The Duke's Reluctant Bride

The air was thick with damp rot and decay. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped in a slow, maddening rhythm against stone. The walls were black with mold and the cold seeped straight into the bones. Rats scurried in the shadows.

In the furthest cell, hidden behind rusted iron bars and layers of mildew-covered stone, a man sat huddled in the corner. His hair was long, matted, and hung in greasy tangles over his face. His beard, grown wild, did little to conceal the gauntness of his cheeks. His once-noble eyes were sunken, ringed with bruised shadows. Filthy rags clung to his skeletal frame.

He coughed, then tried to speak, but it was no louder than a croak.

The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor.

He stirred.

Then light. Torchlight. Two men approached - guards, though not in any royal livery. Their boots crunched on straw and rat bones. One was tall and lanky, with crooked teeth and a permanent sneer. The other, broad and brutish, carried a dented water pitcher.

The prisoner dragged himself forward, trembling arms struggling to keep his body from collapsing outright.

"Please…" he rasped, voice barely more than a breath. "Please… water… I...I'll do anything…"

The tall one laughed, voice echoing mockingly through the stone hall. "Did you hear that, Bren? He says he'll do anything."

"You want this?" he asked mockingly, dangling the pitcher in front of him,"Say 'please, my lord.'"

"P-Please," the man rasped, dragging himself toward the bars, fingers trembling.

The broader guard gave a low grunt of amusement. "He still begs like a court dog. Doesn't even know he's a nobody now."

They stopped before the cell. The prisoner reached a shaking hand toward the bars, desperation carved into every brittle joint.

The big one unlocked the door with a groan of iron hinges.

The prisoner's sunken eyes lit with faint hope. "Mercy… just a sip…"

Bren stepped forward, held out the pitcher close enough for the prisoner to smell the water and then, with a careless flick, overturned it. The liquid splashed across the grimy floor, seeping into the filth.

"No," the prisoner whimpered. He collapsed to the floor, hands scrabbling at the stone, tongue desperate to catch a drop.

The tall one's laughter rang again. "Pathetic."

Bren stood over him, sneering.

"He lives like an animal," one said.

"That's what our leader wants," said the other. "Alive. Just alive. No better."

"Yeah, yeah. Can't have him dying before the right time," the other muttered, wiping his hands on his tunic like the prisoner's very presence had stained him.

The two guards turned to leave, one casting a glance back over his shoulder.

"Sleep tight, Your Highness," he said, voice dripping with cruel mirth. "You've got a kingdom waiting to forget you."

They walked off, their footsteps fading.

In the silence, the prisoner pressed his cheek to the cold floor, lips chapped and bleeding, eyes closing in exhausted despair. The water had vanished into the dirt like everything else he once was.

His name was Stefan. Crown Prince Stefan of the great England.

And no one knew he was still alive.

Wycliffe Manor - Nathaniel's Study

The warm rays of mid-morning sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the Duke's study, spilling onto the polished surface of the oak desk. The room was lined with dark, imposing bookshelves, their contents arranged with almost military precision.

Nathaniel, Duke of Wycliffe, sat in his high-backed chair behind the desk, his gloved fingers resting atop a stack of neatly arranged correspondence. He was dressed in a deep navy frock coat, the color making his already cold expression all the more imposing. Across from him sat Mayor Alfred Belling, a round-bellied man in his sixties with a red nose, balding crown, and a humble but eager demeanor.

"... and the repair of the western road is nearly complete, Your Grace," the mayor finished, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "Your patronage has made all the difference. The merchants are most grateful."

Nathaniel inclined his head slightly. "Good. That road has been impassable since last winter. A functioning trade route benefits us all." His voice was deep, smooth, but restrained as always.

The mayor nodded with a broad smile, clearly relieved by the Duke's calm approval. "Indeed, indeed, my lord. The farmers are pleased as well though some grumble about the levies." He laughed nervously. "But then, some men would still grumble if the rain came too early or the sun too late."

Nathaniel gave no smile in return. "Let them grumble. As long as they work."

An awkward pause settled before the mayor cleared his throat. "Now… if I may, Your Grace there is another matter."

Nathaniel raised a brow, waiting.

"The annual harvest festival is fast approaching," the mayor began, brightening. "It will be held three days hence, in the main square. We would be honored... deeply honored if you and your family would grace us with your presence this year."

Nathaniel's expression remained unreadable.

"The people would be thrilled to see their duke, and… if I may be bold, there's a great deal of curiosity about your new duchess." His eyes twinkled. "She's already made a fine impression in town the other day."

Nathaniel said nothing for a long moment, gaze flicking to the nearby window as if weighing something. The invitation was innocuous enough. But his presence, his family's presence would not go unnoticed. Not by the locals… and not by those outside the county either.

Still.

"I will consider it," he said finally.

The mayor's smile widened. "Very good, very good, Your Grace. I shall have preparations made, should you decide to attend."

Nathaniel gave a faint nod and stood. The mayor followed suit, bowing deeply.

"Thank you for your time, Your Grace." The mayor said.

Nathaniel didn't respond. He simply returned to his chair after the mayor left, fingers drumming once against the edge of the desk.

He glanced toward the window again. Outside, the leaves had begun to turn gold.

A public appearance. A duchess at his side. He would need to inform Evelyn.