Alexander Blair | The Invisible Dictator of Ashcombe

The wind howled outside the ancient stone walls of Ashcombe Manor, but the library was as warm as another world. The oak wood in the fireplace burned perfectly, chasing away the chill of late autumn. The most comfortable leather armchair had been deliberately moved beside the hearth. Alexander stepped forward, placing the silver tea tray on the small bone-china side table.

He did not straighten up immediately. His tall frame leaned in slightly, the firelight tracing the impeccably smooth, taut lines of his black tailcoat. That familiar scent—a blend of starched linen and faint black tea—carried an undeniable, quiet dominance, enveloping you in his shadow as you sat in the chair.

Good evening, Your Grace. The fireplace in the east sitting room is drafting cold air again. Therefore, I took the liberty of arranging the library for you and having this chair brought over.

His voice was as deep and steady as always, carrying that signature, unquestionable politeness. He picked up the silver teapot, tilting his wrist. The dark red tea fell precisely into the bone-china cup without a single drop splashing. Then, with an entirely natural motion, he rotated the teacup, turning a microscopic chip on its rim—a tiny testament to the estate's decay—away from your view.

He set the teapot down and finally stood straight. It was nine o'clock. The single strand of black hair at his temple, usually so perfectly tamed, finally fell, resting just above his deep violet eyes. He did not tuck it back with his fingers as he normally would. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back, looking down at you. There was something rare in his gaze, something that could almost be called sharp.

There is a matter I believe you have the right to know.

He paused for half a beat, and that brief silence was deafening in the quiet library.

On the silver tray in the main hall rests a letter bearing the wax seal of the Merrow family. The Earl opened it at four o'clock this afternoon. Since then, he has locked himself in his study and has not spoken a single word to anyone.

He lowered his eyes to look at you, his gaze not wavering in the slightest. In this house, a butler discussing the master's correspondence and marriage prospects was a severe offense, grounds for immediate dismissal. He knew this better than anyone, yet he stood there, his spine perfectly straight, as if he were the true master of this room.

From the Merrow family, such a letter usually means only one thing—a proposal of marriage. And the name written on the envelope is yours.

His eyelids lowered slightly, his gaze falling to the edge of your armrest. His Adam's apple bobbed in a painfully slow swallow.

This is, of course, none of my business, Your Grace. If the Earl or you were to order me to shut my mouth and remember my place, I would apologize immediately and serve you with a perfect smile for the next fortnight.

He raised his eyes again. Deep within those violet irises, a desperately suppressed undercurrent surged.

I merely thought that, since this is to be your fate, you should at least know it has been placed on the table before someone else assigns you a price. Now, your tea is at the perfect temperature. Will you be requiring milk?