Page 13 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Albrecht’s dark eyes narrowed.

“No doubt the rumors have reached you,” Duncan continued. “Unfortunately, they are true. I have been instructed that I must marry and advised that an alliance with Ardor would best serve the crown.” He paused. “Your daughter—”

“Elysande?” Albrecht supplied.

“No,” Duncan said, surprising even himself with how quickly he answered.

For a moment, only the distant hush of the sea filled the study.

Albrecht frowned. “Elyse has been prepared for such a future since childhood. She would meet the expectations of a duchess without difficulty, and she would welcome the match.”

“That is precisely why I hesitate,” Duncan said. “If I can speak plainly, I am wary of a match that would draw me deeper into courtly fire than I already stand. And I already stand too close.” He drew a breath. “I was thinking, perhaps, her sister.”

Albrecht stilled. “Kora is young. Of age, yes, but still young. She keeps to herself, favors gardens and quiet places over society. The demands of your rank may overwhelm her.”

“I would not force her,” Duncan said. “If she refused, I would not press the matter.” He swallowed. “But if she were willing, I would ask for her hand.” It felt heavier once spoken.

“You are serious?” Albrecht asked.

Duncan only nodded. He feared his voice would betray his doubts.

Something softened in Albrecht’s expression. He turned away, fingers resting lightly against his glass before stilling. “I must tell you something, then,” he said, without looking at Duncan. “Kora is not Lorenthea’s daughter. My wife has borne that truth in silence for the sake of our name. No one else knows. Kora herself does not know. I would have it remain so.” He exhaled. “A marriage to a dukedom would elevate our standing greatly. But I have built what I have honestly, and I will not begin hiding truths now—especially before vows are spoken.”

Duncan considered this in silence. His thoughts turned to his father—the way he had raised Isander as his own, the Lemierre Council seats granted for merit rather than blood. He knew, with certainty, what his father would have said.

“That is not a truth I take lightly,” he said finally. “But lineage matters less than character. If only you and the viscountess know, I see no reason it must travel further—or prevent the match.”

Albrecht regarded him. “I will not place the weight of your station before her,” he said. “Nor will I encourage her to see this as an honor she ought to want.” He paused. “If you speak to Kora, you must do so plainly. As a man, not a duke.”

“You seem hesitant, Lord Albrecht,” Duncan observed.

Albrecht opened his mouth, then closed it. He reached for the wine bottle. His hand shook, and a dark spill crested the rim before he steadied it. After a sip, he waved the thought aside. “Only a father’s concerns,” he said softly. “Nothing more—that I can put into words.”

Chapter 7

Duncan

Duncan had never considered what a man might feel before proposing marriage to a woman. Some might feel excitement, others nerves, or, if duty bound the match, perhaps dread. But he doubted many approached the moment feeling so strangely removed from it.

Golden-violet evening light spilled across the manor’s terraces as he made his way toward the sea-facing gardens behind it. Bees drifted between blossoms, unhurried. Citrus leaves stirred softly in the warm wind. Against his numbness, the gardens felt almost defiant.

He paused, closed his eyes, and drew a slow breath, hoping the garden’s stubborn vitality might stir something within him.

One breath.

Two.

It did not.

He exhaled and continued on.

Just as the viscount had predicted, Duncan found her on the branch of an old pear tree, skirts pulled to the knee, bare feet dangling with careless ease, a book open across her lap. She did not look like a lady trespassing so much as someone who belonged there more than anywhere else.

Duncan stepped closer. Sand carried inland from the shore shifted beneath his boot, crunching across the shell mosaic of the path. She startled, her head snapping up.

In one frantic motion, the youngest verStampebl slid from the branch, landed lightly, steadied herself, and folded into a curtsy. The book slipped from her lap in the haste, tumbling until it came to rest against the toe of Duncan’s boot.

“Your Grace,” she said as she straightened. Color touched her cheeks, vivid against her eyes and the green pendant at her throat.