Prologue
The bells tolled low across thefrost-hardened fields, a solemn knell that rolled through the valley like a mourning shroud. Mourners gathered in somber silence beneath a slate-grey sky, the air brittle with cold and reverence.
Lord Jasper Finch stood a few paces from the open graves, his shoulders square, his jaw tight, the weight of his title settling upon him like iron. Dukeof Winterset. A name he had never desired to wear so soon—certainly not like this. Not borne from the wreckage of a splintered carriage and the unthinkable loss of both his parents.
To his right, his childhood friend Lord Philip Browning stood in respectful silence, his expression drawnbut steady, a quiet pillar amid the grief. Jasper was dimly aware of Philip's father, the Duke of Everly, and the Duchess nearby. Their presence—constant friends to his late parents—was a balm he could not quite acknowledge yet. Too much was required of him already. Too many decisions, too many condolences. Too many eyes.
A few paces ahead, beneath the fluttering edge of a black veil, sat his sister, Charlotte. Six and ten, just returned from Madame Bellamy's Seminary for Young Ladies, she had arrived that very morning—ripped from her studies to stand before a pair of coffins. Between moments of weeping, she complainedloudly about the weather, bristled at the attention of the other mourners, and snapped at the maid who tried to adjust her bonnet.
Jasper's gaze lingered on her. Charlotte had always been willful, quick of wit, and quicker to wound—even as a child. He feared how this grief would shape her—or harden her further. Yet, beside her sat Abigail Browning, Philip's younger sister, also freshly returned from the seminary. Abigail's gloved hand rested quietly atop Charlotte's, her manner composed, her countenance serene. She handed his sister a lace handkerchief when Charlotte abruptly shoved out her hand, waiting.
Abigail had always possessed that quiet strength—an ability to remain unaffected by Charlotte's barbs or the biting winds of polite society. Where Charlotte crackled, Abigail simply endured.
Jasper turned his gaze back to the clergyman, barely hearing the scripture. What would become of Charlotte now? Her final two years at the seminary would be essential. Perhaps, under Abigail's influence, her rough edges might soften.
As for himself... the estate required sorting, the tenants reassuring. His father's steward awaited his word on repairs to the tenant cottages, and his mother's secretary had begun transferring household accounts. A ducal household did not run itself, and its young master could not falter.
Earlier, before the service began, Abigail had stepped quietly to his side. She had spoken no more than the expected words—"I'm so very sorry, Your Grace"—but the way she had looked up at him, her gloved fingers squeezing his for the briefest moment, was a kindness he hadn't known he needed. No theatrics, no cloying sorrow—just presence. Steady, warm, and genuine.
When the first shovelful of earth struck his father's casket, something within Jasper shifted—hardened.
There could be no more frivolity. No idle dreams.
Only duty.
Chapter One
Two years later
The grand ballroom was awash in the soft, golden light of glittering chandeliers, their radiant glow dancing across the polished floors. The melodies of violins and harpsichords intertwined with the gentle hum of conversation, setting a scene of elegant anticipation. Perfume lingered in the air, mingling with the excitement of the season's grandest event—the coming-out ball. For the young debutantes, it was a night of first impressions, and for some, the beginning of a new chapter in their lives.
Lady Abigail Browning, a vision in pale blue silk, stood quietly at the edge of the room, her wide aquamarine eyes filled with wonder. At eight and ten, her beauty was already well known—delicate and dainty, with porcelain skin that glowed in the candlelight. Rounded cheeks, a small nose, and bow-shaped lips gave her an ethereal air. Soft curls of dark blonde hair framed her heart-shaped face, enhancing the innocence that clung to her like a veil. Fresh from Madame Bellamy's Seminary for Young Ladies, this was her first season, and though excitement fluttered in her chest, nerves crept in with the weight of expectation. Beside her, her childhood friend Lady Charlotte Finch scanned the room in quiet assessment.
Jasper Finch, Duke of Winterset, stood across the ballroom, deep in conversation with several other gentlemen. His tall,broad figure was unmistakable, and his light blonde hair, slightly tousled, gave him a carefree yet strikingly handsome appearance. At eight and twenty, Jasper was known for his quiet confidence—his blue eyes intense and calculating, yet filled with a warmth that naturally drew people to him. But tonight, as his gaze swept across the crowded room, it seemed to settle on one person alone—his childhood friend's younger sister, Abigail Browning.
He hadn't anticipated this. He hadn't expected to feel such an intense stir of emotion when he saw her for the first time as a young lady, eight and ten and now making her debut. But when their eyes met across the room, something shifted in him. The weight of his duties as Duke always loomed over him, but for a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to entertain a thought he'd never considered before—he wanted her. Not just any lady, but a true partner to stand by his side, to share in the responsibilities of his title. And in that moment, Abigail, with her quiet grace and timeless beauty, seemed to be everything he had longed for in a woman.
***
Meanwhile, Charlotte Finch, her honey-blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and her blue eyes sparkling with intent, spotted her target. Mr. Philip Browning, a gentleman of seven and twenty, with striking dark-blonde hair and piercing green eyes, stood among a group of friends, exuding the effortless confidence of an eligible bachelor.
Charlotte's lips curved into a smile as she watched him. At last, she was of marriageable age, and having grown up with Abigail and Philip, she had always harbored a quiet affection for him. Now, with her brother Jasper's new title as Duke of Winterset, Charlotte's future was all but secured—except for one thing: Philip Browning. He was exactly the kind of man she needed to elevate her position.
She was, after all, the sister of a Duke, the new Duke of Winterset. Her place among the ton was assured. Philip, though the son of a Duke, was still several years away from inheriting the title. Charlotte believed that she, with her closer connection to the ducal title, would be an attractive match for him.
With a purposeful stride, Charlotte made her way toward him, her ivory gown trailing behind her. She had no patience for coyness—this season was to be hers, and she would not waste time.
"Lord Philip, might I trouble you for this next dance?" Charlotte asked, her voice sweet yet firm, with an edge of quiet expectation.
Philip turned toward her, his expression polite but distant. While he always appreciated Charlotte's vivacity, there was an unspoken tension between them. Charlotte's occasional meanness toward his sister had never sat well with him, but he was the gentleman, always. Despite this, his heart had already been captured elsewhere. Lady Sophia Marlow, the lovely Earl's daughter, was also making her debut this evening, and Philip had promised her this dance. He smiled kindly, but regret tinged his voice. "I'm most sorry, Lady Charlotte. I've already promised this dance to Lady Sophia Marlow."
Charlotte's smile faltered but quickly returned with practiced poise.Sophia Marlow, of course. The sweet, dainty girl with the fair skin and soft curls. Charlotte had always found her a little too perfect—too gentle, too happy. The kind of woman who didn't understand the subtle intricacies of society's unspoken rules. The kind who, as it turned out, had caught Philip's eye.
Charlotte straightened her back, forcing a smile that was all sweetness with a hint of steel beneath. "Ah, of course," she said. "Perhaps another time."
As she turned to leave, Charlotte's sharp gaze landed on Lady Sophia herself—eight and ten, with brown hair and blueeyes, her dainty features framed by an elegant gown. Sophia's fair skin gleamed in the light as she smiled up at Philip, her eyes sparkling with satisfaction at securing his attention for this dance. Charlotte's lips tightened, her thoughts cold and calculating.
Charlotte, however, knew deep down that this was just one dance.Sophia may have him for now, Charlotte thought,but Philip knows where his future lies.And it would certainly not be with an Earl's daughter.
