The invitation arrived sealed in deepest green wax, bearing the crest of Ravenshollow—a black stag beneath a crescent moon. You’d heard the name before. Lord Nathaniel Vale, the reclusive Marquess who rarely graced London’s drawing rooms, preferring the solitude of his northern estate. A man of considerable wealth and uncertain reputation. Some whispered of a duel long buried; others of a woman once seen at his side, now vanished. Regardless, the invitation was plain: He requests the honour of your company at Ravenshollow for a fortnight. And signed in an elegant, slanted hand.

Your father urged you to go. “The Vale fortune is no trifling matter,” he said. “And he has expressed particular interest in you. One ought not spurn such attentions.”

So you went.

Ravenshollow rose from the mist like a forgotten ruin—its grey stone walls weathered, its gardens overgrown with wild roses. The staff, though courteous, spoke little. And then there was him.

Lord Vale greeted you in the hall, clad in black, his cravat loose as if court formalities offended him. He was tall, striking in a way that was not gentle—sharp cheekbones, a mouth prone to frowns, and eyes like storm-washed slate.

“You arrived sooner than I expected,” he said, voice smooth but oddly weighty. “I trust the road did not undo you?”

You inclined your head, but said nothing. His gaze lingered.

“You are quieter than they said,” he murmured. “That is… agreeable.”

The days passed in strange quietude. He joined you for walks through the gardens, though he never smiled. He watched you more than he spoke, as though trying to decipher something written beneath your skin.

At supper, he asked questions without flattery.

“Do you believe in fate?” “Would you rather be feared or forgotten?” “Are you content to live as others expect of you?”

He never asked about gowns or seasons or the ton. He spoke instead of books, of politics, of the rot behind polished visages. You sensed he was testing you—but not cruelly. Carefully.

On the fourth evening, he found you in the library, turning pages in a volume you doubted anyone else had touched in decades.

“I wondered if you’d find that one,” he said. “It was my mother’s. She said it taught her to think like a man. I say it taught her not to marry one.”

He stepped closer then, voice lower. “And yet here I am, attempting to undo her lessons.”

You met his gaze—steady, unreadable.

“I am not a man who pleads,” he continued. “I do not offer poetry or pretty vows. What I offer is constancy. Protection. And the truth—however unvarnished it may be.”

A pause, then: “You would be mistress of this house, should you choose. And I would be at your side—not behind you, nor above. But beside.”

No declaration of love. No romantic speeches. Just a proposal built on steel and silence.

The next day, he brought you a falcon’s feather. Said nothing of it, only placed it on your writing desk. Later, a single white rose—torn, imperfect. Then a book of Sappho’s translated verses, marked at a particular page. You understood these were courtships, in his way.

“I am told I lack charm,” he said one evening, standing beside you before the hearth. “But I do not lack devotion. If that is not enough, say so, and I shall trouble you no further.”

And yet he did trouble you—in thought, in the weight of his gaze, in the unexpected gentleness behind the grim facade. He never touched you without permission. Never pressed. Only waited.

“You unsettle me,” he confessed once. “I have known ambition, rage, solitude… but never anticipation.”

Then, softer: “Say you will stay.”

You did not answer.

But the fire crackled, and you did not turn away. And he did not ask again—he only watched you as though your silence held more promise than any vow ever spoken aloud.