A shiver ran through me.
I turned instinctively toward my husband. Sylum sat beside me, posture rigid with a tension he did not voice. His gloved hands rested loosely upon his knees, but I saw the way his fingers curled ever so slightly into his palm. His jaw tightened as he regarded the looming silhouette of his ancestral home. His eyes, normally a warm honey, were storm-dark now, reflecting not the manor itself, but some memory it summoned.
“It’s larger than you imagined, isn’t it?” he asked at last, his voice soft and almost apologetic.
I gave a nervous laugh. “Larger… and darker.”
He smiled faintly, but his gaze never left the looming façade. “It does have a way of announcing itself.”
The wheels crunched to a halt upon the gravel drive. The door swung open and a footman appeared in the gray light, bowing low as he offered his hand.
“Your Grace,” he murmured, nodding toward Sylum first then me.
I took it, stepping down into the chill. The air smelled of rain and salt, tinged faintly with damp moss. My breath misted before me as I looked up at the manor again, its vast shadow spilling across the ground, swallowing the last of the daylight.
Sylum descended after me, his coat brushing against mine. For an instant, he hesitated beside me, eyes lifted toward the highest tower. I caught the faintest change in his expression—his jaw clenching, his chest rising unevenly—as though some unseen presence watched from within those stone walls.
Then, just as quickly, the look was gone. He turned to me, his tone gentle once more. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m only cold,” I lied.
He offered me his arm, his voice soft enough to make the lie unnecessary. “You’ll be warm soon. I promise.”
We moved together toward the grand steps, where three servants stood waiting in the bitter air—a tall, gray-haired butler, and two young maids with nervous eyes. The butler stepped forward, bowing deeply.
“Welcome home, Your Grace,” he beamed, his tone measured but respectful. Then, after a slight pause, he inclined his head toward me. “And welcome to you, Your Grace.”
It was the first time I had heard the title spoken aloud in reference to myself. The word felt strange, heavy upon the air as though it belonged to someone else entirely.
“Thank you,” I murmured, though my voice dissolved into the cavernous hall as we stepped inside.
The interior air was warmer, but only marginally. The grand hall stretched before us in vast, echoing silence—vaulted ceilings, dark wood polished to a dull sheen, and chandeliers dulled by a fine layer of dust. Portraits of long-dead Deveroux ancestors glowered down from their gilt frames, their painted eyes following me with unsettling scrutiny.
The walls creaked as though adjusting to my presence and somewhere deep within the manor, I thought I heard movement, soft and hurried, like footsteps retreating before they could be seen.
My chest tightened.
A Duchess, I thought. A wife. A woman who once swore she would never belong to anyone, standing in a home that already felt like a mouth ready to swallow her whole.
Sylum stepped toward a woman who appeared to be in her later years. She was dressed in a severe black gown trimmed with a high white lace collar. Her dark hair was streaked with silver and coiled into a bun so taut it pulled the edges of her face so severely that the lines of age appeared to smooth slightly.
“This is Mrs. Ashby, our housekeeper,” he said, his tone polite yet oddly distant. He turned toward me, thoughhis eyes did not quite meet mine. “She will see that you are settled.”
I offered the woman a small, courteous smile. She returned it, a slow, measured curve of the mouth that never reached her eyes. They were a cold steely gray and sharp as a blade as they swept over me. Something in her gaze prickled at the back of my neck, a faint, instinctive warning I couldn’t name.
“Welcome to Blackthorn Manor, Your Grace,” she said, lifting her chin with practiced grace. “I trust your journey was not too taxing?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ashby,” I replied, smoothing my gloves though my fingers trembled slightly. “It was… a pleasant enough ride.”
“Mrs. Ashby will ensure your comfort,” Sylum assured, stepping back, his voice gentling as he turned to me. “There’s a matter that needs my attention, but I won’t be long.”
I forced a small smile, though disappointment tugged at me. “Of course. I’ll be fine.”
His eyes searched mine for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Then he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to my forehead so unexpectedly gentle that it sent a strange ache through my chest.
“Rest,” he murmured. “You’ve had a long journey.”
Before I could gather a reply, he turned and walked away. His boots echoed over the marble, each step measured, each fading note swallowed by the vast throat of the corridorbeyond. I watched the blue-black silhouette of him dissolve into the shadows.
