Chapter One

“Late again, Catriona? Shall I dock your non existent wages?”

The sharp voice of Aunt Rowena cut through the morning stillness like a blade through silk. Catriona Hale paused at the threshold of the breakfast room, her fingers tightening on the door frame as she summoned her most placid expression. After three years of practice, she had perfected the art of appearing serene while inwardly calculating exactly how satisfying it would be to upend her aunt’s precious china service.

“My apologies, Aunt Rowena. I was reading to little James. He had nightmares again.”

“That child is too coddled by half.” Rowena’s pale eyes, sharp as winter frost, swept over Catriona’s simple morning dress with obvious disdain. “A firm hand would cure such nonsense. But then, what would you know of proper child-rearing? Your own upbringing was hardly exemplary.”

Uncle Percival looked up from his newspaper with the mild interest of a man watching a mildly entertaining street performance. “Now, my dear, no need to be harsh. Catriona does her best with her limitations.”

The dismissive kindness in his tone stung more than his wife’s open cruelty. At least Aunt Rowena’s malice was honest. Catriona inclined her head with practiced grace, moving to the sideboard where the remains of breakfast waited. Though “remains” was perhaps too generous a term for the single piece of dry toast and bit of cold porridge that constituted her morning meal.

“You’ll take tea with Lady Mullins this afternoon,” Rowena continued, stirring sugar into her cup with precise, irritated movements. “She wishes to discuss arrangements for her spring entertainments. You will be silent unless spoken to directly, and you will not embarrass us with any of your… peculiar notions.”

By peculiar notions, Catriona knew her aunt meant her tendency to express opinions, particularly those involving the radical idea that servants deserved basic human dignity. She had made that mistake precisely once, three months after her arrival in this house, and still bore the social scars.

“Of course, Aunt.”

“And do something about your appearance. You look positively shabby.”

Catriona bit back the observation that her appearance might improve considerably if she were permitted more than one decent dress per year, or if the household budget allocated more than scraps for her basic needs. Instead, she simply nodded and retreated to a corner chair with her meagre breakfast.

The familiar weight of resignation settled over her shoulders like a worn shawl. Three years since her father’s death had left her penniless and dependent on the questionable charity of relatives who had never approved of her bookish, impractical parent. Three years of serving as unpaid governess, companion, and general household drudge, all while maintaining the fiction that she was a beloved niece graciously welcomed into their home.

She had learned to find small rebellions where she could. Stolen moments in the library when the family was out, walks that extended longer than strictly necessary, and her particular favourite: brief escapes to Hatchards bookshop when sent on errands to nearby Bond Street.

Today, as luck would have it, Rowena required several items from the more fashionable shopping district, and Catriona volunteered to brave the light September drizzle rather than send one of the overworked servants. 

She pulled her serviceable but unfashionable cloak more tightly around her shoulders as she made her way down Bond Street, checking items off her aunt’s lengthy list. Ribbon from the milliner, special soap from the apothecary and calling cards from the stationer. Each errand completed brought her closer to her real destination.

Hatchards stood like a beacon of sanctuary amid the fashionable shops, its windows glowing warmly against the gray afternoon. The familiar scent of leather bindings and paper welcomed her as she stepped inside, and for the first time that day, Catriona felt her shoulders truly relax.

“Miss Hale!” Mr. Hatchard himself greeted her from behind the counter, his round face creasing into a genuine smile. “Back again so soon? That’s the second time this week.”

“I finished the novel you recommended,” she said, unwinding her damp cloak. “It was every bit as scandalous as you promised.”

“Ah, but did it make you think?”

“Dangerously so. I’m afraid I may have developed some rather revolutionary ideas about women’s independence.”

Mr. Hatchard chuckled. “Excellent. Revolution begins in the mind, you know. What shall we corrupt you with next?”

Catriona was examining a volume of poetry when she became aware of another presence nearby. She glanced up to find a tall gentleman perusing the philosophy section with the sort of focused attention that suggested genuine interest rather than mere fashionable browsing. His dark hair was slightly mussed from the rain, and his coat, while impeccably tailored, bore the subtle signs of a man who dressed well but without vanity.

There was something about his profile; the strong line of his jaw or maybe the way he held himself with unconscious authority, that made her look twice. When he turned slightly, she caught sight of intelligent dark eyes beneath well-defined brows, and she felt an unexpected flutter in her chest.

“Excuse me,” he said, and his voice carried the cultured tones of education and privilege, though there was nothing affected about it. “I don’t suppose you might recommend something? I find myself in need of… guidance on matters of practical philosophy.”

The question seemed directed at her, though she couldn’t imagine why a gentleman of obvious quality would seek reading recommendations from a woman in a well-worn cloak. Still, she found herself responding before her natural caution could intervene.

“That would depend rather on what sort of practical guidance you require,” she said carefully. “Are you seeking wisdom for governing others, or for governing yourself?”

His eyebrows rose slightly, and she caught a glimpse of what might have been surprise, followed quickly by interest. “An astute distinction. The latter, I believe.”

“Then I would recommend Marcus Aurelius,” she said, warming to the subject despite herself. “His Meditations offer excellent advice on maintaining one’s principles under pressure. Though I confess I sometimes find his stoicism a bit… austere.”

“And what would you suggest as an alternative to austerity?”

The question seemed genuine, and she found herself studying his face more closely. There was something in his expression that she would describe as a careful control that spoke of someone who had learned to mask his thoughts. It made her wonder what lay beneath that controlled surface.

“Aristotle’s Ethics, perhaps. He argues for the golden mean—moderation in all things. Though,” she added with a small smile, “he also advocates for the pursuit of happiness, which some might consider rather radical.”

“Radical indeed.” Was that amusement flickering in his dark eyes? “And do you consider yourself a radical, Miss…?”

She hesitated, suddenly aware that she had been conversing with a complete stranger with far more freedom than was strictly proper. Her aunt’s voice echoed in her memory: You will not embarrass us with any of your peculiar notions.

“Forgive me,” she said, taking a small step back. “I shouldn’t have presumed to offer unsolicited advice.”

“On the contrary, your advice was both solicited and valuable.” He moved closer, close enough that she caught the faint scent of his cologne, something with notes of sandalwood and bergamot that made her suddenly and acutely aware of his physical presence. “I find myself quite curious about your thoughts on radical pursuits.”

The way he said “radical pursuits” sent an unexpected warmth spiraling through her chest. There was something in his tone, not quite a challenge, but certainly an invitation to continue their verbal sparring.

“I’m afraid my thoughts on such matters are hardly fit for polite company,” she said, though she made no further move to retreat.

“How fortunate, then, that we are in a bookshop rather than a drawing room. I find intellectual honesty far more refreshing than politeness.”

The statement was so entirely contrary to everything Catriona had been taught about proper behavior that she found herself staring at him in surprise. Here was a man who actively encouraged the sort of frank discussion that would send her aunt into apoplectic fits.

“In that case,” she said slowly, “I believe that the greatest radical pursuit is simply the right to choose one’s own path. Too many people, particularly women, find themselves trapped by circumstances beyond their control, forced to accept whatever life others deem suitable for them.”

Something shifted in his expression as she spoke, a sharpening of attention that made her suddenly self-conscious. Had she revealed too much? Had she said something that marked her as precisely the sort of troublesome female that gentlemen were warned to avoid?

“And have you chosen your own path, Miss…?” He let the question hang in the air between them, clearly hoping she would supply her name.

She hesitated again, torn between her natural inclination toward honesty and her hard-learned caution. There was something about this man that made her want to trust him, to continue this conversation that felt more intellectually stimulating than anything she had experienced in months. But she had learned the hard way that revealing too much of herself to strangers often led to complications she could ill afford.

“I’m afraid my path has been chosen for me,” she said finally. “Though I harbour hopes that circumstances may change.”

“Hope,” he said thoughtfully, “is perhaps the most radical pursuit of all.”

The observation was so unexpected, so perfectly articulated, that Catriona felt something shift inside her chest—a recognition, mayhap, or simply the rare pleasure of being understood. She looked up to meet his gaze fully for the first time, and felt her breath catch at the intensity she found there.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other, and Catriona had the strangest sensation that she was being evaluated; not for her appearance or her social connections, but for something far more fundamental. It was both thrilling and terrifying.

“Your Grace?” Mr. Hatchard’s voice broke the spell that seemed to have fallen over them. “Forgive the interruption, but your man is waiting outside with the carriage.”

Your Grace. The words hit Catriona like a physical blow, and she felt the warm connection between them shatter into a thousand pieces. Of course he was a duke. Of course this moment of intellectual equality was nothing more than a brief aberration, a gentleman amusing himself with the quaint opinions of his social inferior.

She saw the exact moment he registered her change in demeanour and watched how his own expression shifted from warm interest to something more guarded. The careful control slid back into place like a mask, and she realized that she was not the only one who had learned to hide their true self.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, though his eyes remained fixed on her face. “I should not keep my coachman waiting in this weather.”

He moved to the counter to complete his purchase, the Marcus Aurelius, she noted with a complicated mix of pleasure and regret, while Catriona stood frozen between the philosophy shelves, unsure whether to flee or attempt some sort of graceful conclusion to their encounter.

“Miss?” Mr. Hatchard’s gentle voice drew her attention. “Will you be taking anything today?”

“I…” She glanced toward the counter where the duke was receiving his wrapped purchase, then back to the shopkeeper. “Not today, I think. Thank you.”

She was moving toward the door when his voice stopped her.

“Miss.” She turned to find him directly behind her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “I hope you will continue to pursue those radical notions of yours. The world has great need of people who dare to think differently.”

Before she could respond, he was moving past her toward the door, and she caught another brief whiff of that sandalwood cologne. He paused at the threshold, glancing back with an expression she couldn’t quite read.

“Perhaps we will meet again,” he said. “I find myself quite interested in continuing our discussion of Aristotelian ethics.”

And then he was gone, leaving Catriona standing in the warm bookshop with her heart beating rather faster than it should and her mind spinning with questions she dared not examine too closely.

She remained there for several long minutes, ostensibly browsing but actually trying to process what had just occurred. A duke, an actual duke, had not only engaged her in serious philosophical discussion but had seemed genuinely interested in her opinions. More than that, he had looked at her as though he saw something worthwhile, something beyond the shabby clothes and dependent status that defined her in the eyes of the world.

It was dangerous thinking, she knew. Men like that did not truly see women like her seriously, not as anything more than temporary diversions or objects of fleeting curiosity. And yet…

The memory of his eyes, the way they had sharpened with interest when she spoke of choosing one’s own path, sent another unwelcome flutter through her chest. There had been something there, some spark of genuine connection that felt too real to dismiss as mere politeness.

“Foolish girl,” she murmured to herself as she finally forced herself to leave the sanctuary of the bookshop. “Foolish, romantic girl.”

But as she made her way back through the drizzling streets toward her aunt’s house, she found herself walking a little straighter, her chin held a little higher. For some minutes, she had been seen and heard and valued for her mind rather than dismissed as a burden. It was a gift she hadn’t realized she needed until it was offered.

The warmth of that brief connection and her hope to meet with him again, would have to sustain her through whatever fresh humiliations awaited her at home. And she had a strong suspicion they would be considerably more severe.

Chapter Two

“You cannot be serious, Your Grace. Surely there must be some other solution.”

Gabriel Everstone, Duke of Ashford, leaned back in the leather chair across from his solicitor’s desk and regarded the older man with the sort of calm that had served him well in both Parliament and his estate business. Mr. Blackwood’s distress was evident in every line of his normally composed features, from his furrowed brow to the way his hands worried at the documents spread between them.

“I assure you, Blackwood, I am entirely serious. The terms of the will are quite clear, are they not?”

“Clear, yes, but hardly reasonable!” Blackwood shuffled through the papers with agitated movements. “Your brother’s stipulation that you must marry within one month of assuming guardianship of his daughter is unconscionable. Surely the courts would…”

“The courts,” Gabriel interrupted smoothly, “have already reviewed the matter. The will is legally sound, and the terms, while unusual, are not unprecedented. I have exactly fourteen days remaining to secure a bride, or young Maura will be placed in the care of her maternal grandmother.”

The silence that followed this pronouncement was heavy with implications they both understood perfectly. Lady Armstrong shared the same strict ideas about child-rearing as Gabriel’s grandmother; a style characterized by strict discipline, minimal affection, and rigid social conditioning. A style that had shaped his own mother’s behaviour and had made her a woman who had never shown him so much as a moment’s genuine warmth. 

 “But surely,” Blackwood said desperately, “you could petition for an extension? Explain the circumstances? The magistrate is a reasonable man—”

“The magistrate is also a close friend of Lady Armstrong’s.” Gabriel’s voice carried the weight of bitter experience. “I have no doubt that she has been working diligently to ensure that any petition I might make would be viewed with appropriate scepticism.”

He rose from his chair and moved to the window overlooking Lincoln’s Inn Fields, watching the late afternoon bustle of London legal life. Clerks hurried between buildings with their arms full of documents, their wigs slightly askew in the autumn breeze. The normalcy of it all seemed oddly at variance with the upheaval currently threatening to destroy his carefully ordered world.

“There is, of course, another consideration,” he said without turning around. “If I fail to marry within the required time frame, I also forfeit the majority of my brother’s estate. The funds that would have supported Maura’s upbringing, her education, her eventual dowry; all of it reverts to Lady Armstrong’s control.”

“My goodness.” Blackwood’s voice was hollow. “I had not… that is, I hadn’t fully considered…”

“That she would then control both the child and the fortune? Indeed, it’s rather elegantly designed, isn’t it? My brother always did have a talent for thorough planning.”

The bitterness in his own voice surprised Gabriel. He had thought himself past such emotions where his younger brother was concerned. He had believed that William’s death in that carriage accident six months ago had finally put an end to their long-standing antagonism. Apparently, his brother’s final gambit had succeeded in stirring those old resentments after all.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I must ask….why would your brother include such a stipulation? Surely he knew that you had no immediate plans to marry!”

Gabriel turned from the window, a humourless smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “On the contrary, Blackwood. William knew exactly what he was doing. He believed, with some justification, I’m afraid, that I had become too set in my ways, too comfortable in my bachelor existence. This was his attempt to force me into what he considered a more respectable mode of living.”

What he didn’t say, what he couldn’t say, even to his most trusted legal advisor, was that William had also known about the string of increasingly desperate marriage proposals Gabriel had been receiving from ambitious mothers and their daughters. His brother had been convinced that Gabriel was frittering away his ducal duty by refusing to select a suitable bride from among the eager applicants.

The irony was that William’s scheme might actually succeed where gentler persuasion had failed. Not because Gabriel had suddenly developed a desire for domestic bliss, but because he absolutely refused to allow an innocent child to become a pawn in his family’s dysfunction.

“Have you considered… that is, are there any ladies of your acquaintance who might be amenable to such an arrangement?” Blackwood’s voice carried the delicate tone of a man treading on extremely sensitive ground.

Gabriel returned to his chair, clasping his fingers as he considered the question. “That depends rather on what you mean by ‘amenable.’ If you’re asking whether any of the marriage-minded ladies currently circulating through London ballrooms would accept my proposal, the answer is undoubtedly yes. Several dozen of them, in fact.”

“Then surely…”

“However,” Gabriel continued, “if you’re asking whether I could tolerate being married to any of them, the answer is emphatically no.”

He had endured enough society functions to know exactly what sort of wife the ton would consider appropriate for him. Beautiful, certainly, but not so beautiful as to overshadow his own consequence. Well-connected, but not so elevated as to challenge his authority. Accomplished in the feminine arts of music and painting, but not so educated as to offer opinions on matters of substance.

The very thought of spending the rest of his life making polite conversation with such a creature made him feel vaguely ill.

“I require,” he said slowly, working through the idea as he spoke, “someone who will not view our marriage as an opportunity to remake either my household or my character. Someone who will not spend my fortune on frivolous entertainments or bore me senseless with gossip about people I care nothing for.”

“A practical sort of lady, then. Someone who understands the nature of the arrangement.”

“Precisely. Someone who has her own reasons for entering into what would essentially be a business partnership.” Gabriel paused, struck by a sudden thought. “Someone who might value the security of my name and protection more than romantic sentiment.”

It was not an entirely pleasant realization; that he was essentially planning to purchase a wife rather than woo one, but practical considerations had always governed his decisions. This would simply be another negotiation, another contract to be structured in a way that benefited all parties.

“Do you have anyone particular in mind, Your Grace?”

Gabriel was quiet for a long moment, his thoughts drifting unexpectedly to the bookshop encounter from earlier that day. The young woman with the intelligent eyes and quick wit, who had spoken of choosing one’s own path with such quiet passion. There had been something about her, a quality of contained strength, that had intrigued him far more than any of the simpering ladies he encountered at society gatherings.

But she was clearly a woman of limited means, probably dependent on family or employers for her support. Exactly the sort of person who might view marriage to a duke as a miraculous escape from circumstances beyond her control.

The thought was followed immediately by a wave of self-disgust. Was he really considering hunting down a woman he’d spoken with for some minutes in order to proposition her? What sort of man did that make him?

“No,” he said firmly. “No one in particular. But I shall make inquiries. Discreet inquiries, you understand.”

“Of course, Your Grace. And if I may suggest…time is rather of the essence. Fourteen days is not long to arrange a courtship and wedding, even under the best of circumstances.”

Gabriel nodded grimly. “Indeed. Which means I cannot afford to be overly particular about the romantic niceties. I need a woman who will accept a straightforward business proposition and fulfill the basic requirements of the marriage contract without expecting… additional complications.”

“Additional complications?”

“Love, Blackwood. I’m referring to love.” Gabriel’s voice was dry. “I find myself in the rather unique position of needing to avoid any bride who might develop inconvenient emotional attachments.”

It was a harsh assessment, perhaps, but Gabriel had learned long ago that emotional entanglements led inevitably to disappointment and pain. 

“I see.” Blackwood’s tone suggested he didn’t entirely approve, but was too professional to say so directly. “And what of the child? Young Maura will need a mother figure, someone who can provide appropriate guidance and affection.”

For the first time since this conversation began, Gabriel felt a genuine pang of uncertainty. His memories of childhood were dominated by cold efficiency and emotional distance. His own mother had provided him with everything he needed for physical comfort and social advancement, but very little in the way of warmth or understanding.

Was he condemning Maura to the same fate? Would a marriage of convenience inevitably produce the sort of sterile household that had marked his own upbringing?

The alternative, however, was to hand the child over to Lady Armstrong, whose idea of appropriate guidance made his own mother look positively nurturing by comparison.

“The lady I select will be kind to Maura,” he said finally. “That will be a non-negotiable term of our agreement.”

“And if she agrees to be kind to the child but proves… less than maternal in practice?”

It was a fair question, and one that Gabriel had no satisfactory answer for. But then, he reminded himself, he had managed to survive his own childhood without permanent damage. Maura was made of sterner stuff than most and she would adapt, as most children did.

“I will ensure that she understands the importance of the child’s wellbeing,” he said. “Beyond that… one cannot manufacture maternal instincts where they do not naturally exist.”

“No, I suppose not.” Blackwood gathered the papers on his desk into a neat stack, clearly preparing to conclude their meeting. “Will you be requiring any assistance with your… inquiries?”

Gabriel considered the offer briefly, then shook his head. “I think this is a matter I must handle personally. Too many intermediaries would only complicate an already delicate situation.”

What he didn’t say was that he intended to begin his search in the most unlikely of places. Not the ballrooms and drawing rooms where ambitious mothers paraded their daughters, but among the ranks of women who had been overlooked or dismissed by society. Women who might have their own compelling reasons for accepting an unconventional arrangement.

Women like the mysterious miss from the bookshop, whose name he still didn’t know but whose face he couldn’t seem to forget.

“Very well, Your Grace. But please remember that you have only fourteen days. The magistrate will require proof of the marriage ceremony before he finalizes the guardianship arrangements.”

“I understand.” Gabriel rose from his chair, suddenly eager to escape the confines of the legal office and the weight of decisions that seemed to grow heavier with each passing hour. “I shall be in touch within the week.”

He was halfway to the door when Blackwood’s voice stopped him.

“Your Grace? Forgive me for speaking out of turn, but… are you quite certain this is the path you wish to take? Perhaps if you spoke with Lady Armstrong directly, explained your willingness to provide for the child’s welfare…”

Gabriel turned back slowly, and something in his expression must have warned Blackwood against pressing the point further.

“Lady Armstrong,” he said quietly, “is the reason my brother felt compelled to include such extreme measures in his will. She has already made her position quite clear regarding my fitness as a guardian. This marriage is not simply William’s whim, but it is the only way to ensure that Maura grows up free from her grandmother’s… particular style of guidance.”

The memories that rose with those words were not ones he cared to examine closely. His own encounters with Lady Armstrong had been mercifully brief, but sufficient to understand exactly why William had been so desperate to keep his daughter away from the woman.

“I see,” Blackwood said again, though his tone suggested the opposite. “Then I wish you the very best of luck, Your Grace.”

Gabriel nodded curtly and made his escape, stepping out into the gray London afternoon with relief. The weight of the conversation settled around his shoulders like a heavy cloak as he walked toward his waiting carriage, but beneath the pressure of practical concerns, he was surprised to find himself thinking once again of intelligent brown eyes and the sound of a woman’s voice discussing radical philosophy.

Perhaps his search would not be as difficult as he had initially imagined. Perhaps, in fact, it had already begun.

Chapter Three

“Pack your things, Catriona. You leave for Yorkshire on Monday.”

The words hit Catriona like a physical blow as she stood in the doorway of the morning room, still holding the breakfast tray she had come to collect. Aunt Rowena didn’t even look up from her correspondence as she delivered this pronouncement, her quill pen scratching across expensive paper with vicious precision.

“I beg your pardon?” Catriona managed, though her voice sounded strange and distant to her own ears.

“Yorkshire,” Rowena repeated impatiently, finally glancing up with those cold, pale eyes. “My cousin Minerva has need of an extra pair of hands with her brood. Seven children under the age of twelve, and her latest nursemaid has proven… inadequate. You will serve as governess and general nursemaid until such time as she can secure more suitable arrangements.”

The tray trembled in Catriona’s hands. “For how long?”

“Indefinitely.” Rowena’s smile was sharp as winter frost. “Oh, don’t look so stricken, child. You should be grateful for the opportunity. Minerva is offering room and board in exchange for your services, which is more generosity than you have any right to expect.”

“But I thought… that is, I had hoped…” Catriona struggled to find words that wouldn’t reveal the full extent of her devastation. The bookshop. Her few precious freedoms. The faint hope that someday, somehow, her circumstances might improve.

“You thought what, exactly?” Uncle Percival looked up from his newspaper with mild curiosity. “That you would remain here indefinitely? My dear girl, you are three-and-twenty. It is past time you made yourself useful in some more permanent capacity.”

“Percival is quite right,” Rowena added, returning to her letter. “We have been more than generous in providing for you these past three years, but our charity cannot extend forever. Minerva’s offer is a gift and you should be thanking us rather than standing there gaping like a fish.”

Catriona set the tray down carefully on the sideboard, using the movement to buy herself time to think. Yorkshire. Seven children. Indefinitely. The words circled in her mind like vultures, each one pecking away at the fragile hope she had been nurturing since her encounter at the bookshop two days ago.

“Might I ask,” she said carefully, “what sort of arrangements Cousin Minerva has made for… that is, what provision has been made for my personal needs?”

Rowena’s laugh was like breaking glass. “Personal needs? My dear child, you will have a roof over your head and food in your stomach. What more could you possibly require?”

“Perhaps a small salary? Something to provide for clothing, or books, or…”

“Books!” Percival snorted. “I might have known. Still filling your head with nonsense, I see. Remember my words, Catriona, those romantic notions of yours will only lead to disappointment. The sooner you accept your station in life, the happier you will be.”

“My station?” The words came out sharper than Catriona had intended, years of suppressed frustration finally finding their voice. “And what, precisely, is my station? I am the daughter of a gentleman, educated and well-bred. By what right do you consign me to a life of unpaid servitude?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Uncle Percival’s newspaper crackled as he lowered it slowly, his face flushing with indignation. Aunt Rowena had gone perfectly still, her quill pen suspended above the paper like a weapon preparing to strike.

“By what right?” Rowena’s voice was deadly quiet. “By the right of those who have fed and housed you these three years while you contributed nothing of value to this household. By the right of those who took you in when your father’s debts left you with nothing but the clothes on your back and a head full of foolish ideas.”

“Rowena…” Percival began, but his wife cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“No, Percival. It is time someone explained the reality of her situation.” She turned to face Catriona fully, her expression cold as marble. “Your father was a dreamer, child. A man who believed that good intentions and lofty ideals were sufficient to navigate the world. He died leaving you nothing but debt and the sort of impractical education that renders a woman unfit for honest work.”

Each word landed like a blow, but Catriona forced herself to remain standing, to meet her aunt’s merciless gaze. “My father was a good man.”

“Your father was a fool,” Rowena snapped. “And he raised you to be the same. Did you imagine that your ability to quote poetry or discuss philosophy would somehow magically transform your circumstances? Did you think that some romantic hero would sweep you away from all this?”

The accuracy of that assessment stung more than Catriona cared to admit. Had she not spent the past two days replaying her conversation with the mysterious duke? Had she not allowed herself to wonder, however briefly, what might have happened if circumstances had been different?

“I had hoped,” she said quietly, “that I might eventually find some respectable employment. A position as a governess in a proper household, perhaps, or…”

“With no references? No connections? No family willing to vouch for your character?” Rowena’s laugh was bitter. “Who do you imagine would hire you? A woman with no experience and no credentials beyond a few years of reading novels in our library?”

“I have been caring for James!”

“You have been keeping one small boy company while I managed the actual running of this household. That hardly qualifies you to command a governess’s salary.”

Catriona felt the last of her hope crumbling away like sand between her fingers. Three years. Three years of careful behavior, of swallowing her pride, of making herself useful in a dozen small ways. All in the hope that eventually, her relatives would come to value her contributions enough to treat her as family rather than as an unwelcome burden.

“Of course,” she said, proud that her voice remained steady, “you are quite right. I apologise for my presumption.”

Something flickered in Rowena’s eyes, surprise, mayhap, at the sudden capitulation. “Well, I am glad to see you are finally being sensible about this matter.”

“When do I leave for Yorkshire?”

“Monday morning. The coach departs at seven o’clock sharp.” Rowena had already returned to her correspondence, dismissing Catriona as thoroughly as if she had never existed. “You may take one trunk with your personal belongings. Anything else will remain here.”

One trunk. Catriona thought of her small collection of books, accumulated over years of careful saving and strategic gifts, her few decent dresses, already showing signs of wear and the miniature portrait of her parents that was her most treasured possession.

“Very well,” she said. “If you will excuse me, I have packing to attend to.”

She was halfway to the door when Uncle Percival’s voice stopped her.

“Catriona.” His tone was gentler now, almost apologetic. “You must understand, my dear, this truly is for the best. Minerva may be… demanding, but she is family. You will be safer there than trying to make your way alone in the world.”

Safer. As if safety were the highest aspiration a woman could have. As if the mere fact of survival justified any amount of misery or degradation.

“Of course, Uncle. You are very kind to be concerned for my welfare.”

She climbed the stairs to her small chamber on the third floor, her legs feeling leaden with each step. The room that had been her refuge for three years suddenly felt like a prison cell, its modest furnishings a mockery of the independence she had foolishly allowed herself to dream of.

Catriona sank onto the narrow bed and stared at the wall, trying to process the magnitude of what had just occurred. Yorkshire. Seven children. Indefinitely. No salary, no freedom, no hope of anything better.

She thought again of the duke in the bookshop, of his observation that hope was the most radical pursuit of all. How naive that seemed now, how impossibly romantic. Hope was a luxury she could no longer afford.

A soft knock at her door interrupted her brooding. “Miss Catriona?” The voice belonged to Mary, the youngest housemaid, who had always shown her small kindnesses despite the family’s obvious disdain.

“Come in, Mary.”

The girl slipped inside, her expression worried. “Begging your pardon, miss, but I couldn’t help overhearing…” She twisted her hands in her apron. “Is it true you’re leaving us?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m to take a position in Yorkshire.”

“Oh, miss.” Mary’s eyes filled with tears. “That’s awfully unfair, if you don’t mind me saying. You’ve been nothing but kind to everyone in this house, and now they’re sending you away like… like…”

“Like the unwanted relation I am?” Catriona managed a weak smile. “It’s quite all right, Mary. Perhaps a change of scenery will do me good.”

“But Yorkshire’s so far away! And with all those children… Oh, miss, what will you do?”

It was a question Catriona had been trying not to ask herself. What would she do? Accept her fate with as much grace as she could muster, she supposed. Make the best of an impossible situation. Survive, as she had learned to do these past three years.

“I shall manage,” she said finally. “I always do.”

Mary bit her lip, clearly wrestling with some internal debate. Finally, she seemed to reach a decision. “Miss, there’s something you should know. About why they’re really sending you away.”

Catriona looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”

“I heard them talking, miss. Mrs. Hale and the master. It wasn’t about no cousin in Yorkshire; well, not at first, anyway.”

“Mary, if you know something, pray tell me.”

The girl glanced nervously toward the door, then moved closer. “It’s about Master James, miss. Mrs. Hale thinks… that is, she’s worried he’s getting too attached to you. She says it is not natural for a boy his age to prefer his cousin’s company to his own mother’s.”

The words shocked Catriona. James, who had nightmares and sought comfort in her arms. James, who begged her to read him stories because his mother was always too busy with social calls. James, who had become the closest thing to family she had in this cold house.

“She’s jealous,” Mary continued quietly. “Jealous that he comes to you when he’s hurt or scared. And she’s afraid that if you stay much longer, people will start to notice.”

“Notice what?”

“That she is not much of a mother, miss. Begging your pardon for speaking so plain, but it’s the truth. That little boy loves you more than he loves his own mother, and she can’t stand it.”

The revelation explained so much. Rowena’s sudden urgency to be rid of her, the timing of this Yorkshire arrangement, the particular venom in her aunt’s voice when she spoke of Catriona’s “presumption.” It wasn’t about money or practicality at all. It was about jealousy and wounded pride.

“Thank you for telling me,” Catriona said softly. “I… I’m glad to know.”

“Will you say goodbye to him, miss? To Master James? He’s been asking for you all morning.”

The thought of facing that bright little face, of trying to explain why she was leaving, made Catriona’s chest ache with unshed tears. But she owed him that much, at least.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll say goodbye.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of packing and painful farewells. She had so few possessions that filling even one trunk proved challenging, but she managed to include her most precious books, her decent clothes, and the few personal items that connected her to her former life.

James cried when she told him she was leaving, clinging to her skirts with desperate little hands.

“But why, Cousin Catriona? Why do you have to go away?”

“Because sometimes grown-ups have to go where they can be most useful,” she said, kneeling to his level and trying to keep her voice steady. “Your mama needs me to help some other children who don’t have anyone to read them stories.”

“But I need you to read me stories!”

“You’re getting to be such a big boy now. Soon you’ll be able to read stories all by yourself.”

“I don’t want to be a big boy. I want you to stay.”

It took all of Catriona’s strength not to break down completely. Instead, she hugged him tightly and whispered, “I shall think of you every day, my darling. Every single day.”

That evening, she stood at her window looking out over the London streets she was about to leave behind. Somewhere out there was the bookshop where she had experienced those few precious moments of intellectual connection. Somewhere was the duke who had looked at her as though her thoughts mattered.

It seemed like a lifetime ago.

 And from tomorrow she would be leading a life that she had not imagined for herself but a life that had been chosen for her.  

 As she gazed out the window, a flicker of movement caught her eye. She thought that someone was hidden in the shadows and her heart quickened. Just as she stepped back, a faint whisper echoed in her mind, promising that the surprises she never saw coming were only beginning to unfold.