“I have a request.”
“Anything, Your Grace.” Her father’s voice had the particular strain of a man who suspected he was about to regret his own words.
“I would like Lady Serafina to come to Blackthorn Castle for several weeks.”
The room went utterly still.
“As my personal adviser,” the duke added before anyone could mistake his meaning. “Not as a guest, not as a prospective bride. I need her knowledge of estate records, archival history, and family correspondence. Her skills are considerable.”
Lady Cordelia’s composure cracked at last. “Your Grace, surely one of my own daughters would be better suited to—”
“I have made my request.” His tone did not invite argument. “I trust it will be honored.”
Serafina sat frozen in her chair, heart hammering, as her father, for the first time in years, looked directly at her. Not with warmth, not with an apology, but with something new, something careful, as though he were seeing a stranger sit where his daughter used to be.
She didn’t understand any of it yet. Not why the duke had come, not what he already knew of her, not why her name alone had been enough to bring him three days’ ride from Blackthorn. But she understood one thing clearly. Whatever this was, it had started long before tonight.
Blackthorn Castle was nothing like Serafina expected. She had imagined cold stone and colder silence, a place that matched its master’s reputation. Instead, she found a household running with quiet precision, servants who greeted her by name, and a study lined floor to ceiling with records no one had touched in decades.
“This is where you’ll be working,” the duke said, leading her through the heavy oak door on her first morning.
Dust hung in the light from the tall windows. Ledgers, journals, and bundles of correspondence sat stacked in uneven towers across every surface.
“Working on what, exactly?”