The Duke entered the drawing room like a force contained only by the limits of evening dress. He had clearly come from another engagement—his attire was too formal for a simple business call. The black coat fit him flawlessly, emphasising broad shoulders and a lean waist. His cravat was tied in a style she did not recognise, elegant yet severe, secured with an onyx pin that caught the light like a watchful eye.
“Miss Beckett.” He bowed. “Ladies,” he added, acknowledging her mother and Lucy, stationed like sentinels on either side of Celine’s chair.
“Your Grace.” Celine rose, curtseyed, and gestured to the contract. “I’ve reviewed your terms.”
“And?”
She dipped the pen, signed her name with a steady hand, and set it aside. “And I accept.”
A flicker crossed his face—surprise, perhaps, or disappointment that she had not argued. “Without negotiation?”
“Would negotiation change anything substantial?”
“No.”
“Then why waste both our time?” She blotted the ink, then faced him. “I do have questions, however.”
“I expected as much.” He moved further into the room, and Lucy instinctively stepped back. “Ask them.”
“The separate bedchambers you mentioned. That’s not in the contract.”
“A gentleman’s word should suffice.”
“In my experience, gentlemen’s words are worth approximately as much as my father’s markers.”
His mouth twitched—the almost-smile she’d seen the night before. “Fair point. Shall I add it?”
“Yes.”
He produced a small leather notebook and silver pencil, making a notation with efficient strokes. “Done. What else?”
“My family. What provisions will be made for them?”
“Your father’s debts will be cleared entirely. Your mother will receive a quarterly allowance sufficient to maintain this household and provide for your sisters. When they come of age, I will provide appropriate dowries—ten thousand pounds each, assuming they do not emulate your father at the gaming tables.”
Lucy let out a small, shocked breath. Ten thousand pounds each was more than they could have hoped even at their prosperity’s height.
“That is… generous,” Celine said carefully.
“It is practical. I’ve no wish for impoverished relations appearing at inconvenient moments with outstretched hands.” Another note. “What else?”
“My personal belongings. My books, my letters, my—”
“Will remain yours. I have no interest in your diary, Lady Celine, despite what gothic novels say about tyrannical husbands.”
Heat crept into her cheeks. “I don’t keep a diary.”
“No?” His head tilted, studying her. “You strike me as the sort who would. How else do you organise your thoughts?”
“I pace,” she admitted before she could think better of it. “In the garden, usually. Or the attic in poor weather.”
“We have extensive gardens at Rothwest House. And several attics, though I cannot speak to their suitability for pacing. We shall have to explore.”
The word ‘we’sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. In two weeks, there would indeed be awe.Husband and wife. Bound together until death.
“Any other questions?”
“Hundreds,” she confessed. “But none that can be answered in my mother’s drawing room.”
