They Called Her the Family’s “Invisible Failure”—Until the Duke Said, “Pretend to Be My Fiancée at the Christmas Ball,” With One Impossible Rule: No Real Feelings. But Days Before the Ball Began, He Was the First to Break It.

They Called Her the Family’s “Invisible Failure”—Until the Duke Said, “Pretend to Be My Fiancée at the Christmas Ball,” With One Impossible Rule: No Real Feelings. But Days Before the Ball Began, He Was the First to Break It.

PART 1

The December wind howled through the ancient oaks surrounding Winterborn Manor, bare branches clawing at the gray sky. Inside the drawing room, Lady Meline Winterborne sat in her usual corner with a book balanced on her lap, making herself as small as the furniture.

“Poor Meline.” Her cousin Levvenia’s voice drifted across the room, deliberately loud. “Twenty-six years old and still without prospects. Mama says it’s quite tragic, really.”

Meline’s fingers tightened on the leather binding. She kept her eyes on the page. She had learned long ago that responding only encouraged them.

“Perhaps she prefers the company of her novels to that of gentlemen,” Beatrice added with a tinkling laugh that set Meline’s teeth on edge. “Though one cannot help but wonder if the choice was ever truly hers to make.”

Lady Amelia looked up from her embroidery with a frown. “Girls. That is quite enough.”

The reprimand lacked conviction. The damage, as always, was done.

Meline rose with as much dignity as she could muster.

“If you will excuse me, I believe I shall take some air before dinner.”

She swept from the room before anyone could respond, her worn morning dress whispering against the Persian carpets. The moment she reached the corridor, she allowed herself a single shuddering breath.

How many more years of this could she endure?

“Careful, madam. You nearly collided with me.”

She looked up sharply and found herself staring into the darkest eyes she had ever seen — black as midnight, set in a face of such striking masculine beauty that for a moment she forgot to breathe. He was tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders encased in an impeccably tailored black coat. His hair was dark as coal, swept back from a high forehead. His features were sharp and aristocratic.

“I beg your pardon,” she stammered, stepping back. “I did not see you there.”

“Evidently.”

His gaze swept over her — an assessment that was neither unkind nor particularly warm.

“You are Lady Meline, I presume?”

“I am. And you are—?”

“Adrien Redwyne.” He offered a slight bow. “Duke of Stormhold. I arrived not twenty minutes ago. Your father was kind enough to extend an invitation for the Christmas season.”

The Duke of Stormhold. Meline had heard the name whispered in drawing rooms across London. Wealthy beyond measure. Devastatingly handsome. Utterly opposed to matrimony. At two-and-thirty, he had evaded every matchmaking mama in England with a skill bordering on the supernatural. The gossip said he was cold, calculating, and cared for nothing save his estates and his horses.

“Welcome to Winterborn Manor, Your Grace.” The curtsy came automatically. “I hope your journey was not too disagreeable.”

“Tolerable.”

He studied her with those unsettling dark eyes.

“You were fleeing something, just now.”

It was not a question.

“I was seeking some air.”

“In the middle of winter. How invigorating.” The corner of his mouth quirked — not quite a smile, but something approaching it. “Or perhaps you were escaping the tender mercies of your cousins. I confess I overheard a portion of their conversation as I passed the drawing room. Quite enlightening.”

Mortification washed over Meline in a cold wave.

“Your grace, I do not—”

“It was their cruelty, not yours,” he interrupted. “Though I confess myself curious why you tolerate it.”

“What choice do I have?” The words escaped before she could stop them. “I am an unmarried woman of six-and-twenty, Your Grace. Society has pronounced its verdict upon me. I am to be tolerated, pitied, and conveniently forgotten. Fighting against it would only provide further entertainment.”

Something flickered in those dark eyes. Recognition, perhaps. Or understanding.

“How pragmatic of you.”

“It is called survival, Your Grace.”

“Indeed.”

He was silent for a moment, still studying her with that penetrating gaze.

“Tell me, Lady Meline — do you ride?”

The abrupt change caught her off guard.

“I… yes. Though it has been some time since I have had the opportunity.”

“Tomorrow morning, then. Seven o’clock. The stables.”

He turned to leave — then paused.

“And, Lady Meline — bring your courage. I suspect you may need it.”

Before she could respond, he was gone, his long strides carrying him toward the guest wing.

Meline stood frozen in the corridor, her heart beating an erratic rhythm against her ribs.

What on earth had just happened?

The dinner that evening was a torturous affair. Fifteen guests instead of the ballroom’s forty, and Meline found herself in her usual position — far down the table, wedged between her unmarried cousin Harriet and elderly Mr. Blackwood, who was quite deaf and preferred his own company.

The Duke of Stormhold, naturally, had been placed in the seat of honor beside her mother.

“The Duke is even more handsome than the rumors suggest,” Levvenia announced to the table at large. “Though I must say, it is quite peculiar that he chooses to remain unwed at his age. One would think a man in his position would have secured an heir by now.”

“Perhaps he finds the ladies of the ton lacking,” Beatrice suggested with a cooing smile. “Though I cannot imagine what standards he must hold, that none have met them.”

Meline focused intently on her venison, willing herself to disappear into the wallpaper.

But Harriet, who possessed more spite than sense, leaned close and whispered.

“Do not develop any foolish notions about the Duke, Meline. A man of his consequence would never consider someone like you. He needs an heir — not a charity case.”

The words struck like physical blows. Meline kept her expression serene. She had become an expert at hiding pain.

“Miss Harriet.”

The Duke’s voice cut through the chatter like a knife through butter. The entire table fell silent.

“I could not help but overhear your comment. I wonder if you might enlighten me — what precisely constitutes a charity case in your estimation?”

Harriet’s face drained of color.

“Your grace, I merely meant—”

“Because in my experience,” Redwyne continued, his tone conversational but his eyes cold as winter frost, “those who concern themselves with categorizing others are often desperately trying to secure their own precarious positions. Would you agree?”

The silence was absolute. Harriet looked as though she might faint. Several guests shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Earl Joseph Winterborne cleared his throat.

“Your grace, I apologize if—”

“No apology necessary,” Redwyne said smoothly. “I was merely engaging Miss Harriet in philosophical discussion. Though perhaps the topic is too complex for the dinner table.”

He turned to Lady Amelia with a charming smile, and the talk moved to the Christmas ball. Conversation resumed around them.

But Meline could feel eyes upon her. Curious. Speculative. Confused.

Why would a duke defend her?

She risked a glance toward the head of the table — and found Redwyne looking directly at her.

He raised his wine glass in the smallest of salutes.

And despite herself, Meline felt her lips curve into a smile.

Perhaps survival was not her only option after all.