Updated Apr 18, 2026 • ~18 min read
Chapter 2: Meeting the Duke
Emmeline
Emmy stands in front of Ashford Hall with her heart hammering against her ribs and her hands clenched so tightly in the folds of her worn cloak that she can feel her nails biting into her palms through the fabric, and she makes herself walk up the wide stone steps toward the entrance where light and music and the sounds of Christmas celebration spill out into the cold December night like a cruel reminder of everything her family is about to lose.
The hall is decorated for Christmas in a way that makes Emmy’s breath catch despite her desperation—garlands of holly and ivy wound around the banisters, candles flickering in every window, a massive tree in the entrance hall draped with ribbons and ornaments that probably cost more than her father’s entire debt, and the whole effect is beautiful and cold simultaneously, like someone decorated with perfect taste but absolutely no warmth, exactly like the master of this house is rumored to be.
Emmy lets herself be swept along with the crowd of villagers who are chattering excitedly about the Duke’s generosity in hosting them, about the fine food and music and how fortunate they are to be invited to such a grand estate, and she wants to laugh at their gratitude when the man hosting this party is the same man who’s about to destroy her family, but laughing would probably make her seem hysterical so she keeps her mouth shut and her eyes scanning the crowd for anyone who might be the Duke of Ashford.
“Quite a display, isn’t it?” Mrs. Fletcher appears at Emmy’s elbow with a cup of wassail that Emmy accepts more for something to do with her hands than any desire to drink. “His Grace does love his Christmas decorations, though I’ve never seen him smile at them. They say he’s been cold as ice since the Duchess died. Five years and not a hint of warmth from the man.”
“Where is he?” Emmy asks, because she didn’t walk two miles in the freezing cold to discuss the Duke’s emotional state with the village gossip. “The Duke. Where can I find him?”
“Oh, he’s about somewhere,” Mrs. Fletcher says vaguely, gesturing toward the crowded ballroom. “Probably standing in a corner looking miserable despite hosting a party. That’s his usual manner. Why do you ask, dear?”
“I need to speak with him,” Emmy says, already moving away from Mrs. Fletcher before the woman can ask more questions. “About a private matter.”
She makes her way through the ballroom where villagers are dancing and laughing and enjoying themselves in a way Emmy can’t fathom when her entire world is crumbling, and she’s scanning the crowd for someone who looks like a duke—though she’s not entirely certain what dukes are supposed to look like beyond tall and aristocratic and presumably not dressed like the farmers and shopkeepers currently celebrating in his house.
And then she sees him.
Standing against the far wall watching the festivities with an expression of such complete detachment that he might as well be observing a play performed in a language he doesn’t understand, is a man who can only be Sebastian Hartley, the Duke of Ashford—tall and broad-shouldered in perfectly tailored evening dress that makes every other man in the room look shabby by comparison, dark hair touched with silver at the temples despite appearing to be only in his early thirties, and a face that would be devastatingly handsome if not for the terrible scar that runs from his left eyebrow down across his cheek to his jaw like someone took a blade and tried to carve away whatever beauty he once possessed.
But it’s his eyes that make Emmy freeze in her approach—ice blue and utterly empty, looking at the Christmas celebration happening around him with the kind of distant coldness that suggests he’s physically present but emotionally absent, like he’s already a ghost haunting his own life and just going through the motions of hosting because it’s expected rather than because he cares about anything or anyone celebrating in his house.
This is the man she has to convince to show mercy.
This is the man who holds her father’s future in his scarred, aristocratic hands.
Emmy takes a breath, smooths down her plain wool dress with trembling hands, and crosses the ballroom toward the Duke of Ashford with the terrible knowledge that she’s about to humiliate herself in front of the coldest man in three counties and he probably won’t care, probably won’t even remember her face when he’s signing the papers that send her father to debtor’s prison.
She’s halfway across the room when his eyes find hers—those ice-blue eyes that seem to see straight through her to the desperation beneath—and she watches something flicker in his expression that might be curiosity or might be contempt, impossible to tell when his face is so carefully controlled that it reveals absolutely nothing beyond cold assessment.
Emmy doesn’t let herself hesitate, just keeps walking until she’s standing in front of the Duke of Ashford looking up at a man who’s at least six inches taller than her and infinitely more powerful and wearing an expression that suggests he’s already bored by whatever she’s about to say.
The butler who’s been hovering near the Duke straightens when Emmy approaches, clearly prepared to intercept her before she can bother his master, but the Duke raises one hand in a gesture that stops the servant mid-movement.
“Your Grace,” the butler says uncertainly. “Shall I—”
“Leave us,” the Duke says, his voice deep and cultured and completely devoid of warmth. “I’ll handle this.”
The butler bows and retreats, and Emmy is left standing alone with the Duke of Ashford in the middle of his crowded ballroom while he looks down at her with those unsettling eyes that seem to catalog every detail of her appearance—her worn dress, her practical boots, her complete lack of jewelry or ornamentation—and find her exactly as insignificant as she feels.
“Miss Emmeline Shaw,” the Duke says, making it a statement rather than a question, and Emmy’s stomach drops because he knows who she is, has apparently been expecting her, was waiting to see if she’d actually be desperate enough to approach him at his Christmas party. “I wondered if you’d come.”
“You know who I am,” Emmy manages, trying to keep her voice steady despite the fear making her hands shake.
“I make it a point to know the families whose debts I hold,” the Duke says with chilling practicality. “Your father is Reverend Edward Shaw. He owes me five thousand pounds that he acquired through a series of spectacularly poor gambling decisions. The debt comes due in seven days. And you—” his eyes rake over her again with that same cold assessment “—are his unmarried daughter with no prospects and no dowry. Did I miss anything?”
“You missed the part where you’re a heartless bastard,” Emmy says before she can stop herself, fury overriding the fear because he’s talking about her family’s destruction like it’s just interesting mathematics instead of actual people’s lives.
The Duke’s scarred eyebrow rises fractionally, the only indication that he’s surprised by her rudeness. “Interesting. Most people approach me with more… tact.”
“Most people aren’t facing debtor’s prison on Christmas Eve,” Emmy snaps. “Tact seems rather pointless under the circumstances.”
“Fair enough,” the Duke acknowledges, and there’s something almost amused in his voice now though his expression remains cold. “You wanted an audience. I’m granting it. Make your case quickly—I dislike leaving my guests unattended for long, even if I find their company tedious.”
“I need more time,” Emmy says, forcing herself to be direct since he’s clearly not the type to respond to emotional appeals. “My father is dying. He made terrible decisions with money he didn’t have. But he’s a good man who’s served this village faithfully for thirty years. He doesn’t deserve to die in debtor’s prison. Please, Your Grace. Give us more time to pay. Or reduce the debt to something manageable. Or—” she breaks off because she’s not sure what else to ask for when the debt is impossible and the timeline is inflexible.
“Or show mercy,” the Duke finishes for her, and his tone makes mercy sound like a dirty word. “Because it’s Christmas. Because your father is dying. Because desperate daughters in worn dresses make pretty pleas that appeal to my better nature.”
“Do you have a better nature?” Emmy challenges. “Because everyone in the village says you don’t. They say the Duke of Ashford is as cold as winter and twice as cruel.”
Something flashes through the Duke’s ice-blue eyes at that—actual emotion for the first time since Emmy approached him, though it’s gone so quickly she might have imagined it.
“What they say is accurate,” the Duke says flatly. “I am cold. I am cruel by most definitions. And I absolutely do not have a better nature for you to appeal to. So if that’s your strategy, Miss Shaw, you’ve already failed.”
“Then what would work?” Emmy asks desperately. “What do you want? What would convince you to show mercy to a dying man and his daughter who has nothing?”
“Your father is a fool,” the Duke says with brutal honesty. “He gambled away money he didn’t have trying to maintain appearances he couldn’t afford. Why should I help him? Why should I forgive debts that he willingly accumulated through his own stupidity?”
“Because it’s Christmas,” Emmy tries, even though she can already see in his expression that seasonal appeals won’t work. “Because mercy—”
“I don’t believe in mercy,” the Duke interrupts, his voice gone even colder somehow. “Or Christmas. Both are sentimental concepts that have no place in practical business dealings. Your father borrowed money. I bought his debts. He owes me payment or collateral. Those are the terms. The fact that it’s December twenty-fourth doesn’t change basic mathematics.”
“You’re truly heartless,” Emmy says, and she’s crying now despite her best efforts not to because she came here hoping for compassion and all she’s found is ice and cruelty wrapped in expensive evening clothes. “They said you turned to stone when your wife died, and I thought surely they were exaggerating. But they weren’t, were they? You really are this cold. This empty. This incapable of basic human feeling.”
The Duke goes very still at the mention of his late wife, and Emmy watches his scarred face harden into something that’s not quite anger but is definitely dangerous.
“You know nothing about my wife,” the Duke says quietly, and his voice is sharp enough to cut. “You know nothing about what I’ve lost or what I’ve survived or what made me the man standing in front of you. So don’t presume to judge my capacity for feeling based on gossip from people who understand even less than you do.”
“Then explain it to me,” Emmy challenges through her tears. “Make me understand how a man who has everything can look at a family losing everything and feel nothing. Make me understand why Christmas Eve—a night that’s supposed to be about hope and second chances—is the night you choose to destroy people who are already drowning.”
The Duke stares at her for a long moment with those ice-blue eyes that seem to see everything and feel nothing, and Emmy watches something complicated move through his expression before the cold emptiness slams back down like a door closing.
“Come with me,” the Duke says abruptly, turning away from her without waiting to see if she’ll follow. “We’ll discuss this somewhere more private. I don’t conduct business in ballrooms, and you’re making a scene.”
Emmy glances around and realizes that several villagers are watching their exchange with poorly concealed interest, and she flushes with embarrassment because she just called the Duke heartless in the middle of his own Christmas party and half the village probably heard her.
She follows him because what choice does she have—stay in the ballroom and accomplish nothing, or follow the Duke to wherever he’s leading and at least try to negotiate terms that might save her father from prison.
He walks through the crowd with the absolute confidence of a man who’s never been disobeyed in his life, never even considered the possibility that someone might refuse his commands, and Emmy trails behind him feeling small and shabby and completely out of her depth as he leads her down a corridor lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors who all seem to share his ability to convey complete disapproval without saying a word.
The Duke opens a door at the end of the corridor to reveal a study that’s all dark wood and leather and the kind of expensive masculine comfort that speaks of wealth accumulated over generations, and he gestures for Emmy to enter with the same impersonal courtesy he might show any visitor rather than the desperate woman who just insulted him publicly.
“Sit,” the Duke commands, indicating a chair near the fireplace, and Emmy sits because arguing about furniture arrangements seems petty when she’s trying to save her family.
The Duke moves to a sideboard and pours two glasses of amber liquid that’s probably brandy or whisky or some other expensive spirit Emmy has never tasted, and he hands her one without asking if she wants it before taking the chair across from her with the kind of careful precision that suggests his movements are always controlled and deliberate.
“Your father gambled away five thousand pounds,” the Duke says, making it a statement rather than a question. “Money he didn’t have, trying to pay debts he’d already accumulated. The moneylenders I bought his debts from were charging him forty percent interest. I’m charging him ten. That is mercy, Miss Shaw, even if you’re too desperate to recognize it.”
“Mercy would be forgiving the debt entirely,” Emmy argues. “Not just reducing the interest rate while still taking everything we have.”
“Forgiveness would be stupidity,” the Duke corrects. “I’m not a charity. I’m a businessman managing estate finances. Your father’s poor decisions are not my responsibility.”
“But you could choose to help,” Emmy presses. “You’re a duke. Five thousand pounds is probably what you spend on Christmas decorations. It would cost you nothing to save us and it would cost us everything to be ruined.”
“If I forgave every debt held by desperate people who thought their circumstances entitled them to special treatment, I’d be bankrupt within a year,” the Duke says, and his voice has gone flat, emotionless, like he’s explaining basic mathematics to someone particularly slow. “Your father made choices. Choices have consequences. That’s how the world works.”
Emmy drains her brandy in one burning gulp because she needs something to do with her hands and the warmth helps against the cold certainty settling in her chest that this man is never going to help them, is never going to show the mercy she came here begging for.
“You’re as cold as they say,” Emmy says, standing because sitting in this comfortable chair pretending they’re having a reasonable conversation feels impossible when what she wants to do is scream at him about compassion and basic human decency. “Everyone in the village warned me. They said the Duke of Ashford doesn’t believe in mercy or Christmas or basic human kindness. They said you turned to ice when your wife died and never thawed. I thought surely they were exaggerating. Some kernel of warmth must remain. But they weren’t wrong, were they? You really are completely frozen. Completely empty. Incapable of caring about anything beyond your ledgers and your estate finances.”
The Duke stands slowly, and Emmy realizes she’s made a mistake because he’s not just cold anymore—he’s angry, genuinely angry for the first time since she entered his study, and his scarred face has gone hard in a way that makes her want to step back except she refuses to show fear even when fear is the only rational response.
“You know nothing,” the Duke says, his voice quiet but somehow more threatening than if he’d shouted. “Nothing about what I’ve lost. Nothing about what I’ve survived. Nothing about the reasons I make the decisions I make. You’re a vicar’s daughter who’s lived her entire small life in one small village thinking small thoughts about people you’ve never met. Don’t presume to understand me based on gossip from people who know even less.”
“Then help me understand!” Emmy shouts, because she’s past the point of being careful, past the point of maintaining dignity when her father’s life is at stake. “Explain why you’re this way! Explain what happened to turn you into someone who can look at desperate people and feel nothing!”
“That’s none of your concern,” the Duke says flatly.
“It is my concern when you’re about to send my father to debtor’s prison!” Emmy argues. “It is my concern when you hold my family’s entire future in your hands and treat it like it’s nothing!”
They stare at each other across the expensive rug in his expensive study, and Emmy watches the Duke struggle visibly to regain the control he’s clearly worked very hard to maintain, watches him push down whatever emotion she managed to provoke until nothing remains except that terrible cold emptiness.
“Is there anything else?” the Duke asks finally, his voice carefully neutral again. “Any other appeals to my non-existent better nature? Any other insults you’d like to deliver before I have you escorted from my property?”
Emmy’s heart sinks because she’s failed completely, has antagonized the one man who could save them, has destroyed any chance of mercy through her inability to keep her temper in check.
“No,” Emmy whispers. “There’s nothing else. I’m sorry for wasting your time, Your Grace.”
She turns to leave, already planning the long walk home in the cold and dark, already dreading having to tell her father that she failed, that the Duke is exactly as heartless as everyone warned, that they have seven days until everything they have is taken and there’s nothing more she can do to prevent it.
“Wait,” the Duke says, and something in his voice makes Emmy stop with her hand on the door. “Perhaps… perhaps there is an alternative arrangement we could discuss.”
Emmy turns back slowly, hope and suspicion warring in her chest. “What kind of arrangement?”
The Duke is looking at her with an expression she can’t quite read—assessment mixed with resignation mixed with something that might be calculation.
“Come back tomorrow,” the Duke says. “Christmas Day. At noon. We’ll discuss terms that might satisfy both our needs. But Miss Shaw—” he pins her with those ice-blue eyes “—when you return, come prepared to negotiate seriously. No more emotional appeals. No more insults about my character. Just practical discussion of a practical solution. Can you manage that?”
“Yes,” Emmy says, even though she has no idea what he’s proposing, what terms he might offer, what solution could possibly exist when her family has nothing to bargain with. “I’ll come at noon. Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” the Duke says. “You might not like what I propose.”
He dismisses her with a gesture, already turning back to his desk like she’s already forgotten, and Emmy escapes his study with her mind racing because the Duke of Ashford just suggested an alternative arrangement, just invited her back to discuss terms, just implied there might be a solution even after she called him heartless to his face.
She walks home through the cold December night with more questions than answers and the uncomfortable awareness that whatever the Duke is planning to propose tomorrow, it’s probably not going to be the simple mercy she hoped for.
But it’s something.
It’s more than she had when she walked into that party.
And desperation makes you willing to consider alternatives you’d never accept under normal circumstances.
Emmy just has to hope that whatever terms the Duke offers tomorrow, they’re survivable.
Because the alternative—watching her father die in debtor’s prison—is unthinkable.
And she’ll do almost anything to prevent it.
Even negotiate with a man as cold and empty as the winter night itself.
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