Lady Victoria Ashford
Upstairs, the air was close and heavy. The shutters were half drawn to soften the afternoon light, though it only thickened the gloom. A cloying veil of perfume hung in the room—too sweet, too strong—failing to disguise the dust that settled in corners no servant was permitted to touch anymore.
Victoria sat at her writing desk, a letter before her already half filled in neat, slanted lines. She had rewritten the opening three times. Each began the same way—My dearest William.
Each had died somewhere betweenI hope this finds you wellandI miss you.
Three years of letters, and not a single reply.
The ink had begun to pool on the page. With a sigh, she set the pen aside and pressed her fingertips to her temples.
What more was there to say? That she longed for his affection? That she wished he would come home and pretend to love her, if only so she might stop feeling invisible in her own life?
She stared at the emerald ring glittering on her finger. Once she had admired it for its beauty, for the way it caught the light like something alive. Now she could hardly bear to look at it—yet she could not take it off.
The band had grown too tight, as though it meant to keep her bound to the lie she had chosen.
The colour of her eyes,Lady Ashford had told her—smugly, cruelly.
Violet Hayes.
Of course she had known the name when she agreed to the arrangement. Her family had been very clear about it—theservant’s daughter who had turned the young heir’s head. A scandal waiting to happen, one that could ruin them all.
She had told herself she was saving him from ruin. Saving them both. That she was doing what duty demanded, what honour required.
But she had not realised she was saving no one—least of all herself.
The memory came back with the sting of humiliation.
He had told her the truth from the beginning.
When he placed the ring box in her hands, he had not knelt, nor smiled, nor spoken any words of affection.
“I have accepted the future laid out for me,” he had said quietly. “That is all this is.”
She had tried to laugh, to make light of it.
“Love can grow,” she’d said—lightly, foolishly. “You will come to care for me in time. I am everything you need—fortune, influence, stability. A man in your position cannot live on sentiment.”
And then, with a cruel little smile she despised now, she had added—
“And really… Violet Hayes? A servant’s daughter? Did you ever believe such a match could endure?”
He had looked at her then, not with anger but with pity.
“I will not lie to you, Victoria. My heart… it belongs to another. It always will.”
She had flinched but lifted her chin, too proud to yield.
He had closed the box with a snap and pushed it toward her.
“Keep it,” he said hoarsely. “You will wear it, and the world will see what they expect to see. But know this, Victoria—no one will come out a winner in this arrangement. Least of all you.”
He had been right.
God help her, he had been right.
She pressed a hand over her eyes, the shame burning behind them.
