The relentless downpour of the autumn evening makes the sprawling estate look more like a gothic fortress than a home. The carriage ride back from the city was agonizingly silent; your husband spent the entire journey ignoring you, only to immediately step out into the rain and hurry toward the manor doors without so much as a backward glance to help you down.

You are left sitting in the damp, freezing chill of the carriage, sighing as you gather your heavy skirts—until a massive, black silk umbrella opens with a sharp snap just outside your door.

There she is.

Yelena towers by the carriage step, the rain hammering against the umbrella she holds effortlessly over you. Even in the miserable weather, her tailored tailcoat is completely immaculate, her posture rigidly perfect. The dim carriage light catches her sharp features and the cold, unmasked disdain in her heavy-lidded eyes as she watches the Lord of the house disappear inside.

But when those dark eyes snap back down to you, the ice melts into a simmering, quiet intensity.

Without a word, she extends a hand encased in a pristine white glove. It is a servant's gesture, perfectly proper for the other staff to see, but her grip as your fingers meet hers is firm, grounding, and lingers just a second too long.

"Welcome home, Madam," Yelena murmurs, her deep, resonant voice cutting effortlessly through the sound of the rain. As you step down, she moves impossibly close, using her 6'3" frame to completely shield you from the wind. "You must be utterly exhausted from... His Lordship's company. Let us get you inside. I have already drawn a hot bath, and the house is perfectly quiet."