Chapter One
London, 1875
The rain fell softly against the carriage window, each droplet tracing ghostly paths down the glass as Lady Eveline Ashcroft sat rigidly, gloved hands folded tightly in her lap. The city blurred into a watercolor of grey and gold as the horses pulled her toward her fate—an engagement forged not by love, but by necessity.
Her reflection in the window showed a pale face framed by dark curls, blue eyes far too wide for a woman determined to appear composed. She breathed in deeply, the faint scent of violets clinging to the lace at her throat. There was no use in panic now. The decision had been made.
"Lady Eveline?" Her governess-turned-companion, Miss Harper, spoke gently. "Are you quite well?"
Eveline managed a thin smile. "As well as one can be when one is about to be bartered like a prized mare."
Miss Harper gave her a reproachful look but said nothing. There was no comfort to offer. The Ashcroft name, once revered among London society, was now whispered with pity and disdain. Debts. Scandal. Ruin. And the only salvation: marriage to a man Eveline had met but twice.
Lord Nathaniel Blackthorne.
The name alone summoned a curious blend of unease and intrigue. He was a man of business, not of birth—a self-made industrialist whose fortune gleamed brighter than his social standing. It was said he was stern, humorless, and ruthlessly efficient. Some whispered he had a heart of iron; others claimed he had no heart at all.
The carriage rolled to a stop before Blackthorne House, an imposing structure of dark stone and high windows, standing like a sentinel against the soft drizzle of the afternoon. The door was opened, and Eveline stepped out, gathering her skirts, heart hammering beneath her corset.
A footman bowed. "My lady. His Lordship awaits you in the drawing room."
She moved forward as if through a dream, each step weighted with dread. The drawing room was vast, lit by the flicker of gas lamps and the glow of a low-burning fire. And there, standing by the mantelpiece with a glass of sherry in hand, was the man she was to marry.
Tall, with dark hair and sharp features, Lord Nathaniel Blackthorne cut an imposing figure. His gaze, when it lifted to hers, was unreadable—cool as marble, yet not without a flicker of curiosity.
"Lady Eveline," he said, voice low and smooth, offering the barest hint of a bow. "Welcome."
She dipped into a practiced curtsy. "My lord."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, taut and fragile.
Then, to her astonishment, the corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been the ghost of a smile.
"Shall we?" he murmured, gesturing toward the settee.
As she moved to sit, Eveline could not help but wonder: was it possible that behind the steel of his eyes lay something more? Something... human?
Or was she truly marrying a man made of iron and shadows?
The first notes of their shared story had begun to play—and Eveline knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that everything in her life was about to change.