The Iron Duke’s Ruin

She was halfway through her morning dusting duty when the light suddenly vanished, replaced by a cold, looming silhouette. Alistair didn’t touch her. He didn't need to. As the man only stood close enough for his warmth to burn through her uniform. “Look at me,” he said, and it was not a question. Her chin quivered as she looked up at him, the raw obsession in his eyes which had nothing to do with books was obvious to her. Elara's hand stopped on a leather, bound book. The feather duster dropped from the other hand. The space between them became heavy, filled with a silence that devoured the usual quiet of the room. She could smell his usually strong perfume and, something that was his alone and that made her stomach turn. His heavy shadow overwhelmed the girl, taking away the light from the amber lamp and turning the world into a narrow tunnel that ended with his face. All Elara could see was the Duke Alistair Edger hovering over her face. He took no action at all. However, from the curly lock of chestnut hair at her temple he continued down the line of her throat where he could see her pulse beating under her white apron and finally to her gloved hands which had stopped dusting, he was simply admiring his new maid. His own hands, a very picture of ducal restraint, were clasped loosely behind his back. However, his eyes were a turmoil. “You missed a spot,” his voice was low. And the hint immediately reached her, the dust wasn't the subject of the conversation. Elara gasped subtly and forced herself to look away from him, and turned her attention back to the book shelves. “Where, Your Grace?” “Here.” Alistair ignored the shelves entirely, He didn't reach for a book. Instead, he began to circle her, his shoulder grazing her arm in a way that felt anything but accidental. His hand hovered just inches from hers on the leather binding, a silent, encroaching weight. It was a brief act of contact, but it seared through her sleeve like a force. A sudden jolt of heat raced up her spine, making her heart stutter with a mind of its own. She flinches upon feeling his arm. “Nervous, Elara?” He said her name like he was practicing it. Not “Miss Vance.” Not “girl.” Elara. From him, it sounded like a secret. “No, Your Grace.” The lie was brittle. She willed her hand to move, to continue dusting. It refused. “You should be.” He didn’t pull back. His presence was a cage of warmth and scent and intention. “A new maid in a house like this. So many… unexpected corners.” “I am only following my mother’s duties, Your Grace. I know the work.” “Do you?” He finally pulled back his arm but the heat of him still lingered. He took a slow step aside, moving around her like a satellite, his boots making no sound on the Persian rug. “Whenever your mother dusted the shelves. She did not tremble when I entered a room. She doesn’t hold her breath when I pass. She was like a ghost. You are…” He paused, now he was right behind her. She could feel his breath move the hairs on the back of her neck. “You are decidedly present.” Elara shut her eyes. Disgrace and a dreadful excitement duked it out in her veins. He had noticed it. He had witnessed all the way her flesh uncontrollably reddened, the way her eyes tracked him before she could stop them. Elara realised right now she is like a sheet of glass, and he was discovering each splinter. “I am merely focused on my tasks,” she murmured.. “Liar.” The word was soft, almost affectionate. It shattered her. He completed his circle, coming to stand before her again. This time, he was even closer. Becasue he stood so close the tips of their shoes nearly brushed. Looking up at him was a choice she didn't want to make; it felt like a white flag, her chin rising just to meet the dark gravity of his stare and the craving she noticed in his look was far from kind. It was possessive, voracious. It promised to devour every lie, every pretense, until only a raw, shaking truth remained. “Why did you take this position, Elara?” he asked, his voice quite normal but the hint of a new emotion showing. “Your mother is ill. The wages go to her care. That is the practical answer. Give me the real one.” She swallowed. “It is the only answer, Your Grace.” “You could have worked in the village. The tavern. The chandler. Safer places.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her flushed face. “You walked into the lion’s den. Voluntarily.” “It is not a den. It is your home.” “Precisely.” A faint, dangerous smile touched his lips but it also didn’t reach his eyes as the smile died away immediately. “ "So. You must be either a great brave or a great fool. Which is it?” "Well, I am my mother's daughter," she said, finding a little bit of steel in the tremor of her voice. "I do what has to be done." “Ah.” He slowly nodded as if she had just confirmed something deep inside him. "Duty. An excellent thing. One I know very well." Then, a break flash of resentment clouded his eyes, twisting his features just long enough to sting. He smoothed it over instantly, it was so gone in a blink she almost convinced herself she’d imagined it. He was thinking of the engagement, the political match the whole county whispered about. The Lady Seraphina, arriving in a fortnight. And that thought was a cold splash of reality to both of them, especially to Elara. This man, with his devouring gaze, belonged to someone else. He was a duke. She was a maid replacing her mother. This proximity was a mistake, a dangerous fantasy. She found the strength to take a step back and the dusty air of the library coming through the window rushed into the space where his heat had been. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace. The silver in the dining hall needs polishing before supper.” He let her move. He didn’t try to stop her. But his voice, when it came, held a new, quiet command. “The silver can wait.” “Your Grace—” “You will attend me here in the library each evening,” he said, the ducal authority settling over him like a mantle. The intimate predator was gone, replaced by the master of the house. It was somehow more terrifying. “At this hour. The collection requires a more… meticulous touch. Your mother was adequate. I require perfection.” It was a demand, that his commands made it sound like a duty. A trap laid in broad daylight. Her heart hammered against her ribs. “Every evening?” “Is that a problem?” She saw the challenge in his eyes. Refusing would be insubordination. It would risk her position, her mother’s medicine. Accepting would be walking into the shadow every single night. “No, Your Grace.” “Good.” Alistair turned away from her, walking toward the large desk in the middle of the room. After picking up a letter opener, he toyed with its weight in his hand. And then she heard him speak once again, “You may go. For now.” Elara curtsied, the action being a reflex. She reached out for her dusting basket, and her fingers grabbed it awkwardly. But when she was about to leave, his voice stopped her at the threshold. “Oh, and Elara?” She looked over her shoulder. He was not looking at her, his attention being directed towards the dagger, sharp letter opener which he was holding, his face partially illuminated by the lamplight. “Wear your hair down tomorrow.” “That knot is… distracting.” The command was so intimate, so specific, it literally took away her breathing. It wasn't about virtue. It was about his preference. His desire. He had just drawn a line from his world to hers, and was pulling her in. Elara ran out of the library, her soft soled shoes made no sound on the polished marble of the grand hall. After the massive door was closed, the heavy sound of the door closing was a great relief. She only stopped when she found herself in the narrow and poorly lit servants' corridor with her back being against the cool plaster wall. She was breathing in short and uneven gasps. His voice echoed. ‘Wear your hair down.‘ He was ordering her about her person, her body. He’d stripped her bare without even touching her, masking his intrusion as a simple command. Shame burned in her cheeks, but the steady, heavy thud of her heart was the real traitor; it didn't fear what he would do… it leaned into it. Elara raised a shaking hand to the tight tie at her neck, her fingertips grazing the flyaway hairs there. She felt small, exposed, and desperately curious: what did she look like through those predatory eyes? Definitely, Not a maid. Not her mother’s daughter. Something else entirely.