Chapter 1
One
Rosebery Park was not the sort of estate that pretended to be modest. Its drive unfurled like a ribbon across rolling Scottish land, flanked by ancient trees and stone walls half-swallowed by moss.
The manor itself rose from the landscape with quiet authority.
It had gray stone, tall windows, and an air of permanence that suggested it had never once worried about pleasing anyone, and Elena Chandler doubted it bothered at all.
Especially if its current master had anything to say about it.
She sat rigidly in the carriage as it approached the estate.
She held her gloved hands folded in her lap with the neatness of a woman who was determined not to betray the tempest inside her.
She did not want to be traveling to Rosebery Park.
She had wished to remain in London where everything was familiar and did not displease her in the least or at the very least, with her friend Rowan’s family.
As much as she would like to have the carriage turn around and go back, she could not.
Especially as she hadn’t been in London when she started this journey.
She had been visiting with her dear friend, Lady Rowan Murray at her family home.
Since Rowan lived in Scotland, and Rosebery Park was also in Scotland, it seemed like a prudent resting place or a place to hide until she’d been forced to make the trek to Rosebery Park.
Lady Rowan Murray currently sat beside her. She angled her face toward the window and gave a low, unimpressed hum. “It appears,” she remarked, “that he means tae overwhelm ye with the elegance of his grand estate.”
Elena’s mouth tightened. “Let him try.” She was unimpressed. By the manor and so far by the man.
Rowan turned, her light blue eyes assessing Elena with frank concern. “Ye need no’ do this.”
Elena let out a slow breath. She had repeated that same sentence to herself at least a dozen times since receiving the invitation—the invitation delivered with pomp and wax seal and the implicit assumption that she would obey.
An obligation disguised as courtesy, but it was a command dressed in velvet.
She could not refuse the promise she had made, and she could no longer stop it from happening.
Her father had made this arrangement, and she was meant to do his bidding. It left a bitter taste in her mouth.
“I do,” Elena said quietly. “If I do not appear, it will become a scandal of its own.” Her father would not only disown her, but he would be bankrupt.
There was no dowry in this arrangement. It was a pure business agreement between men with little thought to the woman being put in the middle of it all.
Rowan’s brows rose. “And if ye do appear?”
Elena’s gaze hardened. “Then I will be very certain everyone understands I am not here to be bought, bargained, or ordered into marriage.” If she did go through with this farce it would be her choice. Even if there were little choices to be had.
Rowan’s lips curved faintly. “That is the Elena I know.”
The carriage wheels crunched over gravel and the vehicle slowed to a stop at the entrance of Rosebery Park.
When the carriage door opened, a footman stepped back and a wave of bustle reached Elena before her boots touched the ground.
Rosebery Park was buzzing with a mixture of excitement and anticipation for her arrival.
Servants moved with brisk purpose across the front steps and along the terrace.
A housekeeper stood at the foot of the stairs issuing instructions like a field marshal.
Florists carried armfuls of greenery through the side doors.
The distant clink of a hammer on a nail suggested someone was erecting a marquee…
perhaps for the wedding breakfast. She was certain she did not wish to know either way.
Elena’s stomach tightened. So much preparation.
So much certainty. As if her consent were already assumed, and why would it not be?
Her father had consented for her, had he not.
She wished she could change that in some way.
How could she marry a man who thought so little about her opinion or happiness?
She swept her gaze over the activity and landed, unwillingly, on the chapel visible beyond the lawn.
It was a small, elegant structure tucked into the landscape as though it belonged there. Its windows caught the afternoon light.
In three days, that chapel would be filled with guests to watch her as she recited her vows.
To love, honor and obey… In three days, she was expected to stand at its altar and be bound to a man who spoke as though he had been born to claim her.
She would make him understand that was not the case, and that she was not his.
Elena stepped down from the carriage with careful grace.
She would not arrive flustered and refused to arrive in defeat.
Rowan followed, and together they mounted the steps.
At the doors, a familiar figure waited—Lady Ophelia Smythe, Dowager Countess of Peregrine.
She appeared as regal and unmovable as the stone itself.
Her expression was composed, but Elena had known her long enough to see the tightness around her mouth.
She was watching the preparations with a gaze that held… guilt.
Elena dipped into a curtsey. “Lady Peregrine.”
Ophelia’s eyes softened. “Lady Elena.”
Rowan offered her own greeting, then stepped back as Elena moved forward. Rowan understood without being told that Elena would handle this herself. Elena held Ophelia’s gaze. “I presume,” she said, voice clear and cool, “that you have come for the wedding.”
Lady Peregrine’s fingers flexed faintly at her side. “I have come,” she said carefully, “because I owe your intended a measure of courtesy.”
Elena’s laugh was soft and sharp. “Courtesy. Is that what this is?”
Ophelia’s expression tightened. “It is,” she said. “Whether you believe that or not. There should never have been a delay to begin with. You know that you should have already been wed weeks ago.”
Elena took a breath and did not soften. “If you have come to persuade me,” she continued, “you may spare yourself the effort. I will not marry him. Your nephew did me a favor in helping delay this farce of a wedding. I do hope that he is happy with his bride.” The truth was that the Duke of Sinclair’s actions had not truly delayed the wedding.
Her sojourn with Rowan had. She had just used it as an excuse to remain there longer when it was discovered that Lady Horatia Whitaker had gone missing.
Elena encouraged her betrothed to locate his cousin because it would be a bad omen to marry when Horatia’s fate was unknown.
She would not tell Lady Peregrine that bit though.
Let the woman believe her machinations had played a part in delaying the wedding.
It suited Elena’s purpose after all. Rowan’s posture shifted subtly.
She readied herself, as if she might leap into the fray if Elena needed her.
But Elena needed no shield. The anger in her chest was armor enough.
“At least they should be happy with their circumstances.”
Lady Peregrine studied her. Her gaze was gentle but unflinching in her perusal. “You speak as though Lord Rosebery is a monster.”
Elena’s smile turned icy. “No. A monster would at least be honest about his intentions. The earl cannot be bothered to even woo his intended. It is assumed I will come to heel like a well-trained dog.”
Lady Peregrine lifted her brow. “What do you believe his intentions are?”
Elena’s chin lifted. “To force me into matrimony.” The words fell with crisp disdain. “To make me obedient. To take what he needs and call it duty.”
A flicker of something pained moved through Ophelia’s eyes. “I do not think it is as simple as that.”
Elena frowned. “Do not look at me so,” she said. “I know you have reasons for being here. You always do, but your interference is neither appreciated nor desired. Go home, Lady Peregrine.”
Lady Peregrine’s mouth tightened further. “I have made mistakes,” she said quietly. “I will not make another. I will remain.”
“Yes,” she replied. “You have.” Elena’s eyes narrowed. “Do as you will. You always do.”
The air between them sharpened, and for a moment the bustle around them seemed to dim, as if the house itself held its breath. Then Lady Peregrine spoke, and her voice was softer than Elena expected. “I did not intend harm,” she said. “Not to Horatia. Not to Rosebery. Not to anyone.”
Rowan stepped closer to Elena, her presence warm and steady. Elena swallowed. She did not want to hear explanations from Lady Peregrine. Explanations had a way of becoming excuses.
“I am not one of your game pieces,” Elena said flatly. “Whatever you did before…whatever chain of events led to Rosebery believing he can simply have a wife… That has nothing to do with me. I will not pay the price for your meddling.”
Ophelia’s composure held, but Elena saw the truth in her eyes.
The dowager countess was paying it, too.
Quietly and internally... Still, Elena would not yield.
She did not understand everything that had been done, but she did know that somehow, she was the one that was being punished for it all.
For that she would not offer forgiveness so easily.
“I would rather be a spinster,” Elena said, the words ringing with conviction, “than be told who I must marry.”
A low voice cut through the moment like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. “And I would rather you were not a liar.”
Elena’s spine went perfectly straight. Rowan’s head turned at once. Lady Peregrine’s gaze shifted—not startled, but wary. Elena turned, and there he was.
Damian Foster, the Earl of Rosebery, stood at the base of the stairs as though he had materialized from the estate itself.
His coat was perfectly cut, his gloves immaculate, and his posture the embodiment of control.
Dark-blonde hair, hazel-gold eyes, and an expression so calm it might have been carved.
He looked up at her as if she were an equation he intended to solve.
Elena’s pulse quickened…not with fear, but with fury. “I beg your pardon?” she said sweetly.
His gaze did not flicker. “No one has commanded you to be my bride,” he repeated, voice smooth. “No one could. If you did not wish for this wedding to take place you should have stayed away. You had a choice and you chose to come here.”
Elena’s nails bit into her gloves. “I arrived,” she said, “because I refuse to give you the satisfaction of telling society I fled.”
Damian’s mouth curved faintly. Not a smile at all. No this was an acknowledgement. “So, you will fight where you can be seen. How is that any different than fleeing. Both are scandalous and if you had wished to avoid such a scene, it would have been far easier to be a coward.”
Rowan made a low sound of disgust. “How charming,” she murmured. “I can see why ye need tae buy a bride with such arrogance at yer disposal.”
Damian’s gaze flicked briefly to Rowan, cool appraisal, then returned to Elena as if no one else mattered.
Elena’s smile sharpened. “You mistake me, my lord. I am not here to fight for you. You’re not worth the effort”
“Good,” he replied calmly. “Because you would not win. I have no desire for that sort of marriage.”
Elena’s breath caught, rage flaring. “Rowan is correct you are too arrogant.”
“But very accurate,” he countered without raising his voice. “I always speak the truth. It’s less messy when one knows what is to be expected.”
Ophelia watched, her expression unreadable now.
Almost like a woman observing a fire she had accidentally lit and could not quite extinguish.
Elena stepped down one step, closer to Damian, unwilling to remain elevated like some prize on display.
“You cannot marry a woman who does not consent,” she said, voice low enough to be intimate, sharp enough to cut.
“Not in any chapel. Not in any parish. Not even at Rosebery Park.”
Damian’s gaze held hers with maddening steadiness.
“Yet you are here,” he said again, “standing outside my house, surrounded by preparations for that very event. I suppose we shall see if you agree to those vows in three days. Though make no mistake, I expect you to be my wife and I will convince you that it is in your best interest before we say those vows to each other.”
Elena’s lips parted, but no clever retort arrived quickly enough to satisfy her fury.
Damian leaned in slightly, only slightly, and lowered his voice. “I do not need obedience,” he said. “I need a wife. There is a difference.”
Elena’s laugh was breathless and bitter. “How romantic.”
Damian’s gaze flicked to her mouth as if he found her bitterness enchanting. Then he looked back to her eyes. “Romance is not required,” he said calmly. “But respect is and you will not make yourself a martyr on my doorstep and pretend you are being dragged along the way.”
Elena’s temper flared hot. “You speak as though I have no agency.”
Damian’s expression did not change, but something sharpened behind his eyes. “No,” he said. “I speak as though you have more agency than you care to admit.”
Rowan shifted closer, protective. “Elena…”
Elena held up a hand without looking away from Damian. “Do not worry,” Elena said, voice dangerously sweet. “His lordship cannot possibly demand my silence. Can you, my lord?”
Damian’s gaze dipped, briefly, to her gloved hand raised between them, then returned to her face. “No,” he said simply. “But I can wait you out.”
Elena’s blood went cold. Because he sounded as though he meant it and worse, because some traitorous part of her suspected he would enjoy the challenge.
A tiny thrill flowed over her at the very idea, and she didn’t like it.
She didn’t want to admit that she found even a small part of that man attractive or appealing, but her traitorous body would be her undoing in the end.