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 5

Tuesday evening arrived with the creeping dread of an impending execution. Lana sat at the vanity in her bedchamber — vast, draped in heavy burgundy velvet, lit by a dozen branch candles. A fire popped in the grate, but the heat didn’t reach her. She wore a plain white cotton nightgown, having refused the sheer silk monstrosity her newly hired maid had tried to lay out. She brushed her dark hair with mechanical, repetitive strokes. Fifty on the right, fifty on the left. Routine kept the panic at bay.

The grandfather clock in the hall struck eleven. Three minutes later, a soft, definitive knock sounded at the connecting door.

“Come in.” It sounded like someone else’s voice, thin and hollow.

Gideon stepped in, wearing a dark silk dressing gown over loose linen trousers. Without the cravat, the rigid coats, the layers of aristocratic armor, he looked broader — more human. He closed the door behind him, the click of the latch deafening. He didn’t approach the bed. He walked to the fireplace, one hand on the mantel, staring into the flames. He looked as uncomfortable as she felt.

“Are you afraid?” He didn’t look at her.

Lana set the hairbrush down, gripping the edge of the vanity. “I am a woman of five-and-twenty. I am not a naive debutante. I understand the mechanics of what must happen.”

Gideon turned his head. His pale eyes caught the firelight. “That is not what I asked.”

“Yes.” The truth slipped out before she could stop it. “I am afraid. We are strangers, and this feels terribly transactional.”

“It is transactional,” he reminded her, brutally, though his tone was not cruel. “If we pretend otherwise, it will only make it worse.” He walked toward her.

Lana forced herself not to flinch, not to shrink back. She was a Hastings. She had stood down creditors. She could endure this.

Gideon stopped a foot away, looking down at her rigid posture, her white knuckles, the rapid pulse at the base of her throat. “I have no desire to hurt you, Lana. I require an heir, not a victim.”

“Then let us get it over with,” she said, standing.

It was the wrong thing to say. A flicker of genuine anger crossed his face. He reached out, gripping her shoulders, his hands large, warm, heavy.

“I am not a task on your daily ledger to be crossed off.” His voice was rough. “Do not speak to me as if I am the butcher overcharging you for mutton.”

“You are a man who bought a wife.” The fear finally gave way to a sudden, furious spark of pride. “You laid out the terms. Two visits a week until an heir is secured. Do not demand my passion when you paid for my compliance.”

They stared at each other, inches apart, chests heaving. The cool, calculated distance they’d maintained since the day they met had shattered in seconds. Gideon’s grip tightened, then slowly relaxed. His hands slid up her neck, thumbs coming to rest against her jaw.

“You are right,” he murmured, his anger draining, replaced by something heavier and more complex. “I demanded a business arrangement. It is entirely unfair of me to expect you to feel anything else.” He stepped closer, the heat of him radiating against her. “But I will not force a cold, mechanical act upon you. I am a cynic, Lana. But I am not a monster.”

He leaned down. Lana closed her eyes, bracing for a rough, perfunctory kiss. Instead, his lips brushed hers with shocking gentleness. Hesitant. Exploring. He tasted of brandy and something uniquely dark and masculine. He didn’t demand access. He offered the touch, waiting for her response.

Her breath hitched. Her hands, clenched into fists at her sides, slowly uncurled. She didn’t push him away. She didn’t pull him closer. She stood frozen in the center of the storm, feeling the first crack in her own defensive armor.

Gideon pulled back an inch, looking into her eyes, the slate gray of his irises clouded. “Unclench your hands, Lana,” he whispered.

She looked down. She hadn’t realized they’d formed fists again. Slowly, she relaxed her fingers. He took her right hand and placed it flat against his chest. Beneath the silk of his dressing gown, she could feel the steady, heavy thud of his heart.

“I am here,” he said. “You are here. Let us deal with reality, not the ledgers.”

He kissed her again, the pressure increasing, one arm sliding around her waist, pulling her against him. The stiffness of the arrangement began to melt under the physical reality of his touch. He was not a monster. He was just a man who had built a fortress around himself, holding a woman who had done exactly the same.

Lana’s fingers curled into the silk of his robe. She kissed him back. It wasn’t love. It was a desperate human need to find warmth in a freezing world. Gideon groaned softly against her lips, lifted her effortlessly into his arms, and carried her toward the heavy velvet curtains of the bed.

The transaction was over. The reality had begun.

Dawn crept into the bedchamber, a weak grayish light filtering through the gap in the curtains. Lana woke to the smell of woodsmoke, shaving soap, and rain. She turned her head. The space beside her was empty — the sheets cold, though the pillow still bore the indentation of a man’s head. Gideon was gone.

She sat up, pulling the quilt to her chin. Her body felt different — heavy, sensitized. The memory of the night before played behind her eyes, stripped of romance but saturated with a raw, shocking intimacy. He had not been rough, but he had been thorough — systematically dismantling her defenses until she’d been breathless, clinging to his shoulders in the dark. But when it was over, he had pulled the blankets up, kissed her forehead with a terrifying gentleness, and left for his own rooms before the servants stirred.

The schedule had been kept. The transaction fulfilled. Lana threw off the covers, rang for her maid, ordered a bath, and dressed in a dark, severe gown. She had ledgers to review.

For nearly two months they settled into a rhythm that felt like walking on a frozen lake — the ice held, but cracked slightly with every step. Tuesdays and Fridays became the nights the connecting door opened. During the day, they were business partners. Lana ran the London house with a frightening efficiency that earned her the terrified respect of the staff and a grudging nod from Mrs. Arbuthnot.

In late January, the true test arrived. Gideon required her to host a dinner for twenty-four members of the House of Lords and their wives — a political maneuver to shore up votes for a contentious railway bill.

Lana stood at the head of the drawing room as the guests arrived, wearing deep emerald silk devoid of lace or ruffles, her dark hair swept into a severe, elegant knot, the Ashborne diamonds at her throat like a collar of ice. The aristocracy of London were not kind people. Bored, wealthy, and vicious, they knew Gideon had married the destitute daughter of a ruined drunkard. They expected a mouse. They wanted blood.