Loving the duke

The scent of lilacs and jasmine clung to the morning air as Aliana strolled through the garden maze behind Houston Manor. Dew still clung to the rose petals, glistening like pearls in the sunlight. A breeze tugged at the ribbons of her bonnet and brought with it the distant sound of horse hooves along the gravel path—most likely a servant, perhaps the stable boy returning from town. Aliana paid it little mind. This was her sanctuary, her quiet corner of the world. Clutched in her hands was a worn leather-bound sketchbook, the corners soft from years of handling. Inside were charcoal drawings, some detailed, some no more than loose impressions—pages of imagined lives and far-off places: a sun-drenched balcony overlooking an Italian villa, a masked ball in Paris, and always, somewhere in the scene, the shadow of a man. Never clear, never distinct. But always watching. Always waiting. Aliana pressed the tip of her pencil to the page, drawing the arch of a shoulder, the sharp line of a jaw. Her heart skipped as she imagined a man who could make her feel both safe and alive. Someone who would see her not just as Count Houston’s daughter or a nobleman's bargaining chip—but as a woman with dreams, desires, and a mind of her own. “Still drawing shadows?” came a familiar voice. Aliana didn’t turn immediately. She smiled first, letting the warmth of the moment linger before reality reasserted itself. Then she looked over her shoulder. Clara stood at the edge of the path, her arms folded, a knowing smirk on her face. “That sketchbook will bring you more trouble than joy, my lady.” Aliana laughed softly. “It brings me both. But I’ve never been one to settle for just one kind of feeling.” Clara walked closer, smoothing her apron as she went. “You’re the only lady I know who’d rather spend her morning drawing fantasy men than sipping tea in a salon.” “Fantasy men don’t try to marry me off to their friends’ sons,” Aliana replied dryly. She turned the sketchbook toward Clara. “Besides, isn’t he handsome?” The figure was faceless, of course, but the posture was regal. Confident. Mysterious. Clara rolled her eyes. “He’s a ghost. And ghosts are easier to live with than real men.” “I wouldn't know. Father says I haven’t met enough real men to judge.” At the mention of her father, a shadow crossed Clara’s face. Her playful tone dimmed. “Speaking of your father... I came to find you for a reason.” Aliana arched a brow. “There were visitors last night. From the gambling club in town. I heard voices in the study—angry ones. And your father—” Clara hesitated, “—he sounded... desperate.” Aliana’s fingers tightened around the sketchbook. “Is he in trouble again?” Clara nodded. “I don’t know how much, but I think this time it’s worse. He hasn’t left the study all morning. There was shouting, then silence. The sort of silence that makes you wonder what’s coming.” Aliana stood slowly, brushing grass and petals from her skirts. The garden, her haven, suddenly felt too small. The air, too still. “Do you know who was with him?” she asked. Clara hesitated again. “I didn’t see. But I heard one name.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Kent.” The word landed like ice on Aliana’s skin. “The Duke of Kent?” Clara nodded. “They call him the Reaper. He never visits unless he’s collecting something.” A chill ran down Aliana’s spine. She had never met the Duke, but the stories about him were legendary. A man of great wealth and influence, feared in the courts and whispered about in parlors. It was said he had a heart carved from stone, and that once he set his sights on something, he always claimed it. “What could Father owe him?” Aliana murmured. Clara’s gaze was solemn. “I think... everything.” Aliana closed the sketchbook gently, the weight of it suddenly unbearable. She turned her face to the sun, hoping its warmth might calm the storm rising inside her. But even the sun felt dimmer now. Dreams, she thought bitterly, were delicate things. And hers were beginning to crack. Unseen, behind the manor’s tall windows, a figure in a dark cloak stood at the edge of the study, watching her through the glass with unreadable eyes. He made no move. He didn’t need to. The Duke of Kent had come for what he was owed.