HIS FOR A SEASON

CHAPTER TWO: RULES ? I DON'T DO THOSE

The east wing of Vale Hall was colder than the rest of the house.

Perhaps it was the thick stone walls or the way the wind whistled through the old window frames like a warning—soft, high-pitched, ceaseless. It was a sound that made the candle flames jitter and left the fireplaces working harder than they should’ve had to. Even with logs crackling in the hearth, the cold clung to Isolde’s skin like a second layer—sharp, persistent, and familiar in its unwelcomeness.

She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and paced the room, the hem of her plain dress brushing her ankles. It was a dull gray-blue, with sleeves too long and stiff, made for a girl who wanted not to be noticed. She didn’t.

And yet—she did.

Her reflection in the tall mirror by the armoire caught her mid-step. Her face looked older somehow. Not by years but by the ache that no longer left her eyes. She tilted her head, examining the slope of her jaw, the set of her mouth. Her hair was still damp from the bath, curling loosely against her collarbones.

She looked like a governess.

Not the daughter of a baron. Not the girl who used to sneak into summer balls barefoot just to glimpse the older boys in their cravats, laughing over brandy and war stories. Not the girl Cassian Vale once called “a wild thing with fire in her eyes.”

That girl was gone.

Dinner came late—bread that had already gone stale around the edges, beef stew served lukewarm, and a goblet of wine diluted with water like she was a child. No one came to ask how she’d settled in. No maid volunteered conversation. Not even the housekeeper who’d shown her to her chambers.

It was as though Vale Hall had agreed, in silent consensus, to pretend she wasn’t there.

She didn’t mind. Not yet.

At nine o’clock, a sharp knock broke the silence.

Isolde rose from her seat near the hearth, startled. She opened the door to a maid—a new one, young, brown hair pinned in a bun that trembled with every breath she took.

“Forgive me, miss,” the girl said, eyes averted. “His Grace asked that this be delivered immediately.”

She held out a small sealed envelope, thick parchment bearing the Vale crest in blood-red wax.

Isolde nodded, taking the letter. “Thank you.”

The maid gave a small curtsy and vanished like smoke down the corridor.

Isolde turned the letter over in her hands once, then cracked the seal with her thumb. The folds were neat, the ink still fresh.

Miss Isolde,

You will refrain from wandering the estate after dusk.

You will not interrupt my schedule.

You will not speak of the past.

You are here because your father has asked me to offer you shelter and protection.

Do not mistake it for anything else.

– C.V.

Her lips parted in a soundless breath.

She read it again, slower.

It wasn’t the words that stung—it was the signature. She had once watched him sign love letters with those same initials. Late summer evenings, ink-stained fingers, and a bottle of port tucked behind his chair. The C.V. she knew had smiled at her once. Had tossed a flower at her feet in jest, calling her “wild thing.”

Now he was just a cold voice on parchment.

Isolde folded the letter carefully and slid it into the drawer of her bedside table. She didn’t cry. She didn’t even flinch.

The next morning, she disobeyed him.

Fog still hung thick over the grounds when she slipped outside. The sun had only just begun its slow climb behind the hills, setting the sky aflame with pale gold and bruised lilac. Birds had not yet begun their chorus. The house was still asleep, its windows dark, its halls silent.

She walked barefoot through the garden path, the gravel biting into her feet. Her shawl clung to her arms, woven threads drinking in the morning dew. The roses had not yet bloomed fully, but their buds were heavy with promise. She paused to run her fingers along one, petals soft like secrets.

The yew tree stood at the far end of the garden—old, twisted, its branches reaching like gnarled fingers toward the sky. It had always reminded her of something out of a ghost story.

That’s where she saw him.

Cassian.

He stood with one hand in his pocket, the other holding a lit cigarette between two fingers. His coat hung open, his shirt collar undone. He looked more man than duke in that moment—more ghost than flesh.

He hadn’t seen her yet.

She should’ve turned back. That would’ve been the sensible thing. That would’ve been what a respectful guest did when her host had made his boundaries very, very clear.

But Isolde had never been good at retreat.

She stepped onto the gravel path. Her foot crunched softly over the stone.

“You’re up early for a man who avoids conversation,” she called.

Cassian turned his head slightly. Just enough to let her know he’d heard.

“I thought I made myself clear,” he said.

“You did.” She stepped closer. “I just didn’t care.”

His gaze moved over her—barefoot, hair loose, cheeks flushed from the cold. His eyes lingered a moment too long on her mouth before flicking away.

“Isolde.”

His voice wasn’t cold. It was worse. It was tired.

She stopped a few feet from him, the fog curling around their ankles like smoke.

“You’re staring,” she said, quieter now. “Should I undress so it’s worth your time?”

His mouth twitched—just slightly. He dropped the cigarette, grinding it out beneath his boot with unnecessary force.

“Is this a game to you?”

“No.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “But you were beautiful to me once. Before the silence. Before you stopped writing.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. And for a moment, she could see it—something shifting behind his eyes. A fracture.

“And what would you have me write?” he asked, voice low and bitter. “That I missed the girl who followed me like a shadow at your father’s summer parties?”

Her breath caught.

“You never let me close enough to be a shadow,” she said, her voice raw.

“You were sixteen.”

“I’m not anymore.”

The air thickened. Something unseen stretched tight between them.

Cassian stepped back first.

“Go inside, Isolde,” he said, voice low, unreadable.

And she could have. She should have.

But her heart was drumming loud, and she was so very tired of pretending she didn’t feel it beating for him.

“What happens if I don’t?”

He looked at her, eyes like thunderclouds.

“Then I’ll carry you back myself.”

Her lips parted in something like a challenge.

“Try me.”

He stepped toward her, sudden and sure—and for one wild, breathless second, she thought he would. She thought he’d lift her off the ground and press his mouth to hers with all the force of the storm between them.

Instead, he stopped. Inches away. Close enough to feel his warmth through the fog and cold.

Then, without a word, he turned.

And walked away.

Isolde stayed frozen in place, the cold seeping in again.

And this time, she was the one left trembling.