Chapter 1
The water was cold enough to hurt.
Callum preferred it that way.
The shock of it stole the breath from his lungs for the first few strokes, forcing his attention onto the immediate and the physical. The pull of muscle. The burn in his shoulders. The steady resistance of the lake against his body.
There was something honest about cold water.
It demanded respect. It punished carelessness. It obeyed rules.
The same could not be said for people.
He pushed farther from shore, cutting through the still surface as dawn unfolded across the lake. The eastern horizon glowed pale gold beneath a wash of silver clouds, their reflections shattering each time his arms entered the water.
Ashvale lingered behind him, half-hidden by mist and trees.
Out here there were no callers, no tenants seeking decisions, and no well-meaning acquaintances attempting to improve his future. There was only cold water, steady movement, and silence.
He rolled onto his back for a moment, floating beneath the brightening sky.
The water cradled him easily. Somewhere along the shoreline, a bird called. The scent of damp earth drifted faintly across the lake.
He closed his eyes briefly and listened to the gentle slap of water against his ears.
“Your lordship!”
Callum sighed. There went the silence.
He didn’t need to look to know who had arrived. Only one man in England could manage to sound simultaneously respectful, worried, and mildly scandalized.
He lifted his head to find that his steward, Mr. Longbottom, stood near the bank clutching a towel.
Even from this distance, Callum could see the steward’s expression. It was the look of a man discovering that the person responsible for an entire county remained determined to behave like an unsupervised schoolboy.
“Good morning, Longbottom.”
“Good morning?” the steward called back. “You’ve been in there nearly forty minutes.”
Callum blinked.
Has it truly been that long?
Possibly.
Time had a habit of slipping away out here.
“That does sound excessive.”
Longbottom looked heavenward as though searching for patience. “You will catch your death.”
The warning would have carried more weight had Longbottom not been delivering it with unwavering consistency for years.
“I’ve been informed of that every morning since inheriting.”
“And one day I shall be right.”
Callum snorted. “Then I promise to congratulate you.”
Longbottom stared at him. “You mock me, my lord.”
“Only a little.”
“A little?”
“You become remarkably dramatic before breakfast.”
“I become dramatic because you insist upon behaving like a lunatic.”
By the time Callum reached the shallows, he was smiling despite himself.
The steward had served his father before him and had long since abandoned any tendency toward formality. If anything, inheriting an earldom seemed only to have increased Longbottom’s willingness to criticize him.
Callum found the honesty oddly reassuring.
“You are impossible,” the steward informed him as he stepped onto the bank.
“Good morning to you as well.”
Longbottom ignored the greeting entirely. He thrust the towel into Callum’s hands and folded his arms. “You missed breakfast yesterday.”
“I was working.”
“You missed luncheon as well.”
“I was still working.”
The steward’s expression darkened further. “You forgot supper entirely.”
“That hardly seems worth remembering.”
A faint sound escaped Longbottom. It bore a striking resemblance to a prayer for patience.
Callum suspected it might actually have been one.
“You cannot continue like this.”
“I have managed thus far.”
“That is not the argument in your favor you believe it to be.”
Despite himself, Callum felt the corner of his mouth twitch.
Longbottom had been attempting to regulate his habits since Callum was young enough to require regulating. Unfortunately for him, the intervening years had produced remarkably little improvement.
The steward gave him a look. “You work too much,” he said.
“I enjoy my work.”
“You enjoy forgetting to eat?”
“No,” Callum replied. “That merely accompanies the rest.”
Longbottom looked thoroughly unconvinced.
For all the man’s complaints, there was something reassuringly familiar about them. Most people treated earls carefully. Longbottom treated him like a stubborn problem that had somehow survived into adulthood.
The morning air felt sharp against Callum’s damp skin as they started toward the house.
“Speaking of things worth remembering,” Longbottom said carefully, “the Season has begun.”
There it was.
Callum dragged the towel through his hair without responding.
“The invitations have been arriving steadily.”
“I noticed.”
“You have not answered any.”
“I noticed that as well.”
Longbottom released a long-suffering sigh. “The matter will not disappear simply because you ignore it.”
Callum draped the towel around his neck.
The familiar resistance rose almost immediately.
For years, every conversation had eventually arrived at the same destination. Since inheriting the title, there had always been someone eager to remind him of his obligations.
Duty to the title. Duty to the estate. Duty to the future.
Always duty.
Rarely anything else.
“I am aware of my responsibilities,” he said.
“Are you?”
The question held more boldness than most men would have dared.
Longbottom had earned the right.
Instead of answering, Callum looked back toward the lake. Sunlight now danced across the surface, turning the water to molten gold.
His father had loved this view. The memory came and went quickly, leaving only a familiar ache behind.
His jaw tightened.
Seven years had passed, yet some wounds remained exactly where he had left them. Time had dulled many things. It had not touched those.
Longbottom’s expression shifted almost immediately. They both knew there were certain subjects neither of them discussed. “My apologies, my lord.”
“There is nothing to apologize for.”
And there wasn’t.
The steward had merely stumbled into the same subjects everyone eventually reached.
Family. Duty. The future.
Thankfully, Longbottom possessed enough sense not to press further. “Mrs. MacDonagh is making scones this morning.”
A corner of Callum’s mouth twitched. “A far more useful topic.”
“I thought you might agree.”
The path curved through the trees before opening onto the lawns surrounding Ashvale. The sight of the estate settled something inside him, as it always had. Most men would likely have admired its grandeur first: the stone house, the rolling grounds, the generations of history built into every wall.
Callum saw something else.
He saw the glasshouses near the lake. The workshops where countless hours had disappeared. The paths he knew well enough to walk in darkness. The projects still waiting to be finished.
Home.
Not because it belonged to him. Because he belonged to it.
The realization came with an uncomfortable certainty.
This place had survived long before him and would endure long after him. It should have been a comforting thought. Instead, it felt oddly like a reminder that nothing, not even Ashvale, could be taken for granted forever.
Callum frowned faintly at himself.
A man could hardly begin mourning the loss of something he still possessed.
Pushing the thought aside, he turned his attention back to the path ahead.
A splash sounded from the shoreline behind them.
Callum closed his eyes briefly.
Louis had apparently decided to go swimming as well.
A moment later, the Great Dane came charging up the bank like a cavalry attack.
“Louis—”
The dog ignored him entirely.
Two enormous paws landed squarely against Callum’s chest. Wet fur collided with damp skin. Longbottom uttered a sound of despair.
Callum staggered backward a step before catching his balance.
Louis took the opportunity to wash half his face with a tongue the size of a saddle.
“Good morning to you as well.”
The dog’s tail wagged hard enough to threaten nearby shrubbery.
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. MacDonagh said, appearing in the doorway.
Callum had always suspected the housekeeper possessed some supernatural ability to appear whenever trouble began. After seven years, he had yet to discover evidence to the contrary.
Her gaze swept over the scene.
A soaking wet earl. A soaking wet dog.
Freshly cleaned floors waiting beyond the threshold.
The silence that followed was deeply ominous.
“No.”
Louis immediately attempted to hide behind Callum. The effect would have been considerably more convincing had the dog not outweighed several grown men.
“You are both filthy.”
Callum glanced down at himself. Between the swim and Louis’s enthusiastic greeting, Mrs. MacDonagh was not entirely wrong.
“We’re outdoors.”
“You will not be outdoors in ten seconds.” Her eyes narrowed with the particular look that usually preceded a lecture. “And don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing.”
Callum blinked. “What am I doing?”
“Pretending not to understand perfectly reasonable instructions.”
Longbottom made a thoughtful sound beside him. “An old habit of his.”
“A lifelong one,” Mrs. MacDonagh agreed.
Callum found himself outnumbered once again.
The realization would have been more irritating if he did not secretly enjoy it.
“Inside,” she ordered.
Callum obeyed right away. Mostly because he knew resistance was pointless.
Louis trotted after him with all the innocence of a criminal escaping conviction.
The warmth of the house settled around them immediately. A fire crackled somewhere deeper inside. The scent of fresh bread drifted from the kitchens. Sunlight spilled through the tall windows lining the entrance hall.
For a brief moment, Callum found himself appreciating the simple comfort of it.
Then he spotted the unfamiliar gentleman waiting near the morning room, and his good mood evaporated.
The solicitor rose immediately. “Lord Ashvale.”
Callum suppressed a sigh.
There it was. The real reason Longbottom had spent half the morning hunting him around the lake.
“Mr. Whitmore.”
The man bowed. “I appreciate you agreeing to meet with me.”
“I suspect you appreciate it more than I do.”
Whitmore smiled politely, as solicitors often did when confronted with difficult clients.
Callum had hired the man only a month ago.
The previous Ashvale solicitor had retired shortly after his father’s death. No replacement had ever truly been necessary. For seven years Callum had devoted himself to his railway interests and business ventures while leaving the estate to function largely as it always had.
The arrangement had suited everyone.
Particularly Callum.
Estate matters had an unfortunate tendency to involve people, opinions, and endless discussions. Railway projects involved mathematics. Mathematics rarely disappointed him.
Still, certain responsibilities could only be postponed for so long.
“Shall we?”
Whitmore gestured toward the morning room.
Callum followed him inside.
The conversation began harmlessly enough. They discussed tenant accounts, boundary questions, and several minor matters requiring signatures. It was precisely the sort of business Callum had hired a solicitor to handle.
Then Whitmore cleared his throat. The sound alone was enough to put him on guard. “I’ve completed my review of the Ashvale inheritance documents.”
Callum leaned back in his chair. “And?”
“There is a matter that requires your immediate attention.”
No one had ever spoken those words before delivering pleasant news.
“What matter?”
Whitmore folded his hands together. “Your father’s settlement was more complicated than initially understood.”
The first stirrings of irritation surfaced. “My father has been dead for seven years.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“An unfortunate condition unlikely to improve.”
Whitmore wisely ignored the remark. “The title itself is secure. You are and will remain the Earl of Ashvale. However, the majority of the estate is not attached directly to the title.”
Callum’s attention sharpened.
There it was. The however. There was always a however.
Whitmore reached for a document. “Under the terms established by your grandfather, ownership of Ashvale’s lands, holdings, and associated properties transfers permanently only if an heir is produced within ten years of inheritance.”
Silence settled over the room, and for a moment Callum simply stared at him.
Then understanding arrived.
Complete. Immediate. Unwelcome.
Three years.
Only three years remained.
Whitmore continued speaking, something about secondary provisions and inheritance clauses, but the words seemed to recede into the background.
Callum’s gaze drifted toward the window.
Beyond the glass stretched the familiar grounds of Ashvale.
The lake caught the morning sunlight. The glasshouses stood beyond it.
Further still lay the workshops where he had spent countless hours over the years, building, designing, creating something useful with his hands when the rest of his life felt impossible to order.
The place that had anchored him when everything else had been ripped away.
“You are telling me,” he said at last, “that I may lose my estate.”
Whitmore shifted in his chair. “I am telling you that the matter deserves urgent consideration.”
Which meant yes.
Callum looked away before the solicitor could read too much from his expression.
For seven years he had managed to avoid the endless campaign to see him married. Well-meaning relations. Helpful acquaintances. Elderly ladies convinced they knew exactly which debutante would suit him.
He had ignored all of them.
Apparently fate had decided to become more direct.
“Fortunately,” Whitmore said carefully, “there are solutions.”
Callum already disliked where this was heading. “The most obvious being?”
Whitmore offered an apologetic smile. “A wife, my lord.”
Silence settled over the room.
Callum stared at him for a long moment before a short laugh escaped.
There was no amusement in it. After everything Whitmore had just told him, after the threat hanging over Ashvale and the three years rapidly slipping away, it was almost absurd how neatly the solution reduced itself to the same answer everyone had been offering for years.
A wife.
Of course it came back to that.