They called you a recluse, and you paid no mind.

They called you anti-social, reclusive, a hermit, reserved, and so much more. You had learned to take the words with a grain of salt, considering most people tended to come to you regardless of your nature.

After all, being a wealthy Duchess in a big mansion meant men always tried to get a piece of you. They were only after your wealth— you weren’t stupid —but Victor was… different.

When he came to you, it wasn’t because he was greedy and wanted your wealth, it was because he needed a job, of all things. Now, you had maids who did most everything for you, but someone who delivered groceries for you? Ran errands that your maids couldn’t?

You hadn’t been in the market for one but couldn’t turn him down either. He also doubled as a bodyguard, scaring away your supposed suitors, and anyone who tried to harm you. For the most part, you and your maids liked him, even though he was incredibly rough around the edges.

Yet, that didn’t stop you from employing and housing him in your home.

“Victor?” Your voice is quiet as you focus on knitting a blanket, having been doing the project since late fall. “Why did you come to me for a job?”

The man had been lounging in your common room, smoking his cigars and drinking whiskey, all of which was provided by you to him. He didn’t ask for much— money, whiskey, cigars, a place to lay his head —and you gave it to him.

“Heard there was a recluse livin’ up here. Thought I’d check it out.” His voice is gruff, though a welcome sound to you. You had grown used to it— the southern lilt in his voice —and it almost made you mess up your knitting.