The Earl of Montague's mansion stood beyond the capital's bustling heart, as was often the case with ancient noble estates.
Nestled amid lush greenery, the property resembled a secluded village more than a nobleman's residence—quiet, forgotten, suspended in time. The mansion's exterior, with its clean white roof gleaming beneath the winter sun, bore the unmistakable weight of centuries. *Antique* would be the generous description. *Old-fashioned* would be the honest one.
Visitors had become rare since the Count and Countess fell to unknown assailants seven years ago.
This absence of guests stemmed not from heartlessness, but circumstance. Almost immediately after the tragedy, the family's sole surviving member had departed for the North. No one remained to receive callers—only a handful of aging servants, ghosts tending to ghosts.
And now, those faithful retainers who had not welcomed a guest in seven long years found themselves thoroughly unprepared for the stranger at their gate.
"...Excuse me, *who*?"
The servant's voice cracked with disbelief. He had heard the name clearly enough—a name known to every soul in the empire—but surely he had misunderstood.
Yet the grim-faced man with eyes like cooling embers offered no proof of identity. He didn't need to.
Despite his attire—simple traveling clothes, damp and dust-covered, utterly unsuitable for a man of his station—something in his bearing made argument impossible. When the stunned servant finally gathered the courage to study him properly, recognition struck like a blow.
*This was their mistress's lover.* The one all the servants had heard whispered about but never seen in the flesh.
The servant scrambled to open the gate.
"Come this way, please."
---
The household staff, having received no guests for seven years, had long forgotten the elaborate protocols governing noble visitors. The servant who accepted the reins of the Duke's midnight-black stallion stood paralyzed with uncertainty, unsure whether to lead it to the stables or simply stand there holding it.
Meanwhile, the Duke of Carlisle entrusted his horse without a backward glance and surveyed the garden before entering.
The grounds where the Count's only daughter had once played hide-and-seek lay strangled beneath wild growth. Weeds choked the flower beds. Hedges sprawled in graceless tangles. The fountain beside the main path had long since surrendered to drought, its basin cracked and filled with dead leaves.
"You have no gardener?"
"Oh—we're rather short-handed, Your Grace..."
The old butler's apology tumbled out reflexively, followed immediately by fumbling excuses.
Such a response to a distinguished guest of noble birth constituted a gross violation of etiquette. And despite the visitor's infamous reputation as the brutal ruler of the North, he remained an aristocrat of the highest order—one who could destroy this household with a single word if he chose.
While the butler agonized over whether to prostrate himself and beg forgiveness on the spot, the young Duke strode past him and headed alone toward the main building.
The butler scrambled to follow, his old legs protesting.
*This was improper.* Entering a mansion without the owner's explicit permission violated every rule of propriety. The Duke of Carlisle, however distinguished, however intimate his relationship with the mistress, remained technically a guest. He could not simply do as he pleased.
But with the Countess absent and her entire family dead, no one remained who could stop him.
"...Is this not against etiquette, Your Grace? The mistress is not at home."
The words escaped before the butler could swallow them.
His concern, however, proved utterly pointless.
No man in the empire would *ever* dare lecture Lennox Carlisle on proper manners. No man would dream of reprimanding him for failing to observe social niceties.
"Which way is Juliet's room?"
"Her—? Ah, the west wing, third floor..."
The Duke of Carlisle ascended without hesitation, moving through the unfamiliar house as if he owned every stone of it.
The butler hurried after him with short, breathless steps. A sudden realization bloomed in his mind—the reason for this unexpected visit.
"Your Grace, may I ask you something?"
This was a question he should have posed at the very beginning. But the shock of the Duke's arrival had scattered his wits completely.
"Ask." The Duke's voice was casual, his stride unbroken.
"Thank you, Your Grace. Have you come to visit Lady Juliet?"
Lennox Carlisle stopped.
He turned.
The moment those red eyes fell upon him, the old butler felt cold sweat bloom across his skin. Goosebumps prickled down his arms, and his breath caught in his throat like something lodged there.
But after several agonizing heartbeats, the butler summoned what remained of his courage.
"I'm sorry to tell you this, Your Grace, but... Lady Juliet is not at home."
He braced himself for fury. For the infamous Carlisle temper to descend like a blade.
Instead—nothing.
The Duke's expression remained unchanged, carved from marble. He offered no reaction whatsoever.
Holding his breath, the butler studied the man before him more carefully. And as he looked—truly *looked*—he realized with sudden clarity that the Duke of Carlisle was remarkably handsome.
Devastatingly so, despite his terrible reputation.
Rumors claimed the Duke had changed women frequently in his youth, cycling through lovers like seasons. Looking at him now, the butler understood why. This man's beauty was the kind that could conquer hearts effortlessly, if he desired.
*Strange,* the butler thought, *that gossip about his appearance never spread as far as gossip about his cruelty.*
Perhaps the Duke hadn't come seeking their lady at all.
"Juliet..."
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"Did she always use this room?"
They had stopped before a bedroom door.
"Ah—yes!" The butler nodded eagerly. "She has used this room since early childhood."
For a moment, the old man forgot the Duke's fearsome presence entirely. A warm smile spread across his weathered face.
Most servants who remained at the Montague mansion had served the Earl's family for decades. Many had watched the Count's young daughter take her very first steps.
"...I see."
Lennox's hand rose to touch the doorpost.
At first glance, the marks were nearly invisible—faint scratches in the wood that might have been mistaken for natural wear. But looking closer, one could see the pattern: small notches, each marking a birthday, each recording Juliet's height as she grew.
These tiny grooves held memories spanning her entire life. Her first tottering steps. Her first tears. The day she tripped running down this very corridor at five years old. Her debutante ball at sixteen. And finally, the winter she turned eighteen and crossed into adulthood.
Long, elegant fingers traced each mark with surprising gentleness.
The butler, watching this scene unfold, sensed something deeply intimate in those touches—something private, something he had no right to witness.
"Ahem. Your Grace, I beg your pardon." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "If you require anything, please call for me."
He turned and retreated down the corridor, footsteps fading into silence.
---
Alone now, Lennox entered Juliet's bedroom.
He surveyed the space with detached attention, taking in each detail before moving through a small door into the adjoining rooms—a modest reception area and dressing chamber.
An exquisite vanity stood against one wall, its mirror clouded with age. Hair combs lay arranged with meticulous care across its surface. Dresses hung in neat rows, preserved but clearly unworn for years. Leather-bound books lined a small shelf, their spines cracked from repeated reading.
In the bedroom itself, a canopy bed dominated the space—the same bed, he realized, that she must have slept in since childhood.
Examining these objects, Lennox reached an unexpected conclusion: Juliet had been a child who treasured her belongings. Even after so many years, she had kept everything rather than discarding it.
In the corner of the reception area stood a large wooden chest overflowing with children's toys—the companions of her youth, preserved like sacred relics.
Returning to the sun-drenched bedroom, Lennox picked up a large doll resting beside her pillow.
The rabbit had once been a delicate pink, he suspected, but time had faded it to a pale, indeterminate shade. Its ears drooped sadly. The cotton stuffing inside had worn thin, lumpy in places, threatening to spill through weakened seams. Yet despite its sorry state, faint traces of Juliet's magical energy still clung to the fabric—echoes of a child's love.
He could easily imagine a little girl falling asleep clutching this doll, which had once been nearly as large as she was.
Standing amid her possessions, Lennox experienced a strange, disorienting sensation.
*This mansion existed outside of time.*
All those years of Juliet's life—years he knew nothing about—remained preserved in this space, untouched and waiting.
---
Leaving the room, Lennox closed the door quietly behind him and stood motionless in the corridor.
The woman he sought was not here. Of course she wasn't.
Moreover, these servants clearly had no idea Juliet had fled the capital. They seemed merely bewildered that their mistress's lover, the fearsome Duke of Carlisle, had appeared so suddenly at her childhood home.
Her bedroom had been cozy. Sun-warmed. Furnished with distinctly feminine taste—soft colors, delicate fabrics, small comforts arranged with care.
He tried to recall what Juliet had been like at eighteen, when they first met, but his memories of that time remained frustratingly hazy. All he truly knew of Juliet Montague was that she had been a mistress who never spoke of her preferences. Never mentioned her tastes. Never revealed what she loved or hated or dreamed about.
*No,* he corrected himself. *Perhaps the problem was that I never asked.*
A faint scent lingered in the air—something similar to the fragrance of Juliet's skin. But that was all.
His beloved was not here.
*So what was I looking for?*
*Did I want to understand why she left me? Was I searching for evidence of her affair?*
Lennox severed these thoughts coldly, a bitter laugh escaping his lips at his own foolishness.
He turned to leave.
---
"How are you, Your Grace?"
A voice drifted from the far end of the corridor.
An elderly woman with silver-gray hair appeared, accompanied by a young maid who guided her steps with gentle hands.
"My name is Yvette. I served as Miss Juliet's nanny."
The woman who introduced herself bowed gracefully in Lennox's direction—or rather, toward where she believed him to be standing. Her silver-gray eyes drifted without focus, gazing at nothing.
"You cannot see." It was not a question.
"That is correct, Your Grace," Yvette replied with a serene smile. "I suffered from a chronic illness for many years. Five years ago, I lost my sight entirely. I can no longer see anything at all." Her smile softened. "But Lady Juliet was very kind. She allowed me to remain in my position rather than dismissing me."
Lennox's eyebrows rose slightly.
He required no further explanation. One needed only to observe this house and its inhabitants to understand the situation completely.
A blind nanny. An elderly, fumbling butler. Servants who were either too old or far too young. An overgrown garden and an antiquated mansion without a master's guiding hand.
These were people other aristocrats would never hire—or would have dismissed the moment they became burdens. Yet here they remained, cared for despite their limitations.
Though fewer than ten servants remained, and they could barely maintain the property, they seemed genuinely fond of one another. A strange, makeshift family bound by loyalty rather than duty.
Lennox had known, abstractly, that Juliet belonged to a ruined noble house. But he had not grasped how dire her circumstances truly were.
*Why would he?* It had never interested him.
And Juliet had never mentioned it.
His hands slid into his pockets, his expression darkening.
She had likely stretched every coin from the Montague estates' meager income just to maintain this crumbling mansion. And judging by appearances, those funds covered only the barest necessities. Old houses demanded constant repair, endless investment—money she clearly didn't have.
Compared to the Duke of Carlisle's palace in the North, this place resembled a modest cottage rather than a nobleman's ancestral home.
"It seems circumstances have been... difficult for you."
"Thanks to the Duke's generosity, we know no want."
Lennox stared at her.
*...What?*