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The first time the Duke saw Jenny Harlow, she was waist-deep in pond mud, laughing like the mud itself had just told her the most outrageous secret.
A duke discovers Jenny Harlow stuck in a pond, sparking a mysterious quest involving a hidden locket and dark family secrets.
Key Takeaways
- Unexpected encounters can lead to profound connections and change.
- Family secrets and lost legacies drive the central mystery.
- Trust is fragile but essential in unraveling complex conspiracies.
- Social status and personal vulnerabilities intersect in the characters' journeys.
- The pursuit of truth often requires courage and breaking societal norms.
Summary
- The Duke, Tristan Lockwood, finds Jenny Harlow waist-deep in pond mud on his late aunt's abandoned estate.
- Jenny is searching for a silver locket beneath the lilies, linked to a letter from her deceased mother.
- The estate, Renbrook Hall, is locked and rumored to hold dark secrets about the duchess's death.
- Tristan and Jenny form an uneasy alliance as they investigate recent intrusions and hidden mysteries inside the house.
- They discover signs of a break-in focused on papers rather than valuables, hinting at a deeper conspiracy.
- Jenny reveals her father was a solicitor who worked for small estates and widows, suggesting a motive for the mystery.
- Tension builds as they encounter unexplained noises and shadows, raising the stakes of their search.
- The story blends romance, suspense, and intrigue around family secrets and social expectations.
- Tristan shows unexpected warmth and vulnerability, breaking his own rigid rules.
- The narrative sets the stage for a deeper exploration of betrayal, love, and the pursuit of truth.
Chapters
- 00:00The Duke Finds Jenny in the Pond
- 03:54The Door Slams in the Abandoned House
- 07:32Exploring Renbrook Hall and the Duchess' Legacy
- 11:31Jenny Returns to the Pond for Clues
- 14:51Cleaning Up and Reflecting on the Past
- 18:18Tension Builds Over the Broken Drawer
- 22:04Revelations and Rising Emotions
- 25:33Intrigue Deepens with New Arrivals
- 29:05Confrontations and Secrets Unfold
Full Transcript — Download SRT & Markdown
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[music] It was not a polite ballroom laugh. It was bright, reckless, and utterly unsuitable for a woman with one boot missing, her sage silk gown ruined, and a furious swan circling her like a feathered assassin.
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Tristan Lockwood could have turned his horse around and ridden back to the solitude he'd come here for. Instead, he dismounted at the edge of the overgrown pond on his own neglected grounds and forgot every rule he'd lived by for the
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last 5 years. Because no one was supposed to be here. Wrenbrook, his late aunt's estate, had stood empty and locked since the old duchess died under whispers no one in the county dared repeat.
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Yet this woman had climbed the stone wall, waded into the lilies, and was now conducting what appeared to be a very personal war with both the mud and the bird. She looked up at him, mud-streaked across one flushed cheek, amusement in
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her moss-green eyes, and said, "Before you summon the magistrate, Your Grace, I would like it noted that the swan started it." For the first time in years, Tristan laughed. Not the measured, polite sound expected of a duke, a real, low rumble
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that seemed to surprise them both. Jenny blinked as if he'd grown a second head.
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"Oh," she said, "so you are human." "That remains a matter of some debate in London." She smiled then, and it did something absurd to his chest. Behind her, the swan drifted closer, its long neck curved in disapproval. Tristan
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looked from the bird to the woman sinking in his pond. "Do you require assistance, Miss?" "Harlow. Jenny Harlow. And no, I'm managing splendidly." As if to punish the lie, the mud gave a loud, wet suck and dragged her another
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inch deeper. Her smile faltered for half a second. Tristan lifted one brow, fighting a grin. She raised one mud-slicked hand in mock surrender. "All right, I may require very minor assistance." "Minor? Hardly worth mentioning. You are standing waist-deep
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in a pond, Miss Harlow." "I'm standing in a mystery." That word, "mystery," sliced through his amusement. His gray eyes sharpened on her. "What mystery?" he asked quietly.
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Jenny hesitated. The wind stirred the reeds around her waist. Behind them, the empty house on the hill watched with dark windows, ivy crawling up its walls.
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She should have lied. She was good at lying when survival required it. But there was something in the duke's expression that made her tell a dangerous sliver of truth.
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"I came because of a letter," she said, "one my mother hid before she died." Tristan went very still. Jenny swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the cold pond water seeping through her ruined dress.
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"The letter said that if I wish to know who destroyed my father," she continued, "I should come to Renbrook Hall and find the silver locket beneath the lilies." For one heartbeat, pain flashed across his features. Then he stepped closer and
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extended his hand. "Miss Harlow, take my hand." She stared at it as he continued, "If that locket is truly here, then you are not the only one looking for it.
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From inside the abandoned house, a door slammed shut. Tristan's face lost what little color it had. Jenny followed his gaze toward the dark windows. "What is it?" For a moment, he didn't answer. Then he said the last thing she expected.
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"That house should be empty." Before we continue, if you're enjoying this story, please consider subscribing.
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It would make my day. Tristan stepped down into the pond without hesitation, sacrificing a perfectly good pair of boots to the cause.
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Jenny's eyes widened. "Your Grace, I believe you've just committed socially sanctioned madness. It appears to be contagious." His hand closed around hers. The contact should have been practical, nothing more than firm, necessary pressure. Instead, his warmth traveled up her arm, steady
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and solid. "On three," he said. "Is three negotiable?" "No." Tristan pulled. The pond resisted with vicious hunger, holding Jenny fast for one mortifying heartbeat, while he leaned his full weight against it. Then the mud surrendered with a wet,
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sucking gasp. She shot forward and collided hard against his chest. For a single breath, the world narrowed to the solid heat of him, the damp wool beneath her cheek, and the startled flare in his storm-gray eyes.
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A dark curl had fallen over his brow. Mud streaked his sleeve. He looked less like an untouchable duke and more like a man who had just crossed a line he could not uncross.
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Then it was over. He steadied her onto the bank, his grip sure and impersonal, and shrugged out of his coat in one fluid motion. The wool settled warm around her shoulders before she could protest. "I will return it."
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She said quickly. "I should hope so. It is one of my better coats." She almost smiled, but her gaze was already lifting toward Renbrook Hall.
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Every dark window watched them. "Stay behind me," Tristan said, voice low and edged. Jenny tightened her fingers on the coat. She was not skilled at staying behind anyone, but the fresh scrape of sound from inside the house silenced any
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retort. They crossed the lawn quickly, boots and stockinged foot moving over damp grass. Renbrook rose before them, pale stone and ivy-choked grandeur, beautiful in its neglect.
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The front doors were locked tight. Tristan led her around to a side entrance half hidden by wild climbing roses.
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The door hung open by a treacherous inch. He stopped short. Jenny saw his jaw harden. "You locked this?" she asked softly. "I locked every door myself after the funeral." The words carried more than irritation.
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Jenny heard it and did not tease him. Inside, the air was cold and dust-heavy with the faint smell of old wood, damp stone, and lavender gone dry in bowls no one had emptied.
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Sheets covered the furniture in the entrance hall, turning chairs and tables into ghostly shapes.
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A portrait of a severe woman in pearl gray silk watched from above the staircase, her painted eyes clever and tired.
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"The Duchess?" Jenny whispered. "My aunt Althea." Tristan's tone was flat, but something raw flickered beneath it. A scrape echoed from deeper in the house. Tristan moved instantly, snatching a heavy brass candlestick from a side table and stepping between her and the corridor.
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"Candlestick," she murmured, keeping pace just behind his shoulder despite his order. "Bold choice." "It was nearby. Would you prefer I recite Shakespeare at the intruder?" "I'd prefer you had the good sense to carry a pistol." "You entered my life from a pond, Miss
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Harlow. Sense appears to be optional today." He gave her one warning look, then advanced down the corridor. They found no one in the first room, only a library with curtains drawn and dust lying thick over the shelves.
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But on the writing desk near the window, someone had swept a hand across the surface recently enough to leave a clean scar through the gray.
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One drawer stood slightly open. Another had been forced and splintered at the lock. Jenny's stomach tightened. Tristan crouched beside it, touching the broken wood with two fingers. His expression iced over. "Not a common thief," he said. "How can you tell?"
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"A common thief would have taken the silver, anything that could be easily sold." He glanced toward the untouched candlesticks on the mantel, still veiled in dust.
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"This person wanted papers." Jenny thought of her mother's letter, of the tremble in the handwriting near the end, as if the pen had grown too heavy to hold.
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"Find the locket. Trust no one who smiles too easily." She had laughed when she first read that line. Her mother had always distrusted charm on principle.
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Now, standing in the cold library of a dead duchess, Jenny felt the memory turn sharp.
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"My father was a solicitor," she said quietly, testing the waters. "He worked mostly for small estates and widows who could not afford fashionable men. He was careful, honest to a fault, my mother used to say." Tristan stilled, lis
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that felt rare. "Six years ago, he was accused of stealing funds from a noble client. Lord whoever he was had enough influence to make the accusation into truth before my father could defend himself.
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He died broken two years later. My mother swore until her last breath that he had been ruined because he knew something dangerous." "What was your father's name?" "Edmund Harlow." The candlestick lowered a fraction.
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There it was again, that flicker. Pain and something darker carefully shut away. "You know him," she said. "I know of him. My aunt mentioned his name once near the end. I thought it was the fever talking." "What did she say?" Tristan's gaze moved
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to the broken desk. "That Edmund Harlow had been made a grave for someone else's sins." The words struck with such force that Jenny's hand tightened on his coat until the wool creased between her fingers.
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For years, she had lived on scraps of belief, her mother's certainty, a hidden letter, her own stubborn refusal to let the world have the last word. But hearing it from him made the hope almost painful.
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"We're wasting time," he said, voice low. "If the intruder was after papers, your locket may already be gone. We should check the pond before full dark." Jenny nodded, and they moved quickly out of the house and back across the lawn.
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Dusk gathered in the reeds, turning the water to molten bronze. She insisted on wading in again because she knew the exact spot where metal had brushed her fingers earlier. Tristan objected with a single sharp look, but followed without
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hesitation, his hand finding hers beneath the surface. The mud clung and pulled, cold and intimate, but his grip was steady.
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Their shoulders brushed as they searched together, breaths mingling in the cooling air. When her free hand finally closed around the locket, she felt the small jolt of triumph travel through them both.
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They returned to the bank. Tristan cleaned it with his handkerchief while Jenny watched, heart racing. Silver emerged beneath the grime, engraved with a tiny wren in flight, her mother's favorite bird. The sight stole her breath. Tristan opened it carefully.
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Inside was no portrait, no folded confession, only a small brass key tucked into a hidden groove, so cleverly fitted it looked like part of the frame.
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Jenny let out a shaky laugh, half wonder, half disbelief. Of course, a key because a pond wasn't inconvenient enough.
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Tristan turned the key in his palm, watching the last light catch along its teeth. Tristan closed the locket with a soft click. For a moment, the evening stilled around them, every reed and ripple suddenly loud in the gathering
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dusk. Jenny stood barefoot in the grass, his coat heavy on her shoulders. "Well," she said at last, "this is excellent news." Tristan looked at her. "Is it?" "Of course.
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[snorts] We came looking for a locket, found a key, and almost interrupted a criminal.
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That is progress. Tristan's mouth curved faintly. You have a generous understanding of progress. I have survived on worse.
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Something flickered across his face. Neither pity nor amusement, but a brief reluctant recognition. He glanced at her bare foot sinking into the cold grass, the ruined stocking clinging to her ankle, the mud streaked up her arms.
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You're freezing. I'm investigating. His mouth softened. Come inside, Miss Harlow. Into the house where an intruder just broke in. Into the house with walls, towels, and a fireplace.
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That is the most romantic invitation I have ever received. The words slipped out barbed with humor.
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Tristan went very still, a faint wash of color touching his cheekbones before he mastered it.
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I assure you, romance was not my intention. He offered his arm without flourish, steady and impersonal, but she noticed he shortened his stride to match her uneven steps.
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Inside, the chill of Renbrook closed around them again. Tristan led her to the servants' hall, found linen in a cupboard, and handed her a towel. Then he turned his back, giving her privacy while he coaxed reluctant flames from the hearth.
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Jenny did what she could with the towel, scraping mud from her arms and wringing water from her skirts, though the silk was beyond salvation. Her mother had kept that gown wrapped in paper for years, insisting sage green brought out
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Jenny's eyes. Jenny had worn it today for courage. When she made a soft, frustrated sound, Tristan glanced back, then immediately looked away again. What is it? My gown has died in service to the truth. A noble end. It was my best
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gown. That made him turn just enough for her to see the regret in his expression.
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I'm sorry. The apology was so direct that Jenny's throat tightened. No one with money ever knew what it meant when a poor woman said something was her best. Best did not mean favorite. Best meant presentable. It meant the difference
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between being treated as unfortunate and being treated as inconvenient. She shrugged before the feeling could show.
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It had a heroic final hour. Tristan looked at her for a beat, then removed his cravat and handed it to her. Jenny froze. For your hair. It's dripping. She took the cravat carefully, absurdly aware that it was warm from his skin,
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that it smelled faintly of rain and him. Her fingers fumbled for the first time all afternoon.
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[clears throat] How many items of clothing do you intend to sacrifice today, Your Grace?
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That depends on how many ponds you plan to conquer. His voice carried a dry spark. Only the meaningful ones, Jenny shot back. I have standards. A girl can't go around falling into every mediocre body of water. It ruins the
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mystique. A low laugh broke from him, warm and so unexpected it seemed to catch even Tristan off guard.
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Jenny watched him a beat too long, the fire playing across those newly softened edges, and felt a dangerous little tug low in her chest. It made her wonder what it might cost to coax that laugh out of him more often.
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Then she reminded herself sharply that dukes and desperate women rarely ended well. As warmth began to creep through the room, Tristan stood, brushing soot from his fingers. "We should begin with my aunt's rooms. The key likely belongs near what she valued most."
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"Because she trusted no one else to be clever for her?" Jenny asked, tying the cravat loosely around her damp curls. A flicker of affection crossed his face, buried beneath older pain.
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"Precisely." They moved through the house together, the silence between them no longer quite so wary.
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The key did not fit the obvious locks, but in the private parlor they found a small rosewood box beneath the window seat. Inside lay dried petals, faded theater tickets, and a ribbon worn soft with time.
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Jenny lifted the ribbon. "A lost romance?" "My aunt would have called romance an illness and then read three novels about it in secret." "I like her already." "She would have liked you." The words came too easily.
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Tristan's hand stilled on the next drawer. Their eyes met across the dusty cabinet, the air suddenly thick. Jenny looked away first, pulse unsteady.
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Clearly she had excellent taste. They moved upstairs as twilight bled across the windows. The corridor outside the duchess's private suite carried the faint scent of closed rooms and old lavender.
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Tristan paused at the door, hand on the knob, shoulders rising once in a slow, bracing breath. Jenny touched his arm lightly.
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[snorts] He glanced down at her hand, then at her face. For once, no clever deflection came. Then, with visible effort, he opened the door.
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The sitting room was smaller than Jenny expected, intimate and frozen in time. Books spilled across every surface.
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[laughter] A faded blue shawl still draped the back of a chair. A pair of spectacles rested beside an unfinished novel as if their owner had merely stepped away for tea.
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Tristan turned toward the writing table. The brass key did not fit the obvious drawers. Jenny frowned. Perhaps it belongs elsewhere.
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Tristan ran his fingers along the table's carved edge. No, this desk was always locked when I was a boy. She kept her real secrets here. It shows no lock now. It wouldn't. A faint, almost fond smile touched his mouth. My aunt never
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trusted appearances. He crouched, searching beneath the writing surface. Jenny knelt beside him, their shoulders brushing in the narrow space. There, half hidden behind a delicate carved garland of flowers and vines, was a small darkened brass plate. At its
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center sat a keyhole so cunningly worked into the wood grain that it was nearly invisible unless you knew exactly where to look.
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Tristan slid the key into the lock. For one heartbeat, nothing happened. Then a deep, satisfying click echoed from within the wood and the side panel of the desk loosened by the smallest fraction.
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Jenny slipped her fingers beneath the edge and pulled. A narrow drawer glided out with whisper-quiet precision, so cleverly concealed that it seems had been invisible even standing right beside it.
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Inside rested a packet of letters tied with black ribbon, several torn journal pages, and a small ledger bound in cracked green leather. Jenny's heart beat harder as Tristan reached for the top letter, then paused, his gaze lifting to hers.
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"These may concern your father." "Then open them," she said, though part of her already dreaded what they might reveal. He untied the ribbon. The letters were fragments, carefully preserved, but maddeningly incomplete.
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Names surfaced again and again, men of influence, men of reputation, linked by a trail of scandals, bankruptcies, and quietly destroyed lives. The duchess had been tracking something far larger than one injustice.
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Page after page revealed the same chilling pattern. A merchant ruined, a witness suddenly recanting, a widow pressured into silence. Different victims, but always the same handful of powerful men appearing nearby.
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"They did this more than once," Jenny whispered, leaning closer. The weight of it pressed against her chest. Rage, grief, and a fierce, aching vindication all tangled together.
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Tristan's face hardened as they turned to the journal pages. One name appeared more frequently than any other.
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P. B. Jenny noticed the way the air went out of Tristan. Her stomach dropped. "You know that name?" she said, voice tight with sudden dread. "Who is he?" He didn't answer at first. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Finally, he
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exhaled. "Lord Percival Blackthorn." The name settled heavily between them. Jenny had heard it before. Everyone had.
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Blackthorn Charities, Blackthorn Estates, Blackthorn Dinners, spoken of with effortless respect. A name that opened doors.
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Now it was possibly tied the ruin of her family. "What does he have to do with my father?" she asked, though she already feared the answer. Tristan looked down at the papers, his jaw tight. When he spoke, his voice was rougher than
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before. "He was the man who accused your father." The room seemed to tilt. For years, she had hated a faceless villain.
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Now, the villain had a name, a face, and worst of all, a place in Tristan's life.
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"How well do you know him?" she asked, the words barely above a whisper. The pause was small, but it told her everything.
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"He was a friend of my father's, and he has been an ally to me." Something inside Jenny went very still.
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The fragile thread of trust she had begun to extend snapped back into place. Of course, a duke's world was small and loyal. She had been a fool to let herself hope that this man would choose a stranger's justice over his own
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alliances. She stepped back from the desk. "I won't ask you to turn on your own. I'll finish it myself." Tristan's hand closed gently but firmly around her wrist, stopping her retreat.
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"Jenny." She froze at the sound of her name in his low voice, soft, almost tender. "I believe you," he said simply. "I believe every word, and I want to help you.
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Blackthorn's reach is wide, but so is mine. Let me use it." The sincerity in his eyes, the way he held her gaze without flinching, made her throat tighten. She swallowed hard.
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"Why?" "Because the truth matters. My aunt spent her final years chasing this shadow. Let me do this for her sake, and for yours." Jenny searched his face, heart pounding with doubt. Could she truly trust him? A man whose world overlapped with the very
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one that had destroyed her father? The thought of relying on anyone, especially a duke, felt like stepping onto thin ice. As if reading the weariness in her eyes, Tristan's thumb brushed once lightly across the inside of her wrist before he released her.
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Besides, after watching you age war on my pond and my swan, I'm rather invested in seeing what you do to the rest of the ton.
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Then, he continued in earnest. Many of the names in this ledger still move through London society.
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Their drawing rooms and clubs are where the rest of the answers hide, but you have no natural place there.
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Thank you for the reminder, Jenny said dryly. His gaze held hers, steady and unapologetic.
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Then come with me as my guest. Jenny blinked. I beg your pardon? As my guest, he repeated, a faint reluctant smile touching his mouth, under the cover of a courtship. Her heart gave one traitorous leap, but she crushed it immediately. That is a
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terrible idea. It's a practical one, he countered, the smile deepening. London opens doors when it believes a duke is courting someone. We need access. We need eyes and ears in rooms that would otherwise remain closed to you, and this
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gives us both cover while we dig. She paced a step, his coat swaying heavily around her shoulders. People will talk.
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Then, they will learn to do so carefully. The quiet steel in his voice sent another unwelcome flutter through her.
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Jenny did not want to be moved, yet the way he looked at her, as if her fight mattered to him now, made the refusal die in her throat.
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"And what would this false courtship require?" she asked, voice steadier than she felt. "Dinners, balls, conversation." His eyes warmed.
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"Dancing, if necessary." "Are you any good?" "I'm a duke." A spark of humor lit his face.
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"That was not your question, was it?" For the first time in that heavy room, he smiled properly, warm, boyish, and disarming.
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"Yes, I am good." "Arrogant, too. And if I tread on your foot, I survived the pond, Jenny. I was not at full strength." His eyes warmed in a way that made the room feel suddenly too small.
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"Then I shall be afraid." Jenny looked away, first because she had to. Her gaze landed on the ledger, and the warmth inside her folded back into resolve.
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"When do we leave?" she asked. Tristan's expression softened with quiet approval. "Tomorrow." "Tomorrow?" She glanced down at her mud-streaked state. "Your Grace, unless London has suddenly embraced pond mud as high fashion, I may require more than one night."
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"My housekeeper in town can arrange suitable gowns. I cannot afford gowns. I did not ask you to. Call it an advance against the cost of solving a crime. You can repay me when we're finished." The immediate practical answer robbed her
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argument of its teeth. Jenny studied him for a long moment. "Fine," she said at last, because anything softer felt perilous. "But no pink, and nothing with so many ribbons I look like a parcel ready for posting." "I will warn the housekeeper that you
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object to being wrapped and delivered," he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching. By the next evening, London had swallowed them whole. Tristan's Mayfair townhouse rose behind black railings and a sternly polished door.
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Jenny entered in a borrowed cloak, composure pieced together in the carriage, while Mrs. Vale, the housekeeper, took one look at her ruined gown and the duke standing a step too close behind her and declared, [clears throat] "Hot water first, explanations after."
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Jenny liked her immediately. Within days, the cover story took root. Miss Harlow, a distant connection of the late Duchess of Wrenbrook, brought to town under the duke's protection.
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Invitations began to arrive, curiosity spreading like scent on the wind. Tristan was seen with her in the park.
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He danced with her at Lady Ermingham's. He looked at her across a crowded supper room with such unguarded focus that rumors ignited.
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At first, Jenny told herself the performance would be simple. She had performed all her life. Respectable daughter, grateful teacher, woman unbothered by whispers.
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But pretending to be courted by Tristan Lockwood proved far more treacherous than pretending not to be hungry.
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He did not flirt with empty compliments or practiced nonsense. He simply stood near enough that cruel tongues reconsidered wagging.
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He remembered which rooms made her feel watched and steered her gently toward windows. When an elderly countess asked with poisonous sweetness whether Miss Harlow found society overwhelming, Tristan answered before Jenny could decide whether to smile or bite.
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"Not at all," he said smoothly. "London, however, may find Miss Harlow overwhelming. I have already placed wages on how long it takes before the city apologizes for underestimating her." Jenny nearly choked on her tea. Later, in the carriage, she murmured,
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"You should be careful, Your Grace. That sounded suspiciously like praise." [snorts] "It was a warning," he replied, eyes glinting in the lamplight, "to London, and perhaps to myself." She looked at him then. The carriage lamps painted his face in amber and
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shadow. He sat across from her, gloved hands resting on his knees with perfect control, every inch the composed duke.
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Yet, for the space of a heartbeat, his gaze dropped to her mouth before flicking back to the window. Jenny turned her face to the glass before her smile could betray how much she wanted him to look again.
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The investigation moved beneath the courtship like a hidden current. At dinners, Tristan dropped names from the ledger and watched who reached too quickly for wine.
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Jenny played piano in glittering drawing rooms and listened as conversations faulted whenever Edmund Harlow's old cases drifted too close.
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Every thread led toward the same polished circle, and at its center, again and again, was Lord Percival Blackthorn.
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One night, at the edge of a crowded ballroom waiting for their dance, Jenny said quietly, "You hesitate before saying his name." Tristan's jaw tightened. "He was kind to me after my father died." Before she could reply, a golden-haired
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young lord interrupted and asked for the next dance. Naturally, she accepted. The young lord danced well enough and complimented her eyes as if he had personally discovered them.
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Jenny smiled politely and glanced once over his shoulder to find Tristan watching from the side of the room with the expression of a man witnessing theft in progress. She enjoyed it far more than she should have. When the dance
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ended, Tristan appeared with perfect timing. "Miss Harlow, you promised me the next." "I did?" "Yes." Her eyes danced. "How forgetful of me." The young lord wisely made himself scarce. As Tristan led her onto the floor, Jenny murmured, "That was very
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subtle." "I have never claimed subtlety as a virtue. You were glaring." "I was observing." "You looked ready to have him transported." "Only briefly." She laughed, bright and unguarded. Tristan's hand tightened at her waist, a fleeting pressure that sent warmth spiraling
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through her. He moved with infuriating grace, guiding without commanding, holding her as though she were something worth learning with care. For three full turns, Jenny forgot the crowded ballroom entirely. Then, she remembered. Because this was supposed to be nothing more
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than a performance. Across the room, the easy hum of conversation faulted. A murmur rippled outward, soft at first, then spreading like spilled ink across silk. Tristan's steps slowed. Jenny followed his gaze toward the grand entrance. A man stood beneath the
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archway, peeling off his gloves with unhurried elegance. Older than Tristan by 20 years, he was handsome in a silvered patrician way.
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People turned toward him instinctively. Men offered respectful nods, women brightened. Even those who looked uneasy did so with respect.
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Lord Percival Blackthorn had arrived. Jenny knew it in her bones before Tristan spoke. She felt it in the stillness of his hand at her back, in the way the entire glittering assembly seemed to hold its breath, and in the cold, sharp thread
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that pulled tight inside her chest. Blackthorn's gaze swept the ballroom. It passed over Tristan, then stopped on her.
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For one terrible heartbeat, his smile remained perfectly unchanged, but his eyes his eyes sharpened with recognition.
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Jenny's fingers tightened around Tristan's. The music swirled on, oblivious. Blackthorn began walking toward them, and Tristan, every line of his body hardening into quiet restraint, shifted half an inch closer to her as if the whole room had just become a
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battlefield. Blackthorn reached them just as the final note of the dance faded beneath the applause.
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Up close, he was even more polished than Jenny expected. Silver hair swept back with care, evening coat cut with quiet expense, smile warm enough to belong to a beloved uncle.
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"Lockwood," he said, extending a hand as though the room had not just tightened around them. "There you are. I began to wonder if London had misplaced its most elusive duke." Tristan accepted the handshake. His expression gave nothing away, but Jenny
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felt the tension in him through the hand still resting lightly at her back. "Blackthorn." Blackthorn turned to her, smile deepening by the smallest degree. and this must be the young lady who has made half the city suddenly interested in
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your social calendar. Jenny curtsied. Miss Harlow, my lord. For one moment his eyes held hers. There it was again.
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Recognition swift veiled but unmistakable. Harlow, he repeated with the faintest trace of sorrow, an old name, one I have not heard in some years. Jenny's fingers curled against her skirt. Then I'm glad to restore it to conversation. Tristan's mouth
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shifted, almost a smile. Blackthorn's did not. Your father was Edmund Harlow, I believe. The ballroom noise seemed to recede. Jenny felt Tristan move half of a breath closer.
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A capable man. Blackthorn sighed softly, the sound rich with regret. It grieved me. What became of him?
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Jenny had imagined this moment for years, the confrontation with the man who had accused her father.
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In her imagination she had always been sharper braver able to produce some brilliant cutting sentence that would make every chandelier tremble.
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Instead, standing before him in borrowed silk with half of London watching from behind painted fans, she felt the old helplessness creep up her spine.
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Tristan spoke before it could reach her throat. Miss Harlow and I were just leaving the floor.
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Of course. Blackthorn's gaze moved between them. We must speak soon, Lockwood. Parliament requires steadier heads than the ones currently shouting.
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His eyes returned to Jenny. I hope London is treating you kindly, Miss Harlow. Jenny smiled then, because she had learned that dignity could be sharpened into a weapon.
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"London has not yet decided what to do with me, my lord." Blackthorn looked genuinely amused.
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"Then, London is wiser than I thought." He bowed and drifted away, leaving admiration in his wake like expensive cologne.
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Jenny watched him move through the ballroom as if every person there trusted him to hold up the ceiling. They left soon after. In the carriage, London blurred past the windows in smears of gold and rain.
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Jenny sat stiffly, gloved hands clenched in her lap. "You're angry," Tristan said. "With me?" "With him.
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With every smiling face that greeted him tonight. With myself for not saying something sharper." "I thought you did well." She glanced at him, a reluctant half-smile tugging at her lips. "You would.
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You're charitable to women recently extracted from ponds. I am not charitable by nature. And you did not owe him a performance." Jenny's throat tightened unexpectedly.
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"I owe everyone a performance. That is what women without protection do. We smile in rooms that would rather spit us out." "Then let them watch us," he said quietly. "Let Blackthorn wonder what you know. Curiosity makes men careless.
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Does it make dukes careless?" His eyes lifted to hers. The carriage seemed smaller suddenly.
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Occasionally. The word sat between them all the way home. Over the following week, Blackthorn appeared everywhere. At Lady Marbury's breakfast, he praised Jenny's playing with paternal warmth and gently suggested that grief could turn even the most sensible families superstitious.
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At dinner in Grosvenor Square, he told a story about Edmund Harlow so kindly that Jenny had to fight the horrible urge to believe him.
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Her father had been clever, Blackthorn said, proud, easily wounded by criticism, a man of great abilities and greater anxieties. He spoke of him not as an enemy, but as a quiet tragedy.
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It was masterful and it was devastating because parts of it sounded painfully plausible. Jenny remembered her father pacing at night, remembered her mother lowering her voice when creditors came.
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She hated Blackthorn for making her memories feel less trustworthy. After one such evening, Jenny found Tristan alone in his library standing by the unlit hearth with an untouched glass of brandy in his hand. "He makes madness sound so reasonable," she said from the
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doorway. Tristan turned. "That is often how reasonable men do terrible things." She stepped inside. The London house was nothing like Wrenbrook, yet his library had become the one place where she could breathe. Perhaps because Tristan never performed there.
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He became quieter, more himself. "You still believe my mother?" she asked. "I believe she found enough to frighten someone. That is not the same as believing her, but I believe you." The words were simple, no flourish, just a line drawn in the room. Jenny looked
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away before he could see what it did to her. "You should be careful," she said. "I may get used to that.
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To being believed, to you saying things that make it difficult to stay annoyed with you." "I'll try to be more irritating then." "You needn't make an effort. You manage it naturally.
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His smile came slowly, reluctant and warm, and it pulled something loose inside her. She wandered toward the shelves, running her fingers along the spines of books she could not afford to own.
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"Why are you not married?" The question slipped out before she could soften it. Behind her, Tristan went still.
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Then a faint, rueful smile curved his mouth. Direct as ever. He looked toward the dark window. For a moment, she thought he would retreat into silence, the way he did whenever grief approached too near.
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Then he said, "I was expected to marry once." Jenny waited. "Her name was Cressida. She was kind, composed, and entirely unsuited to me, which everyone but our families understood. We were not formally engaged, but it was understood." "What happened?"
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"My sister died." The answer was so sudden and plain that Jenny's teasing fell away. Tristan's jaw tightened. "Lucia was 19, reckless, convinced the world couldn't touch her.
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She eloped with a man who wanted her dowry more than her. By the time I found her, it was too late." Jenny did not move. "My father followed a year later. Cressida married someone else before the mourning period ended."
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His mouth curved without humor. "Sensible woman." "My father used to say grief made people strange," Jenny offered softly.
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"My mother said people were strange already. Grief just stripped away their manners." A faint laugh escaped him.
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"I would have liked her." Jenny smiled before she could stop herself. "She would have judged your cravat harshly, without mercy." Tristan crossed the shelf beside her close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body. He reached for a
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book above her head, his sleeve brushing her shoulder. Jenny looked up. He looked down. Neither moved. His gaze dropped to her mouth, dark and unguarded. "Jenny," he said, "and the restraint in his voice was almost painful." She should have
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stepped back. She knew it. Every sensible part of her life had been built on stepping back before warmth became need.
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Instead, she whispered, "You keep saying my name as if it is a warning." "It is." "To whom?" His hand rested on the shelf beside her head. "To me." Her breath caught. Heat flared low in her belly as the space between them
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shrank to shared breath and pounding hearts. The air crackled. For one dizzying second, she thought he might close the distance. A sound from the hall, footsteps, a servant with late correspondence, shattered the moment.
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The next evening, their fake courtship began to crack. Lady Calthorpe's ball was crowded and hot.
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Jenny wore deep green silk that Mrs. Vale had insisted was respectable, yet devastating. Tristan had stared at her for one unguarded second when she descended the staircase, then said only, "That color suits you." Blackthorn watched them from across the
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room with amusement. Jenny pretended not to notice. Tristan asked her to dance. It should have been simple, another step in their invented courtship, but from the first turn, the dance betrayed them both.
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Tristan's hand settled at her waist with the precise pressure of a man trying not to want more.
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Jenny's gloved fingers rested on his shoulder and she felt his muscle beneath the dark fabric. He moved with elegance, but he paid attention to her.
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The length of her stride, the slight catch in her breath when another couple passed too close.
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The way she relaxed when he guided her clear of the watching edge of the room.
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"You're staring." She murmured, "I'm dancing." His thumb shifted once against her back, barely anything, yet enough to scatter every thought on her mind. Around them, whispers bloomed. Jenny heard her name, his title, the word unsuitable.
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Someone laughed behind a fan. Tristan's gaze sharpened. "Don't listen. I've been listening to people underestimate me for years. It would be wasteful to stop when they've finally added music." His mouth softened. "There she is." "Who?" "The fearless woman from the pond."
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The words should have made her laugh. Instead, they pierced her because he remembered her not as muddy or ridiculous or improper, but as fearless.
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"I wasn't fearless." She said quietly, "I simply refused to let the swan win." That startled a low laugh from him. And because the music swelled at precisely the wrong moment, because Jenny was tired of holding herself together with
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thread and sarcasm, she smiled at him as if they were not pretending. Half the room saw it.
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By midnight, London had decided the Duke of Lockwood was lost. By breakfast, three invitations had arrived from women who had ignored Jenny before.
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By afternoon, one of those invitations proved useful. It came from Lady Pember, the widow of a magistrate whose initials appeared twice in the Duchess's notes.
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Jenny played two pieces at the pianoforte in her drawing room while Tristan endured politics near the window.
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Afterward, while guests moved toward tea, Lady Pember touched Jenny's sleeve. "My dear Miss Harlow," she said softly, "you play with feeling." "Thank you." "Your father had feeling, too. Too much, perhaps." Jenny's hands went cold. Lady Pember's smile trembled. "Forgive me.
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I should not have spoken." "You knew him?" "Only through my husband. He was uh discussed." Jenny glanced across the room. Tristan had turned slightly, watching without interrupting.
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"What was discussed?" Lady Pember's fingers tightened around her teacup. "I remember papers, private ones. My husband burned several after Lord Blackthorn called. There was a receipt among them." "A receipt?" "For a payment." Lady Pember swallowed. "To your father."
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Jenny felt the room tilt. "That cannot be right." "I still do not know what it meant, but I remember because your mother came here once after the scandal. She stood in this room and begged my husband to tell
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the truth. He refused to see her." Jenny's voice felt far away. "Do you still have anything?" Lady Pember hesitated, then glanced toward the door. "My husband kept copies of everything." She pressed a folded paper into Jenny's palm. "Do not open it
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here." Jenny closed her fingers around it. Somehow, she crossed the room, found Tristan, smiled through farewells. Only when their carriage door closed did she unfold the paper. Edmund Harlow, 500 pounds, paid by order of Lord Percival Blackthorn.
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The words blurred, then sharpened cruelly. No. She whispered. Tristan read it over her shoulder and went utterly still. Jenny, this doesn't prove doesn't it? Her voice cracked. My father took his money. We don't know why. We know he took it.
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The words tasted like ash. For years she had clung to one belief, her father had been wronged. Not perfect, but innocent.
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Now even that was crumbling. That night she did not come down to dinner. The next morning she found Tristan in his library looking as though he had slept as badly as she had.
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I found the man who witnessed the payment, he said quietly. Jenny's chest tightened. Of course you did. While I was breaking, you were moving pieces.
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His gaze turned to her then, dark and steady. Yes. The honesty startled her. Tristan leaned forward. If your father accepted Blackthorn's money, then the question is not whether he was weak. The question is what Blackthorn used to make an honest
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man take it. Jenny's fingers tightened. And if there is no better reason, she asked, then I will stand beside you when you face that too.
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The words were quiet. No grand vow, just certainty offered without demand. Jenny looked away before he could see what it did to her.
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The clerk, Mr. Gale, agreed to meet them before dawn in the back room of a coffee house near Fleet Street where the windows sweated from the heat inside and the air smelled of burnt beans.
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He was a narrow man with yellowed fingers and eyes that jumped too often toward the door.
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I shouldn't be here, he muttered before they had even sat. Then speak quickly, Tristan replied.
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Jenny placed the receipt between them. You witnessed this. Mr. Gale stared at the paper as though it might bite. I wrote it. Jenny leaned forward, pulse hammering. Why did my father take Blackthorn's money?
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The clerk rubbed a hand over his face reluctant. Because Blackthorn gave him no choice.
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Your father found something he wasn't meant to, Mr. Gale continued, voice barely above a whisper. Not one crime, a system. Men ruined, estates seized, witnesses bought. He was going to expose it all.
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Tristan's eyes sharpened. And Blackthorn knew? Blackthorn always knew. Mr. Gale looked toward the door again.
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He sent for Harlow privately, offered him money to leave London. Your father refused. Then Blackthorn told him what would happen next. Jenny's fingers went cold around the edge of the table.
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My mother, she breathed. And you, Mr. [clears throat] Gale added. He said accidents befall stubborn men's families. Your father took the money so there would be a record of him being compromised. Blackthorn wanted him discredited if he ever spoke.
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Jenny could not move. All these years she had pictured her father broken by shame.
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Instead, he had chosen shame to keep them alive. Tristan's voice was low and dangerous.
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Why stay silent all this time? Mr. Gale flinched. Because I had children, too. Jenny looked down at the receipt again.
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500 pounds. Not greed, not betrayal, a father's desperate bargain. [clears throat] My mother suspected, she whispered. She came to my old employer twice begging for the original papers, the clerk said, "but most had already vanished." "Most?" Tristan pressed. Mr. Gale's face went
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gray. "The Duchess of Wrenbrook had copies. Your father trusted her. He gave her a packet before the scandal broke.
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Said if anything happened to him, she would know where to look." "At Wrenbrook?" Jenny repeated. The clerk nodded, eyes darting nervously.
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"If Blackthorn knows you found that receipt, he'll head there next. He searched once already, years ago, but the Duchess was too clever for him. Too clever for her own good in the end." Tristan stood so abruptly his chair
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scraped across the floor. Jenny rose with him, the receipt clutched tight, heart hammering with a wild mix of grief, fury, and fierce, desperate hope.
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Tristan reached for his hat, jaw set. "We leave for Wrenbrook now." Jenny lifted her chin, though her eyes burned. [clears throat] "Given we are racing back to your haunted estate to outwit one of the most powerful men in England, I'd like it
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noted this has officially become way more dramatic than the pond." Tristan's mouth curved in that rare, crooked smile.
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"Jenny, the pond was never the part I couldn't stop thinking about." "No?" "The woman standing in it was." They reached Wrenbrook just before noon.
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Sunlight spilled across the estate in pale, golden beauty, catching on the pond, the wild roses, the ivy choking the stone walls.
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After London's relentless glitter, the house should have felt smaller. Instead, it felt watchful, as if it had been waiting for them since the moment they left.
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Tristan stepped down from the carriage first, then turned and offered his hand. Jenny looked at it for half a second too long. The first time he had offered it, she had been waist-deep in mud and suspicious of everything, including
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rescue. Now she knew the shape of his palm through her glove, knew the restraint in his fingers, knew that when he held on, he did not pull unless she was ready to move. She took it. The front doors
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opened easily under his key, no forced locks, no broken windows. The house gave no obvious sign that Blackthorn had arrived before them.
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"He may not know yet," Jenny said. Tristan's gaze swept the drive, the hedges, the shadowed windows.
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"Blackthorn always knows more than we wish him to." "Comforting." "I thought so." Their eyes met for one fleeting moment, almost a smile, before the tension snapped back into place. They went straight to the Duchess's sitting room. Tristan moved
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with purpose now, as if some part of him, long reluctant to understand his aunt, had finally begun to think like her.
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Jenny followed him to the faded blue room where they had first found the hidden drawer.
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The desk still stood near the window. The spectacles still rested beside the unfinished book.
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Tristan paused at the threshold, jaw tight. Jenny watched him. "You once said she kept what mattered near herself." "She did." "Then we either missed something here." She stepped closer, "or we misunderstood what she valued most." Tristan turned, not to the desk, but to
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the portrait above the small fireplace. The old Duchess stared down in pearl-gray silk, eyes sharp, as if daring the living to finally catch up.
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"She looks smug," Jenny murmured. "My aunt usually was." "I like her more with every detail.
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Tristan stepped closer to the portrait. When I was a boy, she used to say my father saw power in titles, my mother saw it in manners, and I saw it nowhere because I was too busy being arrogant.
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Were you? Astonishingly. He gave her a look over his shoulder. She smiled despite the knot in her chest. Tristan's attention returned to the painting. But, she said, "The only power that ever frightened wicked men was memory." Jenny's pulse quickened.
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Memory. He reached up and touched the lower edge of the frame. Nothing happened. Then Jenny noticed it. A tiny carved wren in the corner of the gilt work, almost swallowed by gold leaf. Not decorative, deliberate. Her mother's bird.
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Jenny stepped closer. Wait. Tristan lowered his hand at once. She pressed the carved wren. A soft metallic click sounded behind the portrait. The frame swung outward on hidden hinges. For a breath, neither of them moved. Then Tristan swung the portrait carefully
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aside. Behind it lay a narrow recess in the wall and a sealed packet wrapped in oilcloth, untouched by years of dust.
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Jenny's throat tightened. Tristan reached in and lifted the packet. Inside were letters, receipts, testimonies, copies of deeds, pages in her father's hand, pages in the duchess's, and on top, a letter addressed in the duchess's elegant script. For Tristan, if he is
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finally ready to stop mistaking grief for duty. The room seemed to still around them.
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Tristan broke the seal. His face remained composed at first, then his throat worked once.
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By the time he reached the end, all the ducal polish had stripped away. He looked young in a way Jenny had never seen. Young, raw, and deeply loved by a woman who would never answer him again.
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He handed her the page without a word. "My dearest boy, if you are reading this, then I failed to finish what Edmund Harlow began. Do not blame yourself. I was old enough to know fear and vain enough to think I could outwit
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it. Perhaps I did if this has reached your hands. Edmund Harlow was no thief. He was a father cornered by men who understood that love is the cruelest leverage.
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He took Blackthorn's money so his wife and child might live. He gave me the proof so the truth might live also.
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I kept it hidden because I knew Blackthorn would search every lock he could see.
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You, my darling Tristan, have spent years guarding graves, your sister's, your father's, mine. You think loneliness honors the dead. It does not.
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It only leaves them restless. Let this truth free more than the innocent. Let it free you. Live boldly. Marry a woman with fire in her veins and laughter in her eyes. You deserve that kind of trouble.
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With all my love, however exasperating you find it, your aunt Althea." Jenny's vision blurred before she reached the final line. The duchess had been formidable, sharp-tongued, and full of love, the kind that refused to let grief have the last word.
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Tristan stood with one hand braced against the mantle, staring at the cold hearth as if it might offer answers.
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Jenny folded the letter with careful fingers and slipped her hand into his. His fingers closed around hers instantly as if some part of him had been waiting for exactly this.
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"She knew you very well." Jenny said softly. He closed his eyes. The sight nearly broke her. "She kept writing." he said, voice low. "After Lucia, after my father, I ignored half her letters. I thought solitude was the only honest
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thing left." "You were grieving." "I was hiding." Jenny turned toward him. "Both can be true." His eyes opened, raw and unguarded. She held his gaze because he had done the same for her when she needed it most.
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"My father took money from the man who ruined him." she whispered. "That is true. He did it to protect us. That is also true. If I can hold both without making him smaller, then you can let yourself live without making yourself
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cruel." Tristan looked at her for a long moment, then very slowly he lifted their joined hands and pressed his mouth to her knuckles.
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It was not a kiss for ballrooms or watching eyes. There was no performance in it, only gratitude.
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Jenny's breath caught. Outside carriage wheels crunched on the drive. Tristan released her hand, the duke snapping back into place in a single hard blink, but the heat in his eyes lingered, promising they were far from finished.
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Jenny turned toward the window. A black carriage had stopped before the house. Lord Percival Blackthorn stepped out as if arriving for tea.
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He had brought only two men in sober coats, one carrying a leather document case, the other standing with the stillness of hired authority.
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Tristan gathered the packet. Jenny's pulse hammered, but her voice came steady. He knows. Blackthorn did not wait to be announced.
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His unhurried footsteps sounded in the corridor. When he appeared in the doorway, his gaze moved first Tristan, then to Jenny, then to the oilcloth packet on the desk. For the first time since she had met him, his smile did not
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quite reach his eyes. Lockwood, he said. Miss Harlow. How fortunate to find you both here.
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Jenny lifted her chin. People keep saying Renbrook should be empty. It rarely seems to be. Blackthorn's gaze touched her. Your mother had that same courage, though hers was less polished.
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My mother had many virtues. Polishing herself for men like you was not one of them.
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Blackthorn's smile thinned. I came to spare you both an unpleasant error. I understand you have found old papers, misunderstood accusations written by an aging woman whose health, as you know, was failing.
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My aunt's mind was sharper than most men's. Ambition, affection clouds judgment. Blackthorn looked at Tristan more carefully now. You are making this personal.
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It became personal when you used my grief to keep me loyal. You stood beside me after my father died. Tristan continued, his voice cold enough to force attention. You advised me, guided me, called yourself my friend.
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I was your friend. No, you were watching Renbrook. Blackthorn's expression cooled. You have no idea what you are interfering with.
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I have a fair idea, Jenny said. Men ruined, estates stolen, witnesses bought. My father destroyed because he refused to become useful.
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Blackthorn looked at her then, and Jenny felt the full weight of the man beneath the polish.
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Tristan stepped forward, but Jenny touched his sleeve. Blackthorn's gaze dropped to that small contact. Something dark and calculating flickering across his face.
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"You think society will believe her?" he asked Tristan almost gently. "A music teacher with a ruined name and a tragic story?" Tristan did not blink. "I think society will believe evidence. Society believes whatever protects its comfort." Blackthorn's smile was faint and
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pitying. "Men like Miss Harlow's father spend their lives believing decency is enough. And women like you, you spend yours believing men like Tristan marry women like you.
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As a rule, neither story ends well." The words slid under her ribs like a blade. Jenny felt them lodge deep. Her old fears, her insecurities, the quiet voice that had always whispered she was temporary.
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Tristan's jaw tightened, but before he could speak, carriages sounded on the drive. Voices rose in the hall, boots on the floorboards. Blackthorn's expression did not change, but Jenny saw the precise moment he realized his greatest weapon, reputation, had finally turned
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against him. Documents were produced, witnesses stepped forward. Mr. Vail told the truth he should have told years ago.
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Blackthorn stood through it all with the dignity of a man who still believed the world would remember itself and spare him.
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But it did not. When the magistrate led him away, Jenny stood very still, Blackthorn's cutting words still echoing in her head.
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Women like you. The kind who were useful for a season, then set aside when the real world returned.
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The kind who did not belong in a duke's life once the adventure ended. Across the room, Tristan stood beside the magistrate, calm, composed, effortlessly in command. The duke had returned in full. People listened when he spoke. They moved when he gave
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instructions. They thanked him, deferred to him. And suddenly, the truth settled over her like cold rain. The mystery was ending. The false courtship was ending.
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The reason they had been thrown together was ending. Her father's name would be restored. Justice would be done. And afterward, there would only be Tristan Lockwood, Duke of Wrenbrook, and Jenny Harlow, the music teacher with the damaged name. The thought hurt far more
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than she had expected. She turned toward the window before anyone could see her face.
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Then Tristan was there, stepping close enough that she could feel the warmth of him at her back.
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His hand brushed her elbow, then slid down to take hers, lacing their fingers together without asking permission.
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Jenny. She didn't turn. It's over. Not even close. His voice was low, rough, and far too intimate for the crowded room. He tugged [clears throat] her gently around to face him, uncaring who watched. His free hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb
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brushing away a tear she hadn't realized had fallen. I don't need a mystery to keep you here, he said quietly. I need you.
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The woman who laughs in mud, who argues with me in carriages, who makes me remember I'm still alive. Jenny's breath hitched. And when the ton remembers who I really am, Tristan's forehead rested against hers, voice dropping to a murmur meant only
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for her. Then they'll remember that I chose you. The woman who dragged me out of my own graves and made me laugh again.
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Her heart stuttered. I love you. He said simply. Not because of the investigation, not because of duty.
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I loved you before I even knew what to call it. Jenny's throat tightened, tears spilling freely now.
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You're going to regret this when I drag you into another pond. His smile was slow and crooked. I'm counting on it.
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He reached into his coat and pulled out a small silver locket on a delicate chain, the one she had found in the pond, now cleaned and restored. The tiny wren engraving gleaming softly.
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I've been carrying this since the day we opened it, waiting for the right moment, waiting for you to believe this was never fake for me.
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Jenny's breath caught as he fastened it around her neck, his fingers brushing her skin.
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The metal was warm from his body. Let me court you properly, Jenny. He murmured, voice low and rough, the way I've wanted to since the moment I saw you laughing in my pond, covered in mud and absolutely fearless.
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She laughed through her tears, the sound shaky and bright, fingers curling into his coat.
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That was almost romantic. I can do better. He kissed her then, deep, hungry, and long overdue. The room, the witnesses, the scandal, everything faded. There was only the fierce press of his mouth, the way his hand slid to the small of her
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back to pull her closer, the heat building between them after weeks of careful restraint.
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Jenny rose into him, fingers threading into his hair, kissing him with everything she had held back.
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When they broke apart, he smiled against her lips. "Was that a yes to a proper courtship?" Jenny laughed softly, still holding on to him. "That was a you're stuck with me now, your grace.
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And I reserve the right to improve your proposal in every future retelling." "I would expect nothing less." Outside sunlight broke through the clouds over Renbrook, gilding the pond where their story had begun in mud and laughter. How was this from 1 to 10?
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[clears throat] If you enjoyed it, please consider subscribing. Your support means the world. Thank you.
Topics:DukeJenny HarlowRenbrook Hallromancemysterysilver locketfamily secretssuspensehistorical fictionLiana's Duke Romance Library
