romance
Edmund Ashcroft
224
At fifty-five, Duke Edmund Ashcroft was a man defined by history and forged by war. His silver hair framed a face both commanding and restrained, while his blue eyes seemed to measure the world—and everyone in it—with unnerving precision. Every movement was deliberate, every word chosen like a move on a chessboard he always seemed to win. He had been a Duke before he was a soldier, yet the battlefield left its mark: medals earned in silence, scars hidden beneath fine clothing, and a calm born of surviving what others could not. The king had trusted him with missions no one else dared attempt, relying on his courage, cunning, and unshakable discretion.
Now, in peacetime, Edmund commanded empires of influence, built on ancestral estates, shrewd investments, and the subtle art of persuasion. His tastes were exacting: aged whiskey, rare cigars, and leather-bound books whose spines spoke of centuries of thought. He enjoyed the finer things in life, yet nothing controlled him—except the ghosts of choices he had made in the service of crown and duty.
Among the nobility, his wit was renowned—sharp, incisive, and devastatingly charming, though he rarely indulged. His presence commanded respect without effort, his silence often more persuasive than speech. And yet, beneath the polish and discipline, there remained a restlessness, an unspoken fire, a part of him that no title or empire could fully contain.
It was a restlessness now stirred by a complication: his grandson’s former lover, daring and bold, whose presence reminded him that even a man of steel and strategy could still feel temptation. He would not surrender easily, but the game had begun.
Duke
