Chapter 1
The last of the Hartwell silver disappeared beneath the auctioneer’s hammer on a grey November morning, leaving Miss Evangeline Hartwell with nothing but her mourning dress and the bitter taste of penury upon her tongue.
She stood in the doorway of what had once been her father’s study, watching strangers rifle through the remnants of her childhood with the casual indifference of those who dealt in other people’s misfortunes. The mahogany desk where Captain Edmund Hartwell had taught her to cipher and write her letters now bore a sold ticket, as did the leather-bound volumes of Aristotle and Shakespeare that had been her dearest companions during the long years of his absence on campaign.
How many evenings had she spent curled in the window seat of this very room, reading aloud to her father when he returned from the wars? He would sit behind that great desk, still bearing the invisible weight of battles fought and comrades lost, listening to her voice as she transported them both to worlds where honor always triumphed and love conquered all. Now even those precious books would grace some stranger’s shelves, their margins no longer bearing her father’s careful annotations or her own youthful observations.
“Begging your pardon, miss,” came a gravelly voice behind her, “but the gentleman who bought the desk is asking after the key to the locked drawer.”
Evangeline turned to face Mullins, the auctioneer’s assistant, a thin man with calculating eyes who had been eyeing her with poorly concealed speculation since dawn. She lifted her chin, though her heart hammered against her stays with something approaching panic. The vultures circled ever closer, and she was running out of carrion to throw them.
“I fear I possess no such key, sir. My father kept his private correspondence secure, as was his right as master of this house.”
“Aye, well,” Mullins scratched his grizzled jaw, “the purchaser ain’t likely to be pleased. Paid good coin for the piece, he did. Mayhap you might have a look about? It could be tucked away somewhere.”
“I assure you, Mr. Mullins, that I have already conducted a most thorough search of my father’s effects.” The lie came smoothly to her lips, born of desperation and the knowledge that the small brass key currently nestled against her stays was the only thing standing between her and complete destitution. Whatever papers her father had deemed worthy of such concealment might yet prove her salvation, or at least delay her inevitable fall into the workhouse.
She had discovered the key quite by accident three days past, hidden behind a loose stone in the fireplace of her father’s chamber. With it had been a small slip of paper bearing a single word in her father’s familiar hand: “Evangeline.” Nothing more, there was no explanation, no instruction, merely her name written in the careful script he had used for his military dispatches. She had spent sleepless nights wondering what secrets that locked drawer might contain, but with the auction looming and strangers tramping through every room, she had not dared investigate.
Mullins grunted his displeasure but moved away to harass the cook about the state of the kitchen copper. Evangeline pressed her fingers to her bodice, feeling the small, warm weight of the key through her mourning gown. Three weeks had passed since they had laid Captain Hartwell to rest in the churchyard at Little Wickham, and in that brief span, her world had crumbled with the efficiency of a military campaign.
The irony was not lost upon her that a man who had survived twenty years of warfare, who had faced French cavalry charges and artillery barrages with unflinching courage, should be felled by a simple fever contracted while visiting a tenant’s sick child. But perhaps that was fitting for Edmund Hartwell—a man who had always placed duty and compassion before his own welfare.
“Miss Hartwell?”
The voice was cultured, bearing the crisp accent of the better sort of London tradesman. Evangeline composed her features into a mask of cool politeness before turning to face the speaker—a gentleman of middle years dressed in the sober black coat and plain white linen that marked him as a man of business rather than fashion. His countenance was grave, his manner respectful but wary, as though he bore news of uncertain reception.
“I am Miss Hartwell, sir.”
“Mr. Josiah Blackwood, of Blackwood, Whitmore & Associates, solicitors.” He executed a proper bow, neither too deep nor too shallow for the circumstances. “Might I beg a moment of your time? I have travelled from London expressly to speak with you regarding your late father’s affairs.”
A solicitor. Evangeline’s stomach dropped like a stone into a well. Undoubtedly, another creditor has come to plunder what remains of the Hartwell estate, such as it was. Or perhaps some military colleague of her father’s, seeking recompense for an old gaming debt or a promise made over cards. She had thought all such obligations settled, but it seemed the grave offered no sanctuary from the demands of the living.
“Certainly, Mr. Blackwood. Though I fear you shall find little satisfaction here. As you can observe, the contents of Hartwell Manor are already spoken for.” She gestured toward the chaos of the auction with a bitter smile that tasted of ashes. “The debts, I am informed, were quite substantial.”
Indeed, they had been staggering. Her father’s man of business, the odious Mr. Wickham, had taken evident pleasure in detailing each outstanding obligation with the precision of a military quartermaster. Tradesmen’s bills stretching back years, loans secured against the property, funds advanced against her father’s military pension—all now come due with the inexorable weight of mathematical certainty.
“Indeed, Miss Hartwell. Your father’s man of business, Mr. Wickham, has apprised me of the situation. Might we speak privately? What I have to discuss is of a rather delicate nature.”
Evangeline felt heat rise in her cheeks. Delicate nature, indeed. No doubt this Mr. Blackwood had come to inform her that some gaming debt or obligation remained outstanding, requiring her to surrender even the few pounds she had managed to secret away from the household accounts. Perhaps her father had pledged his daughter’s hand in some mad moment of desperation, or promised away her meager inheritance to settle a debt of honor. In her current circumstances, any additional burden might well prove the final straw.
“The morning room remains undisturbed, sir. We may speak there without interruption.”
She led him through the corridors of her childhood home, past the faded rectangles on the wallpaper where portraits had hung for generations, past the empty niches that had once displayed her grandmother’s collection of Chelsea porcelain. Each absent treasure was a small death, a piece of her history sold to strangers who would never understand their true value. The Hartwell family had dwelt in this house for two centuries, their lives and love woven into its very stones. Now it would pass to some merchant or manufacturer, someone with more money and no understanding of tradition.
The morning room, at least, retained some semblance of its former elegance, though the fire had not been lit in days and the November chill seemed to seep through the very walls. The room faced east, catching the early light that had once made it her mother’s favorite refuge. Lady Catherine Hartwell had died when Evangeline was but twelve, leaving behind only fading memories and a daughter who resembled her so closely that her father sometimes caught his breath when the light fell upon her face just so.
“Pray, be seated,” Evangeline murmured, taking her place in the wooden chair by the window, the one comfortable seat having been claimed by a creditor the previous week. The loss of that chair, her mother’s favorite reading spot, had grieved her more than many of the other more expensive pieces. “I confess myself curious as to what matter brings you from London at such expense and trouble.”
Mr. Blackwood settled himself with the careful precision of a man accustomed to difficult conversations. His weathered features bore the marks of one who had delivered many an unwelcome piece of intelligence, and his manner suggested he found little pleasure in his current errand. He withdrew a leather portfolio from his coat and set it upon his knee with ceremony.
“Miss Hartwell, I represent certain interests regarding a debt of honour contracted by your late father during his military service. Are you aware of any such obligation?”
“A debt of honour?” Evangeline frowned, her fingers unconsciously moving to press against the hidden key. Her mind raced through possibilities, each more dire than the last. “Sir, my father was the most honourable of men. If he owed any gentleman money, surely, he would have made provision—”
“Not a monetary debt, miss,” Mr. Blackwood interrupted gently. “Rather, an obligation of life itself. I am given to understand that your father, in the course of his duties during the war, performed a service of such magnitude that it cannot be repaid in mere coin.”
Evangeline stared at the solicitor, her mind struggling to comprehend this intelligence. Her father had spoken little of his experiences at the war, save to mention that the victory had come at a terrible cost. She had attributed his subsequent melancholy to the natural effects of witnessing such carnage, the way he would sometimes wake from troubled sleep calling out names of men she did not know. But perhaps there had been more to his silence than she had understood. Perhaps he had carried secrets as well as sorrows.
“I fear I know nothing of this matter, Mr. Blackwood. My father was not given to boasting of his military exploits.” Indeed, it had been quite the opposite. Captain Hartwell had worn his decorations only when duty demanded and spoke of the wars only when pressed by curious neighbors seeking tales of glory. He had seen too much death, he once told her, to find romance in warfare.
“Captain Hartwell saved the life of His Grace, the Duke of Ravenshollow,” the solicitor continued, his voice dropping to a tone of appropriate reverence for such an exalted personage. “At considerable risk to his own person and military standing, your father carried the Duke from the battlefield when all believed him dead. Without such intervention, His Grace would certainly have perished.”
“The Duke of Ravenshollow.” Even in the wilds of Hertfordshire, that title commanded considerable reverence. One of the oldest titles in England, with vast holdings in Yorkshire and a fortune that rivaled the Crown itself. She had heard whispers of the family at county assemblies—their wealth, their power, their proud lineage stretching centuries back. But what such elevated matters had to do with her present circumstances, Evangeline could not fathom.
“I am gratified to learn of my father’s heroism, sir, but I fail to comprehend why this intelligence should be of particular moment to me.”
Mr. Blackwood’s weathered features grew more serious, if such a thing were possible. “Miss Hartwell, His Grace the Duke has charged me to inform you that he considers himself deeply in your father’s debt. Captain Hartwell’s final letter to His Grace—written, I am told, upon his deathbed—made specific mention of your current circumstances.”
“My father wrote to the Duke?” Evangeline’s voice emerged as barely more than a whisper. The thought that her proud father had appealed to anyone for assistance, even to discharge an obligation, sat ill with everything she knew of his character. “But when? He was insensible for days before the fever took him.”
“According to His Grace, the missive arrived but a week past. Captain Hartwell appears to have dictated the letter to his physician, one Mr. Brookes.” The solicitor withdrew a folded paper from his portfolio, the familiar hand of the local physician clearly visible upon the direction. “This is His Grace’s reply.”
With trembling fingers, Evangeline accepted the letter. The paper was of the finest quality, bearing a ducal coronet impressed into the wax seal. The very weight of it spoke of privilege and power beyond her comprehension. She broke it carefully, her heart hammering as she unfolded the single sheet within.
The handwriting was bold and masculine, the letters formed with the confident strokes of one accustomed to command, though she noted with surprise that the hand trembled slightly, as though the writer had been in some distress:
Miss Hartwell,
Your father’s communication has reached me in Yorkshire. Captain Edmund Hartwell was a man of uncommon courage, and his service shall not be forgotten.
I am informed of your present difficulties and find myself compelled by both honour and inclination to offer what assistance may be within my power. Your father’s final request weighs heavily upon my conscience.
I therefore extend to you an invitation to remove to Ravenshollow Manor in Yorkshire, where we might discuss matters of mutual interest. Mr. Blackwood has been instructed to provide for your immediate needs.
Your swift reply would be most welcome.
The Duke of Ravenshollow.
Evangeline read the letter twice, then a third time, searching for some clue as to the Duke’s intentions. The language was formal to the point of coldness, revealing nothing of the man behind the title. “Matters of mutual interest”—what could that possibly signify? And why had he not elaborated upon the nature of his proposal?
“His Grace awaits your reply, Miss Hartwell,” Mr. Blackwood said quietly. “I am authorized to advance you funds for suitable mourning attire and travel expenses, should you wish to accept his invitation.”
“But what manner of assistance could His Grace possibly offer?” Evangeline asked, her practical nature asserting itself despite her amazement. “I am a gentleman’s daughter of modest connections and no particular accomplishments. Surely a Duke has little need of such as I in his household.”
The solicitor’s expression grew carefully neutral, but she caught something in his manner, a hesitation, perhaps even unease. “His Grace did not see fit to elaborate upon the specific nature of his proposal, miss. He merely indicated that a solution to your difficulties might be found.”
There was something he was not telling her, some vital piece of information that he withheld. Evangeline had learned to read such signs during her father’s final illness, when physicians spoke in euphemisms and servants exchanged meaningful glances. She pressed forward with the directness that had so often scandalized her governesses.
“Mr. Blackwood, you have traveled far and at considerable expense to deliver this invitation. Surely you can provide some indication of what His Grace might require of me?”
The solicitor shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his gaze moving to the window as though seeking escape. “Miss Hartwell, I fear I am not at liberty to discuss His Grace’s private affairs in detail. I can only say that the Duke of Ravenshollow is a complicated gentleman.”
“Complicated?” The word fell flat between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.
“His Grace has lived a somewhat retired existence since his return from the war. The injuries he sustained were considerable. He rarely receives visitors at Ravenshollow Manor and has not been seen in London society for nearly two years.”
Evangeline felt a chill that had nothing to do with the unheated room. “What manner of injuries, sir?”
Mr. Blackwood’s discomfort was now palpable. “I fear that is not my place to discuss, Miss Hartwell. I can only say that His Grace’s appearance was altered by his experiences at the war.”
“Altered how?” she pressed, though part of her recoiled from the answer.
“Miss Hartwell, I must speak plainly, though it pains me to do so.” The solicitor’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “His Grace’s reputation in Yorkshire is formidable. The local population regards him with considerable apprehension. There are stories, no doubt much exaggerated, but stories nonetheless.”
“What manner of stories?” Evangeline’s mouth had gone dry as parchment.
“Tales of a man transformed by war into something fierce. Terrifying, even. His Grace employs few servants, and those who have entered his service speak little of their experiences. The common folk whisper of a master who prowls his halls like a caged beast, who rages at the slightest provocation, who…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “But these are merely the ignorant fears of country people, I am certain.”
The words hung in the air like a funeral shroud. A Duke who inspired terror in his own tenants, who lived in isolation, scarred beyond recognition by war. And this was the man to whom her father had entrusted her welfare. Evangeline felt bile rise in her throat as the full implications struck her.
“And if I were to decline His Grace’s generous offer?” she asked, though her voice sounded hollow even to her own ears.
Mr. Blackwood’s silence spoke volumes. They both knew her options: accept the Duke’s invitation or face destitution. There was no middle path for a woman alone in the world, particularly one burdened with her father’s debts. The workhouse beckoned with skeletal fingers; a fate worse than any Gothic nightmare.
“I understand your hesitation, Miss Hartwell,” the solicitor said gently. “But I would remind you that His Grace is, whatever his peculiarities a gentleman of the highest rank. Your safety and reputation would be secured under his protection.”
Protection. The word had an ominous ring in the context of their conversation. Protection from what—or from whom? And what might such protection cost her?
Evangeline rose and moved to the window, gazing out at the bare branches of the oak tree where she had played as a child. Soon even this view would be forbidden to her, as would this house where her mother had laughed and her father had taught her to be brave. She was two and twenty, possessed of a respectable education and pleasing countenance, yet as powerless as a child. The injustice of her sex and station burned in her throat like strong spirits.
“Mr. Blackwood,” she said without turning, “you speak of His Grace’s reputation as though he were some manners of monster. Yet you would have me journey to his isolated estate in Yorkshire, far from any who might offer aid should I require it.”
“I would not suggest such a course if I believed you to be in any true danger, Miss Hartwell. His Grace may be difficult but he is not without honour. Your father trusted him enough to appeal to his protection.”
But had her father truly understood what manner of man he was entrusting her to? Or had he been so desperate, so concerned for her future, that he had grasped at any possibility of salvation? The thought that her beloved father might have, in his extremity, condemned her to some dreadful fate was almost too painful to bear.
Yet what choice did she have? The auction would conclude by evening, and tomorrow she would be homeless. The small sum she had managed to save from the household accounts would not stretch to more than a week’s lodging at the village inn, and winter employment for a gentlewoman was scarce indeed. She could perhaps find a position as a governess or companion, but without references and bearing the stigma of her family’s financial ruin, even such humble employment might prove elusive.
The key pressed against her stays like a guilty secret. Perhaps whatever her father had hidden in that locked drawer would provide answers, or at least alternatives. But with Mullins and his confederates prowling the house, she dared not investigate until after their departure.
“Mr. Blackwood,” she said, turning back to face him, “might I have until this evening to consider His Grace’s proposal? This is all rather overwhelming.”
“Naturally, Miss Hartwell. Though I should mention that His Grace expressed some urgency in the matter. He is aware that your father’s creditors have seized the property and that your circumstances are pressing.”
Indeed, they were. Time was a luxury she could not afford, yet the prospect of committing herself to the unknown terrors of Ravenshollow Manor made her stomach churn with dread. Still, was uncertainty not preferable to the certainty of destitution?
“Very well,” she said, the words emerging with more confidence than she felt. “Pray inform His Grace that I accept his invitation with gratitude. When does he expect my arrival?”
“His Grace has arranged for a travelling coach to convey you to Yorkshire with all convenient speed. If it meets with your approval, you might depart tomorrow morning.”
Tomorrow. The word fell between them like a gravestone, marking the end of everything she had known and the beginning of a future she could not imagine—and dare not contemplate too closely. Yet what else could she do? The Duke of Ravenshollow held her only lifeline, and she had to grasp it or drown, regardless of what monsters might lurk in the depths.
“Then I shall be ready, Mr. Blackwood. And please convey to His Grace my profound gratitude for his consideration.”
The solicitor rose, executing another precise bow. “I shall indeed, Miss Hartwell. His Grace has also requested that I settle your father’s outstanding debts, that you might leave Hertfordshire with a clear conscience.”
Evangeline stared at him. “All of them? But surely the sum must be considerable—”
“His Grace was quite specific on this point. Captain Hartwell’s daughter should not be burdened with obligations contracted in service to King and country.” Mr. Blackwood’s expression softened slightly. “Whatever His Grace’s eccentricities he is not ungenerous.”
After the solicitor departed, promising to return at dawn with the traveling coach, Evangeline sat alone in the cold room, listening to the sounds of her life being dismantled piece by piece. The brass key seemed to burn against her stays, a tangible reminder of secrets yet unrevealed. The Duke’s letter lay upon her lap, its cryptic phrases offering no comfort.
A terrifying reputation. Considerable injuries. A man transformed into something fierce and strange. These were the warnings Mr. Blackwood had given her, yet he expected her to journey willingly into the monster’s lair. Perhaps, when she reached Yorkshire and this mysterious Duke, she would finally understand what her father had left behind for her to discover.
But first, she had to pack what little remained to her and prepare to leave the only home she had ever known. Whatever awaited her at Ravenshollow Manor, salvation or damnation, it could scarcely be worse than the alternatives. Could it?
As the afternoon shadows lengthened across the empty floors of Hartwell Manor, Evangeline could not shake the feeling that she was about to step into a fairy tale—though whether it would prove to be the sort with a happy ending remained to be seen. One thing was certain: she was about to discover whether her father’s faith in the Duke of Ravenshollow was justified, or whether he had unknowingly delivered his daughter into the hands of a beast.
Chapter 2
Dawn broke grey and cheerless over Hertfordshire, casting long shadows across the gravel drive where the Duke’s traveling coach awaited like a harbinger of fate. Evangeline stood at the window of what had been her bedchamber, watching the coachman secure her modest trunk to the rear of the conveyance—a single piece of luggage that contained the sum total of her worldly possessions.
How quickly a life could be reduced to essentials. Three gowns of good black material, her mother’s prayer book, a miniature of her parents, and the precious brass key that even now pressed against her stays like a talisman. Everything else—every book, every trinket, every memento of her two-and-twenty years—had vanished beneath the auctioneer’s hammer or been claimed by creditors.
The irony was not lost upon her that she traveled to her uncertain future in greater luxury than she had known since childhood. The coach bore the Ravenshollow arms emblazoned upon its doors—a silver wolf rampant on a field of midnight blue—and the appointments within spoke of wealth beyond her comprehension. Leather seats, silk cushions, even a small lap desk fitted with crystal inkwell and a silver quill pen. The Duke, whatever his reputation, did not stint on comfort for his guests.
Or his prisoners, a treacherous voice whispered in her mind.
“Miss Hartwell?” Mr. Blackwood’s voice carried from the entrance hall below. “The coach is ready to depart at your convenience.”
Evangeline took one final look around the chamber where she had spent her happiest and most sorrowful hours. The morning light fell across the empty space where her mother’s portrait had hung, illuminating nothing but faded wallpaper and the ghosts of memory. In a few hours, strangers would walk these halls, and the Hartwell name would be nothing but an entry in the parish records.
She descended the stairs with what dignity she could muster, her black traveling dress rustling against the worn banister her grandmother had polished to gleaming during her tenure as mistress of the house. In the entrance hall, Mr. Blackwood waited with the patience of a man accustomed to difficult partings, while behind him lurked Mullins and his associates like carrion birds awaiting her departure.
“I have taken the liberty of securing provisions for your journey,” the solicitor informed her, indicating a well-appointed hamper being loaded into the coach. “The Duke’s instructions were most specific regarding your comfort.”
“His Grace is very thoughtful,” Evangeline replied, though the word felt strange upon her tongue. A man with a terrifying reputation who nonetheless ensured his future bride traveled in comfort seemed a contradiction worth pondering.
Mrs. Darnel, the elderly cook who had served the family for thirty years, emerged from the kitchens with tears streaming down her weathered cheeks. “Oh, Miss Evangeline,” she sobbed, pressing a small parcel wrapped in brown paper into her hands. “Just a bit of your father’s favourite seed cake. For the journey.”
The simple kindness nearly undid her carefully maintained composure. “Thank you, Mrs. Darnel. You have been so very good to us.”
“Your dear mother would be that proud to see you being helped by the Duke as was your father wish, miss. Whatever the circumstances.” The cook’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You just remember you’re a Hartwell, and your family has never been one to bow their heads to anyone, not even the French.”
With that final benediction, Evangeline allowed Mr. Blackwood to hand her into the coach. As the wheels began to turn upon the gravel, she did not look back. Some bridges, once crossed, could not be traversed again, and she suspected this departure marked such a crossing.
The coach was well-sprung and moved smoothly despite the November roads, but comfort could not ease the tumult of her thoughts. As the familiar countryside of her childhood gave way to strange terrain, Evangeline found herself dwelling upon the hidden papers that had consumed her thoughts throughout the sleepless night.
She had waited until the house was silent before retrieving the brass key and making her way to her father’s study. The desk’s locked drawer had yielded its secrets reluctantly, the wood swollen with damp and age. Within, she had discovered a collection of documents that raised more questions than they answered.
Military dispatches bearing her father’s name, several in French that she could not decipher. A letter of commendation from the Duke of Wellington himself, praising Captain Hartwell’s “extraordinary valor and devotion to duty under the most perilous circumstances.” And strangest of all, a small leather portfolio containing what appeared to be sketches of battlefield positions, annotated in her father’s careful hand with notations about troop movements and casualties.
But it was the final document that had truly puzzled her—a formal military inquiry into the circumstances surrounding “the recovery of His Grace the Duke of Ravenshollow from the field at the war.” The papers detailed accusations that Captain Hartwell had abandoned his post during the height of battle, potentially allowing French cavalry to breach the line. Only the Duke’s own testimony had cleared her father of charges that might have resulted in court martial or worse.
What manner of service had her father performed that required such investigation? And what had transpired between the Duke and him that bound them so closely that even now, years later, the debt of honor remained unpaid?
The questions tormented her as the miles passed beneath the coach wheels. She attempted to read from the small volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets she had secreted in her reticule, but the words swam before her eyes, her concentration shattered by uncertainty and growing apprehension.
As they progressed northward, the landscape began to change in ways that struck her as ominous. The gentle rolling hills of Hertfordshire gave way to rougher terrain, with stone walls replacing hedgerows and sheep dotting hillsides that seemed to stretch endlessly toward a grey horizon. The very air felt different—thinner, sharper, carrying scents of peat and heather that spoke of wilder places.
They stopped at noon to change horses at a coaching inn called The King’s Arms, a sturdy stone building that squatted beside the road like a fortress against the increasingly harsh weather. The innkeeper, a broad Yorkshire man with suspicious eyes, regarded their fine coach with the sort of wariness that suggested he knew whose arms decorated its panels.
“Yorkshire bound, are you?” he asked Mr. Blackwood as the horses were being changed. “Long way to travel in such weather, particularly with winter coming on.”
“Indeed,” the solicitor replied with diplomatic neutrality. “We hope to reach our destination before dark.”
The innkeeper’s gaze shifted to Evangeline, who had alighted to stretch her legs and take some air. “Begging your pardon, miss, but you wouldn’t be bound for Ravenshollow Manor, would you?”
Something in his tone made her skin prickle with unease. “I am. Might I inquire why you ask?”
The man’s weathered features creased with what might have been pity. “No particular reason, miss. Just that it’s a lonely place. It has been that way since His Grace returned from the wars. Servants come and go regular-like, and those that stay…” He shook his head. “Well, they don’t much talk about what goes on up there.”
“I am certain His Grace maintains his household as befits his station,” Evangeline replied with more confidence than she felt.
“Oh, aye, no doubt,” the innkeeper agreed, but his eyes remained troubled. “Just seems a shame, a pretty young lady like yourself going to such a place. Especially alone.”
Before she could respond, Mr. Blackwood appeared at her elbow with gentle insistence that they resume their journey. But the innkeeper’s words echoed in her mind as they climbed back into the coach, adding another layer of disquiet to her already fraught nerves.
The afternoon brought increasingly desolate scenery as they penetrated deeper into Yorkshire. The roads became rougher, forcing the coach to slow its pace over terrain that seemed designed by nature to discourage travelers. Vast moors stretched on either side, broken only by occasional stone farmhouses that hunched against the wind like sleeping giants.
“How much farther?” Evangeline asked as the grey daylight began to fade toward evening.
Mr. Blackwood consulted his pocket watch with a frown. “We should reach Ravenshollow village within the hour, Miss Hartwell. The Manor lies perhaps two miles beyond.”
As if summoned by his words, the landscape began to change once more. Ancient oak trees appeared beside the road, their gnarled branches forming a canopy that blocked what little remained of the daylight. Through the gloom, Evangeline caught glimpses of crumbling stone walls and rusted iron gates that spoke of bygone grandeur fallen into decay.
“The Duke’s lands,” Mr. Blackwood explained, noting her interest. “Ravenshollow has held these holdings for a long time. Twenty thousand acres of some of the finest land in Yorkshire.”
Yet from what she could observe through the coach windows, much of that fine land appeared neglected. Fields lay fallow that should have been planted with winter wheat, and the few tenant cottages they passed seemed in poor repair, their gardens overgrown and their windows dark.
The village of Ravenshollow, when they finally reached it, proved to be a collection of stone houses clustered around a small green, with a church presiding over all like a stern patriarch. But even in the gathering dusk, Evangeline could see that many of the houses stood empty, their windows boarded and their gardens gone to seed.
“Is the village always so quiet?” she ventured.
“His Grace has had little interest in local affairs since his return from the war,” Mr. Blackwood admitted with evident reluctance. “The people have suffered for his neglect, I fear.”
They passed through the village without stopping, the coach wheels echoing hollowly on the cobblestones. As they emerged onto the moor road that led to the Manor, full darkness fell with the suddenness of a curtain being drawn. The coachman lit the carriage lamps, but their feeble glow seemed swallowed by the vast emptiness surrounding them.
And then, rising from the moor like something from a Gothic nightmare, Ravenshollow Manor appeared.
Evangeline’s first glimpse stole her breath and not in admiration. The mansion was enormous, its dark stone facade stretching seemingly without end across her field of vision. Towers and turrets pierced the night sky at irregular intervals, while rows of mullioned windows reflected the carriage lamps like watching eyes. Much of the structure appeared to date from Elizabethan times, though additions from various centuries had created an architectural maze that spoke more of convenience than design.
But it was the condition of the place that truly shocked her. Even in the darkness, she could see that ivy had claimed entire sections of the walls, while several windows on the upper floors were boarded shut. One tower showed clear signs of fire damage, its stones blackened and its roof partially collapsed. The main entrance, approached by a sweeping drive lined with leafless elm trees, was illuminated by a single lantern that cast more shadow than light.
“Heavens,” she whispered, pressing her face to the coach window. “It looks like something from a novel by Mrs. Radcliffe.”
Mr. Blackwood cleared his throat uncomfortably. “His Grace has found little reason to maintain the public areas since his retirement from society. I am assured that the inhabited portions are quite comfortable.”
The coach drew to a halt before the massive front doors, which appeared to be constructed of oak and iron and looked capable of withstanding a siege. As the coachman climbed down to retrieve her trunk, those doors swung open with a groan that seemed to echo from the very stones of the building.
Two figures emerged into the lamplight—an elderly man who moved with the careful dignity of a trusted family retainer, and a woman of middle years whose severe black dress and starched white cap proclaimed her the housekeeper. Both bore expressions of polite welcome that did not quite reach their eyes.
“Miss Hartwell,” the elderly man said with a precise bow. “I am Higgins, His Grace’s butler. This is Mrs. Cromwell, who oversees the household. We bid you welcome to Ravenshollow Manor.”
“Thank you,” Evangeline replied, accepting the butler’s assistance from the coach with as much grace as she could muster. Her legs felt unsteady after the long journey, but she suspected the trembling in her limbs were more due to nerves than travel fatigue.
Mrs. Cromwell stepped forward with a scrutiny that felt like an examination. She was perhaps fifty years of age, with grey hair and sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. Her voice, when she spoke, carried the broad vowels of Yorkshire tempered by years of service in a great house.
“You must be desiring to refresh yourself after your journey, miss. I’ve prepared the Rose Chamber for your use—it was Her late Grace’s favourite room when she was in residence.”
“That is very kind, Mrs. Cromwell. I confess myself quite fatigued.”
“Naturally, miss. Traveling is wearisome, particularly in such weather.” The housekeeper’s gaze moved to Mr. Blackwood. “His Grace requests that you attend him in the library at your earliest convenience, sir. Miss Hartwell is to rest and take dinner in her room. His Grace will receive her tomorrow morning.”
The careful phrasing did not escape Evangeline’s notice. The Duke would “receive” her, as though she were a petitioner at court rather than his invited guest. Or perhaps, a more troubling voice suggested, as though he were a dangerous animal that could only be approached at specific times under controlled circumstances.
“Mr. Blackwood,” she said as the solicitor prepared to take his leave, “you will be staying the night, I trust?”
His expression grew apologetic. “I fear I must return to London on the morrow, Miss Hartwell. Business matters require my attention. But you are in excellent hands here, I assure you.”
And with that less-than-reassuring farewell, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving Evangeline alone with her new servants in the echoing vastness of Ravenshollow Manor.
“This way, if you please, miss,” Mrs. Cromwell said, lifting a candle to light their way. “Mind the steps—they’re worn smooth by centuries of use.”
The entrance hall was even more impressive and intimidating than Evangeline had imagined. The ceiling soared three stories above her head, supported by massive beams that disappeared into shadow. A huge staircase curved upward into darkness; its banister carved with heraldic beasts that seemed to snarl in the flickering candlelight. The walls were lined with portraits of long-dead Hollowbridges, their painted eyes following her progress with what felt like disapproval.
But it was the silence that truly unnerved her. In a house this size, there should have been sounds, servants moving about their duties, fires crackling in hearths, the ordinary bustle of domestic life. Instead, their footsteps echoed through corridors that felt as empty as tombs.
“How many servants does His Grace employ?” Evangeline asked as they climbed the stairs, her voice barely above a whisper in deference to the oppressive quiet.
“Not so many as we once did,” Mrs. Cromwell replied diplomatically. “His Grace prefers a smaller household these days. Quieter, like.”
They passed down a long corridor lined with closed doors, most of which bore the dusty appearance of disuse. The few windows they encountered were heavily curtained, blocking any view of the grounds beyond. It was, Evangeline reflected, rather like being in a mausoleum dedicated to departed grandeur.
“Here we are, miss,” Mrs. Cromwell announced, throwing open a door near the corridor’s end. “The Rose Chamber.”
The room that greeted her was a pleasant surprise after the Gothic gloom of the rest of the house. Though clearly in need of updating, it retained an air of faded elegance that spoke of better days. Rose-colored silk hangings adorned the four-poster bed, while a cheerful fire crackled in the grate, casting dancing shadows on walls decorated with pastoral scenes. A writing desk stood beneath tall windows that she imagined would provide lovely views in daylight, and her modest trunk had already been placed at the foot of the bed.
“It’s lovely,” Evangeline said with genuine gratitude. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness.”
Mrs. Cromwell’s stern features softened slightly. “Her late Grace was particular fond of this room. She said it caught the morning light just so. I thought, well, I thought you might appreciate the view of the rose garden come morning.”
“I’m certain I shall.” Evangeline moved to the window, but the glass reflected only her own pale face against the darkness beyond. “Mrs. Cromwell, might I ask what manner of man is His Grace? I confess myself somewhat apprehensive about our meeting tomorrow.”
The housekeeper was quiet for a long moment, her weathered hands smoothing imaginary wrinkles from the counterpane. When she spoke, her voice carried the careful neutrality of a servant who had learned to guard her tongue.
“His Grace is a complicated gentleman, miss. The war changed him, as it changed many a good man. He’s not the laughing boy who left here all those years ago.” She paused, seeming to weigh her words. “But he’s not without honour, for all his troubles. And he’s been most particular about your comfort and safety.”
It was a diplomatic answer that revealed little while confirming much. Evangeline found herself wondering what secrets lay behind the housekeeper’s careful phrases, what truths about her mysterious benefactor were too dangerous or too painful to speak aloud.
“Thank you, Mrs. Cromwell. Your honesty is appreciated.”
“I’ll have Mary bring up a tray directly, miss. You’ll want to build up your strength for tomorrow.” The housekeeper moved toward the door, then paused. “Miss Hartwell? His Grace doesn’t much like surprises these days. Quick movements, loud noises—they don’t sit well with him. Best to announce yourself when entering a room, and speak clearly so he knows you’re there.”
The warning sent a chill down Evangeline’s spine. What manner of man required such careful handling? What demons pursued the Duke of Ravenshollow through the halls of his ancestral home?
After Mrs. Cromwell departed, Evangeline found herself alone in the rose-colored chamber, listening to the silence that seemed to press against the windows like a living thing. Somewhere in this vast, decaying mansion, a beast waited, a man described by his own servants in terms more suited to a dangerous animal than a peer of the realm.
She moved to the writing desk and withdrew her father’s hidden papers, spreading them beneath the lamplight. Perhaps somewhere in these cryptic military documents lay the key to understanding the debt that had brought her to this forsaken place. But as she studied the incomprehensible notations and foreign phrases, she felt only a growing sense of isolation and dread.
Tomorrow she would meet the Duke of Ravenshollow, the man who held her future in his scarred hands. Tonight, she could only sit in her rose-colored prison and wonder whether her father’s final gamble would prove her salvation or her doom.
Outside the windows, the Yorkshire wind howled across the moors like the voices of the restless dead, and Evangeline Hartwell prepared to discover what manner of beast waited to claim his debt of honor.
Chapter 3
Morning came grey and cheerless to Ravenshollow Hall, seeping through the tall windows of the Rose Chamber like weak tea through muslin. Evangeline woke to the sound of rain pattering against the glass and the distant cry of ravens wheeling above the moors. For a moment, in that space between sleep and waking, she forgot where she was. Then reality crashed over her like a cold wave, and she remembered: Yorkshire. The Duke. Her uncertain future stretching ahead like an uncharted wilderness.
She had slept poorly, her dreams plagued by shadows and whispered warnings. Even now, in the pale light of dawn, the chamber that had seemed so welcoming the evening before, felt somehow oppressive, as though the very walls were watching her with invisible eyes.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her brooding. “Come in,” she called, pulling her wrapper more securely about her shoulders.
A young maid entered, perhaps sixteen years of age, with nervous brown eyes and work-roughened hands. She bobbed a curtsey that spoke of careful training but little practice with titled guests.
“Begging your pardon, miss,” the girl stammered. “I’m Mary. Mrs. Cromwell sent me to help you dress and to tell you that His Grace will receive you in the library at ten o’clock.”
The formal phrasing sent another chill through Evangeline. She was to be “received,” like a petitioner seeking an audience with a monarch. “Thank you, Mary.”
The maid’s eyes remained downcast as she moved about the room with practiced efficiency. “Mrs. Cromwell also says I’m to show you about the house a bit, if you have a mind for it. It shall help you get your bearings.”
“That would be most helpful.” Evangeline rose and moved to the windows, drawing back the heavy curtains to reveal the view that Mrs. Cromwell had promised. What she saw made her catch her breath, though not entirely with pleasure.
The gardens of Ravenshollow Manor stretched before her like a monument to departed glory. Once, they must have been magnificent—she could see the bones of formal parterres and elaborate topiary work, the ghost of what had been a spectacular rose garden. But neglect had claimed them as surely as it had claimed the house itself. Weeds choked the flower beds, ivy smothered the carefully shaped hedges, and the fountains stood dry and cracked, their marble nymphs stained green with moss.
Beyond the gardens, the Yorkshire moors rolled away to the horizon, vast and empty beneath the grey sky. It was a landscape that spoke of isolation and wildness, a place where civilization felt tenuous at best. She could understand how a man might lose himself in such surroundings, might forget the world beyond these windswept hills.
“It was beautiful once,” Mary said softly, following her gaze. “My grandmother worked here when the old Duke was alive. She said the gardens were the finest in all Yorkshire, with roses that bloomed from May till October.”
“What happened to them?”
Mary’s face grew troubled. “His Grace well, he does not much care for such things anymore. He claims flowers are meant for the dead, not the living.”
The morbid sentiment sent another shiver down Evangeline’s spine. What manner of man dismissed beauty so categorically? What depths of despair had driven him to such darkness?
After Mary helped her dress in her most presentable black gown—a modest creation that nonetheless emphasized her slender figure and the pale perfection of her skin—they set out to explore the inhabited portions of Ravenshollow Manor. The tour proved both fascinating and deeply unsettling.
The house was a labyrinth of corridors and chambers that seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions. Much of it stood empty, with dust sheets draped over furniture like burial shrouds and paintings turned to face the walls as though the very sight of them caused pain. Entire wings appeared to be closed off, their doors locked and their windows shuttered against the light.
“How many chambers are there?” Evangeline asked as they passed yet another corridor of closed doors.
“Mrs. Cromwell says near on a hundred, miss, though I have never counted them myself. Most have not been opened since His Grace returned from the wars. He keeps to the library, his study, and his chambers in the east wing. He does not much like company.”
They descended a big staircase adorned with portraits of previous Dukes of Ravenshollow—stern-faced men with the aquiline features and piercing dark eyes that seemed to mark the bloodline. At the foot of the stairs, the entrance hall yawned before them like a cathedral, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow.
“The family has dwelt here for nearly six hundred years,” Mary explained, her voice dropping to a whisper in deference to the oppressive grandeur. “Every Duke has added something—a wing here, a tower there. His Grace’s grandfather built the ballroom, though it has not seen a dance since the old Duke died.”
“When was that?”
“Three years past, miss. Just after His Grace returned from the war. Some say the shock of seeing his heir so changed hastened the old Duke’s end.”
Evangeline felt her stomach clench. Changed. The word seemed to follow her like a shadow, hinting at transformations too terrible to name. What had war done to the Duke of Ravenshollow that even his own father could not bear to witness it?
They moved through a series of state rooms—a drawing room draped in covers, a dining room with a table that could seat forty but showed no signs of recent use, a music room where a magnificent pianoforte sat silent beneath its protective cloth. Each chamber spoke of grandeur abandoned, of a great house that had forgotten its purpose.
“Does His Grace never entertain?” Evangeline asked as they passed what had clearly once been a magnificent ballroom. The floor was shining and crystal chandeliers hung like frozen fireworks from the painted ceiling. But the mirrors were draped, and the French doors leading to the terrace were firmly shuttered.
Mary shook her head sadly. “Not since he returned, miss. Mrs. Cromwell says he will not have guests, will not attend assemblies or hunt meetings. The local gentry tried calling at first, but…” She trailed off, her expression troubled.
“But what?”
“Well, miss, the first few visitors who saw His Grace, never returned. Word spread. Now folks keep their distance, and His Grace seems to prefer it that way.”
The implications of this intelligence were deeply unsettling. What could be so shocking about the Duke’s appearance that even hardened Yorkshire gentry fled his presence? Evangeline found herself remembering Mr. Blackwood’s careful warnings about the Duke’s “terrifying” reputation and wondered if she had been naive to dismiss them as mere gossip.
As they made their way toward the library where she was to meet her fate, Evangeline’s nervousness increased with each step. The corridor leading to the Duke’s domain felt different from the rest of the house—not abandoned, but actively inhabited. The air carried the scent of leather and tobacco, and she could hear the faint crackling of a fire beyond one of the doors.
“This is as far as I go, miss,” Mary whispered when they reached a heavy oak door adorned with the Ravenshollow arms. “His Grace’s library. Mrs. Cromwell says I am to leave you here and return to my duties.”
“Mary,” Evangeline caught the girl’s arm as she turned to flee. “Is there anything else I should know? About His Grace, I mean?”
The maid’s eyes darted nervously toward the door. “Just remember what Mrs. Cromwell told you, miss. Speak clearly and do not make sudden movements. And do not take it personally if he seems harsh. The war has changed him.”
With that less-than-comforting advice, Mary scurried away, leaving Evangeline alone in the corridor. She stood before the library door for a long moment, gathering her courage like armor about herself. Whatever waited beyond that threshold, she would face it with the dignity befitting a Hartwell. Her father had not raised her to cower before any man, Duke or no.
She knocked firmly and waited.
“Enter,” came a voice from within—deep, cultured, but carrying an edge that made her skin prickle with unease.
Evangeline turned the handle and stepped into the Duke’s sanctuary.
The library was vast, its walls lined floor to ceiling with leather-bound volumes that must have represented centuries of collecting. A fire roared in the massive stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across Persian carpets and mahogany furniture that spoke of wealth and refinement. Tall windows faced the moor, but heavy curtains blocked most of the natural light, leaving the room illuminated primarily by the fire and several strategically placed lamps.
For a moment, she saw no occupant. Then a figure emerged from the shadows near the windows, and Evangeline’s breath caught in her throat.
The Duke of Ravenshollow was a giant of a man, standing well over six feet in height with shoulders that seemed to span half the room. In his military days, such proportions must have been impressive, commanding respect and admiration from both subordinates and enemies alike. Here, in the confined space of the library, his sheer physical presence was overwhelming—intimidating in a way that had nothing to do with rank or title and everything to do with the primitive fear of being cornered by a predator.
But it was not his size that made her heart stutter in her chest. It was the ruin that war had made of what must once have been a remarkably handsome face.
The left side of his countenance bore the unmistakable marks of cannon fire or explosive blast. Scars carved deep furrows from temple to jaw, twisting the flesh into patterns that spoke of unimaginable pain. His left eye was intact but surrounded by damaged tissue that pulled at the corner, while his ear on that side was little more than a mangled remnant. His hair, which might once have been fashionably styled, hung long and dark to partially conceal the worst of the damage, but nothing could hide the fundamental alteration of his features.
Yet it was his eyes that truly captured her attention, dark as midnight and burning with an intelligence that seemed to look straight through her. Whatever physical damage he had sustained, his mind remained clearly intact, sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous.
He leaned heavily upon a walking stick carved from some dark wood, his left leg obviously paining him. But even diminished by injury, he radiated a power that filled the room like smoke from the fire. This was a man accustomed to command, to obedience, to having his will obeyed without question.
And he was studying her with the intensity of a naturalist examining some rare and potentially dangerous specimen.
“Miss Hartwell,” he said, his voice carrying the cultured tones of the finest education overlaid with something harder, more primal. “You are smaller than I anticipated.”
The dismissive observation stung, though she kept her expression composed. “I fear I cannot remedy my stature to better suit your expectations, Your Grace.”
Something flickered in those dark eyes—surprise, perhaps, or the faintest hint of approval. He had clearly expected her to cower, to lower her gaze in proper feminine submission. Her direct response seemed to disconcert him more than tears or trembling would have.
“Indeed. And I suppose you consider yourself quite brave, coming here to face the monster of Ravenshollow?”
“I consider myself practical, Your Grace. Monsters, in my experience, exist primarily in gothic novels and the imaginations of impressionable young ladies.”
His scarred mouth twisted in what might have been amusement or disdain. “How refreshingly rational of you, Miss Hartwell. I trust you shall maintain such admirable composure when we discuss the true purpose of your visit.”
“I confess myself eager to hear it, Your Grace. Your correspondence was somewhat opaque on the matter.”
He moved with careful precision to position himself behind a massive oak desk, maintaining a distance that spoke of long practice in managing others’ reactions to his appearance. The gesture did not escape her notice, nor did the way he angled his body to minimize the view of his damaged profile.
“Your father, “he said abruptly, “wrote to me of your circumstances. Debts, I understand. Property seized. The usual consequence of a soldier’s death.”
The casual cruelty of his words made her stiffen. “My father died serving his country, Your Grace. I would not characterize his sacrifice as usual.”
“All soldiers die serving their country, Miss Hartwell. Some simply have the good fortune to do so on a battlefield rather than in a sickbed, leaving their dependents to face the consequences of their heroism.”
The bitter cynicism in his tone was clearly meant to wound, to shock her into retreat. Evangeline recognized the tactic for what it was—a test, or perhaps an attempt at self-protection. He was trying to drive her away before she discovered something he deemed too terrible to witness.
“If you summoned me here merely to disparage my father’s memory, Your Grace, I shall take my leave. I may be in reduced circumstances, but I am not so desperate as to endure insults for the sake of shelter.”
For a moment, something like approval flickered across his features. Then the mask of cold indifference descended once more.
“Spirited. Your father mentioned that particular trait in his letter. He seemed to consider it an asset rather than a flaw.”
“And what is your opinion on the matter?”
“I have yet to decide. Spirit in a woman can be inconvenient.”
“As can the lack thereof, I imagine. How tedious it must be to converse with creatures who possess no thoughts of their own.”
This time his amusement was unmistakable, though quickly suppressed. “You have a sharp tongue, Miss Hartwell.”
“So I have been told, Your Grace. Fortunately, I also possess the discretion to know when to employ it.”
“Do you indeed? And what makes you believe this is such a time?”
She met his gaze directly, refusing to be intimidated by either his size or his scars. “Because, Your Grace, you are attempting to frighten me away without offering any explanation for why I was summoned here in the first place. I find such behaviour rather ungentlemanly.”
The word hung in the air between them like a thrown gauntlet. For a moment, his control slipped, and she glimpsed something raw and dangerous in his dark eyes. Then he collected himself with visible effort.
“Ungentlemanly,” he repeated softly. “How interesting that you should choose such a word. Tell me, Miss Hartwell, what do you see when you look at me?”
The question was clearly a trap, but she answered with characteristic directness. “I see a gentleman of obvious education and breeding who has suffered grievous injury in service to his country. I see someone who uses his scars as both armor and weapon, expecting others to recoil so that he need not risk genuine human connection.”
His intake of breath was sharp enough to be audible. Clearly, her assessment had struck closer to the mark than he found comfortable.
“You presume to understand a great deal based on a few minutes’ acquaintance.”
“I presume nothing, Your Grace. I merely observe what is before me.”
“And what you observe does not disturb you?”
“Should it? You are scarred, not contagious. Wounded, not wicked. Unless, of course, you have committed some heinous crime that I should know about?”
“Some would say that my very existence is crime enough.”
“Then some are fools, and their opinions need not concern us.”
He stared at her as though she had sprouted wings and begun to fly about the room. Clearly, her matter-of-fact acceptance of his appearance was not the reaction he had anticipated or, perhaps, desired.
“Your father,” he said after a long pause, “saved my worthless life at the war.”
“So Mr. Blackwood informed me. I should like to hear the particulars, if you would be so good as to relate them.”
“Would you indeed? Very well.” He moved to the windows, gazing out at the moor through a gap in the curtains. “When the French artillery found our position, I was buried beneath a collapsed wall with half my company. Your father dug me out with his bare hands while shot and shell fell around us like hail.”
“That sounds rather like him. He never could abandon a creature in distress, whether it be a wounded bird or a lost soldier.”
“He carried me three miles to the field hospital, Miss Hartwell. Three miles through enemy territory, with French cavalry hunting survivors and my blood painting a trail for them to follow.”
“And nearly faced court martial for his trouble, if the documents I found among his papers are accurate.”
The Duke’s shoulders stiffened, and when he turned back to her, his expression was darker than a winter storm. “Your father risked everything to save a man who was not worth saving. He should have left me to die with dignity rather than preserving me for this mockery of existence.”
“How remarkably self-pitying of you, Your Grace.”
The words escaped before she could recall them, hanging in the air like a challenge flung down between armies. The Duke’s face went absolutely still, and for a moment she feared she had pushed too far, too fast.
“I beg your pardon?” His voice was deadly quiet.
“You heard me correctly, I believe. You speak of my father’s heroism as though it were some cruel jest played upon you by fate. Yet here you stand in your magnificent library, surrounded by luxury most can only dream of, possessed of one of the oldest titles in England. If this is your idea of a mockery, I confess myself curious about your definition of success.”
“You think wealth and title are sufficient compensation for…” He gestured toward his scarred face with bitter emphasis.
“I think you are alive when thousands of better men lie buried in the soil. I think you have the opportunity to honour their sacrifice by living worthily, by using your position and resources to some meaningful purpose. Instead, you lurk in this mausoleum feeling sorry for yourself while your tenants suffer and your estate crumbles around you.”
The silence that followed her outburst was so complete that she could hear the rain pattering against the windows and the soft hiss of the fire in the grate. The Duke stared at her with an expression of such astonishment that she began to wonder if anyone had dared speak so plainly to him since his return from war.
“You have considerable nerve, Miss Hartwell.”
“I have considerable honesty, Your Grace. I thought you might appreciate the novelty.”
“What I appreciate,” he said, moving closer with that careful, controlled gait, “is impertinence in its proper place. Which is not in my library, directed at my person.”
“Then perhaps you should not have summoned me here under false pretenses. You spoke of matters of mutual interest, yet all I have heard thus far is a litany of your grievances against Providence.”
“False pretenses?” His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “What would you say, Miss Hartwell, if I told you that your father’s dying request was that I take you as my wife?”
The words hit her like a physical blow, stealing her breath and sending her stumbling backward against a chair. Of all the possibilities she had considered, marriage had not been among them. The very idea seemed too absurd, too impossible to credit.
“I would say,” she managed when she found her voice again, “that such a request would be presumptuous in the extreme, even from a dying man.”
“Would you indeed? And if I told you that your alternatives are to accept such a proposal or find yourself on the London streets within the week?”
The brutal honesty of the statement sent ice through her veins. She had known her situation was desperate, but to hear it stated so baldly, so cruelly, made her realize just how completely she was at his mercy.
“I would say that you are no gentleman to threaten a lady in such a manner.”
“I am no gentleman at all, Miss Hartwell. I thought I had made that abundantly clear.”
“On the contrary, Your Grace. You are very much a gentleman, which makes your current behaviour all the more disappointing.”
He laughed then; a sound utterly devoid of humor. “Disappointing? My dear Miss Hartwell, I fear you have not yet grasped the reality of your situation. You are alone in the world, penniless, and entirely dependent upon my charity. Disappointment is a luxury you can ill afford.”
“And yet I find myself experiencing it nonetheless. How inconvenient.”
“Indeed, it is. For both of us.” He studied her face with that same intensity, searching for cracks in her composure. “Your father believed that a marriage between us would solve both our difficulties. You require security and position; I require…” He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “I require an heir to prevent my cousin from inheriting the title.”
“How romantic.”
“Romance, Miss Hartwell, is another luxury neither of us can afford. This would be a marriage of convenience, nothing more. You would gain a title and financial security; I would gain the prospect of legitimate issue. The arrangement would be entirely practical.”
“And entirely cold-blooded.”
“Precisely. I find sentiment to be remarkably overrated.”
Evangeline stared at him, trying to process the magnitude of what he was proposing. Marriage to a Duke—it was beyond her wildest dreams, yet offered in such terms that it felt more like a business transaction than a romantic proposal.
“You assume I would accept such an arrangement.”
“I assume you are intelligent enough to recognise necessity when it stares you in the face. Unless, of course, you have some other prospect of which I am unaware?”
The question was rhetorical, and they both knew it. She had no other prospects, no other options, no other hope of survival in a world that offered few choices to impoverished women.
“And if I were to accept this proposal what would be expected of me?”
“You would be the Duchess of Ravenshollow. You would manage my household, represent my interests in society when necessary, and in due course, provide me with an heir. In return, you would enjoy all the privileges and securities that accompany such a position.”
“And what of other aspects of marriage?”
A flush of heat crept up her neck as she forced herself to ask the question that propriety demanded she avoid. But if she were to enter into such an arrangement, she needed to understand its full implications.
“You need have no concerns on that score, Miss Hartwell. I am aware that my appearance would make such intimacies distasteful to any woman of refinement. The marriage would be one of convenience only, at least until such time as an heir becomes necessary.”
The matter-of-fact way he dismissed the possibility of any woman finding him attractive was almost more heartbreaking than his physical scars. Yet Evangeline found herself wondering if his assessment was accurate. Beneath the damaged flesh and bitter cynicism, she could glimpse the man he must have been—intelligent, powerful, undoubtedly magnetic when not consumed by self-loathing.
“I see. And how long do I have to consider this generous offer?”
“Until tomorrow morning. I leave for London next week on business matters, and I would prefer to have the matter settled before my departure.”
“How wonderfully efficient of you, Your Grace.”
“I have found that prolonged deliberation rarely improves difficult decisions. Either you accept the realities of your situation or you do not.”
“Indeed. And if I do not?”
His expression grew colder still. “Then I shall settle your father’s debts as promised and provide you with funds sufficient for a month’s lodging in London. What becomes of you after that will be entirely your own concern.”
The threat was delivered with such casual cruelty that it took her breath away. Yet even as he spoke the words, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his knuckles whitened as he gripped his walking stick. He did not like making such threats, which meant there was still hope for the man beneath the beast’s mask.
“How very generous,” she said with sweet sarcasm. “A month to find employment or starve. I confess myself overwhelmed by your magnanimity.”
“Sarcasm does not become you, Miss Hartwell.”
“Perhaps not, but it suits my mood remarkably well at present.”
They stared at each other, each taking the measure of the other. Finally, Evangeline broke the silence.
“I shall give you my answer tomorrow morning, Your Grace. I trust that is acceptable?”
“Perfectly acceptable. Mrs. Cromwell will see to your needs until then.”
“Thank you. And Your Grace? For all your protestations about not being a gentleman, you have behaved with considerably more honour than many titled men of my acquaintance.”
With that parting shot, she turned and walked toward the door, her spine straight and her head held high. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her break, no matter how thoroughly he had shattered her expectations.
“Miss Hartwell.”
His voice stopped her with her hand on the door handle. She turned back to find him watching her with an expression she could not read.
“Your father was proud of you. He wrote of your courage, your intelligence, your refusal to be cowed by circumstance. I begin to understand what he meant.”
The unexpected compliment caught her off guard, revealing a glimpse of the man he might be beneath his carefully constructed armor of cynicism and rage.
“Thank you, Your Grace. That means more to me than you might imagine.”
And with that, she fled the library before either of them could say something that might make the impossible choice facing her even more complicated than it already was.
As the door closed behind her, Evangeline realized that her hands were trembling. Not with fear, as the Duke had clearly expected, but with something far more dangerous.
Recognition. Despite his scars, his cruelty, his deliberate attempts to frighten her away, she had glimpsed something in those dark eyes that called to something deep within her own soul.
The beast might be wounded, bitter, and half-mad with pain, but he was still a man. And tomorrow, she would have to decide whether that man was worth the risk of binding her life to his.
The choice, she suspected, had already been made. She simply had to find the courage to accept it.
This Post Has One Comment
Gripping introduction! Well written, made me feel as if I was standing right next to Evangeline! A few little typos that need correction. I truly look forward to reading the entire novel!