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 3

The walk back to the Mayfair townhouse took an hour. Lana couldn’t afford a hackney, and she barely felt the rain soaking through her boots. Her mind was a chaotic storm of numbers, pride, and survival.

The house was cold inside. The footman had been let go a week ago. Only Mrs. Higgins, the cook, remained — staying purely out of pity.

Lana climbed the stairs and pushed open the door to her father’s study. Arthur Hastings sat in the dark, bloodshot eyes, face sagging with premature age. He looked pathetic. He looked like a man waiting for the executioner.

“Lana,” he croaked. “Did you see him? Did he accept the terms? The timber?”

“He didn’t want the timber,” she said, standing in the doorway, exhausted down to her marrow.

Her father let out a sob, dropping his face into his hands. “I am ruined. I am dead. The Fleet will kill me in a month. Oh God, what have I done?”

He didn’t ask how she was. He didn’t ask how the Duke had treated her. He only cried for himself.

Lana watched him, and in that moment, the last tether of blind filial piety snapped. She loved him, but she could no longer pretend he was a man worth destroying herself for.

“You aren’t going to prison,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion.

Arthur’s head snapped up. Hope, ugly and desperate, contorted his features. “What? What do you mean?”

“The Duke has agreed to forgive the debt in its entirety.”

Arthur gasped, knocked his chair backward, rushed to her, grabbing her hands. “Oh, Lana, thank God. He is a gentleman after all. How did you manage it? What did you promise him?”

“I promised him myself.”

Arthur froze, his grip slackening. “What?”

“He asked me to marry him.” She pulled her hands away. “He needs a wife. He found me — practical. In exchange, the debt is cleared. You’ll receive five hundred a year, and you must move to Bath. You are never to gamble again.”

Arthur stared at her. Lana waited for him to be outraged. She waited for him to act like a father — to say no, I will not let you sell yourself to a stranger to pay for my sins, I will go to prison, I will bear the weight of my own mistakes.

Instead, Arthur swallowed hard. A slow, sickening relief washed over his face.

“A duke,” he whispered. “My daughter, a duchess. Lana, this is magnificent. This is our salvation.” He reached to embrace her.

Lana took a step back. The revulsion must have shown on her face, because Arthur’s smile faltered.

“It is a good match, Lana,” he said defensively. “Ashborne is one of the wealthiest men in England. You will have everything you ever wanted.”

“I am going to pack my trunk.” She turned and walked out. She didn’t cry. She had no tears left for him.

At eleven the next morning, the rain had finally stopped, leaving London bruised and gray. Lana stood once more in Gideon Croft’s study — not alone this time. A solicitor, small and nervous, sat at a side table arranging thick vellum documents. Gideon stood by the fireplace in a dark riding coat, immaculately tailored, watching her walk in with a single battered leather portmanteau.

“You’re early,” he said.

“I had nothing left to say to my father.” She set the bag down. It hit the floor with a hollow thud.

Gideon looked at the bag, then at her face — the shadows there, the quiet devastation of a person realizing they are entirely alone in the world. He didn’t offer pity. He simply gave a sharp nod. “Mr. Penhaligan. The papers.”

The solicitor laid out the marriage settlement, exactly as promised. The debt nullified. The annuity for her father established, ironclad with stipulations against gambling. Her own allowance staggering.

“If you will just sign here, Miss Hastings,” Penhaligan squeaked, pointing to the bottom line.

Lana picked up the heavy silver quill. It felt like an anchor in her hand. The ink was black and final. She was signing away her name, her body, her future. She pressed the nib to the paper.

Eleanor Margaret Hastings. Smoothly. No hesitation.

She set the pen down and stepped back. Gideon stepped forward, signed his own name beside hers in sharp, aggressive strokes. Gideon Arthur Croft.

“Excellent,” Penhaligan muttered, gathering the copies. “The special license has already been procured, your grace. The clergyman will be waiting at St. George’s within the hour.”

“Leave us,” Gideon said.

The solicitor scrambled out, clutching his briefcase. They were alone. The silence returned, thick and complicated.

Lana stood by the desk, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands. She had sold herself. The transaction was complete. Now what — was she supposed to smile?

Gideon walked to a side cabinet, pulled out two crystal glasses and a decanter of dark amber liquid, poured two measures, and offered her one.

“I don’t drink sherry before noon.”

“It isn’t sherry. It’s brandy.” He held her gaze. “And you look like you need it.”

Their fingers brushed as she took the glass — his skin warm, a stark contrast to the chill in her bones.

“To your father,” Gideon said, raising his glass. “May Bath find him incredibly boring.”

Lana stared at him. A tiny, involuntary huff of breath escaped her — not quite a laugh, but close. She raised her glass and tapped it to his. The crystal chimed, sharp and bright in the heavy room.

“To practicality,” she said, and threw back the brandy. It burned all the way down, lighting a fire in her empty stomach.

Gideon drank his, eyes never leaving hers over the rim of the glass. He set it down.

“The carriage is waiting. Let us go get married, Miss Hastings. Then we have a great deal of work to do.”

Lana nodded, picked up her skirts. She had walked into Ashborne House a ruined woman. She was walking out to become a duchess. She just didn’t know yet whether she had saved her life or surrendered it entirely.

St. George’s in Hanover Square was a cavern of cold stone and echoing silence. No flowers. No guests. Only a nervous Mr. Penhaligan and a pew-opener annoyed at being interrupted mid-sweep.

Lana stood at the altar, her still-damp pelisse absurdly out of place against the gilded rails. Beside her, Gideon was a pillar of dark wool and rigid posture. He did not look at her. He looked at the clergyman, who rushed through the liturgy, clearly understanding this was not a joyous union of souls, but a transaction of power and necessity.

“Do you, Gideon Arthur, take this woman—”

Lana tuned the words out. If she listened too closely, the permanence of it might break her composure. She focused instead on the stained glass above them, colors muted by the overcast sky, gray light filtering through blue. It looked like a bruise.

“I do,” Gideon said, firm, carrying to the back of the empty church.

“Do you, Eleanor Margaret—”

Lana swallowed. Her throat was terribly dry. The clergyman paused, bushy brows drawing together. Beside her, Gideon shifted — a minute movement radiating impatience.

“I do.”

Gideon produced a ring — a heavy band of raw gold, ancient and unpolished — took her left hand, and slid it onto her finger. It was slightly too large, resting loose against her knuckle.

“I pronounce that they be man and wife together.”

There was no kiss. Gideon simply let go of her hand, turned to Penhaligan, and nodded. “Ensure the registry is signed and filed before the hour is out.” He walked down the aisle.

Lana stood at the altar three seconds, feeling the weight of the gold on her finger. Then she turned and followed her husband.