Chapter One

“But are you excited?” Lady Beatrice Vexley’s voice carried across the morning room with characteristic boldness, her striking features animated by genuine curiosity. “You seem so… calm about it all. When I marry, I want to feel something more than… dutiful.”

Lady Eliza Vexley paused with her teacup halfway to her lips, acutely aware of the sudden silence that fell over the breakfast table. Six pairs of eyes turned toward her, each belonging to a member of the family who had claimed their place at the long mahogany table that had hosted countless family discussions over the years. The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of Vexwood Hall’s breakfast room, casting dancing patterns across the polished surface and illuminating the expectant faces surrounding her.

The weight of their collective attention settled upon her shoulders like a familiar burden. How many times had she found herself the subject of such scrutiny, her siblings’ concern for her welfare manifesting in questions she struggled to answer honestly? The irony was not lost on her that as the fifth child, she had spent most of her life observing rather than being observed, yet now, with her wedding approaching, she had become the focal point of family discussion.

“Beatrice,” Lady Margaret Vexley’s voice carried its usual note of gentle reproof, though her dark eyes held a flicker of curiosity that matched her youngest sister’s. “Such questions are hardly appropriate for the breakfast table.”

Margaret’s elegant form remained perfectly composed at her position near the head of the table, her dark auburn hair arranged with characteristic precision and her morning dress immaculate despite the early hour. As the eldest daughter, she had assumed many of the responsibilities of household management, and her efficiency in such matters was matched only by her talent for maintaining proper decorum in all circumstances.

“Why not?” Beatrice’s chin lifted with the stubborn determination that had marked her character since childhood, her animated gestures causing her dark curls to bounce with each emphatic word. “Surely we might speak frankly among ourselves? Eliza is to be married in six months’ time, and yet she appears no more animated than if she were discussing the weather or the condition of the roads.”

Sebastian Vexley, seventh Duke of Vexwood, set down his morning correspondence with deliberate care, his commanding presence filling the head of the table even in the relative informality of family breakfast. His dark hair caught the morning light as he regarded his youngest sister with the mixture of exasperation and affection that Beatrice’s pronouncements invariably provoked. The weight of his position had settled upon him at far too young an age, and the responsibility for his siblings’ welfare was one he bore with characteristic seriousness.

“Marriage suits you well, Eliza,” he said, his voice carrying the authority that had become second nature since inheriting the dukedom. “Mr Ashworth seems a steady man, possessed of good character and reasonable prospects. His estate, whilst modest, is well-managed, and his reputation in the county is exemplary. You could not have chosen more wisely.”

Eliza felt the familiar tightness in her chest that accompanied discussions of her impending nuptials. She managed what she hoped was a serene smile, though privately she wondered if her siblings could detect the strain beneath her composure. The truth was that Frederick Ashworth had chosen her rather than the reverse, but such a distinction seemed hardly worth making when the result remained the same.

“Indeed, Frederick is all that is admirable in a gentleman,” she replied with practised composure. “His correspondence demonstrates both wit and consideration, and his visits have confirmed my initial impression of his excellent character. I am most fortunate in his regard.”

The words felt hollow even as she spoke them, a recitation of qualities that should have inspired deeper feeling but instead left her with a sense of going through the motions of an elaborate performance. Frederick was indeed everything she claimed—kind, respectable, possessed of sufficient means to provide her with a comfortable life. Yet somewhere in the depths of her heart, she harboured the treacherous wish that his presence might inspire something beyond mere gratitude.

“Fortunate,” Lady Cecilia Vexley repeated softly, her gentle voice carrying from her position beside her husband, Gideon Harlow. Her petite frame seemed almost fragile in the morning light, though those who knew her well understood the quiet strength that lay beneath her delicate exterior. The transformation that marriage had wrought in Cecilia was remarkable—where once she had been timid and uncertain, she now possessed a serene confidence that spoke of true contentment, shaped not only by wedded harmony but also by two years of quiet motherhood.

“Are you nervous about the wedding?” Cecilia continued with genuine concern. “I remember feeling quite overwhelmed when my own ceremony approached. The arrangements alone seemed insurmountable, and the prospect of such a complete change in circumstances was rather daunting.”

“The arrangements are well in hand,” Margaret interjected with characteristic efficiency, consulting the small notebook she invariably carried for such purposes. “The invitations have been dispatched to all the appropriate families, the church has been engaged for the ceremony, and Cook has already begun planning the wedding breakfast. Mrs Henderson has confirmed that the flowers will be available despite the season, and the musicians have been secured for the evening celebration. There is nothing left to chance.”

Clara Vexley, the Duke’s wife, looked up from where she sat at Sebastian’s right hand, her hazel eyes holding the gentle wisdom that had won her husband’s heart despite their considerable difference in station. Her presence at the table still seemed somewhat miraculous to Eliza, a testament to the transformative power of love that had overcome every obstacle of birth and circumstance—and now quietly enriched by the tender joys of new motherhood.

“But surely the practical concerns are not what weighs upon Eliza’s mind?” Clara observed with characteristic insight. “The transformation from maiden to wife is no small matter, regardless of how well-prepared one might be in terms of arrangements and settlements.”

Eliza felt a rush of gratitude toward her sister-in-law, whose understanding nature had made her such a welcome addition to their family. Clara possessed an intuitive grasp of emotional complexities that often eluded those born to their elevated station, perhaps because her own path to happiness had been neither straightforward nor conventional.

“Clara speaks truly,” Eliza acknowledged, her voice softening with genuine emotion. “I confess I sometimes feel as though I am observing someone else’s life rather than preparing for my own. The woman who accepts compliments on her sensible choice and discusses wedding arrangements with such composure seems quite separate from my inner self.”

“That is precisely what concerns me,” Beatrice declared, her voice rising with the passion that characterised her every utterance. “You speak of your betrothal as though it were a business arrangement rather than a matter of the heart. Where is the fire? The delight? Where is the anticipation that should accompany such a momentous step? When I think of love—”

“You think of romantic novels and poetry,” Margaret interrupted with a slight smile that softened her typically stern expression. “Real marriage requires more practical considerations than mere sentiment, as you will discover when your own time comes. Affection built upon mutual respect and shared values provides a far more stable foundation than the transient passions celebrated in literature.”

Margaret’s words carried the weight of observation rather than experience, for at two-and-thirty she had never received an offer that tempted her to abandon her comfortable spinsterhood. Yet her management of their household and her careful study of successful marriages among their acquaintance had provided her with considerable insight into the practical requirements of matrimonial happiness.

Sebastian’s dark eyes moved between his sisters with the careful attention of a man accustomed to managing complex family dynamics. “The absence of melodrama does not indicate the absence of contentment,” he said with quiet authority. “Eliza has always possessed a calm temperament, and Mr Ashworth’s steady nature complements her own admirably. There is much to be said for a marriage built upon compatibility and mutual esteem.”

“But surely,” Beatrice persisted, punctuating her words with a flourish of her fork—a gesture that would have sent their former governess into a dead faint, “there must be something more than mere compatibility. Some undeniable spark—real, unruly feeling—that turns the ordinary into the unforgettable. When Gideon looks at Cecilia, his devotion is etched into every line of his face. When Sebastian so much as says Clara’s name, his entire manner alters, as if affection has taken him gently by the throat. And yet”—she turned, eyes narrowing slightly—“where, in all Eliza’s elegant discourse about her intended, is that kind of feeling?”

The question hung in the air like morning mist, and Eliza found herself struggling to formulate a response that would satisfy both her own sense of honesty and her family’s expectations. The truth was that Frederick Ashworth inspired in her a comfortable sort of gratitude rather than any deeper emotion, but such an admission would only invite further questions she was ill-equipped to answer.

Lord Harland—Gideon—who had been listening to the discussion with the bemused tolerance of one still adjusting to the complexities of Vexley family dynamics, chose this moment to offer his perspective. The sharpness of his features—marked by his years of service in the Peninsula—was tempered now by the quiet understanding that had settled upon him since his marriage to Cecilia.

“Perhaps,” he suggested in his quiet voice, “the capacity for deeper feeling develops differently in each individual. Some may experience immediate and overwhelming passion, whilst others discover love gradually, like the slow warming of earth beneath spring sunshine.”

Cecilia’s face lit with affection for her husband’s poetic observation, and she reached across to touch his hand with gentle gratitude. “Gideon speaks wisely,” she said softly. “My own feelings developed over time, growing stronger with each passing day as I came to understand his true character.”

“Affection can indeed grow within the bonds of marriage,” Eliza agreed, seizing upon this more hopeful interpretation of her situation. “Many couples find happiness in mutual respect and shared purpose, allowing deeper sentiment to develop naturally through the intimacy of daily companionship.”

“How perfectly sensible,” Beatrice muttered, her tone dry enough to suggest she found such sensibility tragically lacking in romance. “And how thoroughly disappointing.”

Sebastian folded his correspondence with crisp efficiency, seizing upon the opportunity to steer the conversation toward safer ground. “Speaking of shared purpose,” he said, with the faintest glimmer of relief, “I have received word from Aunt Iris. She finds herself in need of companionship during her recovery from a recent indisposition.”

The mention of their eccentric aunt promptly captured the attention of everyone present, for Lady Thornfield was a source of enduring fascination within the family. Her unconventional lifestyle and cryptic pronouncements had provided both entertainment and mild exasperation for decades.

“Is her condition serious?” Eliza asked with genuine concern. For all Aunt Iris’s theatrical flair, she was deeply beloved by her great-nieces and nephews.

“Nothing life-threatening, according to her letter,” Sebastian replied, visibly reassured. “Though she confesses to feeling, in her words, ‘tediously weak’ and ‘insufferably bored’—which, as we know, she finds the graver affliction. Her physician has prescribed rest and quiet, but you know how our dear aunt chafes at such restrictions. She has specifically requested that you might visit and provide some companionship during her convalescence.”

Eliza felt a flutter of genuine interest at this unexpected opportunity. Thornfield Cottage had always represented a haven of tranquillity removed from the pressures of society, a place where unconventional thinking was not merely tolerated but encouraged. The prospect of spending time in Aunt Iris’s company, surrounded by her extensive library and beautiful gardens, held considerable appeal.

“The timing would be fortuitous,” Sebastian continued, “as it would allow you some respite from wedding preparations whilst ensuring Aunt Iris receives the attention she requires. Mr Ashworth is engaged with his own estate matters for the next several weeks, is he not?”

“Indeed,” Eliza confirmed, though she found herself more enthusiastic about the proposed visit than she was about her fiancé’s eventual return. “Frederick mentioned in his last letter that he must oversee the harvest and attend to some repairs before winter. He would not expect my company during such practical occupations.”

Margaret looked up from her notebook with immediate approval. “An excellent notion. The country air would do you good, Eliza, and Aunt Iris has always been particularly fond of you. Moreover, your absence would allow the final wedding preparations to proceed without subjecting you to the inevitable stress of constant decision-making.”

“Indeed,” Clara agreed warmly, her own experience of wedding preparations having taught her something of their overwhelming nature. “And the change of scene might provide exactly the sort of refreshment your spirits seem to require.”

Beatrice’s expression brightened considerably at this development. “Oh, you simply must go! Aunt Iris always has the most fascinating stories, and her gardens are absolutely magnificent this time of year. Besides,” she added with characteristic directness, “you have seemed rather melancholy lately, and perhaps some time away from constant discussion of trousseau and guest lists will restore your natural spirits.”

Eliza felt a spark of genuine enthusiasm for the first time that morning. “I should be delighted to assist Aunt Iris in any way possible. Her company has always provided both entertainment and enlightenment, and I confess the prospect of quiet weeks spent in Somerset holds considerable attraction.”

“Excellent.” Sebastian’s tone carried the satisfaction of a man who had successfully managed yet another family obligation whilst providing his sister with what appeared to be a welcome opportunity. “I shall write immediately to inform her of your acceptance. The carriage can be prepared for departure tomorrow morning, if that suits your convenience.”

“So soon?” Beatrice’s voice held a note of disappointment. “But we have scarcely had time to discuss the wedding properly. There are so many details yet to consider, so many arrangements to finalise.”

“Which is precisely why a period of quiet reflection might prove beneficial,” Margaret interrupted with characteristic pragmatism. “Eliza will return well-rested and better prepared for the final preparations, whilst having performed a valuable service for our aunt.”

Eliza nodded her agreement, though privately she wondered if her eagerness to accept the invitation stemmed less from a desire to assist their aunt and more from a wish to escape the constant reminders of her approaching marriage. The thought troubled her, but she pushed such doubts aside with the practised ease of one accustomed to managing inconvenient emotions.

“I shall write to Julian and Jasper this very morning,” Sebastian continued, referring to the twin brothers who, though currently residing in distant counties, remained ever connected to the family’s concerns. “They will be disappointed to miss your departure, but their respective duties keep them well-occupied with matters of considerable importance.”

The mention of her absent brothers brought a familiar pang of longing to Eliza’s heart. Though twins by birth, Julian and Jasper had carved distinctly separate lives. Julian, now settled at Whitmoor Grange in Derbyshire with his wife Isabelle, had embraced a quiet passion for estate management and agricultural innovation. Their one-and-a-half-year-old sons, William and Thomas, were reportedly thriving—vigorous, mischievous, and the pride of their household. Jasper, by contrast, had recently taken up more ambitious pursuits. Alongside his wife Thalia, he was overseeing the expansion of Seacliff Retreat in Brighton, where a blend of artistic vision and social reform had transformed the seaside property into something quite extraordinary. Their lives, though far removed from the duchy, were filled with purpose and no small measure of satisfaction.

“Julian writes that he has discovered a fascinating collection of botanical specimens on the grounds at Whitmoor,” Clara offered, her voice warm, as though hoping to soften the slight ache that always accompanied thoughts of the absent twins. “He plans to document them thoroughly before the season turns, complete with detailed illustrations and cultivation notes.”

“And Jasper?” Beatrice asked with the particular interest she reserved for their youngest brother, whose exploits provided endless entertainment, even when they bordered on scandalous.

“Jasper writes very little of substance,” Sebastian replied dryly, though the fondness in his voice belied the criticism. “Though his last letter included several theatrical tales of local society—clearly tailored for your amusement, Beatrice. Something about a vicar’s wife determined to stage amateur theatricals despite possessing neither the voice, memory, nor temperament for the task.”

The conversation continued to flow around the table, touching on estate matters, London gossip, and the various concerns that occupied a large and active family. Eliza found herself observing rather than participating, a habit that had become increasingly pronounced as her wedding day approached. She watched Margaret’s efficient management of family logistics, Beatrice’s passionate engagement with every topic, and Cecilia’s gentle contributions to the discussion.

Did they see her as she saw herself—quiet, observant, the sister who had accepted the first respectable offer that came her way? The thought brought a familiar ache to her chest, a sense of being fundamentally different from her siblings. Where they seemed to navigate the world with such certainty, she felt perpetually uncertain, as though she were playing a role for which she had never properly learned the lines.

“You seem rather thoughtful this morning,” Clara observed quietly, her words meant for Eliza alone as the others debated the merits of various travel routes to Somerset. “More so than usual, I mean.”

“I find myself contemplating the changes that lie ahead,” Eliza replied honestly, grateful for Clara’s gentle understanding. “It is no small matter to leave one’s family and embark upon an entirely new life, in an entirely new place, beneath an entirely new identity.”

“Indeed it is,” Clara agreed, her tone warm with the quiet authority of experience. “Though I have found that the most significant changes often bring unexpected joys. When I first came to Vexwood Hall, I could never have imagined how thoroughly my life would be transformed, nor how completely I would come to cherish my new circumstances.”

Eliza studied her sister-in-law’s serene expression, noting the contentment that seemed to radiate from her very being. Clara’s transformation from a modest village schoolteacher to a duchess of considerable influence had been nothing short of remarkable to witness, accomplished with a grace that made it appear effortless despite the considerable challenges involved.

“You have no regrets about leaving your former life?” Eliza asked with genuine curiosity.

“None whatsoever,” Clara replied with quiet certainty. “Though I confess there were moments of considerable doubt before my wedding day. The prospect of such a complete change in circumstances can be rather overwhelming—especially when one has spent years imagining a very different sort of future.”

She paused, her gaze thoughtful. “But in truth, my new life has not required me to abandon who I was. If anything, it has allowed me to become more fully myself. With Sebastian’s unwavering support and the opportunities afforded by my new position, I’ve been able to pursue my aspirations with a freedom and purpose I never dared hope for before.”

“Did you love Sebastian immediately?” The question escaped before Eliza could consider its propriety, and she felt warmth rise in her cheeks at her own boldness.

Clara’s smile held gentle amusement rather than offence at such personal inquiry. “Love, I have discovered, takes many forms and develops along various paths. I admired your brother greatly from our first meeting, and that admiration deepened into something far more profound as I came to know his true character. But the deepest love—the kind that transforms one’s very soul—that grew slowly, nurtured by shared experiences and mutual understanding.”

Before Eliza could respond to this encouraging perspective, Sebastian’s voice commanded the table’s attention once more. “The matter is settled, then. Eliza will depart for Thornfield Cottage tomorrow morning, and we shall expect her return in good time for the final wedding preparations.”

As the family began to disperse to their various morning occupations, Eliza lingered at the table, her thoughts turning to the journey ahead with anticipation that surprised her with its intensity. The prospect of several weeks in the Somerset countryside, away from constant reminders of her approaching marriage, seemed to offer exactly the sort of respite her spirit required.

Chapter Two

The morning air carried the crisp promise of autumn as Eliza’s carriage wound through the Somerset countryside, past hedgerows ablaze with the season’s final glory and fields where harvest work continued under the pale September sun. The journey from Vexwood Hall had taken the better part of two days, with an overnight stop at the Rose and Crown, a respectable coaching inn where the accommodations, whilst modest, had proven entirely adequate for her needs.

Now, as the familiar landmarks of Aunt Iris’s estate began to appear through the carriage windows, Eliza felt her spirits lift with genuine anticipation. The countryside here possessed a gentler character than the more dramatic landscapes surrounding Vexwood Hall, with rolling hills that seemed to invite contemplation and ancient woodlands that whispered of secrets and solitude.

Thornfield Cottage, despite its name, was no humble retreat. Originally a modest country dwelling, it had grown over generations of careful stewardship into a sprawling manor of warm golden stone. Its many wings and eccentric additions lent it a charming irregularity, as though each resident had left a mark upon it over time. Formerly part of Lord Thornfield’s estate, it had been bequeathed to Aunt Iris in fee simple by the terms of his will, the property being unentailed—an enduring gesture of the deep affection they had shared. She had retained both the name and the house, and now, years later, the place felt as much her own as any ancestral seat.

Ivy clung to the older sections of the building, its leaves beginning to turn with the advancing season, and the extensive gardens that were Aunt Iris’s particular pride stretched in all directions, creating a sense of organic harmony between house and landscape. Even from the carriage window, Eliza could observe that the grounds had been maintained with exceptional care, every border and pathway displaying the sort of meticulous attention that spoke of genuine expertise rather than mere routine maintenance.

As the carriage drew to a halt before the main entrance, Eliza felt the familiar sense of homecoming that Thornfield Cottage had always inspired. This place represented freedom from the more formal constraints of ducal life, a haven where eccentricity was not merely tolerated but celebrated, and where conversation might range from the sublime to the ridiculous without fear of censure.

The sound of exotic birds could be heard from the direction of the conservatory, and she smiled at the memory of her aunt’s various feathered companions, each more unusual than the last. Aunt Iris had always maintained that conversation with creatures who could not contradict her provided excellent practice for managing the more difficult members of human society.

The front door opened before the footman could announce her arrival, revealing Mrs Alderidge—the housekeeper whose comfortable figure and perpetually flour-dusted apron had been familiar fixtures of Thornfield Cottage for as long as Eliza could remember. The older woman’s face creased with genuine pleasure at the sight of her, the kind of welcome reserved not for guests, but for those often spoken of and fondly remembered in their absence.

“Lady Eliza! What a blessing to have you here at last,” Mrs Alderidge exclaimed, stepping forward to embrace her with the sort of familiar affection that would have horrified the more formal servants at Vexwood Hall. “Her ladyship has been counting the hours since she received His Grace’s letter, though she’s been at considerable pains to appear nonchalant about the whole business.”

“Mrs Alderidge, how delightful to see you again,” Eliza replied warmly, accepting the enthusiastic greeting with genuine pleasure. “I trust Aunt Iris is not suffering too greatly from her indisposition? Sebastian’s letter suggested some concern, though knowing our aunt, I suspected the reality might prove rather different from the dramatic account.”

“Suffering!” Mrs Alderidge’s hearty laugh filled the entrance hall, echoing off the stone walls in a way that seemed to welcome Eliza home. “That’s hardly the word I would choose, my lady. Complaining would be more accurate, though she has taken considerable care to time her worst fits of temper for when Dr Carleton calls. Between you and me, I suspect she is enjoying the performance of it all considerably more than she would ever confess.”

The familiar warmth of the house enveloped Eliza as she removed her travelling cloak, noting with satisfaction that nothing essential had changed during her absence. The entrance hall retained its characteristic combination of elegance and comfortable disorder, with its collection of botanical prints covering the walls and the slightly overwhelming scent of beeswax and dried lavender that always pervaded Aunt Iris’s domain.

A magnificent arrangement of late-season flowers dominated the central table, their colours vibrant against the mellow wood panelling. The composition was extraordinary—dahlias in shades of deep burgundy and gold combined with trailing ivy and what appeared to be several varieties of chrysanthemum she did not immediately recognise. The effect was both sophisticated and natural, as though the flowers had arranged themselves according to some artistic principle beyond conventional garden design.

“The flowers are particularly lovely,” Eliza observed, genuinely impressed by the artful combination of colours and textures. “I do not recall seeing such creative arrangements during my previous visits.”

“Ah, that would be Mr Elwood’s work,” Mrs Alderidge said with evident approval, her tone carrying the sort of respect typically reserved for exceptional achievement. “Our steward has quite the eye for such things. Never seen arrangements like his, I must say. There’s something almost… artistic about the way he combines the blooms. Not just pretty, mind you, but meaningful somehow, if you take my meaning.”

“Mr Elwood?” Eliza inquired, not recognising the name from her previous correspondence with her aunt.

“The estate steward, my lady. He has been with us these past two years, and truly, we’ve been fortunate to have him. Keeps everything running smooth as silk, he does, though he is a rather serious gentleman. Keeps to himself mostly, but there’s no faulting his dedication to the estate or his remarkable understanding of growing things.”

Before Eliza could inquire further about this paragon of stewardship, the sound of approaching footsteps announced another arrival. A tall figure emerged from the corridor beyond, and Eliza found herself face to face with a man who could only be Mr Elwood—the very subject of Mrs Alderidge’s recent commendation.

Her first impression was of carefully controlled composure and an almost military bearing that seemed oddly at variance with his position as estate steward. He was perhaps thirty years of age, with dark hair that showed a tendency to curl despite obvious attempts to tame it into submission, and grey eyes that held a distinctly guarded expression. His clothing was well-tailored but conservative in style, marking him as a gentleman of modest means who understood the importance of presenting a respectable appearance.

Yet there was something in his bearing—an unconscious authority in the way he held himself, a precision in his movements. His speech, when he addressed her, confirmed this impression with its cultured accent and careful diction.

“Lady Eliza,” he said, offering a bow that managed to be both respectful and somehow distant, as though he were maintaining invisible barriers even in the performance of basic courtesy. “I am Rhys Elwood, steward to Lady Thornfield. I trust your journey from Vexwood Hall was accomplished without undue difficulty?”

“Quite comfortable, thank you,” Eliza replied, noting the way his eyes seemed to assess and catalogue her appearance with the sort of thoroughness one might expect from a man accustomed to evaluating potential problems before they could develop. “I understand from Mrs Alderidge that you have been managing things admirably during my aunt’s indisposition.”

“I endeavour to fulfil my duties to the best of my ability,” he replied with formal correctness that revealed nothing of his personal feelings about those duties. “Lady Iris has been most generous in her trust, and I strive to justify her confidence in my management of the estate’s affairs.”

There was something in his tone that suggested the conversation had reached its natural conclusion, though Eliza found herself curious about this man who seemed to carry himself with an authority that transcended his ostensible position. His hands, she noticed, bore the calluses of genuine work, yet his speech and bearing suggested an education that would typically lead to rather different employment.

“Mrs Alderidge was just admiring your flower arrangements,” she ventured, hoping to extend their conversation and perhaps gain some insight into his character. “They demonstrate considerable artistic sensibility.”

“You are too kind,” he replied, though she detected a slight warming in his expression when the subject turned to his work with the estate’s gardens. “I find that careful attention to colour and form enhances the natural beauty of the blooms whilst creating harmony within the domestic environment.”

Before Eliza could respond to this unexpectedly poetic sentiment, a commanding voice echoed from the upper floor, carrying the sort of imperious authority that brooked no delay.

“Eliza! Child, is that you lingering in the entrance hall when your poor, suffering aunt awaits your company?”

Mrs Alderidge chuckled at the familiar summons, her expression holding the sort of fond exasperation that Aunt Iris’s theatrical pronouncements invariably inspired. “Best not keep her waiting, my lady. She has been anticipating your arrival with considerable excitement, though she’d never admit to such unseemly enthusiasm.”

“Of course,” Eliza agreed, though she found herself glancing back at Mr Elwood with unaccountable reluctance to end their brief conversation. “I hope we shall have an opportunity to discuss the estate’s operations during my visit, Mr Elwood. I confess to considerable curiosity about the management of such extensive gardens.”

“Naturally, my lady,” he replied with another of his precisely measured bows, his tone maintaining its careful neutrality. “I remain entirely at your service should you require any information regarding the estate’s affairs or the cultivation practices we employ here.”

As Eliza climbed the familiar staircase, she reflected on the steward’s curiously formal manner. There had been something almost defensive in his tone, as though he expected to be challenged or questioned about his authority. Perhaps he was unaccustomed to visitors from the family, or perhaps he simply preferred to maintain strict professional boundaries in all his dealings.

Mrs Alderidge lingered in the hall as the sound of Eliza’s footsteps receded, casting a knowing glance toward Mr Elwood.

“Such a fine lady, Lady Eliza,” she observed in a tone of casual familiarity, as though remarking upon the weather. “She will be with us but a short while; there are numerous preparations awaiting her attention at Vexwood.”

“What sort of preparations?”

“The young lady is to be married in six months’ time—to Mr Frederick Ashworth, no less.”

Mr Elwood inclined his head slightly, his expression as ever composed and unreadable. “I see.”

“A fine match, I daresay,” Mrs Alderidge continued in a comfortably approving tone. “Both known to be persons of refinement, and by all appearances well suited in that respect.”

“Doubtless,” he replied with quiet reserve, his manner betraying no more than polite acknowledgement.

The upper corridor retained all its familiar charm, with its succession of portraits depicting various ancestors in their most flattering poses and the comfortable clutter of books and curiosities that seemed to accumulate naturally wherever Aunt Iris established residence. Eliza paused before the door to her aunt’s sitting room, drawing a steadying breath. She knew full well that what awaited her on the other side would be nothing short of a performance, delivered with all the theatrical finesse for which Lady Thornfield was renowned.

“Aunt Iris?” she called softly, tapping on the door before entering the chamber that served as her aunt’s primary domain during daylight hours.

“There you are at last! I had begun to wonder if you intended to spend the entire morning examining the wallpaper in the entrance hall.”

Lady Thornfield occupied a position of considerable comfort in her favourite armchair, positioned to command an excellent view of the gardens through the large bay window that dominated the eastern wall of the room. Despite Mrs Alderidge’s reassuring assessment, Eliza was struck by how genuinely frail her aunt appeared, her usually vibrant complexion somewhat pale and her movements more deliberate than Eliza remembered from previous visits.

Yet her eyes retained their characteristic sparkle of intelligence and mischief, suggesting that her physical weakness had done nothing to diminish her mental acuity or her talent for orchestrating the lives of those around her according to her own mysterious designs.

“Dearest Aunt,” Eliza said warmly, crossing to embrace the older woman with genuine affection tempered by concern for her apparent fragility. “I came as quickly as Sebastian could arrange matters. How are you feeling? Are you experiencing much discomfort?”

“Oh, tolerably well for a woman at death’s door,” Aunt Iris replied with characteristic dramatic flair, though her eyes sparkled with humour that belied her mournful tone. “The physician insists I must rest and avoid excitement, which is rather like instructing a bird not to fly or a fish not to swim. Most vexing, particularly when there is so much of interest occurring around me.”

“I suspect you are recovering more rapidly than you would have the good doctor believe,” Eliza observed with affectionate amusement, settling into the chair that had been positioned conveniently near her aunt’s for exactly such conversations.

“Perhaps,” Iris admitted with a slight smile that transformed her features entirely. “Though I confess the enforced leisure has afforded me considerable time for observation and reflection. One sees things quite differently when confined to watching rather than participating, and I have made several fascinating discoveries during my time in enforced repose.”

“And what have you observed during your confinement?” Eliza asked, recognising the tone that typically preceded one of her aunt’s more intriguing pronouncements.

Iris’s eyes took on a speculative gleam that Eliza recognised as potentially dangerous to the peace of mind of everyone in her vicinity. “Many things, my dear. The gardens, for instance, have never looked better under Mr Elwood’s management. The man has quite surpassed my expectations in his understanding of both practical horticulture and aesthetic arrangement.”

“Mrs Alderidge mentioned that he arranged the flowers in the entrance hall,” Eliza said, grateful for a safe topic of conversation. “They were quite striking—far more sophisticated than the typical country house arrangements.”

“Indeed they were. The man has an artist’s eye, though I suspect he would be mortified to hear such a thing. He maintains such a determinedly practical demeanour, as though beauty were somehow suspect or frivolous rather than essential to human happiness.”

Eliza found herself curious about this assessment, which seemed to suggest hidden depths beneath the steward’s reserved exterior. “He seemed rather… cautious during our brief introduction. Almost defensive, as though he expected to be challenged about his presence here.”

“Cautious is one word for it,” Iris said with evident amusement. “Though I prefer to think of him as a man who has learned to guard his true nature carefully. He has been with us for two years now, and I have yet to see him truly at ease in company, particularly when that company includes persons of elevated station.”

“That seems rather sad,” Eliza observed, though she was not entirely certain why the steward’s social discomfort should concern her.

“Most peculiar for a man of his evident education and refinement,” Iris went on, her tone shifting ever so slightly—as though drawing closer to a point she meant to make. “One does not acquire such precise speech and bearing without the benefit of careful upbringing and distinguished schooling. Whatever circumstances brought him to seek employment as an estate steward, I rather suspect they were not entirely of his choosing.”

“His education?” Eliza prompted, intrigued despite herself.

“Oh yes, my dear. Listen carefully when next you speak with him—his accent is that of a gentleman born, not made. His knowledge of literature, science, and current affairs far exceeds what one would expect from a man in his position. And his hands,” Iris paused significantly, “show evidence of both gentle birth and honest labour, a combination that suggests a story of considerable interest. It is, in fact, the very reason I have taken the somewhat unorthodox step of inviting him to dine at my own table. His manners and conversation render it almost a breach of propriety to consign him to the servants’ hall, and I find his company—how shall I put it?—most intriguing.”

Before Eliza could pursue this intriguing line of inquiry further, a soft knock interrupted their conversation. To her surprise, it was Mr Elwood himself who appeared at the door, bearing a tea tray arranged with the same artistic sensibility that had distinguished the flower display in the entrance hall. Though it was an unusual task for a man in his position, he carried it out with such quiet assurance that the breach of custom felt less like impropriety and more like a private ritual—one evidently accepted within the unique rhythms of Thornfield Cottage.

“I thought you might welcome refreshment after your journey, Lady Eliza,” he said, his tone maintaining its careful neutrality even as his actions demonstrated considerable thoughtfulness. “Mrs Alderidge has prepared her excellent seed cake, and I took the liberty of including some of the late roses from the garden.”

Indeed, a small posy of perfectly formed roses graced the tray, their deep crimson petals still holding drops of morning dew. The arrangement was, as Mrs Alderidge had indicated, quite artistic in its apparent simplicity—three roses of slightly different sizes, surrounded by trailing ivy and what appeared to be small sprigs of rosemary. It was a composition that spoke not only of beauty, but of a quiet sensibility that invited closer thought.

“How very thoughtful,” Eliza said, genuinely touched by the gesture and impressed by its execution. “The roses are magnificent. Do you tend the flower gardens yourself, Mr Elwood?”

“I oversee all aspects of the estate’s maintenance,” he replied, though she noticed a definite softening in his expression when he spoke of his work with growing things. “The rose garden has been particularly rewarding this season. The late varieties have produced exceptional blooms, perhaps due to the favourable combination of sunshine and rainfall we experienced during the summer months.”

“Mr Elwood has quite transformed our gardens,” Aunt Iris interjected with obvious satisfaction, her tone suggesting she took considerable pride in her steward’s accomplishments. “He has introduced several new species that I would never have considered, and the results have been nothing short of remarkable.”

“You are too kind, Lady Thornfield,” he said, though Eliza detected a note of genuine pleasure beneath his formal response. “I have merely applied established principles of cultivation and design, adapting them to the particular conditions of soil and climate that characterise this region.”

“Established principles,” Iris repeated with evident amusement, her eyes twinkling with the sort of mischief that typically preceded her more pointed observations. “Such modesty! Tell me, Mr Elwood, have you given any thought to the winter preparation of the conservatory? I am particularly concerned about the orchids—they seemed rather distressed by last winter’s unusually harsh conditions.”

“I have prepared a comprehensive plan for the seasonal transitions,” he replied, his tone becoming noticeably more animated as he warmed to a subject that clearly held his passionate interest. “The heating arrangements will need to be adjusted by early October, and several of the more delicate specimens must be relocated to the warmest part of the building. The Cattleya orchids, in particular, will thrive near the southern windows, where they may receive the fullest measure of winter sunlight.”

Eliza found herself studying the steward’s face as he spoke, noting how his rather stern features softened considerably when he discussed the plants in his care. There was an unconscious enthusiasm in his voice that transformed his entire demeanour, revealing glimpses of a personality far more complex than his reserved exterior suggested.

“You speak with considerable authority about orchid cultivation,” she observed, genuinely intrigued by this display of expertise. “Such knowledge typically requires extensive study and practical experience.”

For a moment, something flickered in his grey eyes—surprise, perhaps, or wariness—before his careful composure reasserted itself. “I have made it my business to study the requirements of all the species under my care,” he said with renewed formality. “Lady Thornfield has invested considerably in her conservatory, and I am determined that her collection should thrive under my management.”

“Perhaps you would be kind enough to show me the conservatory during my visit,” Eliza suggested, her curiosity about this enigmatic man growing stronger with each exchange. “I confess I have long held an interest in botanical subjects—not purely for their scientific merit, but for their form and texture. Sketching flowers has been a quiet passion of mine for years. I should like very much to see the orchids, if you would not object to my bringing a pencil and portfolio.”

“Of course, my lady,” he replied, though she noted a slight hesitation before he continued, as though calculating the wisdom of the arrangement. “Though I must warn you—I have a tendency to be rather… exhaustive when it comes to plant cultivation. Some find the particulars exceedingly dull.”

“I suspect Lady Eliza would find your thoroughness enlightening rather than dull,” Aunt Iris interjected with a knowing smile, her tone bearing the unmistakable cadence of deliberate orchestration. “She has always possessed a keen and questioning mind, particularly where the natural world is concerned. Her poor governess used to despair of her unwillingness to memorise facts without understanding their cause.”

“Indeed,” Eliza said, warming to the subject with a spark of quiet enthusiasm. “There is a certain satisfaction in capturing not just the likeness of a flower, but the structure that gives it elegance—learning how beauty and design are so often one and the same.”

Mr Elwood’s expression grew thoughtful, and for a moment, Eliza glimpsed something that might have been longing beneath his careful composure. “In that case, I should be honoured to share what knowledge I possess,” he said with what seemed like genuine warmth breaking through his formal manner. “Perhaps tomorrow morning, if the weather permits? The conservatory is at its finest in the early morning light.”

“I should like that very much,” Eliza replied, surprised by her own eagerness for the proposed excursion. There was something about this reserved man that intrigued her, something that suggested hidden depths well worth exploring.

As the steward took his leave with another of his precisely measured bows, Eliza found herself watching his departure with unaccustomed interest. The way he moved spoke of careful control, as though he were perpetually conscious of maintaining some invisible standard of behaviour. Yet when he had spoken of the plants in his care, that rigid control had relaxed enough to reveal glimpses of genuine passion for his work.

“A most interesting individual,” she observed to her aunt once they were alone again, hoping her tone conveyed nothing more than polite curiosity.

“Indeed he is,” Aunt Iris agreed, her satisfaction unmistakable as she settled back into her chair with the air of one whose plans were unfolding precisely as intended. “Though I suspect you will find him even more interesting as your acquaintance progresses. There is much more to Mr Elwood than initially meets the eye.”

“You speak as though you know something particular about his background,” Eliza said, recognising her aunt’s tone of significant implication.

“I know many things about many people,” Iris replied with her usual evasiveness, her expression bearing that air of mysterious satisfaction she often wore when withholding information she had no intention of sharing—at least not yet. “But I have found that the most interesting discoveries are those we make for ourselves, rather than those we are told by others.”

Recognising that her aunt had no intention of elaborating, Eliza let the subject rest—for the moment. Instead, she turned her attention to the comfortable routine of tea and conversation, allowing herself to relax into the familiar rhythms of life at Thornfield Cottage.

The afternoon passed pleasantly in catching up on family news and discussing the various improvements that had been made to the estate during her absence. Aunt Iris proved to be an entertaining patient, regaling Eliza with stories of the physician’s visits and the reactions of various neighbours to news of her indisposition.

“Lady Templeton called twice this week,” Iris reported with obvious amusement, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I suspect she was hoping to extract some dramatic details about my condition for circulation among the local gossips. She seemed quite disappointed when I failed to exhibit any properly alarming symptoms during her visits.”

“How inconsiderate of you to recover so thoroughly,” Eliza observed with a smile, enjoying her aunt’s theatrical account of her social obligations during illness.

“Indeed. Though I confess I may have played up my weakness somewhat when Dr Carleton made his rounds. The man is so fond of his prescriptions and prohibitions that I could not resist the temptation to provide him with a suitably dramatic patient for his ministrations.”

As evening approached, Eliza found herself looking forward to settling into her familiar guest chamber and beginning what promised to be a most interesting sojourn. The prospect of spending time in the estate’s gardens and conservatory held particular appeal, though she was honest enough to acknowledge that Mr Elwood’s promised company contributed significantly to her anticipation.

There was something about the reserved steward that had captured her imagination, something that suggested a story more complex than his current position might indicate. Perhaps it was merely the novelty of encountering someone so different from her usual social circle, or perhaps it was the intriguing contrast between his formal manner and the obvious passion he displayed when discussing his work.

When she retired to her chamber that evening, Eliza found the room exactly as she remembered it—comfortable without being luxurious, with a pleasant view of the gardens and furnishings that invited relaxation rather than formal behaviour. Someone—undoubtedly Mr Elwood, given the evidence of his artistic sensibilities—had placed a small arrangement of autumn flowers on the writing desk, their warm colours creating a welcoming atmosphere in the lamp-lit room.

As she prepared for bed, listening to the familiar sounds of the countryside settling into the night, Eliza reflected on the day’s events with a sense of contentment she had not experienced in weeks. Perhaps Aunt Iris’s invitation had arrived at precisely the right moment—offering not only a welcome reprieve from the quiet strain of her impending marriage, but also the promise of something she had not expected: new experiences, and the quiet thrill of undiscovered possibilities.

The thought of tomorrow’s botanical tour brought a smile to her lips as she settled into sleep, eager for whatever revelations the coming days might bring about the mysterious Mr Elwood and his place in the ordered world of Thornfield Cottage. For the first time in months, she felt genuinely curious about what the future might hold, rather than simply resigned to its inevitable progression.

Her last conscious thought was of grey eyes that seemed to hold secrets, and the way those eyes had warmed when their owner spoke of the living things he tended with such obvious care. Tomorrow would bring answers to at least some of her questions about the enigmatic steward, and perhaps—though she hardly dared acknowledge the hope—something more interesting than mere botanical instruction.

Chapter Three

The first pale fingers of dawn had barely touched the eastern horizon when Rhys Elwood emerged from his modest quarters above the estate office, his movements silent and purposeful in the pre-dawn stillness. This had become his ritual over the past two years—rising before the household stirred, before the demands of the day could intrude upon the precious solitude that allowed him to breathe freely.

He dressed with the same meticulous care he applied to all aspects of his assumed life, ensuring every detail of his appearance met the exacting standards he had set for himself. The simple but well-tailored clothing of a gentleman steward, the carefully controlled hair that would betray nothing of his true nature, the practised posture that suggested competence without arrogance. Every element had been calculated to present exactly the image he required—that of a man content with his station and harbouring no ambitions beyond the proper management of Lady Thornfield’s estate.

Yet as he fastened his shirt, his fingers inevitably found the thin gold chain that rested against his chest, feeling for the weight of the signet ring that hung hidden beneath the linen. The Merlewood ducal seal seemed to burn against his skin, a constant reminder of everything he had lost, everything he could never reclaim. Rhys closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the familiar surge of panic that accompanied any thought of discovery.

Control, he reminded himself, the word repeating in his mind with the force of a command. Maintain control. Trust no one. Reveal nothing.

The morning air carried the crisp promise of autumn as he stepped outside, his breath visible in the cool dampness that clung to the gardens. This was his favourite time of day, when the world belonged to him alone and he could drop the careful mask he wore for the rest of humanity. Here, among the sleeping flowers and dew-laden grass, he could simply be Rhys—not the Duke of Merlewood, not even the steward Rhys Elwood, but simply a man who found peace in the growing things that asked nothing of him save proper care.

He began his daily circuit of the estate with the thoroughness that had become second nature, checking the greenhouse temperatures, examining the late-blooming roses for signs of disease, noting which areas would require attention during the coming day. Each task was performed with the sort of meticulous attention to detail that had made him invaluable to Lady Iris, though she could never know the true source of his dedication.

The work had saved him in those dark months after his flight from London. When he had arrived at Thornfield Cottage under his assumed name, bearing forged references and a carefully constructed history, he had been little more than a shell of a man, hollowed out by betrayal and the constant fear of discovery. But the soil beneath his hands had been real, the plants had responded to his care with honest growth, and gradually he had rebuilt himself into someone who could function in this smaller, safer world.

As he knelt to examine a particularly promising stand of late dahlias, Rhys allowed his mind to drift back to those early days at Thornfield. Lady Iris had been kind but distant, accepting his credentials without excessive scrutiny and leaving him largely to his own devices as he established his authority over the estate’s operations. The other servants had been initially suspicious of the new steward’s youth and obvious education, but his competence had soon won their grudging respect.

For two years, he had lived in this carefully constructed bubble of safety, managing Lady Iris’s acres with the same intensity he had once brought to parliamentary debates and ducal responsibilities. The irony was not lost on him that he had found more genuine satisfaction in his role as steward than he had ever experienced in his former identity. Here, his actions had immediate, visible consequences. When he improved the soil composition or introduced a new species, the results bloomed before his eyes rather than disappearing into the complex machinery of government and estate management that had characterised his former life.

But now Lady Eliza Vexley had arrived, and with her came all the dangers he had spent two years learning to avoid.

Rhys straightened from his examination of the dahlias, his jaw tightening as he recalled yesterday’s encounter in the entrance hall. Another aristocrat, another member of the privileged class that had nearly destroyed him. True, she seemed different from the calculating society beauties he remembered from London—quieter, more thoughtful, apparently possessed of genuine intellectual curiosity rather than mere social ambition. But he had learned not to trust first impressions where the nobility were concerned.

Lady Charlotte had seemed different too, he reminded himself grimly, his hand unconsciously moving to touch the hidden ring. Sweet, innocent Lady Charlotte, who had listened to his romantic declarations with such apparent sincerity before revealing the depths of her mercenary nature.

The memory still had the power to make him flinch, even after all these years. He had been such a fool, believing that his feelings were reciprocated, that their engagement represented something more than a calculated alliance between her family and his guardians. The discovery of the truth—that she had been instrumental in the embezzlement scheme, that their entire courtship had been orchestrated to keep him distracted while his fortune was systematically drained—had been almost as devastating as the attempt on his life.

Rhys forced himself to continue his rounds, using the familiar routine to calm the agitation that always accompanied thoughts of his past. He checked the water levels in the lily pond, examined the espaliered fruit trees against the garden wall, and made mental notes about winter preparations that would soon be necessary. The physical activity helped to centre him, reminding him that he was no longer the naive young duke who had trusted so blindly.

By the time he completed his circuit and returned to the estate office, the sun had risen fully, and the household was beginning to stir. Through the windows, he could see Mrs Alderidge moving about the kitchen, beginning preparations for the day’s meals. Soon, Lady Iris would require her morning tea, and Lady Eliza would no doubt wish to begin exploring the estate she had expressed such interest in visiting.

Rhys settled at his desk and opened the leather-bound ledger where he recorded every detail of the estate’s operations. The meticulous record-keeping was another element of the control he had learned to maintain—nothing left to chance, nothing forgotten or overlooked. Each entry was written in his careful script, documenting expenses, crop yields, weather conditions, and the thousand small decisions that comprised effective estate management.

As he wrote, his mind drifted unbidden to Lady Eliza’s reaction to the flower arrangements he had prepared. Most visitors to Thornfield Cottage barely noticed such details, but she had not only observed them but commented with what seemed like genuine appreciation. There had been something in her voice, a quality of authentic interest that had caught him off guard.

Dangerous thinking, he warned himself sternly. She is exactly the sort of woman you can never afford to notice—young, beautiful, well-connected, and undoubtedly expecting to be entertained by the quaint country steward during her visit.

Yet, despite his efforts to dismiss her from his thoughts, Rhys found his mind returning to the way her eyes had brightened when she spoke of sketching flowers, the quiet attentiveness with which she had listened to his explanation of the conservatory’s seasonal arrangements. Most ladies of her rank possessed only a perfunctory acquaintance with botanical matters—genteel knowledge, acquired for appearances. But Lady Eliza had spoken not from obligation, but from genuine curiosity. That, more than anything, had unsettled him.

The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted his brooding, and Rhys looked up to see Mrs Alderidge entering the office with her usual cheerful bustle.

“Good morning, Mr Elwood,” she said warmly, setting down a cup of tea and a plate of fresh scones. “I thought you might welcome some sustenance after your early rounds. Lady Iris is asking for you when you have a moment—something about the conservatory preparations she mentioned yesterday.”

“Of course,” Rhys replied, grateful for the distraction from his increasingly troubled thoughts. “I shall attend her directly after I finish recording this morning’s observations.”

“Lady Eliza is a pleasant young lady,” Mrs Alderidge continued conversationally, her tone carrying the sort of careful neutrality that suggested she was fishing for his opinion. “Quite different from some of the visitors we’ve seen over the years. Far less… demanding, if you take my meaning.”

Rhys kept his expression carefully neutral, though he felt the familiar tension that accompanied any discussion of the estate’s aristocratic visitors. “Indeed. Lady Iris seems pleased to have her company during her convalescence.”

“Oh, she’s delighted, though she’s trying not to show it too obviously. You know how her ladyship enjoys her little mysteries and manipulations.” Mrs Alderidge’s eyes twinkled with affection for their employer’s eccentric ways. “I suspect she has plans for Lady Eliza’s visit that go rather beyond mere companionship.”

This observation did nothing to ease Rhys’s growing sense of unease. Lady Iris’s “plans” had a tendency to create complications for everyone in her vicinity, and he could ill afford to become entangled in whatever scheme she might be devising.

“Lady Iris’s plans are hardly my concern,” he said with perhaps more curtness than the housekeeper deserved. “My responsibility is to ensure the estate continues to function smoothly during Lady Eliza’s visit, nothing more.”

Mrs Alderidge’s expression suggested she had noticed his sharp tone, but she merely nodded and prepared to leave. “Of course, Mr Elwood. Though I suspect you’ll find Lady Eliza less trouble than you might expect. She strikes me as the sort who prefers to observe rather than demand attention.”

After the housekeeper’s departure, Rhys found himself unable to concentrate on his ledger entries. Mrs Alderidge’s words echoed in his mind, calling up memories of his brief interaction with Lady Eliza the previous day. There had indeed been something of the observer about her, a quality of watchful intelligence that suggested she saw more than she revealed.

Exactly the sort of person who might notice inconsistencies in a carefully constructed façade, he thought grimly.

The morning passed in routine tasks—consulting with the head gardener about winter preparations, reviewing accounts with the cook, inspecting repairs to the stable roof. Yet beneath the familiar activities, Rhys felt a persistent undercurrent of anxiety that he could not entirely suppress. Lady Eliza’s presence represented a threat to the carefully ordered existence he had built, and he was not certain how to manage that threat without revealing more of himself than he could afford.

By midday, he had worked himself into a state of controlled agitation that made him grateful for the approaching luncheon hour. At least the formal meal would provide structure to his interactions with Lady Eliza, limiting their conversation to safe topics and preventing the sort of prolonged exchange that might lead to dangerous revelations.

He was reviewing the greenhouse temperatures one final time before returning to the house when he noticed a figure moving among the rose beds in the distance. Even from across the garden, he recognised Lady Eliza’s graceful bearing and the particular shade of blue worn by her morning dress. A sketchbook rested in the crook of one arm, and she appeared to be studying the late-blooming varieties with considerable focus, occasionally bending to inhale their fragrance or capture the curve of a petal with a few careful strokes of her pencil.

Despite his resolution to maintain professional distance, Rhys found himself drawn toward the rose garden by a combination of curiosity and professional pride. These beds represented some of his finest work at Thornfield Cottage, the result of careful cultivation and strategic plantings that had transformed what had once been a rather ordinary collection into something approaching artistic achievement.

As he approached, he could hear Lady Eliza speaking softly to herself, apparently making mental notes about the various specimens she was examining.

“The ‘Autumn Damask’ appears to be having an exceptional season,” she murmured, her voice carrying clearly in the still air. “And this variety—I do not recognise it, but the colour is remarkable.”

“That is ‘Rosa gallica officinalis’,” Rhys said, stepping forward despite his better judgment. “Though this particular specimen represents a sport that developed spontaneously three seasons ago. The petals show an unusual striping that I have not observed in other examples of the variety.”

Lady Eliza turned toward him with a smile that seemed entirely genuine, free of the calculated charm he had learned to distrust in aristocratic ladies. “Mr Elwood! How fortunate. I was hoping someone might be able to identify some of these varieties for me. Your rose garden is quite extraordinary—far more sophisticated than the typical country house plantings.”

“You have some knowledge of rose cultivation?” he asked, genuinely curious despite his determination to maintain professional boundaries.

“Modest knowledge only,” she replied with appealing humility. “I have read extensively on the subject, but practical experience is rather different from theoretical understanding. These beds demonstrate a level of expertise that suggests years of careful study and experimentation.”

Rhys felt the familiar warmth that accompanied recognition of his work, though he was careful to keep his expression neutral. “Lady Iris has been generous in allowing me to implement improvements to the existing plantings. The soil conditions here are particularly favourable for roses, and the microclimate created by the garden walls provides excellent protection from harsh weather.”

“The arrangements suggest considerable artistic sensibility as well as horticultural knowledge,” Lady Eliza observed, her gaze moving thoughtfully across the carefully planned succession of colours and forms. “There is a harmony to the composition that speaks of genuine aesthetic understanding.”

The compliment struck deeper than Rhys had expected, touching something in him that had been dormant since his arrival at Thornfield Cottage. In his former life, his artistic interests had been dismissed as inappropriate for a duke, frivolous pursuits that distracted from more serious responsibilities. Here, in this assumed identity, he had found a way to express that suppressed creativity through his work with the estate’s gardens.

“You are too generous in your assessment,” he said, though he could not entirely suppress the pleasure her words brought him. “I merely attempt to apply principles of design that enhance the natural beauty of the plants themselves.”

“False modesty, Mr Elwood,” Lady Eliza said with a gentle smile that transformed her rather serious features entirely. “One cannot achieve such results through mere application of principles. There is inspiration here, and considerable artistic vision.”

For a moment, Rhys felt the dangerous temptation to continue this conversation, to bask in the rare experience of having his work truly understood and appreciated. Lady Eliza’s evident knowledge and genuine enthusiasm created precisely the sort of intellectual connection he had been starved of during his years of self-imposed isolation.

But as he met her intelligent eyes, he felt the familiar surge of panic that accompanied any moment of authentic human contact. This was exactly how he had been trapped before—allowing someone past his defences, believing that shared interests and apparent understanding could serve as the foundation for trust.

“I am merely a steward, Lady Eliza,” he said, his voice turning cold with deliberate cruelty. “My opinions on aesthetic matters are hardly relevant to your enjoyment of the gardens. Perhaps you would prefer to continue your exploration independently?”

The words achieved their intended effect, causing Lady Eliza’s expression to shift from warm interest to confused hurt. Rhys hated himself for the necessity of it, but he could not afford the luxury of a genuine human connection, no matter how appealing the prospect might be.

“Of course,” she replied with dignified composure, though he could see that his sudden change of manner had stung. “I did not mean to presume upon your time, Mr Elwood. Please do not let me detain you from your duties.”

As she turned to leave, Rhys felt the weight of the hidden signet ring pressing against his chest like a brand. The symbol of everything he had lost, everything he could never reclaim, served as a constant reminder of why he could not afford to lower his guard, even for a moment.

He watched Lady Eliza’s retreating figure with a mixture of regret and relief, his hand unconsciously moving to touch the chain beneath his shirt. The brief conversation had confirmed his worst fears about her presence at Thornfield Cottage—she was exactly the sort of woman who could make him forget the hard-learned lessons of his past, who could tempt him to believe that trust might be possible again.

Never again, he reminded himself with fierce determination. Never again will I make that mistake.

Yet as he returned to the estate office, Rhys could not entirely banish the memory of Lady Eliza’s genuine appreciation for his work, or the way her eyes had lit up when she spoke of botanical knowledge. For just a moment, he had glimpsed what life might be like if he could afford to be honest, if he could share his true thoughts and feelings without fear of consequence.

The dream was as dangerous as it was appealing, and Rhys forced himself to focus on the ledger entries that awaited his attention. Whatever temptation Lady Eliza represented, he could not afford to succumb to it. Too much depended on maintaining the careful façade he had constructed, and he would not allow a pair of intelligent eyes and a genuine smile to undo two years of disciplined self-protection.

The afternoon stretched ahead of him, filled with the routine tasks that had become his refuge from more complex emotions. He would complete his work, maintain his professional distance, and survive Lady Eliza’s visit with his secrets intact. It was, he told himself, the only rational choice available to a man in his impossible position.

Yet as he bent over his careful records, Rhys could not entirely silence the voice in his heart that whispered of loneliness and the desperate hunger for authentic human connection that no amount of horticultural achievement could satisfy.