Her Stepmother Planned to Make All of London Laugh Her Into Ruin — But the Cruel Scheme Backfired When the Reclusive, Scarred Duke Fell Hopelessly in Love With Her

 PART 2

Alistair lifted his head slowly. His eyes were a startling pale amber, striking against the harsh angles of his face — a thin, jagged scar running from his left temple into the stubble along his jaw. He looked at Norah. He saw the water dripping from her hood, the puddle spreading on the antique rug beneath her, the pinched, bloodless line of her lips, the rigid set of her shoulders.

Norah stared back. She held the letter out, her hand trembling despite her best efforts. Read it, she thought. Read it, laugh, scream, and throw me out. Let us get this over with.

Alistair set his quill down carefully. He stood — tall, broad-shouldered — and as he moved around the desk, Norah noticed the pronounced drag of his right leg. He did not take the letter. Instead, he walked past her toward the fireplace.

Norah stiffened, expecting him to open the door and order her out. He crossed to the heavy leather wing-back chair by the hearth and hauled it closer to the flames. It scraped against the stone. He turned back, pointed a long, ink-stained finger at it.

“Sit.”

The command was sharp. Not unkind. The tone of a man addressing a stray dog shivering in his barn.

“Your grace, the letter will still be unread in five minutes.” He crossed his arms. “You are dripping on my floor, Miss Hawthorne. Sit down before you catch pneumonia in my study. I loathe paperwork, and a coroner’s inquest would ruin my week.”

Norah stared at him. No one had offered her a chair in ten years. In Agatha’s house, Norah stood — behind Agatha’s chair at dinners, while the dressmakers fitted her stepsisters, waiting for orders. Her legs, heavy and aching from the cold, betrayed her pride. She moved toward the fire. She did not remove her cloak — she could not bring herself to reveal the threadbare gown beneath — but she sank into the leather chair, and the heat struck her like a physical blow, sending a violent shiver through her.

Alistair watched her a moment, his amber eyes unreadable. Then he picked up the iron poker and jabbed at the logs, sending sparks up the chimney.

“Give it here, then,” he said, holding out his hand without looking at her.

Norah drew the damp parchment from her reticule and set it in his palm. His hand was warm. The brief brush of his calloused fingers against hers was jarring.

Alistair broke the wax seal with his thumb. He leaned against the mantelpiece, firelight throwing long, dancing shadows across his scarred face, and began to read.

Norah held her breath. She watched his face for the shift — the moment his brow would furrow, the moment his lip would curl in disgust.

He read the first page. He turned to the second. His expression did not change. It stayed a mask of bored exhaustion.

When he finished, he did not crumple it. He did not toss it into the fire.

He folded it carefully back along its original creases, and tapped it once against his thigh.