Page 153

T he ballroom glittered like a jewel box, awash in the golden glow of a hundred beeswax candles as Lady Frances Rowley moved through the throng with practiced poise, her ice-blue gown skimming the polished floor.

She nodded and smiled at the aristocratic faces turned her way, though the gesture felt hollow—mere habit, not sincerity.

She heard them before she saw them.

A cluster of matrons, their lace fans fluttering like the wings of trapped birds, leaned toward one another, their voices hushed yet pointed.

"Have you heard? Lord Cranford has finally won Lady Frances’s hand."

The words coiled around her like a vise, squeezing the air from her lungs. A chill prickled at the nape of her neck, and she fought the urge to glance over her shoulder.

"A triumph for the viscount. I suppose she had no choice in the matter."

Her fingers hovered over her dance card, tracing its edges before she realized how tightly she was holding it. She forced herself to release her grip, smoothing the delicate paper with careful precision, as if she could will away the tension knotting inside her.

Then, the whisper that sent ice down her spine…

"Poor girl. Did you hear what happened to the last woman who refused him?"

Frances stiffened. The breath left her lungs in a silent gasp.

She had heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. And yet, hearing them spoken aloud, woven into the hushed murmurs of the ton, made them feel all the more suffocating.

Fear clawed at her throat, but it was not fear of Cranford alone.

Her hands felt clammy, her breath shallow, as if an invisible force were tightening around her ribs.

Every muscle in her body tensed, instinct screaming at her to flee, but the weight of expectation rooted her in place.

She was a pawn in a game she had never agreed to play, a prisoner in a world that saw her as nothing more than a transaction.

Was this to be her life? A gilded prison where her every step, her every breath, was dictated by men who saw her as nothing more than a means to an end?

Viscount Cranford, the man her father had chosen for her, was known for his charm in public and his temper in private.

A previous fiancée had withdrawn her acceptance under mysterious circumstances —only to vanish from London society entirely, married off to an obscure baron in the countryside. No one spoke of her anymore.

Frances forced herself to move forward, inhaling sharply as she willed her legs to remain steady.

She pasted on a polite smile, though she could feel its fragility, the edges trembling with the weight of her turmoil.

She clenched her hands at her sides to stop them from shaking, her pulse a frantic drumbeat against her ribs.

But inside, her thoughts churned in turmoil.

How effortlessly they reduced her to an object, a prize to be bartered away.

She had always known her father would arrange her marriage. That was the way of things. Daughters of powerful men were bartered like commodities for land, wealth, and alliances. She had hoped for some say in the matter—at least to choose a man she might come to care for.

But Cranford?

She would not shackle herself to a monster.

A voice—her father’s voice—rose in her mind. This is your duty, Frances. You will do as you are told.

No. She would not.

The ballroom suddenly felt suffocating, the chandeliers blinding, the press of bodies unbearable. With a murmured excuse, she slipped past a trio of debutantes and toward the terrace doors, pushing them open and stepping into the cool embrace of the night.

The sky stretched vast and dark above her, jeweled with stars. The air carried the scent of the gardens—roses and damp earth, fresh and grounding.

She had to think. What were her options?

She could flee to her aunt in Bath, but her father would surely find her before she could secure any means of independence.

She could go to a friend, though few would dare oppose her father’s will.

Running away seemed impossible, yet staying meant condemning herself to a lifetime of misery.

The risks were overwhelming, but so was the certainty of her fate if she did nothing.

She had to act.

Before it was too late.

"Frances."

The voice, sharp and commanding, sent her spine straight.

She turned slowly to find Lord Henry Rowley, her father, standing in the doorway, his imposing figure silhouetted against the golden light spilling from the ballroom.

He descended the steps toward her, his expression unreadable. “What are you doing out here?”

“I needed air,” she said, lifting her chin.

“Your absence has been noted.” His tone was edged with disapproval, his gaze sweeping over her with thinly veiled irritation. He exhaled sharply, adjusting the cuffs of his coat as though the matter were a tiresome inconvenience rather than a concern.

Frances ignored the rebuke. “Tell me it is not true,” she said instead, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with a desperation she could no longer hide.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her skirts, knuckles whitening.

“Tell me…” Frances’s voice wavered, her throat tightening around the words.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to continue.

“Tell me you have not promised me to him.”

Her father’s gaze did not waver. “The contract is signed.”

The words struck her like a physical blow.

“You will be Viscountess Cranford…” He paused, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with meticulous precision, letting the words settle like a weight upon her.

Then, with an air of finality, he continued, “…by week’s end.

” His tone was devoid of warmth, finality woven into each syllable, a man who had already dismissed any notion of defiance. Because, in his mind, it was.

Frances’s hands clenched at her sides. "He is a cruel man," she said, her voice shaking. A vision of Lady Ellen flitted through her mind—her forced, brittle smile at a ball, the way her gloved hands trembled as she accepted Cranford’s arm.

Frances had once overheard hushed whispers in the retiring room: A temper like that—God help the woman who displeases him.

The thought sent a shiver through her, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

"You know what they say about him, Father. And you would still hand me over?"

The woman had smiled at society functions, but Frances had seen the shadows beneath her eyes, the way her hands trembled when Cranford was near.

Then one day, Ellen had vanished—shipped off to the country, never to be heard from again.

The rumors had been vague, but the fear in Ellen’s eyes had been real.

Frances swallowed hard, a cold knot forming in her stomach.

The air around her seemed heavier, pressing in on her like an invisible weight.

Her pulse pounded in her ears, and a shiver traced its way down her spine.

She could almost feel the ghost of Lady Ellen’s fearful gaze upon her, a silent warning echoing through the depths of her mind. She would not share the same fate.

Lord Rowley’s mouth tightened. “He is a powerful man,” her father said, his tone edged with exasperation, as though she were a foolish child incapable of understanding.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head before flicking an impatient glance toward the ballroom.

With a measured sigh, he straightened his coat, as if composing himself before speaking again.

“You will thank me when you are secure, when you have a husband who can protect you from the harsh realities of the world.” His voice dipped lower, almost menacing.

“This is not a matter for debate, Frances.”

Frances brushed past her father, striding back into the ballroom.

Secure. To her father, it meant power, wealth, and an unshakable alliance that would cement their family's position for generations.

To Frances, it meant something far different—entrapment, a life dictated by duty rather than desire.

A future where she had no voice, no choice, no freedom to dream beyond the role assigned to her.

She longed for more than a life dictated by others, where her choices were mere illusions. She craved freedom—the right to carve her own path, to love without constraint, to exist beyond the expectations thrust upon her. How could he not see the difference?

Frances wanted to laugh.

How could he say such a thing? How could he look at her, his daughter , and believe that he was protecting her by delivering her into Cranford’s hands?

But she knew her father. Knew the steely glint in his eye, the immovable set of his jaw. He would not be swayed.

He would force this marriage upon her.

Unless—

A single thought took root, sharp and sudden.

Escape.

There was one person who might help her.Johnathan Seton. The Duke of Hargate.

She could still remember the summers spent racing through fields, their laughter carried on the wind. He had been her closest friend, the boy who had dared her to climb trees and sneak into the library to read forbidden novels by candlelight. But the years had changed them both.

He was no longer the carefree boy she had known.

The Johnathan Seton of today was a rogue, his name entangled in whispered scandals.

There had been rumors—duels fought over women, debts left unpaid, nights spent in gaming hells.

And yet, despite everything, she knew in her heart that if anyone could help her now, it would be him.

Their last meeting had ended in sharp words—her accusing him of squandering his potential, him calling her a coward for yielding to society. The words had burned, leaving a rift between them. And now, she was wagering on him.

The boy who had once been her closest friend. The one person she had trusted with her secrets, her dreams, her fears.

They had been inseparable.

But that had been years ago before he had turned away from her—before his name had become synonymous with scandal and recklessness.

And before Frances had turned away from him, convinced that whatever boyish loyalty had once existed between them was long gone.

But she had no one else.

Would he help her now?

There was only one way to find out.

Decision made, Frances turned on her heel and strode toward the stables. She made haste lest father catch her, and soon raced her mount down cobblestone streets.

A sliver of moonlight cut through the dense cloud cover as Frances caught sight of Johnathan’s estate rising in the distance, a grand manor just beyond the outskirts of London.

The lanterns cast elongated shadows across the gravel path, their dim glow barely piercing the midnight gloom.

The air was thick with silence, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves in the wind.

Her hands trembled on the reins, the night’s chill creeping into her bones as the relentless ride caught up with her.

Her muscles ached, stiff from the strain, but she straightened her spine, refusing to let exhaustion win.

She swallowed hard, pushing down the knot of nerves coiling in her stomach.

Would he even answer the door at this hour?

The towering structure loomed before her, its stone facade bathed in cold moonlight.

The massive double doors, adorned with an intricate brass knocker, seemed almost foreboding in the silence.

Her fingers tightened around the reins. Had she come all this way only to find herself unwelcome?

Would he turn her away? The boy who had once vowed to stand by her side had grown into a man cloaked in mystery.

She had seen glimpses of him from afar over the years, always surrounded by intrigue, yet never close enough to truly know the man he had become.

Would he still hold any loyalty for her, or had he long abandoned the ideals of their childhood?

She reined in her horse at the edge of the property, drawing a slow breath to steady her racing heart. If he rejected her now, she would have nowhere else to turn.

This was her gamble, her last chance to escape an untenable fate. She had risked everything to come here, to throw herself on the mercy of a man she hadn't seen in years.

But would he still stand by her—or had she lost him to the past?