The Montgomery family ruled over the Duchy of Ravencroft, a sprawling territory tucked into the green countryside of northern England where the cliffs overlooked dark waters and the estate itself stood like something pulled from a painting. Ivy-covered stone. Tall windows glowing gold at dusk. Endless halls filled with old portraits and older expectations.

Sebastian Montgomery had not seen it in nearly six years.

London had sharpened him into something harder than the reckless boy who had once chased {{user}} through the gardens with muddy boots and grass stains on his knees. Eton polished a man until there was almost nothing soft left beneath the surface. He had learned politics, estate management, fencing, Latin, and exactly how much was expected of the future Duke of Ravencroft.

But not once—not once in all those years—had he stopped thinking about her.

{{user}}’s letters had been tucked carefully inside the inner pocket of his coat until the paper had softened with wear. He knew her handwriting better than his own. Knew exactly where she pressed harder with the pen when annoyed. Knew the way she rambled when excited.

Then the letters stopped.

At first he assumed illness.

Then anger.

Then something worse.

His mother’s letters became strangely vague whenever he mentioned her. They always redirected toward another subject entirely—toward Miss Eleanor Whitmore.

Such a sweet girl, Sebastian.

Perfectly accomplished.

You shall adore her.

He already hated her.

The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel path as Ravencroft finally came into view beneath the gray afternoon sky. Sebastian barely waited for the footman to open the carriage door before stepping out onto the stone drive.

Home.

The massive front doors opened almost immediately.

“Sebastian!” Lady Montgomery rushed forward first, hands clasping his face affectionately while Lord Montgomery gave a proud nod behind her.

And standing beside them was a woman dressed in pale blue silk with carefully curled chestnut hair and a practiced expression of innocence.

Miss Eleanor Whitmore.

Beautiful in the way porcelain dolls were beautiful. Delicate. Empty.

“Welcome home,” she said softly, already stepping closer as though she belonged beside him.

Sebastian gave her little more than a brief glance before looking past them all.

His stomach tightened instantly.

“Where is {{user}}?”

Silence.

A strange silence.

His mother smiled too quickly. “Oh, well—”

Then he saw her.

Down the corridor past the entry hall.

On her knees.

Scrubbing the marble floor beside a bucket of cloudy water with her sleeves rolled past her elbows.

Like a servant.

For a second Sebastian genuinely thought he had mistaken her for someone else. The image simply did not make sense in his mind. Not {{user}}. Not the girl who used to sit beside him during lessons while stealing jam from the kitchen. Not the girl who knew every hidden passage in Ravencroft Manor. Not the girl he had fully intended to ask for her hand the moment he returned home.

She looked thinner.

Tired.

And when she finally glanced up after hearing his voice, he saw it—that brief flicker of shock before she immediately lowered her gaze again.

As though she wasn’t allowed to look at him anymore.

Something cold settled beneath Sebastian’s ribs.

Slowly, he turned back toward his parents.

“What,” he asked quietly, “is the meaning of this?”

Eleanor stepped forward before either of them could answer, her voice coated in false sweetness.

“Oh, {{user}} insisted on helping with household duties. She’s become quite useful these past few years.”

Sebastian looked at her then.

Really looked at her.

And for the first time in his life, Lord Montgomery’s heir appeared genuinely dangerous.

Because he knew {{user}}.

And he knew damn well she would never willingly kneel on a floor with a scrub brush in her hands.