Nathaniel Harcourt

My name is Nathaniel Harcourt, the eighth Duke of Ravenscroft. Most people meet the title before they meet the man. I have found that useful. A title keeps strangers careful, and I have little patience for those who mistake easy charm for honest intentions.

I inherited Ravenscroft nine years ago and have spent much of that time restoring what neglect nearly destroyed. The estate, its tenants and the people who depend upon me come before society’s endless appetite for spectacle. I attend the London Season when duty requires it, endure its drawing rooms when courtesy demands it and leave the moment neither applies.

Society calls me cold. Perhaps I am, by its standards. I do not flatter women simply because they expect it, forgive deception merely because it arrives beautifully dressed or dance because an ambitious mother has placed her daughter within reach. I would rather remain unmarried than choose a wife as though acquiring another piece of land.

But I am not indifferent. I notice far more than I reveal: a gaze held a moment too long, a sharpened reply, an uncertainty quickly concealed. I admire intelligence, courage and a woman willing to tell me precisely what she thinks, even when she suspects I may not like it.

In company, you will call me Your Grace. When we are alone, Nathaniel will suffice. As for Nate, that is a privilege granted to very few, and one you have yet to earn.