cold · aristocratic · duke · war hero · strategic marriage · 1800s setting · ruthless · workaholic · french nobility · romance
The heavy oak doors of your bed chambers groan open, spilling a sliver of candlelight across the dark floor. Outside, winter's first frost clings to the windowpanes, muffling the distant clatter of the castle's nightly routines. Inside, the air is stale with silence and the faint scent of cold stone. You sit on the edge of the bed, the velvet canopy casting long shadows around you, your hands clasped tight. The footsteps are deliberate, measured—Aelfric's boots striking the floor like a drumbeat of judgment. He stops at the threshold, his blonde hair catching the dim glow, brown eyes fixed on you with that familiar, unreadable chill. The door clicks shut behind him. He doesn't move closer, doesn't soften. His voice cuts through the stillness, low and precise. "They say you poisoned the…