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 4

The carriage ride back to Ashborne House was silent, the leather seats squeaking over uneven cobblestones. Gideon sat opposite her, gaze fixed out the window on the passing pedestrians.

“I will introduce you to Mrs. Arbuthnot,” he said suddenly, without turning. “She has been housekeeper here twenty years. She runs the London staff. She will give you the household keys and the ledgers.”

“Does she know about me?”

He finally looked at her. “She knows I went out this morning to acquire a duchess, and that I would be bringing one back. The staff does not require more explanation than that.”

Lana bristled. Acquire a duchess, as if she were a new carriage horse or a bolt of imported silk. “I see. And what will be my first duty as this newly acquired asset?”

A faint smirk touched his mouth, gone almost instantly. “You will review the quarterly accounts. I suspect the butcher is overcharging us for mutton, but I haven’t had time to audit the kitchen books. I expect a report by Friday.”

They arrived at the townhouse. The mahogany doors opened before Gideon reached the steps. In the foyer stood a formidable woman in starched black bombazine — the posture of a general, eyes that missed nothing — flanked by two rigid footmen.

“Mrs. Arbuthnot,” Gideon said, shedding his gloves onto a silver tray. “This is her grace, the Duchess of Ashborne. She is now the mistress of this house. You will answer to her.”

Mrs. Arbuthnot dipped into a precise, deep curtsy. “Your grace. Welcome to Ashborne House.” Her eyes flicked to Lana’s outdated dress, the scuffed toes of her boots, and finally to her face. If the housekeeper was shocked by the Duke’s sudden, unglamorous bride, she didn’t show it.

“Thank you, Mrs. Arbuthnot.” Lana’s voice was steady, carrying the crisp authority she’d perfected managing her father’s creditors. “I will require a tour of the domestic offices immediately, and please have the kitchen and cellar ledgers brought to my sitting room.”

Gideon paused at the base of the grand staircase, looking back at her — the way she held her chin, the way she didn’t shrink under the housekeeper’s assessing stare.

“I have a meeting at the War Office,” he announced to the room at large. “I will not be back until dinner. We dine at eight, madam.” He didn’t wait for a response. He walked out the door he’d just entered.

Lana was left standing in the massive marble foyer. Five-and-twenty, effectively orphaned, entirely alone in a house that belonged to a man who didn’t know her favorite color.

She turned to the housekeeper. “Show me the kitchens, Mrs. Arbuthnot. And tell the butcher we will be reviewing his invoices.”

Three days passed. Lana did not see her husband. He left before she woke, taking breakfast in his study, dining at his clubs or political banquets. The vast machinery of Ashborne House operated flawlessly without him, because Lana had taken the wheel with both hands. She spent her days in the Duchess’s sitting room, surrounded by stacks of receipt books, vellum ledgers, and inventory sheets — a room papered in pale green silk and filled with delicate French furniture, which Lana treated like a war room.

Her father’s ruin had taught her a brutal lesson. Survival lay in the margins. The aristocracy bled money because they refused to look at the arithmetic beneath them. Lana had no such pride.

On Thursday evening the heavy oak dining room door opened. Lana sat at one end of a table long enough to seat thirty, eating clear soup. Gideon walked in, exhausted, the sharp lines of his face drawn tight, a shadow of stubble on his jaw. He stopped when he saw her.

“You are dining at home,” Lana noted, setting down her spoon.

“My meeting with the Prime Minister dissolved early.” He pulled out a chair halfway down the table — far enough for distance, close enough to converse without shouting. A footman materialized instantly to pour his wine.

“Bring his grace the roast pheasant,” Lana instructed quietly.

They sat in silence for ten minutes, the clink of silver against porcelain the only sound. An awkward, heavy quiet, thick with the unacknowledged reality of their arrangement.

“Mrs. Arbuthnot informs me you have turned the domestic offices upside down,” Gideon said finally, sipping his claret.

“Mrs. Arbuthnot is prone to hyperbole. I merely audited the accounts as you requested. And you were wrong about the butcher.”

Gideon paused, fork hovering halfway to his mouth. “Excuse me.”

“He is not overcharging you for mutton. He is charging standard London prices.” Lana stood, walked to a side table, and returned with a leather-bound book, opening it beside his plate. “Your kitchen staff prepares meals for twenty people every evening, regardless of whether you are dining at home. The surplus is thrown to the dogs, or sold out the back door by the scullery maids. Furthermore, your salatier has been ordering Spanish sherry at a premium despite the fact that nobody in this house drinks sherry.” She pointed to a column of figures. “I have renegotiated the meat deliveries to reflect actual consumption. I have halted the sherry orders. I have also discovered that you are paying a pension to three retired groundskeepers at your Yorkshire estate who have been dead for four years. The estate manager has been pocketing the funds.”

Gideon stared at the ledger. Then at her. He didn’t speak. He just watched her — for the first time, not the clinical, assessing look he’d given her in his study, but something sharper. He was looking at her as though she were a puzzle he’d just realized was missing pieces.

“How long did it take you to find the fraud in Yorkshire?”

“Four hours. The handwriting on the pension receipts from 1819 onward lacked the arthritic tremor present in the previous years. The manager forged their signatures.”

A slow, genuine smile spread across Gideon’s face, transforming him. The severe, cold Duke vanished, replaced by a man who looked remarkably dangerous and intensely alive.

“My solicitors audit those accounts twice a year,” he said, shaking his head. “They missed it.”

“Your solicitors are looking at the math. They are making sure the columns add up. I look at the people behind the math.” Lana closed the ledger. “I’ve drafted a letter dismissing the Yorkshire manager. It awaits your signature.”

Gideon leaned back. “You are ruthless, Lana.”

It was the first time he’d used her given name. The sound of it in that gravelly baritone sent a strange, cold thrill down her spine.

“I am practical,” she corrected. “You bought competence, your grace. I am merely delivering the goods.”

She picked up the ledger and returned to her end of the table. Gideon watched her sit. The air in the room had shifted. The distance between them suddenly felt less like a chasm and more like a bridge.

“Tuesday,” he said suddenly.

Lana froze, her hand tightening around the stem of her water glass.

“Tuesday next week,” he clarified, voice dropping back into its usual flat, emotionless cadence. “I will visit your chambers as per our agreement.”

The brief moment of camaraderie vanished, sucked out of the room like air from a vacuum. The ledgers, the accounts, the sharp banter — it had all been a distraction from the fundamental truth of their contract. He needed an heir, and she had sold him the rights to her body to pay for her father’s sins.

“Very well,” Lana said, entirely devoid of inflection. “I will expect you on Tuesday.”