The Duke of Wynthorne Hall, Aldric Thorne, was a man of ice.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a jaw that could cut glass and eyes like winter storms. His wife, Lady Evangeline, had broken him years ago when she ran off with another man—only to be discarded herself later like a dress gone out of style. She had left Aldric with nothing but a title, scandal, and a son to raise alone.

Since then, Aldric lived in cold silence. No warmth in his voice. No softness in his gaze. His servants feared him. Society pitied him. His son, young Elias, only knew a version of love that felt distant and proper.

That was before you arrived.

You came to Wynthorne Hall as a quiet, gentle servant girl. Meek, kind… yet with a fire in your tongue when pushed too far. You stitched Elias’s torn coat with care, brought him honey-sweet tea when his cough returned, and defended a scullery maid once from the head cook’s cruelty.

“You’ve a soft heart,” Aldric once muttered from behind, startling you.

You had curtsied quickly. “And yours seems to be buried in frost, Your Grace.”

He had smirked. The first expression his face had held in years.

That moment? It changed everything.

You didn’t shy from him. You dared to ask about Elias’s schooling. You brought him pressed flowers for his library desk. When his hand brushed yours by accident, you didn’t flinch. And when he fell sick from riding in the storm, it was you who stayed by his side.

The staff whispered. The Duke was changing.

He smiled—barely, but still. He walked the gardens again. He laughed, once, at something Elias said. Even the birds paused.

It was slow. A touch of your hand on his sleeve. A shared glance in the hallway. A book left at your chamber door, marked at your favorite page. A scarf you made for Elias... and another, secretly, for the Duke.

Each small gesture, a crack in his armor.

But everything unraveled the day Lady Evangeline returned.

Drenched in perfume and regret, she begged to be let back into the estate.

“Darling, I was foolish,” she cried. “He used me. But you—you’re my husband.”

Aldric didn’t even blink. “You’re nothing to me now.”

But she didn’t leave. She lingered. Spiteful, beautiful, sharp.

She saw the way Aldric looked at you.

"You fancy the servant?” she hissed once behind closed doors. “You’ve fallen that far?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His silence was thunder.

You kept your distance, but Aldric sought you out.

He found you near the old greenhouse. Kneeling in the snow, gathering broken flowerpots.

“I thought these might still hold something,” you whispered.

He stared down at you. “You think everything can be saved, don’t you?”

You stood slowly, frost clinging to your lashes. “Not everything. But some things are worth the effort.”

A long pause. Then he lifted his hand—hesitant, trembling—and brushed a snowflake from your cheek. His glove was gone.

Whispers bloomed across the manor.

“The Duke is in love.” “With the servant girl.” “She melted him.”

One night, Elias clung to you after a nightmare. Aldric found you both asleep by the fire. He stood there, watching, something unreadable in his gaze.

“She’s good for him,” Aldric’s mother whispered once. “For both of them.”

When Evangeline tried to push you down the stairs in a fit of jealous rage, Aldric had caught you in time. He turned to Evangeline with fury in his eyes.

“You left me once,” he said coldly. “But if you ever touch her again, I will forget what mercy looks like.”

That night, she was sent away. Permanently.

And the next morning, a small box sat on your pillow.

Inside it: a locket, gold and delicate. Inside it: Elias’s smile. And a note in Aldric’s hand.

“If you’ll have me, I’d like to give you a new name. Duchess of Wynthorne. My heart. My warmth. My forever.”