Her father’s £8,000 gambling debt should have ended in ruin — she offered the Duke her family’s last acres. He refused every shilling of it. What he demanded instead wasn’t her land, or her virtue. It was her signature.

PART 2

Lana let out a short, breathy laugh, a reflex against absurdity. “You are mocking me.”

“I have never been more serious in my life.”

“You want to marry me. The daughter of a ruined drunkard. For eight thousand pounds.”

“I am not buying you, Miss Hastings. I am making an investment.” Gideon’s face was devoid of humor or mockery. Strictly business. “I am purchasing peace of mind. I need a woman who understands the value of a pound, who won’t bankrupt me with frivolous spending, who is capable of managing a large, complex household without running to me every time a servant burns the roast.” He gestured at the documents. “You drafted a legal transfer of property and calculated compound interest on a debt in a single night. You are highly competent. Competence is the rarest commodity in my world.”

Lana’s hands gripped the wooden arms of her chair, knuckles white. “Marriage is a sacrament. It is not a business transaction.”

“Every marriage in our class is a business transaction,” Gideon corrected smoothly. “Titles for money, land for breeding rights. We simply dress it in white silk and hire a bishop to make it sound holy. I am stripping away the hypocrisy.”

“And what of affection? What of love?”

“I don’t have time for love,” he said flatly. “And from what I gather, you don’t have the luxury of waiting for it. We are two practical people. I need a competent partner. You need a rescue.”

Lana looked at this man — handsome in a severe, architectural way, but cold. He viewed her not as a woman, but as a solution to a logistical problem.

“What are your terms?” The words tasted like ash, but she had to know.

Something flared in Gideon’s eyes — respect, suspiciously. She hadn’t stormed out. She was negotiating.

“You will have a generous allowance. Complete control over Ashborne House and the primary country estate. I expect you to host four major dinners a season and manage the domestic accounts. I will not interfere in your private time, provided you are discreet and maintain the dignity of my name.” He paused. The silence grew heavy. “And I expect an heir. Once two sons are born, you may have separate bedchambers. Before that, I will visit your rooms twice a week.”

He said it so clinically it took a moment for the words to land. When they did, a hot flush crawled up her neck. He was talking about her body the way he talked about the Somerset drainage — a necessary task, a box to be checked.

“You are asking me to sell myself.”

“I am asking you to be my duchess. You will have wealth, status, absolute security. Most women would claw each other’s eyes out for the position.”

“I am not most women.”

“I know.” He leaned forward. “That is precisely why I am asking you.”

Lana stood, her legs like lead, gathering her useless documents. “I need time.”

“You have twenty-four hours.” Gideon didn’t rise to see her out. He simply picked up his pen. “If I do not see you by noon tomorrow, my solicitors will begin proceedings against your father.”