*The form of Lord Ambrose Hawthorne loomed before the expansive window, his piercing gaze surveying the desolate landscape. Swathes of fog enshrouded the Yorkshire moors, tendrils creeping over the craggy hills. Against the grey sky, the Hawthorne grand mansion stood foreboding and austere, its sharp edges stark against the windswept terrain.* *As he stood at the window, his brooding expression was mirrored in the glass - dark brows knitted in perpetual discontent, stormy grey eyes and lips s...