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 5

The wedding took place three days later, in a damp, echoing church in Marylebone.

There were no flowers. There was no choir. Philip stood as a witness, looking relieved and slightly terrified. Mr. Sterling provided the ring — a heavy band of unadorned gold that felt like a shackle slipping over her knuckle.

“I, Augustus, take thee, Bella.”

His voice echoed off the cold stone pillars. Flat. Factual.

“I, Bella, take thee, Augustus.”

Her voice did not shake.

They signed the registry and walked out into the gray London drizzle. Augustus handed her into a heavy traveling coach loaded with trunks. There was no wedding breakfast.

They were leaving for Yorkshire immediately.

The journey took four grueling days. The roads turned from manicured gravel to deeply rutted mud. The landscape shifted from the gentle rolling greens of the south to sharp, jagged hills that looked like the spine of some ancient buried beast.

Bella spent the hours reading, or pretending to read, while Augustus reviewed stacks of correspondence from his mine managers. They spoke only when necessary.

At the coaching inns, he secured the best private parlors and ensured she was fed before he even touched his own plate. He was attentive in the way a man cares for a valuable piece of equipment. He made sure she was not cold. He made sure she was not tired.

He never asked how she felt.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, the sky darkened though the sun had not yet set. A thick, acrid haze hung over the horizon.

“We are close,” Augustus said, breaking a three-hour silence. He closed his leather portfolio.

Bella looked out the window.

The trees were stripped bare, their trunks darkened by years of industrial exhaust. In the valley below, a sprawling complex of brick chimneys belched thick black smoke into the sky. The sound of heavy machinery — a rhythmic, mechanical thudding — vibrated through the floorboards of the carriage.

It was not pretty. It was violently alive.

“The Pendleton Collieries,” Augustus said, watching her face. “It funds the dukedom. It built the townhouse in London. It bought your emerald dress.”

Bella didn’t flinch. She watched the soot-stained men trudging along the road, their faces blackened, carrying pickaxes over their shoulders.

“It looks like hard work.”

“It is brutal work,” he corrected. “My grandfather bought the land for a song and found the seam. The aristocracy looks down on trade, Bella. They sneer at the coal dust. But their grand estates would freeze solid in January without it. This is the reality of the Westford title. Dirt. Iron. Sweat. If you expected manicured rose gardens, you will be disappointed.”

“I expected a roof that doesn’t leak,” Bella said mildly. “I am quite easily satisfied, your grace.”

Augustus’s mouth twitched. It was the closest thing to a smile she had seen from him.

The carriage turned off the main road, winding up a steep, craggy hill away from the mines. The smoke thinned here, though the smell of burning coal still clung to the damp air.

At the crest of the hill stood High Ridge Manor.

It was a fortress built of dark gray stone, sitting heavy and squat against the landscape, designed to withstand the biting northern winds rather than to impress visitors. The windows were narrow. The ivy climbing the walls looked dead. It lacked the symmetry and grace of southern estates.

It was entirely uncompromising.

The carriage stopped in the gravel courtyard. A small, disorganized line of servants stood shivering on the steps. There was no grand housekeeper, no polished butler — just a collection of rough-looking men and a few women who looked thoroughly overwhelmed.

Augustus stepped out and handed Bella down. The wind immediately tore at her bonnet.

“Welcome to High Ridge.”

A man with a pronounced limp stepped forward from the line of servants. He wore a coat that was missing three buttons.

“Your grace. We weren’t expecting you till tomorrow. The fires ain’t all lit.”

“Miss Halloway—” Augustus paused, correcting himself with a slight frown. “The Duchess is tired, Miller. Have the trunks brought to the main suite. And get tea into the drawing room.”

“Drawing room’s shut up, your grace.” Miller scratched his jaw. “Drafty. We lit the fire in your study.”

Augustus swore under his breath. He looked at Bella, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his features.

“The house has been neglected. My uncle only came here twice a decade to check the ledgers. I have spent the last six months dealing with the mines. The domestic side is lacking. It requires management.”

“It requires management,” Bella agreed.

She let go of his arm and walked up the stone steps. She looked at the shivering staff.

She didn’t see ruin. She saw a ledger waiting to be balanced.

She stopped in front of Miller.

“You are the steward.”

Miller blinked, taken aback by her sharp aristocratic clip. “I — your grace — John Miller.”

“Mr. Miller. Have the trunks brought to the main suite. Send two maids ahead to dust and light the fire. I want hot water brought up in twenty minutes. If the drawing room is drafty, find the source of the draft and block it. We will take tea in the study for now.” A pause. “Move.”

She didn’t shout. She didn’t sneer. She delivered the instructions with the bored, absolute authority of a woman raised to command a household — even a bankrupt one.

The staff stared at her for a second. Then Miller nodded sharply.

“Right away, your grace.”

The servants scattered like flushed birds.