A Silent Lady for the Brooding Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

“You’ve had your fair share of unusual commissions, but this one, my dear, might be your strangest yet.”

Miss Isabella Fairchild looked up from where she was sketching in her notebook—despite the rocking of the carriage—to see her aunt, Lady Cecilia Ashby, Countess of Westbrook, watching her from the bench across from her.

“Well, perhaps the commission itself isn’t so strange,” Cecilia mused, “but the man who is commissioning it certainly is.”

Isabella smiled and shook her head, then returned to her drawing. It was a simple portrait of her aunt, wrapped in her traveling cloak with a sable fur draped around her neck. Aunt Cecilia had always been very fashionable and up to date on all the trends of the ton, a glamorous countess if there ever was one, and Isabella took every chance she could to draw her. This carriage ride was one of those opportunities. They had been traveling all day, and there had been little else to do, especially since the conversation had been, as always, so one-sided. 

“You don’t think so?” Cecilia asked, and Isabella looked up again. Her aunt looked incredulous that she hadn’t shown more agreement with her assessment of the commission. “You do know the duke’s reputation, don’t you?”

Isabella nodded, then shrugged. She turned the page of her notebook and wrote quickly on it, Who am I to judge someone known for being strange? Someone might say the same thing about me.

She handed the paper across to her aunt, who read it quickly and snorted. 

“You’re not strange, my dear,” she said defensively. “Perhaps a touch… different.”

Isabella raised an eyebrow, as if to say, That’s one way of saying an ‘on-the-shelf outcast who may be the daughter of a baron but who is still unmarried at two-and-twenty and will probably end up a spinster’.

Her aunt, understanding her as always, relented. “All right, I know there are some members of the ton who find you strange, but that is only because they don’t understand.”

Isabella gave her aunt a look. And it is the same with the duke. We just don’t understand him. 

“It’s not the same!” Cecilia objected, correctly reading Isabella’s expressions. “He is a duke! He has a duty to participate in Society. But ever since he returned from the war, he has been walled up in that castle of his, not speaking to a soul. Every young lady of the ton is eager to meet him, all their mamas are falling over themselves to have him marry their girls, and meanwhile, he refuses to see anyone! How is he supposed to produce an heir if he remains sequestered? How is he supposed to carry on his family line?”

Isabella shrugged. Maybe he doesn’t want an heir, she thought. Maybe he is happy being alone in his castle. 

It was hard for her to imagine wanting to be alone, though. She had spent so much of her life alone, not by choice, and so she didn’t know why anyone would choose it. Maybe for a man, though, especially a duke, it was not such a bad thing to be alone and unmarried. It was much worse for women. Without marriage, most women were doomed to penniless, meaningless lives. 

Although Isabella thought with some relief, that isn’t true for me. I do have the means to support myself. She was lucky that way. 

“Have you heard the rumors?” Cecilia asked, leaning closer to Isabella from across the carriage. 

Isabella hesitated again, then nodded. She didn’t really want to give credence to rumors, but she had to admit, they intrigued her.

“They say that he was scarred severely during the war,” her aunt whispered, even though there was no one around to hear them except the driver. “And that it left him deaf. It’s rather poetic, don’t you think, that he would hire you to restore the mural on his property? Him deaf, and you mute.” Cecilia’s eyes glittered for a moment. “It almost seems too perfect…”

Isabella rolled her eyes. Cecilia, of course, understood what she was trying to say. 

“I’m not trying to set up a match!” Her aunt said quickly. “I don’t want you married to a reclusive duke who won’t speak to a soul after returning from the war. Who knows what his battle wounds might have done to him…for all we know, he’s violent.”

Cecilia bit her lip and grew silent for a moment. Then she put on a cheery smile. “Don’t worry, I’m sure he won’t be violent. And if he is, well then, that’s why you have me as a chaperone. We will flee back to London as fast as we can, if he turns out to be dangerous.”

Isabella laughed and shook her head. I’m sure he won’t be dangerous, she wrote on another piece of paper, which she handed to her aunt. What she didn’t add, however, was that she was a little nervous. 

Nathaniel Hawke, the Duke of Blackwood, had been attracting rumors and gossip his entire life. Of course, when he was young, the rumors that swirled around him had been much more favorable in tone: he had been known as a lively, charismatic younger son of the Duke of Blackwood, perhaps a little frivolous and irresponsible with money, but charming enough that he could get away with it. And with his older brother tapped for the dukedom, he had been free to spend his life partaking in any whim that struck his fancy.

But he hadn’t done that. Although Isabella was six years younger than the duke, she still remembered when he had decided to join the Navy. Cecilia had always been an avid reader of the gossip columns, and Isabella used to steal them from her vanity every time she came to visit her aunt and uncle. She was fourteen when she’d read that the ‘most eligible bachelor in England’ had decided to join the fight against Napoleon, that he longed to ‘make a name for himself’ and ‘find purpose as a younger son.’ She had never known if those were the real reasons he had left to fight against Napoleon, but she’d admired him for it. 

But when Lord Nathaniel had returned to England, his father and older brother were dead, he’d inherited the dukedom, and he had promptly shut himself away in his castle. He was never seen out in Society, and the rumors that followed him now spoke of a violent temper, dislike of others, and hideous scars that had left him deaf. 

Needless to say, Isabella couldn’t help but feel a little curious about him, even if she was also nervous. She had no idea what to expect. But at least this was different from the usual jobs she was asked to do. Never before had she been asked to restore a mural, and she was honored that he had commissioned her. 

And, of course, the fact he was rumored to be deaf was intriguing. She had never met someone who had a similar malady to her own and hoped she might be able to ask him more about what it was like for him. 

If she could figure out a way to communicate with him, of course. Which was another good reason she had a companion and chaperone like Cecilia; hopefully, her aunt could help facilitate communication between her and the Duke of Blackwood. 

“I still think you were a little mad to take this job,” Cecilia said, sighing and glancing out the window of the carriage. “So far away from London and all of Society…”

Isabella glanced outside as well. It was a cold, gray day, and the wind was howling as it raced over the moors surrounding them. That was always how it was, this far north, or so Isabella had heard. 

“You know your uncle, and I would have supported you if you’d decided not to take it,” her aunt said.

Isabella shook her head. You already support me too much. 

“Don’t you dare imply we already support you too much,” Cecilia said, crossing her arms. “It’s the least we can do after the death of your poor father. But even without our support, you hardly needed this commission. You get so many as it is.”

I wanted to, Isabella wrote on another piece of paper, which she handed over to Cecilia. We shouldn’t judge people based on rumors and physical disabilities. 

She tore out another piece of paper and wrote, I want to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he isn’t as cruel as the ton says he is. 

Cecilia read this through, then sighed again. “You’re right, like you always are. If there is one thing being mute has given you, my love, it is more empathy for others. You know I admire that about you. Don’t listen to me and my worries. I’m just nervous because the duke is said to be intimidating. I never thought I could be intimidated by anyone, but I guess I can be!”

Isabella had to agree with this; she had never thought the day would come when Lady Westbrook, the darling of the ton, was intimidated by a duke. It was much more often that Isabella was the one who became tongue-tied and nervous. But it was hard not to be intimidated by people who assumed she was stupid when she wasn’t able to speak to them. 

She was just about to write another note to her aunt thanking her for her kind words, when suddenly, the carriage jolted, and Isabella was thrown forward. At the same time, her aunt let out a cry, the horses whinnied, and up top, the driver cursed. The carriage jolted again, then swayed dangerously, and Isabella’s stomach dropped out of her. 

We are going to tip over! 

Her first thought was for the poor horse, and then for the driver, who would be unprotected from the fall. 

Her next thought was for her and her aunt; if the carriage tipped over, it could crush them. They could get trapped inside without a way to escape. 

Her throat seemed to close, and the air became difficult to breathe. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. Her vocal cords felt as if they had become constricted as if someone was squeezing them in their fist. 

I’ve felt this before…

A scream filled her ears, but it wasn’t her aunt’s or the driver’s; it belonged to someone else, and it reached her now, through the long expanse of time, and ricocheted through her brain. 

No! Don’t think of that!

The carriage jolted again, then fell to the right, and this time, her aunt screamed. 

The carriage tilted halfway over, then stopped. By sheer luck, it seemed that something had broken their fall. Perhaps a bank on the side of the road or a tree. Isabella and Cecilia, however, were still flung to the side of the carriage that had tilted over, hitting the walls hard. At the same time, their few belongings landed on top of them, including Isabella’s notebook and her aunt’s reticule. Outside, they heard the horses neighing in fear and pain. The driver was shouting, trying to calm them down. 

At least he sounds alive!

Isabella, meanwhile, tried to assess how much damage had been done. Her arm, which had hit the side of the carriage hard, hurt, but it didn’t seem as if the bone was broken. Her side also ached, and her heart was hammering painfully in her chest, but at least it was getting easier to breathe again. 

“Are you all right?” Cecilia asked, crawling toward her from the other side of the carriage. “Were you hurt? Show me where it hurts!”

Cecilia’s face was a mask of worry, and Isabella could hear the panic in her voice, so she smiled gently to indicate she was okay and gingerly touched her side. 

“Is it bad?” Cecilia asked, but Isabella shook her head. 

“Okay, that’s good.” Cecilia sat back, which was difficult because they were still up against the side of the tilted carriage. She then reached up and tried the handle of the door on the side that was pointing up toward the sky. It was stuck. 

“Blast,” she swore. “How are we going to get out of here? Help! Help us!”

She banged her fist on the carriage door, but the driver’s voice had moved further away. He seemed to have forgotten about his passengers and was calling after a horse who had somehow escaped its harness. 

“Help!” Cecilia shouted again, banging on the door. “We’re in here! Please, someone help us!”

Her aunt’s voice was filled with emotion, and Isabella tried to take a cool, calming breath. It was difficult. As her aunt rapped on the door, the carriage seemed to grow smaller. It felt as if the walls were closing in around them, and the distant, long-ago scream was once more filling Isabella’s ears. 

She needed to get out of the carriage. Now. 

“Help!” Cecilia shouted one more time, and although she looked tired and her voice had grown weak, she hit the carriage door with her fist one more time. 

And then, to Isabella’s shock, it opened, and a gloved hand descended into the carriage. 

“Take my hand,” a deep, masculine voice said from above them. Cecilia gasped.

“Oh, thank God!” she gushed, “We’re saved!” She turned immediately to Isabella. “You go first, my dear.”

Isabella tried to object, but it was difficult when she couldn’t speak. Her aunt pulled her forward, and she was forced to reach up and grab the gloved hand. 

The black leather glove was soft to the touch, and the moment Isabella wrapped her hand around it, she could feel the owner’s strength. She caught a glimpse of black hair and a flash of dark eyes above her, and then the hand tightened around hers and, seemingly without effort, lifted her out of the carriage doors. When she was halfway out, the man’s other hand came to her waist, and he pulled her the rest of the way. She didn’t even hear a grunt of strain, and she’d had barely a moment to revel in the strength of her rescuer when he was depositing her upright on the road and she was finally able to get a good look at him.

The man towering above her was tall, so tall that she had to strain her neck to look up into his eyes. And what eyes he had. They were dark brown and full of a fiery intensity that made her skin prickle with fear and excitement. His hair was black, and it was long and loose, swirling in front of his face as the wind whipped around them. 

It was this face that arrested her most. It was handsome, with a chiseled jawline, hollowed cheeks, and a strong nose, but the right half of it was disfigured by a long red scar that ran all the way from his forehead to his chin. 

Her stomach flipped over. 

This is the Duke of Blackwood!

For a long moment, she gazed at him, unable to react. His eyes narrowed as well, and he gave her a long, searching look. Then, a cool smile flitted across his lips.

“So,” he murmured, his deep voice almost too quiet for her to hear, “this is the woman who is said to be the greatest painter in England. We meet at last.”

 

Chapter Two

Isabella’s mouth fell open. She had never been addressed this way before, although her aunt was always trying to read her reviews of her work that were filled with glowing remarks. Her patrons were equally effusive. They praised her talent and offered her more money than she’d asked for, and several artists she admired and considered the best in England had reached out to her for consultations and collaborations. 

But still. No one had ever called her the greatest. Not to her face, at least. 

However, Isabella didn’t have much time to think about this, or to stare up into the dark, smoldering eyes of the duke, because her aunt’s shout came from the carriage again, and then the duke turned away from her and returned to the doors. 

“Give me your hand,” he commanded as he reached back into the carriage. Seconds later, he was pulling Cecilia up out through the doors and then set her on the ground next to Isabella.

Cecilia looked decidedly worse for wear. Her hat had been knocked off, her hair was all askew, tears streaked her cheeks, and she was very pale. However, the moment she was safe, she turned to Isabella. 

“Are you all right?” she asked again, her eyes raking over her niece. “Are you sure you weren’t harmed?”

Isabella nodded. I’m all right. 

Cecilia continued to gaze at her, then she turned at last to the duke. 

“Are you hurt?” the duke asked her aunt, his brow wrinkled in concern. He had a funny way of speaking, Isabella noticed. He enunciated every word a little bit too much, as if he were speaking to a toddler or someone who did not speak the language. 

“I’m unharmed,” Cecilia said briskly. “Although the crash certainly gave us a fright!”

“My servant saw your carriage crash,” the duke said, gesturing at a man standing outside of another carriage several yards away, watching them anxiously. “I came as quickly as I could.”

“Oh my! Then you must live very close.”

Cecilia glanced around, and then she grew still. Isabella followed her gaze. Her eyes were fixed on a castle on a hill up ahead of them. It hadn’t been visible from the carriage, but now they could see it clearly; its turrets loomed up above the trees, so close that it was probably only a few more minutes away by carriage ride. 

Isabella saw her aunt come to the same realization she had: no one else could live in such a castle and have the scars this man did, without being the Duke of Blackwood. 

Cecilia turned back to the duke and swept into a curtsy. 

“Your Grace,” she murmured. “You rescued us from disaster! And what strength and bravery you showed! We cannot thank you enough for this heroism.”

The duke blinked at her, his expression uncomprehending. For a moment, Cecilia continued to stare at him expectantly, and then comprehension lit up her face, and she blushed scarlet. 

“Oh…” She turned to Isabella, and their eyes met. 

Of course, Isabella thought. He is deaf. He doesn’t know what Cecilia is saying.

Cecilia turned back to the duke but seemed uncertain how to continue. However, he held up a hand to stop her from trying to speak. 

“Will you speak slowly, please?” he asked with the same strange enunciation. 

It’s because he can’t hear himself, Isabella realized. He has to enunciate to make sure he is saying the correct words and that we can understand him. 

Her heart immediately went out to him. She knew exactly what it felt like to constantly have to adjust one’s behavior to accommodate a disability. Ever since she was young, she had carried a notebook everywhere with her to write down what she needed to say. She wondered, as she looked at the duke, if he carried a notebook as well. 

“If you speak slowly, I can read your lips,” he continued in his halting, too-articulate way. Even with his strange way of speaking, however, Isabella thought he had a beautiful voice: it was deep and rich, like the dark chocolate she had tried only once before at an expo offering foods from far-flung corners of the world. The chocolate had been from somewhere in South America, if she remembered correctly, and it had been both sweet and bitter, tangy and exotic, and she thought that the duke was a bit like that as well. 

His voice, at least, certainly was. 

“Oh, then I shall speak slowly!” Cecilia said, much too quickly. Isabella smiled in amusement. She had never known her aunt to speak slowly. 

“My name is Lady Cecilia Westbrook,” Cecilia said, “and this is my niece, Miss Isabella Fairchild, who, of course, is here in order to help with the restoration of the mural on your estate.”

The duke looked at Isabella again, and his eyes glittered for a moment. 

“Yes,” he said. “I know who she is. She is here at my invitation.”

“Indeed, and we are very grateful that you would commission her to take on such an important work of art. She is ever so—”

“Is it true you do not speak?” the duke interrupted, still staring at Isabella. 

She felt her cheeks flush, but she raised her chin defiantly before responding with a quick, curt nod. 

Another flicker of a smile passed over the duke’s lips. “Good,” he murmured. “Then we will be able to communicate by my preferred method: silence.” He looked meaningfully at Cecilia, and she blushed. It was clear that he thought Cecilia spoke far too much. 

Isabella, meanwhile, didn’t know what to think. Very few people had ever seemed to think it was a good thing she didn’t speak, and a horrible thought suddenly crossed her mind: did he commission me for this restoration simply because he likes that I don’t speak? Or does he truly think I’m talented? 

But she was being silly. He had called her the greatest painter in England. That had to mean something. 

At the same time, she was a little offended that he would ask about her muteness so bluntly and unfeelingly. It was a source of great anxiety and shame for her, and she didn’t like to discuss it with strangers. 

Perhaps this is why he has a reputation for cruelty. 

“You can take my carriage up to the castle,” the duke said, looking back at Cecilia. “And I can have my physician tend to you if you are in pain. My stable master will also come to see to your horses. And, of course, I will send footmen to bring your things up to the castle and settle you into the guestrooms.”

He said this slowly and deliberately, and Isabella could almost feel the effort that it cost him. By the time he was finished, he was scowling as if it had caused him great pain. 

Her aunt, however, didn’t seem to notice.

“Thank you, that is very kind of you, Your Grace. We are very grateful for all your help. I do hope that it doesn’t put you out too much!” She continued to prattle on and on as he helped her into the carriage. Only once she was inside did she stop talking, and then the duke turned to Isabella and offered her his hand again. 

She let her hand rest in his, and once more, his strength helped her upward as she climbed into the carriage. Once she was seated, she looked back at him. He was still staring at her. 

The look in his eyes was unreadable, and moments later, the carriage lurched forward, breaking their gaze. 

Cecilia sighed and leaned back in her seat. “Well, that was a terrible adventure! But what a dashing duke! Did you see the ease with which he rescued us? He is certainly as strong and handsome as the rumors say. And his offer to send his physician to us! What thoughtfulness!”

Isabella had to agree. There was something caustic and abrasive about him, but she was touched by his offer of the physician, as well as how quickly he had ridden to their rescue when he’d been made aware of their accident. 

Perhaps there really is more to this duke than the rumors say. 

***

When they arrived at the castle, they were immediately shown into the parlor, where they were served hot tea and cakes. Isabella hadn’t realized how cold and famished she had been, but after the fear and excitement of the carriage accident, she was very hungry and ate her fill. The tea warmed her as well, and after half an hour, she was feeling somewhat revived. 

Cecilia, meanwhile, seemed to finally have grown weary because she didn’t say much as she sipped her tea. This gave Isabella time to look around the room. She was impressed by what she saw: paintings by some of the great masters hung on the walls. Even those she didn’t recognize had clearly been selected by someone with an eye for art. 

He is serious about this mural, then, she thought. This isn’t just a vanity project for him.

This was reassuring. She had worked with patrons before who didn’t care much about quality, but who simply wanted to say that their works of art were the best. She much preferred those who took pride in the restorations, who appreciated their aesthetic value. 

After another quarter of an hour, the door to the parlor opened, and the butler announced the duke. 

He had changed since they’d last seen him on the road. Now, the duke was dressed formally for receiving guests, and his hair had been combed back off his face. As he entered the parlor, he seemed less rugged than he had outside, although no less formidable. 

Now that she was no longer half-paralyzed by fear, Isabella took a moment to get a more thorough look at the duke. He was as tall as she remembered, and broad as well, with wide shoulders, strong arms, and large hands. She imagined that this kind of imposing stature had been good on the battlefield, but in the parlor, he seemed to take up far too much room, even though it was spacious. He was also handsome. In fact, the scar along his face only added to the essence of mystery and power that he exuded. Everything about him was so imperious that Isabella felt herself shrink back slightly. She had no reason to be intimidated, but he gave off such a sense of power that she couldn’t help but be. 

“Forgive me for not greeting you properly earlier,” he said, bowing to them both. And although his language was formal, there was a curtness in his delivery that made Isabella feel as if he wished he were not speaking to them at all. 

“Lady Westbrook, you are welcome. And Miss Fairchild…” He turned to Isabella. Once more, she had the feeling of his eyes raking over her. “Word of your expertise has traveled far.” His lip curled back. “Well, we will see if you are as good as they say.”

Isabella flushed. Anger and indignation coursed through her. She wanted to point out that only an hour ago, he had said she was the greatest painter in England. How dare he now question her talents!

But had he actually said she was the greatest? Isabella paused as she thought back to his exact words. The woman who is said to be the greatest painter in England…

So, he doubted her skills! Why had he brought her here, then? To test her? Or maybe he simply was always like this: He didn’t believe anything until it had been proven to him. 

“I know you have had a trying day, with the crash,” he continued, “but I would like to show you the mural now. Would you be amenable to seeing it?”

Isabella nodded, and for a brief moment, she experienced a strange sense of relief; this was the first time in her life that she was able to communicate to someone through gestures who actually preferred it that way. 

The duke motioned for her to come with him, and she and her aunt followed him from the parlor and through the cold, winding hallways of the castle. It was drafty, and the sound of the wind howling outside could be heard through the rickety windows. The castle itself was beautifully and richly decorated, but it also looked old and unused. As they passed different rooms, she glanced inside to see furniture covered with sheets as if they hadn’t been used in a long time. 

Is it just him here? she wondered. Is it true that he never allows anyone to visit?

The emptiness of the place felt slightly creepy, and she drew a little closer to her aunt. 

“It is here,” the duke said from in front of them. He had stopped in front of a door, which he pushed open. She and Cecilia followed him inside. 

The parlor looked as if it had seen better days. The furniture wasn’t covered, but it was shabby and worn-looking, and most of the pieces needed to be sent to be reupholstered. There were cobwebs in the corners of the room, and the hearth looked as if it had not been lit for a long time. 

Which is perhaps why Isabella was so surprised when she turned and took in the mural that adorned the entire eastern wall. 

It was old, too, and in need of repair, which is why he had commissioned her to come here. 

But it was also one of the most magnificent pieces of art she had ever seen. 

She gasped. The mural was huge. It took up every inch of the wall, from the floor to the ceiling, and depicted at least a hundred different scenes. Just at first glance, she saw knights departing for the crusades, lords wooing ladies, children playing games in the courtyard of a castle, farmers tending to crops: weddings, births, deaths…everything that made up a life. 

“It is my family history,” the duke said from behind her. “Since the Middle Ages.”

Isabella was in awe. She couldn’t stop staring at all the beautiful little vignettes. Yes, the paint was faded, and in some places looked as if it had fallen away. Yes, it would be a huge undertaking to restore such a large mural, and yes, it was the biggest she had ever taken on. But she could hardly contain her excitement. 

This was the kind of work she had always longed to do. And now, she finally would. 

“It isn’t all one artist,” the duke continued. He came to stand next to Isabella and looked up at the mural. “Several different artists added to it over the centuries. It covers almost five hundred years of my family’s history. We came over with William the Conqueror from Normandy, you know, and until the late 16th century, painters continued the mural to show our great deeds and accomplishments.”

Isabella wished she could ask what had happened after the late 16th century, but her aunt supplied her question. 

“Why didn’t any artists continue after the late 16th century?” Cecilia asked. 

The duke, however, had his back to her, and when he didn’t answer, Isabella realized that he hadn’t been able to hear her aunt. Cecilia seemed to realize this as well, because she came around to stand by the duke and repeated her question. 

The duke’s eyes narrowed slightly as they tried to follow Cecilia’s mouth, but she was speaking quickly again. 

However, after a short hesitation, during which Isabella guessed he was trying to piece together what Cecilia had asked, he said, “The duchy fell into decline around that time. The seventh Duke of Blackwood, my great-great-grandfather, was a gambler and it is said that he lost all his money, and he couldn’t afford to keep a team of painters continuing the mural. After that, this room was closed, and the mural was all but forgotten. Until my father, that is. He had many plans to restore the mural, but one thing after another kept him from that goal. But now, I am the Duke of Blackwood, and I am going to finish it.”

He surveyed the work again, then looked at Isabella. “Do you think you will be able to paint in the style of the original mural? All the painters I have hired so far were not able to do so.”

Their eyes locked, and Isabella felt once more the prickle of excitement and fear in her stomach. She had never felt anything like it before, and she nodded. 

The duke nodded curtly as well. “Good. Then I will expect you here first thing tomorrow morning to begin your work. The last painter was lazy and liked to lie in late, but I hope you will be more prompt. I didn’t bring you here just for a holiday. This is work, and I’m paying you.”

Isabella blinked, surprised by the abruptness and harsh tone of the duke’s words. He was all coldness now, nothing like the man who had rescued her earlier that day. 

There was a knock on the door, and the butler came in and nodded at the duke. 

“Your rooms are ready,” the duke said. “My butler will show you to the guest wing of the house.”

He then turned, strode across the room, and disappeared through the door, leaving Isabella and Cecilia staring after him. 

They looked at each other, and Cecilia frowned. 

“What a strange man,” she murmured. “One second, he’s all chivalrous and attentive. The next…”

Well, you knew he wasn’t going to be your typical duke of the ton, Isabella thought. After all those rumors. 

The butler led them back through the castle to the guestrooms, and this time, Isabella felt the oppression of the castle even more intensely. It was so decrepit, so unwelcoming, devoid of all life or cheer. And empty, and as if no one had been living in it for a hundred years. 

Just the duke, alone with his thoughts and memories, alone with whatever pain has been haunting him since the war. 

Isabella shivered, and she was pretty sure it had nothing to do with the cold. Now that she had seen the mural, she realized it was going to take much longer than she had agreed to with the duke in their correspondence. But she also knew that she wasn’t going to abandon it early. This was the kind of art she had been hoping to do for a long time, and if she had to steel all her emotions and face her fears to be here, then she would. 

However, the mercurial, cantankerous duke and his sinister castle did not bode well for what the next few months would be like.