“Do you?” She descended the remaining stairs slowly, aware that her hair was unbound, that she wore only a morning dress and shawl, that this was all highly improper. “Or is this merely another demonstration of your… particular interpretation of social convention?”
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or possibly approval. “Both, I suspect. Your father has informed you of our arrangement?”
“He’s informed me of your ultimatum.” She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, keeping the newel post between them like a shield. “There is a difference.”
“Is there?” His head tilted slightly, assessing her with the kind of cool focus that explained why lesser men quailed beneath his gaze. “An ultimatum suggests no choice at all. I have offered your father a very clear choice. Granted, neither option is pleasant, but a choice nonetheless.”
“Between poverty and utter ruin, you mean?”
Her father made a strangled noise.
But the Duke… the Dukesmiled. Only a slight lift of one corner of his mouth, but enough to transform his face from marble to something startlingly human.
“Poverty and marriage,” he corrected with a mildness more unnerving than anger. “Though I admit, your phrasing does possess a certain dramatic flourish. Do you read novels, Miss Beckett?”
“When I’m not being bartered for gaming debts, yes.”
“Celine!” her father hissed, purple with mortification. “Apologise at once!”
“For what? Speaking truth?” She did not look away from the Duke. “Isn’t that what this is? A transaction? My freedom for your eight thousand pounds?”
“Yourfamily’sfreedom,” Rothwest corrected. “Yours was forfeit the moment your father sat at that table. The only question was whether you would lose it to destitution—or to me.”
“And you are the better option?”
“Infinitely.”
No hesitation. No modesty. Just cool, incontrovertible certainty.
“I can provide comfort, stability, a position your family desperately requires. Debtor’s prison provides none of those things.”
“And in return?” she asked, her voice a near-perfect mask of composure.
His eyes narrowed, not in threat but in precision.
“In return, you become my wife. With all that entails.”
The words hung between them like a dare.
Celine felt heat rise to her cheeks but refused to look away.
“Which brings me to my additional stipulation,” he continued, drawing a folded document from his coat. “I require your written consent as well. Not merely your father’s. Your own—freely given, or as freely as circumstances allow.”
“…Why?” The question escaped in a whisper.
“Because, despite what the gossips say, I am not a monster.” He placed the document on the hall table. “I have no interest in an unwilling bride. Resentful, perhaps. Reluctant, certainly. But not unwilling. The distinction is important.”
She stared at him, attempting to reconcile the man before her with the legends whispered across ballrooms.
“And if I refuse?”
“Then your father’s debts remain—with all their consequences.” He pulled on his gloves, each motion precise, practised. “You have until tomorrow evening. I will call at a civilised hour—let us say eight o’clock. We may sign the papers then… or not, as you choose.”
He turned toward the door, then paused.
“One more thing. Should you accept, the wedding will proceed within the fortnight, as agreed. However, I am prepared to negotiate certain… aspects of the arrangement. Within reason.”
“Such as?”
