"My lord, please! Just a moment of your time. My daughter would be most delighted—"
"Stand aside." Duke Alaric Thorne's voice cut through the baron's pleas like a blade through butter. The massive entry hall of Beaumont Manor fell silent as his commanding presence filled the space.
Baron Reginald Beaumont blanched but persisted, scrambling to keep pace with the duke's long strides. "Your Grace, if I may—"
"You may not." Alaric didn't slow his pace. His jaw clenched as he surveyed the room filled with hopeful mothers and their meticulously dressed daughters, all eyes fixed on him like predators watching prey.
Damn Theron and his meddling. The king, his supposed friend, had spread rumors that the Duke of Thornewood was finally seeking a wife. Now Alaric couldn't attend a single social event without being ambushed.
The baron's desperation was particularly pathetic. Alaric had received intelligence that Beaumont was on the brink of financial ruin—no doubt why he'd invited half the eligible women in the county to this impromptu gathering upon hearing of Alaric's planned visit.
"I didn't come here for a wife," Alaric stated coldly, removing his leather gloves with deliberate slowness. "I came for information about the disappearances. Information you claimed to have."
The baron's face twitched. "Yes, of course, Your Grace. But perhaps first, a refreshment? My younger daughter, Clara, has been most eager—"
Alaric moved so quickly that the onlookers gasped. In one fluid motion, he had the baron pressed against the nearest wall, his forearm against the man's throat.
"I don't care about your daughter," he growled, voice low enough that only Beaumont could hear. "Young women are vanishing. The king demands answers. Stop wasting my time."
The baron's eyes bulged. "Upstairs," he wheezed. "My study. Documents."
Alaric released him, watching dispassionately as the man slumped and clutched his throat. "Lead the way."
As they ascended the grand staircase, whispers erupted behind them. Alaric ignored them. His reputation as a monster served him well—it kept the fawning masses at bay and made his work for the crown more effective. Few dared to cross the Duke of Thornewood.
The baron's study was a desperate attempt at opulence. Once-fine furniture showed signs of wear, and fewer books lined the shelves than one would expect. Alaric's trained eye noted several empty spaces where paintings had likely been sold off.
"The information?" Alaric demanded.
The baron fumbled with a drawer, producing a thin folder. "These are records of unusual carriages spotted near the village on the nights of the disappearances."
Alaric flipped through the pages, his irritation mounting with each one. "This is useless. Common merchant routes, nothing more." He slammed the folder onto the desk. "You've wasted my time."
"Perhaps not entirely wasted, Your Grace," the baron said, recovering some composure. "While you're here, my daughter Clara is quite accomplished. Beautiful, educated at the finest finishing school. Before you depart, perhaps just a brief introduction?"
Alaric's dark eyes narrowed. "Your desperation reeks, Beaumont. I've heard rumors of your financial troubles. Is that why you've gathered every eligible woman within twenty miles? Hoping to sell one off to secure your future?"
The baron paled. "I assure you—"
"Save it." Alaric moved toward the door. "I need air."
He strode down the hallway, ignoring servants who pressed themselves against walls to avoid his path. The manor's garden doors offered escape from the suffocating atmosphere inside.
The winter air bit at his face as he stepped outside, a welcome respite from the cloying perfumes and desperate gazes that had followed his every move. He reached into his coat, retrieving a silver case of cigarettes—a habit his mother despised, which only increased his enjoyment of it.
As he lit the cigarette, movement caught his eye. A solitary figure stood near the frost-covered fountain, still as a statue. A woman, dressed in an utterly inadequate gown for the winter chill, her face obscured by an ornate half-mask that covered the left side of her features.
Curiosity—a rare emotion for Alaric—stirred within him. Unlike the others, this woman wasn't rushing toward him or batting eyelashes. In fact, she seemed entirely unaware of his presence.
He approached, boots crunching on the frozen path. "You'll freeze to death out here," he remarked, noting how her thin dress offered little protection against the biting cold.
She startled, turning toward him. The visible half of her face was striking—pale skin, dark eyes that widened with recognition.
"Your Grace," she acknowledged, her voice surprisingly steady. No simpering, no forced charm. Just a simple acknowledgment of his presence.
"You have the advantage of me," he said, taking another drag of his cigarette.
"Isabella Beaumont."
Alaric raised an eyebrow. "Another Beaumont daughter? Not part of the parade inside?"
A brief, bitter smile crossed her exposed lips. "I'm not paraded. I'm hidden."
The statement was delivered without self-pity, just stark honesty. Alaric found himself intrigued despite his better judgment.
"Lucky you," he replied dryly. "I've spent the afternoon dodging marriage-minded mothers and their simpering daughters."
"Because of the rumors," she stated. "That you're seeking a wife."
"Rumors started by the king himself, as a jest." Alaric scowled, flicking ash onto the frozen ground. "Now I can't attend a single function without being hunted like prized game."
"The joys of being a wealthy duke," Isabella observed, pulling her thin shawl tighter around her shoulders.
"Indeed." He studied her. The mask, the isolation in the garden, the lack of proper winter attire—all suggested a person relegated to the shadows of her own home. "Why are you out here freezing instead of inside by the fire?"
"I prefer the cold to certain company," she answered simply.
"On that, we agree." He offered her his cigarette case out of habit, though few ladies accepted.
To his surprise, she took one. He lit it for her, noting her steady hands despite the cold.
"You seem remarkably uninterested in securing a duke for a husband," he commented as she exhaled smoke.
"Would you believe me if I claimed to be employing a different strategy than the others?" There was a hint of humor in her voice.
"No," he replied bluntly. "You strike me as someone who values honesty over strategy."
She considered him for a moment. "Then honestly, Your Grace, I have no illusions about my prospects. The daughter with the masked face doesn't get paraded before eligible men."
"And yet here I am, speaking with you rather than the dozen carefully groomed ladies inside."
"Because you're hiding too," she observed astutely.
Alaric found himself smiling despite his foul mood. "Touché, Miss Beaumont."
They smoked in comfortable silence for a moment before she spoke again.
"Is it true what they say? That you have no interest in love, only in a marriage of convenience?"
"Love is a fairy tale sold to young girls," he replied dismissively. "Marriage is a business arrangement, nothing more."
"Then why not simply choose? Select the wealthiest, most politically advantageous match and be done with it?"
Alaric frowned. "Because I refuse to be manipulated. When—if—I marry, it will be on my terms, not because I've been cornered at a ridiculous social gathering."
Isabella nodded slowly, seeming to contemplate his words. Her gaze drifted toward the manor house, where lights blazed from every window. Something in her expression—a mixture of dread and resolve—caught his attention.
"What about a contract?" she asked suddenly, turning to face him fully.
"A contract?" Alaric repeated, unsure what she meant.
Isabella's visible eye held his gaze, determination replacing her earlier reserve. "What about a contract marriage? Between us."