CHAPTER1
Lady Frances Rowley moved through the throng with practiced poise, each graceful step a careful performance masking the storm raging within her. Her ice-blue gown skimming the polished floor, she nodded and smiled at the aristocratic faces turned her way, though the gesture felt hollow—mere habit, not sincerity.
She heard them before she saw them.
A cluster of matrons, their lace fans fluttering like the wings of trapped birds, leaned toward one another, their voices hushed yet pointed.
“Have you heard? Lord Cranford has won Lady Frances’s hand.”
The words coiled around her like a vise, squeezing the air from her lungs. A chill prickled at the nape of her neck, and she fought the urge to glance over her shoulder.
“A triumph for the viscount. I suppose she had no choice in the matter.”
Her fingers hovered over her dance card, tracing its edges before she realized how tightly she was holding it. She forced herself to release her grip, smoothing the delicate paper with careful precision, as if she could will away the tension knotting inside her.
Then, the whisper that sent ice down her spine…
“Poor girl. Did you hear what happened to the last woman who refused him?”
Frances stiffened, her chest tightening as though invisible hands had seized her lungs. A cold sweat broke across her back, and the room seemed to tilt ever so slightly, the glittering chandeliers blurring into streaks of light.
She had heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. And yet, the words conjured a memory she could never shake—Lady Ellen’s glassy-eyed stare, the faint bruise peeking from beneath the lace at her wrist, the way her voice trembled when she claimed to be ‘perfectly happy.’ That memory clung to Frances like damp fog, each word from the matrons a bell toll forewarning her own fate. And yet, hearing them spoken aloud, woven into the hushed murmurs of the ton, made them feel all the more suffocating.
Fear clawed at her throat, but it was not fear of Cranford alone. Her hands felt clammy, her breath shallow, as if an invisible force were tightening around her ribs. Every muscle in her body tensed, instinct screaming at her to flee, but the weight of expectation rooted her in place. She was a pawn in a game she had never agreed to play, a prisoner in a world that saw her as nothing more than a transaction. Was this to be her life? A gilded prison where her every step, her every breath, was dictated by men who saw her as nothing more than a means to an end?
Frances forced herself to move forward, inhaling sharply as she willed her legs to remain steady. She forced a polite smile, though she could feel its fragility, the edges trembling with the weight of her turmoil. She clenched her hands at her sides to stop them from shaking, her pulse a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. How effortlessly they reduced her to an object, a prize to be bartered away.
Frances had always known her father would arrange her marriage. She had learned that lesson at sixteen, when a hopeful mention of marrying for love was met with a curt dismissal: “Love is a luxury, Frances. You will marry where it best serves our family’s interests.” His voice had been calm, but unyielding. That day, she had learned precisely where she stood in the hierarchy of his affections—somewhere beneath legacy and ambition. That was the way of things. Daughters of powerful men were bartered like commodities for land, wealth, and alliances.
But Cranford?
She would not shackle herself to a monster.
A voice—her father’s voice—rose in her mind. This is your duty, Frances. You will do as you are told.
No. She would not.
The ballroom felt suffocating, the chandeliers blinding, the press of bodies unbearable. With a murmured excuse, she slipped past a trio of debutantes and toward the terrace doors, pushing them open and stepping into the cool embrace of the night.
The sky stretched vast and dark above her, jeweled with stars. The air carried the scent of the gardens—roses and damp earth, fresh and grounding.
She had to think. What were her options? She could flee to her aunt in Bath, but her father would surely find her before she could secure any means of independence. She could go to a friend, though few would dare oppose her father’s will. Fleeing seemed impossible, yet staying meant condemning herself to a lifetime of misery. The risks were overwhelming, but so was the certainty of her fate if she did nothing.
She had to act.
Before, it was too late.
“Frances.”
The voice, sharp and commanding, sent her spine straight.
She turned slowly to find Lord Henry Rowley, her father, standing in the doorway, his imposing figure silhouetted against the golden light spilling from the ballroom.
He descended the steps toward her, his expression unreadable. “What are you doing out here?”
“I needed air,” she said, lifting her chin.
“Your absence has been noted.” His tone was edged with disapproval, his gaze sweeping over her with thinly veiled irritation. He exhaled sharply, adjusting the cuffs of his coat as though the matter were a tiresome inconvenience rather than a concern.
