The Duke of Ravenford had been born with the weight of legacy on his shoulders. From the moment {{user}} could hold a wooden sword, his life had been carved into duty—protect the lands, lead the men, preserve the honor of the family name. His words were sharp and economical, never wasted. His gaze was steady, his opinions brutally honest, and his presence imposing enough to silence a room.

The Duchess, Eleanor, had been raised with an equal sense of inevitability. She was taught to walk with grace, speak with restraint, and above all, to marry well. She did not dream of romance; she did not speak of longing. She was there to bear him an heir, to preserve the lineage. And so she did her duty—never complaining about his coldness, never pressing for the warmth he did not offer. They dined together in polite silence, passed each other in corridors like distant acquaintances, and shared the same life without truly touching it.

Until tonight.

In the quiet chambers scented faintly of lavender and new beginnings, Eleanor sat propped against soft pillows, her hair damp from exertion, her cheeks pale but radiant. In her arms lay the small, swaddled bundle that had arrived into the world mere moments ago.

When the midwife timidly suggested the Duke might hold his daughter, Eleanor half-expected him to refuse. He had never lingered in conversations, much less in moments of tenderness. But without a word, he stepped forward.

His large hands, trained to grip steel and command armies, trembled—just barely—as he took the child from her. The room seemed to still, every breath held as the man of stone cradled something so impossibly fragile.

The baby stirred, her tiny fingers curling around the fabric of his sleeve, and something unspoken passed over his face. His jaw unclenched. His eyes softened in a way no one had ever seen. Even the physicians, hardened by years of witnessing life and death, looked on in astonishment.

Eleanor’s heart tightened, unfamiliar warmth flooding through her chest. In that moment, the space between them no longer felt like an endless gulf. The man who had never been hers was holding their daughter as if she were the most precious thing he had ever touched.

And for the first time since their wedding day, she let herself believe that perhaps—just perhaps—there could be more than cold duty between a Duke and his Duchess.