“If I Were Younger, I’d Ask You to Dance,” the Duke Teased — “Who Said No?” Replied the 38-Year-Old Woman Everyone Ignored. Then the Duke Who Hadn’t Danced Since Waterloo Took Her Hand, and the Entire Ballroom Fell Silent.

PART 6

The massive iron gates of Westford House loomed as the carriage rolled to a stop — not a house, a fortress, cold stone rising in careful, imposing rows.

Panic flared sharp and metallic in the back of Sybil’s throat. What had she done? A spinster from a minor family, thrust into the center of a sprawling aristocratic machine.

“It is very large,” she managed.

“It is a mausoleum,” Arthur corrected, not letting go of her hand. “But it has excellent fireplaces and a library that takes up the entire west wing.”

The doors swung open before they reached them, revealing white marble and a small army of servants. A formidable butler stepped forward.

“Welcome home, your grace.”

“Thank you, Harrison. This is the Duchess. Have my things moved to the adjoining suite in the east wing, and tell cook we require a substantial breakfast. Something hot. No lemons.”

Harrison did not blink. “Immediately, your grace.”

Arthur pulled her past the staring staff, away from the grand staircase, down a narrower wood-paneled corridor, his limp more pronounced now that the adrenaline of the morning had begun to fail him. He pushed open a heavy oak door into his study — a glorious, chaotic mess of stacked books and unrolled maps, smelling of leather and wood smoke. A large graying deerhound lifted its head from the rug, thumped its tail once, and went back to sleep.

Arthur poured two glasses of scotch and handed her one, then lowered himself, groaning, into a worn leather wingback chair, stretching his bad leg toward the fire without a shred of shame.

He raised his glass. “To the fire, Sybil.”

She sat in the chair opposite, the heavy gold ring catching the firelight.

“To the fire, Arthur.”

The scotch burned. This time, she didn’t cough.

Polite society digested the scandal with grim efficiency. For three weeks Westford House was besieged with calling cards from people hoping to catch a glimpse of the disaster. Arthur had Harrison burn them in the drawing room grate. Sybil used the ashes to fertilize the indoor palms.

They did not attend a single ball. They did not host a single dinner. By the time the season ended and the carriages rolled back to the country, the ton had collectively decided the Duke and his spinster duchess were simply too boring to gossip about anymore.

It was the greatest victory of Sybil’s life.

Four months later, rain lashed the arched windows of the library at Arthur’s Yorkshire estate — a cavern of ancient paper and dark oak, smelling faintly of pipe tobacco. Sybil sat by the fire, feet tucked under a tartan blanket, a dry treatise on agricultural reform open on her lap, mostly because Arthur had abandoned it there with a disgusted noise three days prior.

The heavy door creaked open. Arthur walked in soaked to the skin, cloak dripping steadily onto the priceless Persian rug, boots caked in dark mud.

“You are ruining a carpet older than the monarchy,” Sybil said, not looking up.

“The carpet is hideous. A little Yorkshire mud will improve the pattern.” He dropped into the chair across from her — the same position they’d taken on their wedding day.

The deerhound cracked one eye open, sighed, and rested its chin on Arthur’s muddy boot.

“You should take those off before Harrison sees them and suffers a stroke.”

“Harrison is in London. We are safe from his judgment.” He leaned his head back, eyes closing. The harsh lines of his face hadn’t vanished — fifty-one years didn’t erase in months — but the bitter, hollow tension that used to grip his jaw was gone.

They had not transformed into starry-eyed youths. They still argued — last Tuesday over the proper way to prune the roses, ending with Arthur storming to the stables and Sybil eating half a jar of marmalade out of pure spite. They spoke in practicalities and blunt observations, not poetry.

But in the quiet spaces between the arguments, something fierce and grounded had taken root — the weight of his arm pulling her against his chest in the dark, his hand finding hers under the table when a tenant droned too long, the unshakable certainty that she never had to hide in a corner again.

“How is your knee?” she asked.

“As though someone is driving a rusted nail into the joint with a hammer. I’ll ring for liniment in a minute.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked at her properly — simple navy wool, hair loose, no corseted stiffness, no defensive posture. “You look comfortable, Duchess.”

“I am. Though your dog currently smells like wet sheep.”

He chuckled, low and real, and reached across to take her hand, thumb tracing the heavy gold band.

“Do you miss it? The ballroom, the music, the terror of potted ferns?”

Sybil looked at his hand around hers, felt the fire against her legs, the rain against the glass.

“Not for a single second,” she said.

Arthur’s smile reached his eyes — slow, warm, nothing like the smirk she’d known for five years. He brought her knuckles to his mouth.

“Good,” he murmured against her skin. “Because I am never putting on a cravat again.”