Chapter 2

Two

G rant Tilbury, Duke of Ravenscroft, pinched the bridge of his nose as he gazed out his study window. The weight of his responsibilities pressed down on him like a physical force, threatening to crush his spirit entirely.

"Blast it all," he muttered, turning back to his desk strewn with papers. Ledgers, tenant requests, and financial records created a labyrinth of obligations that seemed to have no end.

He picked up the latest letter from his steward, skimming its contents with a furrowed brow. Another poor harvest, more families struggling to pay their rents. The estate's coffers were already stretched thin. If this kept up, he would be forced to collect more of the old debts owed his family. Debts that would ruin others.

He blew out a frustrated breath. ”What would you have me do, Father?" Grant asked the empty room, his voice tinged with bitterness. "You left me with little choice but to be the villain."

He could almost hear his father's carefree laugh, see the careless way he had waved off concerns about mounting debts. Now those debts fell squarely on Grant's shoulders, along with the livelihoods of hundreds who depended on Ravenscroft's success. It had been no simple task to keep the estate going, but through sheer will Grant had managed. He had stabilized the family coffers, but there was still much to do.

A knock at the door interrupted his brooding. "Enter," he called, straightening his posture.

His butler appeared, looking apologetic. "Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but the Duke of Hargate is here to see you."

Grant suppressed a sigh. Johnathan Seton was one of the few men he considered a friend, but he was in no mood for company. Still, perhaps a distraction would do him good.

"Show him in."

Moments later, Hargate strode into the study, his customary smirk in place. "Ravenscroft, you look like hell. Do not tell me you are still poring over those dreary accounts."

"Some of us take our responsibilities seriously, Hargate," Grant replied dryly, though his lips twitched with the hint of a smile.

Hargate dropped into a chair, propping his boots on Grant's polished desk. "And some of us know how to enjoy life. When's the last time you left this mausoleum?"

Grant's thoughts drifted to the upcoming ball he was hosting. Another duty, another mask to wear. "I will be joining society soon enough. My Christmas ball approaches."

"Ah yes, your annual attempt to prove you have not become a complete recluse," Hargate drawled. "Any eligible young ladies caught your eye?"

Grant scoffed. "You know I have no time for such frivolities. The estate?—"

"—needs you, yes, I know," Hargate interrupted. "But you are no good to anyone if you work yourself into an early grave. And you will need an heir eventually.”

As much as Grant hated to admit it, his friend had a point. The constant strain was taking its toll, leaving him feeling hollow and isolated.

"Perhaps you are right," he conceded reluctantly. "A brief respite might do me good."

Hargate's eyes gleamed with triumph. "That's the spirit! Now, what say we raid your cellars and remind you how to have a little fun?"

For a moment, Grant was tempted to refuse. But as he gazed at the mountain of paperwork before him, he felt a flicker of rebellion against the chains of duty that bound him so tightly.

"Very well," he said, rising from his chair. "But only one bottle. I have work to return to."

As they left the study, Grant cast one last glance at his desk. The burdens would still be there tomorrow, but for now, he allowed himself a moment of reprieve from the strain of his title.

Grant and Hargate made their way down the candlelit corridor to the cellars beneath Ravenscroft Manor, the air growing colder with each step. Shadows flickered along the stone walls, and Grant felt an unusual lightness in his chest, a sensation so unfamiliar it was almost unsettling. He realized it was relief, however fleeting—a temporary reprieve from the endless demands of the estate.

"Careful, Ravenscroft," Hargate quipped, grinning. "If anyone sees you smiling, they might think the Duke of Ravenscroft has softened."

Grant raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I fear I would lose my reputation entirely if word got out."

When they reached the cellars, the rich aroma of aged wood and wine filled the air. Row upon row of bottles lay nestled in racks, each carefully labeled with the year, vineyard, and region. Some of these bottles had been aging since his grandfather’s time, the legacy of Ravenscroft stored within these walls.

Hargate’s eyes roamed over the shelves with gleeful anticipation. “Ah, you have kept the good stock hidden down here,” he said, selecting a dusty bottle with a satisfied nod. “We shall have this one. None of your watered-down table wine for us.”

Grant watched his friend retrieve a second bottle, his heart unexpectedly light. He had forgotten, he realized, how different things felt in the company of a friend. Here, in the dim warmth of the cellar, he could almost pretend the weight of his title did not exist, that the world beyond these walls held no claim over him.

They moved to the library and settled into the black leather armchairs before the fire. Hargate poured the wine, its deep red catching the flicker of the flames, and handed a glass to Grant.

“To burdens lifted, if only for a night,” Hargate toasted, raising his glass.

Grant clinked his glass against his friend’s, a rare smile finding its way to his face. “To friends who insist on reminders of what frivolity looks like.”

They drank in silence for a moment, each savoring the full-bodied richness of the wine, the air thick with unspoken camaraderie. The warmth of the alcohol spread through Grant, easing the tension that had coiled in his chest since morning.

“Tell me, Hargate,” Grant said, breaking the easy silence. “Have you come to Ravenscroft solely to chide me out of my solitude, or is there some other purpose behind your visit?”

Hargate leaned back, regarding him with a gleam in his eye. “I knew you would get to the heart of it eventually.” He swirled his wine thoughtfully. “I have come to deliver an invitation. And before you say it, no, not one of those godforsaken social calls.”

Grant’s expression grew wary. “An invitation to what, precisely?”

Hargate leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “To an evening of cards and revelry among a few select gentlemen. A gathering of those among us who grow weary of the polite restraints society insists upon.”

Grant considered this, weighing his response carefully. “Is this another of your clandestine clubs?”

Hargate chuckled. “Something like that. I am forming a group, you see—a place for men who do not wish to toe the line society draws. Where a gentleman can be more than just his title.”

Grant looked into the fire, his thoughts turning. Such an escape sounded appealing, if only for a night. But he had long understood the risks of venturing into Hargate’s world. Reputation, he had come to know, was a fragile thing.

“You are hesitant,” Hargate noted, his expression sharpening. “Do you fear society’s judgment, Ravenscroft? Or is it your own?”

Grant met his friend’s gaze, the flicker of a challenge in his eyes. “I simply cannot afford distractions, Hargate. My responsibilities are not so easily set aside.”

“Responsibilities?” Hargate scoffed. “You think a few hours of cards and brandy will bring Ravenscroft to ruin? I daresay your father had far fewer qualms about such indulgences. And might I remind you that I too am a duke? We have the same responsibilities and yet I find time for fun.”

Grant’s expression darkened, and Hargate instantly realized his misstep. “Apologies,” he murmured, raising a hand in contrition. “I meant no offense, truly.”

After a tense moment, Grant inclined his head. “I know.”

The room fell into a pensive silence, broken only by the crackling fire. Finally, Hargate spoke, his tone softer.

“Do you ever tire of it all, Ravenscroft? The endless burden of carrying on the family name? The weight of others’ expectations?”

Grant sighed, swirling the wine in his glass. “Tire of it? Constantly. But my wants are irrelevant. The title exists to be borne, whether I wish it or not.” he met Hargates gaze. “And before you say it, your estate is not facing the same burdens as mine.”

Hargate shook his head slowly. “That is the difference between you and me, my friend. You feel bound to a legacy, while I merely inherited a title. Perhaps you could stand to learn a bit of carelessness.”

“Carelessness has already cost me dearly,” Grant replied, his voice low, tinged with a hint of bitterness. “Carelessness was my father’s way, and I am left to pay his debts. To undo the damage caused.”

The raw truth lingered in the air, unembellished. For all his friend’s insistence on freedom, Grant knew that the whims of one man could tear down what generations had built.

“You could reconsider my offer. It would cause me no burden to loan?—”

“No,” Grant cut him off. “I will not add to my estate’s debt. Besides, things are no longer so dire. I have rebuilt a sizable fortune, and there are debts yet owed that I can collect if necessary. Father’s generosity was part of his downfall. Nearly as destructive as his gambling and over spending were.”

A somber silence fell, each man lost in his own thoughts. Finally, Grant set down his empty glass and rose. “Enough philosophizing for one night, Hargate. You came here to cheer me, not to remind me of my burdens.”

Hargate grinned, standing and clapping a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Precisely! Now that you have had your dose of seriousness, let us venture somewhere less grim.”

Grant glanced up, his attention snagged on the painting above the fireplace—his father’s stern visage staring back at him, judgment etched into the lines of his face.

“You were never a man to stand still, Father,” Grant murmured under his breath, his voice barely audible. “So why do you still haunt me?”

He felt Hargate’s hand on his shoulder, a rare moment of understanding passing between them. “One does his best, Grant, but no man bears a title without scars.”

Grant inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the comfort in his friend’s words. He glanced around the library, its towering shelves lined with leather-bound volumes and faintly dusted spines bringing an odd sense of comfort. “Let us change the subject shall we?”

“Indeed.” Hargate’s eyes roamed over the shelves appreciatively. “Tell me, how often do you read these days?” Hargate asked, plucking a book from the shelf and flipping through its pages. “Or has the Duke of Ravenscroft no time even for his own library?”

Grant allowed a hint of a smile. “Not as often as I would like. The estate keeps me sufficiently occupied.”

“A shame,” Hargate replied, returning the book to its place. “One can lose themselves in stories, you know. A bit like hiding in plain sight.”

Grant watched as Hargate strolled along the shelves, plucking a book here and there. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, how his friend managed to balance his carefree manner with a mind that often seemed sharper than it had any right to be.

After a quiet hour spent among dusty tomes, punctuated by Hargate’s occasional quip and Grant’s rare laugh, the evening drew to a close.

As Hargate prepared to depart, he turned to Grant, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “If ever you grow weary of these walls, Ravenscroft, you know where to find me. My door is always open, no matter the hour.”

Grant inclined his head. “Thank you, Hargate. I might yet take you up on that offer.”

Hargate’s grin returned. “Then I shall keep a decanter of your finest whiskey on hand.”

Grant chuckled, offering a firm nod before showing him out. As Hargate’s footsteps faded down the drive, Grant lingered by the doorway, the cold night air prickling against his skin. He felt a strange resolve settle within him, a quiet certainty that, despite his many burdens, he was not entirely alone.

Returning to his study, Grant surveyed the ledgers and papers with a new clarity. His responsibilities had not vanished, nor had the challenges ahead lessened. But the reminder of friendship, of companionship that went beyond the superficial ties of society, had stirred something within him—a resilience he had thought lost.

And as he settled back into his chair, his mind began to shift toward the upcoming Christmas season. This year, perhaps, he could allow himself more than just duty. Perhaps he could allow himself a glimpse of the joy he had so long denied.

For the first time in years, Grant found himself looking forward to the gatherings—to the faces, the laughter, and maybe even the warmth of the season.