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T HE DUKE OF TINSDER’S carriage had rolled up to the manor significantly earlier than he expected.

He was prompt. Always early. But this was a bit too early.

He almost felt uncomfortable. But Michael was a duke, he wouldn’t permit himself to convey any discomfort.

For he was also extremely intentional with his actions. To the point of being punctilious.

Michael tugged on his greatcoat, straightening the lines. He took a brief moment to admire the topiary and the giant fountain his carriage had rounded moments earlier. Then he sauntered up the front steps.

When the butler greeted him at the door, Michael insisted on making no fuss.

“I’m quite early, please convey my apologies to Lady Erewyn.”

The butler bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”

“We have your room ready for you—”

“No need. I’ll see myself to the library for now. I’m too early to make any demands on you or the countess.”

“Certainly, Your Grace.”

Michael walked the faintly familiar manor until he found the room he was looking for.

He had visited a few times in the past, and remembered the large library, in particular, for the surfeit of philosophy tomes it housed.

When he entered, he felt at home by the pleasant smell of books.

He was surprised that he remembered the giant window which was conducive to corralling loose contemplations.

The unmoving landscape was the ideal backdrop.

It imposed no distractions while he stood at the helm of his mind and steered through his stormy thoughts.

Contending with philosophical theories was much like trying to hold water in one’s hand. But the compulsion to navigate those waters and cling to what he could still remained urgent within him.

So Michael sat in the library reading Discourse on the Method by Descartes.

Nonobservantly, he was staring out the large window as he mulled over the phrase, je pense donc je suis.

Metaphysics, in particular, always made Michael introspective.

And the French philosopher, Ren Descartes was a leading theorist, even almost a hundred and fifty years later.

That phrase would surely endure through time.

I think, therefore I am.

Michael explored the phrase for what felt like the hundredth time. How could a person go through the motions of doubt if they did not exist? What was existence? What was reality? He must be real enough…if he was able to doubt that he was real…

It felt circular.

What was real? That he was a duke. That he had to marry if he wanted his lineage to continue.

That finding a wife was a curse. Every woman wanted him.

That was not a vain thought. It was objective.

He was a wealthy, young, handsome duke with all his teeth, and in his right mind.

All of the time. He was not impulsive. He was in complete control of his thoughts and actions.

With great intention, he focused his thinking to adhere to logic.

A dash of color splashed onto the painting before him, caught his attention. Only it wasn’t a painting. It was the window. And beyond the window was a woman.

He sat upright. She was real.

He stood and put his hand on the windowpane.

She was real. She was laughing with her head thrown back, a few loose blonde tresses flowing in the wind like a ribbon.

Holding her hand was a little girl he knew to be the daughter to the countess.

The girl was looking up in admiration. Then the woman stopped and scooped the girl up.

She spun around, holding the girl out in her arms. The two of them laughed, and then they ended the twirl in an embrace.

That woman and her joy was real. And she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Thoughts stilled as time passed. As she moved across the canvas in radiant joy. As she moved out of sight, he found himself wanting to follow her movements more.

Her beauty startled him. But it wasn’t just physical. There was something about her…the image of her being so carefree. She exuded kindness. Authenticity. Down to earth, yet…angelic.

She didn’t look the kind to be burdened by metaphysics and the nature of reality.

Those questions and their ilk were Michael’s cross to bear.

He couldn’t shake them. He needed answers.

And when he couldn’t resolve a question, which, in philosophy was often the case, he was plagued by the pursuit of them.

Ever searching. Reading on until something finally clicked, and he could breathe.

The world made sense again. It could be organized. It wasn’t pure chaos.

Not like he knew the chaos this house party might be.

Well, not chaos. That might be too harsh.

It would be lively. More lively than Michael preferred.

But sometimes a duke had to show up to certain events.

Be at certain places. Be seen with certain people.

Eventually he did need a wife. It wouldn’t help his case if he acted the recluse he was inclined to be.

He wanted to see more of her. Catch sight of her delight again. Perhaps because it vaguely reminded him of a time he had known such joy. That was not a thought he wished to explore.