Chapter 1

T he stillness of winter settled heavily over Riverwood Manor, as if the snow itself had stolen away every sound. Even the crackling fire in the main hall seemed muted, the warmth barely touching the chill that seeped into Lady Charlotte Ashbourne’s very bones.

She stood by the window, her bright eyes fixed on the snow-covered landscape. The flakes swirled and danced, beautiful yet cold—a reflection of the bleakness that had seeped into her bones. Her delicate features, once the epitome of grace and warmth, were now etched with a mix of anger and steely determination. A faint furrow in her brow hinted at the burden she carried.

"How far we have fallen," she murmured, her gloved fingers tracing the delicate pattern of frost on the windowpane. Once, Riverwood had been a place of glittering balls and merry laughter ringing through corridors. Servants had bustled to and fro, fires always blazing in the hearths to ward off the chill. Her father's jovial voice had boomed with joy and pride.

Now, only shadows and silence remained. Stripped of its finery and warmth, Riverwood stood as a husk of its former glory, ravaged by the cruel winds of fate. Like barren trees in the dead of winter, her family had been left exposed, their roots withering under the weight of scandal and ruin.

Charlotte’s heart clenched as she recalled the happier days—whirling through the grand ballroom, her silk skirts sweeping the floor, her father’s laughter filling the air as he twirled her about. She could still feel the warmth of the hearth, her family gathered around it, their faces aglow with love and contentment. The memory was too sweet, too painful.

It had all been ripped away by the cruel machinations of one man.

The memories cut through her—too sweet to bear, yet impossible to forget. Her chest tightened until she could scarcely breathe, and then the rage burned through her like fire, scalding away the numbness with its savage heat. She welcomed the anger. The flames of conviction that had settled over her in the wake of their downfall.

This would not be the end for her family. Not while she still had the strength to fight.

Charlotte lifted her chin, her eyes narrowing at the winter landscape beyond. Let the cold winds howl. She would weather the storm and emerge victorious, no matter the cost. Her gaze flicked to the portrait of her father above the mantel, his familiar features both a comfort and a painful reminder of all they had lost. A pang of guilt twisted in her chest as a painful weight settling upon her shoulders.

"Forgive me, Father," she murmured. "I should have done more."

But regret would not change their fate. Charlotte knew she had to look forward. She had a plan—one she had been crafting for months. The Duke of Ravenscroft, Grant Tilbury, thought himself untouchable, hidden behind his wealth and influence. But every man had weaknesses. She need only discover his. To that end, she had been carefully gathering information, piecing together rumors and whispered secrets.

He would pay for what he had done to her family. She would expose him. Society would see him for what he was—a villain masquerading as a nobleman.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, her nails biting into the soft flesh of her palms. She would not rest until she had completed her revenge. The Duke would pay for what he had done to her family.

She turned from the window, her skirts swishing softly as she left the cold shadows of the room. She made her way through the quiet, empty corridors, her footsteps echoing against the floorboards. Riverwood, like her family, had been stripped of its beauty.

She pushed open the sitting room door, then paused, her heart clenching at the sight that greeted her. Her mother, Lady Chatsworth, once a vibrant and lively woman, now sat hunched in a faded velvet armchair, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Her once-rosy cheeks had hollowed, and the light in her eyes had dimmed. The room itself seemed to have lost its luster, the furniture worn and the draperies threadbare.

"Mama," Charlotte greeted softly, moving to sit beside her near the fire. "How are you feeling today?"

Mother glanced up, her weary gaze meeting Charlotte’s. "I fear for our future, my dear," she sighed, her hands trembling in her lap. "The debts keep mounting, and we have had to let more staff go. I do not know how much longer we can hold on."

Charlotte squeezed her mother's hand, hoping to impart some measure of strength. "We will find a way, Mama. I promise you."

Mother shook her head, a mirthless smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Your optimism is admirable, my dear, but I fear it may be misplaced. We are on the brink of losing everything, and I cannot bear the thought of you and your brother suffering more than you already have for your father’s mistakes."

The mention of her father ignited a fresh wave of anger, but Charlotte forced it down, focusing instead on comforting her mother. "I will not let that happen, Mama. I have a plan, and I will see it through. The Duke of Ravenscroft will not get away with what he has done to us.”

“You think a plan will save us?” Her mother’s voice wavered, the words more accusation than plea.

Charlotte hesitated, the protest caught in her throat. For a moment, doubt crept in, but she swallowed it down, her gaze hardening. “Yes, Mama. I have a plan,” she said, the words slipping out like a vow. Her mind was already turning, piecing together the steps she would need to take—the secrets she would unravel, the alliances she might have to forge. But she kept those thoughts to herself, unwilling to risk a single misstep.

"Charlotte, you must not.” Mother’s eyes widened as she gripped Charlotte’s hand. “The Duke is powerful. I do not want you putting yourself in harm’s way, or damaging your reputation. It is all you have left. Besides, your father is not without blame. If not for his actions?—”

“I will be careful," Charlotte reassured her, though her resolve had already hardened. She would not back down, no matter the cost.

Lady Chatsworth studied her daughter's face for a long moment, as though searching for some sign of hesitation or doubt. Finding none, she let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

"I suppose there is nothing I can say to dissuade you," she murmured, a hint of pride mingling with the worry in her tone. "You always were stubborn girl."

"I learned from you, Mama," Charlotte replied with a soft smile, remembering the countless times her mother had scolded her for her headstrong ways

For a brief moment, a spark of the woman Edith Ashbourne, Viscountess Chatsworth used to be flickered in her eyes, but it was quickly extinguished by the weight of their reality. "Just promise me you will not do anything foolish," her mother whispered. "I could not bear to lose you, too."

Charlotte leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to her mother's forehead. “I promise, Mama. I will make things right.”

A clatter of footsteps rang down the hall, interrupting them. Henry burst into the room, breathless, his cheeks flushed with excitement. The parchment in his hand shook as he held it out, his voice barely able to contain the thrill of whatever news he bore.

"Mother, Charlotte," he exclaimed, rushing toward them. "You will never believe what has arrived."

At thirteen years old, Henry was the epitome of youthful optimism, his boundless enthusiasm a stark contrast to the somber atmosphere that had settled over Riverwood Manor in recent months. Charlotte could not help but smile at his excitement, even as her heart ached at the thought of the burden he now carried as the Earl of Ashbourne.

"What is it, Henry?" she asked, reaching out to ruffle his unruly mop of blond hair. "What has come?”

He thrust the vellum toward her, his grin threatening to split his face in two. "It is your entry back into society. The first step in elevating our family once more. An invitation to the Duke of Ravenscroft's Christmas ball."

Charlotte froze, her gaze locked on the proffered invitation. Her fingers hovered over the heavy vellum, a chill running down her spine as she caught sight of the Duke’s bold signature. The world seemed to narrow around her—the fire’s crackle dimmed, her mother’s soft gasp barely a whisper—as she read the name that had haunted her dreams. Grant Tilbury, Duke of Ravenscroft. The man who had single-handedly destroyed her family's fortune and reputation. The man she had sworn to bring to his knees.

And now, he had the audacity to invite them to his ball?

Mother let out a soft gasp, her hand flying to her mouth in shock. "The Duke of Ravenscroft? Inviting us to his ball? But why would he do such a thing, after everything he has done to us?"

Charlotte's mind raced with possibilities, each more sinister than the last. Was this some sort of cruel joke, a way for the Duke to flaunt his victory over them? Or perhaps it was a trap, a way to lure them into his clutches and finish what he had started. Was it not enough that he taken their money, their silver and jewels. He had caused them to sell off everything of value, leaving them destitute. They could no longer afford Henry’s schooling and Father’s heart had failed as a result of it all. What more could the devil possibly do to them?

A sudden realization dawned on her. This was it. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for. The chance to put her plan for revenge into motion.

A slow smile spread across her face, her eyes glinting with a newfound tenacity. "Why, Mama," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness, "it is simply an invitation to a ball. And who are we to refuse such a generous offer from His Grace?"

Henry's brow furrowed, not quite understanding the undercurrent of tension in the room. "So... does that mean you are going?" he asked, his voice hopeful.

Charlotte reached out and plucked the invitation from his hand, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the heavy parchment. "Yes, Henry," she said, her gaze never leaving the elegant script that spelled out the Duke's name. "We are going. And I am going to show the Duke of Ravenscroft exactly what happens when you cross the Ashbournes."

Charlotte had never met the duke in person, but the rumors painted a vivid picture. They spoke of a man with a commanding presence, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and grey eyes that seemed to see straight through to a person's soul. He was said to be devastatingly handsome, with a charm that could disarm even the most guarded of hearts.

But she knew that beneath his charming exterior, lay a heart of ice. The Duke was known for his ruthless business dealings, his ability to crush his enemies without a second thought. He had a reputation for being cold and calculating, always one step ahead of his opponents.

And now, he had wrought devastation on her family.

Charlotte's mother let out a weary sigh, pulling her from her thoughts. "Charlotte, my dear, I know you mean well, but I fear this may be a battle not worth fighting. The Duke is too powerful, too well-connected. What can you possibly do against him?” She reached for Charlotte’s hand. “Would your time not be better spent looking for a husband?”

Charlotte shook her head. “No gentleman would have me now, and you well know it.” She squeezed mother’s hand. “But do not fret. We can fight, Mama. I can show him that our family is not to be trifled with. We may have lost Father, but we still have our pride, our dignity. And I will not let the Duke take that from us. We will attend the ball, along with any other social events we receive invitations to.”

Mother's eyes filled with tears, and she pulled Charlotte into a tight embrace. "My brave girl," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "Your father would be so proud of you."

Charlotte blinked back her own tears, her resolve hardening with each passing moment. She rose from her seat, her heart heavy with the knowledge of what lay ahead. She would confront the Duke, expose his misdeeds, and restore her family’s honor. But first, she needed to prepare.

Retreating to her chambers, Charlotte sat at her writing desk, her mind already racing with plans. She reached for a sheet of parchment, dipping her quill into the inkwell as she began a letter to Lady Arabella Fitzwilliam, her closest friend and confidante.

My dearest Arabella,

I write to you with a matter of great importance. The Duke of Ravenscroft has taken everything from my family, and I cannot stand by any longer. I have a plan to expose him, but I need your help. I fear I am short on gowns these days. Might you have one to loan me?

Ever yours, Charlotte

As she signed her name, doubt crept in. Was revenge truly the answer? Was this the path her father would have wanted her to take? Could she truly restore their name honor and fortune?

The thought of her father’s broken spirit, the way his life had ended, and her mother’s despair pushed the doubt away.

With resolve hardening in her chest, Charlotte sealed the letter and sent it off with their only remaining footman. She stood by the window, watching the snow fall in soft, silent sheets against the moonlit sky as she considered her revenge.

She smiled at her reflection in the window glass. The Duke of Ravenscroft would soon learn the true meaning of retribution, and Charlotte would be the one to teach him that lesson.

“Grant Tilbury, Duke of Ravenscroft, you took everything from us,” she whispered into the night. “Now I will take it back, and you will rue the day you dared to cross the Ashbournes."