A Virgin for the Silver Duke (Dukes of Surrender #1)

Chapter 1

“Iwant to have fun here, Miss Watton,” little Jonah announced, stamping his small boots into the packed snow as if trying to convince the world rather than her. “But Mama says it’s too cold.”

Madeline laughed under her breath. “Your mama is right, Jonah. It is the Twelfth Night festival, but you need to take care of yourself. One must try to be cautious.”

“Try?” Mrs. Finch sniffed, pulling her shawl tight as a lantern swayed overhead, scattering warm gold across the swirl of villagers. “One can try only so much when one’s toes are freezing. Oh, Jonah, do not run ahead! Jonah!”

But Jonah was already darting toward a violinist whose bow danced with quick, bright strokes, the tune sharp and cheerful even through the winter air.

Madeline watched him go, her breath forming a small cloud in front of her.

Her hands were tucked inside a cozy pair of mittens, and beneath a drafty cloak her heart was beating with its usual quiet vigilance.

She had learned to live that way. Months in this village, and she still walked as if someone might tug her back by the shoulder.

Because someone might.

“Miss Watton,” Mrs. Finch said, breaking her thoughts, “did you ever celebrate Twelfth Night like this in your own childhood?”

Madeline forced a smile. “Not quite like this. My father would read to me by the fire. We kept things quite simple.”

Simple. Safe and warm. Everything that vanished the moment he died.

“Well, Jonah is thrilled,” Mrs. Finch went on, cheeks pink from wind and pleasure alike. “I scarcely got his boots on before he started asking if you would be joining us.”

“Oh?” Madeline teased, though something tender pressed faintly against her ribs. “Is that why he insisted on holding my hand the entire walk here?”

“Of course. He adores you.” Mrs. Finch’s tone softened. “It’s been good for him, having you teach him. You’ve been a blessing.”

If only blessings like these were not fleeting.

Madeline simply smiled at Mrs. Finch as they wove deeper into the festival, moving past stalls of roasted nuts, sugared pastries, and ribbons fluttering in the slight breeze.

Couples skated beneath the massive canvas tent erected over the frozen pond.

Lanterns strung from post to post flickered in the morning light, turning snowflakes into shimmering flecks that clung to hair and cloaks.

Families laughed, children screamed in delight, someone behind them threw snow into the air, and the wind carried bits of it to Madeline’s cheek.

Madeline’s breath caught slightly. She always felt this faint ache watching others so freely belong to each other. Mothers patting mittens onto small hands. Fathers lifting children onto shoulders. Sisters clinging arm in arm. A warmth she yearned for and feared simultaneously.

You cannot stay anywhere long enough for that, she reminded herself. Not when she is still searching and Hale is still out there.

“Miss Watton!” Jonah darted back toward her, tugging her mittened hand. “There, look! Caramel apples!”

Indeed, the stall ahead glistened with glossy red apples dipped in warm caramel, the scent thick and buttery in the cold air.

Jonah hopped in place. “May I, Mama? Please?”

Mrs. Finch sighed but smiled. “Very well. One.”

The vendor handed over the treat, and Jonah beamed, cheeks rosy, eyes bright. Then he nudged Madeline with sticky fingers.

“You should get one too, Miss Watton. They’re very sweet.”

Madeline opened her mouth to decline out of courtesy, but Mrs. Finch beat her to it.

“Oh, goodness,” the woman said, lowering her voice. “Madeline, dear, you really ought not indulge too much. You don’t need to add more to the hips.”

Her laughter followed the remark; it was light, careless, entirely unaware of where it landed, yet the sound slid beneath Madeline’s skin all the same. The words struck with quiet precision, settling in a place that was far older and far more tender than Mrs. Finch could ever imagine.

She’s your employer, she reminded herself and kept her smile steady.

Still, her shoulders tightened beneath the cloak, her heartbeat slipping into a faster, uneven rhythm as a slow flush crept up her neck despite the winter cold.

“Of course,” she murmured, taking a small step back as though easing herself out of the line of fire. “I’m perfectly fine without one.”

Mrs. Finch fluttered on obliviously. “It is only that you are such a pretty girl already, but… well, one must be cautious. Appearances matter. Who knows when your future husband might appear?”

The words echoed her mother’s voice too easily, drawing to mind the recollection of her mother’s cool eyes, her mother’s hand pushing a plate away from her across a long dining table.

Unbecoming, Madeline. You must try harder. No man wants—

“Miss Watton?”

Madeline blinked, forcing air back into her lungs. “Yes. Apologies, Mrs. Finch. The cold has made me a little light-headed.”

“Shall we stroll through the tent?” Mrs. Finch asked, unaware of the blow she had just delivered. “It’s warmer there.”

Madeline nodded, ready to follow Mrs. Finch toward the tent, yet as they turned, something, or rather, someone, shifted sharply within her line of sight.

A tall man was weaving through the crowd with deliberate purpose; his shoulders squared beneath a dark coat. He moved quietly, with an acute awareness, as if he knew others would be watching his every movement.

Madeline’s breath faltered, caught somewhere between her lungs and throat, as the name thundered through her.

Captain Hale.

He scanned the festival with a hunter’s patience, his gaze sweeping over mothers, vendors, and skaters before drifting far too close to where she stood.

Her stomach seemed to drop straight through her, a sickening plunge of dread that tightened every muscle in her body.

No. Not here. Not now.

He shifted again, pausing long enough for his eyes to narrow.

And for their eyes to meet.

She had to leave. Now.

She moved instinctively, slipping behind a cluster of villagers whose chatter rose in a harmless cloud around her, trying to make herself small within their winter cloaks.

Her pulse pounded against her ribs with desperate force, her skin prickling beneath her layers, and despite the thick mittens on her hands, her fingers had already gone numb.

She had always known this fragile peace was temporary, a thin veil stretched over danger she could never truly outrun.

She had known he would eventually trace her steps, no matter how carefully she placed them.

Yet the terror swelling inside her now felt nothing like the quiet dread she carried each day; it surged cold and merciless through her chest, closing around her heart with the chilling precision of an icy hand she could not shake free.

“Mrs. Finch,” she said quickly, voice tight, “I am so sorry, but I—oh, I do not feel well.”

Mrs. Finch blinked. “Oh! Are you faint? Shall we find you a seat?”

“No. No, I’ll be fine. I simply… I must go. I think it’s the cold.” She forced a wan smile. “Please enjoy the festival. I’ll head home.”

Jonah looked up, caramel smudged across his lips. “But Miss Watton—”

“Take care, sweetheart,” she whispered, smoothing his curls with a trembling hand.

Before Mrs. Finch could protest, Madeline stepped back into the moving current of the crowd, then let herself be carried by it.

“Papa, look! They’ve put a ribbon on the sheep. A red one!”

“Tessa,” Wilhelm murmured, adjusting his grip on her arm before his daughter could dart away again, “you are not chasing livestock through a festival.”

“But it’s festive,” the eight-year-old insisted, blue eyes shining beneath the wool of her bonnet. “Isn’t that the point of a festival? To do festive things?”

Mrs. Hayward, the housekeeper who had served his family since before he could walk, gave a weary chuckle beside them. “Pardon my directness, Your Grace, but I don’t think looking at the sheep would do Lady Tessa any harm. Heaven knows she has been begging for this outing for days.”

“I agreed to the outing,” Wilhelm replied, jaw tightening at the reminder. “But that does not include her running wild.”

Tessa leaned toward him, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I am not running wild. I am observing sheep.”

He fought the urge to smile. “If you observe from here, you may continue.”

“But it’s too far,” she whispered.

“And yet perfectly safe.”

She sighed with the tragic disappointment of an eight-year-old whose father thwarted every attempt at adventure, then shuffled half a step forward, just enough to satisfy her but not enough to give him palpitations.

Snow crunched under their boots as they moved deeper into the festival. Lanterns swung overhead, music spilled from every direction, and laughter curled through the cold air like bright ribbons.

Tessa inhaled sharply at nearly every sight: the gingerbread stall, the colored ribbons, the children skating in the tent, and the musicians stamping their feet to keep warm.

Wilhelm truly tried to appear like a simple man calmly escorting his daughter. But every time someone looked at her for a beat too long, every time eyes lingered on the pale scars that curved across her cheek, a familiar heat tightened in his chest.

Mrs. Hayward noticed it, too. She muttered, “Ignore them, Your Grace. Villagers stare at anything unfamiliar.”

“Ignore them?” Wilhelm’s voice was low, hard. “They are gawking at my child.”

“Aye, and the same gawkers will shrivel if you look at them,” she whispered. “Do you not see how they avoid your eye tonight?”

He had seen it from the moment they arrived, the way people stepped aside whenever he moved, the way their glances slipped away the instant he met them.

He did not care about their discomfort. What clawed at him was the way they looked at Tessa. The pity, the whispers, the way some could not stop staring…

When two women near a pastry stall let their gazes linger on his daughter’s face with open, silent judgment, something cold settled through him. He turned his head just enough for them to meet his eyes, and the look he sent them was sharp enough to make both flinch and pivot away at once.

Tessa frowned, small brows knitting, but she did not comment. She rarely did anymore. Instead, she tugged at his sleeve.

“Papa, can we go to the tent? Please? I want to see the skaters,” she pleaded.

He swallowed. “We are merely observing.”

Tessa beamed. “I cannot observe anything from here. Let’s observe over there.”

Mrs. Hayward coughed, probably to hide a laugh. “Your Grace, she means no harm—”

“I know what she means,” Wilhelm muttered.

They walked toward the enormous tent erected over the frozen pond, its fabric fluttering gently with each breeze. The glow from its interior painted the snow with gold, and the chatter of skaters echoed warmly.

“Stay beside me,” Wilhelm reminded Tessa quietly.

“I always stay beside you.”

Mrs. Hayward snorted. “Except when the governess turns her back for two seconds, or—”

“Speaking of governesses,” Wilhelm said as his lips twitched, “Mrs. Hayward, did the last one say anything before she left?”

The elderly woman’s sigh was long and tired. “She said she feared your daughter would become too… attached.”

Wilhelm clenched his jaw tightly. “Attached? To a governess meant to care for her?”

“You know what she meant,” Mrs. Hayward murmured, her gaze softening on Tessa. “Lady Tessa is spirited. Loving. And most women do not want to love a child who carries scars others assume are misfortune, or bad luck, or divine punishment. Superstition is ugly.”

“It is not superstition,” Wilhelm bit out. “It is cruelty.”

Mrs. Hayward patted his arm. “We shall find someone who doesn’t flinch, then. It cannot be impossible.”

He did not answer, because the task, indeed, felt impossible.

Tessa tugged at his sleeve again. “Papa, look! There’s a dog with a ribbon, too!”

Before he could stop her, the girl darted two steps forward.

“Tessa—slowly.” Panic sharpened his tone.

She slowed, but barely.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Hayward murmured, “she won’t float away.”

“In my experience, she might.”

Tessa whirled around with a grin. “I won’t float. I’m not a feather!”

“She is correct,” Mrs. Hayward whispered. “She is decidedly heavier than a feather.”

Wilhelm inhaled deeply, equal parts exasperated and fond. “Both of you, behave.”

He stepped forward, and then the crowd shifted. A group of young men shoved past them with careless energy, jostling the air and creating a sudden gap between father and daughter.

“Tessa!” Wilhelm surged forward.

But the men had closed the space behind them, severing his line of sight.

“Papa?” her small voice called, muffled through the crowd.

Something inside him snapped. He pushed through the slow bodies, craning his neck to find even a glimpse of her bonnet. He caught a flash of a blue cloak, but it belonged to another child.

Another step. Another shove. His heart hammered against his ribs with brutal force.

“Tessa!” His voice was loud now, unmistakably edged with panic.

Mrs. Hayward clutched his sleeve. “Let me try to—”

“No.” He tore free because no one moved fast enough when it mattered. “I’ll find her.”

He pushed into the crowd, his height giving him only brief illusions of advantage.

Faces blurred past him in streaks of color. Lanterns swung overhead, and the music felt distant now, hollow under the rising roar of fear in his ears.

Not again.

He saw the pony accident every time he closed his eyes.

Her small body flying, the crack of bone and ice, her stillness on the ground. The physician’s voice telling him that healing would come, but scars would remain on her face. The first governess who quit within the hour after seeing her. The next made Tessa cry.

“Papa?” Her voice called out to him again, but it was too faint.

He shoved past a cluster of market-goers, murmured something terse enough to silence them, then craned his neck toward the ice tent. It was the only direction Tessa would move, toward light and excitement.

He pushed forward.

Mrs. Hayward hobbled behind him, breathless. “Your Grace—please—she can’t have gone far—”

Wilhelm ignored everything but the pounding drum of his own pulse. He cut through the crowd, his coat snapping behind him, snow crunching under his boots, fear clawing inside his chest in a way he despised, a way he had not felt since the day Leah died.

The tent entrance loomed ahead.

He lunged inside and warmth enveloped him instantly, filled with the blended scent of ice, wool, and lantern smoke. The light flickered across the skating pond, illuminating countless figures gliding, stumbling, laughing—

But none of them were Tessa.