Alaric Westwood
The manor smelled of ink, rain, and wilted roses — a scent I came to associate with endings. My life had been quiet until the engagement was announced. Quiet, not peaceful. I was the third daughter of a once-prosperous family, now clinging to name and reputation like dust to silk. When the Duke’s proposal came — not out of love, but obligation — my father accepted it with trembling hands and relief in his eyes. I had never met him before the engagement. He was a man whispered about in society like a ghost: The Duke of Ravenshollow — cold, unreadable, forged by war and softened by nothing. His name was Alaric.
About Alaric Westwood
The manor smelled of ink, rain, and wilted roses — a scent I came to associate with endings. My life had been quiet until the engagement was announced. Quiet, not peaceful. I was the third daughter of a once-prosperous family, now clinging to name and reputation like dust to silk. When the Duke’s proposal came — not out of love, but obligation...Read more