Updated Apr 18, 2026 • ~18 min read
Chapter 9: The Former Fiancée Appears
Emmeline
Emmy is reading in the Duke’s private library on a grey January afternoon—her usual position in the leather chair near the fireplace while the Duke works at his desk, both of them existing in that careful companionable silence that’s become the best part of her otherwise lonely marriage—when Mrs. Winters appears in the doorway with an expression of clear discomfort that makes Emmy immediately suspicious about what’s coming.
“Your Grace,” Mrs. Winters says, addressing Emmy but glancing nervously at the Duke. “Lady Cordelia Vane is here. She says it’s a social call and insists on being received.”
Emmy sees the Duke go completely still at his desk—his pen stopping mid-word, his shoulders tensing in a way that suggests this name means something significant and probably unpleasant—and she watches him set down his pen with careful precision before responding in a voice that’s even colder than usual.
“I didn’t invite her,” the Duke says flatly. “Tell her I’m not receiving.”
“I tried, Your Grace,” Mrs. Winters says apologetically. “She’s already in the blue drawing room. She was quite insistent that as an old friend she didn’t need a formal invitation to pay a call on you.”
The Duke’s jaw tightens with clear displeasure, and Emmy watches something complicated flash through his ice-blue eyes—anger or distress or some combination of both—before the familiar emptiness returns and he stands from his desk with the resigned air of someone preparing for an unpleasant duty.
“Fine,” the Duke says. “I’ll speak with her briefly and send her away. Emmy, you don’t need to—”
“I should meet her,” Emmy interrupts, standing because if this woman is important enough to make the Duke react with visible discomfort then Emmy wants to understand who she is and why she’s here. “If she’s calling on us socially, it would be rude for the Duchess to not appear.”
The Duke looks like he wants to argue, but he just nods sharply and leads the way to the blue drawing room, and Emmy follows while trying to ignore the growing sense of dread that accompanies the Duke’s obvious reluctance to see this Lady Cordelia Vane whoever she is.
The blue drawing room is one of the formal receiving rooms Emmy has only been in once or twice—all expensive furnishings and careful decoration and the kind of space designed for impressing guests rather than actually being comfortable—and when Emmy enters she sees a woman standing near the fireplace who is so stunningly beautiful that Emmy immediately understands why the Duke didn’t want her to come to this meeting.
Lady Cordelia Vane is everything Emmy isn’t—tall and willowy where Emmy is average height and ordinary build, sophisticated and elegant in an emerald silk dress that probably cost more than Emmy’s father earned in a year, blonde hair arranged in perfect fashionable curls where Emmy’s dark hair is styled simply, beautiful in a way that makes Emmy feel like a dull sparrow standing next to an exotic bird.
And when Lady Cordelia turns to face them, Emmy sees ice-blue eyes that are almost the exact shade as the Duke’s, and a smile that’s sharp and knowing and makes Emmy’s skin crawl with immediate dislike even before the woman opens her mouth.
“Sebastian, darling,” Lady Cordelia says, and her voice is cultured and musical and dripping with false affection. “I heard you married. How… quaint.”
“Cordelia,” the Duke says, and his voice has gone even colder than usual. “You weren’t invited.”
“We’re old friends,” Cordelia says with a laugh that sounds like crystal breaking. “Surely your little wife doesn’t mind me paying a social call to congratulate you on your marriage.”
Your little wife—said with just enough condescension to make it clear that Cordelia doesn’t consider Emmy worthy of being the Duchess of Ashford, that this beautiful sophisticated woman thinks Emmy is beneath the Duke in every way that matters.
Emmy forces herself to smile even though what she wants to do is ask this woman to leave immediately because her presence is making the Duke look like he’s in physical pain.
“Lady Cordelia,” Emmy says, moving forward to offer a polite greeting because refusing to acknowledge the woman would be rude even though Emmy desperately wants to be rude. “How kind of you to call. I’m afraid we weren’t expecting guests today.”
Cordelia looks Emmy up and down with clear assessment that feels more like dismissal, and Emmy watches the other woman’s perfect smile turn slightly mocking.
“A vicar’s daughter,” Cordelia observes, and there’s something cruel in how she says it. “How charitable, Sebastian. Taking in someone so far beneath your station. Though I suppose when one is desperate for an heir, one can’t be too particular about breeding.”
Emmy feels her face flush with humiliation and anger—this woman just called her low-born and suggested the only reason the Duke married her was desperation—and she’s opening her mouth to deliver a cutting response when the Duke speaks first with a voice like ice.
“That’s enough,” the Duke says, stepping slightly in front of Emmy in a gesture that might be protective. “You’ve delivered your congratulations. You can leave now.”
“So hasty to dismiss me,” Cordelia says with false hurt. “I only wanted to see how you were managing. After everything that happened with poor Caroline, I was concerned about you remarrying at all. And to someone so… unsuitable.”
Emmy sees the Duke’s hands clench into fists at his sides at the mention of Caroline’s name, and she understands suddenly that this woman knows exactly what buttons to push to cause the Duke maximum pain, that Cordelia is deliberately being cruel about his first wife because she knows it will wound him.
“My marriage is not your concern,” the Duke says with barely controlled fury. “It never was. You made that clear when you—” He stops abruptly, clearly not wanting to continue that sentence in front of Emmy.
“When I what, darling?” Cordelia prompts with false sweetness. “When I had the good sense to refuse to tie myself to a broken man? When I chose my own happiness over being trapped in a marriage to someone damaged beyond repair?”
The words hit the Duke like physical blows—Emmy can see him flinch, can see something crack in his carefully controlled expression—and she can’t stand watching this beautiful terrible woman destroy what little progress Emmy has made in getting the Duke to be even minimally present in their marriage.
“You need to leave,” Emmy says, stepping around the Duke to face Cordelia directly because someone needs to defend him and he’s clearly too damaged by whatever history they share to do it himself. “Now. You’re not welcome here.”
Cordelia laughs—that same sharp crystal-breaking sound—and looks at Emmy like she’s an amusing child playing at being important.
“How sweet,” Cordelia says. “The little vicar’s daughter trying to protect her husband from his past. But darling, you can’t protect him from the truth. Sebastian is fundamentally broken. He couldn’t make Caroline happy, he couldn’t save her when she needed him, and he certainly can’t make you happy no matter how desperately you pretend this marriage is anything other than a business transaction born of your family’s poverty.”
Emmy wants to slap her—actually physically wants to strike this woman who’s saying such cruel things while smiling like it’s all a delightful game—but she forces herself to maintain composure because losing her temper would just prove Cordelia’s point about Emmy being unsuitable.
“Get out,” the Duke says, and his voice has gone deadly quiet in a way that’s more frightening than shouting. “Get out of my house. You’re not welcome here. You were never welcome here after what you did.”
Cordelia’s smile falters slightly at the Duke’s tone, and Emmy sees something flash through the other woman’s eyes that might be actual hurt beneath all the cruel sophistication.
“Fine,” Cordelia says, gathering her reticule and gloves with exaggerated dignity. “I can see I’m not wanted. Though I suspect your little wife will come to understand what I already knew—that you’re not capable of actual love, Sebastian. You’re just going through the motions of marriage hoping somehow it will fix what’s broken inside you. But it won’t. You’ll ruin her the same way you ruined everything else you touched.”
She sweeps out of the room with dramatic flair, and Emmy hears her sharp footsteps in the corridor followed by the sound of the front door closing with more force than necessary, and then there’s silence except for the Duke’s ragged breathing as he stands frozen in the middle of the blue drawing room looking like he’s been flayed alive.
Emmy approaches him carefully because he looks like he might shatter if she moves too quickly.
“Sebastian?” Emmy says quietly. “Are you—”
“Don’t,” the Duke interrupts, holding up one hand to stop her from coming closer. “Just… don’t. I need to be alone.”
He leaves before Emmy can respond—just walks out of the drawing room and disappears in the direction of his study—and Emmy is left standing there trying to process what just happened, trying to understand who Lady Cordelia Vane is and why she has the power to destroy the Duke’s carefully maintained composure with just a few cruel words.
Mrs. Winters appears in the doorway with an expression of clear sympathy.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Mrs. Winters says. “I should have refused to admit her. I knew she would cause trouble.”
“Who is she?” Emmy asks, because she needs to understand what just happened. “Who is Lady Cordelia Vane?”
Mrs. Winters hesitates, clearly uncertain how much to reveal, and Emmy moves closer with desperation because she can’t help the Duke if she doesn’t understand what’s hurting him.
“Please,” Emmy presses. “I need to know. He won’t tell me anything, but maybe you can help me understand why that woman has the power to hurt him so badly.”
Mrs. Winters sighs and gestures for Emmy to sit, and Emmy settles into one of the uncomfortable formal chairs while the housekeeper clearly debates what to share.
“Lady Cordelia was His Grace’s fiancée,” Mrs. Winters says finally. “Before he married the Duchess Caroline. He was young—only twenty-two—and completely infatuated with her. She was the season’s diamond, the most beautiful and sought-after woman in London, and when she accepted his proposal everyone said it was the match of the decade.”
Emmy’s heart sinks because of course the Duke was engaged to that beautiful sophisticated woman, of course his first choice was someone elegant and perfect and everything Emmy isn’t.
“What happened?” Emmy asks, even though she’s not certain she wants to know the answer.
“The war happened,” Mrs. Winters explains quietly. “His Grace joined the army—went to fight in the Napoleonic campaigns—and he was injured at Waterloo. Those scars on his face that you’ve seen? He nearly died. The surgeons said he was lucky to survive at all, but he came home looking… damaged. Visibly damaged.”
Emmy can see where this is going and feels sick thinking about it.
“And Lady Cordelia?” Emmy prompts.
“She broke the engagement,” Mrs. Winters says with clear disgust. “Publicly. At a ball in front of all of London society. Told him she couldn’t marry a monster, that she deserved better than a scarred broken soldier, that she was releasing him from their engagement because she couldn’t bear to look at his ruined face for the rest of her life.”
Emmy’s hands clench in her lap with fury at imagining the Duke—young and already traumatized from war and recovering from terrible injuries—being publicly humiliated and rejected by the woman he loved because of scars he’d earned defending England.
“That’s monstrous,” Emmy says. “That’s… how could she do that to him?”
“She was cruel,” Mrs. Winters agrees. “And His Grace was destroyed by it. Withdrew completely from society. Buried himself in estate management and avoided people for nearly two years. Then he met the Duchess Caroline at a small country party—she was quiet and kind and didn’t flinch from his scars—and he thought maybe he could have happiness after all. They married, and for a few years he was almost happy. But then Caroline died, and I think part of him believed Lady Cordelia was right—that he ruins everything he touches, that he doesn’t deserve happiness, that he’s fundamentally broken.”
Emmy understands suddenly why the Duke keeps such careful distance from her, why he won’t let Emmy close, why he treats their marriage like a business transaction—because the first woman he loved rejected him for being damaged, and the second woman he loved died, and now he’s convinced himself that caring about anyone will just lead to more destruction.
“Where did she go after she left?” Emmy asks. “After breaking the engagement?”
“She married a wealthy earl,” Mrs. Winters says. “Lord Pemberton. He died last year—some say she drove him to an early grave with her demands and infidelity—and now she’s a wealthy widow free to do as she pleases. Some of the staff have heard rumors that she regrets breaking the engagement with His Grace, that she wants him back now that he’s even wealthier and more powerful than when she rejected him.”
“Well, she can’t have him,” Emmy says with more vehemence than she intended. “He’s married to me.”
Mrs. Winters smiles slightly at Emmy’s possessiveness. “Yes, Your Grace. He is. Though I’m not certain His Grace fully understands that himself yet. He’s spent so long keeping everyone at distance that actually being married—actually having a wife who wants to know him—is foreign territory for him.”
Emmy thinks about the Duke’s face when Cordelia mentioned Caroline, thinks about how he flinched when Cordelia called him broken and damaged, thinks about how he left the room looking like he’d been destroyed all over again by this woman’s casual cruelty.
“I need to talk to him,” Emmy says, standing because leaving the Duke alone when he’s clearly hurting seems wrong even if he specifically asked for solitude.
“He asked to be alone,” Mrs. Winters reminds her gently.
“He always wants to be alone,” Emmy argues. “That doesn’t mean it’s good for him. That doesn’t mean I should just let him suffer in isolation because it’s more comfortable for him to shut everyone out.”
She finds the Duke in his study—exactly where she expected him to be, standing at the window with his back to the door, shoulders rigid with tension—and she closes the door quietly behind her before approaching him even though he doesn’t acknowledge her presence.
“I asked to be alone,” the Duke says without turning around.
“I know,” Emmy agrees. “But I’m here anyway. Because I’m your wife, and wives don’t abandon their husbands when they’re hurting.”
“I’m not hurting,” the Duke lies. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Emmy counters. “And lying about it doesn’t make it true. Who is she, Sebastian? Really. What is Lady Cordelia to you?”
The Duke is quiet for a long moment, and Emmy watches his reflection in the window glass—sees the pain written across his features that he’s trying so hard to hide.
“No one important,” the Duke says finally, but his voice lacks conviction.
“Don’t lie to me,” Emmy says more sharply than she intended. “Don’t shut me out. I may not know everything about your past, but I know that woman just walked in here and destroyed you with a few words. That doesn’t happen with ‘no one important.’ So tell me the truth. Who is she?”
The Duke turns finally to face Emmy, and she sees something broken in his ice-blue eyes that makes her chest ache.
“She’s the woman who taught me not to expect love from anyone,” the Duke says quietly. “She’s the woman who looked at me when I came home from war and told me I was too damaged to be worth loving. She’s the woman who made me understand that caring about people just gives them the power to destroy you. That’s who Lady Cordelia Vane is.”
“She’s wrong,” Emmy says immediately, moving closer even though the Duke looks like he wants to retreat. “She’s cruel and vicious and wrong. You’re not too damaged to be loved. You’re just… you’re just scared of being hurt again.”
“And you’re not?” the Duke challenges. “You’re not scared that this marriage is just another way for both of us to get hurt when it inevitably falls apart?”
“Maybe,” Emmy admits. “But I’m still here. I’m still trying. Because I think maybe there’s something worth fighting for here, even if you can’t see it yet.”
The Duke looks at her with an expression Emmy can’t read—something complicated and raw and almost hopeful beneath all the defensive coldness.
“She’s going to cause trouble,” the Duke says, changing the subject back to Cordelia. “She doesn’t make social calls out of kindness. She wants something, and she’ll use whatever weapons she has to get it.”
“Then we’ll deal with it together,” Emmy says firmly. “Whatever she’s planning, whatever she wants, we’ll face it together. That’s what marriage means.”
“This isn’t that kind of marriage,” the Duke reminds her, but there’s less conviction in his voice than there was a week ago.
“Maybe it could be,” Emmy suggests. “If you’d let it. If you’d stop treating me like I’m going to disappear or betray you at the first opportunity.”
The Duke stares at her for a long moment, and Emmy holds his gaze even though everything about his posture suggests he wants her to leave, wants to return to being alone with whatever pain Cordelia’s visit stirred up.
“I’ll consider it,” the Duke says finally, which is probably the closest he can come to actually promising to try.
Emmy nods and leaves him to his solitude because pushing further seems cruel when he’s already struggling, and she returns to her chambers feeling unsettled and angry and desperately curious about what Lady Cordelia Vane actually wants from her unexpected visit.
The servants are gossiping about it by dinner—Emmy overhears Sarah and another maid talking in whispers while they prepare her meal—and she learns that apparently the entire staff knows about the Duke’s broken engagement to Cordelia, knows that she publicly humiliated him when he came home from war, knows that she’s now a wealthy widow who’s been making inquiries about the Duke’s new marriage.
“They say she wants him back,” Sarah whispers to the other maid, not knowing Emmy can hear them. “Now that he’s even richer and more powerful than before. But he’s married to Her Grace now, so she can’t have him.”
“She’ll try though,” the other maid responds. “Lady Cordelia always gets what she wants. Everyone knows that.”
Emmy lies in her enormous bed that night thinking about the Duke and Lady Cordelia and the complicated painful history between them, and she understands suddenly that she’s not just competing with the memory of his dead wife Caroline—she’s also competing with the specter of his first love who destroyed him and apparently now wants him back.
It’s exhausting.
It’s demoralizing.
And Emmy has absolutely no idea how to compete with two ghosts—one dead and sainted in memory, one alive and beautiful and sophisticated and everything Emmy isn’t.
But she’s not going to give up.
Because somewhere under all that ice and damage and carefully maintained distance, Emmy has seen glimpses of the man the Duke could be if he’d let himself feel anything beyond cold practicality.
And maybe—just maybe—if she’s patient enough and stubborn enough and refuses to be driven away by his walls or Cordelia’s cruelty—eventually he’ll realize that Emmy is worth keeping.
That this marriage could be real instead of just a business arrangement.
That he doesn’t have to spend the rest of his life alone and broken just because the people he loved before hurt him or died.
It’s a thin hope.
But it’s all Emmy has.
So she clings to it and tries to sleep, and she tells herself that tomorrow she’ll try again to reach the impossible man she married.
However long it takes.
However many beautiful sophisticated rivals appear to challenge her place.
However much it costs her to keep fighting for a marriage that sometimes feels like it’s already lost before it even really began.
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