Chapter One

“Dash it all, David! How am I to find a bride by Christmas? It is but fifteen days away.”

James turned to his cousin and friend, Captain David Gladwin, his brow furrowed with genuine worry. David’s calm hazel eyes regarded him steadily. James—who shared that same family shade of hazel—ran a distracted hand through his thick brown hair.

“It cannot be done. It simply cannot,” James declared, his voice low with despondence. His lean, handsome face was drawn tight, his lips pressed into a narrow line. David released a long breath as he moved toward the desk.

“I would not say that, James. It is by no means impossible. Very little is, in truth. Or so I believe,” David replied gently, lowering himself into the chair opposite. A grimace crossed his features as he extended his leg—mute evidence of the wounds he had suffered in the Peninsular campaign, wounds that ached more keenly in winter’s chill. 

James, leaning heavily on the desk, allowed his head to sink forward for a moment. Weariness pressed upon him. Every winter, the burdens of the estate grew heavier: tenant farmers with their endless petitions, roads rendered impassable by snow, a ceaseless round of maintenance and repairs. Athenwood, the manor house that James had inherited when his grandfather passed away, was old and worse for wear. For as long as James could remember, the west wing had stood in need of repair, while the garden wall by the terrace crumbled so grievously that entire stones had fallen away. His grandfather, the former Earl of Athenwood, had chosen to leave such deficiencies unattended, preferring to see his fortune accumulate untouched—a policy James had never understood but could not contest. The result was plain enough: the estate was shabby in parts, and even the house itself, beyond the few chambers used daily, required improvements everywhere.

The income from farms and investments sufficed to maintain the staff, the horses, and the grounds, but not to restore the house. For that, James needed the sum his grandfather had promised him—yet only on one condition. He must marry. And he must do so by Christmas.

“David, I don’t see how it can be possible,” James admitted. He had turned the problem over in his mind a hundred times, and no solution presented itself. The true difficulty lay in the ridiculously short time given to find a suitable woman. What respectable lady would even contemplate marriage without proper courtship? Most young women expected a year at the very least. Yet his grandfather had granted him little more than a fortnight—and that if he began at once. 

As the wind rattled the panes, shaking snow from the tree outside, James felt nature itself reminding him of time’s relentless march. Without his grandfather’s legacy, he could not repair Athenwood, could not breathe life into the dream he had cherished since boyhood: to see the manor restored to its former beauty.

David shrugged lightly. “In Portugal, during the war, I witnessed many a thing I had thought beyond possibility—men hauling cannon up cliffs so steep I scarce believed it could be done, victories won against all expectation. Even my sergeant once managed to hold his tongue and speak with courtesy before a battle.” He chuckled, though his expression remained grave. “Nothing is impossible, James. And if ever extraordinary things occur, they occur at Christmastime.” His hazel eyes gleamed before he looked down, almost shy of the fervour in his words.

“It may be as you say,” James murmured. He valued David’s encouragement, though the season itself brought him little comfort. His heart ached whenever he thought of it. It had been three years—three years and some weeks—since he had lost Roslyn, the dearest soul in his life. Her memory still pierced his heart. How could he welcome Christmas, when winter’s snow recalled that fatal day? She had been riding near the estate when her horse slipped and threw her violently. He should have been with her. He ought never to have allowed the risk. But the wretched bridge up at Pennybrook had collapsed beneath heavy snow, and duty had called him there to oversee repairs. He would never forgive himself.

“I know that miracles can happen, James,” David said firmly. “I saw enough of them on the battlefield.”

James nodded. “I believe that, David.” He had heard enough tales from returning soldiers: horrors almost unspeakable—and deliverances scarcely credible.

David smiled faintly. “Then trust that all shall be well.” He paused, glancing toward the window. “Have you found a log for the Christmas Eve fire? Mama sent our steward searching high and low for one of sufficient size.” His mouth curved in quiet amusement. “Though we shall not be at Bradley Manor this Christmas, she would have the ceremony performed as splendidly as ever.”

James shrugged. “I haven’t had a moment to send anyone out, David,” he admitted.

 He wished that he could enjoy the season, but his heart was not in it. True, his grandfather’s peculiar challenge had given him something to occupy his thoughts—better that than drowning entirely in grief. Had he not required their companionship, he would never have invited David and his mother, Aunt Catherine, to Athenwood. Then he would have endured the twelve days of Christmas in solitude, shut up in the draughty manor with no one to speak to. As it turned out, their company would spare him that bleak prospect.

“You will find something. Or, if not, I am certain Mama will,” David laughed, his hazel eyes crinkling warmly.

“I have no doubt of it,” James agreed. His affection for his aunt was deep; she was his mother’s sister, and in truth, the nearest thing to a mother he had ever known. His own parents had died when he was scarcely more than a child, leaving his upbringing to his grandfather, his tutors, and to Aunt Catherine’s kindness. Those summers spent at Bradley, her estate, remained some of his happiest memories. It pleased him to have her with him now, for the festive season.

A knock at the door made James start. The weight of the challenge pressed more heavily on him than he cared to confess, he realised, as he recovered from the shock the sudden noise had given him.

“Who is it?” he called.

“It is I, Mr Stowe, my lord,” came the butler’s voice. “A coachful of visitors has just arrived. Shall I take them to the drawing-room, my lord?”

“Visitors?” James frowned. “What sort of visitors?”

“Your cousin, Mr Rayleigh Alford, my lord.”

“Oh?” James glanced at David, whose widened eyes mirrored his own surprise. Rayleigh was James’s cousin on his father’s side, no relation to David. That much was unremarkable; the remarkable part was that James had not invited him. “Who else?” he asked sharply.

Before Mr Stowe could answer, a voice called from the passage.

“Goodness, James! Can you truly hesitate to receive your family at Christmastide? It is Aunt Juliana.”

James glanced at his cousin, who made a surprised face. He looked almost as uneasy as James. Neither of them had ever warmed to Aunt Juliana, whose hauteur and complication made her presence more trial than pleasure. Nor did her children, Rayleigh and Milicent, differ greatly in disposition.

“Come in, Aunt,” James said at once. David rose to his feet as Stowe opened the door, admitting Aunt Juliana in a rustle of orange silk, with Rayleigh and Milicent in her train. James forced himself to stand, schooling his face into courtesy though inwardly he winced.

“James! At last. You keep the most tiresome household!” Aunt Juliana exclaimed, sweeping him a curtsey. “Your butler seemed determined to keep us from greeting you—the impertinence!” She cast a reproachful glance at Stowe, but he had wisely withdrawn. James sighed.

“My apologies, Aunt. My butler acted only under my orders,” he explained fairly.

“Strange orders, to leave one’s family in the cold,” Rayleigh drawled, smoothing his dark burgundy riding coat with deliberate elegance. His chestnut eyes—so like his mother’s—regarded James with mild disdain.

“I was unaware that my family intended to visit me,” James returned, the faint emphasis on family serving as a gentle reproach. They had come uninvited, without so much as a note of warning.

“Well, now that we are here, is it not jolly?” Milicent asked, her dark eyes bright though her smile was chill. She bore her mother’s haughty features and, despite her words, looked as little inclined to “jollity” as anyone James had ever met.

“You did say we might stay at Christmas,” Aunt Juliana reminded him, her gaze level.

“I did, yes,” James admitted reluctantly, recalling too well the words spoken a month before, when she had called to offer her condolences on his grandfather’s passing. He had spoken from courtesy alone, never imagining she would take the phrase as a binding invitation.

“Perhaps you would care to take refreshment in the drawing room?” James suggested, choosing to end the matter there. He cast a glance at David, who inclined his head gravely.

“I shall ride out in a moment—I’ll drop past the wall that needed mending,” David said with a level stare. “Perhaps you would join me, James?” he offered.

James could almost feel his aunt stiffen at the suggestion, though he did not dare look her way.

“No, my dear fellow. I shall remain. I trust you to see it attended to,” he replied with a grateful smile.

“No trouble at all,” David said, bowing slightly to the others. “I shall see you all at dinner?”

“Yes, of course,” Rayleigh answered smoothly. “I am certain my cousin would never refuse his family’s company—particularly at Christmastide.” He smiled at James with a pointed air.

“Quite so,” James returned, his voice cold as the frosted fields beyond the window.

“Isn’t this fine?” Milicent gushed as they went out into the hallway. “A house-party at Christmas. I did not know that your cousin David would be here.” She arched a brow, her tone edged with reproach. James had invited his aunt and cousin on his mother’s side, but not them—and she plainly disdained him for it.

“He is staying here, yes.” James inclined his head, offering nothing more than confirmation. She turned away with studied indifference. He sighed inwardly. She wished to provoke him into argument, but he would not oblige. He would not grant them the satisfaction of seeing him unsettled.

Milicent did not reply, and they all went to the drawing room. A fire burned in the grate, the velvet curtains pulled back to admit daylight into the room. It was afternoon, the light already warm with the tones of the sunset. It was four o’clock, and James rang the bell for tea. He looked around, wishing that he did not feel quite as vulnerable in the slightly threadbare space.

“James, we had to come,” Aunt Juliana declared as soon as the butler had departed to fetch the tea-things. She had claimed the chaise-longue, with Milicent beside her; Rayleigh lounged in a striped wingback. All three regarded James with an unsettling chill. “We heard the news.”

“News?” James asked, fighting for calm. He knew what news they meant—the clause in the will. And if they had heard of it at Brigham, then the entire county knew. All Athenwood, every neighbouring estate, likely every drawing-room within ten miles was buzzing with it. He clenched his jaw against the groan that threatened. Courtship would be difficult enough in so brief a time—how much harder, if every lady believed he sought only to satisfy a clause in a will?

“Yes, James,” Aunt Juliana continued, her voice rising with indignation. “You cannot truly contemplate such a condition? It is the most shocking notion I have ever encountered!” She pressed a hand to her breast as if scandalised to the core.

James frowned. He had nearly decided to renounce the money altogether, to leave the clause unmet. But her tone, so imperious and assured, roused a contrary impulse in him: to pursue it, if only to prevent her from imagining he bent to her will.

“It may seem absurd,” he said lightly, “but it is Christmas, Aunt. A season when miracles are known to occur.”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Yes. Yes, it is,” she managed to say, since she could not very well argue with the statement. 

James might have found amusement in her discomposure had his mind been easier. As it was, the worry weighed too heavily. Barely more than a fortnight remained, and he had no notion how to proceed.

“Well then, we are in for a fine Christmas,” Milicent declared archly, just as the tea-tray was brought in.

James sighed. “I suppose we are,” he answered mildly.

Two weeks, he thought grimly. Two weeks to secure the legacy, to restore Athenwood, to keep faith with his dream—and now, to endure his most insufferable relations besides. And yet… for the first time in many months, he felt a spark of life, a stirring of resolve. He turned his gaze to the snow outside, wondering if, perhaps, a miracle might yet be found.

Chapter Two

“It just cannot be correct,” Beatrice whispered into the stillness of the study. Her gaze drifted to the window, where snowflakes fell steadily from the low clouds. She pushed a lock of chestnut hair back behind her ear, her expression troubled. The storms had raged for a fortnight, and with them had come the difficulty that now weighed upon her: they could not afford to pay for the coal.

Rising, she moved to the window and looked out. Her grey-blue eyes traced the familiar scene—the pathway to their modest cottage, neatly cleared of snow through Mr Headly’s devoted efforts. He remained in service despite her inability to pay him. Beyond lay the hedge, already cut back in readiness for spring, and the tall oak by the fence, its bare branches bowed under snow. Behind stretched the woodland, a tapestry of stark limbs and scattered evergreens. Their cottage, one of the largest in Athenwood village, stood on the very outskirts, surrounded by the forest.

“Please,” she whispered silently. “Let me find a way.”

It had been many years since Beatrice had turned her thoughts heavenward. Life had kept her too busy, her mind too burdened with cares and accounts. Yet if ever she longed for some measure of guidance, it was now. She closed her grey-blue eyes, willing a solution to appear. No matter how carefully she checked the figures, the accounts refused to balance; the debts always outweighed the income. And with winter harsher than most, she needed an answer swiftly.

“Sister? Sister! Look!”

Sophia’s bright voice broke through her troubled thoughts. Nineteen, five years her junior, Sophia’s exuberance was always a balm.

“Yes? What is it?” Beatrice asked, watching her sister burst into the room, cheeks flushed, pale curls tumbling in merry disarray.

“Look! I finished the last of my mending. Now I am ready for the village dance!”

Beatrice’s gaze fell on the silk stockings Sophia held out proudly, the neat patches a testament to care and necessity. To Beatrice, though, they were only a cruel reminder of what her sister ought to have—fresh, unblemished stockings for a proper ball, not old ones made whole again by needle and thread. Tears stung her eyes, and she turned her face quickly away.

“You did a fine job,” she said, steadying her voice.

“Thank you! I’m so excited!” Sophia declared happily. “Now everything is made new again—dress, stockings, all mended and ready for the dance.”

Beatrice nodded, swallowing. “Yes. Very good,” she managed.

“I can hardly wait,” Sophia went on, brimming with anticipation.

“That is… grand,” Beatrice murmured, turning to the window so her sadness might be hidden.

“You must be pleased about it too?” Sophia asked gently. 

Beatrice hesitated, a cough disguising her uncertainty. She could not confess the truth: that she dreaded the dance, not for the want of enjoyment, but because there was no money left for such luxuries. Every spare coin had gone to purchase ribbons and lace so Sophia might refresh her old gown. That secret sacrifice left nothing for herself, and she could not bear her sister to know it.

“I—” she began, but another voice called from the doorway.

“Beatrice, dear? Will you take these things to the church for me? I cannot face the snow today,” came her mother’s voice, rasping with winter fever.

“Of course, Mama,” Beatrice replied at once. “Gladly.”

“Me too!” Sophia chimed in. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, dear,” Beatrice said swiftly. Sophia had already endured one bad fever that winter; she must not risk another. Besides, their mother needed help with the endless polishing and tidying now that nearly all the staff were sent away. “Stay here—I shall only be a moment,” she promised.

“Good!” Sophia exclaimed. “Then you can come and join us for tea in the parlour.”

“I will,” Beatrice said, smiling faintly.

She pulled her shawl more tightly about her shoulders and stepped into the chill hallway. At the front door, she drew on her sturdy boots and slipped into her one remaining pelisse—a dark red, long her favourite, and the only one not yet patched beyond decency.

Lifting the basket by the door, she exited the cottage, wincing at the cold that struck at her like a hammer-blow as she went down the small path.

“It’s freezing out here,” she whispered to herself. Her boots did little to protect her feet, and her pelisse was too worn to offer real warmth. The cold reminded her of the danger facing her family if she could not find a way to pay the debts fast. They needed coal to keep the house warm, or everyone’s health would suffer terribly. She was shivering when she reached the village church.

“Oh! Miss Hamilton!” cried Mrs Morris, the prosperous farmer’s wife, who greeted her warmly. Of all the villagers, Mrs Morris was the most at ease in conversation with Beatrice and her family. The others remained a little overawed by the fact that Beatrice’s grandfather had been a baron.

Her own father, the baron’s second son, had inherited nothing—nor would he have wished to. His life had been devoted to study, and the responsibilities of an estate would only have proved a burden. Beatrice was glad he had pursued his scholarly path, though she sometimes found herself vexed with his memory for the debts he had allowed to accumulate, debts left unpaid until they pressed heavily upon her now. She knew he had not intended to leave them in such straits. Estate management had never been his gift. His extraordinary mind had been devoted to the study of natural philosophy, while the humbler matters of household and finance had been left to drift.

“Good morning, Mrs Morris,” she greeted their neighbour warmly. “It is pleasant to see you.”

“And you, Miss Hamilton. And you. Have you brought holly?” Mrs Morris asked with a smile. “Oh, you are a dear! We are in desperate need of it. Mrs Wilson has been making wreaths all morning, and we are quite out. How very timely of you.”

“I am glad to hear it will be useful,” Beatrice said honestly. Sophia and her mother had gathered the holly while she struggled with the accounts, and it pleased her to think their contribution might brighten the church.

“It will indeed! Bring it in,” Mrs Morris urged, bustling ahead into the well-lit interior.

The fragrance of beeswax drifted to Beatrice as she entered the modest yet beautiful church. The scent soothed her nerves. Light spilled through the stained-glass window above the altar, scattering rose and green tones across the polished pews. The altar was simply arrayed with a white cloth, embroidered in red and white.

Inside, the women of the village were hard at work. Mrs Wilson, the baker’s wife, sat in a pew with Mrs Harris, the milliner, fashioning wreaths. At the altar, Mrs Chelmsford was arranging dried flowers. With Christmas drawing near, the church must be made festive.

“Ah! Betty,” Mrs Harris called as Mrs Morris joined them. “Come and sit down—you must hear the news about Eliza and Mark.”

Beatrice lingered uncertainly near the door. She had never felt entirely at ease among the village ladies. They seemed caught between awe of her family name and disdain for her reduced circumstances. It left her uncomfortably balanced between their envy and their scorn. Still, their warm chatter was oddly comforting, and she hovered with the basket on her arm, half listening.

“Did you hear?” Mrs Wilson exclaimed. “It’s all over the village.”

“Of course, Betty must have heard of it,” Mrs Harris replied in a quelling tone. “It’s all over, as you say.”

“Heard what?” Mrs Morris inquired, leaning closer.

“About the earl, of course! In the big manor house! The Earl of Athenwood,” Mrs Harris told her. “Surely you heard? He has fifteen days to find a wife. Fifteen days! Scandalous!”

Beatrice, listening at the door, gaped for a second. That was surely impossible for anyone, even an earl, to do.

In the pew, Mrs Morris drew a sharp breath in. “Fifteen days! That is absurd. Why such urgency?”

Mrs Wilson lowered her voice. “Because he needs money.”

Beatrice stiffened, listening intently.

“He means to marry an heiress? Simply for her fortune?” Mrs Morris asked, scandalised.

“No, no. Not that,” Mrs Harris corrected. “He must marry in order to claim part of his inheritance. It is in his grandfather’s will.”

“So they say,” Mrs Wilson added, reaching for more greenery.

“The title and estate fell to him as the heir, of course,” Mrs Harris went on. “But there are additional funds tied up with conditions. He must be married by Christmas Day to receive them. Or so the story goes. One cannot credit every rumour, of course,” she added, glancing around a little uncomfortably.

“Quite so. One should not pay heed to idle rumours,” Mrs Wilson said primly.

At the door, Beatrice stood frozen. The story was wild—almost too outlandish to believe. And yet her thoughts raced.

“Oh! Miss Hamilton—do bring in the holly, please,” Mrs Morris called cheerfully. “We are so very glad of it.”

“Of course,” Beatrice replied, walking over shyly. She lifted the holly twigs from the basket, placing them carefully between the two women where they sat in the pew. They all fell momentarily silent, and Beatrice flushed. “I must return home,” she excused herself, dipping her head. “A good afternoon to you.”

“And to you, my dear,” Mrs Morris replied kindly.

Grateful for her friendliness, Beatrice slipped back into the cold air, her mind in tumult.

“It is nonsense,” she told herself sternly as she made her way down the snow-covered path. “Madness. It would never work, and there is no sense in even thinking of it.”

And yet her heart fluttered. The earl must be desperate. Everyone knew Athenwood was in disrepair, that he needed the funds. Without a wife, he could not touch them. In a strange way, his plight mirrored her own. Both were pressed by need, with no clear remedy. Together, might their difficulties form a solution?

Her cheeks warmed at the thought. “I would need to propose to him.” 

A laugh escaped her. At the cottage gate, she paused, giddy with the idea. Madness, sheer madness! Surely, she had taken leave of her senses. And yet her father’s old words echoed in her mind—that sometimes the wildest notions proved the best.

“No. I cannot do it,” she whispered. Too daring, too shocking. Yet the spark of the thought burned on, bright despite her efforts to smother it. Smiling in spite of herself, she hurried inside toward the warmth of the parlour, where her mother and sister waited for tea.

Chapter Three

“Dash it. Two weeks remain before Christmas,” James said under his breath as he looked up from the document that he had hastily scrawled. He ran a hand through his thick brown hair and groaned. He was tired. He had been sitting at the desk for three hours—the clock on the mantel showed that it was almost time for afternoon tea—and he had written a half-dozen letters to friends and distant relations all over England, as far north as the Scots border. All of them carried the same desperate request.

Should you know of a lady, eligible and willing to enter into matrimony within days of receiving this message, please respond post-haste. Time is of the utmost importance.

James sighed as his eyes drifted across the words. The request looked as absurd on the page as it had sounded in his head—half shocking, half ridiculous. He doubted anyone would reply. Indeed, he scarcely knew why he persisted in writing.

“I ought rather to contrive some other way of raising money,” he muttered, rising from the desk. His foot had gone numb from sitting so long, and he winced as he put weight upon it. Crossing to the window, he looked out upon the garden. Three floors below, the lawn lay hidden beneath a pristine blanket of snow, the oak boughs standing stark and heavy with white. It was a beautiful day, the sky thick with the promise of more snowfall. Yet beauty stirred no pleasure in him.

Roslyn’s death alone would have soured him on Christmas, but his grandfather’s decree had given him a fresh cause for bitterness.

“This is madness,” he told himself, returning to the desk. He gathered up the letters, imagining for a moment casting them into the fire and watching them burn. There was a certain comfort in surrender. The requirement his grandfather had laid upon him was preposterous; it was not something any man could reasonably achieve.

As he hesitated, a knock fell at the door. James turned, his shoulders tightening at the thought of Rayleigh or Aunt Juliana intruding, despite his express command that they leave him in peace. His nerves were frayed enough without their company.

“Who is it?” he called cautiously.

“My lord?” came Mr Stowe’s voice through the wood. “There are some visitors for you downstairs. Ought I to show them to the drawing room?”

“Visitors?” James stalked to the door, wincing as his left foot ached, and drew it open. “What manner of visitors?” He expected no one.

“A lady, my lord. And—another lady. They pressed a calling card upon me. They request an audience. I am sorry, my lord, but they were most insistent.” Mr Stowe looked down at his boots, clearly uncomfortable.

“Insistent?” James repeated, surprised. “May I see the card?”

Mr Stowe handed over a worn piece of manila pasteboard, the lettering faded as though it had been carried long in a reticule. James frowned as he read:

The Honourable Mrs Robert Hamilton, Ashmore Cottage, Athenwood Village.

He had no idea who that might be. To his recollection, he had never met The Honourable Mrs Robert Hamilton; indeed, he scarcely knew anyone in the village at all. He knew the vicar, but only slightly—through the few services James had attended, and because the man sometimes came on behalf of the villagers with requests or small disputes to be settled. Beyond that, James could not claim acquaintance with a single soul in Athenwood. 

He passed the card back to the butler.

“I think I should…” he began, then faltered, uncertain. He was reluctant to receive the visitors, whoever they might be. Most likely, they had come to complain of the bridge, or to seek his judgment in some petty quarrel. The style ‘Honourable’ suggested a noble of some sort—the wife of some earl’s, baron’s, or viscount’s son—and that was precisely the sort of person who was often most difficult: anxious to have their rank acknowledged, yet fearful it might be overlooked. He had little patience for such encounters that day.

As he was about to answer, a flurry of snow dropped from a branch with a soft thump against the sill, stirring an unwelcome memory. He saw again the day in the woods with Roslyn, when she had insisted upon stopping to speak with a woodcutter and his wife, though it delayed their ride. Yet the interruption had proved unexpectedly sweet: they had gone on their way with lighter hearts, warmed by the villagers’ smiles and kindly Christmas wishes.

“I think I should see them,” James said at last. “It is Christmas, after all. If they have come so far, I ought at least to be charitable and hear it.

“Very good, my lord,” Mr Stowe said neutrally. 

“Show them to the drawing-room,” James added, pausing to straighten his cravat before following his butler downstairs. Three hours bent over his desk had left him looking worn; he could only hope he did not make too disgraceful an impression.

When the soft knock came at the drawing-room door, James turned, startled. Mr Stowe ushered in two ladies. Both were tall, both dressed in half-mourning—one in soft grey, the other in a pale bluish hue. Their cheeks were hollow, their figures spare, yet they held themselves with a natural dignity.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” the elder said. “I am Mrs Hamilton. My daughter begged me to accompany her. She wished to speak with you—regarding some news that has spread in the village.” Her brown eyes flickered away, betraying discomfort, as though she had not wholly approved the errand, yet had come in support of the younger lady beside her.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Hamilton. Miss Hamilton,” he added, bowing to them both in succession. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, my lord,” the younger murmured. 

James studied her as he straightened up. She was tall, with chestnut hair pinned back in a bun that had come slightly loose, a strand brushing her neck. Her nose was delicate, her lips finely shaped, her complexion pale, with a hint that the sun might freckle it in summer. But it was her eyes—clear grey-blue, steady and direct—that held him. She met his gaze without a flicker of timidity or awe. He looked away, unsettled; no young lady had ever regarded him so directly. His heart gave an uncomfortable twist.

“Pray be seated,” James said awkwardly, gesturing toward the chairs. He rang for tea, then joined them.

“Have you been facing a hard winter here?” Mrs Hamilton asked, striving for conversation while they waited for the tea to arrive. She seemed tense, her gaze remaining downcast even when she addressed him. James could not help but feel a pang of sympathy for her.

“No. Not particularly. Or—not yet,” he admitted, fumbling. He tended to shut himself away in the manor, particularly close to the festive season, so it was hard to remember how to make polite chatter.

Mr Stowe entered with the tea, and James leaned back, grateful for the interruption. He studied the women as the tray was set down. Mrs Hamilton had dark brown hair, streaked in the front with grey, and he guessed her to be around fifty years old. Her daughter, he thought, was several years younger than himself, somewhere closer to twenty than thirty. Both women bore themselves with quiet dignity, and he found himself admiring them. Whatever their errand, they had chosen to pursue it with grace.

“My lord?” Miss Hamilton spoke once Stowe had withdrawn. “May I explain the purpose of our visit?”

James, struck by her composure, inclined his head. “By all means,” he replied, absently adding sugar to his tea.

She folded her hands in her lap. “It has come to my attention that you are in search of a wife. I have come to propose myself as the solution to your difficulty.”

James nearly let the cup fall. His fingers clenched about the handle as he stared, his mouth falling open before he snapped it shut again. Rising abruptly, he paced to the window. Miss Hamilton followed, and in another moment her mother joined them, her face pale with horror, as though she had known nothing of her daughter’s plan.

“Miss?” he managed, his voice unsteady. “You are—you mean—” He cursed inwardly at his stammer, yet the shock was overwhelming.

“I mean,” she said calmly, her grey-blue eyes steady on his, “that I propose you wed me. I am unmarried. I am the granddaughter of Baron Bramley, and therefore sufficiently noble. And—I am in need of assistance.”

“What…” he drew a breath. “What sort of assistance?” he concluded wearily. 

He could scarcely credit what he was hearing. Wild. Preposterous. Unthinkable. And yet—it had come out of nowhere, at precisely the moment when it was needed most. It was, in truth, exactly what he needed. He had to at least consider it. David’s words about the impossible returned to him. Perhaps this was what he had meant.

“Of the… financial kind,” the young lady answered simply. “My family is in debt. A small portion of the funds you would inherit might relieve us. That is all I ask.”

James gaped. Behind her, Mrs Hamilton wrung her hands, her face ashen.

“You wish me to pay your debts—in return for marriage?” He faltered, then forced himself to think. Mad though it sounded, her words struck a chord of sense. Letters to friends and kin would take weeks, if they replied at all. He had but a fortnight. Here was a young woman before him, eligible, willing, and practical. With a special licence sent to London by express, the matter might be arranged in days. 

It was, in truth, the only feasible solution.

“What else would you expect?” he asked carefully. The idea appealed—yet he must know her mind. He himself had no wish for a wife in truth; certainly not to bring forth heirs in such a fashion. This would be a marriage of necessity, nothing more.

“I should expect only what you expect of me, my lord,” she replied. Her gaze was downcast, and James could see fear in the sudden firm line formed by her mouth. 

She fears the conditions I might impose on her, he thought. And in that instant, he knew she, too, was desperate. His heart ached for her.

“I would expect nothing,” he said gently. “This arrangement would be solely for material concerns. Any other… duties… would be waived.” He could not meet her eyes as he spoke; the words were too heavy.

“Good.”

James glanced over at Mrs Hamilton. She was standing a little behind her daughter. Her face was white, drained of colour.

“My lord, I—” she began faintly.

“Please consider it,” Miss Hamilton pressed, her eyes bright with desperation. James’s chest tightened. He could not say what she deserved, only that she ought not to be driven to such a bargain. Yet here she stood, freely offering the very solution he had scarcely dared hope might present itself.

“Miss Hamilton,” he said slowly, “yours is the very course I had not thought to see laid before me—and it may well be the only path that remains. I will agree.”

The young woman’s eyes widened in shock, as if his agreement was the most unexpected outcome she could have foreseen. Behind her, Mrs Hamilton gaped at him, her face pale with horror.

James swallowed hard. “I thank you for your suggestion,” he said humbly. “And I accept it.”