SHE PRETENDED TO BE A “BOY” FOR 7 MONTHS TO AVOID AN ARRANGED MARRIAGE—UNTIL THE DUKE FOUND OUT…

Chapter 3

Winter took the estate by the throat and did not let go.

Snow came in thick curtains that swallowed sound, blanketing the grounds in a silence so complete that Josephine could hear her own heartbeat when she stopped moving. The water in the troughs froze solid overnight. Her hands cracked at the knuckles despite the rough gloves Dennis gave her, splitting open along old lines so that she learned to bind them with strips of cloth and say nothing, because complaining was a kind of visibility and she had sworn off visibility for the rest of her life.

Survival meant endurance. Endurance meant silence.

She repeated it to herself like a prayer.

The Duke did not speak to her again. But she began to notice him in ways she had not allowed herself before — and once you notice a man like Raymond Hawthorne, you cannot stop.

He rode every morning, whatever the weather. Always the black stallion, a beast called Arabus who tolerated no hand but his master’s and who had once bitten a groom clean through the forearm for reaching for his bridle. Sometimes the Duke rode north into the woods. Sometimes he rode down to the village, where they said he paid the smith in coins and never in conversation. But always, always, he passed through the stable yard on his way out and back.

And every time, his eyes found her.

Not obviously. Not with any acknowledgement she could have pointed to if asked. But she would be hauling feed across the yard with snow in her eyelashes, and she would feel it — that weight, that pressure, the sense of being looked at by someone who looked at nothing by accident.

She would glance up, sometimes, unable to stop herself.

And he would be watching. Just for a moment. Just long enough to make her breath catch in her throat.

Then he would ride on, and she would stand in the snow and tell herself she had imagined it, and know perfectly well that she had not.

“You’re jumpy lately,” Dennis observed one morning.

They were working side by side in the tack room, oiling leather until it shone, and the little stove in the corner filled the space with the smell of hot metal and beeswax. Josephine kept her eyes on her work.

“Just the cold. Makes everything harder.”

“The cold’s cruel here,” Dennis agreed. “But we’ve got it better than most. Warm beds. Regular meals. His Grace treats his staff fairly, long as you do your work.”

He paused, and she heard him set down his cloth.

“He’s a hard man,” Dennis said quietly. “But not a cruel one. I’ve been here fifteen years. Never once seen him raise his voice or his hand. He expects perfection. But he rewards competence, and he doesn’t cheat a man of his wages, and he doesn’t turn out a servant for being old.”

“Does he ever smile?”

The question escaped before she could catch it, and she cursed herself silently.

Dennis’s eyebrows went up. Then he laughed — a rough, surprised sound, like a door opening on a room nobody had entered in years.

“In fifteen years? Maybe twice. Once at a horse auction when he outbid a man he despised. Once when his hound caught a fox that had been raiding the hen house.” He shook his head. “Both times it was more a smirk than a smile. His Grace isn’t given to displays of emotion.”

Josephine absorbed this without speaking.

A man who never smiled. A man who moved through his own life with absolute control, who noticed everything and revealed nothing.

A dangerous man to hide from.

“Why doesn’t he marry?” she asked, keeping her voice casual, keeping her eyes on the leather. “Surely he needs an heir.”

“Ah, lad. That’s a question above your station.” But Dennis’s tone held no rebuke, only weariness, and he picked his cloth back up. “His Grace was engaged once. Years ago. Lady Margaret Wilton — beautiful woman, from what I heard. She broke it off three months before the wedding and ran off with a cavalry officer.”

“Why?”

Dennis shrugged. “Some say she couldn’t bear his coldness. Others say he found her in a compromised position and released her from the obligation without a word of reproach. His Grace never speaks of it, and I’ve never asked. But after that, he made it plain he had no interest in the institution of marriage.”

“What about Lady Evangeline Cross? Edith mentioned her.”

“The families have been negotiating an alliance. Nothing’s settled. Lady Evangeline is ambitious — she wants to be a duchess.” Dennis shook his head. “Whether His Grace wants a wife is another matter entirely.”

They worked in silence after that, and Josephine turned the information over like stones in a stream, looking for what lay beneath.

A man who had been betrayed.

A man who trusted no one.

A man who now watched her with eyes that saw too much.

Three days later, Francis summoned her to the steward’s office.

She stood in the doorway with her cap in her hands and her heart in her throat. Had someone discovered her? Had Arthur Foster finally thought to look at the girl he had sold and send men after her?

Francis looked up from his ledger and waved her in. “Ah, Joseph. Come in, lad.”

She stepped inside and forced her breathing to stay level.

“You’ve been doing good work in the stables. Dennis speaks highly of you.” He set down his pen. “His Grace requires an additional hand inside the manor. Someone steady, discreet, hardworking. I’ve recommended you.”

The floor dropped out from under her.

“Inside the manor, sir?”

“Yes. You’d assist with various duties — tending fires, carrying water, running errands. Light work, but it requires someone trustworthy. His Grace is very particular about who moves through his private spaces.”

This was the last thing on earth she wanted.

Invisibility had kept her alive. Being pulled inside meant being pulled closer to the Duke — closer to scrutiny, closer to the moment when someone would finally look closely enough to see what she really was.

But refusing would draw suspicion, and suspicion was a door that opened only one way.

“I’m honored, sir,” she said. “When do I begin?”

“Tomorrow. Report to the servant’s entrance at six. Mrs. Osborne, the housekeeper, will instruct you further.” Francis paused, studying her with those sharp old eyes. “You’re a quiet lad, Joseph. That’s good. His Grace values silence and efficiency. Do your work, keep your head down, and you’ll do well.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

She left the office with her mind racing.

Inside the manor. Close to the Duke. Close to everything she had been trying to avoid.

That night she lay awake on her cot, listening to the wind worry at the stable roof, and understood that she had just taken the first step toward a danger she could not name — and that somewhere in the dark of Hawthorne House, a man with grey eyes was already waiting for her to arrive.