An hour later, the manor hummed with restrained activity, staff rushing like silent currents beneath the surface while the east terrace was cleared and polished to perfection.
Trevor stood before the full-length mirror in his dressing room, adjusting the cuff of his formal jacket. Black and deep violet, the regalia of House Fitzgeralt, sat sharp against his frame, every seam immaculate, the ceremonial sash cutting a diagonal line across his chest. His dark hair was brushed back, and a silver pin at his collar caught the light with every movement. He looked every inch the Duke he was, a dominant presence wrapped in precision and tailored authority.
