Frances ignored the rebuke. “Tell me it is not true,” she said instead, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with a desperation she could no longer hide. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her skirts, knuckles whitening. “Tell me…” Frances’s voice wavered, her throat tightening around the words. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to continue. “Tell me you have not promised me to him.”
Her father’s gaze did not waver. “The contract is signed.”
The words struck her like a physical blow.
“You will be Viscountess Cranford…” He paused, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with meticulous precision, letting the words settle like a weight upon her. Then, with an air of finality, he continued, “…as soon as the banns can be read.” His tone was devoid of warmth, finality woven into each syllable, a man who had already dismissed any notion of defiance. Because, in his mind, it was.
Frances’s hands clenched at her sides. “He is a cruel man,” she said, her voice shaking. A vision of Lady Ellen flitted through her mind—her forced, brittle smile at a ball, the way her gloved hands trembled as she accepted Cranford’s arm. Frances had once overheard hushed whispers in the retiring room: A temper like that—God help the woman who displeases him. The thought turned her stomach. “You know what they say about him, Father. And you would still hand me over?”
Frances swallowed hard, a cold knot forming in her stomach. She could almost feel the ghost of Lady Ellen’s fearful gaze upon her, a silent warning echoing through the depths of her mind.
Lord Rowley’s mouth tightened. “He is a powerful man,” her father said, his tone edged with exasperation, as though she were a foolish child incapable of understanding. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head before flicking an impatient glance toward the ballroom. With a measured sigh, he straightened his coat, as if composing himself before speaking again. “You will thank me when you are secure. When you have a husband who can protect you from the harsh realities of the world.” His voice dipped lower, almost menacing. “This is not a matter for debate, Frances.”
She brushed past her father, striding back into the ballroom with her head held high and her resolve hardening with every step. The echo of his words rang in her ears, but they no longer held power over her. She would not be bartered or broken. Not tonight. Not ever again. Her heart pounded with determination as a name took root in her mind—Johnathan. If there was any chance to escape this fate, she would seize it. Even if it meant placing her trust in the one man she had sworn never to rely on again.
The single thought took root, sharp and sudden.
Johnathan Seton. The Duke of Hargate. She remembered the summer they stole away from a garden party and hid in the old stables, whispering secrets and dreams of lives they would carve out far from their parents’ expectations. He had held her hand when she cried over her mother’s disapproval, and she had made him laugh when he feared his father’s wrath. In those sun-drenched days, they’d sworn an oath—ridiculous and childish—that if the world turned on them, they’d always have each other.
She could still remember the summers spent racing through fields, their laughter carried on the wind. He had been her closest friend, the boy who had dared her to climb trees and sneak into the library to read forbidden novels by candlelight. But the years had changed them both.
He was no longer the carefree boy she had known. The Johnathan Seton of today was a rogue, his name entangled in whispered scandals. There had been rumors—duels fought over women, debts left unpaid, nights spent in gaming hells. And yet, despite everything, she knew in her heart that if anyone could help her now, it would be him.
But would he be willing?
Their last meeting had ended in sharp words—her accusing him of squandering his potential, him calling her a coward for yielding to society. The words had burned, leaving a rift between them. And now, she was wagering on him.
The boy who had once been her closest friend. The one person she had trusted with her secrets, her dreams, her fears.
They had been inseparable.
But that had been years ago. Before he had turned away from her, before his name had become synonymous with scandal and recklessness.
And before Frances had turned away from him, convinced that whatever loyalty had once existed between them was long gone.
Still, she had no one else.
Decision made, Frances turned on her heel and strode toward the stables, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Panic pulsed through her veins like fire. Every step was laced with dread that her father might see her. Stop her. Her hand fumbled with the laces of her cloak as she reached the stables, her chest burned. There was no time to question, no room for second thoughts. If she did not flee now, she would never be free. She made haste, lest her father catch her and drag her back to that suffocating ballroom.
The cloak barely shielded her from the chill, and her evening slippers were ill-suited to the stirrups, but she urged the horse onward. She had not ridden like this in years—not since Johnathan had dared her to race him across the orchard path when they were twelve. The wind whipping past her cheeks and the steady rhythm of hooves beneath her brought a rush of childhood memory, a sense of freedom she had not felt in far too long. That wild, fearless girl she used to be—she was still inside her. And tonight, she was riding toward a choice, not away from one.
A sliver of moonlight cut through the dense cloud cover, casting a pale sheen on her path ahead, and with it came a surge of hope laced with dread. Frances’s breath hitched as the silhouette of the estate emerged, majestic and unfamiliar. Her mind wavered between memories of laughter and the chilling possibility that Johnathan might not open the door. Every hoofbeat echoed with fear—and the fragile hope that she might find salvation behind those doors.
Twenty minutes later, she turned up the familiar drive. Lanterns cast elongated shadows across the gravel path, their dim glow barely piercing the midnight gloom. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves in the wind. A shiver ran through her, the night’s chill creeping into her bones as the relentless ride caught up with her. Her muscles ached, stiff from the strain, but she straightened her spine, refusing to let exhaustion win.
She swallowed hard, pushing down the knot of nerves coiling in her stomach. The towering structure loomed before her, its stone facade bathed in cold moonlight. The massive double doors, adorned with an intricate brass knocker, seemed foreboding. She faltered.
Had she come all this way only to find herself unwelcome? Would he turn her away? The boy who had once vowed to stand by her side had grown into a man cloaked in mystery.
She reined in her horse, drawing a slow breath to steady her racing heart.
This was her gamble, her last chance to escape an untenable fate. She had risked everything to come here, to throw herself on the mercy of a man she had not seen in years.
She prayed he would stand by her now, as he once had—prayed the boy she once knew hadn’t vanished beneath the man he had become.
Frances stepped up to the door, raised her hand, her knuckles poised to strike, her breath stuttered. If he refused her now, she had nowhere else to go.
