Abandoned by Her Fiancé, She Married a Feared Duke… Then Learned Why He Chose Her

Chapter 3

She had nursed him through the final illness. She had held his hand when he stopped breathing, his skin cold and papery against hers. She had buried him in the only plot she could afford, standing alone in the rain while the clergyman recited words she barely heard.

And she had inherited nothing but his debts.

Her gaze drifted to the window. Somewhere across the city, the Duke of Ashworth was sleeping in his grand Mayfair townhouse, warm and untroubled. She wondered if he had any doubt about her answer. She suspected he did not.

He had seen the desperation in her eyes. Pride had hidden it well, but he had seen it.

A woman who had lost everything. A woman who would rather endure humiliation than beg. Those were the kind who survived.

And survival was the only thing he was offering.

Across the city, Alexander Blackwood sat alone in his Mayfair library. A single lamp illuminated the desk where a stack of legal papers lay neatly arranged. The marriage contract. His solicitor, Mr. Fletcher, stood across the room, adjusting his spectacles with obvious discomfort.

“Your Grace,” the man said carefully, “may I ask a personal question?”

Alexander did not look up from the document he was reviewing. “You may ask. Whether I answer is another matter.”

Mr. Fletcher cleared his throat. “Miss Cross is… an unusual choice.”

Alexander dipped his pen into the inkwell. “That is precisely why she is suitable.”

“She has no fortune, no family influence, and society has already begun discussing her father’s debts.”

“Exactly.”

The solicitor frowned. “You are aware this marriage will cause comment.”

Alexander set the pen down and leaned back in his chair. “I am the Duke of Ashworth. Society comments on everything I do.” He paused. “Let them.”

Mr. Fletcher hesitated. “Forgive my concern, Your Grace, but most men in your position would choose differently.”

Alexander rose from the desk and walked toward the tall window overlooking the snowy square. Carriages moved slowly through the winter streets. London looked deceptively peaceful beneath its blanket of white.

“Most men,” he said quietly, “want affection in their marriages. I do not.”

“Then why marry at all?”

Alexander did not hesitate. “Because a duke without a wife invites speculation. And speculation invites opportunists. My distant cousins already circle like vultures. An heir would silence them.”

The solicitor nodded slowly. “And Miss Cross?”

“She requires protection. I require a duchess.”

Mr. Fletcher sighed. “A practical arrangement.”

Alexander gave the faintest smile. “The only kind that works.”

Late the next morning, the carriage arrived.

Eleanor was waiting at the window when it appeared — a black carriage pulled by two matching gray horses, gleaming with the quiet wealth that marked everything belonging to the Duke of Ashworth. The driver wore a dark coat and an expression of professional neutrality.

She watched it approach, her heart hammering against her ribs.

She had made her decision hours ago, in the gray light of dawn, when the cold had become unbearable and the hunger had twisted her stomach into knots. Pride was a luxury she could no longer afford. Survival was the only thing that mattered now.

She was wearing the same black dress. She had nothing else. Mrs. Harding, her housekeeper, stood behind her with a small valise containing the few possessions Eleanor still owned — a hairbrush, a Bible, a miniature portrait of her mother.

“Are you certain, miss?” Mrs. Harding asked quietly.

Eleanor turned to face the woman who had stayed when every other servant had fled. Mrs. Harding had refused to leave, had refused payment, had refused to abandon her even when the cupboards were empty and the future was dark.

“I am certain,” Eleanor said. “And you must come with me. I will not leave you behind.”

Mrs. Harding’s eyes glistened, but she nodded.

The front door opened, and Eleanor stepped out into the snow.

The Duke of Ashworth stood beside the carriage, waiting. He was dressed in a dark coat, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable. He watched her approach without moving, without speaking.

She stopped in front of him. “I accept your proposal, Your Grace.”

He inclined his head once. No triumph. No relief. Only acknowledgment. “Very well.”

He extended his hand toward the carriage. “Then we should not keep the reverend waiting.”

Eleanor hesitated only a moment before placing her gloved fingers in his. His hand was warm, steady, and surprisingly gentle. He helped her into the carriage, then climbed in beside her. The door closed with a soft thud, and the carriage began to move.

Eleanor did not look back at the house. She kept her eyes forward, on the man who was now her future.

The Duke of Ashworth sat across from her, separate and composed. He did not speak. He did not reach for her hand. He simply watched her with those dark, unreadable eyes, as if she were a puzzle he was still trying to solve.

Eleanor realized, with a strange mixture of fear and curiosity, that she was thinking the same thing about him.