Page 4 of A Wife for the Beast (Scandals and Second Chances #6)

Morning came grey and cheerless to Ravenshollow Hall, seeping through the tall windows of the Rose Chamber like weak tea through muslin.

Evangeline woke to the sound of rain pattering against the glass and the distant cry of ravens wheeling above the moors.

For a moment, in that space between sleep and waking, she forgot where she was.

Then reality crashed over her like a cold wave, and she remembered: Yorkshire.

The Duke. Her uncertain future stretching ahead like an uncharted wilderness.

She had slept poorly, her dreams plagued by shadows and whispered warnings. Even now, in the pale light of dawn, the chamber that had seemed so welcoming the evening before, felt somehow oppressive, as though the very walls were watching her with invisible eyes.

A soft knock at the door interrupted her brooding. "Come in," she called, pulling her wrapper more securely about her shoulders.

A young maid entered, perhaps sixteen years of age, with nervous brown eyes and work-roughened hands. She bobbed a curtsey that spoke of careful training but little practice with titled guests.

"Begging your pardon, miss," the girl stammered. "I'm Mary. Mrs. Cromwell sent me to help you dress and to tell you that His Grace will receive you in the library at ten o'clock."

The formal phrasing sent another chill through Evangeline. She was to be "received," like a petitioner seeking an audience with a monarch. "Thank you, Mary."

The maid's eyes remained downcast as she moved about the room with practiced efficiency. "Mrs. Cromwell also says I'm to show you about the house a bit, if you have a mind for it. It shall help you get your bearings."

"That would be most helpful." Evangeline rose and moved to the windows, drawing back the heavy curtains to reveal the view that Mrs. Cromwell had promised. What she saw made her catch her breath, though not entirely with pleasure.

The gardens of Ravenshollow Manor stretched before her like a monument to departed glory.

Once, they must have been magnificent—she could see the bones of formal parterres and elaborate topiary work, the ghost of what had been a spectacular rose garden.

But neglect had claimed them as surely as it had claimed the house itself.

Weeds choked the flower beds, ivy smothered the carefully shaped hedges, and the fountains stood dry and cracked, their marble nymphs stained green with moss.

Beyond the gardens, the Yorkshire moors rolled away to the horizon, vast and empty beneath the grey sky.

It was a landscape that spoke of isolation and wildness, a place where civilization felt tenuous at best. She could understand how a man might lose himself in such surroundings, might forget the world beyond these windswept hills.

"It was beautiful once," Mary said softly, following her gaze. "My grandmother worked here when the old Duke was alive. She said the gardens were the finest in all Yorkshire, with roses that bloomed from May till October."

"What happened to them?"

Mary's face grew troubled. "His Grace well, he does not much care for such things anymore. He claims flowers are meant for the dead, not the living."

The morbid sentiment sent another shiver down Evangeline's spine. What manner of man dismissed beauty so categorically? What depths of despair had driven him to such darkness?

After Mary helped her dress in her most presentable black gown—a modest creation that nonetheless emphasized her slender figure and the pale perfection of her skin—they set out to explore the inhabited portions of Ravenshollow Manor. The tour proved both fascinating and deeply unsettling.

The house was a labyrinth of corridors and chambers that seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions.

Much of it stood empty, with dust sheets draped over furniture like burial shrouds and paintings turned to face the walls as though the very sight of them caused pain.

Entire wings appeared to be closed off, their doors locked and their windows shuttered against the light.

"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 word seemed 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 different from 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 and several 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.