Lady Amelia Everthorne had never dreamed of a great love tale.
She'd been practical, realistic. Duke Claude Everthorne's request that she marry him had been an arrangement. He required a bride to secure his title before leading off to fight, and she—unnoticed, unwanted, and crippled with a limp—had needed away from a family that barely noted her presence.
She had not complained when he departed without a glance back.
She had not written epistles, nor stood by the window like some lovesick, foolish maiden.
She had worked instead.
When the servants taunted her, she sent them away. When the estate descended into chaos, she brought order. When the nobles jeered at the 'crippled duchess,' she forged alliances, gained respect, and Everthorne Manor became a place that prospered under her command.
She had established her own domain in his absence, in a life in which he had no place.
And then—four years of silence later—he had the temerity to come back.
With her.
The huge doors of Everthorne Manor creaked wide, their metal hinges screaming in protest at the weight of the occasion. The cool autumn air carried the scent of wet earth and fallen leaves into the great hall, mingling with the intoxicating aroma of nobles gathered to celebrate the victorious return of their war hero.
Claude Everthorne entered his massive form casting long, dark shadows on the flickering torchlight. The hall roared into cheers, voices crying out in jubilation. He was back, triumphant, clad in the black and silver of his house. His war-worn armor shone, the insignia of Everthorne embroidered strongly across his chest, a sign of the unrelenting might that had brought him the kingdom's greatest rewards.
Servants, nobles, courtiers—they all surged forward, all wanting to soak in his radiance.
But Amelia didn't stir.
She stood at the head of the sweeping staircase, looking down on the scene with a strange quiet. She was not swept up in the excitement of his return like the others. She was observing him, noting every alteration since he'd left. The harder planes of his face, the scars that etched his jaw, the fatigue masked behind his piercing eyes.
And by his side stood a woman.
Lovely. Fragile. Otherworldly.
She had on a gown made from silk threads, the blue-black color of night with an indistinct shimmer that picked up the light. Her black locks fell in studied waves around a face that must have been modeled by gods. Her delicate hands and smooth fingers rested on Claude's arm as though she was exactly where she belonged.
There was only Amelia's fist clenched over the dress that betrayed her displeasure.
The hallway receded from her. The sound of partying faded to a hum.
She had waited four years. Warred, bled, and forged something from the ashes he had left behind. She had defied nobles who regarded her as a placeholder, rejected plotting servants who believed her a fool and forged a name for herself in a world that never wanted her.
And this—this—was how he came back?
With a whore?
The whispers began before she could draw breath.
"She doesn't seem happy."
"Did she really expect him to come back to her?"
"The maimed duchess, outshone once more."
Her blood seethed.
She could hear them, taste their laughter, feel their sympathy like a knife held against her throat. They watched, waited, eager to see her break under the pressure of shame. The discarded wife, cast aside the moment her husband found someone more attractive.
But they had underpriced her.
Amelia smiled.
Not demurely. Not in defeat.
But with teeth.
The subtle curl of her mouth shut the nearest whispers down. There was no softness in her eyes, no trembling in her posture. If they thought she would bow her head in shame, they would be bitterly disappointed.
She raised her chin, stiffened her shoulders, and let her presence fall like a storm among the assembled crowd.
Claude's eyes caught hers then, and for the first time, uncertainty crossed his face. He had not written to her, had not prepared for this moment, had not thought about what it would be like to stand before his wife after all these years away.
He had left behind a quiet girl, a shadow of a woman who had existed in the background of greater players.
He had come back to discover a duchess.
And one who would force him to earn the right to call her his wife.
The stillness between them vibrated, a stretched string ready to break.
Then, Amelia leaned forward so slightly, her smile growing wider as she spoke her first words to him in four years.
"My lord," she said, her voice as silky as summer petals. "Welcome home."
Claude tensed as if preparing for war. And perhaps—
Maybe he should.