CHAPTER2
Ahollow knock echoed through the cavernous halls of Hargate Manor, reverberating like a warning bell. Beyond the closed doors, the world slept, but within these walls, Johnathan Seton lingered, solitude pressing in on him. The room carried the scent of ash and aged brandy—a quiet testament to yet another sleepless night spent in self-imposed exile. The knock shattered that stillness. Dragging Johnathan Seton, Duke of Hargate, from the comfort of his armchair and the fading warmth of his brandy. He blinked blearily at the dying embers in the hearth, the clock on the mantel chiming softly. Half-past midnight.
Another knock, firmer this time.
He sighed and rose, running a hand through his tousled hair. Midnight visitors rarely brought anything but trouble, and for Johnathan, that trouble often came wearing perfume and secrets. Years of missteps and misjudgments had taught him as much. They reminded him of hastily scrawled letters shoved into his hand before duels, of tears shed in abandoned ballrooms, of past lovers spitting fury or pleading for second chances. By now, he knew trouble well—like a scar that never fully faded, always waiting in the dark.
The corridor beyond the drawing room stretched before him, its length cloaked in a hush that felt almost reverent. The only sound was the soft tap of his footsteps against the floor. The portraits lining the walls—grim visages of Setons long passed—seemed to glower down at him, their eyes sharp with silent judgment. The air was heavy, scented faintly of wax and dust, and the deeper he moved into the corridor, the more oppressive it became, as though the house itself resented being disturbed. Johnathan squared his shoulders against the sensation, but even he could not shake the sense that he was walking toward something inevitable.
The butler, rigid with disbelief, hovered near the entryway. "Your Grace," he murmured, "there is a young lady at the door."
"A lady? At this hour?" Johnathan’s brow arched as he reached for the handle himself.
The door groaned open.
He hesitated, hand on the door. Who would come to Hargate at this hour? A creditor? A challenge? A ghost from the past? The weight of old regrets pressed down on him, sudden and sharp. And then?—
He turned his gaze to the door.
There, cloaked in shadows and moonlight, stood Lady Frances Rowley.
He froze.
So did she.
The silence stretched between them like a thread pulled taut, humming with things left unsaid. Johnathan's mind raced, fragments of the past flashing in sharp succession—the echo of her laughter when they had tumbled through summer grass, the way she had looked at him the last time they danced, the day he had walked away from it all. Guilt and longing warred in his chest, knotted so tightly he feared if he moved, he might unravel entirely.
The sight of her—cheeks flushed with cold and defiance, eyes wide and shining with a mixture of desperation and determination—took the breath from his lungs.
"Frances?" he breathed, the name catching in his throat. His hand slipped from the doorframe, fingers twitching as though uncertain whether to reach for her or retreat.
"Johnathan," she said. Her voice shook, but she forced the words out. "Please. I need your help." She stepped forward, just slightly, as if unsure whether she would be welcomed or turned away. Her gaze held his, unwavering despite the tears threatening at the edges, a silent plea woven into every breath.
Johnathan, without a word, guided Frances through the dimly lit halls, his eyes betraying a flicker of surprise that he quickly masked with stoicism. The drawing room awaited her, steeped in memories and firelight. As she stepped across the threshold, the soft click of her boots against the hardwood echoed too loudly in her ears. Her gaze swept the room—the carved walnut furniture, the oriental rug, the grand fireplace framed in marble—all unchanged, yet somehow alien. She felt the weight of familiarity and the ache of distance in equal measure.
The fire was stoked by a footman who vanished as silently as he had come, and a decanter of sherry was placed within arm’s reach on a side table. The hearth hissed as the logs caught, warmth blooming slowly through the shadows against the walls that made her feel both seen and vulnerable. She did not sit. Could not. Her fingers dug into the edges of her cloak, knuckles white. There was no going back now. Frances met Johnathan’s gaze, the tremble in her hands betrayed her attempt at control. Her gaze briefly flicked to the corner of the room where a worn chessboard lay beneath a velvet cloth. They had once sat there for hours, challenging each other, trading jests and secrets between moves. That memory rushed in unbidden, tightening her throat. She pressed her lips together and forced her gaze away. She had come with purpose, and she would not falter now.
Johnathan leaned against the fireplace, his arms crossed. His gaze lingered on her with a complicated blend of caution and yearning. Shirt open at the collar, hair mussed, he looked every bit the devil-may-care duke the scandal sheets painted him to be. Yet his gaze, when fixed on her, held no mockery—only calculation. And something far more dangerous: restraint.
"Do you intend to explain," he asked at last, voice low, arching a brow as he reached for his glass and swirled the amber liquid with casual defiance, "or shall I stand here admiring your dramatic entrance until dawn?"
Frances swallowed hard. "My father has signed a marriage contract."
He held her gaze, but said nothing.
"To Viscount Cranford."
His expression did not change, but his jaw twitched.
The space between them pulsed with tension, sharp and unrelenting.
"You remember what they say about him," she continued. Her voice was steady, but her fists clenched at her sides.
"I remember," Johnathan said coldly, his voice laced with disdain. A flicker of old rage sparked in his eyes. He could still see Cranford at the club, smug and smirking, recounting with casual cruelty how women ought to be kept in line. "A snake hiding behind a silk cravat."
Frances took a step forward, her gaze burning into his. "I will not marry him, Johnathan. I will not."
She held his gaze.
