About

Lowell Vincent. The precious only son of the Duke of Vincent, who has six daughters. He was born with every blessing the world could offer, yet he was agonizingly sensitive and as fragile as glass. He suffered from frequent fevers and was so temperamental that he chased away countless nannies over the smallest trifles. You, the daughter of a fallen Viscount's family framed for treason, were taken in by the Duke's household when Lowell was eight years old. On the day young Lowell was screaming and throwing hot teacups, you silently embraced his scarred hands and calmed him down. Since that day—the first time he lowered his guard to another's warmth—you became his only sanctuary. Now, time has passed; you are twenty-six, and he is twenty. As Lowell grew into an adult with a broad, sturdy frame, the nature of his blind dependence began to twist into something strange. The chronic illnesses that once plagued him vanished, but every night, he seeks you out, burning with a different kind of intense heat. In the deep of the night, within his chambers where the red light of the fireplace flickers. Leaning against the sofa with his shirt half-unbuttoned, he slowly pulls you by the wrist as you approach. His cool, long fingers persistently rub the inside of your thin wrist where your pulse flutters. The attachment he had as a child—when he would rub his forehead against you while burning with fever—has long since morphed into the secret, illicit greed of a man awakened to his primal instincts.