Every woman in London was warned never to sit beside Alistair, Duke of Roth. Yet Lydia Penhallow accepted her sisters’ wager and unexpectedly talked with him until the ball ended. The next morning, everyone was stunned when the feared Duke arrived at her door with an offer that could save her entire family.

 PART 6

His eyes narrowed. A flush of ugly red crept up his neck.

“Careful, you little spinster. You may have caught a monster’s eye for a moment, but do not think that gives you the right to insult your betters.” He stepped closer still, close enough that she could see the broken capillaries across his nose. “When he tires of you — and he will, because you are nothing but a plain, impoverished charity case — you will fall right back into the mud where you belong.”

“She is not in the mud, Windham.”

The voice sliced through the stifling air of the ballroom like a cavalry sword.

Windham jumped and spun around.

Alistair stood five feet away. He was not leaning on his cane tonight. He was gripping it like a weapon. The harsh lines of his face were set in a mask of absolute, terrifying fury, and his pale gray eyes were locked onto Windham with the intensity of a sniper sighting a target.

The conversations in their immediate vicinity died instantly. The silence spread outward like a ripple in a pond, freezing the entire room.

“Your grace—” Windham stammered, taking a panicked step backward. “We were merely conversing—”

“You were speaking,” Alistair corrected. His voice was a low, lethal rumble that carried clearly across the quiet room. “Miss Penhallow was enduring. There is a profound difference.”

He took a slow, heavy step forward. His limp was pronounced, but it did not diminish the sheer physical threat he projected. He stopped when he was inches from Windham, towering over the smaller man.

“Men have regretted using far milder insults in my presence,” Alistair said — so quietly that only Windham and Lydia could hear the exact words, though the menace was universally understood. “You will apologize to Miss Penhallow. You will do it now, and then you will remove yourself from this house, because if I have to look at your face for one more second, I will throw you through that rather expensive-looking window.”

Windham was trembling. He looked at Alistair’s cane. Then at the Duke’s hands, balled into massive white-knuckled fists.

He turned to Lydia, his face pale and sweating.

“My apologies, Miss Penhallow. I spoke out of turn.”

He did not wait for her to acknowledge him. He spun on his heel and practically ran for the exit, abandoning his coat and hat in his haste to escape the Butcher of Brussels.

Alistair did not watch him go. He turned his head and looked down at Lydia. The rage in his eyes slowly receded, replaced by that heavy, familiar exhaustion.

“Are you unharmed?”

“I am fine, Alistair,” she said quietly, entirely forgetting his title in the aftermath of the adrenaline. “He is a fool. His words mean nothing.”

“They mean something to me.”

Alistair adjusted his grip on his cane, leaning his weight onto it with a suppressed grimace. He looked around the ballroom. The guests were pretending to resume their conversations, but hundreds of eyes were still darting their way.

“I have made it worse for you,” he realized aloud, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. “By defending you, I have only confirmed their vicious little rumors. I have painted a target on your back.”

“My back is quite broad,” Lydia said smoothly. “And I would rather be the target of their gossip than the recipient of Windham’s foul breath.”

Alistair stared at her, the ghost of a smile pulling at his tight jaw.

“You are entirely unreasonable, Lydia.”

“I am practical. Now — are you going to stand there and let your leg throb, or are you going to find a chair so we can sit in mutually resentful silence?”

Alistair let out a sharp, genuine bark of laughter. It shattered the remaining tension in the room, leaving the ton entirely bewildered as the monstrous Duke and the penniless spinster walked slowly together toward a quiet corner.

The consequences of Lydia’s social notoriety did not translate into financial stability.

In fact, it hastened the crisis.

Three days after the Radcliffe Soirée, the reality of the Penhallow estate’s collapse arrived at the front door in the form of Mr. Harding, the local butcher.

It was raining — a cold, relentless London downpour that matched the bleakness inside the morning room. Lydia sat at her desk staring at the open ledger. The numbers were absolute. There was no clever accounting trick left to employ.

They owed Mr. Harding forty-two pounds ten shillings for butchered meats, and the coal merchant nine pounds five shillings for winter heating. Madame Rousset demanded a staggering eleven pounds for the younger sisters’ gowns, while carriage maintenance to Mr. Cobb added another twenty-two.

The pearl earbobs were gone. They had paid the baker and the grocer. But Mr. Harding’s bill was staggering — swollen by Lady Violet’s insistence on serving roasts they could not afford.

“I am not leaving without my money, Miss Penhallow.”

Mr. Harding stood on the faded Turkish rug — a large man with a red face and a thick wool coat that dripped rainwater onto the floor.

“I have carried this house for six months. My own suppliers are demanding payment. If you cannot settle the account today, I am going to the magistrate. I will have the bailiffs here by noon to seize property.”

Lydia stood up. Her hands were cold, but her voice was steady. She had known this day was coming since her father died.

“Mr. Harding, I understand your position. I possess a dark blue velvet carriage cloak of considerable value. It is lined with fur. I will give it to you today to cover ten pounds of the debt, and I will draft a promissory note for the remainder—”

“Guaranteed by a cloak?” Harding’s voice rose in disbelief and anger. “I am a butcher, miss, not a pawnbroker. I cannot feed my children with a velvet cloak. I want the forty-two pounds, or I want the magistrate.”

“She does not have forty-two pounds.”

The voice came from the doorway.

Lydia whipped her head around.

Alistair stood in the threshold of the morning room. He was soaked — dark hair plastered to his forehead, heavy wool coat black with rain. He must have bypassed the footman entirely.

Mr. Harding turned, his angry retort dying in his throat as he recognized the massive, imposing figure filling the doorway. The Duke of Roth did not look like a society gentleman today. He looked like a soldier fresh from a grim campaign.

“Your grace,” Harding stammered, instinctively removing his sodden hat.

Alistair limped into the room. He did not look at Lydia. He walked directly to the desk, his eyes scanning the open ledger. He saw the numbers. He saw the ruin.

“Forty-two pounds, ten shillings,” he read aloud, his voice devoid of emotion.

He reached inside his damp coat and pulled out a heavy leather pouch. He tossed it onto the desk. It landed with a dull, heavy thud of solid coin.

“There is fifty pounds in there,” he said to the butcher, not looking up from the ledger. “Take it. The account is settled. You will speak to Miss Penhallow with respect in future, just as she has spoken respectfully to you. Do we understand each other?”

Harding practically snatched the pouch from the desk.

“Yes, your grace. Perfectly, your grace. Thank you.”

He bowed hastily and fled, his heavy boots thudding down the hallway.

Silence descended on the morning room, broken only by the rain lashing the windowpanes.

Lydia stared at the empty space where the pouch had been. Her chest felt tight, as if invisible iron bands were wrapping around her ribs.

She was not relieved.

She was furious.

“How dare you,” Lydia whispered.