Chapter One

 

“Your Grace, the carriages are arriving.”

Harrison Grey, Duke of Ravenshire, did not lift his eyes from the ledger spread before him on the mahogany desk. The neat columns of figures—rents collected, improvements made, wages paid—offered a welcome refuge from the chaos soon to descend upon Blackmere Hall. Whitmore, his butler, stood at attention in the doorway, his weathered face betraying nothing, though Harrison suspected a measure of barely concealed concern.

“How many?” Harrison’s voice carried the clipped precision that had earned him both respect and wariness throughout Yorkshire.

“Three so far, Your Grace. Lady Wright and her daughter have just alighted, along with Sir Geoffrey Worthington. The roads grow treacherous with the snow.”

Harrison finally raised his gaze to the frost-etched windows of his study. Beyond the glass, Blackmere Hall’s sweeping grounds stretched toward the moors, now buried beneath a pristine white that mirrored the grey December sky. Snow drifted in heavy, unhurried flakes—certain to trap his guests, and him, together for the duration of the Christmas festivities. The irony was not lost on him that nature itself conspired to deny him escape.

“And my sister?”

“Lady Diana is in the Blue Drawing Room, greeting the guests. She asked that you join them at your earliest convenience.”

Your earliest convenience. Diana’s diplomacy, of course. What she truly meant was that his continued absence would be noted, remarked upon, and ultimately deemed insufferably rude by the assembled company. At two-and-thirty, Harrison had ceased to care what society thought of him, but Diana’s happiness remained a duty he could not entirely dismiss.

“Very well.” He closed the ledger with deliberate care and rose. At six feet two, his frame commanded attention even when he preferred it would not. His dark hair—cropped shorter than fashion required—was perfectly in place, belying the frustration that had more than once tempted him to rake his hands through it.

“Has the weather delayed any other arrivals?”

“Lord and Lady Bennett sent word they may not arrive until tomorrow. As for the remaining guests…” Whitmore consulted a slip of paper. “Miss Harcourt was expected on the afternoon coach from York, but it has not yet arrived.”

Miss Harcourt. Harrison’s jaw tightened. Diana’s companion—the vicar’s daughter who had assisted his sister with that infernal astronomical almanack she’d been determined to publish. A bluestocking, no doubt, with ink-stained fingers and opinions on subjects no lady ought to contemplate. That Diana had insisted upon inviting the young woman to a gathering of Yorkshire’s most prominent families was yet more evidence of his sister’s generous but impractical nature.

“Inform me when she arrives,” Harrison said as he moved toward the door. “I should like to know when our party is complete.”

Whitmore bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”

The corridors of Blackmere Hall stretched before him like a familiar labyrinth, their dark wood panelling swallowing what little light the winter afternoon offered. Portraits of long-dead Greys gazed down from gilded frames, their expressions as stern and unyielding as his own. The house had been in his family for three centuries, its Gothic revival architecture a testament to the Grey legacy of duty, tradition, and emotional restraint.

It suited him perfectly.

From the direction of the Blue Drawing Room came laughter—bright, feminine, and utterly foreign in these halls. Harrison slowed. How long since such sounds had echoed through Blackmere? Not since before he had inherited the title five years past. Not since before Waterloo had taught him that the world offered more pain than joy, more loss than love.

He paused outside the drawing room doors, steel-grey eyes fixed on the polished brass handles. Beyond lay the performance he had agreed to endure for Diana’s sake—and for his grandmother’s peace of mind. The Dowager Duchess, now nearing seventy-five, had been brutally clear in her last letter. The Grey line must continue, Harrison. You cannot mourn your responsibilities forever.

But this was not mourning, he told himself as he straightened his shoulders and assumed the expression of cool civility that had become second nature. This was simply reality. Love was a luxury he could not afford—if ever he could have. Duty was all that remained.

Harrison opened the doors and stepped into the warmth and light of the Blue Drawing Room.

“Harrison!” Diana’s voice rang out with irrepressible delight. At twenty-eight, his sister retained every particle of the vivacity that had once made her a darling of London. Her auburn hair—so unlike his own—caught the firelight as she glided toward him, her blue silk gown whispering over the Aubusson carpet. “You must come and greet our guests properly.”

The assembled company turned as one. Lady Wright, a formidable woman whose fortune had secured her daughter’s entrée into society, inclined her head with the precise degree of deference due his rank. Miss Constance Wright, blonde and pretty in the conventional manner, dropped into a curtsey that displayed her décolletage to advantage—a calculation so obvious it might have amused him under different circumstances.

Sir Geoffrey Worthington, a contemporary from Harrison’s Oxford days, approached with a hand extended. “Ravenshire! Splendid of you to have us. The house looks magnificent, as always.”

Harrison accepted the handshake briefly. “Worthington. I trust your journey was tolerable?”

“Nothing a good fire and excellent brandy cannot remedy,” Geoffrey replied, all hearty joviality—the same that had wearied Harrison even in their youth. “Though I had hoped to outrun the storm. We may all find ourselves snowed in—what an adventure that would be!”

“Indeed.” Harrison’s tone suggested otherwise.

Lady Wright cleared her throat delicately. “Your Grace, we are delighted to be here. Constance has spoken of little else since receiving Lady Diana’s invitation.”

Miss Wright blushed on cue. “Mama, you mortify me.” Her voice held the breathy quality of a woman well aware of its effect. She lifted her gaze to Harrison, her eyes bright with intent. “Your Grace, I do hope you will save me a dance at Lady Diana’s ball.”

“I am certain something can be arranged,” Harrison replied with mechanical courtesy. The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

Diana moved to his side with the fluid grace that had made her one of London’s most sought-after young ladies before she had chosen to remain unwed at twenty-eight—a decision that continued to perplex society but quietly reassured Harrison, who valued her presence more than he ever admitted.

“Harrison, you must see the astronomical charts Emily—Miss Harcourt—sent from York. Her calculations regarding the December conjunctions are brilliant. I do hope she arrives soon so you may discuss them with her.”

“I have little time for stargazing, Diana.” His tone was sharper than intended, but Miss Wright’s calculating smile and the guests’ expectant looks grated upon him.

“Oh, but Your Grace,” Miss Wright interjected with a tinkling laugh, “surely even dukes must look to the skies now and then? I find the stars quite romantic—though I confess I haven’t the mind for all those complicated figures.”

“How refreshing,” Harrison murmured, earning Diana’s warning glance.

The conversation continued thus for another quarter hour, with Harrison contributing only the barest measure of courtesy. He noticed Lady Wright’s faint frown, the tightness in Sir Geoffrey’s cheer, the hope dawning—and dimming—in Miss Wright’s eyes. They had expected charm, wit, the polished performance of a proper host.

Instead, they found the man whose capacity for such performances had died in the mud of Waterloo seven years before.

“Perhaps we should dress for dinner,” Diana suggested at last, her smile valiantly sustained. “The weather may have delayed some of our company, but there is no reason to delay our meal. Your Grace?” She looked at him with the expression that had swayed him since her days in leading strings.

Harrison inclined his head. “Of course. Whitmore will show you to your rooms. We dine at eight.”

As their guests filed out with murmurs of gratitude and anticipation, Diana remained behind. The moment the doors closed, her carefully maintained composure cracked.

“Harrison Grey, what on earth is wrong with you?”

He raised a brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“You know precisely what I mean. You were barely civil. Poor Constance looked ready to cry, and Sir Geoffrey kept glancing at the windows as if contemplating escape through three feet of snow.”

Harrison moved to the fireplace, where flames danced merrily behind the ornate screen. The warmth did nothing to melt the ice that had settled around his heart. “I was civil. I greeted them. I conversed. I offered hospitality. What more do you require?”

“I require my brother, not this—” She gestured helplessly at him. “This frozen statue you have become. When did you decide that feeling nothing was preferable to feeling pain?”

The question struck closer than he cared to admit. “I feel a sufficient range of emotion, I assure you.”

“Do you?” Diana stepped beside him, her voice gentling. “When did you last laugh, Harrison? When did you last enjoy anything—a meal, a book, a sunset? When did you last look at a woman and see something other than a potential obligation?”

His hands, clasped behind his back, tightened. “I see you quite clearly.”

“I am your sister. That hardly counts.” Diana sighed, the sound heavy with years of worry. “I know what Catherine did to you—”

“We will not discuss Catherine.” Her name fell from his lips like a shard of ice.

“We never discuss Catherine. We never discuss anything that matters. You shut yourself away in this house, managing the estate with clockwork efficiency and the warmth of a glacier, and you call it living.”

Harrison turned fully toward her. In the fading afternoon light, Diana looked younger than her eight-and-twenty years, her features soft with concern—and something perilously close to pity. The sight stirred an emotion he had thought buried: shame.

“I am content with my life as it is,” he said quietly.

“Are you?” Diana’s eyes—the same grey as his, but infinitely warmer—searched his face. “Then why do you pace the corridors at night when you believe no one sees? Why do you stare out at the moors as though searching for something you’ve lost? And why did you agree to this house party if you truly wish to remain alone forever?”

He had no answer that would not reveal more than he intended. The truth was simple: he had agreed to Diana’s gathering for the same reason he agreed to anything that did not threaten his fragile equilibrium—because she asked, and he had been unable to deny her since the day their parents died.

“The weather worsens,” he said instead, turning toward the window. Snow fell in thickening sheets, rendering the familiar landscape almost otherworldly. “Our remaining guests may not arrive at all.”

Diana joined him, her reflection faint in the darkening glass. “Emily will come if it’s possible. She’s not one to be deterred by a little snow.”

“Miss Harcourt.” He tested the name, finding it plain enough. “What manner of woman is she?”

“Brilliant. Independent. Unimpressed by titles or fortune.” Diana’s smile held a hint of mischief. “I think you’ll find her… refreshing.”

Before he could decipher that remark, Whitmore appeared in the doorway.

“Your Grace, Lady Diana—Miss Harcourt has arrived.”

An inexplicable tension curled in Harrison’s chest. “Has she? I had begun to wonder if the snow had claimed her.”

“She came by hired sleigh, Your Grace. The driver reports the roads were barely passable, but Miss Harcourt insisted upon continuing. She is in the front hall now, removing her cloak.”

“Excellent!” Diana clapped her hands. “Harrison, you must come and greet her properly. She has travelled so far in dreadful weather—”

“I am certain she would prefer to find her room and a warm fire rather than endure formal introductions,” Harrison interjected.

Diana’s eyes narrowed. “You will greet her, Harrison Grey, or I shall inform our guests that their host is behaving like a hibernating bear.”

Though the threat was delivered with a smile, Harrison recognised the steel beneath it. With familiar resignation, he followed her toward the great hall.

Blackmere’s entrance hall stretched before them, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow. A fire roared in the massive stone hearth, casting light over the ancient flagstones. Near the heavy oak doors, a figure stood with her back to them, speaking quietly to a maid who was gathering up the travelling cloak she had only just removed.

Even from behind, Harrison saw that Miss Harcourt was not at all as he had imagined. Her figure was neither fashionably willowy nor sturdily practical, but something altogether more intriguing—curves that even her sensible travelling dress could not disguise, a posture both straight and unselfconscious. When her bonnet was removed, her hair proved not the dull brown he’d anticipated but a rich chestnut threaded with gold and copper in the firelight.

She turned as they approached—and something shifted sharply in Harrison’s chest, enough to make him nearly step back.

Miss Emily Harcourt was beautiful.

Not in the obvious manner of Miss Wright, with her golden ringlets and porcelain complexion. Emily Harcourt’s beauty was subtler—and far more dangerous. Her face was oval, her cheekbones high, her mouth full and expressive. But it was her eyes that stopped him: large, intelligent, and the deep, vivid green of a summer forest.

Those remarkable eyes met his without hesitation, and in them he saw something that unsettled him utterly. No calculation. No coyness. No deferential awe.

Simply clear, direct assessment—disconcertingly akin to scientific observation.

“Emily!” Diana rushed forward, embracing her with genuine delight. “I was worried when the afternoon coach did not arrive. How did you manage it?”

“I hired a sleigh from the inn at Middleton,” Emily replied, her voice refined but softened by a northern cadence. “The driver was reluctant, but I convinced him the journey was possible if we left at once. I hope my late arrival has not inconvenienced anyone.”

“Not in the least,” Diana assured her, drawing her forward. “Emily, may I present my brother, Harrison Grey, Duke of Ravenshire. Harrison—Miss Emily Harcourt.”

Emily’s curtsey was perfectly correct yet oddly perfunctory, as though she were fulfilling requirement rather than paying homage. When she rose, her green eyes met his directly—a breach of etiquette so slight most would miss it, yet it struck Harrison with uncomfortable force.

“Your Grace,” she said.

“Miss Harcourt.” His voice emerged rougher than he intended. “I trust your journey was not too arduous, despite the weather?”

Something like amusement flickered in her eyes. “I have endured worse, Your Grace. Though I admit I am grateful to be out of the cold.”

There was nothing extraordinary in her words, yet her tone suggested depths he had not expected. Harrison realised he was staring and forced his expression back into polite neutrality.

“Diana tells me you have been assisting her with astronomical calculations,” he said, relying on safe ground.

“Among other things.” Emily’s smile was small but genuine. “Lady Diana is far too modest about her own abilities. I merely helped arrange her observations for publication.”

“Emily discovered an error in the Royal Observatory’s calculations regarding Saturn’s orbit,” Diana added proudly. “Her correction was printed in the Royal Society’s latest bulletin.”

Harrison’s brows rose. “Indeed? That is… uncommon.”

“For a woman, you mean?” Emily’s tone remained mild, but he detected the steel beneath. “Yes, I suppose it is. Competence is still considered unfeminine in many quarters.”

The remark might have been a rebuke, yet her expression was serene, almost pleasant. Harrison found himself momentarily off-balance.

“I meant that such recognition is uncommon for anyone not affiliated with a university,” he corrected carefully.

“How diplomatic of you, Your Grace.”

Was she mocking him? Harrison studied her face but found no trace of malice—only that clear, unsettling gaze that seemed to see more than was comfortable.

Diana, perhaps sensing undercurrents she did not understand, stepped smoothly into the pause. “Emily, you must be exhausted. Let me show you to your room so you may rest before dinner. We dine at eight—early, but with the weather so uncertain, I thought it best.”

“That sounds perfect,” Emily said. “I would very much like a moment to make myself presentable.”

As Diana led her toward the grand staircase, Emily paused and looked back. “Thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace. Blackmere Hall is even more impressive than Lady Diana described.”

“You are welcome,” Harrison replied automatically, but Emily had already turned away, following Diana up the stairs with a grace that seemed entirely unconscious.

Harrison remained in the hall long after their footsteps faded, staring up at the empty staircase with an expression that would have astonished anyone who knew him well.

For the first time in years, he felt genuine curiosity about another person.

Miss Emily Harcourt was not at all what he had expected—not a simpering miss hungry for a title, nor a dried-up bluestocking hungry only for books.

She was something else entirely. Something that made him feel unexpectedly alert… and disconcertingly alive.

The sensation was far from welcome.

Harrison turned toward his study, seeking the familiar comfort of ledgers and correspondence. Yet as he walked through the shadowed corridors of his ancestral home, his thoughts returned again and again to intelligent green eyes and a voice that had spoken to him not as a duke—

—but simply as a man.

It had been so very long since anyone had done that.

 

***

 

Emily Harcourt stood at the window of her appointed bedchamber, watching the snow fall over the grounds of Blackmere Hall with the same focused attention she might apply to a celestial phenomenon. The chamber was beautiful—far more luxurious than anything she had ever occupied—with silk hangings in soft blue and cream, furniture that gleamed with generations of careful polishing, and a fire crackling cheerfully in a marble hearth.

Yet her mind was not upon her surroundings.

“So that is the famous Frost Duke,” she murmured, her breath fogging the cold window glass.

She had heard the stories, of course. All Yorkshire knew of Harrison Grey’s reputation—cold, remote, devastatingly intelligent, and utterly indifferent to the society that pursued him so relentlessly. The tragic figure who had inherited his title young, served with distinction in the war, and returned home only to lock himself away in his Yorkshire stronghold like some Gothic hero from a sensation novel.

The reality was both more and less than she had expected.

Less, because the man who had greeted her in the great hall had been perfectly civil, if formal. No dramatic brooding, no obvious signs of the tortured soul the gossips so loved to embroider. Simply a tall, dark-haired gentleman with aristocratic features and impeccable manners.

More, because of what she had seen in his eyes.

Emily prided herself on her powers of observation—they were, after all, essential to her astronomical work. And what she had observed in Harrison Grey’s steel-grey gaze was not the blank coldness of a man who felt nothing, but the rigid self-command of one who felt far too much.

Interesting.

“Miss, shall I help you dress for dinner?”

Emily turned from the window to find a young maid hovering just inside the door. The girl could not be more than sixteen, with round cheeks and anxious eyes that suggested she was not entirely at ease in such elevated surroundings.

“That is very kind, but I can manage,” Emily replied gently. “What is your name?”

“Betsy, miss. I’m to be your maid while you’re here.” The girl bobbed a curtsey. “If there’s anything you need…”

“I am certain you’ll take excellent care of me, Betsy.” Emily moved to the travelling trunk at the foot of the bed. “Tell me, have you been at Blackmere Hall long?”

“Three years, miss, since I was thirteen. I started in the kitchens, but Mrs Whitmore—that’s the housekeeper, the butler’s wife—she said I might learn to be a lady’s maid if I applied myself proper.”

Emily smiled as she began to unpack her modest wardrobe. Three gowns, all practical and well made, if hardly fashionable. Her father’s income did not extend to the latest modes, and Emily had never much regretted it. Beauty, she had learned early, was considerably less useful than competence.

“And what do you think of your master?” she asked lightly, shaking out a dinner dress of dark green wool that would have to suffice for the evening’s entertainment.

Betsy’s eyes widened. “His Grace? Oh, miss, I wouldn’t presume to think anything about His Grace.”

But her tone suggested otherwise. Emily waited, continuing her task with apparent unconcern, until curiosity triumphed over caution.

“He’s not what people say, miss,” Betsy whispered at last, glancing towards the door as though half-expecting the Duke himself to appear. “About being heartless, I mean. Last winter, when my mum took sick, he paid for the physician and wouldn’t hear of taking it from my wages. And when old Tom the groundskeeper died, His Grace went to the funeral himself, stood right there in the churchyard with the rest of us common folk.”

Emily tucked this neatly away with the other observations she had begun to collect about her host. “He sounds like a good master.”

“The best, miss. It’s just…” Betsy faltered.

“Just what?”

“He’s so lonely, miss. You can see it, if you know how to look. Lady Diana, she tries to cheer him, but it’s like trying to melt an iceberg with a candle flame.” The girl’s country accent thickened with feeling. “Breaks your heart, it does, to see a man so young living like he’s already in his grave.”

Before Emily could respond to this unexpectedly poetic pronouncement, a knock sounded at the door. Betsy hurried to answer it, returning with the message that dinner would be served in half an hour.

“Will there be anything else, miss?”

“No, thank you, Betsy. You have been very helpful.”

The maid withdrew with visible relief, leaving Emily alone with her thoughts and her green wool gown. As she dressed for the evening, she found herself thinking less of the other guests she must meet or the social manoeuvres she must navigate, and more of grey eyes that held secrets—and a mouth that looked as though it had forgotten how to smile.

Harrison Grey, Duke of Ravenshire, was a puzzle.

And Emily Harcourt had always been drawn to puzzles.

 

***

 

Dinner at Blackmere Hall was served in a dining room that might easily have accommodated thirty guests, though tonight it held only six. The long mahogany table gleamed beneath the light of three crystal chandeliers, each place setting a small masterpiece of porcelain, silver, and cut glass. Harrison took his place at the head with the air of a man submitting to an unavoidable duty, his expression scrupulously neutral as he surveyed his guests.

Diana, radiant in rose silk, presided at the foot with the easy grace of a born hostess. Lady Wright and her daughter sat to Harrison’s left, while Sir Geoffrey and Miss Harcourt occupied the places to his right. The arrangement, Emily noted, had plainly been contrived to place eligible young ladies within conversational reach of their host—a strategy that might have succeeded with a more amenable subject.

As it was, Harrison’s contributions to the conversation were confined to what courtesy strictly required.

“The pheasant is excellent, Your Grace,” Miss Wright ventured during the second course, her voice pitched with precisely the right note of admiration.

“I shall convey your compliments to Cook,” Harrison replied, without the least spark of enthusiasm.

“Perhaps Your Grace might tell us about the shooting on your estate?” Sir Geoffrey suggested, with undaunted joviality. “I understand the birds are particularly fine this year.”

Harrison’s answer was perfectly adequate, even informative, but delivered in the tone of a man reciting estate statistics rather than speaking of a pleasure. Emily studied his profile as he spoke—the strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair caught the candlelight, the careful way he held himself, as though even seated at his own dinner table he could not quite unbend.

“Miss Harcourt,” Lady Wright said suddenly, her voice slicing neatly across Harrison’s explanation of game management, “Diana tells us you have an interest in astronomy. How… unusual for a young lady.”

Emily set down her wine glass with deliberate care. She knew Lady Wright’s kind: women who wielded propriety like a rapier, cutting deep while smiling sweetly.

“I find the stars endlessly fascinating,” Emily replied evenly. “There is something humbling in contemplating the vastness of creation.”

“Oh, but surely such contemplation is best left to learned men?” Miss Wright’s laugh tinkled like breaking glass. “I cannot imagine wanting to trouble my head with such abstractions when there are so many more pleasant subjects closer to home.”

“Such as?” Emily inquired, genuinely curious.

Miss Wright blinked, as though unused to having her assertions examined. “Why—fashion, of course. And music. The arts. Social engagements. All the things that make life agreeable.”

“I see.” Emily appeared to weigh this. “You do not find it equally agreeable to understand why the seasons change, or how sailors navigate by the stars, or what causes the aurora borealis? I confess I find such knowledge rather more useful than knowing whether blue or pink is this Season’s preferred colour for gloves.”

A silence fell over the table that was not quite comfortable. Lady Wright’s features tightened into the expression of one who had expected an easy triumph and instead met unexpected resistance. Miss Wright looked between her mother and Emily, clearly uncertain how to proceed.

It was Harrison who broke the silence, his voice bearing a note Emily had not yet heard from him—something that might almost have been amusement.

“You are interested in the aurora borealis, Miss Harcourt?”

Emily turned to him, surprised by the direct question. “Very much so, Your Grace. I have been corresponding with a natural philosopher in Edinburgh who believes the phenomena may be related to magnetic forces. The theory is quite fascinating, though difficult to prove without direct observation.”

“And have you observed the aurora yourself?”

“Once, two years ago, while visiting relatives in Northumberland. It was…” She paused, seeking words that might do justice to the memory. “Indescribable. Like watching angels dance across the sky.”

For a moment, Harrison’s carefully maintained façade slipped. Emily caught a glimmer of something in his grey eyes—surprise, perhaps, or recognition of a shared reverence for beauty.

“Angels dancing,” he repeated quietly, testing the phrase as though uncertain how it felt on his tongue.

“A fanciful description, I admit,” Emily said with a slight smile. “But sometimes poetry succeeds where scientific terminology fails.”

“Poetry.” Harrison’s tone was unreadable. “Do you write verse as well as study the stars, Miss Harcourt?”

“Badly, Your Grace. My talents lie more in observation than creation.”

“How refreshing to encounter someone who knows her own limitations,” Lady Wright interjected with acid sweetness. “So many young women today hold inflated opinions of their abilities.”

Emily felt Diana stiffen at the far end of the table, but she herself remained unruffled. “Indeed, Lady Wright. False modesty is as unappealing as excessive pride, don’t you agree? I find it simplest to be honest about one’s strengths and weaknesses.”

“And what,” Harrison asked, leaning slightly forward, “would you say are your particular strengths, Miss Harcourt?”

Emily met his gaze directly, recognising the challenge in the question—and the unexpectedly keen attention behind it.

“Patience, Your Grace. Persistence. The ability to see patterns where others see only chaos.” She let a beat pass, then added with mild precision, “And an unusual tolerance for cold, apparently.”

This time, Emily was certain she saw the corner of the Duke’s mouth twitch—so fleetingly he stifled it before it could form anything resembling a smile.

“Valuable qualities in any pursuit,” he said.

Conversation moved on to safer topics—the weather, the worsening roads, predictions for next year’s harvest—but Emily felt his gaze return to her again and again. Not the calculating appraisal she had come to expect from gentlemen, but something more complex. Curiosity. Perhaps even puzzlement.

When the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, Diana immediately moved to Emily’s side.

“My dear, you handled Lady Wright brilliantly,” she murmured. “I was quite prepared to come to your rescue, but you needed no help at all.”

“Lady Wright is concerned I might pose competition for her daughter,” Emily replied with amusement. “She needn’t worry. I have no intention of setting my cap at your brother.”

Diana’s brows lifted. “No? Most women who meet Harrison develop immediate designs—either romantic or ambitious.”

Emily considered this as they settled into chairs near the fireplace, accepting the tea that a footman brought. “Your brother is certainly handsome, and his rank makes him an obvious target. But I suspect that sort of attention is exactly what he wishes to avoid.”

“You are very perceptive.” Diana studied her with the same frank gaze Emily had noticed in Harrison. “What else do you suspect about him?”

Emily was quiet a moment, watching the firelight flicker across the hearth tiles.
“I suspect he is lonely,” she said softly. “That he has built his walls so high he’s forgotten they might have doors. And that those walls serve as much to imprison as to protect.”

Diana’s teacup rattled faintly in its saucer. “My goodness. You discerned all that from one dinner conversation?”

“People reveal more than they intend, if one pays attention.” Emily turned to her friend with a gentle smile. “You’re worried about him.”

“Constantly,” Diana admitted, frustration and affection braided tightly together. “He has been… different since the war. More guarded. More distant. Our parents died while he was away, and I think he blames himself for not being here. And then there was that dreadful business with… well.” She dismissed the thought with a slight shake of her head. “It left him wary.”

Emily frowned slightly. “With… whom?”

“No one you need concern yourself with.” Diana gave a small, clipped wave of her hand, as though brushing away an unpleasant draft. “An unfortunate engagement—long since over. It taught Harrison to distrust both love and the women who profess it. He has convinced himself that duty is safer than feeling anything at all.”

“And is it?” Emily asked quietly.

“What do you think?”

Emily looked through the tall windows at the falling snow, transforming the grounds into something enchanted and strange. She thought of Harrison’s grey eyes, of the rigid way he held himself, of the moments when his mask had nearly—almost—slipped.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that a man who feels nothing would not work so hard to appear unfeeling. Your brother’s coldness is performance, not nature.”

Diana smiled—truly smiled—for the first time that evening. “I knew I was right to invite you, Emily Harcourt. You may be exactly what Harrison needs.”

Before Emily could ask what she meant by that cryptic statement, the gentlemen rejoined them. The Duke entered first, his expression once again carefully neutral, followed by Sir Geoffrey, who looked slightly flushed from the port, and belatedly by a footman carrying a tray of brandy.

“Ladies,” Harrison said with a formal bow. “I trust you have been comfortable?”

“Very much so,” Lady Wright replied. “Perhaps dear Constance might favour us with a song? She has such a lovely voice.”

Miss Wright protested prettily, then allowed herself to be coaxed to the pianoforte. Her performance was precise and properly sweet—a sentimental ballad of a maiden awaiting her lover’s return.

Emily found herself watching her host rather than the performer. He stood near the fireplace, one hand braced on the mantel. His face betrayed nothing, but Emily saw the minute tightening of his fingers during the more saccharine verses, the faint clench of his jaw when the song grew especially mawkish.

When Miss Wright finished, polite applause filled the room. Her curtsy was graceful, her eyes seeking Harrison’s approval.

“Charming,” he said with mechanical courtesy. “You have been well taught.”

It was precisely the sort of compliment that should have pleased her, yet Miss Wright’s smile strained at the edges.

“Perhaps Miss Harcourt would honour us with a selection?” Lady Wright suggested, her tone dripping with doubt.

“I’m afraid I play very little,” Emily replied without embarrassment. “And sing even less. My talents lie elsewhere.”

“Such as?” Sir Geoffrey asked, his joviality turning a shade too eager under the influence of port.

“I can calculate the precise time of sunrise for any given date and location,” Emily said solemnly. “I can predict eclipses and identify most constellations visible from northern England. I can explain why the moon appears larger at its rise than at its zenith, though the effect is entirely optical.”

Sir Geoffrey blinked. “Good Lord. How… practical.”

“Exactly,” Emily agreed, with perfect seriousness.

This time, she unmistakably saw the ghost of a smile touch the Duke’s mouth—quickly smothered, but there.

The evening concluded shortly after, the guests retiring to their rooms. Emily lingered, ostensibly to thank Diana, though in truth she wished to observe the dynamic between brother and sister.

“Sleep well, Emily,” Diana said warmly. “Tomorrow we shall have our full company, and I promise you better conversation than tonight.”

“Tonight was quite illuminating,” Emily said, glancing toward Harrison, who was extinguishing candles with methodical precision.

“Miss Harcourt.” His voice stopped her as she moved toward the door. “A word, if you please.”

Emily felt Diana’s curious gaze, but nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.”

When they were alone, Harrison moved to stand before her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. This near, she could see flecks of blue in the grey, could catch the faint scent of his cologne—something clean and masculine that made her pulse quicken unexpectedly.

“I wished to apologise,” he said quietly, “for Lady Wright’s behaviour this evening. Her remarks were ungracious.”

Emily blinked, surprised. “There’s no need. She was simply protecting her daughter’s interests.”

“By insulting my other guests?” His voice sharpened. “I think not.”

The heat in his words—directed on her behalf—sent warmth spiralling through Emily’s chest. When had anyone last defended her?

“You are very kind,” she said softly.

“I am not kind.” The response was swift, almost fierce. “I am merely ensuring my guests are treated with the courtesy due them beneath my roof.”

Emily tilted her head, studying him in the flickering candlelight. “Are you certain that is all?”

Silence stretched—charged, fragile, thrumming with unspoken meaning. Harrison’s grey eyes searched her face as though seeking something he scarcely dared name.

“Miss Harcourt,” he said at last, his voice lower, rougher, “you are… not what I expected.”

“And what did you expect?”

He hesitated so long she thought he would retreat behind that impenetrable composure. Then, quietly:

“Someone easily categorised. Someone who fits neatly into the patterns I understand.” His gaze flicked, briefly, to her lips before returning to her eyes with startling intensity. “Someone less… complex.”

Heat rose to Emily’s cheeks, part embarrassment, part something far more dangerous. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Your Grace.”

“Disappoint?” His voice was barely more than a breath. “That is not the word I would choose.”

The air between them thickened, humming with something perilous and undeniable. Emily was acutely aware of how close he stood, of the shadows the candlelight cast across his sharply cut features, of the tension coiled in his tall frame—like a man perpetually holding himself in check.

She had the strangest urge to lift her hand and trace the stern line of his jaw, to coax that almost-smile fully into being.

Instead, she forced herself to take a step back.

“I should retire,” she said, pleased that her voice remained steady. “It has been a long day.”

Instantly, his expression shuttered, the familiar mask snapping back into place. “Of course. Good night, Miss Harcourt.”

“Good night, Your Grace.”

Emily walked to the door with measured composure, though she felt the weight of his gaze with every step. At the threshold, she turned.

“Your Grace?”

“Yes?”

“The aurora borealis… when next it appears, you should see it for yourself. I believe you would find it…” She searched for the word. “Illuminating.”

With that, she slipped from the room, heart beating far too quickly for such a composed departure.

Behind her, Harrison Grey stood unmoving among the guttering candles, staring at the space where she had stood. For the first time in seven years, the walls around his heart felt perilously thin.

And for the first time in seven years, he was not entirely certain he wanted them to remain intact.

 

Chapter Two

 

The house had long since settled into silence.

Footmen had extinguished the last of the candles, the echo of laughter and polite conversation had faded, and Blackmere Hall lay wrapped in the soft hush that follows a winter gathering. Emily Harcourt, however, found sleep elusive. Her mind was far too alive—with impressions of the evening, with questions, with the disconcerting memory of a pair of grey eyes watching her across a drawing-room carpet.

Seeking air and solitude, she slipped from her chamber and descended quietly to the library, where the French doors opened onto the snow-covered terrace. A few moments later, she stepped outside, letting the cold night wrap around her like a bracing cloak.

Stars gleamed overhead—clear, bright, unmarred by cloud—and Emily lifted her face to the sky.

She had been out for nearly a quarter hour when the soft crunch of footsteps behind her disturbed the silence.

“Must you materialise wherever I step like some elegantly dressed spectre, Your Grace?”

Her voice carried clearly across the terrace, though she did not turn. Behind her, the footsteps paused. She allowed herself a small, private smile. The Duke of Ravenshire was accustomed to many things. Impertinence was not one of them.

“I was not aware I was repeatedly materialising in your path,” Harrison said, somewhere just behind her left shoulder. “I sought fresh air.”

“How fortunate your lungs required the very same patch of Yorkshire air as mine.”

She finally turned, immediately regretting the decision as moonlight struck the Duke’s face with devastating effect. His dark hair was slightly dishevelled by the wind, softening the severe lines of his features, and his grey eyes held a silvery quality in the starlight that made her pulse quicken traitorously. The man was positively, unfairly beautiful—like something carved from marble by a master sculptor with romantic inclinations.

She kept her expression serenely neutral, despite the wholly inappropriate direction her thoughts insisted on taking.

Harrison stepped beside her at the balustrade, his hands clasped behind his back with military precision. “I had not expected to find anyone out here at this hour.”

Emily did not look away from the stars. “Nor had I. But the stillness indoors felt rather… confining.”

“Well, the silence, after so much conversation, can be its own sort of weight,” Harrison said quietly.

“Just so.” Emily returned her gaze to the heavens, though she was acutely conscious of Harrison’s presence beside her. He radiated warmth despite his reputation for coldness, and she caught again the faint, clean scent of his cologne on the crisp air—an unexpected temptation to step closer rather than keep a proper distance. “I find celestial bodies far more dependable company.”

“In what way?”

Emily glanced at him sideways, noting the genuine curiosity in his tone. “Stars do not flatter. They do not posture. They make no demands upon one’s patience and do not ask for conversational niceties.” She paused, then added with deliberate mildness, “They also do not skulk about terraces at midnight, startling unsuspecting astronomers.”

Something like amusement flickered across Harrison’s features. “I did not skulk.”

“No? What would you call it?”

“Ensuring my house is secure.”

“At midnight, in evening dress, during a snowfall?” Emily raised a brow. “Your Grace, that is either extraordinary diligence, or you are indeed skulking.”

For a moment, Harrison said nothing. Emily wondered whether she had overstepped. Her father had often lamented her tendency toward impertinence, and dukes were not known for their fondness for being challenged.

“Perhaps,” Harrison said at last, “I was curious what might draw someone into a Yorkshire winter night long after the lamps were extinguished.”

“The stars drew me.” Emily lifted her face to the sky, forgetting him entirely for a moment as she traced familiar constellations. “Look there—Cassiopeia. The vain queen, fixed eternally in her chair as punishment for her pride.”

Harrison followed her gaze upward, standing so close now that Emily could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “I see… five bright stars in a rough W.”

“Exactly. And to the east—that bright one is Capella, in Auriga. It is actually a complex star system, though the eye sees only one.” Emily pointed; her arm brushed his coat as she did so. The accidental contact sent a thrill through her that she sternly ignored. “The ancients called it the Goat Star.”

“You speak of them as if they were old friends.”

“Are they not?” Her voice softened. “They have watched over humanity since the dawn of time. Sailors have trusted them. Lovers have made wishes under them. Philosophers have sought meaning in their patterns.” She exhaled, slow and even. “When I look at them, I remember how small our concerns truly are—titles, expectations, petty social manoeuvrings… all insignificant in the great sweep of creation.”

Harrison turned toward her, studying her profile in the moonlight. Emily felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. “A humbling perspective.”

“Or a freeing one.” She looked at him then, struck anew by the clarity of his grey eyes. So close, she could see the surprisingly long dark lashes framing them, and the faint scar above his left brow—a remnant, she suspected, of his military past. “When nothing matters, everything becomes possible.”

“An unexpected philosophy from a vicar’s daughter.”

Emily’s smile held the faintest edge of challenge. “Did you expect me to be more conventional, Your Grace?”

“I am beginning to suspect, Miss Harcourt,” he said quietly, almost reluctantly, “that nothing about you is conventional.”

The words, soft though they were, sent another of those dangerous flutters through her chest. She was playing with fire—bantering with a duke beneath the stars like some heroine in a gothic romance. But Harrison Grey was proving far more complex than idle gossip suggested, and Emily had never been one to shy from a mystery.

“I shall endeavour not to disappoint,” she said lightly.

“I think disappointment unlikely.”

Before she could consider what he meant by that, a gust of wind swept across the terrace, scattering fresh snow and stealing the warmth from her shawl. Emily pulled it tighter, suppressing a shiver.

“You should return indoors,” Harrison said at once. “The cold will make you ill.”

“I am not so delicate as that.” She lifted her chin. “A little Yorkshire air has never undone me.”

“Yorkshire weather has brought down men twice your size.”

“How gallant of you to note my diminutive stature.” Her tone was dry as winter wine. “I assure you, Your Grace, I am quite capable of judging my own tolerance for cold.”

His jaw tightened. “I was not referring to your stature, but to your… constitution.”

“Ah. My feminine constitution. Naturally.” Emily turned back to the stars with exaggerated interest. “How foolish of me to imagine I might possess the same basic human capacity for temperature as a man.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“No? Then perhaps you might enlighten me.”

He exhaled—sharply, frustrated—and Emily found she enjoyed the rare crack in his composure.

“I meant,” Harrison said with deliberate care, “that you are my guest. If you were to make yourself ill through prolonged exposure, I would consider myself accountable.”

“How very chivalrous.” Her tone suggested she found this dubious. “Tell me—if I were a gentleman guest, would you feel equally responsible for my welfare?”

Harrison paused, clearly aware of the trap. “That would depend upon the gentleman.”

“Would it indeed?” Emily turned to face him, ignoring how the moonlight made his dark hair silver and his eyes unnervingly bright. “And what would determine the degree of your concern? His title? His influence? His ability to call you out?”

“Miss Harcourt.” His voice carried a warning. “You are deliberately misconstruing me.”

“Am I? I think I understand you quite well.” She stepped closer, driven by a reckless impulse she refused to examine. “You see a woman alone in the cold and assume she requires rescue. It does not occur to you that she might have chosen to be here, might be perfectly comfortable, might even—”

Her eloquent lecture was interrupted by disaster.

A patch of ice, hidden beneath fresh snow, betrayed her as she gestured. Her ankle turned, her balance fled, and she pitched backwards toward the stone balustrade.

But instead of striking cold stone, she collided with something warm and solid—a chest, an arm, a swift, steady grip closing around her waist.

Harrison caught her before she fell.

His arms held her firmly, pulling her upright and far too close for propriety. They froze—breath mingling, bodies pressed together in an accidental embrace that felt shockingly intimate.

Emily’s hands had gripped his shoulders for balance; she could feel the lean strength beneath the fine wool of his coat. His face was mere inches from hers, his breath brushing her cheek, and she had the absurd, wildly inappropriate thought that his mouth looked even more compelling at such proximity.

“Well,” she managed, a little breathless, “this is mortifying.”

The Duke’s grey eyes held hers. Emily saw something flicker there—surprise, awareness, and something darker that made her pulse leap. His hands remained at her waist, steadying her, and she realised with a jolt that she had made no effort to step away.

“Are you hurt?” His voice was rougher than usual.

“Only my pride.” She forced herself to retreat a prudent pace, immediately missing his warmth. “And before you say a word, Your Grace, this was entirely your fault.”

One of his brows rose. “My fault?”

“Entirely.” Her chin lifted. “Had you not been prowling about the terrace making pronouncements about feminine constitutions, I should not have been driven to such expansive gesturing. Therefore, by any reasonable logic, the fault lies clearly with you.”

“That,” Harrison said slowly, “is the most inventive assignment of blame I have ever heard.”

“I am nothing if not resourceful.” Emily brushed snow from her skirts with dignified briskness. “Logic does not appear to be your strong suit, Your Grace.”

“And what, in your expert assessment, is my strong suit?”

The question was delivered with such dry precision that Emily glanced up, meeting his gaze squarely. In the moonlight, his expression was unreadable, though she thought she caught the faintest glint of self-deprecation.

“Property management,” she said. “Your midnight patrols are exemplary.”

“Indeed.” A faint curve touched his mouth—not quite a smile, but the nearest she had seen. “Though I clearly require more practice identifying ice.”

“A regrettable lapse in ducal education,” she said gravely. “Surely future heirs should be warned.”

“I shall mention it to my steward.” He paused, then added, “You are certain you are unhurt? The ice is treacherous.”

“Quite certain.” She tested her ankle, relieved to find only slight tenderness. “Though the terrace is proving less hospitable than I anticipated.”

“Yorkshire winters are cunning things,” Harrison said quietly. “Beautiful at a distance, dangerous when approached too closely.”

Something in his tone suggested he spoke of more than weather. Emily studied his face—the play of shadow across his features, the tension in his posture.

“Rather like dukes, I imagine,” she murmured.

He went still. “I beg your pardon?”

“Beautiful from afar. Dangerous upon closer acquaintance.” Her voice was light, though the air between them was not. “It is what they say about your sort, is it not?”

“My sort?”

“Noblemen. Particularly handsome, wealthy, unmarried ones with tragic reputations.” Emily tilted her head, examining him with frank curiosity. “Though I confess, Your Grace, I am beginning to suspect your reputation for coldness may be somewhat exaggerated.”

Harrison’s expression shuttered immediately, the moment of openness vanishing behind familiar walls. “You would be wise not to draw conclusions from so little evidence.”

“Ah, but observation is my specialty.” Emily smiled, untroubled by his withdrawal. “And truly cold men do not catch falling women. They step aside and let gravity do the work.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “I simply have good reflexes.”

“Perhaps.” Her eyes glinted. “Or perhaps you are not quite the unfeeling statue society would have you be.”

Harrison turned from her, gripping the stone balustrade with both hands as he looked out over the snow-covered grounds. “Society believes what it chooses to believe. I have little control over its fabrications.”

“No, but you have complete control over whether they are accurate.”

“Do I?” His voice was quiet, nearly lost to the wind. “Sometimes, Miss Harcourt, perceptions become reality through sheer repetition.”

Something twisted in Emily’s chest—sympathy, unwanted and unwelcome. Recognition, perhaps. “Only if you allow them to.”

Harrison turned back, his grey eyes searching her face in the starlight. “You speak with considerable authority on the subject.”

“Experience is an effective tutor.” Her smile held a hint of rue. “I have spent my life being told what I am—too proud, too clever, too independent for a woman. Too common, too modest in means, too insignificant to be of consequence. One eventually learns to distinguish between other people’s opinions and one’s own truth.”

“And what is your truth, Miss Harcourt?”

The question, spoken with such quiet intensity, made Emily’s breath catch. Harrison had moved closer without her noticing—close enough that she could see the faint silver flecks in his eyes, could count the dark lashes framing them.

“That I am precisely who I choose to be,” she said steadily, though her pulse beat far too fast. “Nothing more and nothing less.”

“Even if that choice disappoints others?”

“Especially then.” She held his gaze, refusing to flinch from the dangerous current between them. “Disappointment is often the price of authenticity, Your Grace. The question is whether one considers it worth the cost.”

Harrison was silent for a long moment, his eyes never leaving hers. When he finally spoke, his voice was hardly above a whisper.

“You are a remarkable woman, Emily Harcourt.”

The sound of her Christian name on his lips jolted through her like a spark. She had not given him leave to use it—yet the intimacy felt disconcertingly right.

“I am a practical woman,” she corrected, stepping back before she did something truly foolish. “And a practical woman knows when a conversation has strayed into dangerous territory.”

“Dangerous?” His voice was low. “In what way?”

Emily met his eyes directly and let him see a sliver of the awareness she had been guarding so carefully. “I think you know, Your Grace.”

The air between them seemed to shimmer with unspoken possibilities. She felt the pull of him like gravity, drawing her toward this enigmatic man who wore isolation like armour. She wanted, absurdly, to step closer. To learn the taste of his almost-smiles. To see what emotion lived in those shuttered eyes.

Instead, she gathered her shawl more firmly around her shoulders.

“I should return indoors,” she said, pleased that her voice remained even. “The stars will still be here tomorrow night, but my reputation may not survive even one midnight encounter with Yorkshire’s most notorious duke.”

Harrison’s expression became carefully neutral once more. “Of course. Allow me to escort you.”

“That would hardly improve matters.” She moved toward the French doors, conscious of him following at a discreet distance. “Though I thank you for the offer.”

“Miss Harcourt.”

His voice halted her at the threshold. She turned back. He stood silhouetted against the starlit sky—tall, imposing, and inexplicably solitary.

“You may be mistaken about one thing.”

“Oh?”

“The stars may be reliable companions,” he said quietly, “but they are distant ones. Distance… I think… may not always be a virtue.”

Emily’s pulse skittered at the quiet intensity of his words. “Sometimes, Your Grace, proximity can be the most dangerous thing of all.”

She slipped inside before he could reply.

Once the doors closed behind her, she let her back rest against them, her breath a shade unsteady. Her hands trembled slightly—from cold, she told herself firmly, though she knew it was not the whole truth.

Harrison Grey was proving dangerous indeed—but not for the reasons society whispered. He was not cold, not heartless. He was a man of deep feeling who had built walls of duty and reserve to keep the world at bay. And Emily—practical, sensible, steadfast Emily—felt herself drawn to the challenge of discovering what lay behind those walls.

A reckless impulse. A foolish one. She was a vicar’s daughter with no advantageous prospects and little to offer beyond her own intelligence. He was a duke, bound by lineage and obligation. Any attraction between them could lead only to heartbreak.

Most likely hers.

Yet as she walked softly through the dim corridors toward her chamber, she could not banish the memory of his hands at her waist, the warmth of his body, or the way he had looked at her at the last—as if she were a puzzle he very much wished to decipher.

Before turning the corner, she glanced back through the library windows.

Harrison still stood upon the terrace, motionless in the falling snow, his face lifted toward the stars she had taught him to see.

And despite every rational argument her mind could marshal, Emily felt her heart whisper that perhaps—just perhaps—proximity had its own dangerous value.

 

***

 

Harrison remained on the terrace long after Emily’s footsteps had faded within the library. Snow drifted softly around him, dusting his dark evening coat with white, yet he felt no inclination to seek warmth indoors. The cold seemed necessary—a counterweight to the heat that had ignited in his chest during those charged moments with Miss Emily Harcourt.

He had told himself he merely sought fresh air when he saw her step out onto the terrace. A transparent falsehood. He had watched her slip through the French doors and, before he fully understood his intent, found himself compelled to follow like some infatuated youth. The impulse disturbed him almost as much as the woman who had provoked it.

Emily Harcourt was everything he had not expected—and several things he had not known he wanted. Intelligent without pedantry, confident without brazenness, beautiful in a way that revealed itself gradually rather than clamouring for attention. She looked at him without calculation or awe, spoke to him as though his title were an inconvenience rather than the sum of his identity.

When she had slipped on the ice and he had caught her, Harrison had felt something crack in the frozen armour he had so carefully constructed. The sensation of her soft form pressed to his chest, the widening of her green eyes, the innocent warmth of her breath against his cheek—three seconds only, scarcely more—but more intimate than any embrace he could recall.

Three seconds that unsettled him more than seven years of strict emotional discipline.

‘Dangerous territory,’ she had said—and she had been right. Emily Harcourt represented everything he had taught himself to avoid: feeling, vulnerability, the perilous temptation of caring. She saw far too much, understood far too well, and seemed wholly unimpressed by the barriers he kept between himself and the world.

Harrison tipped his face upward, letting cold flakes sting his skin. He ought to avoid her for the remainder of her stay. He ought to be polite but distant, to ensure they were never alone together again. He ought to remember his duty, his position, and—above all—the lesson Catherine had taught him about the dangers of giving one’s heart to a woman.

The difficulty was that Emily Harcourt seemed to bear no resemblance whatsoever to Catherine Woode.

Catherine had been beautiful, accomplished, perfectly bred for a duchess’s role. She had flattered his pride, echoed his opinions, and moulded herself precisely into the future he envisioned. Only after the betrothal had been announced had Harrison learned her devotion was purely mercenary—that she had been sharing her favours with his closest friend while laying her plans to secure the ducal coronet.

The betrayal had nearly ruined him. Not merely Catherine’s faithlessness, but his own devastating failure of judgment. How could he have been so undiscerning, so naive, so wholly deceived by an actress wearing the mask he most wished to see?

He had vowed then never to trust his heart again. Better solitude than another such blow. Better duty, estate, and responsibilities—things that could not betray him.

But Emily was nothing like Catherine. Where Catherine had calculated, Emily spoke plainly. Where Catherine had simpered and agreed, Emily challenged and provoked. Where Catherine had seen only his rank and wealth, Emily appeared entirely indifferent to both.

The realisation ought to have reassured him. Instead, it terrified him.

His grip tightened on the stone balustrade until his knuckles whitened. He was thirty-two years old, a duke with a vast estate and a legacy to uphold. He had survived the war, survived betrayal, survived the loss of both parents. He was not some inexperienced youth, undone by a pair of intelligent green eyes and an enthusiasm for all things astronomical.

Yet as he finally turned from the terrace and stepped back into the house, Harrison could not banish the echo of Emily’s parting words: Sometimes, Your Grace, proximity can be the most dangerous thing of all.

She was right. Proximity was dangerous—especially when the woman in question seemed determined, intentionally or not, to chip away at every defence he had erected.

The question was whether he possessed the strength to hold those defences…
or whether Emily Harcourt would succeed in dismantling walls that had taken seven years to build.

As Harrison climbed the stairs to his chambers, he suspected he was about to discover the answer—whether he wished to or not. And for the first time in years, the prospect of vulnerability felt less like weakness than like a perilous, intoxicating temptation.

 

Chapter Three

 

“I do hope you realise, Your Grace, that you are presently glowering at my star charts with the intensity of a man contemplating war.”

Harrison’s head snapped up from where he had frozen in the doorway of his private library. Emily sat at his mahogany desk—his desk—papers spread across its leather surface as though she had every right to them. Morning light poured through the tall windows, catching the copper in her chestnut hair and bathing her face in a glow that made something tighten sharply in his chest.

“Miss Harcourt.” His voice emerged rougher than he intended. “I did not expect to find anyone here.”

“Clearly not, judging by the rather stormy expression you have been bestowing upon me for the past half-minute.” Emily set down her quill with meticulous care. “Diana mentioned you usually take your coffee in the study. I assumed the library would be unoccupied.”

Harrison stepped into the room, acutely aware that he had barely slept after their encounter on the terrace. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw her face in the moonlight, felt again the warmth of her body briefly pressed to his. The memory had plagued him through the long hours, leaving him restless and uncharacteristically irritable.

“This library is generally considered my private domain,” he said, moving closer to the desk and its unexpected occupant.

“How very enviable,” she replied mildly. “An entire room in which one may be entirely undisturbed. Though I confess I have never understood the desire to keep such treasures all to oneself. Books, like starlight, do not dim when shared.”

He came to stand beside her, looking down at the elegant diagrams covering the desk. Her hand was sure, her figures precise—beautiful work, though utterly foreign to him.

“What are you calculating?” he asked, despite the small prick of irritation at seeing his neat space so transformed.

“The Christmas conjunction.” She turned her face up toward him, bright-eyed and earnest. “Jupiter and Saturn will appear closer on Christmas Eve than they have in nearly four hundred years. I’m determining the best moment and angle for observation.”

“For what purpose?”

“Curiosity, Your Grace. The pleasure of understanding.” A faint, teasing smile touched her lips. “Perhaps that sentiment is unfamiliar to those whose paths are determined by birth rather than inquiry.”

His jaw tightened. “You make considerable assumptions about me, Miss Harcourt.”

“Do I?” she asked gently. “Then pray correct me.”

She rose with fluid grace, bringing herself nearer to his imposing height. She tilted her chin to meet his gaze. “What occupies you, Your Grace? What fills your hours with purpose beyond tenants, ledgers, and the occasional intimidation?”

“I do not intimidate my tenants.”

“No?” Her tone remained light, almost coaxing, as she moved around the desk, trailing a fingertip absently along its polished edge. “Forgive me, then. Perhaps it is only that you possess a most formidable air, whether you intend it or not. Even now, you are attempting to make me feel small for daring to occupy your sacred library.”

“I am not attempting to make you feel anything,” he said, watching her.

“No?” She tipped her head, studying him with a thoughtful, almost amused curiosity. “Then why are you standing there like a—well—an avenging angel, all solemn authority and disapproval?” Emily stopped before him, close enough that he caught the faint scent of lavender water that clung to her. “Is it truly the room you defend so fiercely? Or simply that I am not behaving as timidly as you anticipated?”

“I am not angry.”

“Aren’t you?” Her brows lifted—not accusatory, merely observant. “Your hands are quite clenched, Your Grace, and your jaw looks capable of cracking a nut. And your expression…” A soft laugh escaped her. “One might suppose I had mislaid half your estate rather than merely borrowed a writing surface.”

Harrison followed her gaze to his hands, surprised to find she was correct. He loosened them deliberately, drawing a slow breath. “I—I was not glaring.”

“What would you call it?”

“Observing.”

Her laugh—light, silvery—softened the entire room. “Observing with… intensity, then.”

Harrison found himself studying her face as she spoke, noting the way her eyes crinkled slightly when she smiled, the soft fullness of her lips when they curved in amusement. She was standing so close now that he could see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose, could count each individual lash that framed those remarkable eyes.

“You have disrupted my routine,” he said quietly.

“Ah.” Emily nodded, not mocking but thoughtful. “Well, routines are comforting things.”

“Routines provide order. Structure. Predictability.”

“How very sensible.” Emily’s voice had softened again—gentle now, and far more disarming than her teasing. “Though I cannot help wondering… when did unpredictability begin to scare you so, Your Grace?”

The use of his title was soft, respectful—and yet Harrison felt the question strike with uncanny accuracy.

“I am not scared of unpredictability,” he managed.

“No?” She moved a fraction closer, light as breath. “Then why should the presence of one woman in your library discompose you so?”

Her tone carried no accusation—only sincere curiosity. That, more than anything, unsettled him.

“Some variables,” he said carefully, “are more… unsettling than others.”

Emily regarded him with that calm, perceptive gaze that made him feel far too visible. “Am I such a variable, Your Grace?”

The question hung between them, deceptively gentle yet charged enough to still the very air. She was close—closer than propriety sanctioned—and he felt it everywhere. The soft heat radiating from her body. The light rise and fall of her breath. The delicate flutter of pulse at the base of her throat. Her lips parted ever so slightly on the question.

And Harrison realised—with an abrupt, disorienting jolt—that she was not immune to the tension thrumming between them.

It was intoxicating. And utterly dangerous.

“Miss Harcourt,” he said, his voice lower, rougher than he intended.

“Emily,” she murmured. The single word felt intimate, offered like a secret. “You may call me Emily.”

His hands moved instinctively—as if drawn—before he caught himself, fingers curling instead into fists at his sides. “This is not… prudent.”

“What precisely is not prudent?” she asked softly. “Standing in a library? Discussing astronomy? Or speaking honestly with someone who may understand more than you expect?”

“You know what I mean.”

Her smile deepened—quiet, knowing, impossibly alluring. “Do I? Then you must forgive my ignorance, Your Grace. I am but a vicar’s daughter. No one ever instructed me in the subtleties of ducal discomfort.”

Before he could marshal a response—any response—the library door opened with a crisp click. Diana swept in, bright with morning energy, only to halt mid-step at the scene before her.

“Oh,” she said, eyes flicking between them. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything… pressing.”

Emily stepped aside with seamless composure, her expression shifting into polite friendliness. “Not at all, Diana. I was showing His Grace my calculations for the Christmas conjunction. He was… most attentive.”

Diana’s smile suggested she doubted that astronomy alone had held his attention. “How lovely. Harrison rarely takes an interest in anything beyond the estate.”

“I have many interests,” Harrison said, more stiffly than he intended, still unsettled by the sudden shift back to propriety.

“Do you?” Emily’s green eyes glinted. “How intriguing. You must share them at dinner, Your Grace. I should hate to remain ignorant of such hidden depths.”

With that, she gathered her papers with graceful efficiency.

“Emily,” Diana called after her as she reached the door. “Lord and Lady Bennett arrived this morning, along with several other guests. We’re gathering in the Blue Drawing Room for introductions.”

“Excellent. I shall join you presently.” She glanced back at Harrison, her expression unreadable. “Thank you for the use of your library, Your Grace. It proved most… enlightening.”

She slipped out, leaving the faint scent of lavender and the sensation of something important having been disturbed.

“Well,” Diana said cheerfully, straightening a few stray sheets. “That was interesting.”

“What was?” Harrison muttered, though he already suspected.

“You,” Diana replied with a knowing smile. “Looking more alive than I’ve seen you in years. Emily has that effect. She draws people out. Makes them… present.”

“She is… unusual,” Harrison said.

“Unusual?” Diana arched a brow. “She is remarkable. And unless my instincts are entirely astray, she has managed to slip past those formidable walls of yours.” 

Harrison felt heat rise—annoyingly—at the back of his neck. “Wha— Certainly not.” He cleared his throat. “Hardly.”

Diana’s smile suggested precisely how much she believed that. She stepped closer, her tone gentling. “The question, dear brother, is what you mean to do about her.”

Harrison looked down at Emily’s star charts—the precise beauty of her figures, the careful way she had arranged her pages across his desk. Even here, in his most guarded space, she had left behind a quiet order and a faint, lingering warmth.

“Nothing,” he said, though the word felt stiff in his throat. “I intend to do… nothing whatsoever.”

Diana sighed, a sound rich with affection and exasperation. “Oh, Harrison. Sometimes I forget how determined you are not to see what is directly before you.”

Before he could splutter a rebuttal, she swept from the room, leaving him alone with the faint trace of lavender and his own mortifying awareness that he had sounded, and felt, exactly like a flustered schoolboy.

He moved to the desk, running his fingertips over the leather where her papers had rested. When, precisely, had his carefully ordered existence been so thoroughly unsettled by one woman?

The answer formed itself before he could stop it:
the moment Emily Harcourt had looked at him—without awe, without calculation—and, disastrously, seen simply a man.