Champagne tastes of stale apples when you are twenty-five and officially a spinster. Bella Halloway toasted the ballroom doors and swore she would marry the next man through them — and the Duke of Westford walked in with coal dust under his nails, just as her reckless promise began spreading across the ballroom.

PART 2 

Augustus Wallace had to duck slightly to avoid hitting his head on the lintel.

In the harsh daylight he looked even less refined than he had the night before. No cravat. Just a simple linen shirt open at the throat, and a heavy wool riding coat. Dust coated his leather boots. He carried the scent of wet cobblestones, horses, and something sharp — like cold iron.

Bella stood up. The ledger slid from her lap and hit the floor with a loud slap.

Augustus looked at the ledger. Then he looked at the faded walls. He took in the missing ornaments on the mantelpiece, the cold fireplace, and finally Bella herself — in a plain gray morning gown, her hair pinned up haphazardly.

“Your grace.” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and lifted her chin. “To what do we owe the honor?”

He stepped into the room and did not wait to be offered a seat. He took the armchair opposite the sofa. The wood groaned in protest under his weight.

He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs.

His hands were huge. The knuckles were white and scarred with tiny black lines — coal dust permanently tattooed into the creases of his skin.

“I am a practical man, Miss Halloway,” he said. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble, like stones grinding together. “I don’t care for games. I don’t care for the whispers in these absurd parlors. So I will speak plainly.”

Bella crossed her arms, suddenly painfully aware of the ink on her fingers and the fraying cuffs of her sleeves.

“I prefer plain speech, your grace.”

“Good.” He stared at her. “I am told you are in the market for a husband. I am told you are so thoroughly desperate that you announced to a room full of vipers that you would marry the very next man who walked through the door.”

Heat rushed up Bella’s neck, burning her cheeks.

“That was a joke. A moment of poor humor born of exhaustion.” Her chin came up. “If you have come to mock me, you can leave.”

“I didn’t come to mock you.”

He said it flatly.

“I came to hold you to it.”

Bella froze. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked. Once. Twice.

“I beg your pardon.”

Augustus leaned back.

“I have been the Duke of Westford for six months. In that time I have had no less than forty women throw themselves at my feet, faint in my path, or accidentally drop their handkerchiefs into my soup. Their mothers treat me like a prized bull at a county fair. They want the title. They want the money. And they pretend to be enamored with a coal miner who doesn’t know a sonnet from a sheep dog.”

He paused. His dark eyes locked onto hers.

“You, Miss Halloway, do not pretend.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.” He said it without heat. “I had my solicitor look into your family this morning. Your brother owes Lord Kavanaugh two thousand pounds. You have no dowry. Your estate is mortgaged to the hilt. You are twenty-five years old, drowning in debt, and sinking fast.”

Bella flinched. The blunt articulation of her misery felt like a physical blow.

“If you are quite finished listing my humiliations —”

“I am offering you a position,” he interrupted. “A partnership. I need a duchess. I need someone to run my houses, organize my staff, and navigate the society I refuse to tolerate. More importantly, I need an heir. My cousin Silas is next in line after me, and he is a degenerate gambler and a fool.”

He stood and paced to the window, blocking out the light.

“I do not want a love match. I want a woman who understands reality. I will pay your brother’s debts today. I will provide you with an allowance that will ensure you never look at a ledger again. You get security. I get a wife who won’t expect me to write her poetry.”

Bella stared at his broad back.

“You want to marry me,” she said slowly, testing the words. “Because I made a desperate joke at a ball.”

Augustus turned around.

“I want to marry you because when I walked into that room, you looked at me like I was a man. Not a prize and not a monster.” He took a step toward her. “You just looked exhausted.”

He stopped.

“We can help each other, Bella. It is a transaction. Clean. Simple.”

“Marriage is rarely clean or simple, your grace.”

“It is if both parties agree to the terms. Think about it. I will return tomorrow for your answer.”

He walked past her. He didn’t bow. He didn’t kiss her hand. He simply opened the door and let himself out.