Devlin adjusted his stance in front of the full-length mirror, surveying his reflection in the dim light. His naturally blonde hair had been dyed an unremarkable black, and though the short cut suited him better than he'd feared, he still felt like a stranger in his own skin. He had been told to blend in—to disappear—and in doing so, his very identity had been erased. The Kingdom of Aldenbach still had a prince, but here, at the remote North Ulbria estate, he was nothing more than a steward in training—a role as far removed from his birthright as possible.
The deception was painful, but necessary. After the second attempt on his life, the Queen and her closest advisors had sent him here, far from prying eyes and political maneuvering. North Ulbria was remote, its staff loyal and easily managed—a perfect hiding place for a prince no one could afford to lose.
He had agreed to the arrangement, though it left a bitter taste in his mouth. There was no room for failure now—not after everything that had happened. His father's health had been in steady decline for months. If retreating to the countryside gave his mother any peace of mind, he would do it a thousand times over.
Still, one thing had made the exile nearly unbearable.
Her.
Lady Seraphine.
She had taken a liking to him from the start. He'd done his best to avoid her, to steer clear of the woman who seemed hell-bent on unraveling the careful distance he'd worked so hard to maintain. But the more he resisted, the more persistent she became.
He wasn't sure what drew her to him—perhaps the mystery, or her misguided notion that his quietness was some romantic form of brooding. Whatever it was, he had always known her persistence would lead to trouble.
Seraphine lacked the poised elegance of the court's daughters, but what she lacked in refinement, she made up for in relentless confidence. Her parents had raised her to believe she was the most beautiful girl in the world. She was spoiled beyond reason. And for someone only a year away from her debut, she was horrendously lacking in decorum.
Unfortunately, she had decided Devlin was her next grand obsession—and so began the most irritating game of cat and mouse he'd ever endured. Every supposedly innocent glance, every not-so-accidental brush of her hand, was part of an elaborate flirtation strategy that Devlin ranked just below "getting assassinated" on his list of preferred experiences.
At least assassination came with silence.
He thought he'd been managing the situation—until the day it all came crashing down.
Devlin had been in the room adjacent to the Duke's study when a confused footman handed him a missive bearing the royal seal. Inside, written in the Queen's elegant handwriting, were just three words:
Return post haste.
He stared at the note in disbelief. What had happened? Had the royal guards finally found the would-be assassin, or had something even worse occurred—something so dire that remaining in hiding was no longer an option?
Still in a daze, he made his way toward his quarters, his thoughts churning. That was when Lady Seraphine cornered him outside the grand ballroom. Her movements were bold—frantic—and before he could react, one hand landed on his crotch while the other tugged at the buttons of his breeches.
Damn it, he thought, trying to extricate himself without resorting to force.
And that's when he saw them.
Lady Kensingham and a group of visiting ladies from the ton, standing frozen in the doorway, their expressions a mix of horror and righteous indignation.
Seraphine, oblivious to the audience, continued unbuttoning his breeches. Only the shrieks of Lady Kensingham snapped her out of it.
Her face went pale.
Devlin's heart thundered. This was it. His cover, his carefully constructed disguise—it was about to unravel completely. He might have already planned on leaving tonight, but he still hoped to keep his retreat to the countryside a secret. His mind raced for a solution—anything that might salvage the moment.
And then, like magic, the Duke of North Ulbria and Kensingham entered the scene.
The Duke's presence settled over the corridor like an approaching storm. Devlin expected immediate dismissal. But the Duke was more calculating than he'd anticipated.
With chilling ease, the man took control, spinning a tale so smoothly that even the most skeptical ladies began to nod. He claimed the woman behind him was not Lady Seraphine at all, but a maid who bore a striking resemblance. A maid, he said, who was already betrothed to the steward in training.
The real Seraphine, of course, was standing right there, but the Duke's voice alone seemed to convince the crowd they'd seen someone else entirely.
And if further proof was needed, the Duke added coolly, he would see the couple properly wed by week's end—with a generous incentive for the servants to hasten the matter. Naturally, both parties would be dismissed for their indiscretion, propriety absolutely demand it.
It was a lie, but an effective one.
The Duke had a way of commanding attention with little more than a breath. He had shielded his daughter from scandal with ruthless precision—and for that, Devlin could almost admire him.
Almost—if the man hadn't just saddled him with a wife he didn't want.
Devlin didn't even know the woman's name—still didn't—and yet now his life would be tethered to hers. Seraphine's reputation would be salvaged, and the incident neatly buried. He considered revealing who he was then and there, but that would mean a very public, very permanent union.
And frankly, he doubted he could survive a day of marriage to her without attempting to strangle her once a day.
He supposed an annulment to a servant rather than a duke's daughter would be easier once the dust settled. The only person whom he didn't resent involved in his pending nuptials was the poor woman whose life was about to be turned upside down. Hopefully, the Duke had paid her handsomely for the inconvenience.
Devlin exhaled, slow and tight. Whatever the Queen's message meant, he would have to leave as soon as possible. He would have already left the estate if it weren't for the three burly servants stationed outside his quarters at all times for the past two days, courtesy of the Duke.
No matter. He would be married today, and then he could be off.
There was a light knock on the door, signaling that it was time. Sliding the letter into his breast pocket, Devlin picked up the portmanteau with his belongings and made his way toward the chapel on the edge of the Duke's lands.
He didn't know what waited for him when he got home, but he had a growing suspicion that whatever it was—it would make North Ulbria feel like a holiday.