Her Family Sold Her to Pay Their Debts—But She Returned the Ruthless Duke’s Gift Without Even Opening It. Before Breakfast the Next Morning, He Appeared at Her Door Demanding to Know Why, Unaware Their Next Words Would Ignite a Scandal Across London.

PART 4

Two days passed before a note arrived from Thomas, asking whether she might assist him in locating several receipts connected to the widows’ fund. Beneath his signature was another line, in a different hand:

My carriage will collect you at eleven, if you consent. — Westbridge

Grace stared at it.

Margaret leaned over her shoulder. “He has discovered invitations. Apparently that is more dangerous than jewelry.”

Grace folded the note and said nothing.

At Westbridge House, Thomas had transformed a library table into a battlefield of ledgers, receipts, and correspondence. Grace spent an hour helping him sort dates while Alexander worked at a desk near the windows. He did not interrupt. He did not hover. He did not offer opinions.

That should not have been remarkable. Somehow it was.

“Here.” Thomas set down a receipt. “Lady Wexford recorded forty pounds for coal. The supplier’s receipt says thirty-two.”

Grace leaned closer. “Ask her about it before assuming dishonesty.”

“You think it is an error?”

“I think certainty should be earned.”

From the window came Alexander’s voice. “You make that sound like a rebuke aimed at several people.”

Grace looked over. “If several people feel rebuked, perhaps they have guilty consciences.”

Thomas laughed. Alexander’s mouth curved, and Grace returned to the ledger before either man could see the warmth rising into her face.

An hour later, Thomas was summoned to meet the charity secretary. Grace began gathering her gloves.

“You need not leave,” Alexander said.

“Your brother is gone.”

“I had noticed.” He set down his pen. “There is tea.”

“A compelling argument.”

His gaze rested on her for a moment. “Stay.”

The single word contained no command. That was precisely why she did.

A servant brought tea, then withdrew. Rain tapped against the windows. The fire settled with a soft crack. For several minutes, neither spoke.

“Lady Wexford believes you are using Thomas to reach me,” Alexander said finally.

Grace’s cup stopped halfway to her lips. “Efficient of her.”

“You are not surprised.”

“Women without fortunes learn early that kindness toward powerful families is rarely permitted to remain kindness.”

Alexander’s fingers tightened around his cup. “Does it trouble you?”

“It can cost me more than it costs you.”

“I know.”

Grace looked at him. “Do you?”

His jaw flexed. “I am beginning to.”

The admission was so quiet she almost missed it. He set down his cup.

“I also owe you an apology for the gift. For assuming money was the simplest language in which to express gratitude.”

Grace studied him. “What was inside?”

“You truly want to know now? Now that you cannot accidentally accept it?”

“Yes.”

A low laugh escaped him. “A sapphire brooch. That belonged to my grandmother.”

Grace stared. “You sent a family jewel to a woman you had never spoken to.”

“In retrospect, I recognized certain flaws in the plan.”

“Certain?”

“Numerous.”

She laughed before she could stop herself. Alexander went still. He looked at her with that same unsettling attention from the corridor, but softer now.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“That was plainly something.”

He leaned back. “Thomas laughs more when you are here.”

The warmth left her face. There it was — the safe explanation. Thomas.

Grace placed her cup down carefully. “Then I am useful.”

Alexander’s expression sharpened. “That is not what I said.”

“No. It is what you meant.”

“Grace.”

It was the first time he had used her given name. Neither moved. The fire snapped between them. His gaze dropped to her hand resting beside the cup, then rose again.

“I asked you to stay after Thomas left.”

Her breath caught. “Why?”

Alexander opened his mouth.

The library door flew inward before he could answer.

Thomas stood there, pale and breathing hard, a crumpled paper in his fist. “Alexander. Someone has written to Lady Wexford. Claiming Grace is courting my friendship because she intends to become your duchess.”

Thomas’s words seemed to change the temperature of the room. Alexander rose without haste, which Grace had begun to recognize as the clearest sign of his anger.

“Give me the letter.”

Thomas crossed the carpet and handed it over. The paper trembled once between his fingers. Alexander read in silence. Grace watched his eyes move down the page. Stop.

“Anonymous?” she asked.

“Naturally.” His voice had gone flat.

Thomas looked at Grace. “It says you befriended me because you knew Alexander would feel indebted to you.”

Grace’s stomach tightened, but she kept her face still.

“And that you refused his gift deliberately, because refusing it would make him curious.”

The accusation landed with uncomfortable precision. Alexander crushed one edge of the paper in his fist.

“Enough.”

“No.” Grace held out her hand. “Let me read it.”

Alexander hesitated before giving it to her.

The writer had been clever. No vulgar insult. No obvious lie that could be disproved. Only ordinary events rearranged until kindness looked like calculation. The dance. The returned gift. Alexander’s visit. Her presence at Westbridge House. Each fact was true.

Together, they made her appear dangerously ambitious.

Grace folded the letter. “Who else has seen this?”

“Lady Wexford,” Thomas said. “Her secretary. Possibly half the committee by tomorrow.”

Alexander reached for the bell. “I will deal with it.”

“How?” Grace asked.

His hand stopped.

“I will make it clear that you acted honorably.”

“And how will you explain knowing that?”

Silence answered her.

Grace stood. “You cannot defend my reputation by announcing how closely you have been observing me.”

Alexander’s gaze hardened. “I will not allow this to continue.”

“There.” She pointed lightly toward him. “That is exactly what you do with Thomas.”

Thomas became very still.

Alexander’s face changed. “This is not the same.”

“Isn’t it? Something threatens someone you care about, and your first instinct is to stand in front of them until no one can see them at all.”

The word care hung between them. Grace wished it back the instant she heard it.

Alexander did not let her retreat from it. “Someone I care about,” he repeated.

Her pulse beat painfully beneath her collar. “Someone under your protection.”

“You are not under my protection.”

“Precisely.”

His jaw tightened. “Grace, if you believe I intend to stand aside while society tears you apart —”

“I believe you intend to use the authority of a duke to silence a rumor that already claims I sought the attention of a duke.” She held his gaze. “How does that help?”

Thomas sank into the chair by the fire. The logs shifted with a sharp crack. “She is right.”

Alexander turned toward him. Thomas looked frightened, but he did not look away.

“If you order people to stop talking, they will only believe there is more to hide.”

Alexander stared at his brother. Grace saw the struggle in him — the habit of command meeting the painful knowledge that command could make matters worse.

Slowly, his shoulders lowered. “Then tell me what you propose.”

He was asking them. Not deciding for them.

Thomas glanced at Grace, then at the crumpled letter. “I continue with the charity accounts.”

“Yes,” Grace said. “And I stop coming here for a while.”

Alexander’s head turned sharply. “No.”

The force of it silenced the room. Grace’s fingers curled around her gloves.

“That was not a request.”

“Nor was my answer.”

Thomas looked between them and suddenly found the fire intensely interesting.

Grace lowered her voice. “If I remain constantly beside your family, I give the rumor exactly what it requires.”

“And if you disappear, they will say you were caught.”

“They may. Then why surrender the ground?”

“Because I will not use Thomas as proof of my innocence.”

Alexander stepped closer. Not enough to touch her, but enough that she had to lift her chin to hold his gaze.

“You keep speaking as though Thomas is the only reason I want you here.”

Her breath caught. “Isn’t he?”

Alexander said nothing. The silence stretched until she could hear the rain against the glass and Thomas’s careful breathing across the room.

Grace hated how badly she wanted an answer.

At last, Alexander looked away.

That hurt more than it should have.

She picked up her cloak. “I should go.”

“Grace.” He stopped. “Please.”

She did not turn around.

The carriage ride home passed beneath a gray afternoon sky. By evening, Margaret had already heard whispers from two acquaintances. By the following morning, an invitation to a musical was politely withdrawn.

Grace placed the note beside her breakfast plate without comment.

Then came another. And another.

By noon, three doors had quietly closed to her.

At Westbridge House, however, Thomas refused to abandon the charity committee. And Alexander sent no gifts, no declarations, no public commands.

Grace should have been grateful.

Instead, every silence from him felt strangely personal.