The news, as Ashford had anticipated, exploded like a powder keg dropped into a still pond. It rippled outwards, distorting the calm surface of polite society, creating waves of astonishment, disbelief, and outright outrage. The announcement of Duke Ashford's intention to marry Duke Montaigne was the scandal of the decade, possibly the century.

From the gilded salons of the aristocracy to the smoky backrooms of Parliament, the whispers began almost immediately. “Ashford… Montaigne?” The names were uttered with a mixture of incredulity and morbid fascination, like a physician diagnosing a particularly gruesome disease. It was unthinkable, unprecedented, a violation of the unspoken rules of power, politics, and, frankly, propriety.

The rumour mills of London, Paris, and even extending to Vienna churned with conjecture. Had Ashford lost his mind? Was Montaigne under some sort of duress? Was this some elaborate, unfathomable power play? The truth, Ashford suspected, was too simple, too bound to his own rigid sense of duty, to be believed by most.

He found himself the subject of intense scrutiny. Every public appearance was dissected, every utterance analyzed for hidden meanings. The newspapers, normally reserved in their coverage of the aristocracy, were suddenly filled with thinly veiled speculation and pointed editorials questioning his judgment. Political cartoons depicted him and Montaigne in various absurd scenarios, exaggerating their differences and implying ulterior motives. Ashford, normally immune to public opinion, found the constant attention grating. He was a man who preferred action to words, strategy to gossip. Now, he was trapped in a whirlwind of both, his every move judged and magnified.

His own allies within the Ashford faction were, to put it mildly, perplexed. Lord Harrington, his closest advisor, paced Ashford's study like a caged lion, his brow furrowed with concern. "Ashford, my friend," he began, for what seemed like the hundredth time, "are you absolutely certain about this? The political implications are… significant. To say the least."

Ashford sat behind his imposing mahogany desk, the only evidence of his inner turmoil a slight tightening of his jaw. "I am aware of the implications, Harrington," he replied, his voice clipped and precise. "I have considered them at length."

"But a marriage? With Montaigne? There are other ways to repay a debt. Political favors, strategic alliances…"

"Those are insufficient," Ashford interrupted. "Montaigne saved my life, Harrington. A life that, at the time, was crucial to the stability of our faction. A mere favor, a political concession, would be an insult, a trivialization of the sacrifice he made."

Harrington sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "But this… this is so… unorthodox. How do you expect the party to react? Many will see this as a sign of weakness, of desperation. Others will suspect a hidden agenda, a power grab."

"Let them suspect," Ashford said, his gaze hardening. "I will not be swayed by their doubts or their fears. I have made my decision, and I will stand by it."

The reaction from the Montaigne faction was, if anything, even more volatile. Montaigne was a beloved figure, a beacon of charm and integrity. The thought of him shackled to the notoriously aloof and pragmatic Ashford sent shockwaves through their ranks.

Lady Beatrice, Montaigne’s sharp-tongued and fiercely protective sister, was said to have stormed into his residence, demanding an explanation. Rumors swirled of closed-door meetings, heated arguments, and veiled threats. Montaigne's supporters couldn't fathom what had compelled him to accept such an outlandish proposal. Was he being blackmailed? Was he secretly in love with Ashford? The possibilities, however improbable, were endlessly debated.

Montaigne himself, usually so adept at navigating the treacherous currents of social and political life, seemed to withdraw. He limited his public appearances, offering only vague and carefully worded statements to the press. His silence only fueled the speculation, painting him as either a victim of Ashford's machinations or a willing participant in a grand, and potentially dangerous, scheme.

The scrutiny was relentless. Every aspect of Montaigne’s life was placed under a microscope. Past relationships, political affiliations, even his charitable donations were scrutinized for any hidden meaning or indication of his true intentions.

Ashford observed this storm of activity with a detached sense of inevitability. He had anticipated the fallout, the chaos. He had factored it into his calculations. What he hadn't fully anticipated, however, was the impact the situation would have on him.

He found himself constantly aware of Montaigne's presence, even when they were miles apart. He followed the news reports with a newfound intensity, reading between the lines, trying to discern Montaigne's true feelings amidst the swirling rumors and carefully crafted pronouncements. He felt a strange protectiveness towards him, a desire to shield him from the relentless scrutiny and the insidious whispers.

He even found himself adjusting his own behavior, softening his edges, attempting to project a more approachable image. He knew it was a futile exercise, that he would never be able to completely shed his reputation as a cold and calculating pragmatist, but he felt compelled to try, if only for Montaigne's sake.

One evening, Ashford found himself alone in his study, the silence punctuated only by the crackling fire in the hearth. He stared out the window at the darkened cityscape, the lights twinkling like distant stars. He felt the weight of expectation pressing down on him, the weight of his duty, the weight of the entire political landscape resting on his shoulders.

He thought of Montaigne, of the sacrifice he had made, of the turmoil he was now enduring. He wondered if he had made the right decision, if he had been too rash, too blinded by his own rigid sense of obligation.

He reached for a decanter of brandy, pouring himself a generous measure. He swirled the liquid in the glass, the amber hues reflecting the flickering flames. He took a sip, the warmth spreading through him, a momentary respite from the cold reality of his situation.

He knew that the coming weeks would be crucial. He and Montaigne would have to navigate the treacherous waters of public opinion, to quell the anxieties of their allies, and to prove, somehow, that their union was not a sign of weakness, but a source of strength.

He also knew that he had a more personal challenge to face. He had to find a way to bridge the gap between his own pragmatic nature and Montaigne's inherent warmth and charisma. He had to find a way to make this marriage, born of duty, into something more.

He finished his brandy, the fire burning low in the hearth. He had a long road ahead of him, a road fraught with peril and uncertainty. But he was Duke Ashford, and he was not one to back down from a challenge. He would face the weight of expectation head-on, and he would do everything in his power to ensure that this marriage, however unconventional, would be a success.

The city outside remained silent, the stars watching over him. He knew, deep down, that this was just the beginning. The real battle was yet to come. And the stakes were higher than he could ever have imagined. Not just for himself, not just for Montaigne, but for the future of the nation itself.