“Surely you agree that a woman’s highest calling is to secure her family’s future through an advantageous match.” Caroline’s mother tensed. Her father’s knuckles whitened around his wine glass. Rosland, dear gentle Rosland, sat frozen beside the Duke, her face a porcelain mask hiding a crumbling foundation.

No one had told Caroline about tonight’s dinner. No one had mentioned the Duke of Ridgemore would be arriving with his mother, the Daaja Duchess, to finalize what was apparently already decided, Rosalyn’s engagement to a man she’d met exactly twice before. I think, Caroline said slowly, setting down her fork with deliberate care, that a woman’s highest calling is whatever she decides it to be, unless, of course, your grace believes we’re incapable of such decisions.

The silence that followed could have smothered flames. Ambrose Hartwell turned his full attention to her for the first time that evening. He was infuriatingly handsome. dark hair swept back from a face that belonged on Roman coins, gray blue eyes that assessed everything with cool precision, and a mouth that seemed perpetually on the verge of pronouncing judgment.

At 32 he carried himself with the unshakable certainty of a man who’d never been refused anything. I believe, he said, his tone sharpening slightly, that duty and wisdom often align. Your sister understands this. It’s a maturity that comes with age and perspective. The implication hung in the air. You at 26 clearly lack both.

How fortunate, Caroline replied, reaching for her wine. That maturity also brings the ability to recognize when one is being patronized. I seem to have acquired that perspective quite early. Caroline, her mother’s voice cracked like a whip. Forgive my younger daughter your grace, Mr. Sinclair interjected, his face reening.

She has always been spirited. Spirited? Ambrose repeated as if tasting the word and finding it amusing. Is that what we’re calling it? Caroline opened her mouth, but Roselyn’s hand found hers beneath the table, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Her sister’s eyes pleaded. Not now. Please.

So Caroline swallowed her retort and forced herself to smile, a smile that showed too many teeth to be polite. The Daaja Duchess, Lady Hartwell, cleared her throat. She was a handsome woman in her 50s, with the same assessing gaze as her son, but softened by lines that suggested she’d once smiled more freely. Perhaps we should discuss the particulars of the arrangement.

Rosalind, my dear, you’ll come to Ridgemore Manor for the next 2 months. A proper courtship period supervised, of course, to ensure compatibility before we make the public announcement. 2 months? Rosalyn’s voice emerged barely above a whisper. I I would be grateful for that time, Lady Hartwell, to know his grace better before she faltered.

Before you’re legally bound to a stranger, Caroline supplied helpfully. Caroline Josephine Sinclair. Her father’s fist struck the table, rattling Crystal. One more word, and you will excuse yourself from this table. Perhaps that would be best, Ambrose said mildly. Miss Caroline clearly has strong opinions about matches that don’t concern her.

Something in his tone, that casual dismissal, as if she were a child having a tantrum, snapped the last thread of Caroline’s restraint. You’re right, your grace. It doesn’t concern me. What concerns me is that my sister has been given no choice in a matter that will define her entire life. But I suppose when one is as accustomed to deference as you are, the concept of a woman’s will becomes rather abstract.

Ambrose’s eyes narrowed. For the first time that evening she saw something flicker behind that aristocratic composure, not anger exactly, but interest, as if she’d done something unexpected enough to warrant actual attention. And you believe, he said softly, that marriage should be about will, about individual desire rather than family obligation.

I believe marriage should involve some measure of consent beyond resigned acceptance. Caroline speaks from inexperience. Her mother cut in desperately. She has no understanding of how these arrangements work. How how women are traded like livestock. Caroline stood, her chair scraping loudly. You’re right, mother. I’ve never been particularly good at understanding that.

She didn’t wait to be excused. She walked out of the dining room with her spine straight and her hands shaking, leaving a wake of scandalized silence behind her. She made it to the garden before the tears came, not from sadness, but from pure impotent rage. Rosalind was 28, beautiful, kind, everything society claimed to value in a woman.

She was also desperately in love with David Brennan, a respectable man with a modest estate and no title, whom their father had forbidden her to marry because he wasn’t ambitious enough for the Sinclair name. And now this, an arranged marriage to a duke who looked at people the way collectors examined acquisitions, assessing value, checking for flaws, deciding whether they were worth the investment.

I thought I might find you here. Caroline spun around. Rosalyn stood in the garden entrance, her evening shaw wrapped tight despite the warm summer night. I’m sorry, Caroline said immediately. I know I made it worse. I just couldn’t. I know. Rosalind crossed to her, taking both her hands. I know, Carol, and part of me is grateful someone finally said it.

Then why are you doing this? Father can’t actually force you to, can’t he? Roselyn’s smile was unbearably sad. What choice do I have? If I refuse, I bring shame on the entire family. Father has made it clear David will never be acceptable. And if I defy him, he’ll cut me off entirely. David has his pride. He’d never accept me as a burden, penniless and disgraced.

So, you’ll marry the Duke instead. He’s not cruel, Carol, just accustomed to getting what he wants. I can endure it. You shouldn’t have to endure your own life. Rosland pulled her into an embrace. Two months, she whispered. They’re giving me 2 months at his estate before any public announcement.

I asked for that time to get to know him, but really, you want to say goodbye to David? Is that so terrible? Caroline held her sister tighter. No, it’s human. But Rosie, two months alone at the Duke’s estate. Not alone. That’s why I came to find you. Rosalind pulled back, her eyes desperate. Come with me as my companion. Please. I can’t do this without you.

And if you’re there, I can I’ll find ways to see David to have some final time with him before I accept my duty. But I need you there to help me, to be my ally. Every instinct screamed at Caroline to refuse. Two months in the Duke of Ridgemore’s company sounded like exquisite torture, but Roselyn’s face held such fragile hope, such quiet devastation, that Caroline found herself nodding before she’d fully considered the implications. Of course, I’ll come.

I’d do anything for you. Even tolerate the Duke. Caroline managed a weak laugh. I make no promises about tolerance, but I’ll be there. Roselyn sagged with relief. Thank you. And Carol, try not to antagonize him too badly. He’s arrogant, yes, but he’s also observant. Don’t give him reasons to watch you too closely.

But as they walked back toward the house, Caroline couldn’t shake the memory of Ambrose Hartwell’s eyes on her in that final moment before she’d left the dining room, not dismissive anymore, but sharp with something that might have been curiosity. She’d wanted him to see her as more than an inconvenient obstacle.

She should have been more careful what she wished for. The journey to Ridgemore Manor took 4 hours by carriage, and Caroline spent most of them watching the landscape transform from the gentle hills of their estate to the more dramatic terrain of the Duke’s holdings. Ridgemore sat on the edge of the Ashworth Valley, where ancient forests gave way to manicured grounds that spoke of generations of wealth and careful management.

The manor itself was imposing. Gray stone that caught the afternoon light, dozens of windows reflecting the sky, gardens that seemed to extend infinitely in every direction. It wasn’t the largest estate Caroline had seen, but it was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful, with an understated elegance that suggested confidence rather than ostentation.

“It’s lovely,” Rosalyn murmured, though her voice held no enthusiasm. Lady Hartwell had traveled ahead in her own carriage and now stood on the front steps to greet them, the Duke beside her. Ambrose wore riding clothes that fit him with the precision of expensive tailoring, his dark hair slightly windousled in a way that should have made him look disheveled, but instead only emphasized his casual authority.

“Miss Sinclair,” he said, handing Rosalyn down from the carriage with practiced courtesy. “Welcome to Ridgemore. I trust the journey was comfortable.” Very much so, your grace. Thank you. His gaze shifted to Caroline, and she saw his mouth quirk slightly, not quite a smile, but close. “Miss Caroline, how unexpected that you decided to join us.

” “My sister requested my company,” Caroline replied, accepting his offered hand with more force than necessary. “I could hardly refuse.” “How devoted!” His fingers were warm around hers, and he held her hand a fraction longer than propriety demanded. I do hope you’ll find our country entertainment sufficiently engaging.

I’d hate for you to be bored into further spiritedness. I’m sure I’ll manage your grace. I find antagonism remarkably stimulating. Caroline, Rosalyn said weakly. Ambrose’s smile widened genuinely this time. Then you’ve come to the right place. I’ve been told I’m quite irritating when I put my mind to it.

Lady Hartwell cleared her throat. Perhaps we should show our guests to their rooms. I’m sure they’d like to refresh themselves before dinner. The chambers they’d been given were connected. Rosalyn’s was a spacious suite overlooking the rose gardens, while Caroline’s was slightly smaller, but equally comfortable, with windows facing the eastern woods.

A maid appeared almost immediately to help them unpack, and Caroline used the time to walk through to Rosalyn’s room. Her sister stood at the window, staring out at the gardens with the expression of someone memorizing a view before a long goodbye. Two months, Caroline said softly. We’ll make them count. Roselyn turned, and for a moment her composure cracked.

David is staying with his cousin in Ashworth. It’s only 10 mi from here. If I could just see him even a few times, we’ll find a way. The Duke will want to spend time with you, I assume. Walks, rides, proper courtship activities. I’ll come along as chaperone, and we’ll work out a system. You do that? I told you anything. A knock interrupted them.

The same maid, a young woman named Mary, Bobbed a curtsy. Begging your pardon, Miss Sinclair, but his grace requests your presence in the library at 4:00. You and Miss Caroline both if it pleases you. After Mary left, Caroline raised an eyebrow. Requests? Is that what we’re calling commands now? Be nice, Rosalyn pleaded.

Please, Carol, for me. So Caroline bit back her irritation and focused on dressing appropriately for an afternoon audience with a duke who probably wanted to establish the rules of engagement for the next two months. She chose a simple afternoon dress in pale blue, nothing designed to impress, but nothing that could be called defiant either.

Rosalind wore lavender, which made her look ethereal and tragically romantic, like a heroine from a Gothic novel about to be locked in a tower. The library was exactly what Caroline expected. Floor toseeiling shelves filled with leather-bound volumes, heavy furniture arranged for both comfort and intimidation, tall windows that flooded the space with golden afternoon light.

Ambrose stood by one of those windows, a book in his hands, looking for all the world like he’d been arranged by an artist to demonstrate the pinnacle of aristocratic refinement. He glanced up as they entered, and Caroline caught the way his gaze swept over Rosalind with polite assessment before landing on her with something sharper.

Recognition, maybe, or challenge. Thank you for joining me, he said, setting the book aside. I thought it best we establish some expectations for the coming weeks. Please sit. They arranged themselves in chairs across from him. Rosalind with perfect posture and folded hands. Caroline, with her spine deliberately relaxed in a way that suggested she was only sitting because she’d chosen to, not because he’d asked. “Ambro noticed.

” “Of course he did, Miss Rosalind,” he began, his tone gentler than Caroline expected. “I want to be clear about my intentions.” “This arrangement was made by our families, but I have no desire to make you uncomfortable. I propose we spend these two months becoming acquainted, properly acquainted, not simply performing for our parents.

Rides, walks, conversations. I’d like to know who you are beyond what society dictates you should be. Rosalyn blinked, clearly surprised. That’s very kind, your grace. It’s practical. We’ll be married for the rest of our lives. We may as well try to find common ground. He turned to Caroline. And you, Miss Caroline, will of course accompany us on these outings.

Has chaperon companion to your sister. How thoughtful, Caroline said. You found a way to keep me close enough to ensure I can’t cause trouble elsewhere. I’ve found a way, he corrected, to respect propriety while allowing Miss Rosalind the comfort of family. Unless you’d prefer to remain in the manor while we explore the grounds. It was a trap, obviously.

If she agreed, she’d be abandoning Rosalind. If she objected, she’d look petulent. I’m sure my sister would appreciate my company, Caroline said sweetly. And I do so enjoy long walks. The fresh air helps clear one’s mind of irritation. Then we’re agreed. Tomorrow morning we’ll ride to the lake. The grounds are quite beautiful this time of year.

I’m not sure I brought appropriate riding clothes, Rosalind began hesitantly. My mother anticipated that. She’s arranged for the modist from Ashworth to call tomorrow afternoon with several options. Consider it a welcome gift. It was generous, thoughtful even, which made Caroline irrationally more annoyed because it was harder to maintain her righteous anger when he was being considerate.

“You’re very kind, your grace,” Rosalind murmured. Ambrose’s gaze lingered on her, and Caroline saw him take in the sadness behind her sister’s polite mask. For a moment something flickered in his expression, not love certainly, but perhaps recognition that the woman sitting before him was more complicated than the arrangement implied.

Then he looked at Caroline, and the moment shattered. Miss Caroline, I noticed at dinner that you have opinions about marriage and duty. Tell me, what would you have done in your sister’s position? It was a challenge disguised as curiosity. Rosalind shot her a warning glance. I would have, Caroline said carefully, made my feelings known to my family, expressed my preferences, hoped they valued my happiness enough to consider alternatives.

And if they didn’t, if duty demanded sacrifice, then I would question whose duty I was sacrificing for, my family’s comfort, society’s expectations, or simply the convenience of men who benefit from women having no choices. She’d gone too far. She knew it the moment the words left her mouth.

Rosalind looked like she might faint, but Ambrose simply leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, studying Caroline with the intensity of someone solving a complex equation. You think I’m benefiting from this arrangement, he said quietly. Aren’t you? You get a beautiful, accomplished wife from a respectable family. Your line continues.

Your mother stops pressuring you to marry and you never have to risk anything as inconvenient as actual feeling. Caroline, Roslin gasped, but Ambrose held up a hand. No, let her finish. He fixed Caroline with those unsettling gray blue eyes. You believe I’m incapable of feeling, Miss Caroline, or simply unwilling? I believe you’ve built your entire life around control.

Feeling requires vulnerability, and vulnerability requires trust. You don’t trust anyone or anything you can’t manage. The silence that followed was suffocating. Rosalind looked ready to drag Caroline bodily from the room. Lady Hartwell, had she been present, would likely have called for smelling salts. But Ambrose simply smiled.

A real smile this time, edged with something that might have been respect, or might have been the pleasure of finding a worthy opponent. “You’re not entirely wrong,” he admitted. “Control is useful. It keeps estates running, families secure, reputations intact. But you mistake control for coldness. They’re not the same.

Then prove it, Caroline heard herself say. These two months actually get to know my sister, not as an acquisition, but as a person. Find out what she loves, what she fears, what she dreams about. And if at the end you can honestly say you care about her happiness more than your convenience, then maybe I’ll believe you’re capable of feeling after all.

It was reckless, dangerous. But Ambrose didn’t look angry. He looked intrigued. A challenge then. Very well, Miss Caroline. I accept. He turned to Rosalind, his expressions softening. And I promise you, Miss Rosalind, I will do my best to know you whatever that reveals. Rosalind nodded, mute with shock at how thoroughly the conversation had spiraled beyond her control.

As they left the library, she grabbed Caroline’s arm hard enough to hurt. “What were you thinking?” she hissed. “You practically dared him to to to actually caught you instead of just going through the motions,” Caroline finished. “Isn’t that better? Better? Carol, if he actually tries to know me, he might discover.” She stopped paling that you’re in love with someone else.

Caroline squeezed her hand. We’ll be careful. When he suggests outings, we’ll use them. I’ll be the buffer, the chaperone, the excuse. And when we get the chance, you’ll slip away to see David. We’ll make this work. But as they climbed the stairs to their rooms, Caroline couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just set something in motion that none of them could control, least of all her.

The morning ride began exactly as Caroline expected, with awkwardness, forced conversation, and the overwhelming sense that she was intruding on something that wasn’t quite a courtship, but wasn’t quite anything else either. Ambrose had provided them with horses from his stable, a gentle mare for Rosland, and a more spirited gray for Caroline that seemed designed to test whether she could actually ride, or had simply been bluffing about enjoying it.

She swung into the saddle with perhaps more aggression than necessary, which earned her a raised eyebrow from the Duke. Careful, Miss Caroline. Artemis has strong opinions about riders who grip too tight. Then she’ll appreciate my light touch, won’t she? Caroline settled her weight, and the mayor shifted beneath her, testing. Caroline relaxed fractionally, and Artemis calmed.

“Well,” Ambrose observed. “The horse or me? I haven’t decided yet.” They rode out through the eastern gates, following a path that wound through managed woodland before opening onto rolling meadows that sloped down toward a glittering lake. It was beautiful, almost offensively so, as if the landscape had been designed specifically to make romantic declarations inevitable.

Ambrose rode beside Rosalind, pointing out landmarks and explaining the history of the estate with the ease of someone who’d given this tour a hundred times. Roselyn smiled and nodded at appropriate intervals, but Caroline could see the tension in her sister’s shoulders, the way her gaze kept drifting toward the horizon, as if David might materialize there through sheer force of will.

“The lake is spring-fed,” Ambrose was saying. The water’s quite cold, even in summer, but the fishing is excellent. “Do you ride often, Miss Rosalind?” “Not as much as I’d like,” Rosalind admitted. Our father prefers we focus on more refined pursuits such as needle work, watercolors, French conversation. Sounds tedious.

Roselyn’s head snapped up in surprise. It’s what’s expected. That doesn’t make it less tedious. He glanced back at Caroline, who deliberately fallen a few paces behind. Your sister seems to have more flexibility in her education. She quotes philosophy and argues political theory, neither of which are typical accomplishments for young women.

“My sister is hardly typical,” Rosalyn said with a hint of warmth Caroline didn’t expect. “No,” Ambrose agreed, his tone impossible to read. “She’s certainly that.” They reached the lake’s edge, where a small folly stood, a white column structure with benches overlooking the water. Ambrose dismounted and helped Rosalyn down with practiced courtesy, then turned to offer Caroline the same assistance.

She ignored his hand and dismounted herself, which made Artemis sidestep nervously. “Independent to a fault,” Ambrose murmured, steadying the mayor. “Is that a fault? I thought self-sufficiency was a virtue.” “It is, but so is accepting help when it’s offered. Perhaps I’m selective about whose help I accept.” meaning mine doesn’t qualify? Meaning I haven’t decided yet.

His mouth twitched, that almost smile again. Fair enough. They settled onto the benches, Rosalind and Ambrose sitting across from each other with Caroline positioned slightly to the side, playing chaperon, but feeling more like a third wheel. The conversation drifted towards safe topics, books, music, the upcoming season, and Caroline watched her sister navigate it with the skill of someone who’d been trained her entire life for exactly this kind of performance.

But beneath the polish, Rosalind was somewhere else. Her smiles didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her responses came a beat too late, as if she had to pull herself back from distant thoughts. Ambrose noticed. Caroline saw him notice. His questions became gentler, less probing, as if he sensed he was pushing against something fragile.

“The modist will arrive this afternoon,” he said eventually. “I hope you’ll find something to your liking. And if you need anything else, books, art supplies, anything that might make your stay more comfortable, you need only ask.” “You’re very generous,” Roslin said softly. “I’m practical. Comfortable guests are happy guests, and happy guests are less likely to, he glanced at Caroline, cause dinner disasters.

That was one time, Caroline protested. One memorable time. If you’re expecting me to apologize, I’m not. I’m expecting you to do it again, probably within the week. I’ve resigned myself to it. Despite herself, Caroline felt her lips twitch. Resigned yourself? How noble. I like to think so. Rosalind cleared her throat.

Perhaps we should head back. The modista will be arriving soon, and I’d like to refresh before meeting her. Of course, Ambrose stood, offering his hand to Rosalind. This time, Caroline noted, her sister took it without hesitation, a practiced motion born from years of accepting such courtesies without thinking. The ride back was quieter.

As they approached the manor, Roselyn suddenly turned to Ambrose. Your grace, would it be possible to receive correspondence here? I have several friends I’d like to write to during our stay. Naturally, the post goes out daily. You’re welcome to use the estate stationary, or I can have your personal supplies brought from your rooms. Thank you. That’s very kind.

Caroline understood immediately. Rosalind was establishing a channel to communicate with David. It was clever. letters could be sent to his cousin’s address, arrangements made, meetings coordinated, all under the cover of maintaining friendships. If Ambrose suspected anything, he gave no sign. He simply nodded and continued riding, his attention already shifting to whatever ducal responsibilities awaited him.

But Caroline caught the way his gaze lingered on Rosalyn’s face, studying her with that unsettling intensity. He wasn’t suspicious yet, but he was curious, and curiosity, Caroline knew, could be far more dangerous than suspicion. The modist’s visit consumed the afternoon. Madame Desom arrived with two assistants and enough fabric to clothe half the county, transforming Roselyn’s room into a makeshift salon.

Lady Hartwell presided over the fittings with the enthusiasm of a general planning a campaign, suggesting colors and styles, while Madame Deson measured and pinned with expert efficiency. Caroline tried to escape, but Lady Hartwell insisted she be fitted as well. You’re a guest in this house, Miss Caroline.

It would be inappropriate for you to lack proper attire. So Caroline endured 3 hours of being draped in fabrics, measured for riding habits, and morning dresses and evening gowns. she had no desire to own. Madame Deson was talented, she gave the woman that. Every piece was exquisitly made with careful attention to cut and detail that transformed even Caroline’s serviceable figure into something almost elegant.

“The blue brings out your eyes,” Lady Hartwell observed, examining Caroline in a dayd dress of soft periwinkle. “You should wear it to dinner tomorrow. I’m sure my current wardrobe is sufficient. Nonsense. You’re under my roof and I won’t have it said I neglected my guests. Lady Hartwell’s tone left no room for argument.

By the time Madame Desamp departed, promising delivery of the finished pieces within the week, Caroline felt rung out and vaguely resentful of the entire concept of fashion. Rosalind, however, looked energized. “I wrote to David,” she whispered the moment they were alone. “Sent it with the post this afternoon. His cousin’s estate is close enough for day visits.

If I could just We’ll make it work. Caroline promised. The Duke wants to spend time with you. We’ll turn those outings into opportunities. You’re certain. Trust me. The next morning brought the first real test of their plan. Ambrose suggested a walk through the formal gardens after breakfast, and Rosalind immediately agreed, but only if Caroline accompanies us.

She’s been admiring the roses. Caroline had said no such thing, but she played along, nodding enthusiastically. They’re quite remarkable. Ambrose’s expression suggested he saw straight through the excuse, but he simply inclined his head. Of course, the gardens are extensive. We’ll meet in the entrance hall in an hour. They did.

Rosalyn wore one of her new morning dresses, pale yellow that made her look like captured sunlight, and carried a parasol she definitely didn’t need given the cloud cover. Caroline opted for practical green and no parasol, earning an amused glance from the Duke. You prefer to face the elements directly, Miss Caroline.

I prefer not to be encumbered by unnecessary accessories. An admirable philosophy, shall we? The gardens were indeed extensive, a carefully designed progression from formal parts near the house to wilder, more naturalistic plantings as they moved outward. Ambrose walked beside Rosalind, pointing out particular specimens and explaining the work his headgarder had done to expand the collections.

Rosalind listened politely, but kept glancing toward the eastern edge of the property, where the gardens gave way to open parkland. “Is something wrong?” Ambrose asked. “No, I just I thought I saw a deer. I’ve always loved watching them. There’s a small herd that grazes near the woods in the morning. If you’d like, we could walk that direction.

” It was exactly what Rosalind wanted. That would be lovely. They turned toward the parkland, following a path that meandered through carefully maintained wilderness. As they rounded a bend, Rosalind suddenly stopped. “Oh, I’ve forgotten my handkerchief.” “Caroline, would you mind terribly going back to fetch it?” “I left it in the morning room.

It was a transparent excuse.” Caroline opened her mouth to object. This wasn’t the plan. They hadn’t established any system yet, but Roselyn’s eyes held desperate pleading. Of course, Caroline heard herself say, “I’ll just be a moment.” She turned back toward the house, walking slowly enough to give Rosalyn time for whatever she’d planned.

When she reached the morning room, where there was unsurprisingly no handkerchief, she waited exactly 10 minutes before heading back. She found Ambrose alone on the path, examining a flowering shrub with more attention than it warranted. Where’s Rosalind?” Caroline asked, though she suspected she knew. She spotted the deer herd and wanted a closer look.

She assured me she’d only be a moment and that I should wait here. He straightened, brushing pollen from his fingers. “I’m beginning to think the deer are more elusive than she anticipated.” His tone was mild, but Caroline heard the question beneath it. “My sister loves nature,” she said carefully.

“She probably lost track of time.” M Ambrose studied her with those two perceptive eyes. Strange how she forgot her handkerchief just before discovering an urgent need to view wildlife alone. Is it? People forget things all the time. Do they? Or do they manufacture excuses to create private moments for unstated purposes? Caroline’s pulse quickened.

I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I’m sure you do. He took a step closer and Caroline fought the urge to retreat. Tell me, Miss Caroline, what exactly is your sister doing in those woods, looking at deer, as she said, “And if I were to follow her, what would I find?” “Dear, presumably, and an annoyed woman who values her privacy.

” “Privacy,” he said the word like he was tasting it. “An interesting priority for someone supposedly courting. Perhaps she needs occasional solitude. Not everyone finds constant companionship enjoyable. No, he agreed softly. Some people prefer the companionship of those not chosen for them. Caroline’s breath caught. He knew, or he suspected.

Either way, this was spiraling dangerously fast. Your grace, don’t. The word was quiet, but sharp. Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending this is anything other than what it obviously is. Your sister is meeting someone. The question is whether you’ll tell me who or whether I’ll need to discover it myself. She’s doing nothing inappropriate.

I didn’t say she was, but she’s certainly doing something secret. And secrets, Miss Caroline, have a way of becoming scandals if not managed carefully. They stood frozen, 2 ft apart, locked in silent battle. Caroline’s mind raced. If she admitted the truth, what would he do? Forbid Rosalind from leaving the estate? end the two-month arrangement early, report back to their parents.

But if she lied and he investigated, it would be worse. “She loves someone,” Caroline said finally. The words dragged from her like teeth. “Someone our father won’t allow her to marry. She’s saying goodbye, that’s all.” Ambrose’s expression didn’t change. “And you’re helping her. I’m being a sister. You’re facilitating deception.

I’m giving her a few stolen hours before she’s forced into a marriage she doesn’t want with a man she doesn’t love. The words burst out sharper than Caroline intended. So yes, your grace, I’m helping her because unlike you, I think her happiness matters more than duty or propriety or whatever convenient fiction we’re all pretending to believe. Silence.

Then you think I don’t care about her happiness. I think you care about your own convenience more. Then you don’t know me at all. His voice had gone soft, almost dangerous. But you’re about to. He moved past her, heading toward the woods, and Caroline grabbed his arm without thinking. Please don’t take this from her. She’s going to marry you.

She’s accepted that. Just let her have these few weeks to to grieve what she’s losing. Please. Ambrose looked down at her hand on his sleeve, then up at her face. Something shifted in his expression, not softening exactly, but reccalibrating. How long has she loved him? 3 years. and your father refused. He’s not titled enough, not ambitious enough, not useful enough to the family.

Caroline’s voice cracked. He is just a good man who loves her. Apparently, that’s insufficient. Ambrose was quiet for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he stepped back toward the path. She has 5 more minutes before I expect her return. I suggest you signal her somehow. And Miss Caroline, yes. This conversation never happened.

But if I’m to tolerate these disappearances, I expect honesty about their frequency. I won’t have the Sinclair name or yours damaged by carelessness. Whatever she’s doing, it remains invisible. Understood. Caroline stared at him, shocked into silence. He was allowing it. Why? I don’t understand. She managed. You said I can’t feel.

Perhaps I’m proving you wrong. His gaze held hers. Or perhaps I simply recognize that forcing someone into intimacy when their heart is elsewhere would be both cruel and futile. Either way, your sister has her goodbye, but in exchange, you help me ensure it remains discreet. You want me to to help arrange their meetings? I want you to ensure they don’t cause a scandal that will ruin all three of us.

Can you do that? It was a bargain with the devil, or at least with a duke, which Caroline suspected might be the same thing, but it was also more than she dared hope for. “Yes,” she whispered. “I can do that.” “Good.” He turned back toward the house. “Now go fetch your sister before someone else notices her absence.

And Miss Caroline, next time she needs to escape, try a more convincing excuse.” The dear story was painfully transparent. He walked away, leaving Caroline standing alone on the path. her mind reeling. Ambrose Hartwell was allowing Rosalyn to meet with David, was helping them even in his own autocratic way, which meant either he was far kinder than Caroline had given him credit for, or he was playing a longer game she didn’t yet understand.

She found Rosalyn 10 minutes later, emerging from the woods with flush cheeks and bright eyes. “David was there,” she whispered urgently. “Just beyond the treeine. We only had a few minutes, but Carol, just seeing him, the Duke knows.” Rosalind went white. “What?” Caroline explained quickly, watching her sister’s face cycle through fear, confusion, and tentative hope.

“He’s allowing it?” Rosalind breathed. “Why?” “I don’t know, but he is.” “We just have to be careful.” They walked back to find Ambrose exactly where Caroline had left him, still examining the flowering shrub as if nothing had happened. “Did you find the deer?” he asked Rosalind politely. Yes, they were beautiful. Splendid.

Shall we continue the tour, or would you prefer to return to the house? The house, I think, if that’s acceptable. Of course. They walked back in loaded silence, and Caroline couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just witnessed something shift, though. Whether toward danger or something else entirely, she couldn’t begin to guess.

The next 3 days established a pattern that felt both surreal and fragile. Ambrose would suggest an outing. a ride, a walk, an exploration of some corner of the estate, and Rosalind would accept, always insisting Caroline accompany them. Within the first 20 minutes, Rosalind would manufacture some excuse to disappear, a forgotten item, an urgent need to return to the house, a sudden fascination with some distant feature of the landscape, and Caroline would be left alone with the Duke.

It should have been unbearable. Instead, it was something else entirely. The first time Caroline tried to maintain hostile silence, but Ambrose, apparently deciding he’d tolerate the arrangement, but wouldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening, simply started talking about the estate, his responsibilities, the delicate balance of managing land and people, and expectations.

“You think it’s easy,” he said as they walked through the orchard while Rosalind was allegedly checking on the health of a particular apple tree. half a mile away. Being born to this, having every door open, every person defer, but it’s a cage, Miss Caroline. A beautiful one, certainly, but still a cage. A cage you benefit from enormously.

True, which doesn’t make it less confining. He picked an apple from a low branch, examining it. Every choice I make affects hundreds of people. Every word I speak is analyzed. Every action judged. I can’t afford mistakes. can’t afford passion or recklessness or spontaneity. Everything must be controlled, measured, appropriate.

That sounds lonely, he glanced at her, surprised. It is, but it’s also necessary. Is it? Or is it simply what you’ve convinced yourself to believe because the alternative is too frightening? And what’s the alternative in your view? Living? Actually living instead of just performing aristocracy? He laughed.

A real laugh, rough and unexpected. living. What an exotic concept. Mock me all you want. At least I know what I feel. Do you? He turned to face her fully. Or do you simply have the luxury of feeling without consequences? Your passions don’t affect hundreds of tenants. Your mistakes don’t jeopardize family legacies.

You’re free to be as spirited as you like because no one’s survival depends on your restraint. It stung because it was partially true. Caroline’s freedom was born from her lack of responsibility. Her position as the younger daughter who would never inherit, never rule, never have to choose between personal happiness and collective welfare.

That doesn’t make your choice right, she said quietly. It just makes it easier to justify. Perhaps, he bit into the apple, his gaze never leaving hers. Or perhaps I’m simply more honest about the trade-offs. You think I’m cold because I accept duty over desire? I think you’re naive because you believe desire is enough. And what about my sister? Where does she fall in your philosophy of acceptable tradeoffs? Your sister, he said carefully, is an admirable woman who deserves better than a husband who would force her to forget someone she loves.

Then why agree to marry her? Because I need an heir. Because my mother has been pressing me for 5 years to secure the succession. Because your sister meets every requirement for a duchess, and your father was enthusiastic about the match, he paused. Because I never expected to love my wife, so it seemed irrelevant whether she loved me.

The raw honesty of it left Caroline momentarily speechless. That’s bleak, she managed. That’s pragmatic. Love is for poets and romantics. Marriage is for dynasties. What a sad way to live. What a functional way to survive. He tossed the apple core into the grass. “Your sister will appear in approximately 3 minutes, having supposedly inspected every tree in the orchard, despite lacking any agricultural expertise whatsoever.

We should head back toward the house, so her timing seems plausible.” He was right. Rosalind emerged exactly when he predicted, slightly breathless and wearing an expression of forced innocence that wouldn’t have fooled a child. But Ambrose simply smiled and offered her his arm. Find anything interesting? The trees are very healthy.

How fortunate. Caroline and I were just discussing philosophy. Oh. Rosalind glanced between them nervously. Your sister believes I’m living in a cage of my own making. I believe she’s living in a delusion of consequence-free emotion. We’ve agreed to disagree. That sounds civil. Astonishingly so.

He guided them toward the house. I’ve invited several neighbors to dinner tomorrow night. Nothing formal, but I thought it might be pleasant for you to meet the local families. Roselyn tensed. A dinner party? A small one? My mother insisted. Apparently, keeping you hidden away would fuel speculation. Of course.

Roselyn’s voice had gone flat again. That practiced politeness that meant she was screaming internally. Thank you, your grace. Caroline watched her sister retreat behind perfect manners, watched Ambrose notice and choose not to push, and felt something twist uncomfortably in her chest. He was allowing Rosaline to see David, was giving her this space to grieve and adjust.

It was more than Caroline had expected, more than she dared hope for. So why did it make her feel worse? The dinner party was exactly as excruciating as Caroline anticipated. eight guests, local gentry, a baronet and his wife, the vicar, and a widow named Mrs. Peton, who spent the entire first course explaining her daughter’s accomplishments in exhausting detail.

Caroline sat between the vicar, a kindly man who seemed genuinely interested in discussing theology, and a young man named Thomas Blackwood, who couldn’t quite hide his disappointment at being seated next to the younger Sinclair sister instead of the one reportedly engaged to the Duke. Rosalind, positioned beside Ambrose at the head of the table, played her role flawlessly, attentive without being affusive, charming without being forward, exactly what a future duchess should be.

No one watching would guess her heart was 10 mi away, with a man she’d never be allowed to marry. Caroline tried to focus on the vicar’s gentle questions about her reading preferences, but her attention kept drifting to Ambrose. He was in his element here, commanding without dominating, drawing out conversation, ensuring everyone felt included and valued.

This was what he’d been trained for, managing people, creating harmony, wielding social grace like a weapon that left everyone better off without quite realizing they’d been disarmed. It should have been insufferable. Instead, it was mesmerizing. Miss Caroline. She jerked her attention back to the vicer, who was looking at her with concern.

I’m so sorry I was distracted. I asked if you enjoyed poetry. His grace mentioned you had strong opinions about Byron. I never She caught Ambrose’s gaze across the table. He was listening to Mrs. Peton, but watching Caroline, that almost smile playing at his lips. Yes, I think Byron is brilliant but exhausting.

All that passionate suffering becomes tedious after the first 100 pages. The vicar laughed. a fair assessment, though I suspect the suffering is rather the point. Then perhaps the point is overrated. From the head of the table, Ambrose’s voice carried over the general conversation. Miss Caroline believes emotional restraint is undervalued in modern literature.

I’ve been trying to convince her that passion has its place. Every head turned toward her. Caroline felt her face heat. I believe, she said carefully, that feeling everything intensely is exhausting for the person feeling and everyone around them. But feeling nothing at all, Ambrose countered, his gaze locked on hers, is rather tragic, don’t you think? I think there’s a middle ground between Byron and emotional vacancy.

Is there? I’ve never found it. Something in his tone made the conversation feel less like dinner party banter and more like a private argument continuing across a crowded room. Caroline was suddenly acutely aware that everyone was watching them, including Rosalind, whose expression had gone carefully blank. Perhaps, Caroline said lightly, your grace simply hasn’t been looking in the right places. Perhaps you’re right.

He lifted his wine glass in a slight salute before turning back to Mrs. Peton. Now you were telling me about your daughter’s watercolors. The conversation moved on, but Caroline couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. Ambrose was watching her when he thought she wasn’t looking, and worse, she was watching him back.

After dinner, the ladies withdrew while the men remained for port. Lady Hartwell organized them in the drawing room, and Caroline found herself cornered by Mrs. Peton. Such a fortunate match for your sister, the woman gushed. The Duke is quite the prize. Every young lady in three counties had hopes. How devastating for them, Caroline said neutrally.

And you, my dear, any prospects? I know a lovely young man from Ashworth, merchant’s son, but quite respectable. Perhaps I could arrange an introduction. That’s very kind, but Caroline prefers to remain unattached. Rosalind cut in smoothly, rescuing her. She values her independence. How modern, Mrs. Peton sniffed.

Though independence is cold comfort in old age, I always say, then it’s fortunate, Caroline replied, that I find cold comfort preferable to warm misery. Mrs. Peton looked scandalized, but before she could respond, the men rejoined them. Ambrose immediately gravitated toward Rosalind, and Caroline watched them settle into a corner for what appeared to be private conversation.

Her sister looked exhausted, her smile worn thin. She’s quite lovely, a voice said beside her. Thomas Blackwood had appeared with two glasses of wine. Your sister, he’s very fortunate. Yes, Caroline agreed, accepting the wine. He is, though I confess I find you far more interesting. Caroline blinked. I’m sorry. You say what you think.

It’s rare. Refreshing even. He smiled and it was nice enough. Open, uncomplicated. Would you walk with me in the conservatory? I’d love to hear more of your thoughts on poetry, especially the tedious suffering. She should have said no, should have stayed visible, should have maintained propriety. But Rosalind was occupied, and Caroline desperately needed space from a room that felt increasingly suffocating.

“That would be lovely,” she heard herself say. They slipped into the conservatory, a glass roofed edition filled with exotic plants and the thick scent of humid earth. Thomas proved pleasant company, educated, witty, with none of the aggressive flirtation she’d expected. They discussed books and music and the absurdities of social expectation, and Caroline found herself genuinely enjoying the conversation until a voice cut through from the doorway.

Miss Caroline, a word, if you please. She turned to find Ambrose standing silhouetted against the drawing room light, his expression unreadable. Thomas straightened immediately. Your grace. We were just discussing. I’m sure you were. If you’ll excuse us, Blackwood, I need to speak with Miss Caroline regarding her sister.

It was a dismissal disguised as courtesy. Thomas had no choice but to bow and retreat, casting Caroline an apologetic glance. The moment he was gone, Ambrose stepped into the conservatory, closing the door behind him. Regarding my sister, Caroline asked coolly. That was a creative excuse. I needed to speak with you about About the fact that you disappeared into a private room with a man you’ve known for 3 hours. Caroline’s temper flared.

And I’m not the one engaged. I’m not the one who needs to maintain a spotless reputation for dynastic purposes. or have you decided to police my behavior as well as my sisters? I’m trying to protect you from gossip. I don’t need your protection. I need She stopped, breathing hard, surprised by her own vehements.

What? Ambrose demanded, stepping closer. What do you need? I need people to stop treating me like I’m Rosalyn’s shadow. I need to stop spending every moment facilitating a courtship between my sister and a man who’s too controlled to admit he might actually care. I need what? He was very close now. Close enough that she could see the flexcks of darker blue in his eyes.

Close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. Tell me. I need you to stop looking at me like that. Like what? Like I’m like your She broke off, furious at herself for stuttering. Like I’m what, Caroline? The use of her first name, stripped of its formal miss, hit like a physical thing. Like you see me, she whispered.

Not as Rosalyn’s sister or a convenient chaperone or a spirited inconvenience. Just me. His hand came up, almost touching her face before dropping back to his side. I do see you. God help me. I can’t seem to stop seeing you. The air between them felt charged with something dangerous and impossible. Caroline’s breath caught.

This couldn’t happen. He was meant for Rosalind. This arrangement, these two months were supposed to be about giving her sister time with David, not not this. Your grace, don’t. His voice was rough. Don’t retreat behind formality now. What else am I supposed to do? You’re engaged to my sister. I’m not engaged to anyone. Not yet. Not officially.

He ran a hand through his hair, disrupting its perfect arrangement. And your sister is in love with another man. We both know this arrangement is a fiction. A fiction you agreed to. A fiction that protects her reputation and gives her these weeks to say goodbye. We can’t. I can’t. Caroline backed toward the door. This conversation never happened. Caroline.

No. She reached for the handle. You made a bargain. Two months for Rosalyn to have her goodbye, and in exchange I helped keep it discreet. That’s all this is. That’s all it can be. She fled before he could respond, slipping back into the drawing room where Rosalind was deep in conversation with the vicer.

Her sister glanced up, concern flickering across her face at whatever she saw in Caroline’s expression, but Caroline shook her head slightly. Later, the rest of the evening passed in a blur of forced conversation and careful avoidance. Caroline positioned herself strategically to never be in Ambrose’s direct line of sight, never alone, never anywhere that might invite private discussion.

When the guests finally departed and Lady Hartwell retired for the evening, Caroline practically ran to her room. She made it exactly three steps inside before collapsing onto the bed, pressing her palms against her eyes. She was attracted to him. Worse, she was interested in him. the man who was supposed to marry her sister, who represented everything Caroline claimed to despise about arranged marriages and duty over feeling.

And yet, when he’d looked at her in that conservatory, when he’d said he couldn’t stop seeing her, a soft knock interrupted her spiral. Rosalyn slipped in without waiting for an answer. “What happened?” Her sister sat beside her, taking Caroline’s hands. “You looked devastated when you came back from the conservatory.

Did his grace say something to upset you? No. Yes, I don’t know. Caroline laughed weakly. Rosie, this is a disaster. Tell me. So Caroline did haltingly shamefully. The weeks of being left alone with Ambrose, their arguments that felt more like courtship, the way he watched her, the way she’d started watching him back, the conservatory confrontation, his admission, her retreat.

Rosalyn listened without interrupting, her expression shifting from concern to surprise to something Caroline couldn’t quite read. Oh, Carol, she said finally. I know. I’m terrible. He’s meant for you, and I He was never meant for me. Rosalyn squeezed her hands. Not really. This arrangement was always about duty and expectation, not about actual compatibility.

And I’ve been so focused on David that I didn’t notice what was happening between you two. Nothing’s happening. Nothing can happen. But you want it to. What I want is irrelevant. You need this arrangement. You need these two months. I need my sister to be happy. Roselyn’s eyes were bright. And for the first time since this nightmare began, I’m seeing a possibility where maybe maybe both of us could be. Rosie, no.

Father would never allow me to marry the Duke. You’re the elder. You’re the one he chose. Father chose a Duke. Any Duke. And if Ambrose prefers you. She paused. Does he prefer you? I don’t know. Maybe. It doesn’t matter. We can’t betray you like this. You’re not betraying me. I’m giving you permission.

No, I’m practically begging you. If the Duke wants you instead of me, if that means I can marry David, her voice cracked with hope. We could both be free, Carol. Both of us could have what we actually want. Father will never agree. Then we make him agree, or we don’t tell him until it’s too late to change. Roselyn stood, pacing.

The Duke has power. Social standing. If he declares his intention to marry you instead of me, father can’t refuse without causing a massive scandal. And if I simultaneously announce my engagement to David, it would destroy our family’s reputation, or it would be seen as a romantic complication that resolved itself, fortunately.

Two sisters, two love matches. The ton would eat it up. Caroline stared at her sister, this gentle, dutiful woman who was suddenly proposing something bordering on rebellion. You’ve thought about this. I’ve thought about little else since you told me the Duke knew about David. He’s allowing me to see him, Carol.

No one that cold and duty bound would do that unless she smiled. Unless he had his own reasons to want this arrangement to change. We don’t even know if he if I Caroline couldn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t know how to articulate the terrifying possibility that Ambrose Hartwell might actually want her. Not as a substitute for Rosalind, but as herself.

Then find out, Rosalind urged. You have nearly 2 months left. Spend them actually talking to him instead of pretending you don’t feel anything. And if it becomes something real, something he’ll fight for, we’ll find a way to make it work. After Rosalind left, Caroline lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling and trying to reconcile the future she’d imagined, spinsterhood, independence, eventual irrelevance, with the one her sister was proposing.

A future that included a duke who saw her, who challenged her, who’d admitted he couldn’t stop watching her. A future that terrified her more than anything else ever had. The next morning brought rain, a steady downpour that trapped everyone inside and made the manor feel suddenly smaller. Caroline came down to breakfast to find only Lady Hartwell and Ambrose in the dining room engaged in what appeared to be a tense discussion.

We cannot simply ignore protocol. Lady Hartwell was saying the engagement should be announced within the month. Any longer and people will speculate. Let them speculate. Ambrose didn’t look up from his newspaper. I told you, Miss Rosalind needs time to adjust. Time to adjust. Ambrose, you’re being absurd. The girl is perfectly pleasant, well bred, everything we could want.

What more adjustment does she need? Perhaps I need the adjustment, mother. Lady Hartwell noticed Caroline in the doorway and fell silent. Ambrose glanced up, and something flickered in his eyes. Awareness, maybe, or weariness. Miss Caroline, good morning. I trust you slept well. Well enough, thank you. She served herself from the sideboard, trying to project normaly despite feeling like her skin was on fire.

Where’s Rosalind? Writing letters in her room, she mentioned wanting to catch the morning post. Lady Hartwell’s tone suggested she found this mildly suspicious, but couldn’t quite articulate why. Caroline sat, focusing intently on her eggs. The silence stretched awkwardly. The rain should clear by this afternoon. Ambrose offered eventually.

I thought perhaps we might explore the library. Miss Rosalind mentioned an interest in the history collection. It was clearly an excuse for another manufactured outing. Caroline should refuse, should maintain distance, should not spend more time alone with a man who made her feel increasingly unsteady. That sounds lovely, she heard herself say.

Lady Hartwell’s gaze sharpened, moving between them. Perhaps I should join you. I’ve been meaning to catalog some of the older volumes. No need, mother. I’m sure you have estate business to review. Miss Caroline can chaperone adequately. Miss Caroline is the younger sister. Hardly a proper chaperone.

Miss Caroline, Ambrose said mildly, is sitting right here and capable of making her own decisions about propriety. Three sets of eyes turned to Caroline. She felt trapped, cornered by expectation and possibility in equal measure. I’m happy to accompany Rosalind wherever his grace suggests, she said carefully, if my sister is comfortable with the arrangement.

Of course, Lady Hartwell murmured, though her expression suggested growing suspicion. How devoted you are to your sister’s comfort. After breakfast, Caroline found Rosalind in her room, surrounded by sealed letters. David’s cousin is hosting a small gathering this Thursday, Rosalyn said without preamble. A garden party. very informal.

David will be there. She looked up, hope and fear waring in her face. Could you would the Duke allow I’ll ask. Caroline picked up one of the letters, noting the direction. You’re writing to everyone you know, establishing that I have an active social correspondence. So if letters to David’s cousin’s address appear regularly, no one questions it.

Rosalyn smiled slightly. I’m not as naive as father thinks. No one who knows you could ever think you naive. The Duke does. No, me. I mean, he’s been very kind, Carol. Kinder than he needed to be, which is why I think, she hesitated. I think he’d be relieved if this arrangement changed. If he had a reason to prefer you, that father couldn’t refuse.

Rosie, I’m just saying if something happens between you two, don’t fight it for my sake. I’ve made my peace with the possibility. She stood, gathering her letters. Now come on. We have a library to explore and a duke to subtly torment. They found Ambrose already in the library, examining a leatherbound volume near the windows.

Rain streaked the glass behind him, turning the room gray and intimate. He looked up as they entered, and Caroline watched his gaze move from Rosalind to her and stay there. Miss Rosalind. Caroline. The omission of her title felt deliberate. I’ve pulled several volumes on the history of the estate. I thought you might find them interesting.

How thoughtful. Rosalind drifted toward the shelves with transparent disinterest. Within 5 minutes, she’d manufactured an excuse about needing her spectacles and disappeared, leaving Caroline alone with Ambrose for the third time in as many days. The silence felt different this time, waited with yesterday’s conversation with things said and unsaid.

Your sister, Ambrose observed, is remarkably consistent in her sudden needs to be elsewhere. She trusts you that you won’t, Caroline stopped. Won’t what? Compromise her reputation while she’s compromising mine by meeting her lover. He said it without heat, almost amused. I told you, Caroline, I’m allowing this because forcing intimacy when her heart belongs elsewhere would be cruel.

Not because I’m noble, but because I’m practical. And what about your heart? The question escaped before Caroline could stop it. Ambrose’s expression shuddered. I don’t have the luxury of a heart. I have responsibilities. That’s not an answer. It’s the only answer I can afford. He set down the book, crossing to where she stood. But since we’re apparently being honest this morning, why did you run last night? Because I Caroline swallowed hard.

Because whatever this is between us, it can’t happen. Why not? Because you’re meant for Rosalind. Because our families have expectations. Because I’m the younger daughter and you’re a duke. And this isn’t how these things work. Those are reasons other people would object. What’s your reason? She met his eyes.

Those impossible gray blue eyes that saw too much. Because I’m terrified of wanting something I can’t have. Of being wrong about you. of her voice dropped of caring about someone who will choose duty over me the moment it becomes inconvenient. Something cracked in his expression.

You think that little of me? I think you’re exactly who you claim to be. A man who values control and responsibility above everything else, and I’m chaos. I’m inconvenient. I say things I shouldn’t and feel things too intensely, and I would be, she laughed shakily, I would be the worst possible duchess in the history of duchesses. You’re right.

He took another step closer. You would be terrible at it. You’d challenge every social convention, offend half the ton, and make my life infinitely more complicated. Then why? Because I don’t want easy anymore. I want real. And you, Caroline Sinclair, are the most real thing I’ve encountered in years.

The space between them had narrowed to inches. Caroline could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight shadow along his jaw where he’d shaved that morning, the way his pulse beat at his throat. This is a terrible idea, she whispered. Undoubtedly, Rosalyn needs those weeks with David. We can’t complicate that. We won’t.

We’ll be careful. Your mother already suspects something. My mother suspects everything. It’s her natural state. I’m serious. So am I. His hand came up, finally touching her face, just his fingertips against her jaw, but it sent electricity racing through her. I’m not good at this. At feeling, at wanting. You were right about that, but I know I can’t stop thinking about you.

Can’t stop wanting to argue with you and impress you and kiss me. The words emerged barely audible. Yes. His thumb traced her cheekbone. but only if you want. Caroline closed the remaining distance and kissed him. It was nothing like she’d imagined, not controlled or careful or ducal. He kissed like a man starving, his hands coming up to frame her face, tilting her head to deepen the kiss until Caroline forgot where they were.

Forgot everything except the taste of him and the way he made a rough sound in his throat when she gripped his shoulders. When they finally pulled away, both flushed and unsteady, reality crashed back with uncomfortable force. “That shouldn’t have happened,” Caroline said shakily. “No,” Ambrose rested his forehead against hers.

“It absolutely shouldn’t have. We can’t do this again. We can’t.” Neither of them moved. “Ambro, I know.” He stepped back, putting deliberate space between them, and Caroline felt the loss like a physical ache. We’ll be careful. We’ll maintain appearances. We’ll give Rosalind her time with David. But Caroline, his voice roughened.

I meant what I said. I see you. And I don’t know how to stop. Then don’t, she heard herself say, but we have to be smart about this. No one can know. Not yet. Not until we figure out how to how to convince your father to accept a change in plans without destroying both our family’s reputations. Yes, that well. His mouth quirked.

I do enjoy a challenge. Footsteps in the hallway sent them jumping apart like guilty children. Rosalind reappeared, spectacles perched on her nose and an expression of studied innocence that told Caroline her sister had deliberately given them time. Did I miss anything interesting? Rosalind asked brightly.

Just a fascinating discussion of estate management, Ambrose replied smoothly. Riveting stuff, though I think Caroline found it tedious. Everything about estate management is tedious. Caroline agreed, willing her face not to betray her. Rosalyn’s eyes danced. Of course. How disappointing for you both.

Perhaps we should try again tomorrow. I’m sure his grace could make the subject more engaging with proper effort. Perhaps, Ambrose agreed, his gaze finding Caroline’s and holding it just long enough to make her pulse stutter. I do enjoy rising to meet expectations. They spent the rest of the afternoon in careful choreography, maintaining appropriate distance, keeping conversation neutral, pretending the library hadn’t changed everything.

But when they parted for dinner, Ambrose caught Caroline’s hand briefly, a touch so quick anyone watching might have thought it accidental, but it wasn’t, and they both knew it. The next three days felt like walking a tightroppe. By day they maintained the fiction, Ambrose courting Rosalind.

Caroline playing chaperone manufactured separations that left Caroline alone with the Duke while Rosalind met with David. By night, Caroline lay awake replaying conversations. analyzing looks, trying to determine if what was building between them was real or simply proximity and forbidden attraction. Thursday arrived with perfect weather for a garden party.

Rosalind had received a formal invitation from David’s cousin, Mrs. Helena Brennan, a widow with a comfortable estate and apparently more progressive views about love matches than most of society. She knows about David and me, Rosalind explained as they prepared to depart. She’s been helping us. The invitation includes both of us plus his grace if he wishes to attend.

Does he know this is really about you seeing David? I told him this morning. He said it would be inappropriate for me to attend unshaperoned. So he’ll come. Rosalind caught Caroline’s eye in the mirror. And if you two happen to have a few moments alone while David and I are otherwise occupied. Well, accidents happen at garden parties.

Rosie, I want this for you, Carol. Both of you. Promise me you’ll stop fighting it long enough to see where it leads,” so Caroline promised, and tried not to think about all the ways this could end in disaster. The Brennan estate was smaller than Ridgemore, but charming, a tuda manor with extensive gardens, currently filled with perhaps two dozen guests.

Helena Brennan proved to be a handsome woman in her 40s with sharp eyes and a warm smile. Miss Sinclair, Miss Caroline, your grace, what an honor. Please enjoy the grounds. We are quite informal today. Her gaze lingered meaningfully on Rosalind. My cousin David is somewhere near the roses, I believe. He’s been hoping to discuss horiculture with anyone interested.

Subtle as a brick, but effective. Rosalind flushed and excused herself to explore the mentioned roses. Ambrose watched her go with an expression Caroline couldn’t quite read. “She’ll be careful,” Caroline murmured. “I know. Helena’s garden has several secluded corners very convenient for private conversations about horticulture. He offered his arm.

Shall we appear to chaperone while actually doing nothing of the sort? They drifted through the party, exchanging pleasantries with other guests, but gravitating steadily away from the main gathering. Caroline was acutely aware of Ambrose beside her, the warmth of his arm under her hand, the way he subtly steered them toward quieter areas, the occasional glance that made her breath catch.

They ended up in a walled garden, overgrown with climbing roses, and largely forgotten by the main party. Ambrose led her to a bench shaded by an arbor, and for a moment they simply sat, listening to distant conversation and bird song. I spoke with my mother this morning, Ambrose said finally. She’s pressing for an announcement. Thinks we’ve waited long enough.

Caroline’s stomach dropped. What did you tell her? That Miss Rosalind deserves the full 2 months we promised. That rushing would be disrespectful. He paused. She asked if I was developing cold feet. Are you about marrying your sister? Yes. About wanting something real instead of convenient also? Yes, but in a different way. He turned to face her.

Caroline, I need to know. Is this just rebellion for you? A way to defy expectations, or is it something more? The directness of the question left her momentarily speechless. I don’t know, she admitted finally. I know I think about you constantly. I know when I’m alone with you, everything else disappears. I know you frustrate me and challenge me and make me want to be, she struggled for words, braver.

But whether that’s love or just attraction or just the thrill of doing something forbidden, then we figure it out together. His hand found hers, their fingers lacing. I’m not good at this, Caroline. at vulnerability, at risking, but I’m willing to try if you are. And if my father refuses, if he demands you marry Rosalind, as planned, then I tell him no.

He said it simply, as if refusing a Marquest was no more complicated than declining tea. I told you I don’t want easy anymore. I want real. And if that means fighting your father, society, and half the ton, then that’s what I’ll do. You’d really, he kissed her slower this time, deliberate, a promise instead of desperation.

When they broke apart, Caroline found herself half in his lap, his arms solid around her, her hands tangled in his hair. “We should stop,” she managed. “We should,” he agreed, making no move to release her. “Someone could see. Helena’s guests are occupied. Rosalind is with David. No one’s looking for us.

Your mother is at Ridgemore, thankfully oblivious to her son’s catastrophic decision-making. He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. Stay just for a few more minutes. Let me pretend this is simple. So Caroline stayed, curled against him in the dappled shade, and let herself imagine a future where this wasn’t complicated or forbidden or impossible.

They eventually returned to the party, carefully timed to arrive from different directions. Rosalind appeared shortly after, her face glowing in a way that had nothing to do with sunshine. David Brennan was nowhere visible, but Caroline caught him watching from across the garden, a man in his early 30s, with kind eyes and an expression of such profound longing it hurt to witness.

This was what her sister was giving up, this obvious, uncomplicated love, and for what? the possibility that Caroline and Ambrose might convince their families to accept a change in plans that would seem capricious at best, scandalous at worst. On the carriage ride back to Ridgemore, Roselyn sat between them, practically vibrating with suppressed emotion.

The moment they were private enough, she turned to Ambrose. Thank you, your grace, for allowing me this afternoon. You’ve been kinder than I had any right to expect. I’ve been practical, he corrected gently. And honestly, Miss Rosland, I think we need to discuss our situation frankly, all three of us. Rosalyn tensed.

Caroline’s hand found hers. I know you’re in love with David Brennan, Ambrose continued. And I know your father will never approve the match. I also know, he glanced at Caroline. That my feelings have become complicated. You care about my sister, Rosalyn said. It wasn’t a question. Yes. Which puts us in a rather delicate position.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees. Your father expects me to marry you. My mother expects the same. Society certainly expects it. But none of us want this arrangement to continue as planned. So what do we do? Caroline asked. We make them believe it’s their idea or failing that we make refusal impossible without catastrophic scandal. He looked between them.

I can declare my preference for Caroline. Make it public. Make it real. That would force your father’s hand. Refusing a duke who’s explicitly chosen his daughter would be humiliating. But it would also mean dragging both your reputations through society gossip. And if we don’t, Rosalind asked quietly. Then I marry you.

You spend your life miserable. And David spends his waiting for something that will never come. His voice softened. and Caroline spends hers watching it happen, hating me for choosing duty over her. The truth of it hung in the carriage like smoke. “There’s another option,” Rosalyn said slowly. “I could misbehave, create enough scandal that you’d be forced to withdraw.

Then you could honorably pursue Caroline instead, and I’d be considered too damaged for proper marriage, which would force Father to accept David.” “Absolutely not,” Ambrose and Caroline said simultaneously. You’d be ruined, Caroline continued. No one would. I don’t care about society. I care about David and you. And none of us being trapped in lives we don’t want.

There has to be another way, Ambrose said firmly. One that doesn’t require you destroying yourself. They spent the rest of the journey debating possibilities, but each option seemed to require sacrificing someone’s reputation, happiness, or both. By the time they reached Rididgemore, Caroline felt exhausted and no closer to a solution.

That night, unable to sleep, she slipped down to the library. She found Ambrose already there, shirt sleeves rolled up, papers spread across the desk. “Can’t sleep either?” she asked softly. He looked up, and the raw emotion in his face stole her breath. “I keep trying to find a way to make this work. some legal loophole, some social precedent.

But Caroline, I don’t know how to have you without destroying your sister’s chances. Then maybe we can’t have each other. The words tasted like ash. Don’t. He was around the desk in seconds, pulling her close. Don’t give up yet. We still have time. 6 weeks before the announcement deadline. We’ll find a way.

And if we don’t, then I’ll make a choice. And it won’t be duty. He cupped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. Do you understand? If it comes down to doing what’s expected or fighting for what I want, I choose you every time, even if it costs you everything. Especially then, she kissed him, pouring everything she couldn’t say into it.

Fear and hope, and desperate, terrifying love. They stumbled backward until she was pressed against the bookshelf, his body warm and solid against hers. His hands tangled in her hair, her throat cleared from the doorway. They sprang apart like burned. Lady Hartwell stood there, fully dressed despite the late hour, her expression carefully neutral.

I came to retrieve a book, she said mildly. But it seems the library is occupied. Mother, no. Don’t bother explaining. I’m not blind, Ambrose. I’ve watched you these past 2 weeks. The way you watch Miss Caroline, the way you don’t watch Miss Rosalind, she sighed. This is a disaster. Lady Hartwell, please. Caroline began. Hush, child. I’m thinking.

Lady Hartwell crossed to the window, staring out at the moonlit gardens. You’ve formed an attachment to the wrong sister. The younger, less suitable sister. Meanwhile, the one you’re supposed to marry is apparently in love with someone else. Yes. Ambrose, I know about David Brennan. I have better spies than you give me credit for. Silence, then.

What are you going to do? Ambrose asked quietly. That depends. Is this? She gestured between them. Is this real, or is it merely lust and proximity? It’s real, Caroline said before she could stop herself. At least for me. And you? Lady Hartwell turned to her son. I love her. He said it simply, and Caroline’s world tilted. I didn’t plan to.

I don’t entirely understand it, but I do. Then we have a problem because the Marquis of Sinclair will never agree to this change willingly. He’s too proud, and he’s already counting on this alliance. She tapped her fingers against the windowsill. But he might be convinced if Miss Rosalind were to develop a sudden passionate attachment elsewhere.

And if you were to heroically step aside to allow true love to flourish, then honorably turning your attentions to her younger sister would seem almost romantic. You’d help us? Caroline couldn’t hide her shock. I want my son happy. I always have. I pushed this match because I thought it was what he needed.

Security, stability, a proper duchess. But I’ve watched him these weeks, and I’ve seen him come alive in ways he hasn’t since he was a boy,” her voice softened. “So yes, Miss Caroline, I’ll help you. But you must understand. This will require perfect timing, absolute discretion, and a touch of social theater that would make Shakespeare proud.

” “What do you have in mind?” Ambrose asked. Lady Hartwell smiled, sharp and calculating. “A scandal, but a carefully managed one. We’ll need Miss Rosalyn’s cooperation, of course, and young Mr. Brennan’s. But if we orchestrate this correctly, your father will have no choice but to accept the situation as the least damaging option available.

She outlined her plan quickly. A house party at Ridgemore in 3 weeks. Carefully selected guests. Strategic timing. Rosalind and David would be discovered in a compromising position. Nothing actually improper, but enough to force engagement. Ambrose would gallantly release Rosalind from their understanding to protect her happiness, and then after a suitable interval, he would begin openly courting Caroline.

“The ton will gossip, of course,” Lady Hartwell said, “but it will be romantic gossip. The Duke, who sacrificed his own engagement for true love, then found it himself with the spirited younger sister. Society eats that sort of thing up. It’s risky,” Ambrose said. If anything goes wrong, everything worth having is risky. Do you want her or not? Yes. Then we proceed.

But in the meantime, she fixed them both with a stern look. No more midnight library asations. No more disappearing during outings. We cannot afford even a whisper of scandal before we’re ready to manage it. Understood? They nodded. Good. Now, both of you to bed separately. We have 3 weeks to prepare and I need you both clear-headed.

After she swept out, Caroline and Ambrose stood frozen, processing what had just happened. “Your mother is terrifying,” Caroline said finally. “She really is.” He pulled her close for one last brief kiss. “But she’s on our side. That’s worth more than you know.” “3 weeks? 3 weeks? Then we start fighting for real.

” Caroline climbed back to her room in a daysaze, slipping into bed beside a sleeping Rosalind, who stirred slightly. Carol, I’m here. Go back to sleep. Did something happen? Yes, something good. I’ll tell you tomorrow. But as she lay in the darkness, Caroline couldn’t shake a creeping sense of dread. Lady Hartwell’s plan was clever, brilliant even, but it relied on too many pieces falling perfectly into place.

and if anything went wrong, if anyone discovered the truth before they were ready, they’d all be ruined beyond repair. The next morning they presented Lady Hartwell’s plan to Rosalind, who listened with growing hope. “David would have to agree,” she said carefully. “He’s a gentleman. The idea of compromising me even falsely.

” “I’ll speak with him,” Ambrose offered. “Explain that it’s the only way. If he truly loves you, hell do what’s necessary to have you.” They spent the next week in careful preparation. Lady Hartwell began planning her house party, selecting guests who were influential but romantically inclined, people who would spread the story they wanted told rather than darker versions.

Rosalind wrote to David explaining the situation. His response came quickly. He’d do whatever was needed. Meanwhile, Caroline and Ambrose were forced into agonizing distance. No private conversations, no stolen moments, nothing that could jeopardize the plan. They saw each other only at meals and during carefully chaperoned outings where Roselyn’s presence kept them appropriately separate. It was torture.

Caroline caught Ambrose watching her across the dinner table, his expression carefully neutral, but his eyes burning with everything he couldn’t say. She felt it, too. This constant awareness, this magnetic pull that made even breathing feel difficult when he was near. The house party invitations went out. Acceptances returned quickly.

Everyone was curious about the Duke’s reported engagement, eager to meet the future Duchess. Two weeks before the event, a letter arrived from Caroline’s father. He’d heard rumors about the extended courtship, and wanted assurances the match was proceeding appropriately. “Lady Hartwell composed a careful response, assuring him all was well, and inviting both parents to attend the house party to see for themselves.

” “That’s cutting it close,” Ambrose observed when she showed him the reply. If they’re here when we stage the discovery, then they’ll see it firsthand. Better than hearing it secondhand and having time to invent their own narrative. Lady Hartwell’s expression was calculating. We need Lord Sinclair to witness David’s devotion and your sacrifice.

It’s the only way to make him accept what comes after. The week before the party, Mrs. Collier, one of the senior housemaids, approached Lady Hartwell with concerns about improper behavior she’d witnessed. She’d seen Ambrose and Caroline speaking privately in the conservatory, had noticed the way they looked at each other.

“She’s a problem,” Lady Hartwell told them grimly. “If she talks before we’re ready, I’ll handle her,” Ambrose said. “Give her a generous bonus. Transfer her to the London house for the duration of the party. We need her gone, but not angry enough to spread rumors.” It worked. Mrs. Collier departed the following day, slightly confused, but much wealthier.

Finally, guests began arriving. The Sinclair’s came first. Caroline’s parents in a traveling coach, her father already looking stern with anticipated disappointment, her mother nervous and effusive. Papa, Caroline greeted, accepting his brief embrace. “Mama, thank you for coming.” “The Duke’s invitation was most gracious,” her mother said, glancing around the entrance hall with wide eyes.

“Such a beautiful home. You must be very proud, Rosalind, dear.” Rosalyn smiled weakly. “It’s quite lovely.” Lord Sinclair turned to Ambrose, who’d come to greet them personally. “Your grace! I trust my daughter has been behaving appropriately. Miss Rosalind has been an exemplary guest, as has Miss Caroline.” Ambrose’s tone was perfectly polite, giving nothing away.

Other guests filtered in throughout the day. the Blackwoods, including Thomas, Helena Brennan, and her cousin David, introduced as her estate manager, several other families of appropriate rank and disposition. By dinner, the house was full of conversation and speculation. Caroline barely tasted her food.

She was too aware of David, seated near Rosalind, maintaining careful distance, but unable to hide the way his eyes followed her. too aware of Ambrose at the head of the table, playing the perfect host while their parents watched approvingly, too aware that tomorrow night everything would either fall into place or collapse spectacularly. After dinner, Lady Hartwell organized the guests in the drawing room for cards and music.

Caroline found herself cornered by her mother. You seem distracted, dear. Is everything all right? Just tired, mama. It’s been a busy few weeks. Rosalyn seems happy enough, though I confess I don’t see much obvious affection between her and the Duke. Is that normal? Caroline’s heart stuttered. They’re still getting acquainted. These things take time. M.

Her mother’s gaze drifted to where Ambrose stood speaking with Thomas Blackwood. And you, dear, any interesting prospects? That Blackwood boy seems quite taken. Thomas is pleasant. But no, Mama, no prospects. Such a shame. You’re clever, Caroline, but cleverness doesn’t keep a woman warm at night.

You should think about settling before you become too particular. Before Caroline could formulate a response that wouldn’t sound desperately defensive, Ambrose materialized at her elbow. Lady Sinclair, I hope you don’t mind if I steal your daughter briefly. There’s a painting in the gallery I think she’d appreciate, and I promised to show it to her earlier.

It was a transparent excuse, but her mother simply nodded, already distracted by conversation elsewhere. They walked toward the gallery and charged silence. The moment they were alone, Ambrose pulled her into an al cove. Tomorrow night, he said quietly. “Are you ready?” “No.” “Yes, I don’t know.” Caroline gripped his arms. “What if something goes wrong? What if my father refuses to accept it? What if?” Then we fight anyway.

He kissed her forehead. I meant what I said, Caroline. I choose you. Whatever happens tomorrow, whatever your father says or society thinks, I choose you. Even if it means losing everything. You are everything. He pulled back his eyes, fierce. Now go back. We can’t risk more time alone. Not tonight. She nodded, steadying herself.

Tomorrow. One more day of pretending and then they’d know if freedom was possible or if they’d all be destroyed trying. The next evening proceeded according to plan. Dinner was elaborate. Multiple courses, excellent wine, conversation that flowed easily. After the meal, Lady Hartwell suggested a tour of the grounds to view the gardens by moonlight.

Most guests agreed enthusiastically. They wandered out in small groups. Helena Brennan, playing her part perfectly, complained of a headache and asked David to escort her back to the house. He did, looking appropriately solicitous. 5 minutes later, Rosalind mentioned she’d forgotten her shawl and needed to retrieve it.

She slipped away before anyone could offer to accompany her. Lady Hartwell gave them precisely 15 minutes. Then she suggested the men might enjoy billiards while the ladies toured the conservatory. Lord Sinclair agreed readily, and the party split. They were halfway to the billiard’s room when Lady Hartwell stopped abruptly. “I believe I left my fan in the library.

” “Ambro, would you retrieve it?” “Of course, mother. I’ll join you,” Lord Sinclair offered. “I’ve been meaning to see your collection.” “Perfect. Exactly as planned.” They walked together toward the library, which required passing through the conservatory, where Rosalind and David stood in an embrace that was intimate, but carefully staged for maximum appearance of passion.

Lord Sinclair stopped dead. “What in God’s name?” Rosalind and David sprang apart. She’d clearly been crying, real tears that needed no fakery. David looked devastated and defiant in equal measure. “Father, I Roselyn’s voice broke.” you. Lord Sinclair turned on David, fury distorting his features. How dare you lay hands on my daughter.

Your grace, I demand this man be removed from your property immediately. Lord Sinclair, Ambrose interjected, his voice calm, but carrying authority. Perhaps we should discuss this privately. Making a scene will only ensure the entire party knows within the hour. They should know this man has compromised my daughter.

With respect, my lord, your daughter is also a person capable of making choices. Perhaps we should hear what she has to say before deciding anything. They adjourned to the library. Lady Hartwell joined them along with Caroline, who’d been conveniently nearby. The six of them faced off, Lord and Lady Sinclair, Ambrose, and his mother, Rosalind, and David, with Caroline positioned slightly to the side.

Explain yourself,” Lord Sinclair demanded, though it was unclear whether he was addressing Rosalind or David. Rosalind lifted her chin. That gesture Caroline knew meant her sister had found her courage. I love David. I have for 3 years, and I cannot I will not marry his grace when my heart belongs elsewhere. You will do as you’re told. No.

The word came out strong, clear. I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked, been obedient, proper, perfect. But I won’t do this. I won’t trap the Duke in a marriage neither of us wants, and I won’t spend my life grieving for the man I actually love. Miss Roselind, Ambrose said quietly, and everyone turned to him. I believe we need to speak candidly.

This engagement was arranged by our families, but you and I have spent these weeks getting to know one another, and I think we both recognize that while we have mutual respect, we lack the foundation for a successful marriage. Lord Sinclair’s face purpled. You’re refusing my daughter. I’m acknowledging that she and I would both be miserable in a union forced by expectation rather than genuine feeling. I’ve seen her with Mr.

Brennan. I’ve seen the way she lights up around him. And I think he glanced at Lady Hartwell, who nodded slightly. I think she deserves that happiness, as do I. This is unacceptable. The arrangement was made, and it can be unmade. Lady Hartwell’s voice cut through like steel. Lord Sinclair, be reasonable.

Would you rather have a miserable daughter married to a duke, or a happy daughter married to a respectable man who adores her? because those are your options. If you force this match, I guarantee both Rosalind and my son will be wretchedly unhappy. Is that really what you want for your child? Lord Sinclair looked between them, rage and calculation waring on his face.

And the scandal, when society learns the engagement was dissolved, it was never officially announced, Ambrose pointed out. We have that much in our favor. And if the story is presented correctly as a young woman following her heart with the Duke’s blessing, it becomes romantic rather than scandalous. The Duke’s blessing.

Lord Sinclair’s tone was venomous. How remarkably convenient for everyone, except you’ve now publicly refused my daughter, which makes her appear unwanted. Then allow me to want her. David stepped forward, and Caroline saw his hands shaking, but his voice steady. I know I’m not titled. I’m not wealthy.

I can’t offer her a manner or a fortune or social prominence, but I can offer her a life built on actual love, a home where she’s valued for herself, not her family connections. And if you’ll allow me that honor, Lord Sinclair, I swear I will spend every day ensuring she never regrets choosing me over a duke.” The silence stretched agonizingly.

Lady Sinclair touched her husband’s arm. “George, look at her.” Rosalind was crying openly now, her hand clasped in David’s. She looked terrified and hopeful and more alive than Caroline had seen her in years. “Please, Papa,” Rosalind whispered. “Let me be happy. Just this once, let me choose my own happiness.

” Lord Sinclair deflated slightly. “This is a disaster. The expectations, the agreements can all be managed,” Lady Hartwell assured him. “I’ll ensure the story is told correctly. By the time London hears about this, it will be a romantic tale of true love, triumphant, with my son as the noble duke who stepped aside. Your daughter’s reputation will be intact, perhaps even enhanced.

Everyone loves a love story. And what about Caroline? Lady Sinclair asked suddenly. She’s been here witnessing all this, helping facilitate. She stopped, eyes widening. You knew, didn’t you, Caroline? You’ve been helping them meet. Every eye turned to Caroline. “Yes,” she admitted. “I helped my sister have a few stolen hours with the man she loves before being forced to marry someone else.

I’m not sorry. You should be,” her father snapped. “You’ve aided deception, compromised your own reputation. I’ve helped my sister survive,” Caroline shot back. “And if that makes me improper or scandalous, or whatever else you want to call it, so be it. At least I can look myself in the mirror.” Caroline, Ambrose’s warning came too late.

No, I’m done pretending. Done watching everyone I love be miserable because society demands it. If you want to disown me for that, father, then do it. But don’t you dare blame Rosalind for having the courage to choose happiness over duty. Lord Sinclair looked ready to explode. But before he could speak, Ambrose stepped forward.

Actually, my lord, there’s something else we need to discuss about Caroline. Caroline’s heart stopped. “What about her?” Lord Sinclair demanded. “I’d like your permission to court her properly, publicly with the intention of marriage,” the room erupted. “Absolutely not,” Lord Sinclair roared. “You just rejected my elder daughter for being inconvenient, and now you think I’ll hand over the younger.

You must think me a fool.” “I think you want both your daughters happy, and I think if you’re honest, you’ll admit Caroline deserves the choice Rosalind is getting. She deserves nothing. She’s been complicit in this deception from the start. She’s been loyal to her sister, something I find admirable rather than condemnable.

Ambrose’s voice never rose, but it carried absolute authority. Lord Sinclair, I’m not asking your permission as a courtesy I can discard. I’m asking because I respect Caroline too much to court her against her family’s wishes, but make no mistake, I will court her. The only question is whether I do so with your blessing or without it.

This is insanity. Lord Sinclair turned to his wife. You see what your daughters have done. They’ve made a mockery of of what, George. Lady Sinclair’s voice was quiet but firm. Of your plans, your social ambitions. Look at them. Really look. Roselyn loves that man, and he clearly worships her. And his grace.

She glanced at Ambrose, then at Caroline. His grace is looking at our younger daughter the way every woman hopes to be looked at. Is that really so terrible? She’s unsuitable. She’s argumentative and improper. And she’s perfect. Ambrose said it simply for me. I don’t need another perfectly behaved society lady. I need someone who challenges me, argues with me, makes me think and feel things I’ve spent my whole life avoiding.

I need Caroline. And if you can’t see that she’s extraordinary, then respectfully, my lord, that’s your failure, not hers. Caroline couldn’t breathe. Ambrose was staring down her father, risking everything, fighting for her in front of both their families. Lord Sinclair’s jaw worked silently.

Finally, this is a catastrophe. Or, Lady Hartwell suggested, it’s an opportunity. Two daughters, two love matches. Rosalind marries for love with ducal approval, making her seem romantic rather than rebellious. Caroline marries a duke, which satisfies your social ambitions. Everyone ends up happy. Except I look like a fool who can’t control his own children.

You look like a father who loves his daughters enough to let them choose their own paths. That’s not weakness, George. That’s wisdom. The argument continued another 20 minutes. Lord Sinclair raising objections. Lady Hartwell and Ambrose countering them, Rosalind and Caroline standing frozen while their futures hung in balance. Finally, exhausted and outnumbered, Lord Sinclair turned to Caroline.

“Do you want this?” he asked. “Truly, or are you simply being defiant?” Caroline met his eyes. “I love him, Papa. I didn’t plan to. I fought against it, but I do, and I think, I hope he loves me, too.” I do, Ambrose confirmed quietly. More than I thought myself capable of feeling. Lord Sinclair closed his eyes. God help me.

I’m agreeing to this insanity. But there will be conditions. A formal courtship of at least 3 months, public and proper. If at any point either of you changes your mind, the arrangement ends with no recriminations. And Caroline. He fixed her with a stern look. If you marry him, you will conduct yourself as a duchess should.

No more of this spirited impropriy. I make no promises about propriety, Caroline said honestly. But I promise to try to be the wife he deserves, even if she’s not the wife society expects. That’s all I can reasonably ask for, I suppose. He sighed heavily. Very well. You have my permission. God help us all. The rest of the house party passed in a blur of careful announcements and managed reactions.

Lady Hartwell handled the guests with masterful precision, framing the situation exactly as she’d promised. Rosalind and David’s love had become undeniable. The Duke had gallantly stepped aside, and his subsequent attachment to Caroline was a fortunate development that left everyone satisfied. The guests ate it up. By the time they departed, they were already composing the letters they’d sent to London.

the stories they’d tell at their own dinner parties. Within a week, the ton would know. The Duke of Ridgemore had sacrificed his own engagement for true love, then found it himself with the spirited Miss Caroline Sinclair. Romantic, dramatic, exactly the narrative they needed. But the real moment came the morning after, when most guests had departed.

Caroline walked in the gardens, trying to process everything that had happened when Ambrose found her by the lake. “How are you?” he asked quietly, terrified, relieved, still not entirely convinced this is real. “It’s real,” he took her hand, lacing their fingers together, though I’m not sure I handled that as well as I should have, publicly declaring my intentions without asking you first.

“You asked last night if I wanted this.” I said, “Yes.” “You said you loved me. That’s not quite the same as agreeing to marry me, isn’t it?” Caroline turned to face him fully. “Ambro, I meant what I said. I love you. I want this. Want you. Even if it means becoming a duchess, which still terrifies me, honestly. You’ll be terrible at it, he said.

But he was smiling. You’ll offend people and ignore protocol and drive my mother to distraction. Probably. And I’ll love every minute of it. He pulled her closer, his forehead resting against hers. 3 months, your father demanded. 3 months of proper courtship before I can actually propose. Do you have any idea how long that’s going to feel? An eternity.

At least, he kissed her softly. But we’ll do it properly. No more stolen moments. No more secret meetings. I want everyone to know exactly how I feel about you. Even when I’m argumentative, especially then. They stood together in the morning sunlight. And for the first time since this entire situation began, Caroline felt something like peace.

Not because everything was solved. There would still be society to navigate, expectations to manage, a wedding to plan that would undoubtedly be complicated and overwhelming. But because for the first time in her life, she’d chosen something for herself, and the man she’d chosen was choosing her back, the next 3 months unfolded with surprising smoothness.

Ambrose called on Caroline at the Sinclair estate in London with meticulous regularity, always properly chaperoned, always appropriate, but with an undercurrent of barely contained wanting that made every innocent touch feel charged. He courted her publicly, taking her to the theater, escorting her to Bulls, making it abundantly clear to all of society that Miss Caroline Sinclair was under his protection and interest.

The ton watched with fascination, some disapproving of the younger sister stealing the Duke, others finding the whole situation deliciously romantic. Caroline endured etiquette lessons from Lady Hartwell, who was surprisingly patient about teaching her the intricacies of managing a ducal household. You won’t be like other duchesses, Lady Hartwell told her frankly.

You’ll do things your own way, but you need to understand the rules before you can break them strategically. Meanwhile, Rosalind and David married quietly in a small ceremony. Lord Sinclair attended, but looked pained throughout, still adjusting to his elder daughter marrying beneath her station. But watching Rosalind glow with happiness seemed to soften him slightly.

“At least one of my daughters followed her heart to a reasonable conclusion,” he muttered to Caroline after the ceremony. “And the other is marrying a duke,” Caroline pointed out. “Surely that’s acceptable. If you can manage not to embarrass us all, perhaps it wasn’t quite approval, but it was close enough.

3 months to the day, after Lord Sinclair had grudgingly given his permission, Ambrose proposed formally. He did it at Ridgemore in the library where they’d first kissed, with a ring that had belonged to his grandmother. “I love you,” he said simply, kneeling before her with none of his usual composure. “You’ve made me feel things I never thought I’d feel, want things I never thought I’d want.

You’ve remade my entire understanding of what a life could be. So please, Carolene, will you marry me?” She pulled him to his feet and kissed him instead of answering with words. When they finally broke apart, both breathless and grinning, he raised an eyebrow. “Is that a yes?” “That’s an enthusiastic yes, though I should warn you, I’m going to be a terrible duchess.

I’m counting on it.” They were married in early autumn at the village church near Ridgemore. It was smaller than a ducal wedding should have been. Caroline had insisted on intimacy over spectacle, but it was perfect. Rosalyn served as matron of honor, radiant and pregnant with her first child.

David stood with them, accepted now, if not quite embraced by the Sinclair family. Lord Sinclair walked Caroline down the aisle with an expression that managed to be both proud and slightly bewildered, as if he still couldn’t quite understand how his difficult younger daughter had ended up here. But when Ambrose took Caroline’s hand at the altar, when he looked at her like she was the only person in the world, even Lord Sinclair seemed to recognize that perhaps love was worth the chaos after all. Epilogue.

18 months later, Caroline stood in the Ridge Library, reviewing correspondence with the same efficiency Lady Hartwell had once displayed. She’d adapted to being a duchess in her own way, maintaining the estate with competence, while refusing to pretend she enjoyed half the social obligations that came with the title. The ton had learned to accept her.

Some still whispered about the unconventional duchess who spoke her mind and occasionally horrified dinner guests with radical opinions, but they couldn’t deny she made the Duke happy radiantly. Obviously happy in a way that made romantics sigh and cynics reassess their positions. There you are. Caroline looked up to find Ambrose in the doorway, their six-month-old daughter Claraara, in his arms.

The sight of him, this powerful, controlled duke, completely undone by an infant, never failed to make her smile. She wouldn’t settle, he explained. I think she missed you. Or she’s figured out that her father is easier to manipulate than her mother. Also possible. He crossed to her, and Claraara immediately reached for Caroline with grabbing hands.

She has your determination. God help us when she’s older. Caroline took their daughter, settling her against her shoulder. We’ll manage. We always do. We do. He wrapped his arms around both of them. Speaking of managing, your sister wrote, “She and David are expecting their second already. Claraara isn’t even walking yet.

Some of us are efficient.” He kissed her temple. “Though I’m perfectly content with our current pace. One perfect daughter is plenty for now. For now? Well, perhaps in a year or two, he trailed off suggestively. Caroline laughed. Well see. First, I need to survive the dinner party your mother is insisting we host next month.

Ah, yes, the dinner party where you’ll horrify half the guests and charm the other half. It’s a gift. It is one of many. He turned her to face him, careful of the baby between them. I love you. Have I mentioned that today? Only three times you’re slacking. I’ll work on that. He kissed her properly, ignoring Claraara’s protesting squirm.

When they broke apart, he added softly. Thank you for what? For being too stubborn to let me settle for duty over joy. For fighting for this, for us, for making me believe that feeling everything was better than feeling nothing at all. Caroline felt tears prick her eyes. I didn’t do it alone. You fought for us, too.

When it mattered most, you chose me. Even when it would have been easier not to. Choosing you has never been difficult. It’s the only easy decision I’ve ever made. They stood together in the library, this room where their story had truly begun, surrounded by books and afternoon light, and the soft sounds of their daughters settling into sleep.

Outside the ridgemore ground stretched in every direction, beautiful and ordered, and exactly as they’d always been. But inside everything had changed because Caroline had dared to say what no one else would. Had challenged a duke who needed challenging, loved a man who needed loving, and built a life that proved duty and desire didn’t have to be enemies. They could be partners.

They could be everything. And as Ambrose held her and Claraara both, Caroline thought this was worth it. every risk, every fight, every terrifying moment of uncertainty. This right here was worth everything. Thank you for staying with Caroline and Ambrose until the very end. If their story reminded you that love requires courage, that speaking truth can change everything, and that the best futures are built on choosing each other every day.

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Like this video if you believe in fighting for what matters. Subscribe for more stories of defiance and devotion, and hit the bell so you never miss when love wins against all odds. You’re the reason these stories exist. Thank you for being here.