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A place of legacy and isolation, built to endure—unyielding, as the man who called it home. Lilian wasn’t sure if she admired its resilience or found it deeply, irrevocably lonely.

She could not shake the feeling that her arrival at Exitor was no mere coincidence. That, in some way she had yet to understand, she was meant to uncover what lay hidden behind its grand facade.

“Oh, do look at that!” Emiline exclaimed, shifting eagerly to press herself against the opposite window.

Her face lit with unrestrained delight, as though she were a girl arriving at the gates of some grand fairytale palace.

“I had heard stories of Exitor’s grandeur, but they scarcely do it justice. ”

Across from her, Leonard Quinton, Lord Morton, chuckled, adjusting the cuffs of his coat with an air of practiced amusement. “My dear, you act as though you’ve never seen a grand estate before.”

“None quite like this,” Emiline countered, her dark eyes shining. “The architecture is positively medieval, yet somehow refined. There’s something… untouched about it, as if time itself hesitated before crossing its threshold. Don’t you think so, Lilian?”

Lilian nodded, her gaze drawn to the dozens of windows that gleamed in the afternoon light.

The manicured gardens stretched out in perfect symmetry, their bursts of color a startling contrast against the austere stone.

But beyond them, past the ordered hedgerows and winding gravel paths, the landscape unraveled into wildness—rolling moors, tangled woods, a shimmering lake that stretched toward the horizon.

Beautiful, yes. But also… severe.

“It’s magnificent,” she said at last, “but rather… forbidding, don’t you think?”

“That’s precisely its charm,” Leonard mused, settling back against the seat. “The duke is not a man given to frivolity. His estate reflects his character—elegant, imposing, and thoroughly uncompromising.”

A small shiver traveled up Lilian’s spine, a ripple of something she couldn’t quite name—apprehension, intrigue, or perhaps an unshakable sense that she was stepping toward something far greater than herself.

She had heard whispers of the duke in London—speculation tangled with intrigue, half-truths that shifted with each retelling.

Some claimed he had once been affable, a charming young man who vanished from society overnight, his absence giving rise to whispers of scandal and speculation.

Others spoke in hushed tones of a scandal buried beneath the weight of his title.

And then there were the darker rumors—that he carried some unspoken burden, a loss so great it had turned him into a man of stone and silence.

Some painted him as a man of unyielding severity, a recluse guarding his estate as jealously as his privacy.

Others hinted at tragedy, at a past that had shaped him into the enigmatic figure society barely knew.

And yet, beyond the gossip, Lilian felt a peculiar pull, as if Exitor itself had been waiting for her arrival.

And now, she was about to step into his world—a world shrouded in silence and secrets, waiting to be unraveled.

The carriage rolled to a smooth stop before the sweeping stone steps leading up to the grand entrance. Almost immediately, a liveried servant appeared, his posture impeccable, his expression unreadable as he stepped forward to open the door.

“Lady Morton. Lord Morton,” he intoned with well-practiced formality, offering a crisp bow. “And Lady Lilian Kingston. Welcome to Exitor.”

Lilian took the footman’s gloved hand and stepped down from the carriage, her heeled boots landing firmly upon the cobbled drive.

“His Grace regrets he cannot greet you personally,” the servant continued, “but you are expected in the drawing room after you have had time to refresh yourselves.”

Emiline leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “How very like him…maintaining an air of mystery.”

Lilian didn’t respond. She was too absorbed in her surroundings, taking in the immensity of the entrance hall as they stepped inside.

The space rose three stories high, its domed ceiling painted in the rich hues of classical mythology—gods and goddesses bathed in golden light.

Massive marble columns lined the walls, supporting a grand gallery above, where ornate wrought-iron railings gleamed in the dim glow of the chandelier that hung impossibly high above them.

The structure seemed almost to defy gravity, suspended from a delicate chain that shone like silver.

Yet the house felt… cold. The air carried a faint chill, untouched by the warmth of a welcoming hearth.

Despite the meticulously arranged décor, there were no signs of comfort—no flowers to soften the austerity, no lingering scent of a familiar perfume.

The space, though elegant, felt hollow, as if no genuine laughter or joy had ever filled its grand halls.

The air hung heavy, as though the walls themselves held their breath.

Portraits of ancestors lined the corridors, their painted eyes fixed in unrelenting scrutiny, adding to the house’s somber presence. Despite the obvious wealth on display—the tapestries, the polished mahogany, the priceless statuary—something was missing.

A warmth. A presence. The soul of a home, rather than a monument.

Lilian prickled with unease.

“Your rooms are in the east wing,” the butler informed them, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “If you would follow me.”

They proceeded down a series of corridors, the thick carpets silencing their footsteps. Gilded sconces flickered against the dark-paneled walls, casting long shadows that danced as they passed.

Lilian’s room, when they reached it, was as grand as the rest of the house—a spacious chamber adorned with delicate French furnishings, a canopied bed draped in embroidered silk, and tall windows that overlooked the sprawling gardens below.

The opulence was undeniable, yet despite its beauty, she felt an odd reluctance to be left alone within its walls.

Soon after, a soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.

Before she could respond, the door swung open, revealing Emiline, already changed into a gown of pale-green silk that shimmered in the fading light.

“My maid works miracles,” she declared, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “I simply couldn’t wait to explore. Will you join me? There’s at least an hour before dinner, and I refuse to waste it sitting about like some decorative vase.”

Lilian hesitated, glancing down at her travel-worn attire. “I should probably—”

“Nonsense.” Emiline waved a dismissive hand. “No one will see us. The duke is likely locked away in some mysterious chamber, brooding over his ledgers or indulging in melancholic contemplation.”

Despite herself, Lilian laughed. Emiline had that effect on people.

“Very well,” she conceded. “But only a brief exploration.”

They slipped from the room together, their footsteps muffled against the thick carpet as they wandered the corridors in quiet fascination.

Lilian traced her fingers along the gilded frame of a centuries-old portrait, pausing when she met the gaze of a severe-looking woman in an Elizabethan ruff. Her dark eyes gleamed almost too vividly, the artistry so lifelike it made the tiny hairs at the back of Lilian’s neck prickle.

“They say she was a witch,” Emiline murmured beside her, tilting her head in exaggerated intrigue.

“Emiline!” Lilian gasped, though she couldn’t shake the feeling that the painted woman was watching them.

“Well,” Emiline grinned, linking her arm through Lilian’s, “if the stories are true, then the Wyndhams have always been a bit… different.”

Lilian said nothing, but as they turned another corner, she couldn’t shake the feeling that, in this house of whispers, they were not alone.

Yet again, she questioned the man who ruled this formidable domain—what secrets he held, and whether she was prepared to unearth them.

And why, despite her best intentions, she was so eager to find out.