Chapter 1 Wedding Bells and Whispered Secrets

# Chapter 1: Wedding Bells and Whispered Secrets

The Marlowe estate loomed against the amber sunset like a painting from another century—all sharp angles and weathered stone, windows gleaming like judging eyes. My hands trembled as I smoothed down the simple cream dress that would serve as my wedding gown. Not exactly the fairy tale I'd imagined as a little girl in St. Catherine's Orphanage, but then again, nothing about this arrangement was conventional.

"Are you ready, Miss Isolde?" The elderly driver who'd collected me from the train station regarded me with something between pity and curiosity.

"It's just Isolde," I corrected softly, clutching my small suitcase. "And yes, I suppose I am."

The truth was far more complicated. How could one be ready to marry a man she'd met only twice? Gideon Marlowe had appeared at the orphanage where I worked three months ago—tall, impeccably dressed, with eyes the color of winter storms. He'd offered marriage with the same tone someone might use to discuss the weather, presenting it as a mutually beneficial arrangement. I would have financial security and a family name; he would fulfill some family obligation he'd been frustratingly vague about.

And yet, something in his gaze had made me say yes.

The entrance hall was cavernous, adorned with oil paintings and antique furniture that whispered of old money and older secrets. A row of men—varying in age but sharing the same striking bone structure—stood like sentinels as I entered. Seven brothers. My soon-to-be brothers-in-law.

"Welcome to Thornfield Manor, Miss Winters." A slender man with round spectacles stepped forward. "I'm Cyrus Marlowe. These are my brothers."

One by one, they introduced themselves. Theodore, the eldest, with silver-streaked temples and a firm handshake. Malcolm, whose smile seemed genuine yet sad. Alistair, athletic and charming. Phineas, whose eyes seemed to see right through me. Ezekiel, the youngest, who held my hand a moment too long. And Jasper, whose intense stare made me uneasy.

Gideon stood apart, watching the introductions with detached interest. When our eyes met, he merely nodded.

"The ceremony will begin shortly," Theodore announced. "Cyrus will show you to your preparation room."

The makeshift bridal suite was clearly a hastily converted guest room. As Cyrus left, I caught his hesitation at the door.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

He studied me with an unsettling intensity. "You remind me of someone, that's all. It's... uncanny."

Before I could question him further, he was gone.

The wedding itself was a blur of ancient vows and candlelight in the manor's private chapel. Gideon's hand was cool in mine, his responses clear and practiced. Not once did his expression betray any emotion beyond polite attentiveness. When the elderly minister pronounced us husband and wife, Gideon's kiss was brief—a formality, nothing more.

The reception was a small affair in the grand dining room. I couldn't help but notice the enormous family portrait hanging over the fireplace—eight men, including a younger Gideon, standing around a stern-faced patriarch. But something about the painting caught my eye—a section near the edge seemed different, the brushwork slightly inconsistent, as though something—or someone—had been painted over.

"Admiring our family's illustrious visages?" Phineas appeared beside me, offering a glass of champagne.

"The painting seems... altered," I said carefully.

His smile remained fixed, but his eyes darkened. "Everything in this house has been altered at some point, Mrs. Marlowe. Even memories."

Before I could respond, a crash from across the room drew everyone's attention. Jasper stood swaying, his wineglass shattered at his feet, eyes wild and fixed on me.

"You shouldn't be here!" he shouted, pointing a trembling finger. "You're dead! We all saw you—"

"Jasper!" Gideon's voice cut through the room like a whip. He reached his brother in three long strides, gripping his shoulders. "That's enough."

Jasper lunged forward suddenly, as if to grab me. In one fluid motion, Gideon stepped between us, taking the full force of his brother's weight. They stumbled, but Gideon remained upright, holding Jasper back.

"Theodore, Malcolm," Gideon commanded without looking away from Jasper, "take him upstairs."

The brothers moved quickly, supporting a now-slumping Jasper between them. The room had gone deathly quiet.

"My apologies, Mrs. Marlowe," Gideon said formally, straightening his jacket. "My brother suffers from episodes. He meant no harm."

But the look that passed between him and Ezekiel told a different story.

Hours later, in the unfamiliar darkness of my new bedroom—separate from Gideon's, as he had coolly informed me would be our arrangement—I lay awake, replaying the strange events of the day. This marriage, this family, this house... nothing felt right.

A soft, distant sound broke through my thoughts—a melody, perhaps? No, it was crying—muffled but unmistakable. I slipped from my bed, wrapping a shawl around my nightgown. The sound seemed to be coming from above.

The narrow staircase to the attic creaked beneath my feet. Moonlight filtered through a small round window, illuminating dust motes and forgotten furniture. The crying had stopped, but something drew me toward a small door in the corner.

Inside was a room that must have once belonged to a child—faded wallpaper with carousel horses, a small bed, shelves of toys. And on a vanity, a delicate music box, its porcelain surface painted with roses. When I tried to open it, I found it locked tight.

"What are you doing here?" The voice behind me made me gasp. Gideon stood in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the dim light from the stairwell. I hadn't heard him approach.

"I heard crying," I said, my heart hammering. "I was looking for—"

"There's no one in this part of the house." His voice was controlled, but I could sense the tension beneath. "This area is private."

"Whose room was this?" I asked, standing my ground despite the flutter of fear in my chest.

He was silent for so long I thought he wouldn't answer. Then, stepping closer, the moonlight revealed something I hadn't seen in him before—vulnerability, raw and painful.

"You should return to your room, Isolde," he said, his voice softer now. "This house... it holds ghosts that are better left undisturbed."

"I'm your wife now," I said, surprising myself with my boldness. "I deserve to know what I've married into."

His eyes locked with mine, and for a moment, something electric passed between us—something that had nothing to do with our convenient arrangement.

"What you've married into," he said finally, "is a family of secrets. And the first rule of being a Marlowe is knowing which doors are better left unopened."

He reached past me to take the music box, his arm brushing mine. The contact sent an unexpected current through me. As he pulled away, his fingers grazed my wrist—accidentally or intentionally, I couldn't tell.

"Go back to bed," he said, his voice a near whisper. "Tomorrow is your first real day as a Marlowe. You'll need your strength."

As I made my way back to my room, the memory of his touch lingered on my skin. I had come to this house as a bride of convenience, expecting nothing more than security and a name. But the look in Gideon's eyes when he found me in that hidden room told me there was far more to this marriage than either of us had acknowledged.

And whether it was wisdom or madness that had brought me here, I was now determined to unlock every secret the Marlowe family kept—starting with the mystery of my husband's guarded heart.