Chapter 1
One
“Ihate him!” Lady Gwen Bellmond hissed, stomping her foot like a child.
She knew she should temper her reaction, but she could not help it. If there was any chance for drama, this was it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the cook, Mrs. Ebert, exchanging a weary glance with the housekeeper, Mrs. Davis.
She was not offended. Those two always were on her side, but they knew that it would take a while for things to calm down whenever she started talking.
“Perhaps it’s not as bad as we think, My Lady?” Mrs. Davis suggested, trying to placate her red-faced, freckled mistress whose copper curls bounced around as if they themselves were a character.
“Hate is also a strong word,” Mrs. Ebert muttered, but not unkindly.
“A strong word,” Mrs. Davis agreed, nodding solemnly. “Especially coming from you, My Lady. Your big heart can’t possibly—”
“It can,” Gwen insisted, still fuming. “He is going to ruin everything. This. Can you imagine our place being turned into a gentleman’s home, where there are regular hunting parties and severe rules about curtsying?”
She spun around and around, only to be hit by a wave of dizziness. But she could not admit it. So she paused and squeezed her eyes shut.
When she felt steady, she fluttered her eyes open, like she imagined a lady who just fainted would.
The servants only stared at her. Mrs. Davis opened her mouth and then closed it.
Gwen could tell that they would not dare say a thing to her. They loved her, which was something she deeply appreciated.
“I think when he finds out that we eat in the kitchen whenever it rains, he’d probably forbid it.
He’d—I could think of so many things that he would forbid,” she prattled on, even as she realized she was running out of breath.
“Oh, I think he might be a sour man who expected everyone to have cold baths in the frigid mornings!”
Gwen knew the new owner. He was no one other than the Duke of Crosswell, who already owned Crosswell Castle. Some of her friends called him merely Victor.
He had seemed nice at first, a man who belonged to the same group of friends as she did. Then, he’d begun showing his true colors—at least to her. In the few times they had been left in each other’s company, his reception had been frosty. Sometimes, it was almost like he hated her.
Mrs. Davis coughed pointedly. Was she trying not to smile?
Gwen frowned at her dearly beloved housekeeper, tilting her head to the side and placing her hands on her hips.
“My Lady, we don’t know what kind of man the new owner would be,” Mrs. Davis reminded her.
Oh, she didn’t know what Gwen knew.
Gwen suspected that the slight cough was hiding something else. She narrowed her eyes at the housekeeper.
“Perhaps he’s a—”
“A tyrant! Yes, I agree with you completely, Mrs. Davis,” Gwen interrupted, slumping onto a wooden bench with a thin cushion.
She actually had an idea of the new owner’s personality. She just did not know how he would take care of Carver Castle.
“While I have yet to get to know him completely,” she continued, “I at least know that the new Marquess is a monster. What kind of man would sell a home while people still live in and care for it? The late Marquess at least allowed me and Mama to live here for almost two decades.”
“My Lady, the old Marquess was your mother’s older brother,” Mrs. Davis reminded her. “He felt a strong kinship with you.”
“Mhm. His heir merely thinks of it as a property,” Gwen mumbled.
“Selling Carver Castle to a stranger makes him nothing more than a fishmonger. All right, Crosswell is not exactly a stranger. The only difference between the new Marquess and a fishmonger is that he’s selling to someone with an intimidating title and vast wealth. I don’t like either of them.”
“Many people say that Scotland is lovely, My Lady. Very green,” Mrs. Ebert ventured. Still, it was not lovely to be sent away. “Living there would not feel like being in exile.”
“It’s not green I am after, Mrs. Ebert,” Gwen protested. “I want my home.”
It was a home that she had worked hard to maintain, with the help of her friends Lady Agatha Langley and Ivy’s husband, Maximilian Blackbourne, the Duke of Everleigh.
They were the ones who made certain that Carver Castle remained self-sufficient.
Someone else would benefit from that just because money had been exchanged.
The housekeeper and the cook murmured their understanding. Still, Gwen knew that she could fling herself all over the house and shout at the top of her lungs, and it would not change the current fact.
Carver Castle no longer belonged to the old Marquess of Carver.
His heir sold it. No matter what she did, she could not get it back.
She did not have the money to seize it back from its new, titled, irritating owner.
All she could do was be childish and kick at the floor with the heel of her scuffed boot.
“I can still do something. When I meet him, I could get some help putting chili in his soup, Mrs. Ebert. What about salt in his pudding?” she suggested, looking at the cook’s horrified expression. “Perhaps we can—”
“I believe we need to leave the kitchen for some time, My Lady,” Mrs. Davis gently interrupted.
Gwen knew it wasn’t because Mrs. Ebert could not work with her there. She’d spent enough time there, pinching little pieces from meals while chatting with the cook and her assistants, to know that was not the issue.
She acquiesced. She’d been talking for hours. Yes, hours. She was perfectly capable of ranting endlessly. Therefore, she needed a break from that and to be quiet. It would take a lot of effort.
Mrs. Davis led her through the stone corridors. Because Gwen had managed to quiet, all she could hear was the echo of their footsteps. They walked slowly in a silence she was unaccustomed to, which made her feel melancholy.
“The servants will miss you,” Mrs. Davis said softly. “I will certainly do.”
“I will miss everything and everyone. Even the worst parts of Carver Castle, like the overgrown hedges and the drafty windows on the top floor. All of it—the signs that made the new Marquess think that selling it was a great idea. I’d miss them all.”
As they continued walking, Gwen saw more things that made Carver Castle home: the tapestries, the paintings, even the little cracks in the walls. Her eyes stung as tears threatened to fall. She blinked furiously.
“Do you think he’d at least take care of Carver Castle?” she asked.
Her heart was breaking, but at least the place could continue thriving without her.
Mrs. Davis did not reply. Instead, she took Gwen’s hand and patted it, giving her a soft smile.
“Let’s get back to the kitchen. I believe you need something to eat. Some broth, perhaps? I feel like you have gotten yourself, uh—”
“In a frenzy?” Gwen supplied, smiling back at her. “You know you can always tell me the truth, Mrs. Davis.”
They walked back in silence.
This time, Gwen watched the floor. Her mind said that she needed to let go, but her heart wanted to keep holding on. They were almost back at the kitchen when she heard a pointed cough. It made her heart race for some reason, while the rest of her body froze.
She did not have to turn around to see who it was.
It was Victor Thornescroft, the Duke of Crosswell and the new master of Carver Castle.
She wondered if he would rename it, now that it was no longer in her family’s hands.
Greedy bastard.
Not only was he greedy, but that simple cough carried his cold but well-bred manner. Unfeeling. That was what he was toward her. At a certain point, she had made herself believe that he was kind.
She slowly turned around. She had no choice but to meet his gaze, or he’d think she did not have the courage.
True enough, there was a challenging look in his eyes and a smirk on his lips. As expected.
Everything was as expected. She wondered if he bought the castle simply to show his power.
“Your Grace,” she acknowledged and lifted her chin despite her quickly dwindling confidence. “I trust you meant that dramatic entrance? Perhaps it’s your way of saying that you don’t need to be announced, since you own the place?”
The Duke of Crosswell stood a few paces away from her.
He was tall and composed as always, wearing an undoubtedly costly dark riding coat.
He was a handsome man, and he knew it. With his sharp features, intense eyes, and full lips, he looked like a fallen angel, not that different from rare depictions of Lucifer.
It was a shame that he was a terrible person who had robbed her of her home.
Then again, wasn’t that the point of being a fallen angel?
He seemed to be studying her as well while remaining seemingly detached. How was he able to do that?
“I can tell you that you do not approve of my presence,” he remarked.
At least, he was able to quickly glean that.
“Not your presence, Your Grace. I disapprove of your intentions. You may own this house now, but you don’t know it as we do. You won’t love it like we did—and still do.”
“Enlighten me,” he said, his words sounding like a command.
He smiled faintly, but she could tell he was amused.
“What do I need to understand about a crumbling estate that needs repair? I did the Marquess a favor when I took it off his hands. Do you truly believe anyone else would want to pay a generous sum for something that would cost them even more?”
Gwen wanted to protest that she wasn’t the one benefiting from the purchase of Carver Castle, but she stopped herself. It would make her situation even more pathetic.
She didn’t really own the place, but she was the one crying foul as if someone had stolen it from her. But the castle was more than that. It was a place that had served as protection for her and her mother.
“You have a castle bigger than this one. How can you provide it with the care it needs?”
She didn’t mean to sound so bitter. Yet, the words came out unbidden.
Yes, she was known for spouting words, but she mostly prattled about unimportant things. She was aware of that. She rarely talked about things that actually mattered, not freely in front of people she was not close to, such as the Duke.
“It’s an investment, you could say,” he replied, with a little shrug.
She didn’t like that it was merely an investment for him; for her, it was her life. It was what made life so much easier for her and her mother after her father died in a damn duel.
“I hope that you make this investment worth everyone’s while by cataloging the library, restoring the garden, and doing whatever else not only to maintain but to revive it,” she said.
She did not like the resignation in her tone, as if she were freely giving up Carver Castle.
There were so many things to say. She continued talking about everything that must be fixed, flailing her hands about. The Duke remained calm, watching her intently throughout her monologue.
He leaned against a doorframe when she flitted about the room like a tempest at its highest winds. Only at the end, when she was panting and flushed, did she realize that he had not once interrupted.
After a long pause, he finally commented, “You care very deeply about Carver Castle.”
“Uh, is that surprising?” Gwen asked, looking at him suspiciously.
To her horror, she could feel strands of hair sticking to her temple. Oh, what she’d do just to get a glimpse of herself without him noticing.
Gwen could not help but notice that his grey eyes had darkened. Something unreadable flickered in them.
“No, it isn’t,” he admitted. “It is simply inconvenient for my initial purposes.”
“I beg your pardon? Initial purposes? What might your purpose be now?” she asked, scowling at him.
He stepped forward. He did it slowly, as if she were a frightened bird, which she might as well be because she flinched as he approached.
“Lady Gwen, you already believe yourself to be the mistress of Carver Castle. Why not become it in truth?” he asked nonchalantly.
His words hung heavy in the air.
“Y-Your Grace?” she sputtered, blinking.
For once, she could not find the right words. She didn’t think she’d understood his words.
His expression barely softened, but it shifted. Or so she wanted to believe.
“Don’t look so frightened, ducky. It’s only a proposal.”