Forced to Marry the Marquess (Preview)

Chapter One

“Is everything to your liking, My Lady?” The butler stood stiffly, but the twinkle in his eye gave him away. Julia was familiar with his expression, and a most unladylike grin split her face, crinkling laughter lines around her gray-green eyes.

“Of course it is, Mr. Greene, and I would know that look anywhere—where have you hidden it?” Julia began sorting through her luncheon with exaggerated movements, hoping to make her old friend laugh. “Oh, good heavens, a mouse!” She pressed her wrist to her forehead when she discovered the delicate, spun-sugar mouse tucked just behind her plate.

“My sincerest apologies, My Lady, it is utterly remiss of me to allow such an infestation to disrupt your tea.” Mr. Greene’s straight face was admirable. “I shall remove the creature from your sight and dispatch it posthaste.”

Julia, laughing, snatched the sugar mouse up and cradled it gently in her palm, smiling down at it. “Mr. Greene, I will not hear of it—”

Julia was interrupted by an announcement from the entry hall, too distant for her to make out exactly what was being said, her face falling as she realized she was about to be alone in her library again—even though alone in her library was quite possibly her favorite state.

“My Lady, please excuse me.” Mr. Greene bowed, then disappeared in that smooth, quiet way that all heads of house seemed to master.

With a sigh, Julia looked down at her lunch, then her sugar mouse. “I suppose I’m not truly alone in my library, am I, Mr. Mouse?” She smiled slightly.

“May I present Lady Hawthorne,” Mr. Greene announced, opening the library’s double doors, and Julia hopped to her feet in surprise, nearly tripping as if her legs were folded beneath her.

Julia wobbled, dropping Mr. Mouse in her rush to recover and curtsey, and she felt him crunch beneath her slippered foot in the process.

“My dear, do not look so put out by my arrival.” Lady Hawthorne smiled, dwarfed by the feathered hat she sported on the auburn hair she had passed to her only daughter. She swept forward and gathered Julia into a firm hug. “Have you been keeping up with your studies, dear?”

“Mother.” Julia blinked before hugging her mother back just as fiercely. “Of course, I always want to make you proud with my studies.” A strange smell invaded her nose, and she did her best to wince it away, but a sneeze escaped, then another. “Mother, what a—fine—perfume you’re wearing.” Julia’s compliment was punctuated with another sneeze and a cough.

“Thank you, my dear, it is inspired by new incense from the East; it’s become all the rage in Bath.” Lady Hawthorne pulled back and surveyed her only child. “You are pale as a phantom, my dear. I daresay it’s because you have not left this library to visit in eons.” She sighed, gazing around the room. “Have you even visited other rooms in the house recently?”

“Of course, Mother, shall we take a turn about the gardens so I may show you my new favorite reading spot?” Julia cocked her head, and her mother smiled in reply.

“Lead the way, my dear.”

Arms linked, they made their way through the kitchen, giggling as they tried to sneak out unnoticed, but luck was not in their favor, and they stopped in their tracks at the sight of the viscount himself plundering the pantry. With two rolls in one hand and one in his mouth, he turned and blinked as if he had not heard the women giggling.

“Elizabeth, when did you arrive?” He rearranged himself, giving the pair a glimpse at the three books he was holding, all worn tomes on history with tattered pages of notes peaking from the edges.

The cook, rolling dough nearby, cleared her throat pointedly, and Julia watched her father’s cheeks fill with color.

“Right, what a lovely surprise, Elizabeth. How long will your health allow you to be staying with us?” The viscount smiled, and Julia recognized it as the rare mask he wore when he was dragged from the house against his will for social obligations. It was decidedly stilted.

“Oh, I feel it shall not be a long stay, I’m afraid.” Lady Hawthorne smiled brightly, and Julia could not help admiring her mother’s strength and resolve in the face of her illness. “I feel quite poorly, even now, but I could not bear to be away from our dear Julia another moment.”

Julia looked down, shame coloring her cheeks. “Apologies for not visiting of late, Mother. I have been consumed with assignments from the tutors you have arranged for me. I am learning a great deal about textile trade, and how commerce with our foreign neighbors influences the fashion for the season.”

“Excellent, my dear. I am quite proud of your work.” Lady Hawthorne beamed, patting Julia’s hand where it rested on her forearm. “Please excuse us, Henry, but Julia wanted to show me her reading nook in the garden.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the viscount absentmindedly mumbled through a mouthful of bread, already looking at the books in his arms. “Oh, and Elizabeth, I do hope you will join Julia and I in the parlor before dinner this evening, there is much to catch up on, and it is quite lucky you arrived today.”

“For what will we be using the parlor?” Julia’s eyebrows knit as she frowned at her father. We rarely dine together, let alone sit a spell before a meal.

But the viscount simply nodded vaguely, his attention already captured by the books at hand as he shuffled out of the kitchen, taking another bite of bread as he returned to his study.

“Some things never change.” Elizabeth sighed after her husband with a fond smile, then turned her brown eyes onto Julia.

“Do you miss him when you’re away?” Julia whispered to her mother as they drifted into the garden, and Elizabeth looked at her daughter in surprise. Julia, noting her mother’s expression, plowed on. “I feel so guilty, sometimes, that Father and I are buried in our libraries here and you’re off alone convalescing in Bath.”

Elizabeth heaved a much heavier sigh this time, her eyes gazing out across the garden as they walked slowly in step, arms still locked. “Julia, my dear, I think it’s time that you find out the truth.”

“Mother?” Julia’s heart fluttered uncomfortably against her sternum, and she could hear her pulse thundering. “The truth?”

Elizabeth threw her head back and laughed, strong and bright like a church bell, another trait she had passed on to Julia.

“My dear, I am sorry to disabuse you of the fiction of my delicate health.” Lady Hawthorne walked steadily, head high and shoulders back, the picture of health and confidence, and Julia felt her stomach drop as if she had missed a step on the stairs.

How could I have missed the fact that she was never sick? Julia stumbled slightly as she studied her mother, and Lady Hawthorne smiled at her. I have never seen Mother blush before. I had no idea she was capable. Frowning, Julia realized, I never realized she was capable of lying to me about a feigned illness, either. In her chest, a knife seemed to twist in her stuttering heart.

“The waters in Bath are luxurious, of course, and are anecdotally known to heal ailments,” Elizabeth began, “but Bath is so much more than a place that heals physical ailments.” Lady Hawthorne stopped walking and turned to face Julia, taking both of her daughter’s hands into her own. “Bath heals my soul, not with its waters, but with freedom.” She looked so alive, beaming.

“Mother—” Julia shook her head, starting to pull back as her gray-green eyes filled with tears. “How could you lie to me? Have you been well this whole time?”

“Yes, my dear.” Elizabeth sighed, her smile dimming. “I am sorry we lied to you for so long—”

“We?” Julia repeated, reeling back a step, her hands slipping free. “Father knew you were well? Knew you simply preferred life in Bath over life with us?”

Lady Hawthorne stepped closer, reaching up and brushing a tear from Julia’s cheek. “My dear, I am so sorry. But this was the best course for your father and me.”

“And what of me?” Julia whispered. “Growing up worrying for my mother, missing my mother, left alone in a library with tutors and dusty books?” Her voice grew stronger with each word, and she stood taller with every breath, glaring at her mother. “It was best for you, but what about me? How could you do this to me?”

“I did this for you as much as myself,” Elizabeth replied sternly, then winced. “I’m sorry, my dear, but you see how restrictive life is here.” She gestured vaguely, her eyes never leaving Julia’s. “I could never live like this. Bath is so different.”

Lady Hawthorne’s gaze grew distant but bright, her smile returning. “The women in Bath are exquisite,” she began. “They advocate for education for women; there are intellectual salons where we may meet and drink tea as we discuss philosophy, ethics, politics, all manner of subjects in which a woman of the ton is discouraged from taking an interest.”

“And Father is aware of the state of your health?” Julia asked skeptically, raising her eyebrows. Father is hardly aware that he needs to eat to continue living; he is so enveloped in his studies—there is a fair chance he may not even have ever noticed Mother does not live with us.

“Of course, he agreed to the arrangement rather enthusiastically—I get everything I want, and he is left alone to his artefacts and scrolls and what-have-you with none of the scandal that comes from being an unmarried hermit.” Lady Hawthorne laughed again, unrestrained and free, and Julia felt her insides twist.

I want that same freedom, but must I sacrifice love to have it? Surely I can be loved and still be myself. Forcing a smile, Julia began to continue down the garden path when Mr. Greene appeared with a deep bow.

“Apologies, My Ladies, but Lord Hawthorne requests your presence in the library at once.”

Lady Hawthorne frowned. “I am never summoned like a hunting dog in Bath.” She huffed, then sighed. “Thank you, Mr. Greene. We will head over momentarily.”

“I am truly sorry, but I was asked to escort you directly to the library to avoid any,” Mr. Greene paused, his expressionless face polite and professional as he addressed the viscountess, “unintended delays.”

Julia had to stifle her smile, looking away from the butler. She was well aware that, despite his calm demeanor, the stiff set of his shoulders meant that something had him at the end of his rope—Mother’s unexpected arrival? Father’s unexpected demand? The inevitable fallout of both?

“Come, Mother, we can take tea in my reading nook tomorrow. Let us attend to Father quickly so that we may have freedom to ourselves once more.” Julia smiled at Mr. Greene, who nodded slightly, grateful.

“I am free and left to my own devices in Bath, and I feel it is time you felt the same freedom.” Lady Hawthorne chatted to her daughter as they approached the library, still arm-in-arm. “You are a beautiful and well-educated young woman, and it will not do to risk you being a commodity on the Marriage Mart in this close-minded ton. You deserve the world, my dear, and Bath is it.” Julia watched her mother practically glow from within, a broad smile splitting her face as she extolled the virtues of Bath to her daughter.

“My Lord, Viscountess and Miss Hawthorne,” Mr. Greene announced at the library door, and Julia waved at him as she always did before he took his leave, though the look on his face drew her up short, nearly making her stumble as Elizabeth continued walking.

Mr. Greene’s face was not its usual blank, professional mask, but instead his forehead and mouth were puckered with worry lines, and he avoided Julia’s gaze entirely.

Julia’s heart plummeted.

“What has you summoning me like a trained animal, Henry?” Elizabeth was polite, but there was a warning in her tone, and Julia glanced between her parents, wishing her oblivious father would notice that all was clearly not well.

“I trust you remember my dear, late friend, the Marquess of Wessex?” the viscount began, not looking up from the artefact he was examining with a magnifying glass at his ornate desk.

“How could I forget the way you laughed over that marriage pact?” Elizabeth rolled her eyes unabashedly. “It was abhorrent.”

“Marriage pact?” Julia asked, looking between her parents, but neither acknowledged her.

“The Ellingtons have found themselves in troubled waters,” Lord Hawthorne droned on as he continued to examine the same few spots on the relic, over and over.

He’s turning it too fast to truly be studying it, Julia realized, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. Mr. Greene’s worry, Father’s distraction, something is horribly wrong.

“Elizabeth, you are likely wondering why I requested you visit at your earliest convenience.”

Father invited Mother here, and said nothing? 

“The Ellingtons are in need of a bolster in the face of their land disputes and legal threats, and so Lady Wessex has reached out to me for my help to secure the legacy and reputation of their family—of my friend.” Lord Hawthorne took a deep, shuddering breath, still pointedly not looking up from the golden figurine he had been pretending to study.

“In honor of my friend, we have revived the marriage pact. Julia, you are to wed Gabriel Ellington.”

“WHAT?” Lady Hawthorne raged as Julia tried to recover the breath that had been knocked from her chest. “You would use our daughter as a pawn, just sell her off to some military brute, for your friend to save face in the ton?”

Taking a step back, Julia pressed both hands to her mouth, wide-eyed.

Julia had met Gabriel in her time at Oxford.

“I’m studying here—” Julia had begun, her voice barely more than a whisper as a gaggle of men swarmed her table in the library.

“What’s that, Little Mouse?” Gabriel Ellington was not a friend, but she recognized him thanks to their fathers’ friendship. “Speak up! Always so quiet, even for a library.” He laughed to his friends, “She will not even notice we’re here; she’ll be so deep in her books.”

“I’m studying here,” Julia repeated, slightly louder, and the group of men guffawed even louder.

“Not for long, Little Mouse. Run along.” Gabriel waved his hand carelessly.

“No,” Julia said, staring at the open book on the table before her without really seeing it for a long moment as the silence stretched on before she looked up, into Gabriel’s wide, bright blue eyes.

“What?” Gabriel blinked, his friends snickering.

“I. SAID. NO.” Julia had never spoken so loudly, so forcefully, and her heart beat a frantic rhythm in her chest. She stood up, hands planted on the table on either side of her book, eye-level with the tall man sitting perched on the opposite side of the table.

Gabriel’s eyes roved over Julia, taking in every inch of her, and she excused the color flooding her cheeks as the product of her newfound rage and nothing to do with the way the man’s eyes lingered on her.

“Little Mouse, do you really think—”

Gabriel was cut off as Julia snapped her book shut, seizing it with both hands, and connected the back cover with Gabriel’s cheekbone.

Just like that, the rage suddenly drained out of Julia, leaving her feeling frozen. The group of men had all become statues, waiting for Gabriel to react. She stared as Gabriel slowly turned his head to face her again, eyes wide, and mouth gaping slightly open.

The flush that burned in Julia’s cheeks was undeniable now, and her sudden resolve crumbled. Clutching the book to her chest, she turned and fled, glancing back in the doorway.

Gabriel’s eyes were still locked on her, his fingertips tenderly brushing the redness blooming across his own cheek. Meeting Julia’s eyes, he smiled.

Julia had managed to avoid him ever since, and had been lucky that after Oxford, he had shipped off to war, and she never had to face that first stumbling step she had taken in finding her self-confidence.

“Not him, anyone but him,” Julia whispered. Little Mouse, that deep voice in her head taunted, and she squared her shoulders, turning back into her parents’ bickering.

“I have no desire to marry Gabriel, and therefore, I will do no such thing,” Julia said firmly, and both her parents turned to look at her. Lady Hawthorne beamed with pride, but her father simply sighed.

“Arrangements are already being made. This was never a question.”

Julia’s shoulders slumped, and she tore from the room.

Chapter Two

Gabriel had been home at Ellington Hall for two months—long enough for the weight of duty to settle across his broad shoulders with a heaviness that it had no right to. He felt it every morning as tangibly as the polished brass buttons he had once fastened across his chest, marching off to war, only this weight could not be discarded at dusk. 

Each dawn found him standing tall at the head of long tables or before crackling hearths, his dark hair kept in strict, soldierly order, his piercing blue eyes fixed on the endless documents that demanded his attention— or at least, his decisions.

Those eyes, sharpened by war and honed by years of discipline, missed little; yet the clerks and tenants who braved the marquess’ gaze often looked away too quickly, as if singed by the stern set of his expression. He noted it every time, the way men shifted in their seats or cleared their throats beneath his scrutiny. 

Do they see a man, or merely the ghost of a commander still entrenched in battles long past?

The strain of land disputes and ceaseless legal challenges pressed against Gabriel with the same relentlessness as any campaign he had led abroad, for the glory of king and country. In many ways, these battles seemed worse— soldiers at least knew their orders, while landlords and tenants cloaked daggers in polite words. Politics were far more treacherous, never knowing which end of the saber was pointed toward Gabriel.

Meetings with his steward and solicitor stretched late into the evenings, the air in his study stifled with candle smoke and the sharp scratch of quills. His head often throbbed from the ink-stained hours, yet he endured without complaint. The men spoke in hushed, urgent tones, aware that one misstep might stain the Ellington name for a generation. Gabriel listened in silence, his face unreadable save for the tightening of his jaw or the faint crease that drew his brows together.

“My Lord,” his steward ventured hesitantly, “the tenants near Millford grow restless. They claim the Earl of Graystone has laid claim to their grazing rights.”

The solicitor’s voice followed, crisp and deliberate. “Without Hawthorne’s support, our case may not endure the court’s scrutiny.”

Gabriel’s fingers curled against the arm of his chair. So, Graystone sharpens his blade in parchment and seals while men and women scrape for bread. Every instinct in him clamored for direct engagement, to march into Graystone’s halls and end the matter with the blunt certainty of a soldier’s hand. 

He imagined for a moment the simple finality of steel, the command shouted once and obeyed without hesitation. But there were no swords here, no trumpets or banners—only the endless paper battles of gentry. Only his hard-learned discipline held the marquess in place, though the rigid line of his shoulders betrayed the restless fire beneath.

“Then we must make Graystone see reason,” Gabriel said at last, his tone flat, commanding. “Draft the petition. Deliver it before dusk. If Graystone seeks war by quill, he shall find we wield the sharper pen.” He hesitated, reminding himself that accepting the help of his father’s friend was no different than summoning an additional battalion to turn the tides of war. “Has there been news since Mother reached out to Lord Hawthorne?”

“Not yet, My Lord.” The steward bowed his head quickly, scribbling notes, relieved to have direction. Yet Gabriel saw the flicker of unease in the man’s eyes. They mistake my bluntness for severity. Better that than to let them think me weak for crawling to the aid of my father’s socialites.

The heavy conversation was interrupted by a sharp knock. Gabriel straightened in his chair with soldierly reflex, the movement drawing attention to his tall, broad frame. His dark hair, still neatly kept even after a long day of disputes, caught the firelight, while his piercing blue eyes narrowed on the servant who entered. Those eyes, hardened by years of war, missed little, and now they hardened further at the interruption when the day was so nearly done.

The servant bowed, extending a sealed letter with both hands. His knuckles whitened, betraying nerves. Gabriel’s stern expression alone made the young man falter.

“It can wait,” Gabriel said, his voice clipped, carrying the weight of command that had once quieted soldiers on the battlefield.

The servant swallowed and retreated a step, but the steward leaned forward, clearing his throat. “My Lord, it bears the seal of Viscount Hawthorne.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened. He lifted a hand, and the servant hurried forward once more. He reached for the letter mechanically and cracked the wax. The bold script confirmed what he had both needed and dreaded—a marriage, arranged without his consent, set in motion by his mother’s hand.

Gabriel stilled, the page trembling only slightly in his grip. Fury rolled through him like cannon fire, loud and insistent. Marriage, decided in absentia. As though I were still some errant boy to be ordered into line. Julia’s name struck him harder than any blow. Against his will, her face surfaced—her gray-green eyes hard with stubborn defiance, her quick tongue never yielding before his bluntness. He had told himself a hundred times that she was a distraction, a vexing challenge best avoided. And yet—

“My Lord?” the steward asked cautiously.

Gabriel lowered the letter slowly, his face unreadable. “Summon my mother,” he said, his voice low, controlled, though it threatened to crack with the force beneath. “If she thinks to barter my honor like coin, she will explain it to my face.” His mother had made the arrangements as secretly as possible, but she had underestimated the loyalty of the servant sent as courier—Gabriel had known of the plan before the ink had dried on his mother’s letter.

The solicitor shifted uneasily, glancing between them. “A marriage to Hawthorne’s kin could—”

“Secure alliances? Save estates?” Gabriel’s tone cut like a blade. His gaze hardened, fixing the man where he stood. “Do not dress chains in ribbons and call them favors.”

The room fell into silence. Only the fire crackled, its glow dancing across his stern features. Inside, however, Gabriel’s thoughts churned. Julia. Always Julia. The one woman who looked me in the eye and did not shrink. She would laugh at this, mock the pomp of it, and then defy me to my face. And damn me, I would admire her for it.

He folded the letter with deliberate precision, setting it aside. His discipline held, though the restless rage beneath threatened to consume him. I am stoic, he reminded himself—unyielding, as the men who had followed him into battle once knew him to be. Yet even as he sat in rigid silence, a single truth burned clear: this was no campaign of ink and seals. This was personal in a way that war could never hold a candle to.

Gabriel rose to his full height, the sudden motion sending his chair scraping across the floor like a saber unsheathed. The steward and solicitor fell silent; their mouths snapping shut beneath the sheer force of his presence. Neither dared move; they simply stared as though awaiting judgment. Broad shoulders squared, posture carved with military precision, Gabriel cast them no glance, no word of reassurance. His silence was not hesitation, but a decision. Without explanation, he strode from the chamber, boots striking the floorboards in a rhythm too measured to be retreat, too forceful not to feel like an advance.

Order, Ellington. Hold to order. It had been a long time since any order had been issued to him, but that old command still rang in his head, a reminder of a time even before his medal-winning campaigns— the words of his late father.

His fists flexed once, opening only when he forced them. A commander does not falter before his men. Even when he bleeds inside, he keeps his head high. Discipline is the spine of strength—lose it, and you are nothing. Gabriel could no longer remember which lessons were those of his father, or those of his commander—was there a difference? It seemed his father had decided his fate long before Gabriel could read.

Yet even as he repeated the maxim, he felt the bitter edge of control slipping. War had forged him in fire and drilled into him the necessity of composure. It was discipline that had carried him across blood-soaked fields, loyalty that had kept his men alive when every instinct screamed to scatter. But here—within the very walls of his own house, where order should reign—he found himself disarmed by ink and paper, by signatures and seals that left no room for steel.

What enemy was there to be fought in an alliance? Where could this rage and defiance be directed?

The corridor stretched before Gabriel, narrow and flickering with candlelight. Each flame bent back against the pressure of his stride, guttering, as if unwilling to meet his storming presence. The folded letter in his hand bore the grooves of his grip; the wax cracked, biting into his palm until the edge scored his skin. He welcomed the sting. Pain was familiar, steadying. This, I can master. Paper and ink, however, these are chains I cannot cut with a blade.

For an instant, he saw another corridor, one without walls of plaster—smoke choking the air, the thud of cannon fire rattling the ground. Men shouting, stumbling, clinging to his voice as he barked orders. 

He had carried Sergeant Harrow, half his chest torn away, down a passage darker than this one. Harrow’s blood had run hot over his hands, soaking through his coat. Gabriel had spoken calm, steady words until the man breathed his last, though inside he had raged against God Himself.

I could face that. I could bear it. But this? A letter binding my life to a stranger’s whim? 

He shook the vision away as he entered his mother’s sitting room. Soft candlelight spilled across his face, hardening the stern set of his mouth, casting his penetrating blue eyes into storm-bright depths. He did not salute, did not bow, did not temper his expression.

“What have you done?” His voice was low, honed steel, carrying the authority of a man accustomed to obedience.

Lady Ellington looked up from her embroidery, composure unbroken. “What was necessary, Gabriel.” She sewed a few maddeningly calm stitches.

His shoulders locked, broad and immovable, a wall of flesh and discipline. “Necessary?” The word struck from his lips like musket fire. “The games of these socialites necessitate binding me to a stranger?”

“Julia Hawthorne is no stranger, Gabriel. You were at Oxford together, if memory serves.”

Gabriel stiffened, and all his military training could not stop him from raising his trembling fingertips to his cheek, and the faint line that reminded him of the day that the soft Little Mouse had become a lion.

“Were you sweethearts?” His mother looked up from her embroidery, seeing his hand, and he snatched it away from his face, cheeks burning, which only fanned his inner flame.

“Did she kiss your wound for you? All the better for this union.”

“She gave me this wound.” Gabriel snapped, his voice crackling with barely restrained anger, and sick satisfaction flooded through him, seeing his mother look shocked.

“Lord Hawthorne has no other daughter I could be sold off to?” Gabriel seethed.

She met his storm with calm resolve. “A house must endure beyond the span of one man’s shoulders. Alliances, marriages—these are the stones of its foundation. Julia and her father will strengthen us. I take it, by the crumpled paper you seem to be destroying, that Lord Hawthorne has agreed? We must invite them here to celebrate your engagement. You owe your family this duty.”

Her reasoning fell on him like manacles clamped around his wrists. His jaw worked, teeth grinding behind lips pressed thin. She speaks as though I do not understand duty. As though I have not buried comrades in cold earth for England’s sake. Duty—I bled for it. And now they wield the word like a leash.

“You presume much,” he said, each syllable clipped, the soldier in him surfacing. “To bind me to a woman I have not seen in eons, whom I do not know, to a family I do not trust.”

“You presume,” she countered softly, “that loyalty to your men excuses loyalty to your blood. One cannot replace the other.”

The truth of it stung, though he would never admit it. Blood. Yes, but blood had abandoned him more swiftly than any soldier. My men did not fail me. Family—family trades sons as if they were coins.

Gabriel’s breath flared, chest rising like a war drum beneath the fitted cut of his coat. “Enough,” he growled. The word, flat and final, was command—halt, cease fire. But she pressed on, undaunted.

His restraint frayed. With a guttural sound torn from deep in his chest, Gabriel spun on his heel. The movement was swift, soldier-sharp, his anger bound in the cage of precision. Even fury obeyed his discipline. His dark hair fell neatly back into place, mocking him with its refusal to portray disarray.

The hall swallowed him again. He shoved the cursed letter deep into his pocket, burying it like a wound too dangerous to expose. His hand lingered there, pressing the folded letter hard against his thigh. The letter would do better to order his death than his wedding. But some wounds fester unseen, and no field surgeon can cut them out.

A maid rounded the corner, eyes wide as she nearly spilled her tray at his sudden appearance. Gabriel’s gaze snapped to her, sharp enough to freeze her mid-step.

“Brandy,” he commanded. The word was blunt, clipped, the order of a man who expected no delay, though the desperation curdling the edges of the word turned the order to a plea in a way that twisted Gabriel’s face in disgust.

She bobbed a hasty curtsey, fumbling to reply. His gaze softened by a fraction, enough to ease her fear. She has no fault in this. Do not make her bear the weight of your war.

But before the warmth could betray him further, he turned away, shoulders squared once more, stride as steady as iron.