Chapter 1
The house had become silent, still, and dark, only I lingered in the shadows. Staring at Eleanor Livingston’s portrait hanging in the hallway across the drawing room, I felt that peculiar calm I had known since childhood. Her image, her soft gaze, had comforted me then and still did now, assuring me of something I could never quite name.
I sank into my usual leather chair, the familiar weight grounding me, and poured a measure of my favorite scotch, the amber liquid catching the dim light of the moon coming in through the tall windows. Perhaps it was the warmth, or the ritual itself, but the scotch seemed to bridge the gap between the calm Eleanor offered and the turmoil that had followed me through the day. Yes the scotch had come later after… everything but it seemed to calm me every time.
Truth was, I was failing. Miserably so. All the years I had built myself up, cloaked in duty, fortified with walls designed to make me the Duke I needed to be, the Duke who would carry the Livingston legacy forward, had convinced me of my own control. I had believed I had succeeded. Until Sienna Parker came into this godforsaken house.
When I first saw her. Perfect, poised, untouchable in every way the world expected… and suddenly crumbling. Watching her composure shatter, watching the carefully constructed illusion of perfection dissolve before my eyes, stirred something long buried, something I had believed dead and dry, like one of the most delicate plants I had failed to save.
Every instinct in me, muscle, nerve, thought screamed to close the distance, to soothe her, to draw her into my arms and make it all right. Every fibre of my being wanted to give in, to claim the warmth of her presence, to erase the ache etched into her expression.
I needed to gather myself. I couldn’t afford this, her, her effect on me. That was why I hadn’t attended dinner today, why I had retreated.
I’m not going to lie, I’d Googled her. Curiosity got the better of me the first night she arrived and I found her in the kitchen: barely clothed, hair damp, calmly drinking water as if she belonged here, as if this place demanded a piece of her just as surely as it demanded a piece of me.
Every instinct in me roared at the sight. The way she moved, effortless and unselfconscious, made the world contract around her. And I held my position, leaning against the doorway, careful not to make my presence known for a while. Desire surged, sharp and immediate, but restraint anchored me. She had no idea of the fire she lit in me, and I wanted it to remain that way.
There was something dangerous about her ease, the way she seemed to claim space without permission, without asking. And still, every part of me wanted to protect her, to draw her into safety, to steady her in ways I could not admit aloud.
In my Google search, I found her in countless events, draped head to toe in designer clothes, always polished, always poised. Every camera flash, every eager face clamoring for a picture, seemed to drain a slice of her soul. And I saw it all, how her smile was carefully measured, an act performed for the world, and how, beneath it, her eyes never truly lit up.
The sight stirred a complicated ache in me. Here was the woman before me in the greenhouse, fragile and real, and there she was on screens across the world, flawless yet hollow. It made the urge to protect her almost unbearable. I wanted to shield her from it all, to give her something no one else could: authenticity, safety, and the chance to just… be.
But as always, I stayed in the shadows of my restraint. Desire and duty warred within me, each glance at her public self making the private Sienna even more irresistible, more untouchable. I would not cross that line.
I took a slow sip of my scotch, letting the warmth spread through my chest, and my gaze returned to Eleanor’s portrait. I had studied that face countless times, but tonight, for a moment, the image seemed different, almost as if a grin tugged at her lips, or perhaps it was the eyes, sharp and knowing, casting me an inkling of knowing. I shook the thought away, but only barely; the illusion lingered.
Just as I began to wonder if I had finally lost my mind, a ghost clad in white silk appeared in the doorway. She moved with a grace that seemed otherworldly, and I watched, captivated, as her eyes, those stormy, unreadable brown eyes were drawn immediately to Eleanor’s portrait. The magnetism of that gaze, her silent awe, made something deep inside me stir: protective, possessive, achingly aware of the delicate balance between fascination and restraint.
She had no idea I was here, and I delighted in the silent feast of her presence, her delicate features, the way her golden hair tumbled in effortless waves over her shoulders. In that dim light, she could have been a ghost, ethereal and untouchable, or an angel, radiant and otherworldly depending entirely on the way one chose to see her.
I didn’t dare make a sound. Not a footfall, not a breath. I wanted to watch her, unobserved, to see how she moved, how she carried herself when she believed no one was paying attention. Every gesture, every tilt of her head, every shift of her weight was a revelation. The urge to close the distance, to reach for her, to pull her into warmth and safety, coiled tightly in my chest but I held firm. I would not betray the line I had drawn, even for a moment.
“She was my great-great-great-grandmother,” I finally said, the words low, deliberate, allowing my presence to announce itself at last.
She gasped, a delicate, startled sound, and turned around, eyes wide, searching the shadows for me. When they finally collided with mine, I saw a small, almost imperceptible shift in them, an acknowledgment of surprise, perhaps even a flicker of something deeper. She hadn’t expected me, of that I was certain, but there was also the sense that she glimpsed, in that instant, a side of me she had never imagined.
I remained still, every instinct taut with restraint. Desire burned beneath the surface, insistent, but I let it wait, letting her process the revelation, letting the moment linger in the charged silence between us. In that fraction of a heartbeat, I saw the careful balance of curiosity, hesitation, and trust forming a fragile, electric connection I could neither name nor claim, yet could not turn away from.
At last, I set my scotch down, the amber liquid catching the moon light one last time before I turned fully toward her. Every step I took drew my attention to the way her breath hitched, subtle but undeniable, and it tightened something deep inside me.
Each footfall became a slow mantra I repeated to myself, a desperate attempt to resist the pull, the urge to close the distance, to reach for her, to let desire override all reason. I tried, in vain, to walk… no, to run, in the opposite direction, to escape the tension coiling between us. But it was useless. We were like two magnets, drawn together inescapably, and the space between us trembled with the force of it with Eleanor Livingston and the heavy, silent darkness of the drawing room as the witnesses.
I decided to dance around the edge of whatever it was we had, a precarious balance of longing and restraint. My body screamed for what my mind fought to deny, and I found myself willingly teetering on that sharp, electric line. Perhaps it was some cruel form of self-torture, this deliberate flirting with the impossible, allowing myself to feel every pull, every ache, without actually crossing the line.
Every movement, every glance, became a calculated act of self control. I watched her, memorized the curve of her shoulder, the tilt of her head, the way her hair caught the dim moon light. Each detail ignited something inside me, but I stayed poised, anchored in discipline. I was learning, perhaps painfully so, that desire could burn without consuming, that the tension itself, the dangerous, unclaimed space between us could be as intoxicating as any touch.
Eleanor Livingston’s calm gaze, the shadows of the drawing room, the silence of the house, they were all witnesses to my self-imposed torment.
I stared into the painting while she processed this madness, and I didn’t blame her. There was a kind of absurdity in it.
“Eleanor Vanderlyn,” I said quietly, my gaze holding the painted eyes that had steadied me since childhood. “Later, Eleanor Livingston. Duchess of Greymont.”
I let the words hang in the air a moment before shifting my attention back to her. “She was American. Just like you.”
She turned to face the painting again, a flicker in her eyes at that revelation did not escape me. It was subtle, an almost imperceptible softening, a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. For reasons I couldn’t name, it struck something in me, as though I’d offered her a key to a door she hadn’t expected to find in this house of ghosts and shadows.
I shifted, my head angling toward her while her gaze lingered on Eleanor’s serene face. The silence stretched between us. Sliding my hands into my pockets, I wielded the gesture like armour, a way to temper the raw edge of my voice.
“She walked into this house as a stranger,” I said, keeping my tone measured. “Foreign. Scrutinised. Not entirely welcome.”
At last, I sought her eyes, needing to see what flickered there, what storm brewed behind those guarded brown depths. “In spite of that,” I continued, softer now, the words almost a confession, “she became unforgettable.”
“She was an heiress,” I said, my tone steady though my chest tightened with the telling. “Her family’s fortune came from shipping, banking, and…the new American dollar. At the time, it was raw wealth, unpolished. But the Vanderlyns had plenty of it. Enough to draw the notice of Europe.”
I glanced once at Sienna, then back to Eleanor’s calm, eternal eyes.
“The fifth Duke of Livingston, my ancestor, had a title as old as the hills, but no money. His family had bled the estate dry. So he sailed to New York, dressed himself up in duty and charm, and negotiated what was, in plain terms, a transaction. Eleanor brought her fortune; he gave her his name.”
My fingers, without thought, brushed the gilded edge of the frame. “She carved her place here. Against all odds, Eleanor Vanderlyn didn’t simply survive Livingston. She remade it.”
I let a breath slip before continuing, voice lower now, almost confessional. “According to the letters, the journals, the estate records… Eleanor and my great-great-great-grandfather, well, it seems they did more than endure one another. The life they built together, it was remarkable. Respect. Curiosity. Laughter, even. Eleanor wasn’t merely a wife who brought money. She shaped this family, this estate, the legacy itself.”
I let the weight of it all settle in that beautiful head of hers before continuing, my voice intentionally quieter.
“She’s remembered as one of the most notable matriarchs of the Livingston line,” I said. “She demanded attention, commanded respect… but she also left a softness in her wake that no one could erase.”
For a moment, my gaze betrayed me, sliding from Eleanor’s painted serenity to the living woman before me. There it was again, that ache, the dangerous recognition: Sienna had walked into this house foreign, scrutinised, unwelcomed, and yet the air bent around her presence as though the walls themselves took notice.
I pressed my hands deeper into my pockets, resisting the pull, the urge to step closer. Eleanor’s portrait bore silent witness.
“It’s easy to forget,” I went on, my voice steady, though my chest felt anything but, “that history isn’t only about power or wealth. It’s about the people who live it and the choices they make along the way.”
My gaze lingered on Eleanor, her painted serenity, before shifting back to the golden-haired ghost before me.
“You know,” I added, softer now, “this might be one of my favorite portraits of all my ancestors. There’s something in her… a sort of peace that radiates from the canvas. As long as I can remember, I’ve come here when I needed comfort or clarity.”
A low scoff escaped me, half-mocking myself. I gave my head a slow shake. “And now I wonder why, out of all the portraits in this godforsaken mausoleum, you end up precisely in front of this one, at the exact same time as I am.”
The words hung there, heavy, almost accusatory, though the truth was far more dangerous: I wasn’t accusing her at all. I was confessing to something I couldn’t name.
And that seemed to make something in her snap.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I didn’t realise I was intruding. I should…I should leave.”
The tremble in her words stirred me, utterly, completely. My jaw tightened as if that might keep me from moving, from reaching. It didn’t.
She started to retreat, her golden hair catching the dim glow of the moon as she turned away.
Before reason could catch up, my hand shot out, catching hers. The contact was electric, a live current slipping past every defence I had so carefully built. Too sharp. Too raw.
Her breath stuttered; mine did too. I should have let go. I didn’t.
Her soft chest collided with mine, and in that single impact I confirmed my theory, I did want to torture myself. Because I did nothing to stop it. Nothing to put distance between us.
Instead, I let her softness envelop me, the perfect press of her body against mine, the sweet torture of her breasts and the hardened peaks grazing my chest. It was exquisite agony, a sensation I both despised and drank down like a starving man.
My eyes locked with hers, dark, searching, already unsteady. That should have been enough. But no. To deepen the punishment, I let my gaze wander. First to the soft curve of her lips, that impossible pink and I wondered, God help me, how they would taste. Then lower, to the elegant line of her neck, before daring further still to the swell of her breast where it met me, searing through fabric and willpower alike.
Every instinct screamed to claim her. But the very act of not doing so felt like the sharpest blade I had ever chosen to endure.
I glanced aside, forcing air through my lungs, and let out a soft, sardonic laugh, half to myself, half to the darkened room before finally meeting her eyes again.
“Explain to me, Miss Parker… how do you do it?”
She swallowed, trembling. “Do what?” The words came out scarcely more than a whisper.
“Creep into every bloody corner of this damned house… and somehow, into every bloody thought of mine, in a matter of days.”
Her cheeks flushed the most exquisite shade of pink, delicate and betraying. A treacherous part of me wondered, against all reason, if she would look the same when she climaxed, undone and unguarded. The thought hit with such force I nearly cursed aloud.
She lifted her chin, defiance and uncertainty at war in her gaze. “I don’t know what you mean.”
I needed to stop. Needed to gather myself, or I would end up pressing her against this corridor wall, with Eleanor Livingston’s painted eyes bearing witness to every reckless inch. And if that happened, I knew with frightening certainty that I would never again find the calm I had always drawn from staring at that portrait.
Summoning every shred of willpower, I finally spoke, voice low, measured, but ironed with authority:
“You need to go back to your room.”
She didn’t hesitate. She turned, silk rustling around her like a whisper of ghostly light, and fled. I watched her go, each step a delicious, torturous reminder of the pull I had so deliberately denied. The sight of her, ethereal, fleeting, incandescent in that gown drove home the bitter truth: everything in me wanted to do the exact opposite.
