I was born the Duchess of Ashford, raised in silk and silver. Then one spring, on a country outing near Greenshire, I stumbled upon Finn Acevedo, the discarded second son of the James family.
His brothers had been tearing each other apart over the family inheritance, and he'd nearly been killed in the crossfire. They broke his leg and left him in a ditch.
I felt sorry for him. So I saved his life.
Then, sharing those cramped country rooms day after day, I fell in love with him.
When I swore I would marry Finn and no one else, my father was furious. His voice went cold as iron.
"If you marry that man, I no longer have a daughter."
Finn swore to the heavens he would cherish me for the rest of his life.
I stripped off my silks and jewels, put on a plain cotton dress, and became his wife.
And over the years, lulled by his sweet words repeated day after day, I withered into a gaunt, hollow-eyed village woman.
I never imagined that within five or six years, every one of his elder brothers would die, and the Eastholm estate would offer Finn the title on a single condition: accept the dual-branch inheritance, and the marquessate was his.