You are reading ‘’PRIDE OF THORNES’’: A clan Fantasy Romance Novel
FLORAVALE CASTLE – DUKE CASSAVELLE’S PRIVATE STUDY, Late Afternoon
Lord Dorian Cassavelle buried himself in the medical text propped against his desk ledger, as if old herbal remedies could ease the throbbing in his temples. Late afternoon sun spilled across his trade maps, highlighting the complaint letter he’d pushed aside in defeat.
His fingers found their familiar path to his temples. The letter sat accusingly on his desk, its elegant script spelling out his daughter’s latest social disaster. He’d stopped reading after the first paragraph, where Madame Beaumont detailed Viviana’s helpful comparison of her new perfume to wet dogs and her orange silk gown to a bloated pumpkin.
The gentle clink of porcelain announced his wife’s arrival. Lady Serafina entered his study with her usual grace, the afternoon tea service arranged as perfectly as everything else she managed. Her serene smile remained fixed, though her eyes betrayed a hint of strain.
“I had a most enlightening chat with Lady Beaumont’s personal maid,” she mentioned, measuring tea leaves with practiced care. Steam rose from the cup as she poured. “It seems our dear Viviana has developed quite the talent for perfume criticism.”
Dorian accepted the offered cup gratefully, recognizing his wife’s gift for turning social catastrophes into minor inconveniences. “Should I assume the Beaumont’s new fragrance line is no longer welcome at court?”
“On the contrary.” Serafina’s smile warmed as she settled into her chair. “Once I explained how our daughter’s… direct approach… simply reflects her father’s expert knowledge of therapeutic scents…” She raised her cup delicately. “Well, comparing a perfume to wet dog fur could be seen as quite the professional assessment of its… medicinal properties.”
An urgent knock shattered their practiced dance of crisis management. Lady Serafina’s eyebrows arched – no one interrupted afternoon tea.
“A messenger from Wolfa—” A young man barreled through the door, sending Morris stumbling sideways. Their butler shot the intruder a withering look, rolled his eyes, and withdrew with wounded dignity.
Road dust swirled around the messenger as he stared straight at Lord Dorian. “My lord. From Chief Thorne.”
A thorned rose wrapped around a sword pressed deep in the dark wax seal.
Lord Dorian’s hand stopped at his temple. Lady Serafina lifted her napkin to her lips, her eyes dancing above it as she studied the unseemly display. Her attention locked onto the seal.
Lord Dorian unfolded the letter. The sharp crackle of breaking wax punctuated the silence. His eyes scanned the precise script, Temple massage forgotten.
“Three deaths on their trade route.” He cleared his throat. “Recent rains triggered a collapse.”
Lady Serafina set her teacup down with deliberate care. “The herb shipments?”
“Delayed. Their buyers grow restless.” He spread the letter flat. “The Meridian perfume house threatens to withdraw their contracts.”
“Rosemary and bergamot.” His wife’s serene smile remained fixed while her eyes sharpened. “The finest in the northern territories.”
Lord Dorian pulled a trade map closer. “If they lose these contracts…” He traced the route with one finger. “Years of careful cultivation, premium herbs, established trade relationships.”
“Such a shame.” Lady Serafina’s tone carried the weight of possibilities. “A strong clan. A respected young chief. All their pride and position…” She paused. “One might say they need a diplomatic solution.”
Her husband’s hand stilled on the map. He looked up, caught the calculating gleam in her eyes, and reached again for his tea.
—
(Hours After the Wolfaren Letter)
Lamplight softened the edges of trade maps spread across the intimate reception room’s table. Lord Dorian frowned at the northern routes while Lady Serafina’s fingers traced the wax seal on Chief Thorne’s letter for the third time.
“Such detailed reports.” She tapped the letter. “Every loss calculated. Every risk assessed.” Her smile deepened. “Quite… thorough, this young chief.”
Lord Dorian hummed absently, still absorbed in his maps. “The Meridian house won’t wait long for their herbs. Premium contracts like these—” He stopped. His wife’s sudden stillness drew his attention.
“Thorough,” she repeated, that familiar calculating glint sparking in her eyes. “Practical. Disciplined.” Each word dropped like a stone into quiet water. “And unmarried.”
Lord Dorian’s head snapped up from his maps. “Serafina.”
“A strong clan.” She smoothed the letter against the table. “A leader who values order and discipline.” Her smile turned honey-sweet. “And our dear Viviana, who spends her days reading those… what did you call them?”
“Those clan romance novels.” His fingers found his temples. “The ones with the warrior chiefs and great adventures.”
“Mmm.” Lady Serafina leaned back, radiating satisfaction. “Such a shame she feels so… restricted by court life. So eager to prove herself beyond these walls.”
“Beyond the reach of Madame Beaumont’s complaints, you mean.” Lord Dorian stared at his wife. “You can’t seriously suggest—”
“They need our trade routes.” She lifted her hand, ticking off points. “We need a suitable position for our daughter. They seek stability. We seek…” Her lips curved. “Distance.”
“The cultural differences alone—”
“Will seem wonderfully romantic to a girl who dreams of clan adventures.” Lady Serafina’s eyes sparkled with triumph. “After all, what could be more perfect for our headstrong daughter than a real clan chief?”
“She’ll never accept an arranged marriage,” her husband warned, his fingers already at his temples.
“Oh, but she will.” Lady Serafina gathered the maps with practiced grace, her fingers lingering on the trade routes. “She needs this chance, my dear. Away from court’s constant scrutiny. Somewhere she might finally…” A subtle softness touched her eyes. “Find her place.”
“Like in her novels?” His hand dropped from another brewing headache.
“Better.” She slipped Chief Thorne’s letter into her sleeve. “A strong clan chief who values order and discipline. A man who won’t bend to her every whim.” Each word carried both calculation and relief. “What better path for our daughter?”
Lord Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose. “And the chief?”
Lady Serafina paused at the door, moonlight catching the gleam in her eyes – sharp with purpose, yet tinged with maternal satisfaction. A practical leader, far from their daughter’s romantic fantasies, might be exactly what their headstrong Viviana needed to finally grow up.
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