Everyone in Wildwood Vale knew the name Harvey Wentworth. He was the heir to the Wentworth estate, a vast land filled with vineyards, wheat fields, hunting lodges, and a manor that looked like it had been carved straight out of old money. His family owned half the countryside, supplied goods to powerful families, and had ties to politicians. His uncle sat in Parliament. His mother threw grand events where people drank wine older than Sorcha herself.
And then there was Sorcha Wynterose — the farmer's daughter.
She had long red hair that had never seen a dye bottle, skin as pale as fresh milk, and sharp green eyes that could slice through pride. She helped her father with the fields, and helped the cook with the bread. She scrubbed the floorboards when needed and gathered herbs when the kitchen ran low. She'd grown up in the mud and sun, far from rose gardens and glass halls.
Now, somehow, she was here, walking across the polished floor of the Wentworth estate.
Her boots left faint marks on the marble, and though she'd changed into her cleaner dress, she still smelled faintly of flour and rosemary. Her apron was folded under her arm. She had just come from the kitchen when she stepped into the drawing room, only to find him standing there.
Harvey Wentworth.
She froze. He turned.
He was taller than she remembered, wearing a dark suit, the kind that looked expensive even without the tailor's name stitched in gold. His hair was neat, face sharp and cold, like a statue someone had tried to warm up but gave up halfway.
His eyes swept over her with clear disapproval.
"Hardly looks like a farm girl," he muttered.
Sorcha didn't flinch.
"Mr. Wentworth," she said calmly, bowing her head just slightly.
He turned fully to face her, a few steps between them. He eyed her up and down again, slower this time, as if confused by what he saw.
"You're the farmer's daughter." He said it like an accusation.
"Yes," she replied. "Can I get you anything?"
He raised an eyebrow. "No." His arms folded. "I'm just trying to understand how this situation came to be."
So was she.
Everyone said Harvey would marry Heather Deverell, rich, proper, and beautiful. Their families practically shared land. They looked like they belonged in paintings but now there were rumours.
Rumours of a deal.
Of Sorcha's father signing something. Of the Wentworth estate needing the Wynterose grain supply after some trade trouble overseas. Of a quiet agreement.
And suddenly, Sorcha was here.
Because of wheat and wine, she thought bitterly. Because someone signed a bloody contract.
Harvey gave a short, harsh laugh. "A marriage for more grain. More power. That's what it always is. Bloody mess for more wealth."
Sorcha's eyes narrowed slightly, but her voice stayed polite. "If it's such a mess, I imagine you have a choice."
He looked at her, jaw tight. "You think I do?"
"I don't know," she said. "I've never been wealthy enough to pretend I didn't."
He blinked, something sharp passed through his expression, maybe surprise. Maybe irritation. He took a step closer.
"You help in the kitchens."
"I do."
"Do you always eavesdrop while baking bread?"
"I was bringing thyme to the cook. I didn't know the heir would be in a mood today."
He stared at her, then gave a quiet scoff. "You speak boldly for someone walking on my floors."
"I speak because I was raised to use words, Mr. Wentworth," she said, meeting his eyes. "Even when standing on polished stone."
He looked at her for a long time, his face unreadable. Then he turned away, eyes out the window.
"You're just a farmer's daughter," he said, more to himself than her.
Sorcha stood straighter. "And you're just a man whose father needs grain."
Silence followed.
And somewhere in the distance, her father's voice carried in the field.