Chapter One

Violet Whitford’s quill pen hovered over the ledger, her brow clenched in a silent battle between resolve and frustration. Outside, the dawn’s pale glow barely pierced the tattered curtains of Blackbriar Manor’s breakfast room, but inside, a storm of secrets and unspoken worries churned beneath the genteel facade. Every carefully counted penny, every sacrificed luxury, masked the fragile truth; something was amiss in the Whitford household, and Violet’s keen eyes had begun to see through the veneer of respectability she was determined to protect.

“Violet, you will see to the accounts while we are at tea with Lady Mortimer,” came the sharp voice of her stepmother from the doorway. Mrs. Whitford swept into the room with the practised authority of one who had never doubted her right to command. “I trust you understand the importance of making yourself scarce.”

Violet did not look up from her calculations, though her pen paused briefly above the inkwell. “Of course, ma’am. I shall remain in the study until your return.”

“See that you do.” Mrs. Whitford’s tone carried the weight of three years’ worth of such pronouncements. “Edith and Marian must make the most favourable impression possible. Lady Mortimer’s recommendation could secure invitations to the finest assemblies this season.”

“Indeed,” Violet murmured, making a notation beside the column of figures. The cost of maintaining her stepsisters’ wardrobes alone would have kept a modest family comfortable for half a year, yet she had learned long ago that such observations were neither welcome nor wise.

Mrs. Whitford lingered, her shrewd gaze taking in Violet’s simple morning dress of faded blue wool, serviceable and neat, but bearing the telltale signs of careful mending at the cuffs and hem. “I suppose that gown will suffice for your solitary morning. We cannot have you appearing before callers in anything that might reflect poorly upon the family’s circumstances.”

The irony was not lost on Violet that her stepmother’s definition of the family’s circumstances seemed to exclude Violet herself, save when her careful management of their reduced income proved useful. She had become quite skilled at remaining invisible while ensuring that Edith and Marian wanted for nothing that might advance their prospects in society.

“I shall take care to remain properly attired,” Violet replied with the measured politeness that had become her shield against the daily slights that punctuated her existence at Blackbriar Manor.

Her stepmother’s expression softened slightly; not with warmth, but with the satisfaction of one whose authority had been appropriately acknowledged. “Very good. The girls are nearly ready, and we must not keep Lady Mortimer waiting. You know how particular she is about punctuality.”

Violet did know, just as she knew a great many things about the intricate social web that governed their county’s society. She had learned to observe from the margins, to listen without seeming to hear, to understand the subtle currents of favor and disfavor that could make or break a young lady’s chances of a respectable marriage. It was knowledge that served her stepfamily well, even if her contributions were never acknowledged.

“Mama, I cannot find my pearl earrings!” Edith’s voice drifted down from the upper floors, followed by the sound of rapid footsteps on the stairs.

Mrs. Whitford sighed with the air of one perpetually burdened by the demands of managing beautiful daughters. “I must attend to the girls. Do see that the silver is properly cleaned before the afternoon callers arrive. Mrs. Henderson grows quite particular about such things.”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

With that, Mrs. Whitford departed, leaving Violet alone with her ledgers and the familiar weight of unspoken expectation. She returned to her figures, calculating the precise amount needed for the next quarter’s expenses while setting aside a small reserve for the inevitable social demands that would arise as the season progressed.

The numbers provided a strange comfort in their immutable honesty. Unlike the fluid dynamics of family obligation and social pretence that governed her daily life, mathematics offered certainty. Two and two would always equal four, regardless of whether one was the cherished daughter of the house or merely the inconvenient reminder of her father’s first marriage.

Violet had been fifteen when her father died, old enough to understand that her position in the household would change irrevocably with his passing. Mrs. Whitford had been his wife for only two years then, but she had wasted little time in establishing the natural order of things. Edith and Marian, her daughters from her previous marriage, were to be presented as the family’s greatest treasures. Violet was to be grateful for a home and make herself useful without drawing undue attention to her circumstances.

In the three years since, Violet had perfected the art of useful invisibility. Her own mother had died when Violet was barely three years old, taken by a fever that swept through the county one particularly harsh winter. Her father had mourned deeply, raising Violet alone for ten years with the help of a devoted governess before finally remarrying when loneliness and the need for companionship overcame his grief. He had hoped Mrs. Whitford would be a mother to Violet, but that hope had proven as fragile as morning frost.

She managed the household accounts with skill that would have impressed her father’s old steward. She oversaw the servants with a gentle authority that ensured their loyalty while maintaining proper discipline. She mended and altered gowns with nimble fingers, ensuring that her stepsisters always appeared at their best advantage. She performed these duties without complaint, understanding that her security depended upon being indispensable.

Yet sometimes, in quiet moments like these, she allowed herself to remember the father who had delighted in her quick mind and encouraged her to read widely from his library. He had spoken of the season she would one day enjoy, the presentations she would make, the eligible gentlemen who would surely appreciate her intelligence and grace. Those dreams seemed as faded now as the blue wool of her morning dress.

The sound of carriage wheels on gravel announced that it had come for the departure of the ladies for their important social call. Violet moved to the window and watched as her stepmother handed Edith and Marian into the carriage with ceremonious care. Both young women were beautifully dressed in the latest fashions, their hair arranged in elegant styles that had required the attention of their lady’s maid for the better part of an hour.

Edith, at eighteen, possessed the golden beauty that drew admiring glances wherever she went. Unwillingly, her debut had been delayed by a year due to the family’s financial constraints, though society had been told it was due to a minor illness.

Her blue eyes and golden curls created the picture of fashionable perfection that opened doors in the most exclusive circles. Marian, two years younger, was perhaps the prettier of the two, with dark hair and striking green eyes that gave her an air of mysterious sophistication beyond her years.

Violet watched them settle into the carriage with the practised grace of young ladies accustomed to being the centre of attention. She felt no bitterness toward her stepsisters, they had been raised to believe that their beauty and charm were their natural inheritance, and they could hardly be blamed for accepting the privileges that society offered to those fortunate enough to possess such gifts.

The carriage disappeared beyond the gates, leaving Violet alone with the stillness that always settled over the house in their absence. She returned to her desk and drew out the household correspondence that required her attention. There were bills to be settled, arrangements to be made with the local merchants, and a delicate negotiation to be conducted with their landlord regarding a small delay in the quarterly rent.

Violet’s father had owned Blackbriar Manor outright, but his death had revealed debts that necessitated selling the property to meet his obligations. They now rented the house from a distant cousin who had purchased it primarily as an investment. It was an arrangement that allowed them to maintain the appearance of stability while operating under significantly reduced circumstances.

As she worked, Violet found her mind wandering to the changes that autumn would bring. Edith would make her formal debut this season, and much of the family’s remaining resources were being marshaled to ensure her success. The finest dressmaker in the county had been engaged, dancing masters consulted, and careful inquiries made regarding the most advantageous social connections.

If Edith succeeded in attracting a suitable husband, the family’s financial pressures would be considerably eased. A well-connected son-in-law would provide security for Mrs. Whitford and opportunities for Marian when her time came. The three-year mourning period had indeed passed, but Mrs. Whitford had cleverly extended their withdrawal from society by citing the need to “properly establish themselves” after Mr. Whitford’s death. In truth, it had taken that long to accumulate sufficient funds for a proper debut. Now, with Violet at eighteen, old enough to manage the household entirely on her own, the time had finally come to launch Edith into society.

Violet’s own future remained diplomatically unaddressed, though she understood that her continued usefulness would likely secure her a permanent place in whatever household Edith established.

It was not the future her father had envisioned for her, but Violet had learned to find satisfaction in smaller aspirations. She would ensure that the family’s affairs were managed with competence and discretion. She would take pride in her ability to stretch limited resources to meet unlimited social demands. She would find contentment in the knowledge that her contributions, however unacknowledged, were essential to maintaining the facade that protected them all.

The morning passed quietly as Violet attended to her various duties. She reviewed the week’s menus with Mrs. Peterson, the cook, ensuring that they could maintain an appearance of prosperity while operating within their actual means. She supervised the cleaning of the silver, knowing that Mrs. Whitford would inspect every piece before the afternoon’s callers arrived. She wrote careful responses to several invitations, accepting those that would advance her stepsisters’ social prospects while declining others with gracious regret.

By noon, she had completed the most pressing tasks and allowed herself the luxury of a brief walk in the garden. The September air carried the first hint of autumn’s crispness, and the late roses bloomed with the desperate beauty of flowers sensing winter’s approach. Violet had always found peace in the garden, where her father had taught her to identify the various plants and understand their seasons.

She paused beside the sundial that marked the garden’s centre, remembering how she had once believed that time moved too slowly, that her life stretched endlessly ahead with unlimited possibilities. Now she understood that time was a more precious commodity than she had realized, and that possibilities, once lost, were not easily recovered.

The sound of approaching hoofbeats drew her attention toward the front drive. A single rider approached at a measured pace, mounted on a magnificent bay gelding that spoke of excellent breeding and careful training. As the figure drew closer, Violet felt a flutter of recognition mixed with surprise.

Mr. James Blackbriar, her father’s cousin and current owner of the manor, dismounted near the front steps with the easy grace of an accomplished horseman. He was a man of perhaps thirty-five years, with the kind of understated elegance that marked him as a gentleman of substance and education. His visit was unexpected as their business was typically conducted through correspondence and Violet wondered what had prompted this personal call.

She remained in the garden, understanding that her stepmother would not appreciate having Mr. Blackbriar encounter the least fashionable member of the household. Instead, she watched from a distance as he was admitted by Higgins, their elderly butler, and presumably shown to the drawing room to await the ladies’ return.

Violet’s curiosity was piqued, but she knew better than to satisfy it through direct inquiry. She would learn whatever she needed to know through the gradual revelation of consequences that always followed significant events in their carefully ordered world or she would never learn anything if her stepmother chose not to reveal anything.

Instead, she remained in the garden until the carriage returned, watching as Mrs. Whitford and her daughters swept into the house with the animated conversation that indicated a successful social call. The business with Mr. Blackbriar, whatever its nature, would unfold in due course.

As the afternoon progressed, Violet found herself relegated to the kitchen, where she assisted Mrs. Peterson in preparing refreshments for the expected callers. It was work that her stepmother would have considered beneath the dignity of her own daughters, but Violet had long ago ceased to regard such tasks as demeaning. There was satisfaction in honest work well done, and she had learned to find purpose in the small contributions that kept their household functioning smoothly.

The callers arrived promptly at three o’clock, and Violet listened to the murmur of polite conversation drifting from the drawing room as she arranged flowers for the hall table. Lady Mortimer’s visit had indeed yielded the hoped-for invitations, and the discussion centred on the various assemblies and private gatherings that would provide opportunities for Edith to display her charms to eligible gentlemen.

Among the topics of discussion was the hope that this season might bring truly exceptional opportunities for Edith to make a brilliant match. The finest families would be hosting their autumn entertainments, and with Lady Mortimer’s patronage, they might hope to receive invitations to the most exclusive gatherings.

Marian would not make her debut for another two years, when she turned eighteen, though she might be permitted to attend select local gatherings under her mother’s careful supervision before then.

Violet completed her floral arrangement and quietly withdrew to the study, where she could review the household accounts without risk of interrupting the important discussions taking place in the drawing room. The numbers told their familiar story, but now she found herself calculating what additional expenses would be required for Edith’s debut season.

As evening approached and the callers departed, Violet remained in the study, listening to the excited chatter from the drawing room as plans were made and strategies discussed. She was not included in these deliberations, but she knew that her practical skills would be essential to their execution. Gowns would need to be altered, accessories procured at the best possible prices, and careful arrangements made to ensure that every detail contributed to the impression they wished to create.

When the family finally retired for the evening, Violet was left alone with her thoughts and the quiet satisfaction of work well done. She had maintained their household’s appearance of prosperity for another day, managed their limited resources with skill and discretion, and prepared the groundwork for whatever challenges the coming season would bring.

As she climbed the stairs to her modest chamber under the eaves, Violet allowed herself one small moment of wistful speculation about what it might be like to attend a Duke’s ball as an honoured guest rather than the invisible architect of another’s success. But such thoughts were a luxury she could ill afford, and she dismissed them with the practical resignation that had become her greatest strength and her most necessary protection.

Chapter Two

Dominic Morrison had read the letter a dozen times, yet the words refused to settle. It lay open on the desk behind him now, its contents as sharp and unwelcome as the day it arrived from his solicitor’s office. Three days, and still, he had told no one but today he had decided to share the news.

Outside, the grounds of Willethorn Manor basked in the glow of early autumn, but inside the library, the air felt still and watchful. Generations of Morrisons stared down at him from their gilded portraits, as though waiting for his next move.

He didn’t turn to face them.

Whatever the letter had stirred, whatever storm it hinted at, it had begun to move beneath the surface of his ancestral estate. And Dominic, seventh Duke of Willethorn, knew too well that some shadows, once awakened, did not return quietly to sleep.

“A wife by December, Andrew. That is the extent of my father’s legacy to me, matrimony as an inheritance clause.”

The gentleman seated near the fireplace looked up from his own correspondence with the patient expression of one accustomed to serving as confidant to a duke whose trust was not easily earned. Andrew Cavendish had managed Willethorn’s estates for nearly a decade, but more than that, he had served as Dominic’s friend since their school days at Eton. His presence in the library this morning was part business consultation, part strategic planning session for a campaign that neither man particularly relished.

“The sixth Duke was always thorough in his planning,” Andrew observed diplomatically, setting aside his papers to give the matter his full attention. “Though I confess I had not anticipated quite so specific a stipulation regarding your matrimonial affairs.”

Dominic turned, his expression carrying the controlled resignation of a man accustomed to duty but not particularly enamoured with its demands. At thirty-two, he possessed the bearing that marked him unmistakably as a member of England’s highest nobility—tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and gray eyes that suggested both intelligence and a certain wariness born of too much unwelcome attention from ambitious families seeking advantageous connections.

“Thorough, indeed,” Dominic replied, moving to take the chair opposite his estate manager. “According to Silvermere’s interpretation of the will, if I fail to marry by my thirty-third birthday, the omitted portions of the estate, including Rosewood Manor and its tenant farms, pass to my cousin Marcus. A wedding by December the fifteenth, or I lose nearly a quarter of the duchy’s annual income.”

Andrew whistled softly under his breath. “Rosewood represents what, twelve thousand a year?”

“Fourteen, actually, with the improved drainage we implemented last spring.” Dominic picked up a crystal paperweight from the side table, turning it in his hands as he spoke. “My father’s way of ensuring the succession, I suppose. Marcus has been married these five years and already has two sons to secure the future.”

“Whereas you have shown a deplorable tendency to remain unmarried despite every inducement society can offer,” Andrew said with the dry humour that marked their long friendship. “How inconsiderate of you to value personal inclination over dynastic obligation.”

“Quite shocking,” Dominic agreed, though his tone suggested he found little amusement in his predicament. “The irony is that Marcus neither needs nor particularly wants Rosewood. His own estates in Derbyshire provide handsomely for his family’s needs. This is purely my father’s method of compelling compliance from beyond the grave.”

Andrew leaned back in his chair, studying his friend with the careful attention of one attempting to solve a complex puzzle. “You could simply marry. It need not be a love match…arranged marriages are still common enough among our class, and there are any number of suitable young ladies who would consider an alliance with Willethorn a considerable triumph.”

“Indeed,” Dominic said, setting down the paperweight with perhaps more force than necessary. “The difficulty lies not in finding a willing bride, but in selecting one whose company I can tolerate for the remainder of my natural life.”

The problem, as both men understood, was that Dominic’s previous experience with matrimonial pursuits had left him with a profound distrust of the elaborate courtship rituals that governed polite society. Three years earlier, he had been on the verge of proposing to Lady Josephine Browne, a connection that had seemed to offer both personal satisfaction and appropriate social advantage. The discovery that Lady Josephine’s affections were primarily engaged by his title and fortune, rather than by any genuine regard for his character, had ended both the courtship and Dominic’s faith in his ability to distinguish between mercenary interest and authentic attachment.

“The challenge,” Dominic continued, “is to identify a lady whose motives are not primarily financial, whose conversation extends beyond the weather and the latest fashions, and whose character suggests she might be content with a marriage based on mutual respect rather than passionate devotion.”

“A rather clinical approach to matrimony,” Andrew observed. “Though perhaps more practical than the alternative.”

“I am a practical man,” Dominic replied. “I have no desire to repeat the errors of my youth by mistaking practised charm for genuine feeling. If I must marry to satisfy my father’s will, I prefer to do so with my eyes open and my expectations appropriately modest.”

Andrew nodded thoughtfully. “Then we must consider how to identify such a paragon among the eligible ladies of our acquaintance. It will require considerable strategy to separate the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.”

Dominic rose and moved to his desk, retrieving a sheet of paper covered with his careful handwriting. “I have been giving that matter considerable thought. The traditional methods, attending assemblies, accepting invitations to house parties, allowing myself to be introduced to every ambitious mother’s darling daughter, seem unlikely to serve our purpose.”

“They would certainly expose you to a great deal of orchestrated pursuit,” Andrew agreed. “Half the matchmaking mothers in England would descend upon you the moment word spread that you were actively seeking a wife.”

“Precisely. Which is why I have decided to host a ball here at Willethorn Manor.” Dominic handed over the paper, which proved to be a guest list written in his precise script. “A carefully selected gathering of the most respectable families in the county, with invitations extended to their eligible daughters. An opportunity to observe potential candidates in a more controlled environment.”

Andrew scanned the list with interest. “The Ashfords, the Greymonts, the Morrimers… all excellent families. And Lady Browne is notably absent, I observe.”

“Lady Browne will undoubtedly attend regardless of invitation,” Dominic said with resignation. “As Lady Josephine’s mother, she considers herself entitled to observe any gathering where I might be selecting a bride.”

“Despite Lady Josephine’s marriage to Willowes?” Andrew asked.

“The marriage that ended in annulment after three months,” Dominic replied dryly. “Lady Browne is desperate to see her daughter respectably settled again. She still harbours hopes of rekindling our former attachment, despite my complete lack of interest.”

“Indeed.” Andrew’s tone suggested he understood perfectly well that his friend felt no lingering regret over that particular outcome.

“A fortnight hence. That provides sufficient time for the invitations to be issued and accepted, but not so much time that word spreads beyond our immediate circle and attracts unwanted attention from further afield. I already have my assistant preparing them.”

Andrew set down the guest list and regarded his friend with something approaching sympathy. “You realise, of course, that this plan requires you to actually engage with these young ladies sufficiently to assess their character and suitability. You cannot simply observe from a distance and make your selection based on appearance and family connections.”

Dominic returned to his position by the window, clasping his hands behind his back as he gazed out at the grounds where gardeners were already beginning the autumn preparations that would continue until the first frost. “I am aware of that requirement. I shall endeavour to be a gracious host and an attentive conversationalist for the duration of the evening.”

“And if you find no one who meets your exacting standards?”

“Then I shall expand the search to neighbouring counties, though I would prefer to avoid that complication if possible. A wife from our immediate area would be more convenient for all concerned; familiar with local customs, known to the tenants and staff, unlikely to require extensive adjustment to country life.”

Andrew rose and moved to join his friend at the window. “There is one potential difficulty we have not discussed. What if the lady you select does not return your interest? Even the most practical approach to matrimony requires the consent of both parties.”

Dominic smiled for the first time since their conversation had begun, though the expression held more irony than genuine amusement. “My dear Andrew, I am a duke with an unencumbered estate and a considerable fortune. I think we may safely assume that any respectable young lady would view a proposal from me as an acceptable prospect, regardless of her personal feelings on the matter.”

“Rather cynical, even for you.”

“Realistic,” Dominic corrected. “I have no illusions about the nature of marriage among our class. Love matches are a luxury for those who can afford to indulge their sentiments. For the rest of us, marriage is a business arrangement that succeeds or fails based on the compatibility of the parties and their ability to maintain mutual respect and consideration.”

Andrew was quiet for a moment, considering his friend’s words. “You were not always so determinedly practical about matters of the heart.”

“No,” Dominic acknowledged. “But experience is an excellent teacher, and I have learned its lessons well. I shall not make the mistake of confusing duty with affection, or polite interest with genuine regard. Both parties will benefit from such clarity of understanding.”

The conversation was interrupted by a discreet knock at the library door. Dominic’s butler, Matthews, entered with the formal bearing that marked his long service in great houses.

“Your Grace, the invitations you requested have been prepared and are ready for your review.”

“Excellent. Please bring them in.”

Matthews withdrew briefly and returned with a list of names and addresses prepared by Dominic’s assistant, awaiting his final approval before the invitations would be dispatched.

“These will serve admirably,” he told Matthews. “Please see that they are dispatched this afternoon. And ensure that the household staff understands that this will be a significant event requiring our finest efforts.”

“Certainly, Your Grace. Mrs. Henderson has already begun preliminary preparations based on your earlier instructions. She wished me to inquire whether you have any specific preferences regarding the menu or musical arrangements.”

Dominic considered briefly. “Traditional fare will be most appropriate; nothing too elaborate or fashionable that might suggest we are attempting to impress through ostentation. As for music, the usual ensemble should suffice. This is to be an elegant but not overwhelming affair.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

After Matthews departed, Andrew gathered his own papers and prepared to take his leave. “I shall be interested to observe the results of your experiment in practical matrimony. Though I confess I hope you might be pleasantly surprised by discovering more genuine feeling than you currently expect to find.”

“I should be perfectly content with mutual respect and compatibility,” Dominic replied. “Genuine affection, should it develop over time, would be a welcome addition but not a necessary foundation. Too many marriages founder because they were built on nothing more substantial than temporary passion.”

“And too many others never flourish because they were entered into with such modest expectations that neither party ever attempted to reach beyond mere civility,” Andrew countered gently.

Dominic was quiet for a moment, considering his friend’s words. “Perhaps. But I prefer the safety of modest expectations to the disappointment of ambitious hopes. I have learned to value stability over excitement, and reliability over romance.”

“You are two and thirty, not two and sixty,” Andrew observed with amusement. “Surely there is still room in your life for some measure of happiness beyond mere duty and responsibility.”

“Happiness is a luxury I cannot afford,” Dominic replied, though his tone suggested this was a conclusion reached through experience rather than natural inclination. “I have estates to manage, tenants to provide for, and now a wife to select and marry before December. Sentiment must take second place to practical considerations.”

Andrew took his leave shortly thereafter, leaving Dominic alone with the invitation list and the sobering reality of his situation. Three months to identify, court, and marry a suitable bride; a timeline that allowed for little subtlety or extended acquaintance. The ball would provide an initial screening opportunity, but he would need to move quickly to convert promising introductions into more serious courtship.

He walked to his desk and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, beginning to outline the qualities he would seek in a potential duchess. Intelligence was essential, he had no desire to spend his evenings making conversation with someone who could discuss nothing beyond fashion and gossip. Dignity and poise were equally important, as his wife would be required to serve as hostess for significant social and political gatherings.

Beauty, while pleasant, was far less critical than character. He had learned through painful experience that lovely faces could conceal shallow minds and grasping hearts. He would much prefer a plain woman with genuine virtue to a diamond of the first water whose primary accomplishment was the ability to attract masculine attention.

Most importantly, he sought someone who understood the nature of practical marriage and would not expect romantic moments or passionate devotion. A woman who could be content with respect, consideration, and the security of an honoured position would suit his purposes far better than one who harboured illusions about love conquering all.

As afternoon faded toward evening, Dominic remained in his library, refining his criteria and preparing mentally for the campaign ahead. He approached it as he would any other significant undertaking; with careful planning, realistic expectations, and the determination to achieve his objectives efficiently and honourably.

The sixth Duke of Willethorn had been a formidable strategist in both military and political spheres, and his son had inherited much of that methodical approach to complex challenges. Marriage might be a more personal battlefield than those his father had navigated, but the principles of successful campaigning remained the same: clear objectives, thorough preparation, and the wisdom to adapt tactics as circumstances required.

By the time Matthews announced dinner, Dominic had completed his preliminary planning and was prepared to begin the process that would determine the course of his future domestic arrangements. It was not the path he would have chosen freely, but it was the one circumstances had dictated, and he would walk it with the same careful attention to duty that had governed every other aspect of his life as the seventh Duke of Willethorn.

The evening passed quietly, with Dominic dining alone as was his custom when no guests were present. He had long ago ceased to find solitude oppressive, preferring the peace of his own company to the effort required to maintain polite conversation merely for the sake of avoiding silence. Soon enough, he reflected, his evenings would be spent in the company of whatever lady proved most suitable for the position of his duchess. For now, he would enjoy the last few weeks of independence before duty demanded its final sacrifice.

As he prepared to retire for the evening, Dominic paused once more at the library window, looking out over grounds that had been shaped by generations of his ancestors. Each Duke of Willethorn had left his mark on the estate, some through architectural additions, others through agricultural improvements or landscape modifications. Dominic’s own contribution would be the selection of a wife suitable to continue the dynasty his father’s will was designed to protect.

It was a sobering responsibility, but not an unwelcome one. He had always understood that his personal desires must be subordinated to the greater good of the duchy and its people. If marriage was the price of preserving the estate intact for future generations, then marriage it would be. Entered into with clear eyes, practical expectations, and the determination to make the best of whatever arrangement proved necessary to satisfy the terms of his inheritance.

Tomorrow, the invitations would begin their journey to the most eligible families in the county, setting in motion the chain of events that would culminate in his wedding before Christmas. It was a daunting prospect, but Dominic faced it with the same calm resolution he brought to all his duties as duke. He would find a suitable wife, satisfy his father’s posthumous demands, and continue the ancient line that stretched back through centuries of English history.

“Will I ever be able of finding happiness?’’It was a thought that came uninvited and surprised him but he quickly pushed it away.

Chapter Three

“Girls! Come quickly! The most extraordinary thing has happened!” Mrs. Whitford’s voice rang through Blackbriar Manor with an excitement that brought both her daughters running from their morning occupations.

Violet, who had been arranging flowers in the morning room, paused with a white rose halfway to the vase. Through the doorway, she could see Edith and Marian hurrying down the main staircase, their morning gowns rustling with their haste.

“What is it, Mama?” Edith called breathlessly. “You sound as though the Prince Regent himself has come to call!”

“Better than that, my dear,” Mrs. Whitford replied, waving a cream-coloured card in the air like a battle standard. “We have received an invitation from His Grace, the Duke of Willethorn!”

The silence that followed was so complete that Violet could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hall. Then both girls began speaking at once.

“The Duke of Willethorn?” Marian gasped. “But Mama, we have never even been introduced!”

“A duke!” Edith exclaimed, sinking onto the settee in the drawing room. “Oh, Mama, surely you jest!”

“I assure you, I do not jest,” Mrs. Whitford replied with tremendous dignity. “Here, see for yourself.” She held out the invitation, and both girls crowded around to read the elegant script.

Violet quietly continued her flower arranging, though every word of the conversation reached her clearly.

“His Grace requests the honour of our presence at a ball to be given at Willethorn Manor on the twenty-eighth of September,” Edith read aloud, her voice filled with wonder. “Oh, Mama, how did he even know of our existence?”

“Lady Mortimer, of course,” Mrs. Whitford replied, settling herself in her favourite chair with the satisfaction of one whose social manoeuvring had yielded perfect results. “I mentioned during our call yesterday that you were about to make your debut, and she must have spoken favourably of you to His Grace.”

“But what shall we wear?” Marian demanded, practical considerations already overwhelming her initial excitement. “We cannot possibly appear before a duke in anything less than perfection!”

“You are fortunate that the Duke’s invitation extends to our entire family,” Mrs. Whitford replied. “Normally you would not attend such a grand event before your own debut, but since this is a private ball rather than a court presentation, and you will be under my strict supervision, we may accept on your behalf as well. This invitation represents the opportunity of a lifetime. We must spare no expense in ensuring that you both appear to the greatest possible advantage.”

Violet added the last rose to her arrangement and began to gather the scattered stems and leaves. The conversation was following exactly the pattern she had expected. Excitement, followed by rapid calculation of the social advantages to be gained, followed by immediate concern about the practical requirements for success.

“Violet!” Mrs. Whitford’s sharp voice cut through her observations. “Come here at once!”

Setting down the stems and leaves that she was holding, Violet moved to the drawing room doorway and curtsied politely. “Yes, ma’am?”

“The invitation is addressed to our family,” Mrs. Whitford announced with the air of one conferring a great favour. “I suppose propriety requires that you be included in the ball, though naturally the focus must remain on Edith and Marian.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Violet replied evenly. “I am honoured to be included.”

“You will need something suitable to wear,” Mrs. Whitford continued, her tone making it clear that this was a necessary inconvenience rather than a matter of genuine concern. “Nothing too elaborate, mind you. We cannot have you drawing attention away from the girls.”

“I understand perfectly,” Violet said. “Perhaps I might alter one of my existing gowns to make it more suitable for the occasion.”

“Impossible,” Edith declared. “Violet, you cannot appear at a duke’s ball in an altered gown. What would people think?”

“That we are a family of modest means making the best of our circumstances,” Violet replied mildly. “Which is, after all, precisely what we are.”

“But not what we wish to appear to be,” Mrs. Whitford corrected sharply. “No, Violet, you will need a new gown, though nothing approaching the elegance of what the girls will wear. Something simple and tasteful that marks you clearly as the poor relation without reflecting poorly on the family’s general circumstances.”

Violet inclined her head in acknowledgment, though privately she wondered how they would manage the expense of three new ball gowns when they could barely afford two. Her stepmother, however, had already moved on to more pressing concerns.

“Edith, my dear, you must write immediately to Madame Dubois,” Mrs. Whitford instructed. “Tell her we require her finest work and that cost is no object. This is not the time for economy.”

“But Mama,” Marian interjected, “surely, we should consider the expense. Even with Papa’s settlement, we cannot simply…”

“We cannot afford not to make this investment,” Mrs. Whitford cut her off firmly. “Do you understand what this invitation represents? His Grace is unmarried, wealthy beyond imagination, and apparently seeking a wife. If either of you were to catch his attention, our family’s future would be secured beyond our wildest dreams.”

Violet watched the exchange with the detached interest of one observing a military campaign being planned. Her stepmother was absolutely correct about the opportunity this invitation represented, and equally correct about the necessity of making a significant financial sacrifice to take advantage of it. The question was whether their modest resources could bear the strain of such an ambitious undertaking.

“What if we were to pool our resources?” Edith suggested tentatively. “I could perhaps make do with fewer accessories if it meant Marian could have a truly spectacular gown.”

“Or I could choose something simpler,” Marian countered generously, “so that you might have every advantage for your debut.”

Mrs. Whitford looked at her daughters with genuine affection for perhaps the first time Violet could remember. “My dear girls, your concern for each other does you credit, but this is not the time for such sacrifice. You will both have gowns worthy of duchesses, and we shall manage the expense however we must.”

“How, exactly?” Violet asked quietly.

All three women turned to look at her with expressions ranging from surprise to irritation.

“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Whitford said icily.

“I merely wondered how we propose to manage such an expense,” Violet clarified. “The quarter’s household accounts are already stretched quite thin, and if we are to commission three ball gowns from Madame Dubois…”

“The household accounts are not your concern in this matter,” Mrs. Whitford interrupted. “I shall make whatever arrangements prove necessary.”

Violet recognized the tone that indicated the conversation was closed to further discussion, but her practical mind continued to work on the problem. There were precious few assets left that could be liquidated quickly, and their credit with local merchants was already extended to its reasonable limits.

“Perhaps,” she said carefully, “I might speak with my father’s cousin Mr. Blackbriar about some help.”

The suggestion was met with a moment of thoughtful silence.

“That is… not entirely unreasonable,” Mrs. Whitford admitted reluctantly. “James has always been accommodating about our circumstances, and this truly is an exceptional situation.”

“I could write to him this afternoon,” Violet offered. “I might explain the opportunity that has arisen and request his assistance in ensuring we can present ourselves creditably.”

“Very well,” Mrs. Whitford agreed. “But mind you are diplomatic in your phrasing. We cannot have him thinking we are improvident in our management of household affairs.”

“Certainly not,” Violet replied gravely.

With the financial question temporarily resolved, the conversation turned to the more enjoyable matter of planning their appearances for the important occasion. Violet listened as Edith and Marian debated the relative merits of different colours and styles, their excitement growing with each detail they considered.

“I think pale blue would be most becoming with your colouring,” Marian told her sister. “Something in silk, perhaps, with delicate embroidery.”

“And you would look divine in rose pink,” Edith replied. “With your dark hair, the contrast would be quite striking.”

“What about Violet?” Marian asked suddenly, turning to include her stepsister in the planning. “What colour would suit her best?”

Violet looked up in surprise, touched by Marian’s thoughtfulness. Of the two stepsisters, Marian had always been the kinder, more inclined to remember that Violet was family rather than merely a useful servant.

“Something understated,” Mrs. Whitford answered before Violet could speak. “Perhaps a soft gray or modest green. Nothing that might compete with your own appearances.”

“Green would be lovely,” Marian said warmly. “It would complement Violet’s eyes beautifully.”

“A very pale green,” Mrs. Whitford emphasized. “We must maintain appropriate distinctions.”

Violet smiled at Marian gratefully. “Whatever proves most suitable will be perfectly acceptable to me. I am simply grateful to be included in such a distinguished gathering.”

“As you should be,” Mrs. Whitford replied. “Few young ladies in your circumstances would have such an opportunity to observe the highest levels of society.”

The remainder of the morning was spent in animated discussion of preparations for the ball. Messages were dispatched to Madame Dubois, the dancing master was engaged for additional lessons, and careful inquiries were made regarding the latest fashions and social customs that would be expected at such an elevated gathering.

Violet excused herself after an hour to attend to her letter to Mr. Blackbriar, but found herself distracted by the magnitude of what lay ahead. In three weeks’, time, she would stand in the ballroom of one of England’s greatest houses, surrounded by the cream of society, wearing a gown finer than any she had ever owned.

The prospect was both thrilling and terrifying. She had observed the social world from the margins for so long that the thought of actually participating, even in a minor capacity, seemed almost impossible to comprehend.

“Violet?” Marian’s voice interrupted her thoughts. The younger girl had followed her to the study and now stood uncertainly in the doorway.

“Yes, dear?”

“I wanted to thank you,” Marian said, coming into the room and closing the door behind her. “For offering to write to Mr. Blackbriar. I know Mama can be… difficult about acknowledging your contributions to the family.”

Violet set down her pen and smiled at her stepsister. “There is no need. We are family, and family helps one another when opportunities arise.”

“Still,” Marian insisted, “I want you to know that Edith and I appreciate what you do for us. We may not say so often, but we are not blind to your sacrifices.”

The unexpected kindness brought tears to Violet’s eyes, though she blinked them away quickly. “That means more to me than you know, Marian.”

“I hope,” Marian continued hesitantly, “that you might enjoy the ball for your own sake, not merely as our chaperone. You deserve some happiness too.”

Violet reached out and squeezed her stepsister’s hand. “I shall be perfectly content to watch Edith and you triumph in society. That will be happiness enough for me.”

Marian looked as though she might say more, but voices in the hallway indicated that Mrs. Whitford was seeking her daughters for some new aspect of their preparations. With a quick smile, Marian hurried away, leaving Violet alone with her letter and her thoughts.

She dipped her pen in the inkwell and began to write, choosing her words carefully to present their request in the most favourable light possible. Her father’s cousin, Mr. Blackbriar had always been kind to her, treating her with the courtesy appropriate for a family member rather than the casual dismissal she received from most of their social circle. If anyone would understand the importance of this opportunity and assist them in making the most of it, it would be him.

As she wrote, Violet found herself wondering what the Duke of Willethorn would be like in person. She had heard him described as wealthy, eligible, and rather formidable in his bearing, but such descriptions told her little about his character or temperament. Would he be kind to those of lower station, or would he possess the casual arrogance that sometimes marked those born to great privilege?

More to the point, would he notice her at all? She would be one of dozens of young ladies present, and certainly not the most beautiful or accomplished among them. The likelihood that she would exchange more than a few words of polite conversation with their host seemed remote indeed.

But perhaps that was for the best. Violet had learned to find contentment in modest expectations, and the ball would provide quite enough excitement simply by virtue of allowing her to observe such elevated society in action. She would watch Edith and Marian compete for the Duke’s attention, take pride in their success, and return home with memories to last a lifetime.

It was a reasonable aspiration, she told herself as she signed her letter with a careful flourish. Anything more would be the stuff of fairy tales, and Violet had long ago ceased to believe in such fanciful possibilities.