A Duke to Guard Her Heart (Preview)

Chapter One

Violet Frampton lifted the third book on the shelf, her feet steady on the library ladder. She was well aware of her friend’s stern gaze right below her, even if she could not see it. She pushed stray strands of her red hair out of her face.

“You still have yet to tell me anything about why we are in the library, by the way. I could help you find whatever it is you are looking for,” her friend said, behind her, watching Violet flick through the books like she expected something to fall out.

“Diane, you are the most wonderful companion one could ask for but I am afraid this is something I must do on my own.”

“You think this way over everything else as well. Then at the very last minute, you realize you may have gone too far. Believe it or not, Violet, I am well aware of the routine by now.” Diane continued. “Now are you going to tell me whatever it is you are looking for or am I going to keep standing here and watch you disfigure Voltaire’s entire collection?”

Violet paused, taking a few deep breaths. She hadn’t exactly thought this through. Now the mere thought of revealing her plans caused her shame. “Look. My father was a subtle man,” she started, her forearms momentarily resting on the shelf before her. “If there was anything I learned about him before he went missing, it was that he greatly loved to drop clues and hints everywhere.”

Diane narrowed her eyes and Violet could feel the gentle judgement coming already.

“Forgive me if I have this wrong, Violet, but…we are here, in the middle of the library on this hot day because you believe your father hid a clue before he disappeared? And you believe he hid it in, what, the philosophy section?”

“It was his favorite section,” Violet responded, her voice calm despite the polite, albeit judgmental remarks from her calm friend.

Diane narrowed her eyes and for the better half of a minute, there was only silence, coated with noise from the fields outside.

“You believe I have gone mad.” Violet said after a while, not as a question, but a definitive statement.

“Not in the slightest, my dear. I just—” Diane paused, almost like she was searching for a proper way to present what she was going to say next. “I believe you have read way too many gothic novels.”

“I am in a Gothic novel.” Violet proceeded to say. “Do you not see? I am living in my very own personal hell.”

She took her hands off the shelf, with her eyes still glued on Diane.

“One day I was asleep and the next I was awake to find my father gone with no clue as to his whereabouts. People have been searching for him; tracing his footsteps, finding out where he must have gone, but it was all for nothing. Do you not see? It is up to me to find him, Diane. And I must find him. I cannot, for the life of me, imagine what would happen to me—or to him—if I did not.”

Diane sighed. “I have repeatedly told you, Violet. You cannot let this fully consume you. It will be of no benefit to you, or anyone else around you if you continue to think it is your fault that he disappeared.”

“But it is. It is. I should have seen it coming. He had been a bit moody the few days leading to him vanishing and I’d seen it on his face—in his actions. I thought it was because he missed my mother. I should have asked him.”

“Get down.”

“What?”

“You are overthinking again and I cannot have you lose your grip on the ladder.”

Violet sighed and eventually took a few steps down. Her feet rested on the last rung of the library ladder.

“I have to find him, Diane. I cannot lose him too.” A slow streak of sadness crept past her eyes. “I cannot afford to.”

Diane sighed, running out of polite words to say. Instead, she pushed stray strands of hair off Violet’s face.

“I will look through the horse droppings in the stables if I have to, Diane. I just want my father back.”

“I understand that.” Diane responded. Her eyes flicked back up at the books on the shelves and Violet watched them travel all across the library.

“What if—” Diane started, her forehead creasing in intrigue. “What if we are going about this all wrong?”

“What do you mean?” Violet asked, her voice sharp—a contrast to how faltering it had been just a few moments ago.

“What if your father did hide clues but not in the library?”

“He spent a lot of time in the library,” Violet responded, her voice far from dismissive.

“I am well aware of that. But maybe he did not expect you to act as a detective with a top hat and look through the books. You are only doing this out of desperation. Now, I want you to think carefully.” Diane stated, grabbing Violet’s arm. “It does not have to be intentional but if your father wanted to hide anything, where would he do that?”

Violet stared into space, the gears in her head grinding like a flour mill. She sealed her eyes shut, as if trying to picture Diane’s question.

“You have to understand, this includes clues he most likely would not want you to see.”

The gears clicked into place and her eyes snapped back open.

“His study.” She said, her voice wavering. “If he was going to hide anything, it would have to be in his study.”

“Let us go then,” Diane responded, her voice clear and a gentle smile on her face. “Hopefully, you may find what you are looking for over there.”

Violet stepped off the last rung on the ladder and made her way toward the doors, naturally expecting Diane to walk behind her.

“Are you not forgetting something?” Diane’s seemingly distant voice halted her. “What about the books and the shelves you have disrupted?”

“I shall ask the maids to arrange them. Come, Diane. We have no time to waste.”

“You are well aware of the fact that you are not supposed to be doing any of this, are you not?” Diane asked as they made their way across the manor’s hallways, only stopping to greet a few maids along the way.

“I am perfectly capable of opening a few drawers to look through some notes. If I am unable to find my father, I doubt very much that anyone else will.”

She pushed the door to the study open. The first thing her eyes caught were specks of dust dancing in the sunlight from the slanted windows. The room was warm by design as it was lined from all corners with stacks of books, globes, and several scrolls in varying levels of disintegration.

Violet turned to her friend, a mild grimace playing on her face. “You think my father might have had just a little bit of a problem with keepsakes?”

“A little bit you say?” Diane asked, still looking around, her eyes peeled in wonder. Violet could see the wonder in Diane’s eyes. She had never stepped into the study before.

Violet moved to the desk and pulled the first drawer. In it were papers filled with tax ledgers, letters to solicitors requesting permission on all kinds of things. She pushed it shut and pulled the drawer below it.

“You must know, I still stand by my earlier conviction,” Diane said, still looking around the packed room, and Violet wondered what she was thinking. Perhaps about how anyone could spend more than an hour here at once. “You have to let the authorities do their jobs.”

Violet scoffed. “The authorities—” she said, rifling through the second drawer pocket. “are half-witted, tea-soaked bureaucrats. They will get as much done as a dead deer in the woods.”

“Oh well, it has only been a month.”

“Exactly. A month and they are yet to come up with any information. Not even anything—” The words froze in her mouth as her hand landed on something.

“Violet? What is it? What have you found?” Diane asked, the impatience in her voice clear.

Violet pulled it out, now clear as day. It was a letter. One that had been burned hastily and then pushed back into her father’s drawer.

She raised the letter to the sun. The burned part had words on them. Words she couldn’t see, no matter how narrow she made her eyes.

She could only make out two words in the part of the letter that didn’t burn properly.

“What does it say?” Diane asked again.

“It says—”

“My Lady?” A maid’s voice from the door stopped her short. “Your uncle is here.”

Violet exchanged a confused expression with Diane and then back at the letter. She stuffed it into a pocket on the side of her bodice.

“I suppose this will all have to wait,” she called.

Diane nodded.

They both stepped out, leaving the study, the cloud of dust and the stack of never-ending books behind them.

Uncle Raymond was in the drawing room, gently sipping a steaming cup of tea when she arrived.

“Dear.” Raymond greeted, a smile on his face as Violet stopped before him.

“Uncle.”

“Please. Sit.” Raymond said, gesturing toward the chair.

Violet had no other choice but to respond. She did not care very much for Raymond. He was one of the bureaucrats she had been describing earlier. He believed in doing everything by the book and sometimes, especially in matters of crucial importance, it could be irritating.

“I have news.”

“You found him?” she asked.

Raymond shook his head. “I am afraid not, dearie.”

Her eyes sank.

“It was my fault for starting off like that in the first place. You must forgive me.” Raymond pulled out a letter from the satchel Violet was now seeing around his neck for the first time.

“Your father’s will names a guardian for you. Someone to take care of you in the event of his death—”

“He is not dead.”

“Violet, it has been over a month. I believe we can sufficiently say by now—”

“He is not dead,” she repeated, her voice firmer. “I am turning twenty-two in two months. Why would I need a guardian?”

“Well. Your father, and we found this out after his dea—disappearance,” he shifted in his seat, correcting himself.

Violet stared on.

“He seemed to owe a lot of people. His creditors intend to take the manor so you must leave immediately,” Raymond finished. “You are to travel to a designated manor in the countryside as soon as possible.

Violet felt her heart sink. Her father and now the manor? How many more tragedies would she have to take? She ground her teeth. The last thing she wanted was to lose her composure in front of the man sitting before her.

“Where?” She eventually asked.

“What?”

“Where is the manor? The one I am supposed to go to?”

“Oh right. I believe it is called Ravenmoor. Yes. It is an estate just outside of Cornwall.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Did you say—Ravenmoor?”

“Yes.” He responded, unsure. Then he looked at the paper in his hands. “Yes. That is what it is called. It is managed by the Duke of Sutherland. Sebastian Cavendish.”

Ravenmoor.

That word. She’d heard it before. Or did she see it? In a book perhaps? Her mind was currently too distraught to think.

“I am certain you are going to be under proper care and guidance of the Duke.”

“Why am I under the Duke’s guidance? Why not yours? Why not anyone else in the family?”

Raymond only shrugged. “It is your father’s will, dear. We must do all we can to honor it.”

Violet nodded. This was all happening a little too fast and she hated it. She knew she had no choice and that fact made her even more upset.

“Might I suggest, dear, that you start packing as soon as possible? Take whatever it is you can with you. The creditors get here tomorrow,” Raymond said, his voice hollow, like a haunting song in the middle of the forest.

Violet only gave a brief nod in response.

“Well—” Raymond said, drinking the rest of his tea and placing the teapot on the table before him. “I am afraid I must also make my way back as soon as I can. I wish you the very best with your new guardian, Violet.”

“Goodbye, Uncle.”

Raymond stepped out and Diane walked in almost immediately.

“A guardian?” Diane asked.

The shield of nonchalance dropped from Violet’s face and instantly got replaced by an of utter worry.

“Diane, what am I going to do?”

“You cannot live under a guardian,” Diane repeated.

“I am well aware of that,” Violet responded, rising from the chair. She stepped out and headed to her room, Diane’s footsteps following closely behind.

“It is going to be hell for the both of you,” Diane’s voice cemented.

“I am aware of that as well.”

“You hate having your freedom disrupted.”

“I would recommend that you tell me something I do not know, Diane.”

Violet walked into her room and grabbed one of the empty boxes. It felt to her like she could not stop moving no matter how hard she tried. Diane’s pitiful eyes continued to look at her as she grabbed some of her dresses in her closet. She started to fold them and place them gently in the box.

“For all I know this guardian could rip my independence away from me within the blink of an eye. He could marry me off before I have the time to stop it.”

“We do not exactly know anything about this Duke of Sutherland.”

“And that,” Violet muttered, looking up at her friend. “is particularly what terrifies me. I cannot let this man threaten my status, Diane. I have to keep looking for my father and I cannot do that if a Duke decides to marry me off.”

“He is not going to marry you off.”

“He is a Duke. You believe he would keep me in his manor for as long as it takes? I cannot let my life get derailed by thoughts of romance, Diane. Especially not now. Are you aware of just how many women I know who have let notions like this cloud their judgement?”

“Your guardian cannot be that intimidating.”

“He is a Duke. They all are.”

Diane, seeming to realize nothing she could say could calm her friend’s nerves, decided to excuse herself instead. Even just for a minute.

“I suppose I should go home and pack, myself.” She muttered, leaving the doorway.

Violet continued to put her clothes in the box, unable to let herself think of anything else. She could not let herself mourn the manor. Not yet. She had to focus on her father. She reached into the pocket of her bodice and pulled the paper she had taken from the study before Raymond arrived. The two words she had seen earlier were still on the paper, scrawled in dark ink and matted in flames that did not reach it.

She looked at the words over and over. The growing determination, like smoke from a chimney, rising in her.

Ravenmoor Manor.

Chapter Two

The morning was gray in a way that felt muted and dull, as though the whole of the countryside itself had overslept and forgotten to wake up properly. The darkened sky loomed above, promising a long and harrowing morning.

Fog curled like icy breath against the windows of Ravenmoor Manor, pressing rather gently against the glass, blurring the view into the far-off fields and gardens.

Sebastian Cavendish stood by the hallway window, his posture straight and his hands tight in his pocket. He had been waiting in the same position for what must have been thirty minutes. Time felt relative at this point. He had been so engrossed in the painting on the wall before him that he couldn’t tell how long he’d been standing for if asked.

A maid walked in then, an apologetic look lingering on her face. Her hands were wrapped around a small silver dish. On the surface of the dish were crumbs from bread that had been served at breakfast.

“I apologize for making you wait so long, Your Grace. It was because the bread—”

“Do not apologize,” he responded, one of his hands outstretched. His hands must have been in his pockets for too long because the cold hallway air gripped at it as the maid placed the dish gently into his palm.

He gave her a swift nod and just as she had come, the maid left.

The dish of breadcrumbs remained balanced in his palm, and he walked back to the edge of the window and drew open the sash. Not too much. Just wide enough to let birds in. Almost as if on cue, the clatter of a sparrow’s wings reverberated in the air. He looked ahead and placed the crumb by the edge.

The bird landed right on top of it.

“There you are again,” he murmured, his voice low and even.

The sparrow hopped along the silver dish, cocking its head, and staring straight at him, almost without fear. “You are quite the persistent little thing, are you not?”

He scattered a pinch of crumbs. The bird darted forward, pecking like it hadn’t eaten in days. He watched with interest at first, then it turned into utter melancholy. His eyes once again returned to the painting on the wall.

The man in the painting looked just like him. The painter had caught him in the middle of a laugh. His dark curls tousled, and his chin tilted like he had made a mockery of something known only to him. His eyes gleamed with mischief and unspoken challenge.

There was light in the eyes of the man behind the painting. Light fueled by recklessness and the adventurous part of being a youth.

His deceased brother, Lord Thomas Cavendish, had been rendered in oils merely a year before the fire.

Sebastian felt the sadness cloak him on all sides like a thick shawl. Staring at the painting caused that quite often. So he returned his gaze to the bird instead. The sparrow continued to peck hard at the crumbs, utterly clueless on the thoughts that roamed Sebastian’s head. A part of him wished he could do that. Find a way to turn off his brain and memories, even if for a day. A day where he could be free to enjoy the little things in life without letting the past weigh him down.

Sebastian’s ice-blue eyes remained glued to the bird and after a while, he exhaled. “Thomas would have liked you. He was always fond of creatures that could not speak. He said they were more trustworthy. More prone to empathy and do not know how to shield their behavior to please anyone.”

The sparrow looked up at him, almost like it understood what he had just said. Sebastian arched an eyebrow and the sparrow blinked, then resumed its meal.

His eyes returned to the painting. He hated how alive it looked. How Thomas seemed to almost call to him.

“He would have teased me for keeping you,” he told the bird without looking away. “He would have called me sentimental. Or ridiculous. Knowing him, it would most likely be both.”

He moved closer to the wall, breadcrumbs forgotten, and stood before the portrait. “You were always the charming one were you not, brother?” he said softly. “The peacekeeper. The golden son. Father’s pride, though he never said it aloud.”

His voice cooled, just slightly. “And yet, you had no idea what was coming, did you?”

A long pause followed.

The cold air from the slightly ajar window crept in even more and the chill went up his spine, almost as if the memory of that eventful day was tormenting him. “I should have seen it,” he continued, his jaw tightening. “I should have seen this coming . I should have warned you. But I was too busy playing rebellion, too angry to notice the rage in him… too obsessed with things about myself that I didn’t notice. Until it all burned.”

He lifted his hand and rested it lightly on the portrait, his fingers slightly brushing the solid edge. “You always wanted peace, and you got silence instead. A decade of it.”

Behind him, the sparrow chirped once and the dish fell to the ground, clattering across the carpeted floor and displacing the remaining crumbs. Sebastian turned and exhaled again. He hurried to the dish, put back some of the crumbs, and returned it to the window ledge. Except the sparrow was gone. The dish clattering must have spooked it.

He closed his eyes briefly, then turned back toward the painting, face hardening back into its usual stoic nature. “I miss you, Thomas. And I wish you were here.” He muttered; something about the low volume of his voice, guttural and raw.

Sound of growing footsteps broke the quiet. At first he had thought he hadn’t heard it. Then the sound grew louder. The servants were well accustomed to the fact that unless requested, they were not to disturb him in the hallway on mornings like this. Whoever was coming must have had a damning excuse to interrupt his peace. Or they better had.

A few more seconds passed, and the footsteps grew even louder. He waited patiently and refused to speak. A moment later, a familiar man stepped into view.

“Mr. George,” he started, not as a greeting but an inquiry. His steward entered with a bow.

“I apologize for disrupting your moment alone, Your Grace, but I do not know if this can wait. I am to inform you that Mr. Roland, the solicitor, shall be here before the end of noon.”

Sebastian snapped his eyes shut. “Please tell me, Mr. George, that this piece of information is not all you came to relay to me.”

“Not in the slightest, Your Grace. I have something else,” George continued.

Sebastian’s eyes opened again and he noticed it, a small envelope dangling in the older man’s slightly veiny hands.

“What else do you have?” he asked, the impatience in his voice slowly dying down.

“A letter from the Frampton solicitor, Your Grace.”

“Frampton,” he repeated, still staring at the letter. That name sounded familiar. Like it was on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t place it. The memory he had with that name must have been short and fleeting. Too short that he couldn’t remember now.

“Yes. Their solicitor sent this letter earlier this morning.” George repeated.

Sebastian took it without ceremony, eyes flicking over the seal. Frampton. The familiarity in the name cracked up even harder in him. He still tried to remember where he knew it from but for some reason, he couldn’t. Not at that exact moment. He cracked the wax and read in silence.

When he reached the final paragraph, his brow lowered. “Who in God’s name is Lord Edmund Frampton and why is he missing? And why in God’s name do I need to know about Lady Violet Frampton?”

“I believe you met Lord Frampton once at a night fête a few months ago. You said he spoke to you strangely about how life does not ever give us more than we can handle. Lady Violet Frampton, I believe, is his daughter.”

The memory hit him like a rock thrown into the sea. That was what he was trying to remember. He had met the man once. The experience itself was not particularly remarkable enough to remember. He had, however, remembered feeling uneasy after having a brief conversation with him. He had spoken mysteriously to him that night about Thomas and his father.

“Do not waver. For the truth always reveals itself.” He remembered what the man had said right after telling him he could handle whatever came his way. He remembered being so immensely disorganized by those words that he hadn’t waited to tell George when he returned to the manor that night.

“I remember him now,” he eventually said, his eyes returning to the top of the letter. He read it again, the disbelief still hovering on his face like he’d read the wrong thing. “So he is missing?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” George responded.

“Missing or dead?” Sebastian asked, his eyes shifting rapidly between George’s calm gaze and the letter in his hands.

“I do not believe the authorities have enough information to declare him dead, just yet,” George answered. “His household, however, has requested discretion. It appears he vanished a month ago without explanation. Apparently, you only received this information because you were mentioned in Lord Frampton’s will.”

Sebastian looked up at George, his eyes begging the older man to tell him this was all some kind of horrid joke. “Will?”

“Precisely, Your Grace.”

“I met the man once. How did I make it into his will?” His eyes returned to the letter, and he realized almost immediately that there was a paragraph he had skipped. He must have gotten too caught up in the hysteria of it all. He read the letter again with calmer eyes and more attention:

To His Grace, The Duke of Sutherland,

I pray this letter finds Your Grace in good health and sound spirits.

I write with regard to Lord Edmund Frampton, who has now been missing for several weeks. Though inquiries are ongoing, there has been no word of his whereabouts, and his absence has caused concern.

As executor of Lord Frampton’s estate, I must inform Your Grace, that according to the terms of his most recent will, you have been named legal guardian of his only daughter, Lady Violet Frampton. This guardianship is to remain in place until her marriage or other legal arrangements are made.

I am fully aware of the unexpected nature of this appointment and assure Your Grace that the late Lord Frampton must have had his reasons.

Lady Violet remains presently at the Frampton manor and, in light of certain financial encumbrances upon the estate, it would be prudent for her to be received at Ravenmoor at Your Grace’s earliest convenience.

With the highest regard,
I remain, Your Grace’s obedient servant,

Frederick L. Harris
Frampton Family Solicitor
Lincoln’s Inn, London.

Sebastian lifted his gaze slowly. “And this Lady Violet Frampton is his daughter?”

“Yes Your Grace.”

“It says in the letter that I am to be her guardian.”

“Guardian?”

Sebastian nodded. “Do you know anything about her?”

George hesitated. “Not exactly, Your Grace. All I know is that she is unmarried and twenty-two years of age.”

Sebastian handed the letter to George. “When does Roland get here?”

“In a few more hours, Your Grace.”

“Good. We need to come up with a way to reject the appointment.”

“Very well, Your Grace,” George responded. He gave a brief nod and just as quickly as he had come, made his way out of the hallway, leaving Sebastian once again to his thoughts and melancholy.

“Can you believe that?” he started, staring at Thomas’ painting. “That is such an unwanted responsibility. The last thing I need is some grown young lady threatening my peace around here.”

***“I am afraid the best thing to do in this situation, is to accept the appointment, Your Grace.” Roland muttered, his calm voice a great dissonance to the chaos constantly erupting in Sebastian’s head.

“No. I do not want to be a guardian and frankly, Mr. Roland, I do not fancy having to repeat myself.”

The bleak sunlight filtered in through the windows of Sebastian’s study, casting a weak glow on the table on which he currently placed his forearms. Roland, who sat across from him, gently placed the letter on one side of the table that divided them.

“Having to reject this is a procedure that would most definitely cost more effort than the guardianship itself. Also, she is of marriageable age. She will not stay long under your care. I would strongly advise Your Grace to reconsider this notion.”

“There is nothing to reconsider as there was never any consideration in the first place.” Sebastian retorted, his voice sharp with utter defiance. “Being a guardian comes with a lot of responsibilities. I have my own personal business to deal with, Mr Roland. I cannot also be responsible for an unmarried woman.”

Roland relaxed into the chair, the look on his face a clear indication that he had run out of ways to convince the Duke.

“I never knew the man, personally, are you aware of that? We only met once in passing, at a tea party. I am of the full belief that this fact alone should aid you in helping me reject the appointment.”

“Your Grace—”

“I will advise that you keep your remarks to yourself if they are not going to aid me in this matter. I will not be welcoming a ward into my home and that is the end of it. What you need to do as my solicitor now, is get to work as soon as possible and handle the rejection properly. I am certain there are other people that would be elated to take in Lady Violet under their care. I, unfortunately, am not one of them.” Sebastian rose to his feet, his knees slightly brushing the edge of the table. “This is where I bid you farewell.” He muttered, leaving his chair. He walked to the door, his footsteps heavy, and reached for the doorknob.

“There is one last thing I have not informed you, Your Grace.” Roland’s words froze him in place, his hand suspended midair.

“Lord Edmund Frampton, before he disappeared, was in the middle of an investigation. I only learned this from his solicitor on my way here.”

Sebastian lowered his hand, his eyes snapping shut. “And why would that matter to me?”

“Because he was investigating a matter connected to the Cavendish family.” Roland wasted no time in responding.

Sebastian hung his hands by his sides and balled them into fists. He looked up, his eyes opening to the intricately designed ceiling, his heart pounding twice as fast. “The rumors are only just beginning to die down.”

“Precisely, Your Grace. If you reject this, the rumors could resurface again.”

Sebastian exhaled. He had been the kind of man who enjoyed his solitude. He had found comfort in being alone over the years. It had given him quite a lot of time to reflect on himself. He had enjoyed his solitude so much that every marriage arrangement proposed to him had been rejected.

The mere thought of a young woman harboring so much spirit living with him threatened that solitude. He had managed to protect his heart from society’s judgement and his guilt over what happened with his father and brother for a long time. A connection with someone else might ruin that.

But on the other hand, he couldn’t afford to be the center of discussion again. And that was exactly what would happen if news of his rejection of the appointment went public.

Good Lord.

He would have to keep her at arm’s length for both their sakes. Steel himself against her before she arrives. Hopefully, she wouldn’t spend as much time under his care. Didn’t George say she was twenty-two?

He turned to Roland, the resignation resting on his face like waves on water.

“When is she set to arrive?”

Chapter Three

Rain drizzled down the wagon, making it sound like claws on glass. The sky had not stopped rumbling since Violet and Diane crossed into the county, and Violet could already feel the cold settle in her bones as the carriage eventually rolled to a halt before the manor. The only thing keeping her going was the fact that Diane was with her. She could not imagine going through this alone. Diane had been her friend for a long time. She moved in with Violet only five years ago after her parents died in a shipwreck on their way to Europe. Ever since then, her father practically adopted Diane

She looked up, letting her eyes drink in the view for the better half of a minute. Ravenmoor. The possible answer to all her questions.

The manor loomed tall, dark and towering. The stone wall looked older than anything she had ever seen—or read about. It was almost like the beauty of the building grew even brighter with time and the slightly worn corners added more grace to it.

She stepped down with Diane right behind her, the bottom of her dress already wet from having to brave the storm during the journey. “It is bigger than I thought,” she said, her voice muffled by the lashing rain.

“What did you say?” Diane asked.

Violet turned to her friend, examining the way her strands of hair clung to her pale forehead. “I said, the manor is bigger than I thought.”

Diane looked up as they walked through the cobblestone pathway that led to the entrance. The cold was stifling. She could feel her bones rattle beneath her skin and a part of her wondered if Diane felt that as well.

“Some work must have been done after the fire,” Violet noted.

“Huh?” Diane asked again, the pelting rain evidently blocking Violet’s words.

“The fire? The one I showed you in the news sheets? The one that killed his brother?”

The wooden entrance doors swung open before Diane had the chance to respond. A woman stood framed in the doorway, her stance firm. She had iron-gray hair bound tightly at her nape and a gaze as sharp as a letter opener.

“Lady Violet Frampton, I presume?” she asked.

“I am,” Violet replied, wrapping her hands even tighter around her body. “Anyone who has to brave this storm to impersonate me must be desperate enough to want it.”

The woman’s face remained rigid. Violet swallowed, a wave of red crashing her cheeks. Now she wished she never made the joke.

“I am Mrs. Helena Graves.” The woman continued. “I am the housekeeper of Ravenmoor, as I have been for thirty-three years and counting.”

Violet wanted to make another joke but decided against it at the last minute.

Mrs. Graves continued. “You will find the staff prepared. His Grace expects order, and I do not see any reason to disappoint him. Especially as his ward.”

“Of course,” Violet responded, uncertain whether that was a statement of reassurance or just a plain old threat.

Mrs. Graves turned, already moving into the house. “You must be cold though. Some hot tea has been arranged. I shall have the girls bring up your trunks shortly.”

The interior of Ravenmoor was much warmer, albeit dimly lit. Violet felt a wave of relief seep into her formerly freezing bones as she followed the stern housekeeper. The candles along the hallway flickered momentarily as they walked further inside, almost like they were acknowledging her presence.

They walked past worn paintings and polished floors. Their footsteps echoed around the manor with every move. Then they walked past what Violet could only assume to be the observatory. This must be where the fire happened because the walls look more polished. Her eyes flicked over a portrait of a man on the wall, one she could not be bothered to study for a long time as the cold still rattled her. As they walked further, she noticed the burn lines on the edges of the walls. Perhaps the polish couldn’t reach those crevices properly. Her body trembled at the thought of the fire.

How much effort did the Duke take in covering the soot and burn marks on the wall? A part of her wondered. As they climbed up a stairway, Violet studied the railing for a brief minute before returning her gaze to the steps. When they reached the top, they settled into another hallway and followed Mrs. Graves as she continued to walk.

“I imagine your journey was difficult,” Mrs. Graves said after a passing moment of silence. “The roads are poor and the weather is much worse.”

“It was not exactly comfortable,” Violet responded. “But I have seen worse storms.”

Mrs. Graves gave her an unreadable side glance. “Strength will serve you here, Lady Violet. As you will discover in the coming days, this house is not fond of weakness.”

Violet swallowed again as they stopped before a heavy oak door at the end of the hallway.

“These are your chambers. Dinner will be served within the hour. You will be summoned when His Grace is ready to receive you.”

As Violet stepped inside, Mrs. Graves lingered at the doorway. “If I may, My Lady. Ravenmoor has known its share of trauma. The less you cause trouble around here, the better it is for everyone else.”

Violet stepped aside to let Diane walk further into the room, her eyes fixed on the housekeeper. “I am afraid I have never been good at remaining still.”

Mrs. Graves gave a knowing nod. “That is what I thought.” She turned to leave.

“What can you tell me of the Duke?” She asked hurriedly, freezing Mrs. Graves in the spot. “What is he like?”

Mrs. Graves let a brief moment of silence pass before turning around, the same unreadable expression still on her face. “He is a private man. He prioritizes order and privacy. Those who remain in his good graces… or wish to do so, respect those things.”

Violet nodded, not unaware of how the housekeeper’s eyes narrowed in on her as the last statement left her lips.

“Thank you,” she eventually said.

Mrs. Graves turned again and walked away. Violet stepped forward and shut the door.

Welcome to Ravenmoor. A voice seemed to echo in her mind, almost taunting her about her new life and what she would come to face. She shrugged it off before it could properly take root. For now, all she worried about was getting this wet dress off her body.

***A maid appeared by the door merely an hour later and announced that the Duke would meet her in the drawing room.

“Mrs. Graves asked that you make sure your hair is done well before you leave the room,” the maid said. “The Duke likes that.”

Violet only gave her a brief nod in response and the maid turned to leave. Soon, she walked out of the room and toward the stairs, her heart beating hard in her chest. What if this man instantly took a dislike to her? What if she never had a chance to prove herself?

She climbed down the stairs slowly, her fingers trailing along the wooden railing she had noticed earlier. Each step echoed, and the storm was not settling down just yet. At the bottom of the stairway stood a man dressed in black. His stance was firm, yet she could see the brief flickers of unease in it.

He looked up as she neared the bottom of the stairs. The last thing Violet expected were eyes the color of a sunny sky—blue and clear—or a jaw that could cut glass. Her eyes shot briefly at his left eyebrow and a strange little mark that rested just above it.

A birthmark perhaps? “Your Grace.”

“Lady Violet.”

He did not smile and his voice was deeper than she would have thought.

“I was admiring the railing along the stairway,” she said. “They appear Tudor, though the varnish is clearly later. Has the house been recently remodeled?”

Something flickered in his eyes. “It has. Most recently after the fire.”

Violet hesitated. “I see. I am sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” His gaze narrowed slightly. “You study architecture?”

“I study everything,” she said. “But buildings speak loudest. I find that their secrets are always in the most obvious of places.”

“How fortunate then, to find yourself in a house with nothing to hide.”.

Lightning cracked just outside, just as those words escaped his lips. Violet flinched instinctively, her shoulders jumping before she could stop them. She saw the motion in him before he checked it. A single step forward, hand twitching as if to steady her, then just as quickly clasped behind his back.

“I trust you are not afraid of storms,” he said, voice even.

“Not at all,” she responded. A lie, of course.

They stood in silence, the hall between them filled only with more candlelight.

“Dinner will be served shortly,” he eventually said, turning around.

Violet followed, hearing Diane climb down the stairs behind her.

The dining hall was large, and the long table occupied most of the room. The smell of venison and tea filled her nostrils as she walked in behind Sebastian. She could hear the tick of a clock somewhere around, but her eyes could not find it.

She and Diane were seated on the right of Sebastian, who occupied the head of the table, his posture straight and the same stoic expression on his face. The flickering candlelight made it even more vivid.

The maids moved in and out in utter silence and at their helm was Mrs. Graves, who stood just beyond the archway like a statue, her eyes continuously overseeing everything they did.

Diane turned to look at Violet, her eyes almost screaming. Almost like they said Speak, before this silence suffocates us.

“So,” Violet began, her voice as calm as she could manage, “Ravenmoor sits on a most fascinating slope. The vantage of the western side overlooks the sea, does it not?”

Sebastian’s eyes lifted to hers. “It does.”

“I imagine the land must have been chosen with that in mind. Strategic placement, perhaps for defense or visibility.”

He placed his spoon gently on the table. “It was chosen for isolation.”

Violet blinked. “I see.”

“Some prefer company,” he continued. “Others find their peace where the world cannot reach them.”

Diane smiled quickly. “The grounds are quite beautiful, Your Grace. Even in this storm, the manor leaves an impression.”

Sebastian gave a brief nod. “It tends to.”

The tension continued to linger as Violet studied Sebastian. There was precision in his manner, something she could not fully attribute to rudeness. It felt deliberate.

Spoons clinked against fine china for the better half of the next five minutes until Violet decided to break the coated silence.

“Do you manage the estate yourself?” she asked.

“I do.”

“You must be quite knowledgeable. The economy of a property this size would require more wealth than necessary. You must have inherited quite a lot from your father.”

“I do not depend on inheritance,” he responded, his voice firm. “I believe in maintaining what one is given. And improving it, if possible.”

Violet tilted her head. “I suppose that explains the choices in the design. The walls in the observatory, for example. I saw it earlier on the way to my room.”

The change in him was almost imperceptible. A flicker in his eyes. The slightest pause. “What about the walls in the observatory?” he asked, the strained tension in his voice clear.

“You must understand me, Your Grace. There is nothing wrong with them. They just felt a little… intense. Did you oversee the design yourself?”

“I did.”

“Well, that makes sense,” she murmured. She could feel Diane exhale in despair right beside her.

“I am afraid if that was meant to be humorous, then you have done a terrible job.” Sebastian countered, his eyes narrowing in mild offence.

“It was meant to be a simple truth.”

“Are you criticizing my choice of walls in my own house?”

“No. I am only criticizing what it means.”

“What it means?”

“Well, the choice does point to a simple truth. You like to hide things about yourself. Things you presume might make others uncomfortable. Like soot.”

“You think my choice of walls is based on my character?”

“You can always object to it if I am wrong. But I do not think you will. Because I am not.”

The room stilled. Diane’s hand moved to her glass. “Well, I am certain that the Duke was well aware of what he was doing, Violet.” Her voice etched with a clear warning.

Mrs. Graves, who still remained standing at the edge of the room, watched Violet and Sebastian carefully.

“While that is true, I believe that sometimes, minimal change goes a long way and is often more noticeable.”

That was the nail in the coffin.

Sebastian stood, his movement swift and sharp. “Dinner is done.”

Diane looked startled. Violet rose more slowly. “I do have one more observation to make.”

“Violet.” Diane warned.

“On our way in, we saw a man in a portrait. He looked incredibly similar to you but younger.”

Sebastian’s jaw tensed, a movement so quick, she almost missed it.

“Was that him? Your brother?” she asked.

Sebastian’s shoulders tensed. “Yes.”

“He looked just like you,” Violet remarked. “You must have been close.”

He did not answer. His eyes had gone toward the direction of the portrait, and for a moment, Violet saw it. The flash of pain across his face, like she had torn a wound open. It disappeared instantly, even before she could acknowledge it.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he finally said. “Mrs. Graves will see you to your rooms. I believe we have had quite enough of each other today.”

Mrs. Graves stepped forward and gestured to the door. They walked right behind her. The walk up the stairs and toward her room was silent. “I knew you were going to be trouble, Lady Violet.” Mrs. Graves eventually said, her voice sharp and boisterous voice breaking the silence. Violet didn’t hear admiration or reprimand in it.

“Do you think he might send me away tomorrow?” she asked, her voice cautious.

Mrs. Graves stopped right before the door leading to their quarters and turned to Violet. “I am afraid we all have to wait and see, just have to see how much of you he can take.”

Violet nodded. The dismissal in the housekeeper’s voice was clear.

“I would not get too comfortable if I were you, Lady Violet.” Mrs. Graves added, before heading back the way they had come, leaving Violet and Diane still dazed.