SHE SAVED A DROWNING BOY FROM THE RIVER—UNAWARE HIS FATHER WAS THE DUKE SHE'D REFUSED

Spring came to the Blackwood Valley not as a gentle melt, but as an explosion of gold and green.

The snow retreated up the mountain peaks, leaving the lower three acres of Elm Ridge blooming with wild yellow daffodils and dark green clover. The Blackwood River returned to its stone bed, singing a sweet, clear song as it glided past the repaired wooden weir.

In May, a long, black carriage bearing the royal crest pulled up the gravel drive of Ashcombe Hall.

It was not Lady Petronella, nor was it the Earl of Harrington.

Stepping out from the carriage, leaning on an ivory-handled cane, was the Dowager Duchess of Saint-Clair—Alaric’s maternal grandmother, an eighty-year-old matriarch whose sharp tongue and absolute moral authority had governed the highest circles of British nobility for sixty years.

She wore dark purple silk that rustled like dry leaves, three strands of sea-pearls around her withered neck, and small gold spectacles that magnified her sharp, pale blue eyes into two burning lanterns.

Alaric stood on the marble steps of his hall, holding Vivienne’s hand firmly in his own. Beside them stood Thomas Marlowe, wearing a neat, dark wool suit bought for the occasion, looking steady and unbothered by the grand marble pillars around him.

The Dowager Duchess walked slowly up the steps, her cane clicking against the stone with the rhythm of a clock ticking toward an execution.

She stopped two feet from Vivienne. She did not offer her hand. She raised her gold spectacles, examining Vivienne from the simple, elegant cream silk dress she wore down to the polished leather boots on her feet.

"So," the Dowager Duchess said, her voice like crisp, dry parchment. "This is the girl who threw thirty-seven letters at my granddaughter’s teacup and dragged my great-grandson out of a river twice."

"I did not throw them, Your Grace," Vivienne replied calmly, her head held high, her gray-green eyes meeting the old woman’s glare without a flicker of fear. "I left them on the table. And I only pulled Tobias from the river once—the second time, your grandson helped me turn the wheel."

The Dowager Duchess narrowed her eyes. "You have a sharp tongue, girl."

"I have a truthful tongue, Your Grace," Vivienne countered gently. "It saves time."

Silence fell over the marble terrace. The liveried footmen standing by the doors looked as though they were preparing to witness an execution.

Then, slowly, the old woman’s withered lips twitched.

A dry, rustling laugh escaped her throat—a sound that caused the footmen to blink in absolute astonishment.

"Thank God," the Dowager Duchess spat, leaning heavily on her cane as she turned to Alaric. "A woman with a spine! I was terrified you were going to marry that dreadful Harrington girl, Alaric. She has the brain of a canary and the posture of a wet towel."

Alaric smiled, bowing his head slightly. "Grandmother, may I present Miss Vivienne Marlowe, her father, Mr. Thomas Marlowe, and—"

"I know who they are!" the old woman snapped, though her eyes were twinkling with sharp delight. She turned back to Vivienne, reaching out a withered, spotted hand adorned with a magnificent sapphire ring. "My dear, Petronella came to my estate in Bath weeping that you had ruined the family honor. When I read the transcript of what you said to her, I ordered my carriage immediately. Anyone who can make Petronella drink cold tea in silence is a woman who belongs at Ashcombe."

She looked at Thomas Marlowe, offering a sharp, decisive nod. "Mr. Marlowe, I am told your canal company has just reduced the freight charges on wool by fifteen percent. My bailiff tells me you are a hard bargainer."

Thomas took the old woman’s hand, bowing with simple, unpretentious grace. "I only charge what the wool is worth, Your Grace. No more, no less."

"A rare virtue in this county," the Dowager Duchess declared. She turned back to the great mahogany doors of Ashcombe Hall. "Alaric, have the cook prepare tea. Real tea—not that weak silt Petronella drinks. And bring Tobias. I want to see this boy who keeps trying to swim in farm crates."

As the old woman rustled into the great hall, Alaric turned to Vivienne, his gray eyes dark with profound emotion.