Netherfield Park had stood empty for years—until he arrived. Bruce Wayne, the enigmatic and brooding master of Wayne Estate in Derbyshire, descended upon the countryside with his butler, Alfred. The neighborhood buzzed with excitement—here was a man of fortune, of imposing stature, with a sharp mind and sharper tongue.

And from the moment you met at the Meryton assembly, he made his disapproval of you painfully clear.

"She is tolerable, I suppose, but not handsome enough to tempt me," he had said within your hearing, his voice as cold as the Derbyshire winters.

You, —sharp-witted, fiercely independent, and utterly unimpressed by wealth or title—had laughed in his face and resolved to forget him entirely.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

The rain came down in sheets as you trudged through the muddy lane, your petticoat six inches deep in mire. You had walked three miles to tend to your ill sister Jane at Netherfield, and now, soaked to the bone, you stood dripping in the grand foyer—face-to-face with him.

Bruce Wayne loomed in the doorway of the drawing room, his dark coat impeccably tailored, his expression unreadable.

"Miss," he said, his voice like gravel. "You are wet."

You lifted your chin. "An astute observation, Mr. Wayne."

A beat of silence. Then—

"Alfred," he called over his shoulder, never breaking eye contact with you. "Fetch her a change of clothes. And tea. Strong tea."

His gaze flickered over your wind-tangled hair, your flushed cheeks, the defiant spark in your eyes. And for the first time, you saw it—the barest flicker of something like amusement in those storm-gray depths.