Chapter 1 

 

“Oh my, Miss Ophelia! How… quaint to see you here among the common booksellers.”

Ophelia Sinclair looked up from the leather-bound volume of botanical illustrations she had been examining, her spectacles sliding down her nose as she startled at the familiar, saccharine voice. She pushed them up with a nervous finger, the gesture automatic after years of wearing the wretched things. Miss Penelope Hartwick stood before her in the cramped confines of Mr. Thornberry’s bookshop, resplendent in a morning dress of pale blue silk that emphasized her golden curls and porcelain complexion. Behind her lurked Miss Catherine Redgrave, whose simpering smile never quite reached her cold grey eyes.

“Miss Hartwick,” Ophelia replied, adjusting her spectacles again as they threatened to slip once more. Why must the blasted things never stay in place when she needed them most? “How delightful to encounter you. I was just selecting some texts on medicinal herbs which are fascinating reading, truly.”

Penelope’s laugh tinkled like broken glass. “Medicinal herbs? How… practical of you.” Her gaze swept over Ophelia’s simple brown pelisse and modest bonnet with barely concealed disdain, lingering pointedly on the wire-rimmed spectacles that Ophelia was fidgeting with again. “Though I suppose such subjects suit your… scholarly temperament. And those spectacles of yours are so very distinctive.”

The emphasis on ‘distinctive’ made it sound rather like ‘hideous,’ and Ophelia felt heat creep up her neck. She had known Penelope since they were children, having shared the same governess for two years when Ophelia was twelve and Penelope ten. Even then, Penelope had possessed a talent for making innocent observations sound like subtle insults.

“Indeed,” Ophelia murmured, clutching her selected books more tightly to her chest while pushing at her spectacles with her free hand. The nervous gesture only drew more attention to them, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Knowledge is never wasted, I find.”

“How true,” Catherine chimed in, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “Though one must wonder if there isn’t something to be said for more… feminine pursuits. Music, watercolors, perhaps a bit of French conversation? Accomplishments that might enhance one’s natural charms.”

The implication that Ophelia possessed no natural charms to enhance was painfully clear. Her cheeks burned, and she pushed at her spectacles once more, the nervous habit making her appear even more awkward and bookish than usual.

“I confess I find my interests quite fulfilling,” she said, though her voice came out smaller than she’d intended. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should settle my account with Mr. Thornberry.”

As she moved toward the shop counter, she heard Penelope’s stage whisper behind her: “Such peculiar spectacles and they make her eyes appear positively enormous. Like an owl, don’t you think? And the way she fidgets with them, makes her seem rather nervous.”

Catherine’s responding giggle was cut short when Mr. Thornberry, bless him, cleared his throat pointedly and fixed the young ladies with a stern look over his own wire-rimmed glasses. “Ladies, if you require assistance locating anything, I am at your service. Otherwise, I must ask that you keep your voices down. This is a place of learning, not a drawing room.”

Ophelia completed her purchase with as much dignity as she could muster, though her hands trembled as she counted out the coins. In her nervousness, she nearly dropped the money, and had to push her spectacles up yet again when they slipped during her fumbling. The botanical text, along with a treatise on ancient Roman agricultural practices and a small volume of poetry, represented a significant portion of her quarterly allowance. But books had always been her refuge, her companions when human society proved too treacherous to navigate.

“Good day, Mr. Thornberry,” she said quietly, accepting her wrapped parcels. “Please send my regards to Mrs. Thornberry.”

“Indeed I shall, my lady. And might I say, excellent choices today, particularly the Culpeper volume. Most enlightening.”

His kindness was a balm to her stinging pride, and Ophelia managed a genuine smile before making her way to the door. She was acutely aware of Penelope and Catherine’s whispered conversation behind her, though she couldn’t make out the words. Their suppressed laughter followed her onto the street like the buzz of persistent wasps.

The autumn air was crisp against her heated cheeks as she stepped onto Piccadilly, adjusting her grip on her packages and taking a steadying breath. Her spectacles immediately fogged in the temperature change, and she had to stop to clean them with her handkerchief which was another mortifying display of her awkwardness for any passersby to witness.

London’s streets thrummed with their usual cacophony—the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, the rumble of carriage wheels over cobblestones, vendors calling their wares, and the general hum of humanity going about its business. Ophelia found the noise oddly comforting after the suffocating atmosphere of the bookshop, though she couldn’t shake the feeling that people were staring at her peculiar appearance.

She had walked perhaps fifty yards when she heard her name mentioned again, the sound carrying on the afternoon breeze. Against her better judgment, she slowed her pace and glanced over her shoulder. Penelope and Catherine had emerged from the bookshop and were standing close together, their heads bent in animated conversation.

“…positively tragic, really,” Penelope was saying, her voice carrying clearly across the street. “Poor Miss Ophelia—three and twenty and still unwed. One can hardly blame the gentlemen, can one?”

“Those dreadful spectacles,” Catherine added with a theatrical shudder. “And her complexion is so terribly pale and freckled. Like a governess, though I suppose that’s rather fitting given her bookish nature. And did you see how she kept fidgeting with them? So terribly nervous and awkward.”

Ophelia’s free hand flew automatically to her spectacles, as if to shield them from criticism, but the gesture only reminded her of how obvious her nervous habit must be to observers.

“Papa says Lord Sinclair is quite desperate to settle her,” Penelope continued, clearly relishing her role as gossip purveyor. “The family’s circumstances are rather reduced, you know. I heard Mama telling Lady Riffere that they’ll likely have to accept any offer, regardless of the gentleman’s suitability.”

Catherine’s laugh was particularly cruel. “Perhaps some elderly widower in need of a nursemaid for his children. Someone with failing eyesight who won’t notice her unfortunate appearance. Or maybe one of those scholarly gentlemen who care more for books than beauty—though even they might draw the line at such peculiarities.”

“Oh, Catherine, you are wicked!” Penelope giggled. “However I confess, I cannot imagine any gentleman of taste and breeding seeking her hand. She’s clever enough, I’ll grant, but cleverness in a woman can be so… off-putting. Men prefer their wives ornamental rather than intellectual. And those spectacles! They quite dominate her face, don’t they?”

Ophelia stumbled slightly, her vision blurring. Each word landed like a physical blow, confirming every insecurity she’d ever harbored about her appearance, her awkwardness, her complete unsuitability as a potential wife.

“She’ll end up a spinster,” Catherine declared with satisfied certainty. “Remember my words! Five years hence, she’ll be caring for elderly relatives and keeping house for some distant cousin. A cautionary tale for young ladies who prefer books to beaus and wear such unfortunate spectacles.”

The cruelty of it, the casual dismissal of her entire worth as a human being, struck Ophelia like a thunderbolt. She pressed her lips together firmly, determined not to let them see how their words affected her, and quickened her pace toward home. But their laughter followed her down the street, each peal like a dagger between her ribs, and she found herself pushing nervously at her spectacles with every step.

They’re right, she thought miserably. I am awkward and plain and peculiar. What gentleman would want a wife who can barely walk across a room without tripping over her own feet, who hides behind spectacles and books because she’s too nervous to engage in normal conversation?

By the time she reached the familiar black door of her family’s townhouse on Upper Brook Street, Ophelia’s composure was hanging by the merest thread. The house stood narrow and tall among its more imposing neighbors’ houses, its facade showing subtle signs of financial strain, paint that needed refreshing, brass fittings that had lost their luster, window boxes that should have been replanted months ago. It was still genteel, still respectable, but anyone with eyes could see that the Sinclair family’s fortunes had diminished considerably from their former glory.

“Good afternoon Miss Ophelia! Your father requests your presence.” Higgins the butler informed her as she stepped into the modest entrance hall. His livery was impeccable as always, though Ophelia noticed the way his kind eyes took in her flushed cheeks and slightly disheveled appearance. 

“Thank you, Higgins,” she managed, handing him her parcels. “I shall go to him directly.”

She paused only long enough to remove her bonnet and pelisse, checking her appearance in the hall mirror. The glass reflected back a young woman with unremarkable brown hair pulled into a simple chignon, pale skin dusted with the freckles Catherine had mentioned so disparagingly, and large hazel eyes made even larger—and more owlish—by her wire-rimmed spectacles. Her dress was well-made but plain, a serviceable dark green wool that did nothing to enhance her coloring. She looked exactly like what she was; a scholarly spinster in the making, awkward and unprepossessing.

At least my spectacles are clean, she thought with bitter humor, though they were already threatening to slip down her nose again.

The study door stood slightly ajar, and she could hear her father’s voice within, though not his words. She knocked softly and waited for his invitation before entering.

Lord Sinclair sat behind his massive mahogany desk, its surface covered with papers and correspondence. At two and fifty, he retained traces of the handsome man he had been in his youth, though worry lines had etched deep grooves around his eyes and mouth. His hair, once the same rich brown as Ophelia’s, had gone mostly grey at the temples, and his shoulders carried the weight of financial burden like a physical load.

“Ah, Ophelia,” he said, looking up as she entered. “Please, sit down. We have much to discuss.”

She settled herself in the chair across from his desk, folding her hands in her lap to prevent herself from fidgeting with her spectacles and waiting with the patience she had learned over years of being her father’s confidante in matters of estate business. Whatever had prompted this summons, his expression suggested it was serious indeed.

“I received a letter today,” he began without preamble, lifting a folded piece of parchment from his desk. The paper was heavy, expensive, sealed with red wax that bore an unfamiliar crest. “From Lord Julian Ashcombe, Viscount Halstone.”

Ophelia’s eyebrows rose slightly. The name was familiar, she had heard it mentioned in society drawing rooms, usually in connection with some scandal or another. “The war hero?”

“Among other things, yes.” Her father’s expression was carefully neutral. “He has made a proposal, Ophelia. A proposal of marriage.”

The words hit her like a physical blow, and she stared at her father in disbelief.

“I… I beg your pardon?” she stammered, certain she had misheard.

“Lord Ashcombe has asked for your hand in marriage,” her father repeated, his voice gentle but firm. “The offer is quite generous, and the connection would be… advantageous for our family.”

Ophelia stared at him, her mind reeling as she unconsciously adjusted her spectacles again. “But Papa, I have never even met the gentleman. How could he possibly… why would he…?”

Why would any man want to marry me? she thought desperately. Especially a war hero with a title? I’m exactly what Penelope and Catherine said; a plain, awkward spinster with unfortunate spectacles and no social graces.

“It is an arrangement,” Lord Sinclair said quietly. “A business arrangement, if you will. Lord Ashcombe requires a wife to fulfill the terms of his inheritance, and we… we require the financial stability such an alliance would provide.”

The brutal honesty of it stole her breath. She had always known her family’s circumstances were reduced, but to hear it stated so plainly, to understand that she was being offered up like a commodity in trade, was devastating. 

“I see,” she whispered, though she didn’t see at all. Her mind felt clouded, uncertain. “And what manner of man is Lord Ashcombe?”

Her father hesitated, which told her more than words might have. “He is… a complicated gentleman. Returned from the Peninsula campaigns with considerable distinction, though he carries scars from his service. He inherited the viscountcy upon his father’s death two years ago, along with considerable debts and responsibilities.”

“Scars?” she asked faintly, her hand automatically going to her spectacles again.

“Physical and otherwise, I believe. He has gained a reputation for being somewhat reclusive and difficult. But he is honourable, Ophelia, and his offer is sincere.”

She absorbed this information slowly, fidgeting once more with her spectacles as she processed the implications. A reclusive war hero with scars and a difficult temperament, seeking a wife for business purposes. It sounded like something from one of the gothic novels she secretly enjoyed, except those heroines were invariably beautiful and spirited, not plain and bookish with unfortunate spectacles and a tendency to trip over their own feet.

At least he might not expect too much from someone like me, she thought with painful honesty. A plain, awkward wife might suit a scarred, difficult husband. We could be equally disappointing to each other.

“What are the terms?” she asked, proud that her voice remained steady.

Lord Sinclair’s relief was palpable. Clearly, he had expected more resistance. “The marriage would take place within the month. You would go to live at Halstone, his estate in Surrey. In return, he would settle our debts and provide a substantial dowry settlement.”

“How substantial?”

“Enough to secure Tabitha’s future and maintain this house for your mother and myself,” he admitted. “Enough to restore our family’s standing, at least partially.”

Ophelia closed her eyes, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on her shoulders like a lead mantle. Tabitha, her beloved younger sister, was only nineteen and possessed of all the beauty and vivacity that Ophelia lacked. She deserved a proper come-out, a chance to make an advantageous match based on genuine affection rather than financial necessity. Their parents deserved security in their declining years, not the constant worry that had aged them both prematurely.

And what do I deserve? she wondered, unconsciously pushing at her spectacles. Certainly not happiness or love as I’m not the sort of woman who inspires such feelings. At least this way I can be useful, I can serve my family’s needs even if I can never be the daughter they truly wanted.

“I understand,” she said quietly.

“I want you to know,” her father continued, his voice heavy with emotion, “that I would not ask this of you if I saw any other choice. You are my daughter, Ophelia, and your happiness matters to me. But our circumstances…”

“Are desperate,” she finished for him. “Yes, Papa, I understand completely.”

She thought of Penelope and Catherine’s words on the street, their casual cruelty in dismissing her prospects. Perhaps they had been more accurate than they knew. If not for this unexpected offer, she might indeed have faced the future they had outlined; spinsterhood, dependence on relatives, a slow fade into irrelevance while her spectacles grew thicker and her awkwardness more pronounced with age.

At least this way, she would have a purpose. A marriage, even a loveless one, was still a marriage. And if Lord Ashcombe was scarred and difficult, well, perhaps he would not expect too much from a plain, bookish wife who couldn’t navigate a simple conversation without fidgeting nervously.

“I shall accept,” she said, the words falling into the quiet study like stones into still water.

Her father’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Are you certain, my dear? Once the arrangements are made…”

“I am certain,” she replied, though her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird. “When am I to meet my intended husband?”

“The wedding is to take place at Halstone in three weeks’ time. Lord Ashcombe will send a carriage for you. I’m afraid the courtship period will be rather abbreviated.”

Three weeks. Ophelia felt a hysterical laugh bubble up in her throat but suppressed it firmly, settling for a smile. Three weeks to prepare for marriage to a complete stranger, to leave everything familiar behind and begin an entirely new life. It seemed both an eternity and no time at all.

At least he won’t have long to discover how truly awkward and unsuitable I am, she thought with dark humor. Perhaps by the time he realises his mistake, it will be too late to change his mind.

“Very well,” she said, rising from her chair, “I should go inform Mama and Tabitha.”

“Ophelia.” Her father’s voice stopped her at the door. “I am… that is to say, I’m grateful for your understanding. And I hope, I pray, that you will find contentment in this arrangement.”

She turned back to him, to the man who had loved her as best he could within the constraints of their society and circumstances. His face was etched with guilt and regret, and she felt a sudden rush of tenderness for him despite her own fears.

“I hope so too, Papa,” she said softly, pushing at her spectacles one final time. “But even if I do not, I will have served my family. That is not without value.”

The drawing room was empty when she entered, but she could hear voices from the morning room; her mother’s gentle tones mingled with Tabitha’s musical laughter. She found them there, her mother working on her embroidery while Tabitha practiced at the pianoforte, filling the room with a cheerful melody that seemed to mock Ophelia’s tumultuous emotions.

“Oh, Ophelia!” Tabitha exclaimed, looking up from the keys with bright eyes that sparkled without the aid of any spectacles whatsoever. “You’re just in time to hear my newest piece. Lady Riffere’s music master taught it to me yesterday, and I think I’ve nearly mastered it.”

Lady Margaret Sinclair smiled at her elder daughter, though Ophelia noticed the worry lines that had become permanent fixtures around her mother’s eyes. “How was your expedition to the bookshop, dear? I trust you found something suitable?”

“Yes, Mama,” Ophelia replied, moving to the settee and perching on its edge rather than settling comfortably. “Though I’m afraid I have news that will rather overshadow my literary acquisitions.”

Something in her tone must have alerted them both, for Tabitha’s hands stilled on the keys and their mother set aside her needlework.

“What is it, darling?” Lady Sinclair asked, her voice carefully controlled.

“I am to be married,” Ophelia announced, the words feeling strange and foreign on her tongue as she steadied her spectacles once more. “In three weeks’ time, to Lord Julian Ashcombe, Viscount Halstone.”

The silence that followed was profound. Tabitha’s mouth fell open in a most unladylike fashion, while their mother went very pale.

“Married?” Tabitha squeaked. “But Ophelia, you’ve never even mentioned a Lord Ashcombe! When did you meet him? How long have you been corresponding? Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I haven’t met him,” Ophelia admitted, fidgeting with her spectacles as she always did when anxious. “It is an arranged marriage. Papa received his proposal today.”

“An arranged marriage?” Their mother’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Oh, my dear child…”

“It is a business arrangement,” Ophelia continued, determined to present the facts clearly and without emotion, though her nervous habit with her spectacles betrayed her inner turmoil. “Lord Ashcombe requires a wife to satisfy the terms of his inheritance, and our family requires the financial stability the connection will provide. It is practical.”

And I am nothing if not practical, she added silently. A practical wife for a practical arrangement, complete with practical expectations.

Tabitha shot to her feet, her blue eyes flashing with indignation. “Practical? Ophelia, this is your life we’re discussing, not a household ledger! Surely Papa cannot expect you to marry some stranger simply for money!”

“Some scarred, difficult stranger,” Ophelia corrected with a bitter smile. “According to Papa, Lord Ashcombe is rather challenging in temperament and bears the marks of his military service.”

“Even worse!” Tabitha exclaimed, beginning to pace the small room like a caged tigress. “You’re describing some sort of monster! Scarred and difficult and that sounds perfectly dreadful!”

Perhaps we’ll suit each other, Ophelia thought with painful self-awareness. A dreadful husband for a dreadful wife with clumsy ways.

“He sounds like a man who has served his country and paid a price for it,” their mother said quietly, though her face remained troubled. “Ophelia, are you quite certain about this decision? Marriage is… well, it is permanent, dear.”

Ophelia looked at these two women who meant the world to her; her mother, who had sacrificed so much of her own comfort to maintain their family’s dignity, and Tabitha, whose beauty and spirit deserved every opportunity for happiness. How could she explain that this marriage, loveless though it might be, represented not just salvation for their family but perhaps her only chance at a life of purpose?

At least Lord Ashcombe won’t have to worry about my appearance, she reflected bitterly. Between his scars and my spectacles, we should make quite the pair of oddities.

“I am certain,” she said firmly though her nerves got the better of her. “And before you mount any further protests, Tabitha, consider this—my marriage settlement will ensure your proper come-out. You’ll be able to make your debut with all the advantages you deserve, rather than struggling along on our current reduced circumstances.”

Tabitha’s face crumpled. “I don’t want advantages that come at the cost of your happiness! Ophelia, please, there must be another way.”

“There isn’t,” Ophelia interrupted gently. “And truly, dear sister, what are my other prospects? I am three and twenty, plain, bookish, and possessed of no particular fortune or accomplishments that might recommend me to a husband. I can barely navigate a ballroom without tripping over my own feet, and these spectacles make me look like an owl. This marriage offers me a chance at… well, at least at usefulness.”

“You are not plain!” Tabitha declared fiercely. “You are intelligent and kind and good, and any gentleman worth having would see that immediately!”

The fierce loyalty in her sister’s voice brought tears to Ophelia’s eyes, making her spectacles fog slightly. She blinked them back determinedly while cleaning the lenses with her handkerchief which was yet another awkward display of her limitations.

“Perhaps,” she said. “But such gentlemen seem to be in rather short supply, and we cannot afford to wait for one to materialize.”

Lady Sinclair rose and crossed to her elder daughter, taking Ophelia’s hands in her own. “My darling girl, if you are truly resolved on this course, then you have our support. But I want you to promise me something.”

“What, Mama?”

“Promise me you will not entirely close your heart to the possibility of happiness. Arranged marriages can grow into loving partnerships, given time and patience. Your father and I were betrothed in much the same circumstances, and we found contentment together.”

Ophelia squeezed her mother’s hands, drawing comfort from their familiar warmth. “I promise, Mama. Though I suspect Lord Ashcombe and I shall likely achieve nothing more than civil indifference.”

If I’m fortunate, she added to herself. More likely, he’ll be quietly horrified by his awkward bride and count the days until our marriage becomes a purely formal arrangement.

“Don’t say that!” Tabitha protested, dropping onto the settee beside them. “He might be perfectly wonderful once you come to know him. Perhaps his difficult reputation is simply the result of grief or pain from his war experiences. You could be exactly what he needs; someone gentle and understanding to help him heal.”

The romantic notion was so very like Tabitha that Ophelia couldn’t help but smile. “Perhaps,” she agreed, though privately she doubted any man would find healing in the company of a bluestocking who couldn’t cross a room without stumbling. “But I think it best to maintain realistic expectations.”

They spent the remainder of the afternoon discussing practical matters, like what she would need to pack, which gowns might require alteration, how to arrange her affairs before departing for Surrey. It was easier to focus on such mundane details than to contemplate the magnitude of the change ahead of her.

That evening at dinner, with the news having been shared with the entire household, Ophelia found herself the object of considerable attention and speculation from the servants. Mrs. Henderson, their long-time cook, had prepared her favorite lemon tart, while Higgins inquired respectfully whether she would require assistance with her correspondence before the wedding.

“I suppose I should write to Cousin Margaret in Bath,” Ophelia mused as she considered the task ahead. “She’ll want to know about the wedding, though I doubt she’ll be able to attend on such short notice.”

“What about other things you would like to take with you?” Lady Sinclair asked practically. “Three weeks is precious little time to prepare a proper wardrobe for a viscountess.”

The reality of her new status hit Ophelia like a cold splash of water, and she nearly knocked over her wine glass. Her spectacles slipped precipitously, and she had to grab for them while steadying her glass—a graceless display that only emphasized her unsuitability for such an elevated position.

“I shall be satisfied with what I have,” she said faintly. “Perhaps a few alterations…”

“Nonsense,” Tabitha declared. “We’ll visit Madame Rousseau tomorrow and order at least two new gowns. Something elegant for the wedding, and perhaps a traveling dress. You cannot marry a viscount looking like a governess!”

But I am what I am, Ophelia thought. New gowns won’t change the fact that I’m awkward and plain and utterly unsuited to be anyone’s viscountess, let alone a war hero’s.

“I rather thought that was the point,” Ophelia murmured, but she was overruled by the combined forces of her mother and sister, who began planning an assault on Bond Street.

Later that night, alone in her chamber, Ophelia sat at her small writing desk and stared at a blank sheet of paper. She had thought to write in her journal, to record her thoughts and feelings about this momentous day, but words seemed inadequate to capture the storm of emotions churning within her. 

Fear, certainly. Uncertainty. A strange sort of grief for the life she had imagined for herself. She had imagined her world to be quiet, scholarly, unremarkable perhaps, but familiar and safe. And beneath it all, a tiny, treacherous flutter of something that might have been anticipation, though she couldn’t imagine what there was to anticipate beyond certain disappointment.

What would he be like, this scarred stranger who was to become her husband? Would he be kind, or merely indifferent? Would he expect her to transform herself into some vision of feminine perfection, or would he be resigned to the practical, bookish woman he was getting? Would he mind terribly that she wore spectacles and had a tendency to fidget with them when nervous?

Probably, she admitted to herself. Most men find such habits annoying in women. But then, most men don’t arrange marriages with strangers, so perhaps his expectations are already quite low.

She rose and moved to her window, gazing out at the darkened street below. Somewhere in London, or perhaps already at his estate in Surrey, Lord Julian Ashcombe was presumably contemplating his own impending nuptials. Did he feel the same mixture of apprehension and resignation? Or was marriage to her simply another item to be checked off his list of necessary but unpleasant tasks?

The thought stung, though she told herself it shouldn’t. This was a business arrangement, nothing more. She should not allow herself to indulge in romantic fantasies that would only lead to disappointment.

But as she prepared for bed, brushing out her unremarkable brown hair and donning her plain nightgown, Ophelia couldn’t quite suppress a small, secret hope that perhaps, just perhaps, she and her mysterious viscount might find something more than mere convenience in their union.

Even if we don’t, at least I’ll have tried to make something useful of my life. And if he finds me as disappointing as I expect, well, at least we’ll both know where we stand.

Three weeks, she thought as she settled beneath her familiar quilts for what might be one of the last times. Three weeks to prepare for an entirely new life as Lady Ashcombe; a title that felt as ill-fitting as her constantly sliding spectacles.

But perhaps that was what marriage was. A gradual process of adjustment, of learning to fit into a new role and identity. She had always been good at adapting, at making the best of whatever circumstances presented themselves. Surely she could learn to be a wife as competently as she had learned Latin or botany.

The thought comforted her enough to allow sleep to claim her, though her dreams were filled with shadowy figures and crumbling mansions, and a man’s voice calling her name with what sounded suspiciously like disappointment when he finally saw her face.

 

Chapter 2 

 

“My lord, the correspondence from London has arrived.”

Julian Ashcombe, sixth Viscount Halstone, looked up from the damaged timber he had been examining, sweat dampening his white shirt despite the October chill. The east wing of Halstone Manor stretched before him in various stages of repair, its Gothic windows empty of glass and its stone walls bearing the scars of years of neglect. He had been overseeing the restoration work since dawn, his coat discarded and his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, working alongside his men like a common laborer.

“Set it on the table in the library, Jenkins,” he replied curtly, not pausing in his examination of the beam that threatened to collapse entirely if not properly reinforced. “I shall attend to it when I have time.”

His manservant, a nervous young man who had replaced three predecessors in as many months, shifted uncertainly from foot to foot. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but Colonel Ashcombe, who is in the library, particularly requested that you review the urgent correspondence immediately upon its arrival.”

Julian’s jaw tightened at the mention of his uncle. Colonel Reginald Ashcombe had been managing the estate’s affairs during Julian’s prolonged recovery from his war wounds but his interference had become increasingly irksome. Still, the man had kept Halstone from complete ruin during those dark months when Julian had been more ghost than man.

“Very well,” he said tersely, straightening and accepting the cloth Jenkins offered to wipe the grime from his hands. “But this beam requires attention today. See that Morrison understands that it cannot wait.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Julian strode through the manor’s corridors with the purposeful gait that had carried him across countless battlefields, though he was forced to favor his left leg slightly where shrapnel had torn through muscle and bone at the war. The injury had healed as well as could be expected, but it served as a constant reminder of that terrible day when his closest friend had died in his arms while Julian lived on, bearing scars both visible and hidden.

The library remained one of the few rooms in the manor that hadn’t suffered from years of neglect. Its walls were lined with leather-bound volumes collected by generations of Ashcombes, and late afternoon sunlight streamed through tall windows that still retained their glass. Julian found his uncle seated behind the massive oak desk, a pile of correspondence spread before him like battle plans.

Colonel Reginald Ashcombe was a man of military bearing even in his civilian clothes, his silver hair perfectly groomed and his posture ramrod straight. At fifty-eight, he retained the commanding presence that had served him well during his army career, though his pale blue eyes held a coldness that Julian had never noticed in his youth.

“Ah, Julian,” Reginald said, glancing up as his nephew entered. “Excellent timing. We have received a response from Lord Sinclair.”

Julian’s stomach clenched involuntarily. Lord Sinclair was father to the young woman who was to become his wife in a marriage arranged for the most practical of reasons. The correspondence had been exchanged without Julian ever laying eyes on his intended bride, a situation that suited him perfectly. Emotional entanglements were luxuries he could not afford.

“Has he accepted the proposal?” Julian asked, settling into a chair across from the desk despite his disheveled appearance. His uncle’s disapproving glance at his work clothes was pointedly ignored.

“Indeed he has,” Reginald replied, lifting a sheet of expensive paper. “Miss Ophelia Sinclair has consented to become your wife. The ceremony is arranged for three weeks hence, to be performed at Halstone’s chapel as you requested.”

Julian absorbed this information with the detachment.. Miss Ophelia Sinclair; three and twenty, unmarried, reportedly intelligent though unremarkable in appearance. The daughter of a financially embarrassed peer who needed the marriage settlement as much as Julian needed a wife to satisfy the terms of his inheritance.

It was a practical arrangement, nothing more. Julian had no illusions about romance or affection clouding his judgment. He required a wife to prevent the estate from passing to his cousin Humphrey, a dissolute wastrel who would likely sell Halstone within a year. Miss Ophelia required financial security for her family. It was a transaction, clean and uncomplicated by sentiment.

“What manner of woman is she?” Julian asked, though he wasn’t certain why the answer mattered. A wife was a wife and she would serve her purpose regardless of her personal qualities.

Reginald consulted another letter. “Lord Sinclair describes her as scholarly, well-read, and possessed of a quiet temperament. She is said to be practical in her expectations. And somewhat… plain, I believe, though he phrases it more diplomatically.”

The diplomatic phrasing spoke volumes. A plain, bookish spinster grateful for any offer of marriage, no doubt. Julian felt no particular reaction to this assessment. Beauty was irrelevant to his purposes as in fact, a plain wife might be preferable. She would be less likely to expect romantic attentions that he had no intention of providing.

“She will serve adequately,” he said coldly. “A quiet, undemanding wife who won’t interfere with the estate’s management or expect emotional complications.”

His uncle nodded approvingly. “Precisely what I told Lord Sinclair you required. The Sinclair family has fallen on hard times, so Miss Ophelia will be grateful for the elevation in status and security the marriage provides. She’s unlikely to make unreasonable demands on your time or attention.”

Julian rose and moved to the window, gazing out at the gardens that had once been his mother’s pride and joy. Now they were overgrown and wild, though he could still see traces of their former beauty beneath the neglect. Rather like himself, he supposed—the bones of what he had been were still there, but the surface had grown harsh and unforgiving.

“Have you given any thought to the practical aspects of the marriage?” Reginald continued delicately. “The necessity of producing an heir?”

Julian’s hands clenched into fists where they rested on the windowsill. The physical requirements of marriage were not something he cared to discuss with anyone, particularly when his own body’s responses had been unpredictable since his return from the Peninsula.

“I am aware of my responsibilities,” he said curtly, his voice carrying the ice that had once made subordinate officers step carefully around him.

“Of course, of course. I simply wanted to ensure that you understood the importance of fulfilling your duties in that regard. The entailment requires a male heir, as you well know.”

The entailment; that detestable legal document that controlled every aspect of his life, even from beyond the grave. His father had included the marriage clause as insurance, never imagining that his son would return from the war so changed, so damaged in ways that went far deeper than physical scars.

“I said I understand,” Julian repeated, his voice dropping to the dangerous quiet that had once preceded battlefield executions.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Julian’s relationship with his uncle had grown increasingly strained since his return to Halstone. Where once he had seen a beloved family member who had helped raise him after his parents’ deaths, now he noticed things that disturbed him. The way Reginald’s eyes lingered too long on the account books, his subtle attempts to influence estate decisions, his obvious belief that Julian’s war experiences had somehow diminished his capacity for sound judgment.

“There is another matter we should discuss,” Reginald said eventually. “The question of where Miss Ophelia will… fit into the household dynamic.”

Julian turned from the window, his expression carefully controlled. “Meaning?”

“Simply that bringing an outsider into Halstone at this delicate time in the estate’s recovery might prove challenging. She will need guidance, naturally, to understand her role and responsibilities. I am prepared to help ease her transition, but she must understand that certain aspects of the estate’s management are not appropriate for feminine interference.”

“Miss Ophelia will be my wife,” Julian said, his voice flat and final. “As such, she will be afforded the respect due to her position. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Reginald’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Naturally. I simply want to ensure that she understands the unique circumstances of our family. The challenges we’ve faced, the delicate work of restoration that cannot be disrupted by well-meaning but misguided interference.”

Julian studied his uncle’s face, noting the subtle tension around his eyes and the way his fingers drummed against the desk’s surface. “What exactly are you concerned about, Uncle?”

“Nothing specific,” Reginald replied too quickly. “I merely think it would be wise to establish clear boundaries from the beginning. Miss Ophelia comes from reduced circumstances and she may not understand the complexities of managing an estate like Halstone. Better to be clear about expectations than to deal with disappointments later.”

The conversation was veering into territory that made Julian profoundly uncomfortable, though he couldn’t have said exactly why. He had agreed to this marriage as a necessity, viewing his future wife as little more than a means to an end. Yet something in his uncle’s tone grated against him.

“We will address such matters as they arise,” he said firmly. “For now, I am more concerned with ensuring that the east wing is habitable before winter sets in properly.”

“Of course.” Reginald’s agreement came with a slight bow that somehow managed to convey disappointment. “Will you be dining in tonight, or shall I have Mrs. Morland prepare something for you in your chambers?”

Julian glanced down at his work clothes, at the dirt embedded beneath his fingernails and the sweat stains on his shirt. The thought of sitting through a formal dinner, making polite conversation while his mind churned with thoughts of his impending marriage, was unbearable.

“My chambers,” he said curtly. “I have accounts to review.”

It was partially true, there were always accounts to review, but mostly Julian craved solitude to process the reality that in three weeks’ time, he would be a married man. The thought filled him with neither pleasure nor dread, merely a sort of grim resignation.

“Very good. I’ll have Jenkins bring your correspondence up as well. There are several matters requiring your signature.”

Julian nodded curtly and made his way toward the door, but his uncle’s voice stopped him.

“Julian.” Reginald’s tone had softened slightly. “I know this marriage isn’t what you might have chosen for yourself under different circumstances. But it’s for the best, truly. Miss Ophelia will provide you with the stability you need, and perhaps… perhaps a wife’s gentle influence will help you find some measure of peace.”

The words were kindly meant, Julian knew, but they struck him like physical blows. Peace. As if marriage to a stranger could somehow heal the wounds that went deeper than flesh, could silence the screams that echoed through his dreams each night, could bring back the man he had been before the war had changed everything.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly, though he believed no such thing. Peace was not something Julian expected to find in this life—at best, he might achieve a sort of armed truce with his demons.

Julian’s chambers occupied the entire third floor of the manor’s central tower, a suite of rooms that had been his father’s domain and now served as his refuge from the world. The sitting room held comfortable chairs arranged before a massive fireplace, while his bedchamber beyond featured a four-poster bed that had been in the family for generations. It was here that he felt most like himself or what remained of himself after the war had stripped away so many layers.

Mrs. Morland, the housekeeper, had already laid out fresh clothes for the evening and arranged for a bath to be drawn. She was a woman of middle years whose husband had died, leaving her with a young daughter to raise alone. Julian had offered her the position partly from practical necessity and partly from a fellow understanding of loss.

“Will there be anything else, my lord?” she asked as he entered, her manner respectful but not servile. He appreciated that about her, she treated him as a man rather than an invalid, which was more than many of his acquaintances managed.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Morland. Though I should mention that we will be having a guest arriving in three weeks’ time. Miss Ophelia Sinclair. She will be… that is, we are to be married.”

Mrs. Morland’s eyebrows rose slightly, but her expression remained carefully neutral. “Congratulations, my lord. Shall I prepare the viscountess’s chambers?”

The viscountess’s chambers. His mother’s rooms, which had stood empty for over a decade. Julian felt something twist in his chest at the thought of another woman occupying that space, sleeping in his mother’s bed, perhaps rearranging his mother’s few remaining possessions. Not that it mattered though, Miss Ophelia was welcome to do whatever she pleased with the rooms, so long as she didn’t expect him to take any interest in her domestic arrangements.

“Yes,” he said curtly. “See that they’re properly aired and furnished. Miss Ophelia should be… adequate comfortable.”

“Of course, my lord. And might I ask… will her ladyship be requiring a lady’s maid? The staff will need to know how to prepare.”

Julian realized with a start that he had no idea what servants Miss Ophelia might be bringing with her, or what her expectations might be regarding household staff. Such details were precisely the sort of thing he had hoped to avoid by marrying a practical, undemanding woman.

“Write to Lord Sinclair tomorrow and inquire about her ladyship’s requirements,” he said finally. “Whatever she needs, see that it’s provided. I won’t have it said that Halstone lacks proper hospitality.”

Mrs. Morland nodded. “Very good, my lord. I’m sure everything will work out beautifully.”

Her confidence was misplaced, but Julian didn’t bother to correct her. After she had gone, he sank into one of the chairs before the fire and tried to imagine what his life would be like with a wife in residence. The manor would no longer be his masculine refuge as there would be feminine touches, feminine voices, feminine… expectations.

What would she expect from him, this Miss Ophelia? Would she want companionship, conversation, the sort of attentive husbanding that he had seen other men provide their wives? The thought filled him with cold distaste. He had grown accustomed to solitude, to managing his demons in private. The idea of having to maintain a facade of normalcy for a wife’s benefit was not just exhausting but impossible.

Yet as he sat there in the flickering firelight, his mind began to conjure practical considerations of what married life would entail. Shared meals, at minimum, as he could hardly dine alone while his wife took her meals in isolation. Occasional social obligations that would require them to present a united front. And eventually, inevitably, the marriage bed.

Julian’s body stirred despite his attempts to control his thoughts, though whether from desire or mere biological response, he couldn’t say. Whatever Miss Ophelia’s appearance or temperament, she would be his wife, and he would have legal and moral rights to her body. The marriage bed was a necessary evil, required for the production of heirs, but he found the prospect more daunting than appealing.

Physical intimacy had been complicated since his return from war. The physicians assured him there was nothing physically wrong with him, but his body’s responses to intimate contact had been unreliable at best. The thought of failing to perform his husbandly duties with a wife who was already bound to be disappointed in her bargain was particularly unappealing.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his brooding. Jenkins entered with a tray of food and a small stack of correspondence, setting both on the table beside Julian’s chair with obvious nervousness.

“Will there be anything else tonight, my lord?”

“No. You may go.”

Alone again, Julian picked at the simple meal Mrs. Morland, who was helping in the kitchen as well due to reduced staff, had prepared—roasted chicken, vegetables from the estate’s gardens and fresh bread that reminded him of his childhood when such meals had been shared with family around a crowded table. Now the food tasted like ashes in his mouth, though he forced himself to eat for strength if nothing else.

The correspondence proved equally unpalatable. Bills from various tradesmen working on the estate’s restoration, a letter from his solicitor regarding some minor legal matter, and surprisingly, a note from his former commanding officer, Colonel Harrison.

My dear Ashcombe, the letter began in Harrison’s familiar scrawl. Word has reached me, from your uncle, of your intention to marry shall the bride accept, and I wanted to extend my heartiest congratulations. I know the past two years have been difficult for you, but perhaps marriage will provide the stability and purpose you need to fully heal from your experiences on the Peninsula.

I remain convinced that your talents are wasted in civilian life, and my offer of a position on my staff remains open should you ever wish to return to service. However, I understand that domestic responsibilities must take precedence now.

Give my regards to your bride when you meet her, and know that you have my best wishes for a long and happy marriage.

James Harrison

Julian set the letter aside with a bitter laugh. A long and happy marriage. If only Harrison knew the true nature of this arrangement; a business transaction between strangers, motivated by financial necessity rather than affection. Still, the colonel’s faith in him was touching, even if misguided.

As the fire burned lower and the manor settled into its nightly quiet, Julian’s thoughts returned inevitably to the woman who would soon share his home and his name. Miss Ophelia Sinclair. He tried to picture her, but his imagination could conjure only vague impressions. A serious young woman with spectacles, perhaps, given her scholarly reputation. Plain but respectable, grateful for the security his offer provided, wise enough not to expect romance or affection from their arrangement.

It would be a marriage of convenience in the truest sense. Two people bound together by law and necessity, nothing more. She would provide him with the heir his inheritance required, and he would provide her with financial security and social position. Neither would expect emotional intimacy or romantic attachment, and both would be content with a civilized partnership based on mutual benefit rather than sentiment.

The arrangement suited Julian perfectly. Emotional entanglements were dangerous luxuries he could not afford, complications that might interfere with his careful control over the darker aspects of his nature. A practical wife who asked for nothing beyond basic courtesy and material comfort would allow him to maintain the distance necessary for both their sakes.

He undressed slowly, his movements stiff from the day’s physical labor. The mirror above his washstand reflected back a man he sometimes barely recognized. He was lean to the point of being gaunt, his dark hair longer than fashion dictated, the scar on his face a permanent reminder of mortality. His body bore other marks as well, souvenirs of battles fought in service to king and country.

Miss Ophelia would have to accept this damaged goods she was getting; the scarred body, the difficult temperament, the emotional distance that was as much self-preservation as deliberate choice. If she had harbored any romantic notions about marriage to a war hero, she would quickly learn to abandon them.

Better for both of them if she understood from the beginning that their union would be a practical matter, free from the complications of deeper feeling. Julian had nothing left to give beyond the basic requirements of marriage, which were protection, provision, and the fulfillment of his legal obligations. Anything more was beyond his capacity, at least as he was now.

The thought brought him neither guilt nor regret, merely a sort of grim satisfaction. Emotional honesty, even when it revealed limitations, was preferable to false promises that would only lead to disappointment. Miss Ophelia was getting exactly what she had contracted for. A husband who would fulfill his duties without expecting or offering more than necessity demanded.

It was a fair exchange, Julian told himself as he settled into bed, staring up at the canopy his father had once shared with his mother. Practical, sensible, and free from the dangerous complications of deeper emotion.

If the arrangement sometimes felt more like another form of warfare than the foundation for a peaceful future, well, he had survived worse battles. Surely he could survive marriage to one bookish, plain woman who wanted nothing more from him than security and respectability.

At least, he fervently hoped that was all she would want. Because it was all he had left to give.

 

Chapter 3

 

“Are you quite certain this gown is appropriate, Mary? It seems rather ambitious for someone like me.”

Ophelia stood before the mirror in her traveling chamber, fidgeting nervously with her spectacles as she examined her reflection in the deep burgundy silk that had been her one extravagance during the hurried preparations for marriage. The gown was elegant without being ostentatious, cut in lines that flattered her modest figure while maintaining absolute propriety, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was dressed above her station.

“Nonsense, Miss Ophelia,” Mary, her lady’s maid, replied firmly, making final adjustments to Ophelia’s simple chignon. “You look lovely, and the color brings out the warmth in your eyes. A viscountess should dress the part, even if she doesn’t feel it yet.”

Especially if she doesn’t feel it, Ophelia thought grimly, pushing her spectacles up her nose for the dozenth time that morning. They had been sliding constantly since she’d awakened, as if even her eyewear was nervous about meeting her intended husband.

The journey to Surrey had been mercifully uneventful, though Ophelia had spent most of it mentally rehearsing conversations that would probably never occur. Lord Ashcombe’s traveling coach was far more luxurious than anything her family owned. Deep blue velvet upholstery, polished brass fittings, and springs that absorbed the worst of the road’s jolts with admirable efficiency. Even his transportation proclaimed his superior circumstances.

“I still cannot fathom why his lordship didn’t come to London for the courtship,” Mary continued, clearly still disgruntled by the unconventional nature of the arrangement. “Seems peculiar, if you ask me, sending a carriage but not bothering to escort his bride personally.”

The same thought had occurred to Ophelia repeatedly during the three weeks of preparation. Lord Ashcombe’s absence from all wedding arrangements had been conspicuous, communicated only through formal correspondence that revealed nothing of the man’s character or feelings about their impending union. She had begun to suspect he viewed their marriage with the same enthusiasm one might reserve for a particularly unpleasant medical procedure.

“I’m sure his lordship has pressing estate matters that require his attention,” she said diplomatically, though privately she wondered if his failure to appear suggested indifference, distaste, or simply relief that he wouldn’t have to pretend interest in his plain, practical bride until absolutely necessary.

“Humph,” Mary snorted, clearly unimpressed by this reasoning. “Any proper gentleman would make time to court his intended bride, repairs or no repairs. Remember my words, Miss Ophelia, there’s more to this peculiar arrangement than meets the eye.”

Indeed there is, Ophelia thought. Lord Ashcombe is getting a wife he’s never seen who’s probably even plainer and more awkward than he’s been led to expect. No wonder he stayed away.

“Look there, Miss,” Mary said suddenly, pointing out the window with barely contained excitement. “I believe that might be the estate.”

Ophelia leaned forward eagerly, her spectacles immediately fogging from her nervous breathing. She had to clean them with her handkerchief before she could properly see her first glimpse of her new home, and what she saw stole her breath entirely.

Halstone Manor rose from the Surrey countryside like something from a Gothic novel, its ancient stones dark against the grey sky. The building was massive, clearly dating from several different architectural periods, with a central tower flanked by wings that stretched toward formal gardens now run wild with autumn growth.

Even from a distance, she could see signs of the extensive repairs Lord Ashcombe was undertaking. Temporary structures clung to one wing like wooden ivy, and the sound of hammering echoed across the grounds as their carriage approached the main entrance. Workmen moved about the estate with purposeful energy, their voices calling to each other in the crisp air.

“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Mary breathed, clearly as impressed as Ophelia by the sheer scale of their new home. “Though it looks a bit forbidding, doesn’t it?”

Forbidding was indeed the word that sprang to Ophelia’s mind. The manor’s Gothic architecture, combined with its obvious age and the wild state of its grounds, gave it an air of romantic melancholy that was both beautiful and slightly unsettling.

Rather like its master, I imagine, she thought with nervous humor. Impressive from a distance, but probably quite overwhelming up close.

The carriage drew to a halt before the main entrance, where a small group had assembled to greet them. Ophelia’s heart hammered against her ribs as she recognized the tall, dark-haired figure who could only be Lord Ashcombe himself, standing slightly apart from the others with an air of controlled tension that was palpable even from within the carriage.

 

“Oh my,” Mary whispered, echoing Ophelia’s own reaction.

Lord Julian Ashcombe was nothing like what she had imagined during those long weeks of speculation. Where she had pictured a rather ordinary gentleman made prematurely old by war and responsibility, she found instead a man of striking presence despite, or perhaps because of, the obvious marks of his military service.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair slightly longer than current fashion dictated, with the sort of lean, athletic build that spoke of physical activity rather than drawing room indolence. A scar ran from his left temple to his jaw, creating a jagged line that should have marred his appearance but somehow only added to his dark magnetism. His face was all sharp angles and strong bones, saved from classical perfection by that scar and by eyes that held shadows too deep for his years.

But it was his expression that struck her most forcibly because it was cold, remote, almost hostile as he watched their carriage approach. There was nothing welcoming in his stance, nothing that suggested he viewed her arrival with anything approaching pleasure. He looked like a man steeling himself for an unpleasant duty, and Ophelia felt quite nervous again.

He’s already regretting this arrangement, she realized with painful clarity. One look at me and he’ll be calculating how quickly he can fulfill the minimum requirements of marriage and retreat to separate lives.

“He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?” Mary said in an undertone. “I mean, in a dangerous sort of way. Like a pirate or a highwayman.”

Ophelia couldn’t disagree with this assessment, though it left her feeling strangely breathless and even more inadequate than before. She had prepared herself for marriage to a plain, practical gentleman who would treat her with polite indifference. She had not prepared herself for this, for a husband who looked like the dark hero of one of those scandalous novels she sometimes read in secret, all brooding intensity and barely leashed power.

And I look like the plain governess who gets dismissed in the first chapter, she thought miserably, pushing her spectacles up once more.

The carriage door opened, and a footman appeared to help them down. Ophelia accepted his assistance on unsteady legs, her practical traveling dress suddenly feeling woefully inadequate for meeting such an imposing figure. She stepped onto the gravel drive, immediately stumbling slightly on the uneven stones. 

Brilliant start, Ophelia, she berated herself. Nothing says ‘sophisticated viscountess’ like tripping before you’ve even been introduced.

Lord Ashcombe moved forward with a slight limp that she hadn’t noticed while he stood still, his dark eyes fixed on her face with an intensity that made her cheeks burn. At close range, he was even more overwhelming—taller than she had realized, with a presence that seemed to fill the space around him despite his controlled manner.

“Miss Ophelia,” he said, offering a correct bow that somehow managed to convey both politeness and distance. His voice was deep, cultured, with a slight roughness that sent unexpected shivers down her spine despite its cold tone. “Welcome to Halstone.”

He sounds about as enthusiastic as someone welcoming a tax collector, Ophelia thought, fighting the urge to fidget with her spectacles under his penetrating stare.

“My lord,” she replied, executing what she hoped was a proper curtsy despite her trembling knees and the way her spectacles chose that moment to slide precipitously down her nose. She caught them just before they fell completely, a graceless gesture that only emphasized her nervousness. “I am… honoured to be here.”

The conventional words felt inadequate given the magnitude of the moment, but Lord Ashcombe merely nodded curtly and gestured toward the other members of the welcoming party with obvious impatience to get the introductions over with.

“Allow me to present my uncle, Colonel Reginald Ashcombe,” he continued with the same careful formality, his tone suggesting he found the social niceties tiresome. “Mrs. Morland, our housekeeper, and Jenkins, my manservant.”

Ophelia acknowledged each introduction with appropriate courtesy, though she was disturbingly aware of her future husband’s continued scrutiny and obvious lack of interest in the proceedings. His dark eyes seemed to catalog every detail of her appearance, her unremarkable brown hair, her constantly sliding spectacles, her simple traveling dress, with an assessment that left her feeling exposed and found wanting.

What did he see when he looked at her? The plain, bookish woman he had expected, no doubt, exactly as advertised and probably even less appealing than he’d feared. The thought stung, though she told herself it shouldn’t matter. This was a practical arrangement, after all. Her appearance was irrelevant as long as she could fulfill her basic wifely duties without making too much of a nuisance of herself.

“I trust your journey was comfortable?” Colonel Ashcombe inquired with the sort of polite concern that indicated good breeding rather than genuine interest.

“Very comfortable, thank you,” Ophelia replied, pushing her spectacles up yet again. “Your nephew’s carriage is remarkably well-appointed.”

“Julian spares no expense when it comes to practical matters,” the colonel said with what might have been approval. “He believes in efficiency above all else.”

There was something in his tone that made Ophelia glance sharply at Lord Ashcombe, but her future husband’s expression remained carefully neutral. Whatever undercurrents flowed between uncle and nephew, they were clearly accustomed to maintaining public facades. She noticed, however, that Lord Ashcombe’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at his uncle’s words.

A sudden gust of wind sent autumn leaves swirling around them, and Ophelia shivered involuntarily in her lightweight pelisse. The movement seemed to break whatever spell had held the group in formal stillness.

“You must be chilled after your journey,” Lord Ashcombe said, his voice betraying the first hint of something that wasn’t outright coldness, though it was far from warmth. “Mrs. Morland has prepared refreshments, and your chambers are ready. You may wish to… rest before dinner.”

The slight hesitation suggested he had been about to say something else entirely, and Ophelia couldn’t help but wonder if it would have been less diplomatically phrased. The pause also gave her time to push her spectacles back into place, a gesture she was becoming increasingly self-conscious about.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I confess I am rather tired.”

And nervous, and awkward, and already regretting this entire arrangement, she added silently.

Lord Ashcombe nodded curtly and gestured toward the manor’s imposing entrance. As they began to walk, Ophelia caught her foot on an uneven stone and stumbled forward, her precarious balance destroyed by nerves and the weight of her traveling case. Her spectacles flew off her face entirely as she pitched forward.

Strong hands caught her before she could fall, Lord Ashcombe’s arms coming around her with a speed that spoke of excellent reflexes. For a moment, she was pressed against his chest, surrounded by the warmth of his body and the subtle scent of sandalwood and something uniquely masculine. She could feel the steady beat of his heart through his coat and could sense the controlled strength in the muscles that held her upright.

Without her spectacles, his face was a blur mere inches from hers, but she could sense the tension in his body, the way he held himself rigid as if her touch was somehow distasteful. The moment stretched between them, charged with an awkwardness that made her cheeks burn with mortification.

Then he was setting her firmly on her feet and stepping back so quickly she nearly stumbled again while his expression shuttered into something even colder than before. He bent to retrieve her spectacles from the gravel, examining them briefly for damage before handing them back to her with obvious reluctance to prolong any contact.

“Your spectacles,” he said curtly, his tone suggesting the incident had been deeply inconvenient.

“Thank you,” Ophelia stammered, settling the wire frames back on her nose with shaking fingers and immediately pushing them up when they threatened to slide. “How clumsy of me. I’m terribly sorry.”

Brilliant, Ophelia. Nothing makes a good first impression like falling into your future husband’s arms and losing your spectacles. He probably thinks he’s marrying a complete foolish woman.

“The stones are uneven,” he replied shortly, already turning away as if the incident had never occurred. “Mrs. Morland, please show Miss Ophelia to her chambers. Dinner will be served at seven.”

The dismissal was polite but unmistakable, and Ophelia felt her cheeks burn with humiliation. Clearly, even that brief physical contact had been distasteful to him, something to be forgotten as quickly as possible. She followed Mrs. Morland into the manor’s entrance hall, acutely aware of Lord Ashcombe’s retreating figure and the way he seemed eager to escape her presence.

Well, that’s settled then, she thought miserably as they climbed a magnificent staircase toward the upper floors. He finds me every bit as awkward and unappealing as I feared. At least we both know where we stand.

“Don’t mind his lordship’s manner,” Mrs. Morland said quietly as they reached the landing. “He’s not used to… well, to company. Especially feminine company. The war changed him, you see, and he’s been quite solitary since returning to Halstone.”

The housekeeper’s attempt at explanation was kindly meant, but it did little to soothe Ophelia’s wounded pride. She had known this marriage was a practical arrangement, had expected nothing more than polite indifference from her future husband. But his obvious reluctance to touch her, his immediate withdrawal from even the most innocent physical contact, stung more than she had anticipated.

Perhaps it’s not personal, she tried to tell herself, though the thought provided little comfort. Perhaps he simply dislikes all physical contact, not just contact with plain, clumsy women who can’t keep their spectacles on their faces.

“These will be your chambers,” Mrs. Morland continued, opening a door to reveal a suite of rooms that took Ophelia’s breath away.

The viscountess’s chambers were everything she had never dared dream of. Elegantly furnished with pieces that spoke of both quality and history, windows that looked out over the wild gardens toward rolling countryside, and a sense of feminine grace that suggested they had been decorated by someone with impeccable taste. For a moment, she forgot her mortification in the sheer beauty of her new accommodations.

“They were his lordship’s mother’s rooms,” Mrs. Morland explained, noting Ophelia’s obvious amazement. “Lady Catherine was a great beauty in her day, much beloved by all who knew her. His lordship thought you might be comfortable here.”

Ophelia moved to the window, unconsciously pushing her spectacles up as she gazed out at the view that would soon become familiar. The gardens below stretched away toward ancient oaks and carefully planned vistas, though neglect had allowed nature to reclaim much of the formal landscaping. She could see the appeal of such a place—the peace, the beauty, the sense of history that permeated every stone.

But she could also see the isolation, the way the manor stood apart from the world like a fortress against unwanted intrusion. Lord Ashcombe had created a sanctuary here, and she was about to invade it whether he welcomed her presence or not.

And judging by his reaction to me so far, he decidedly does not welcome it, she reflected as she sighed.

“Will there be anything else you require, my lady?” Mrs. Morland asked. “I can arrange for a bath if you wish, or perhaps some tea?”

“Tea would be lovely,” Ophelia replied, settling into a chair by the fire that someone had thoughtfully lit against the afternoon chill. “And Mrs. Morland? Might I ask… what is his lordship like? As a master, I mean. Is he… kind to the staff?”

The housekeeper’s face softened with what appeared to be genuine affection. “Oh yes, my lady. His lordship is a fair and generous employer, though he can be demanding when it comes to the estate’s restoration. He works harder than any of the men under his direction, and he expects the same dedication from others. But he’s never cruel or unreasonable, just… distant.”

“I see.” Ophelia absorbed this information, trying to reconcile it with her impression of a cold, forbidding man who couldn’t bear to touch her. “He seems… reserved.”

“That he is,” Mrs. Morland agreed. “But underneath all that reserve, he’s a good man, my lady. The war was hard on him, harder than most people realise. He lost his closest friend in Spain, and the guilt of surviving when so many better men didn’t… well, it weighs on him. He blames himself for things that were never his fault.”

The picture Mrs. Morland painted was both heartbreaking and illuminating. A man haunted by survivor’s guilt, struggling to rebuild not just his estate but his entire life after witnessing horrors she could barely imagine. Perhaps his coldness wasn’t personal rejection but simply the armor he had built to protect himself from further pain.

Though that doesn’t explain why he seemed so eager to escape my presence, Ophelia thought. Unless the sight of his awkward, plain bride simply reminded him of yet another burden he’d taken on.

“Thank you for telling me,” Ophelia said quietly. “It helps to understand…”

“Of course, Miss Ophelia. And might I say, I think your presence here will be good for his lordship. He’s been alone too long, dwelling on the past instead of looking toward the future. A wife might help him find his way back to the man he was before the war changed him.”

The faith in Mrs. Morland’s voice was touching, even if Ophelia doubted her ability to heal anyone’s emotional wounds. She was a practical woman, better suited to managing household accounts than ministering to a damaged soul. And judging by Lord Ashcombe’s reaction to her so far, he was more likely to view her as an additional burden than a source of comfort.

After Mrs. Morland had gone to arrange for tea, Ophelia allowed herself to explore her new chambers more thoroughly. The bedroom was dominated by a four-poster bed hung with blue silk that had faded to a soft, romantic hue, while the sitting room contained comfortable chairs arranged around the fireplace and shelves lined with books that suggested Lady Catherine had shared her soon-to-be daughter-in-law’s literary interests.

On the dressing table sat a miniature portrait in a silver frame—a woman of extraordinary beauty with dark hair and the same intense eyes that Ophelia had seen in her son. Lady Catherine Ashcombe smiled out from the painting with warmth and intelligence, every inch the great beauty Mrs. Morland had described.

What would she have thought of her son’s bride? Ophelia wondered, studying that lovely face with its aristocratic features and confident bearing. Would she have approved of this practical marriage, or would she have hoped for something more romantic for her only child? Would she have been disappointed by such a plain, awkward daughter-in-law?

Probably, Ophelia admitted to herself with painful honesty. What mother wouldn’t want someone beautiful and graceful for her son, rather than a clumsy bluestocking who can’t even keep her spectacles in place?

The sound of voices in the corridor outside drew Ophelia to the window that overlooked the main entrance. Below, she could see Lord Ashcombe in animated conversation with Colonel Reginald, though their words didn’t carry to her elevated position. Even from this distance, she could sense tension between the two men—something in their postures, the way they stood just slightly too far apart, the colonel’s gesticulating hands and Lord Ashcombe’s rigid stillness.

Whatever they were discussing, it was clearly a matter of some importance and possible disagreement. Ophelia found herself wondering about the dynamics between uncle and nephew, about the role Colonel Reginald played in estate management and whether her presence might complicate their established relationship.

However judging by Lord Ashcombe’s obvious reluctance to have me here, I doubt my opinions will carry much weight in any case, she thought, pushing her spectacles up as they slipped while she leaned forward to observe the scene below.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her observations. Mary entered with a tea service, her face bright with excitement and curiosity about their new surroundings.

“Oh, Miss, you should see the kitchens!” she exclaimed, setting the tray on a small table near the fire. “And the servants’ quarters are far more amazing than anything we had in London. Mrs. Morland has been ever so kind, explaining how things are managed here.”

“Has she indeed?” Ophelia accepted a cup of tea gratefully, inhaling the fragrant steam. “And what did you learn about our new home?”

“Well,” Mary said, settling into a chair with the familiarity of long service, “it seems his lordship is quite devoted to the estate’s restoration. Works from dawn to dusk alongside the laborers, according to the other servants. And he’s very generous with wages, though he expects hard work in return.”

“What about the colonel? His lordship’s uncle?”

Mary’s expression grew more guarded. “The staff are… respectful of him, of course. He’s been managing many of the estate’s affairs during his lordship’s recovery. But I got the impression that some of them are relieved his lordship has taken a more active role recently.”

Interesting. Ophelia filed this information away, along with her own observations of the tension between the two men. Family dynamics could be complex, particularly when property and inheritance were involved.

“And what do they think of his lordship’s marriage?” she asked, not entirely certain she wanted to hear the answer while unconsciously adjusting her spectacles.

“Oh, they’re all quite excited about having a lady of the house again,” Mary assured her. “Mrs. Morland especially seems pleased. She said the manor has been too quiet, too masculine, and that a wife’s influence will be just what his lordship needs.”

If only they knew how unsuited I am to providing any sort of positive influence, Ophelia thought ruefully. His lordship took one look at me and couldn’t wait to escape. I hardly think my presence will be the blessing they’re expecting.

As the afternoon waned toward evening, Ophelia found herself growing increasingly nervous about the dinner ahead. It would be their first meal together, the first extended period in each other’s company, and she had no idea what to expect from a man who seemed to view marriage as another unpleasant duty to be discharged as efficiently as possible.

Mary helped her dress in her best gown, the burgundy silk that had been her one extravagance during the hurried preparation for marriage. It was elegant without being ostentatious, cut in lines that flattered her modest figure while maintaining absolute propriety. Her hair had been arranged in a simple chignon that emphasized the graceful line of her neck, and her only jewelry was a strand of pearls that had been her mother’s.

“You look lovely, Miss,” Mary declared with satisfaction, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “That colour brings out the warmth in your eyes, and the cut is most becoming.”

Ophelia studied her reflection in the mirror, seeing the same unremarkable woman she had always been despite Mary’s loyal praise. The gown was indeed flattering, and she had taken more care with her appearance than usual, but she remained painfully aware of her limitations. No amount of silk or careful grooming could transform her into the sort of beauty that might capture a man’s genuine interest.

At least Lord Ashcombe’s expectations are probably quite low, she consoled herself as she made her way downstairs to the dining room. A practical marriage requires only basic competence, not beauty or charm.

The dining room, when she found it, was as impressive as the rest of the manor. A long chamber dominated by a mahogany table that could easily seat twenty, its walls lined with portraits of previous viscounts and their families while candles flickered in crystal chandeliers, casting warm light over polished surfaces and gleaming silver.

Lord Ashcombe stood near the fireplace, having changed from his work clothes into formal evening dress that emphasized his tall, lean frame. The black coat and white cravat of evening wear should have civilized his appearance, but somehow they only served to highlight the dangerous energy that seemed to simmer beneath his controlled surface. He looked every inch the aristocrat, yet there was something untamed about him that no amount of proper tailoring could disguise.

He turned as she entered, his dark eyes sweeping over her with the same assessing look she had noticed earlier. This time, however, she thought she caught a flicker of something—surprise, perhaps, or approval—before his expression settled back into polite formality. The moment was so brief she might have imagined it.

“Miss Ophelia,” he said, offering another of those precisely correct bows. “You look… adequate. I trust your chambers are satisfactory?”

Adequate. Not lovely, not well, but adequate. The faint praise was somehow worse than outright criticism, suggesting that she had met the minimum requirements for appearing in his dining room but nothing more.

“Very satisfactory, thank you,” she replied, accepting his offered arm as he escorted her to the table while trying not to betray how his casual dismissal stung. The brief contact sent an unexpected jolt of awareness through her, though he seemed entirely unaffected by their proximity. “The rooms are beautiful and I must admit your mother had exquisite taste.”

Something shifted in his expression at the mention of his mother, a softening around his eyes that lasted barely a moment before his customary coldness reasserted itself. “She did indeed. I’m glad you find them sufficient.”

He seated her with the sort of practiced courtesy that spoke of excellent breeding, then took his place at the head of the table while she occupied the seat to his right. The arrangement was intimate despite the table’s size, close enough for conversation yet formal enough to maintain proper distance. Though from his manner, he might as well have been dining alone.

“I should warn you that tonight’s meal is simple,” he continued as servants began to serve the first course, his tone suggesting he expected her to be disappointed. “Mrs. Morland has been managing with a reduced staff, and actually has to help in the kitchen as well, though she does her best with limited resources.”

The food, when it appeared, was far from simple by Ophelia’s standards. Delicate soup, fresh fish, roasted fowl with vegetables from the estate’s gardens, and a selection of desserts that would have graced any London table. But she supposed a viscount might consider such fare modest compared to the elaborate entertainments of his social equals.

“Everything looks delicious,” she said, tasting the soup with genuine appreciation while trying to keep her spectacles from sliding down her nose as she bent forward. “Mrs. Morland is clearly very talented.”

“She manages adequately,” he replied with the same faint praise he had used for Ophelia’s appearance. “I was fortunate to secure her services when her husband was killed. She needed employment, and I… well, I needed someone who understood that running a household in reduced circumstances requires both skill and discretion.”

The reference to war losses hung between them like a shadow, reminding Ophelia of Mrs. Morland’s earlier words about Lord Ashcombe’s own experiences during the war. How many people had he lost during those terrible campaigns? How many friends and fellow officers had died while he survived to carry their memory?

“It must have been difficult,” she said quietly, “returning home after such experiences. The adjustment to civilian life, I mean.”

His hand tightened almost imperceptibly around his wine glass, and she saw a muscle tick in his jaw before he regained control. When he spoke, his voice was flat, emotionless. “War changes a man. The England I returned to seemed… different from the one I had left. More fragile, perhaps. More precious.”

The words were carefully chosen, revealing little of his true feelings, but Ophelia sensed depths of pain and loss beneath his controlled surface. Whatever bad experiences haunted Lord Ashcombe, they were not easily driven away by civilian comforts or the passage of time.

“I cannot imagine,” she murmured, unconsciously pushing her spectacles up as they slipped. “The things you must have seen, the friends you must have lost…”

“No,” he agreed, his voice turning even colder. “You cannot imagine. And I pray you never have cause to.”

The finality in his tone warned her away from further inquiry, and they ate in silence for several minutes. Ophelia searched for a safer topic of conversation, something that might break through his reserve without treading on painful memories.

“The estate is magnificent,” she offered eventually, before taking another sip of wine. “Even with the repairs needed, one can see it must have been spectacular in its heyday.”

“It shall be again,” he said, and for the first time she heard something approaching genuine feeling in his voice. “The east wing should be habitable before winter, and next spring we’ll begin work on the formal gardens. My mother’s rose garden has run quite wild, but the root systems are still strong. With proper care, it could bloom again.”

The metaphor was perhaps more apt than he realized, Ophelia thought. Like the gardens, Lord Ashcombe himself might bloom again given proper care and patience. Not that she presumed to be the person to provide such nurturing. Judging by his manner toward her, he was more likely to view her as another weed to be tolerated rather than cultivated.

“I should very much like to see the gardens,” she said. “I have some small knowledge of botany, nothing approaching expertise, of course, but I find plant cultivation fascinating.”

His eyebrows rose slightly, the first sign of something that might have been interest she had seen from him. “Indeed? What sort of plants interest you particularly?”

“Medicinal herbs, primarily,” she admitted, warming to the subject despite her nervousness and the constant need to adjust her spectacles. “I’ve been studying the works of Nicholas Culpeper and other herbalists, trying to understand how different plants might be used to treat common ailments. It’s purely academic, of course, as I have no practical experience, but I find the subject compelling.”

“Culpeper,” he repeated thoughtfully. “The Complete Herbal. I have a copy in the library, though I confess I’ve never given it much attention. You’re interested in the medicinal applications?”

“Oh yes!” she said, her enthusiasm overriding her usual reserve. “The way certain plants can ease pain or reduce fever, how different preparations might treat diverse conditions, it’s like solving riddles, really. Each ailment presents a problem, and the herbalist must determine which combination of plants might provide the solution.”

She realized she was speaking with more animation than she had shown since arriving at Halstone, her love for the subject temporarily making her forget her awkwardness. Lord Ashcombe was watching her with what appeared to be genuine attention, his dark eyes focused on her face with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. Of course that might have been due to the way her spectacles chose that moment to slide down her nose again, requiring another adjustment.

“You speak of it as if it were a science,” he observed, his tone neutral but not dismissive.

“Isn’t it, in a way? Or at least, it could be, with proper study and documentation. So much traditional knowledge has been passed down through generations of village wise women, but little of it has been systematically recorded or tested. Imagine what we might accomplish if we approached herbal medicine with the same rigour we apply to other fields of study.”

“An intriguing notion,” he said, and she thought she detected a note of something less cold in his voice. “Have you attempted any practical applications of your studies?”

Heat crept up her neck as she realized how presumptuous she must sound, and her spectacles immediately began to slip from the nervous perspiration. “Nothing significant,” she admitted, steadying them with one finger. “I’ve prepared some simple tisanes for headaches and such, but I would never attempt anything more complex without proper guidance. I’m merely an amateur enthusiast, not a trained practitioner.”

“Still, the interest is… notable,” he said, which was probably the closest thing to a compliment she was likely to receive from him. “Too few people bother to look beyond the surface of things, to question how and why traditional practices work.”

The grudging approval in his tone sent a small glow of warmth through her chest. For the first time since arriving at Halstone, she felt as though they might actually be able to converse as equals, to find some small measure of common ground despite the awkward circumstances of their marriage.

“Perhaps you might show me your mother’s herb garden when the weather permits,” she suggested tentatively. “I would be grateful for the opportunity to observe how different plants grow in Surrey soil.”

“I suppose that could be arranged,” he replied, his tone returning to its usual coolness though something that might have been the ghost of interest lingered in his eyes. “However, I should warn you, the garden has been rather neglected. You may find it more wilderness than cultivated space.”

“All the better for study,” she said, then immediately winced as her spectacles slipped again, requiring yet another adjustment that drew attention to her nervous habit. “Wild plants often develop interesting adaptations that their cultivated cousins lack.”

They continued discussing botanical matters throughout the remainder of the meal, and Ophelia found herself relaxing slightly in his company. When he focused on intellectual subjects rather than personal ones, Lord Ashcombe revealed a sharp mind and broad education that made conversation genuinely stimulating, even if his manner remained formal and distant. He asked questions about her reading, offered observations about plants he had encountered during his military service, and seemed genuinely interested in her opinions but his tone never warmed beyond polite attention.

It was only when the meal concluded and he rose to escort her from the dining room that the awkwardness returned. Once again they would be forced to navigate the personal aspects of their relationship, the question of what came next in their strange courtship.

“I typically retire early,” he said as they paused in the entrance hall, his formal manner reasserting itself. “Estate work begins at dawn, and I find I require adequate rest to maintain the necessary energy. I trust you will find your own entertainments for the evening.”

The words were clearly meant as a dismissal, politely phrased but unmistakable in their intent. Ophelia felt a familiar sting of rejection, though she told herself she should be grateful for his honesty rather than wounded by his obvious desire to escape her company.

“Of course,” she said. “I have some reading I should catch up on myself.”

They stood there for a moment in uncomfortable silence, both apparently uncertain how to conclude their first evening together. Should she curtsy? Offer her hand? Wait for him to make some gesture? The uncertainty made her nervous, and she found herself fidgeting with her spectacles again.

The decision was taken from her when Lord Ashcombe stepped closer, his tall frame seeming to tower over her in the flickering candlelight. For one wild moment she thought he might kiss her and the idea sent her heart racing with a mixture of terror and unexpected anticipation. But instead he simply took her hand and raised it briefly to his lips in a gesture of old-fashioned courtesy.

The touch was fleeting, barely the brush of his mouth against her gloved fingers, but it sent shock waves through her entire body. She could feel the warmth of his breath through the thin fabric, could sense the controlled strength in his grip, and when he released her hand she had to resist the urge to press her fingers to her lips to preserve the sensation.

“Good night, Miss Ophelia,” he said, his voice slightly rougher than before, though his expression remained carefully controlled. “I trust you will sleep well.”

“Good night, my lord,” she managed, proud that her voice remained steady despite the chaos in her chest and the mortification over her spectacles.

She watched him disappear into the shadows of the corridor leading to his study, then made her way upstairs on unsteady legs. Mary was waiting to help her prepare for bed, chattering about the servants’ gossip and the preparations underway for tomorrow’s wedding ceremony, but Ophelia barely heard her.

Instead, her mind kept returning to those few moments during dinner when Lord Ashcombe had looked at her with something approaching interest, when their conversation had flowed naturally despite their status as virtual strangers. There had been intelligence in his dark eyes, depth beneath his reserved exterior, and perhaps even the possibility of respect if not affection.

And that brief kiss to her hand, such a conventional gesture, yet it had affected her far more than it should have.

At least he didn’t seem completely repulsed by me, she thought as she settled into the magnificent bed that had once belonged to his mother, her spectacles safely on the bedside table for the night. Cold and distant, certainly, but not actively disgusted. Perhaps that’s the best I can hope for.

Tomorrow they would be married, bound together by law and necessity if not by love. The thought terrified her, but it also stirred something else in her chest. A fragile hope that perhaps their life together might achieve some measure of civilized partnership, even if it could never be more than that.

He might even stop finding my spectacles and clumsiness quite so irritating, given enough time, she reflected with rueful humor. 

As sleep finally claimed her, Ophelia’s dreams were filled with dark eyes that held secrets, conversations that lasted beyond mere courtesy, and strong hands that caught her when she fell.