Emily moved toward the window, her pink gown whispering softly across the polished floor. The wind had picked up, its low moan building into a relentless howl that rattled the panes. She pressed her fingers to the cold glass, watching the snowflakes multiply until the world outside became a white, swirling void.
It had been three years since Thomas’s passing, and yet the weight of responsibility still rested heavily on her. She had a duty to preserve the estate until her son came of an age to take over. Each decision, no matter how small, felt like a test she had not fully prepared for. Today, the air in the house felt charged, not just with the storm, but with something else. Something she could not quite name.
“My lady?” Brinks’s voice pulled her from her thoughts.
She turned, her expression composed once more. “I am quite well, Brinks. I will see to the kitchen. Please ensure the rest of the preparations are in place.”
Brinks bowed and left the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall. As Emily made her way through the manor, the eerie sound of the wind seemed to follow her, winding through the corridors like a living thing. The walls, usually so familiar, felt oppressively large and empty today, and a creeping sense of unease settled deeper into her bones.
“It is only a storm,” she whispered, clutching the folds of her skirt, her fingers cool against the silk. “Nothing more.”
As she approached the kitchen, a burst of commotion erupted from the direction of the servants’ entrance. Raised voices, hurried and urgent, cut through the air, muffled only slightly by the thick walls of the manor.
Her pulse quickened as she hurried toward the source of the noise, gathering her skirts as she rounded the corner. There, in the back corridor, she found Mrs. Thatcher, her usually composed housekeeper, waving her hands as she directed the footmen, Marks and Willy. Both men stood dripping wet, snow clinging to their boots, their faces flushed from the cold.
“What is going on?” Emily asked, her voice sharp and authoritative.
Marks stepped forward, his head bowed. “My lady, we found a man collapsed in the snow. Couldn’t leave him out there.”
“A man? In this storm?” Emily’s pulse quickened. “Where is he now?” she asked, her voice rising with urgency.
“In the wagon, my lady,” Willy said, his breath still coming in heavy puffs. “There was a riderless horse standing nearby. We calmed the horse and lead it to the stables. Would have taken the man to the stables, too, but he looks to be a gentleman. He’s in a bad way, my lady. We feared he was dead.”
“Bring him inside at once. Take him to the blue guest room. Mrs. Thatcher, have blankets, hot water, and broth prepared immediately.” Her tone left no room for hesitation.
The servants sprang into action, but as Emily watched them carry out her orders, her thoughts raced. Who was this stranger? What had brought him to collapse on her property in the middle of a snowstorm?
She followed Marks and Willy up the grand staircase as they carried the man between them. When Marks and Willy laid him on the bed, Emily stepped closer, studying him—tall, broad-shouldered, his fine clothing sodden and disheveled. His face, though pallid from the cold, bore the unmistakable features of nobility, yet there was something rugged about him. Something untamed.
Her gaze moved to the angry, swollen bump on his forehead. Her breath caught as she studied the injury, the surrounding skin darkening into a bruise. A thin trail of dried blood had run from the cut near his hairline, stark against his pale complexion.
After a moment’s hesitation, she reached out, her fingers hovering just above the wound. It looked as though he had fallen hard, perhaps hit his head on something sharp. His dark hair, damp with melted snow, clung to his forehead, framing his strong, aristocratic features. Her eyes lingered on the sharp planes of his face, trying to pinpoint what it was about him that felt so familiar.
Emily drew in a slow breath, allowing herself to study him further. His nose was straight and finely shaped, his jaw strong with a hint of stubble that lent him a rakish air. His lips, though pale, were full, and she noticed the shadow of a dimple at one corner, hinting at a smile that might once have been quick to form. There was something disconcerting in the contrast of his current vulnerability and the clear strength of his features.
“Who are you?” she asked. “And what happened to you?”
Mrs. Thatcher bustled into the room with the requested supplies, directing the others as they removed the man’s wet coat, boots, and breeches, piled blankets atop him, and placed heated bricks by his feet. A fire roared to life in the hearth, casting a warm glow over the room.
“My lady,” Mrs. Thatcher said, “should I send for Dr. Whiteside?”
“The roads are quickly becoming impassable,” Marks said.
Emily shook her head. “We will have to manage on our own. I will not put my staff in danger.”
Emily watched the unconscious man closely. There was an almost unsettling recognition, though it danced at the edge of her mind. Had they met before? Or was it merely the sharpness of his features that made him recognizable?
She reached out, almost instinctively, to brush a lock of dark hair from his forehead. The moment her fingers touched his skin, a jolt of awareness shot through her, startling her. She withdrew her hand, her pulse quickening.
“He’s quite a handsome one, is he not?” Mrs. Thatcher remarked, amusement lacing her tone.
Emily felt warmth creep up her neck. “I had not noticed,” she lied, though her racing pulse said otherwise.
Mrs. Thatcher gave a knowing smile. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but do you recognize him? He does look to be a gentleman of some standing.”
Emily studied him again, brow furrowed. “There is… something familiar, but I cannot say for certain.” Her gaze lingered on the bump at his temple. “We will have to wait until he wakes to learn who he is. For now, let us ensure he is comfortable.”
“Perhaps we should send word to Millbrook once the storm passes,” Mrs. Thatcher said. “Someone may be searching for him.”
