LONDON 1901
The clang of steel echoed sharply across the garden, each strike resonating in the warm afternoon air. Two men, both impeccably dressed, though their coats had long been discarded, moved with practiced precision. The young Duke, Adrian Alaric Blackthorne, circled his opponent with measured grace, his breathing steady yet strained. His dark-haired adversary, Butler Blakes, parried with admirable skill, though it was clear the years were beginning to dull his reflexes.
Their swords met again, sparks catching the sunlight before fading into the gentle hum of cicadas. Sweat trickled down Adrian's temple, but he refused to yield an inch. The butler lunged, a sudden burst of speed that would have surprised most men, but Adrian was ready—he turned, deflecting the strike with a sharp twist of his wrist. A moment later, Butler Blakes' sword flew from his grasp, clattering against the marble path.
Adrian lowered his blade, its tip resting at the butler's chest. A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Yield?" he asked, amusement flickering in his tone.
For a heartbeat, Butler Blakes simply gazed up at him, chest heaving from exertion. Then, with a soft, breathless laugh, he inclined his head. "I yield, Your Grace."
Adrian stepped back, lowering his sword and sliding it neatly into its sheath. The garden around them shimmered under the noon sun—roses, dahlias, and white lilies swaying gently in the breeze, the sound of a distant fountain mingling with the faint rustle of leaves. For a moment, he simply stood there, catching his breath. It wasn't just a duel; it was a reminder of the lessons drilled into him since boyhood.
Butler Blakes rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his trousers with quiet dignity. "You seem to have grown sharper with the blade, Your Grace," he said, pride softening his tone.
Adrian's lips curved into a modest smile as they began walking along the stone path leading back toward the mansion. "Only because I was trained by the best."
He meant it, and he knew the words would please the old man. Blakes had been more than a teacher, he had been a constant presence throughout Adrian's childhood, guiding him with patience and unyielding loyalty.
A young servant hurried toward them, bowing before offering a neatly folded towel. Adrian accepted it with a brief nod, dabbing the sweat from his face as they entered through a narrow door that opened into the west corridor. The scent of polished wood and lavender oil greeted them, a familiar comfort after the intensity of the training grounds.
Adrian loosened his cravat slightly, his thoughts already drifting. "When is Father expected to arrive in London?" he asked as they climbed the staircase toward the upper hall.
Blakes hesitated only a moment before answering, "A day before the wedding, Your Grace. He also sent word concerning Lady Evelina."
At that name, Adrian's steps faltered—barely perceptibly, but enough that Blakes noticed. Lady Evelina. The name had been spoken often of late, each time stirring a faint unease in him. He had not met her, but the gossip surrounding her had traveled far and fast. A proud woman, sharp-tongued, rude. Not the sort one easily imagined as a duchess, or a wife.
He schooled his expression into calm indifference. "What did he say?"
"That Lady Evelina will arrive three days before the wedding. She departs England tomorrow."
Adrian nodded slowly, resuming his stride. "Have the servants prepare suitable quarters for her."
"Yes, Your Grace."
They walked a while in silence, their footsteps echoing softly along the tiled floor. The grand portraits of his ancestors lined the walls, their painted eyes following him like silent judges. He found himself wondering whether they, too, had once felt the same apprehension—the same quiet resistance beneath the weight of duty.
At last, he spoke again, his voice lower now. "Tell me, Blakes, what have you heard of Lady Evelina's disposition?"
The butler looked at him, surprised. "Her disposition, Your Grace?"
"Yes. What sort of woman is she?"
Blakes took a moment to consider, clearly measuring his words. "From what I have been told, she is... a fine lady. Well-educated. Composed. She received top marks in her lady's training and is much admired in society. She will make a most suitable duchess."
Adrian smiled faintly, though it did not reach his eyes. "I am certain she will," he murmured.
In truth, the thought of her unsettled him. The arrangement had been his father's doing, forged for power and alliance rather than affection. Adrian had long accepted that duty would outweigh desire, yet the prospect of marrying a stranger, a woman whose name alone made his shoulders tense, filled him with quiet dread.
Blakes, ever perceptive, glanced sideways. "Do you have doubts about her, Your Grace?"
Adrian's steps slowed once more. He did not answer immediately. Instead, he looked ahead, where sunlight spilled through the tall windows, catching on the gilt frames of old portraits. Doubts? Of course he had them. But doubts had no place in a life dictated by lineage.
At last, he said simply, "I don't know, Blakes. Perhaps it is best I trust my father's judgment."
The butler inclined his head. "A wise decision, Your Grace."