The Lord's Chosen

Elowen had barely managed to gather herself before the knock came.

"Miss Elowen?" came the gravel-soft voice of Mr. Crowhurst, the steward, just beyond the linen closet door.

She straightened, quickly smoothing her apron and tucking away the last of her frayed nerves. "Yes, sir."

"You're wanted in the Lord's study. Immediately."

The weight of those words made her breath stutter. She stepped into the hall with a nod, falling into step beside the older man. He didn't look at her, merely walked with his usual soundless grace, like a shadow too dignified to be cast.

"The Lord has specific expectations," he began, voice low, clipped. "You'll draw his bath every morning—lavender oil and eucalyptus. Arrange his wardrobe. Press every piece. He prefers his collars lightly starched. His books must be catalogued in reverse alphabetical order, dusted weekly, but never moved from their original alignment. You are to polish his boots. Fold his cravats. Prepare tea at dawn and port at dusk."

Elowen nodded, drinking in every word like a sponge submerged.

"He sleeps little," Mr. Crowhurst added, glancing at her then. "You will do well to remember that. He works late. Expects silence unless spoken to. But when he does speak, you will answer with honesty. Not fear. Not flattery. Understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Crowhurst."

He stopped before a tall, carved door and gave it a single rap.

"Enter," came Lord Aramis' voice, muffled but unmistakable.

Crowhurst opened the door and stepped aside for her.

Elowen entered.

The Lord of Eastmere was seated by the window, a glass of deep burgundy wine in his hand, his legs crossed lazily as if the weight of his title never touched his shoulders. Sunlight carved golden lines through his raven-black hair, and his cravat—of midnight silk—hung artfully loosened, like an afterthought.

He watched her enter as one might observe the weather—detached curiosity, perhaps the slightest tilt of interest.

"Sit," he said, gesturing to the velvet chair across from him.

Elowen obeyed, sitting gingerly as though the upholstery might reject her.

Aramis took a slow sip of his wine. "So. Elowen. Tell me about yourself."

She blinked. "My Lord?"

"I don't repeat myself."

Her throat tightened. "Yes, my Lord. I—I'm Elowen Marwood. My father was a baker in Norridge. He passed during the last frost. My mother... she's bedridden. I came here to send money home. I've worked at the manor for nearly four days now."

He arched a dark brow. "Four days. And yet the entire staff now speaks your name like it's a cautionary tale."

She flinched. "I didn't mean to cause trouble."

"Trouble," he murmured, swirling the wine. "Sometimes comes dressed as humility. Sometimes as opportunity."

Elowen didn't know what to say. So she said nothing.

Lord Aramis leaned forward slightly. The air between them shifted.

"From now on, you report directly to me. Your tasks belong to no other. You are to tend my quarters, my correspondence, my daily needs. In return, you'll be safe. Provided for. But if you betray my trust..."

He let the words dangle like bait.

Elowen nodded. "Understood, my Lord."

He smiled—sharp, wolfish. "Good. Then let us begin."

He stood and moved past her, fingers trailing along the back of her chair. The scent of sandalwood and smoke curled in his wake.

"I'll be traveling into town," he said. "Meetings. Tithes. The occasional fool demanding more land. Afterwards, a soiree hosted by Lord Marrowbone. And since you're mine now, you'll attend."

She startled. "Attend, my Lord?"

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes gleaming. "What's the use of a personal attendant if not for personal use?"

Elowen swallowed. "But I—I've never attended—"

"Then it shall be an education," he cut in smoothly. "One you'll remember."

The study door creaked open again.

Lady Isolde stepped in, her perfume announcing her before her voice could. She was all dark satin and scarlet lips, her gaze flicking between them with thinly veiled annoyance.

" Lord Aramis," she said, her tone a practiced purr. "I believe we were to speak."

He didn't turn.

"You were summoned. You weren't invited to linger."

Isolde stiffened. "You expect me to wait until you're ready to acknowledge me?"

Now he turned, slow as a predator stretching.

"I expect you to remember your place. This is my estate. You are here because I allow it. Not because I crave it."

Elowen remained frozen, staring at the fireplace. She felt rather than saw the battle of wills in the room.

Isolde let out a breath, her heels clicking once as she turned. "As you wish. My Lord."

She swept from the room, her perfume lingering like resentment.

Lord Aramis sighed as if she'd been a particularly taxing melody. Then he turned to Elowen.

"Now, help me choose a suit."

Elowen blinked. "A suit, my Lord?"

He smirked, walking toward his dressing chamber. "Something suitable for intimidating old men and seducing their daughters."

She rose shakily and followed, every step in his wake like dancing on the blade of a knife.

Inside the chamber, rich fabrics and tailored coats lined the walls like soldiers waiting for war. She stared, uncertain.

He watched her from behind, clearly amused. "Pick well, Miss Marwood. My entire evening's success may depend on your taste."

Elowen stepped forward slowly, reaching toward a deep emerald coat embroidered with silver. Then hesitated.

Aramis chuckled. "Do I frighten you that much?"

She glanced at him. "No, my Lord."

"Liar," he whispered.

She lifted the coat anyway, fingers trembling only slightly.

He took it from her hands, brushing her knuckles with the barest touch.

"Hmm. Not bad. You may prove useful after all."

And then he turned to the mirror, leaving her to catch her breath in the wake of his storm.

The Lord of Eastmere had chosen her.

And it had only just begun.