“If You Win This Match, I’ll Marry You,” the Duke Mocked—But When the Ruined Spinster Shattered the Apple at Seventy Yards and Demanded Fifteen Thousand Pounds Instead, He Refused to Let Her Walk Away

 PART 3

The library of Hollingsworth Park was a sanctuary of dark mahogany and leather, a room built by men to hide from the consequences of their actions.

Aldrich stood by the window, staring out at the rolling hills. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him. He turned. Boggy Somerset stood in the center of the room. She hadn’t bothered to change out of her gray dress. The right shoulder of the bodice was visibly stained with dark grease and powder residue. She looked entirely out of place among the gilded spines of Lord Hollingsworth’s unread books.

“Drink?” Aldrich asked, gesturing to the decanter of brandy on the desk.

“No, thank you.”

She stood with her hands clasped in front of her. The adrenaline had faded, and Aldrich could see the profound exhaustion settling into her bones. Yet she kept her chin raised. He poured a small measure for himself and let the amber liquid burn down his throat. He needed the grounding sensation. His mind was moving too fast.

He had just lost the most significant wager of his life to a woman he had barely spoken to, in front of fifty witnesses. The London papers would have the story by tomorrow morning.

“You are a terrifyingly good shot, Miss Somerset,” he said quietly, leaning against the desk. “Where did you learn?”

“Hunger is an excellent tutor, your grace. If I missed a rabbit, my sister did not eat that night.”

The blunt honesty of it struck him like a physical blow. The women Aldrich knew complained of hunger if tea was delayed twenty minutes. This woman had fought for survival in the mud.

He set the glass down.

“The wager was public. My honor is bound to it. I will speak to your brother this evening to arrange the settlements, and I will procure a special license tomorrow. We can be married by the end of the week, to stem the worst of the gossip.”

Boggy stared at him. Then, incredibly, she let out a short, harsh laugh. It held no humor.

“You think I want to marry you?”

Aldrich froze, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion.

“You accepted the wager. You won.”

“I accepted the wager because you are a duke and men of your station do not renege on public debts,” Boggy said, stepping forward. Her voice was pure steel. “But I have no intention of marrying a cynical, arrogant man who treats human lives like pieces on a chessboard just because he is bored.”

Aldrich felt a flush of heat rise in his neck. He was the Duke of Westford. Women had thrown themselves into freezing lakes for a chance to dance with him.

“Then why did you take the shot?”

“Because I need capital,” Boggy stated flatly.

She reached into a small pocket hidden in the seams of her skirt and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She dropped it on the mahogany desk.

“My father left us with exactly twelve thousand, four hundred and sixty pounds of debt. Charles lost another three hundred yesterday. The bailiffs are coming to Somerset House on Monday to take the furniture, the horses, and the roof over our heads.”

Aldrich looked at the paper. It was a meticulously kept ledger, written in a cramped, precise hand.

“I don’t want your hand, your grace,” Boggy said, looking him dead in the eye. “I want a buyout. Pay me fifteen thousand pounds. You keep your freedom, your title, and your miserable, lonely life. I keep my family out of debtor’s prison.”

Society would whisper that she had refused him, she went on — embarrassing, but a man of his wealth could weather embarrassment. It was a clean transaction.

Aldrich stared at the ledger, then at the woman standing before him. She meant it. She was looking at a duchy, a massive fortune, a lifetime of unimaginable luxury — and she was turning it down for a one-time payment just to break even. She didn’t care about his title. She didn’t care about him.

She only saw him as a bank.

For ten years Aldrich had despised women who only wanted his money. Now he faced a woman who literally only wanted his money, and wanted absolutely nothing to do with him — and he felt a strange, violently irrational surge of possessiveness.

He pushed the paper back across the desk.

“No.”

Boggy’s mask slipped. Her eyes widened.

“What do you mean, no? Fifteen thousand pounds is nothing to you. It’s the price of a hunting lodge.”

“It isn’t about the money, Miss Somerset.” Aldrich pushed off the desk and walked slowly toward her. “It is about the wager. I offered marriage. You accepted the terms when you fired that weapon. I am offering you a way out — and you are telling me you’d rather take the money and never see me again.”

Boggy’s voice rose, desperation finally cracking her iron composure. “You don’t want a wife. You mocked the very idea of it on the lawn. You don’t know me, and I despise you.”

“You don’t know me either,” Aldrich countered, stopping bare inches from her.

He was tall, and he used his height to loom. But she refused to step back. She tilted her head up to glare at him.

“But you are right about one thing. I am cynical, and I am bored. But today — for the first time in a decade — I was thoroughly entertained.”

“I am not a performing monkey for your amusement.”

“No. You are the best shot in England,” Aldrich said softly. “And you are too proud to beg, too stubborn to lose, and entirely too dangerous to let out of my sight. I will not pay you fifteen thousand pounds to walk away, Boggy.”

Her chest heaved as she breathed.

“You would force a marriage out of sheer spite. Out of wounded pride — because a spinster didn’t fall at your feet.”

“I am holding you to a contract,” Aldrich said, his voice dropping to a low, authoritative register that brooked no argument. “You won the match. You get the prize. All of it. We wed on Tuesday.”

He watched the realization dawn in her eyes. The trap hadn’t snapped shut on him. It had snapped shut on them both. She had tried to hold a duke for ransom, and instead she had bought herself a husband just as ruthless as she was.

Boggy looked at him for a long, silent moment. The panic faded, replaced by a cold, furious resolve.

“Fine,” she whispered. “Tuesday. But bring your own pistols, your grace — because I promise you, I rarely miss twice.”