Updated Apr 18, 2026 • ~12 min read
Chapter 7: Exploring Ashford Hall
Emmeline
Emmy wakes on her fourth morning as Duchess of Ashford with the determination to actually explore the massive estate she’s now supposed to call home instead of hiding in her chambers or the library avoiding the reality of her situation, and she dresses with help from Sarah and makes her way downstairs with the intention of mapping out exactly how large her elegant prison actually is.
Ashford Hall is even more imposing in daylight than it seemed during the Christmas party—all soaring ceilings and marble floors and the kind of wealth displayed in architecture that’s been accumulated over generations—and Emmy wanders through rooms that are beautifully decorated and completely impersonal, like someone hired the best designers but forgot to actually live in the spaces they created.
She finds drawing rooms that look like they’ve never been used, a music room with a pianoforte that’s perfectly maintained but gathering dust from lack of play, a conservatory filled with plants that are obviously tended by staff but never enjoyed by the master of the house, and everywhere she looks Emmy sees evidence of wealth and taste but absolutely no warmth or personality.
It’s exactly like the Duke himself—beautiful and cold and fundamentally empty.
Mrs. Winters finds Emmy examining a particularly elaborate chandelier in one of the formal sitting rooms and offers to provide a proper tour instead of letting Emmy wander aimlessly.
“His Grace should have shown you around himself,” Mrs. Winters says with clear disapproval of the Duke’s negligence. “But since he hasn’t, I’m happy to explain the layout and which areas are available for your use.”
“Which areas aren’t available?” Emmy asks, because the Duke mentioned locked spaces and Emmy’s curiosity is immediately piqued by anything he’s explicitly trying to keep her away from.
Mrs. Winters hesitates. “The west wing is locked, Your Grace. His Grace prefers that area remain undisturbed.”
“Why?” Emmy presses. “What’s in the west wing that requires it to be locked away?”
“The nursery,” Mrs. Winters says quietly. “And the late Duchess Caroline’s personal effects. His Grace had everything moved there after she passed. He hasn’t entered that wing since he locked it five years ago.”
The nursery where Caroline and Thomas died—of course the Duke would lock those spaces away, would make them forbidden territory that no one can enter, would preserve them like a shrine to the family he lost.
“I won’t go there,” Emmy promises, even though part of her desperately wants to see what Caroline’s rooms looked like, wants to understand the woman the Duke actually loved, wants some insight into why he’s so completely broken. “I understand those spaces are private.”
Mrs. Winters looks relieved. “Thank you, Your Grace. His Grace would be… upset if anyone disturbed the west wing. He’s very particular about it.”
They continue the tour—Mrs. Winters pointing out the breakfast room, the formal dining room, the various parlors and sitting rooms that Emmy can use for receiving guests—and Emmy tries to memorize the geography of her new home while mentally noting which areas the Duke frequents so she can avoid accidentally encountering him when he’s clearly not interested in spending time with her.
“And this is His Grace’s private library,” Mrs. Winters says, pausing outside a set of heavy oak doors. “He mentioned you have permission to use it, though he does work here frequently so you might encounter him if you choose to read here.”
“I’ll use one of the other libraries,” Emmy says immediately, because the last thing she wants is to intrude on whatever space the Duke considers his private sanctuary. “I wouldn’t want to disturb him.”
“He specifically said you could use this library, Your Grace,” Mrs. Winters points out. “He’s not the type to offer access he doesn’t mean to grant.”
Emmy considers this—the Duke offering her access to his private space when he can barely tolerate eating dinner with her twice a week—and decides that maybe he’s trying in his own limited way to share something with her, even if it’s just books.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Emmy says. “Though I suspect he’ll regret the offer the first time I actually use it.”
Mrs. Winters just smiles and continues the tour, and by the time they’ve finished Emmy has a decent mental map of Ashford Hall’s public spaces and a growing understanding of just how lonely this massive house is despite being filled with servants and expensive furnishings.
The Duke lives here essentially alone—avoiding most of the rooms, locking away the spaces that hold memories, working constantly in his study or private library—and Emmy realizes that she’s been installed in this lonely house to make it even lonelier because he can’t bring himself to actually share it with her.
After Mrs. Winters leaves to attend to household matters, Emmy finds herself drawn to the Duke’s private library despite her initial reluctance, because if he explicitly gave her permission to use it then maybe that’s his way of trying to offer some kind of connection even if he can’t manage it in person.
She opens the heavy oak doors to reveal a room that’s smaller than the main library but infinitely more personal—shelves packed with books that show actual signs of use instead of being pristine display pieces, a massive desk covered in papers and correspondence, comfortable leather chairs arranged near the fireplace, and windows overlooking the winter gardens that are bleak but beautiful in their starkness.
This is where the Duke actually lives when he’s not sleeping or eating or avoiding his wife—this room that smells like leather and old paper and the sandalwood scent Emmy is starting to associate with him.
She’s examining the shelves, noting that the Duke apparently reads military history and philosophy and surprisingly poetic works by Byron despite his complete lack of romanticism, when she hears footsteps behind her and turns to find the Duke himself standing in the doorway looking surprised and not particularly pleased to find her in his private space.
“I’m sorry,” Emmy says immediately, stepping away from the shelves like she’s been caught stealing instead of using permission he explicitly granted. “Mrs. Winters said you gave me access to this library. I can leave if you’d prefer—”
“This is my private library,” the Duke interrupts, and his voice is flat in that way that Emmy is learning means he’s uncomfortable or upset. “This is where I work.”
“You said I could use it,” Emmy reminds him, feeling defensive now because he explicitly gave permission and now seems to be rescinding it. “You said I had access to all your libraries.”
The Duke is quiet for a moment, clearly wrestling with something, and Emmy watches conflict flash across his usually controlled expression.
“You’re reading military history?” the Duke asks finally, gesturing to the book Emmy was examining before he interrupted.
“I was looking at what you have,” Emmy explains. “Trying to understand what kind of man reads Byron and military strategy in the same library.”
“A complicated one,” the Duke says, moving into the room but maintaining careful distance from where Emmy is standing. “Though I wouldn’t recommend the Byron. He’s overly romantic and largely tedious.”
“I like understanding how battles are won,” Emmy responds, using the line about military history that feels safer than discussing poetry with a man who’s determined to avoid anything emotional.
The Duke looks at her with actual interest for the first time since they married, like she’s said something that surprised him or challenged his assumptions about who she is.
“You’re interested in military strategy?” the Duke asks skeptically.
“My father had a collection of military history books,” Emmy explains. “I read them when I was young. Found them more interesting than the novels young ladies are supposedly meant to prefer.”
Something shifts in the Duke’s expression—not quite a smile but maybe the ghost of one, the first hint of anything resembling warmth Emmy has seen from him.
“You can use this library,” the Duke says after a long pause. “I work here often, but there’s space enough for both of us. Just… don’t disturb my papers. And if I’m working on something urgent, I may not be available for conversation.”
“I wouldn’t expect conversation,” Emmy assures him. “I know actual interaction with your wife is too much to ask.”
The Duke’s jaw tightens at her barb, but he doesn’t argue, just moves to his desk and begins sorting through correspondence like she’s not there.
Emmy should probably leave—return to one of the other libraries where she won’t be intruding on his space—but something stubborn in her refuses to be driven away from a room he explicitly said she could use, so she selects a book on Roman military tactics and settles into one of the leather chairs near the fireplace to read.
They sit in silence for over an hour—the Duke working at his desk, Emmy reading in her chair, neither acknowledging the other but both hyperaware of the shared space—and it’s the closest thing to companionship Emmy has experienced since getting married.
It’s not romance.
It’s not even friendship.
But it’s presence without active avoidance, and Emmy finds herself grateful for even that small thing.
Eventually the Duke stands—clearly finished with whatever he was working on—and Emmy expects him to leave without acknowledging her, but instead he pauses near her chair with an expression that might be curiosity.
“What do you think of Hannibal’s tactics at Cannae?” the Duke asks, nodding toward the book she’s reading.
Emmy looks up, surprised he’s actually initiating conversation about something beyond household management or rules for their arrangement.
“Brilliant use of terrain and troop positioning,” Emmy responds, deciding to answer seriously instead of making a sarcastic comment about him finally acknowledging her existence. “Though his strategic victories didn’t translate to winning the war. Sometimes tactics aren’t enough without proper resources and political support.”
The Duke studies her with those ice-blue eyes, and Emmy can’t read his expression but at least he’s looking at her like she’s a person instead of an obligation.
“That’s perceptive,” the Duke says. “Most people focus on his victories without considering why they ultimately didn’t matter.”
“Most people don’t read military history for fun,” Emmy points out.
“No,” the Duke agrees. “They don’t.”
He leaves after that brief exchange, and Emmy sits in his private library feeling like something significant just happened even though it was just a simple conversation about ancient military campaigns—he talked to her voluntarily, showed interest in her opinions, acknowledged that she might have thoughts worth hearing.
It’s pathetically little to be grateful for.
But in a marriage this cold, any small warmth feels significant.
Emmy returns to the private library every day after that—not to force interaction with the Duke but because she genuinely enjoys the space and the books, and because sometimes the Duke is there working and sometimes they sit in companionable silence that feels less lonely than being completely alone in her chambers.
He never initiates more conversation beyond that first question about Hannibal, but he doesn’t ask her to leave either, and Emmy starts to think that maybe this is how their marriage will function—shared spaces and careful distance, brief moments of acknowledgment surrounded by long silences, tiny increments of progress that are barely noticeable except to people desperately looking for any sign of hope.
A week after she first used his private library, Emmy finds the Duke there late in the afternoon, and when she settles into her usual chair he glances up from his work with what might be the hint of a nod—not quite greeting but close enough to acknowledgment that Emmy’s heart does something complicated in her chest.
“Did you finish the book on Roman tactics?” the Duke asks without preamble.
“Yesterday,” Emmy confirms. “I’ve moved on to reading about the Napoleonic campaigns.”
The Duke’s expression shifts to something complicated—pain or memory or both—and Emmy remembers suddenly that he was in the Napoleonic wars, that his scars came from fighting in those very campaigns she’s reading about.
“I’m sorry,” Emmy says quickly. “I didn’t think—you were there. You fought in those battles. I shouldn’t be reading about them like they’re academic exercises when you experienced them.”
“It’s fine,” the Duke says, but his voice has gone tight. “It was a long time ago.”
“It clearly wasn’t fine if talking about it makes you look like that,” Emmy observes.
The Duke sets down his pen with careful precision. “That’s where I got these,” he says, gesturing to his scarred face. “French cavalry saber. At Waterloo. Left me looking like a monster.”
“You don’t look like a monster,” Emmy says before she can think better of it.
The Duke looks at her with clear skepticism. “I look damaged. Ruined. Like exactly what I am.”
“You look like a man who survived something terrible,” Emmy corrects. “That’s not the same as being ruined.”
The Duke stares at her for a long moment with an expression Emmy can’t read, and then he returns to his work without responding, and Emmy knows she’s pushed too close to something personal, something emotional, something the Duke isn’t ready to discuss.
But at least he didn’t order her out of his library.
At least he’s still tolerating her presence even when she says things that make him uncomfortable.
That’s progress.
Small, incremental, barely noticeable progress.
But progress nonetheless.
And in a marriage this cold, Emmy has to cling to whatever tiny warmth she can find.
Even if it’s just the Duke allowing her to use his library and occasionally asking about what she’s reading.
Even if it’s just shared silence in a room that smells like leather and old books and the sandalwood scent that Emmy is starting to associate with the few moments when her husband seems almost human instead of made entirely of ice.
It’s not enough.
It will probably never be enough.
But it’s what she has.
And Emmy is learning to be grateful for whatever small mercies her impossible marriage provides.
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