in this room might yet be capable of forming attachments.
Nathaniel raised his glass. “To the bride and groom. May their union be as fruitful as it is… unexpected.”
The servants shifted subtly, and there was a noticeable pause in the rhythm of the meal.
Vera lifted her glass in response, but said nothing. Phineas offered a nod.
“It is no small matter,” Nathaniel continued, smiling blandly, “to secure such a match. Especially one with the promise of… legacy.”
Legacy? He means an heir. Nobody had mentioned anything about an heir. This was supposed to be a marriage of convenience only.
She caught the flash in Phineas’s eyes, but it was quickly concealed while she struggled to remain calm and composed. Vera took a sip of wine in an effort to stave off the overwhelming wave of emotion that threatened to engulf her. Agatha spoke next.
“It’s a great deal of pressure, of course. A new bride entering a household with so much… history.”
Vera turned her head slowly, the words rising to her tongue before she could stop them. “The past, I believe, is already beyond our reach. I would rather concern myself with what lies ahead.”
Agatha blinked, her smile tightening. “We shall see, my dear. We shall see.”
The moment passed, but Vera felt the slight prickle of heat at her collarbone. She had not intended to speak so boldly, not today. Perhaps she had misstepped.
It was foolish to invite further scrutiny so early. If there was to be peace in this house, she would need to watch her words more carefully. Already, she was uncertain what offence she had caused Agatha to provoke such unbridled animosity. The woman seemed to be doing her level best to make her feel wholly unwelcome on her own wedding day.
Still, it was up to her to pave the way for a more civil and harmonious union with her new husband’s family members. It was unlike Vera to be so easily manipulated, but there had been altogether too many surprises so far today, and she had not been able to hold her tongue. It had been a poor beginning, and one she must strive to repair.
Vera’s gaze drifted to Phineas. He was watching her—not directly, but from beneath lowered lashes. There was something in his expression. Not approval. Not warmth.
Resignation. And… maybe something darker.
Have I displeased him? But maybe she had misread his expression, and that wasn’t it.
He looks so alone. Even surrounded by the people who love him and want the best for him.
In solitude, at least, we are matched.
She lowered her eyes to her plate and lifted her fork with steady hands, but her thoughts swirled.
She had married a stranger. But she had not yet given up hope of discovering the man beneath the mask.
