They left the gathering as the sun dipped below the horizon, traveling by carriage to the estate Jasper had selected for their honeymoon.
Not the seaside villa, once promised in moments of courtship. That home — with its sea breezes and wisteria-covered veranda — was far too kind.
No, this destination had been chosen with care. Precision.
They stopped overnight at a well-appointed inn. Jasper ensured the room was generous and the dinner excellent. Abigail's smiles had grown softer through the evening, more tentative, as though she sensed the subtle chill beneath his polished exterior but dared not speak of it.
When she shyly stepped into their chamber, clad in a pale nightgown edged with lace, she looked at him with the openness of a woman who had long awaited this night with the man she loved. And he hated himself for what he was about to do.
But it had to be done.
The marriage had to be made whole — and with it, her future bound.
So he consummated the marriage. Methodically. Purposefully.
And when she whispered, "I love you," into the dark, he rolled away, his back to her, and said nothing.
She lay in silence for several minutes before she, too, fell asleep — assuming he had not heard her, or that he was merely tired.
The next morning, the final leg of their journey brought them to a crumbling manor nestled deep in the countryside. Ivy strangled the outer walls, shutters hung at crooked angles, and portions of the roof sagged as though ready to collapse. Jasper had made inquiries ahead of their arrival, securing a skeletal staff just sufficient to keep up appearances.
As their carriage rolled to a stop, the aged doorman pushed open the front doors with a groan of hinges.
Abigail stared out at the bleak façade, her brow furrowed. She turned to Jasper accepting his help out of the carriage as the footmen unloaded only her trunks—his luggage remained strapped atop the carriage still.
"Jasper?" she asked softly, uncertainty lacing her voice. "What is this place?"
He stepped away from the carriage, gesturing with an exaggerated flourish toward the derelict building. "This, my dear wife, is the home I selected especially for you."
She blinked. "I... I don't understand."
"Oh, but I think you do." His tone was calm. Far too calm. "It was all far too easy, Abigail. You believed every word. Every touch. Every look. So convenient. So very foolish."
Her face lost all color. "Jasper..."
"I've decided Charlotte was right," he said smoothly, inspecting a speck on his glove as if bored by the entire exchange. "You are not suited to be my duchess. You're too quiet. Too plain. A shadow of what a duchess ought to be."
His words struck like cold steel.
"It's fortunate," he went on, "that most aristocratic marriages function best with a comfortable distance. You'll reside here—it's what you deserve."
"But... why would you say this now?" she whispered. "Why wait until now?"
Jasper climbed back into the carriage without looking at her. He cruelly stated: "Because, in the end, I've decided you weren't worth the effort. I no longer wish to be burdened by you. And I will not have you embarrassing me."
As Jasper settled inside the carriage Abigail stepped forward. "Please, Jasper—"
"I do not wish to hear another word from you," he said coldly, not even glancing her way as the door shut with a final thud.
And with that, the carriage rolled away, leaving the new Lady Abigail Finch, Duchess of Winterset, standing alone in the gravel, tears welling as she looked up at the ruin of a home — and the ruin of everything she believed.
Chapter 11
Martha Rigby had seen many strange things in her thirty years tending to old Greystone Hollow — once a proud manor, now little more than a ghost of itself. She'd seen lords arrive in high dudgeon and leave in disgrace, young heirs with flushed cheeks and empty heads, and one mistress of the house who swore the entire manor was haunted — though Martha had never seen hide nor hair of a spirit. All of it came before the estate was absorbed into the Duke of Winterset's holdings a few years earlier — won, so the story went, in a game of cards. But never, not once, had she seen a bride arrive on her honeymoon in silence, alone, with her husband already vanishing into the horizon.
She exited the manor, walking past the doorman to greet their guest — it had been her job for years, no matter what airs Jasper Finch put on by hiring a doorman too old to stand — and watched the fine carriage trundling along the dirty road without pause. She'd caught only the briefest glimpse of the man inside, rigid and unreadable, as if dusting his hands of something unpleasant.
And then, there she was.
