THE AFTERNOON SUN bathed Hastings Manor in a pale golden hue, its tall windows glittering like mirrors against the stone façade. A light breeze stirred the banners at the entrance, the scent of horse and lavender mingling faintly in the air.
At the foot of the grand stairway Adrian stood flanked by Butler Blake and a small line of liveried servants. His gloved hands were clasped behind his back, but the slight twitch of his fingers betrayed the calm he tried so carefully to wear.
The message had reached him not ten minutes ago: Lady Evelina Harcourt's carriage is near.
He had not expected the rush of unease that followed. With every second, the anticipation grew heavier in his chest. He told himself it was only natural—he was to meet his betrothed, the woman who would soon be his duchess. And yet, he could not deny the restless beat of his heart or the faint sheen of sweat gathering at his temple.
He wondered what sort of woman she would be.
Rumors had painted her with both grace and disdain—beautiful, yes, but proud to the point of arrogance. He could forgive arrogance if it came with charm. Beauty, after all, forgave many sins. He did not believe a woman could possess any virtue more valuable than that.
"Your Grace," murmured Butler Blake, standing discreetly at his side. "If I may, you appear... a touch anxious."
Adrian cleared his throat, forcing his shoulders straight. "I'm fine."
Blake's lips twitched, but he said nothing more.
Moments later, the rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed down the drive. The Duke's gaze lifted. Two chestnut horses drew a lacquered carriage to a graceful halt before the steps. The crest of House Harcourt gleamed faintly upon its door.
Adrian's breath steadied. His expression, trained by years of court etiquette, settled into one of polite indifference. He descended two steps, hands clasped once more behind his back, while the servants drew aside.
The coachman dismounted swiftly, pulling open the carriage door.
"I present Lady Evelina Harcourt," the herald announced.
The name hung in the air, delicate and promising.
Adrian straightened his spine, preparing to meet the woman who would soon share his name. But when she stepped down, the sight that greeted him struck him with such force that his composure faltered for the briefest instant.
The lady before him was… not what he had imagined.
Her gown was modest, though clearly chosen with care, and her movements uncertain—as though she had rehearsed them and still found herself unsure. Her eyes, large and soft, were the color of wild honey. They met his for only a moment before she dipped into a curtsy—an awkward, foreign sort of bow that made his brow crease almost imperceptibly. "Your grace."
Adrian's breath caught. Good God… is this truly her?
Her hair, chestnut brown, had been pinned neatly beneath a small bonnet, though the style did little to flatter her. Her complexion was pale and thin, as though she had known illness, or hardship. There was no brightness in her features, no softness that caught the light. She looked… tired. Almost fragile.
Adrian's chest tightened, not with sympathy, but dismay. This cannot be the daughter of Lord Harcourt. Not the woman he was promised.
A nudge from Butler Blake jolted him from his thoughts. Realizing his silence, Adrian forced a smile that never quite reached his eyes. He stepped forward and offered his hand.
"Lady Evelina," he said evenly. "Welcome to Hastings Manor."
Her hand trembled slightly as she placed it in his. It was warm, but calloused—an odd detail that startled him. He bent over it briefly, brushing his lips against her knuckles as courtesy demanded. The gesture felt strangely misplaced.
"Thank you, Your Grace," she replied softly. Her voice was gentle, almost hesitant.
He straightened, studying her again, this time with more restraint. Her eyes flickered nervously toward the servants gathered nearby. There was a stiffness in her smile, one that betrayed discomfort rather than grace.
"I trust the journey was not unpleasant, my lady?" he asked, his tone polite but distant.
She managed a small, awkward smile. "It was… uneventful, Your Grace. Thank you."
He inclined his head slightly, already retreating within himself. She had blushed faintly, perhaps mistaking his civility for warmth. The thought only deepened his irritation.
Turning slightly, he gestured to the man at his side. "This is Butler Blake. He will see that you are shown to your chambers and assigned a maid to your liking."
"Yes, Your Grace," she murmured, eyes lowered.
For a moment, he almost pitied her—the way her fingers fidgeted against her gown, the way she seemed to shrink beneath his gaze. But then he remembered the rumors: the haughty, impossible daughter of Lord Harcourt. If this is humility, it is a poor disguise.
"I have matters of importance to attend," he said finally, the edge of impatience creeping into his voice despite his effort to contain it. "If you will excuse me."
"Of course, Your Grace," she whispered quickly, almost as if relieved.
Adrian gave a curt nod, turned on his heel, and ascended the marble steps. He could feel her gaze at his back, but he did not look back.
Inside, the cool air of the great hall met him, and he let out a quiet breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
'Ugly,' he thought, the word forming against his will. 'And timid.'
The House of Harcourt has sent him a ghost instead of a bride.