"How many chambers are there?" Evangeline asked as they passed yet another corridor of closed doors.
"Mrs. Cromwell says near on a hundred, miss, though I have never counted them myself. Most have not been opened since His Grace returned from the wars. He keeps to the library, his study, and his chambers in the east wing. He does not much like company."
They descended a big staircase adorned with portraits of previous Dukes of Ravenshollow—stern-faced men with the aquiline features and piercing dark eyes that seemed to mark the bloodline. At the foot of the stairs, the entrance hall yawned before them like a cathedral, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadow.
"The family has dwelt here for nearly six hundred years," Mary explained, her voice dropping to a whisper in deference to the oppressive grandeur. "Every Duke has added something—a wing here, a tower there. His Grace's grandfather built the ballroom, though it has not seen a dance since the old Duke died."
"When was that?"
"Three years past, miss. Just after His Grace returned from the war. Some say the shock of seeing his heir so changed hastened the old Duke's end."
Evangeline felt her stomach clench. Changed. The wordseemed to follow her like a shadow, hinting at transformations too terrible to name. What had war done to the Duke of Ravenshollow that even his own father could not bear to witness it?
They moved through a series of state rooms—a drawing room draped in covers, a dining room with a table that could seat forty but showed no signs of recent use, a music room where a magnificent pianoforte sat silent beneath its protective cloth. Each chamber spoke of grandeur abandoned, of a great house that had forgotten its purpose.
"Does His Grace never entertain?" Evangeline asked as they passed what had clearly once been a magnificent ballroom. The floor was shining and crystal chandeliers hung like frozen fireworks from the painted ceiling. But the mirrors were draped, and the French doors leading to the terrace were firmly shuttered.
Mary shook her head sadly. "Not since he returned, miss. Mrs. Cromwell says he will not have guests, will not attend assemblies or hunt meetings. The local gentry tried calling at first, but..." She trailed off, her expression troubled.
"But what?"
"Well, miss, the first few visitors who saw His Grace, never returned. Word spread. Now folks keep their distance, and His Grace seems to prefer it that way."
The implications of this intelligence were deeply unsettling. What could be so shocking about the Duke's appearance that even hardened Yorkshire gentry fled his presence? Evangeline found herself remembering Mr. Blackwood's careful warnings about the Duke's "terrifying" reputation and wondered if she had been naive to dismiss them as mere gossip.
As they made their way toward the library where she was to meet her fate, Evangeline's nervousness increased with each step. The corridor leading to the Duke's domain felt differentfrom the rest of the house—not abandoned, but actively inhabited. The air carried the scent of leather and tobacco, and she could hear the faint crackling of a fire beyond one of the doors.
"This is as far as I go, miss," Mary whispered when they reached a heavy oak door adorned with the Ravenshollow arms. "His Grace's library. Mrs. Cromwell says I am to leave you here and return to my duties."
"Mary," Evangeline caught the girl's arm as she turned to flee. "Is there anything else I should know? About His Grace, I mean?"
The maid's eyes darted nervously toward the door. "Just remember what Mrs. Cromwell told you, miss. Speak clearly and do not make sudden movements. And do not take it personally if he seems harsh. The war has changed him."
With that less-than-comforting advice, Mary scurried away, leaving Evangeline alone in the corridor. She stood before the library door for a long moment, gathering her courage like armor about herself. Whatever waited beyond that threshold, she would face it with the dignity befitting a Hartwell. Her father had not raised her to cower before any man, Duke or no.
She knocked firmly and waited.
"Enter," came a voice from within—deep, cultured, but carrying an edge that made her skin prickle with unease.
Evangeline turned the handle and stepped into the Duke's sanctuary.
The library was vast, its walls lined floor to ceiling with leather-bound volumes that must have represented centuries of collecting. A fire roared in the massive stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across Persian carpets and mahogany furniture that spoke of wealth and refinement. Tall windows faced the moor, but heavy curtains blocked most of the natural light, leaving the room illuminated primarily by the fire andseveral strategically placed lamps.
For a moment, she saw no occupant. Then a figure emerged from the shadows near the windows, and Evangeline's breath caught in her throat.
The Duke of Ravenshollow was a giant of a man, standing well over six feet in height with shoulders that seemed to span half the room. In his military days, such proportions must have been impressive, commanding respect and admiration from both subordinates and enemies alike. Here, in the confined space of the library, his sheer physical presence was overwhelming—intimidating in a way that had nothing to do with rank or title and everything to do with the primitive fear of being cornered by a predator.
But it was not his size that made her heart stutter in her chest. It was the ruin that war had made of what must once have been a remarkably handsome face.
The left side of his countenance bore the unmistakable marks of cannon fire or explosive blast. Scars carved deep furrows from temple to jaw, twisting the flesh into patterns that spoke of unimaginable pain. His left eye was intact but surrounded by damaged tissue that pulled at the corner, while his ear on that side was little more than a mangled remnant. His hair, which might once have been fashionably styled, hung long and dark to partially conceal the worst of the damage, but nothing could hide the fundamental alteration of his features.
Yet it was his eyes that truly captured her attention, dark as midnight and burning with an intelligence that seemed to look straight through her. Whatever physical damage he had sustained, his mind remained clearly intact, sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous.
He leaned heavily upon a walking stick carved from some dark wood, his left leg obviously paining him. But even diminished by injury, he radiated a power that filled theroom like smoke from the fire. This was a man accustomed to command, to obedience, to having his will obeyed without question.
And he was studying her with the intensity of a naturalist examining some rare and potentially dangerous specimen.
"Miss Hartwell," he said, his voice carrying the cultured tones of the finest education overlaid with something harder, more primal. "You are smaller than I anticipated."
