“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 7

Autumn stripped the leaves from the ancient elms, leaving High Cross exposed to the biting November wind. Inside, however, the estate hummed with a warmth it had not known in decades. Fires blazed, the larders were full, the staff moved with purpose rather than fear. Boggy had dismantled the corruption in the accounts and replaced it with a ruthless, efficient order.

She no longer wore the armor of her frayed gray dresses. She wore deep greens and rich burgundies, colors that brought out the sharp, intelligent light in her eyes. Yet she never wore the heavy Perez jewels. She remained fiercely independent, guarding her autonomy like a soldier at a watchtower.

The truce they had built was functional. It was a partnership of immense mutual respect.

But it was not a marriage. The door between their bedchambers remained locked. Aldrich never pushed. Boggy never offered.

They were two feral creatures sharing a cage, finally comfortable enough to sleep with both eyes closed — but terrified to bridge the final gap.

Then Charles Somerset returned. He arrived on a Tuesday evening, riding a lathered, exhausted horse, and practically fell through the front doors.

Boggy was in the study reviewing the winter coal allotments when the heavy oak door banged open. Her brother looked terrible: coat torn, cheek heavily bruised, smelling of stale ale and vomit. She stood up so fast her chair crashed to the floor, the pen snapping in her hand and driving a splinter into her palm. She didn’t feel it. Years of buried panic clawed its way back up her throat in a single suffocating instant.

“Charles!” She rushed around the desk, grabbing his shoulders. “What have you done?”

Charles collapsed into a leather armchair, shaking violently.

“I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell you, Be. When Father died — there was another debt.”

Boggy froze. The blood drained entirely from her face.

“I balanced the ledger, Charles. I paid every man on that list. We gave them fifteen thousand pounds.”

“He wasn’t on the list.” Charles sobbed, burying his face in his hands. “He’s not a gentleman. His name is Richard Croft. He runs the fighting pits in Suffolk. Father owed him three thousand. He threatened to burn Somerset House to the ground with you in it if I told the magistrates. I’ve been paying the interest for two years — but I missed the last payment. His men caught me in London yesterday.”

Boggy stepped back. The solid ground of High Cross dissolved beneath her feet, plunging her back into the freezing mud of her past. She had sold herself to Aldrich to buy her family’s freedom — and it hadn’t been enough. The monster of her father’s addiction was still hunting them.

“I will handle it,” she said. Her voice was dead, devoid of all the warmth she had regained over the past months. It was the voice of the spinster on the firing line. “I will take my allowance. I will ride to Suffolk.”

“You will do no such thing.”

Aldrich stepped out of the shadows of the adjacent library. He had been reading by the fire, the connecting door ajar. He walked into the study, his face a mask of absolute, terrifying calm. He didn’t look at Charles. He looked at Boggy — and saw the frantic, trapped animal in her eyes. She was already mentally calculating how to survive the cold, how to fight a violent criminal, how to handle this entirely on her own.

“Aldrich, this is my family’s mess,” Boggy said sharply, stepping between her husband and her brother. “I will not have your name dragged into the slums.”

“My name is your name,” Aldrich said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal register. “And you are my wife. No one threatens you. No one touches your family. Not while I draw breath.”

He walked past her, looming over the terrified Charles.

“Where is Croft now?”

“He said he would come to High Cross if I didn’t return with the money by Friday,” Charles stammered.

Aldrich gave a single sharp nod. He turned to the bellpull and yanked it violently. Within seconds the butler appeared.

“Have the carriage readied,” Aldrich commanded. “Send a rider to the local magistrate. Tell him the Duke of Westford requires two armed constables to accompany me to London immediately. And bring my pistol case.”

Boggy grabbed his sleeve, her fingers digging into the fine wool of his coat.

“Aldrich, no. Croft is a butcher. You are a peer. You don’t know how these men operate. They will kill you in an alley and leave you in the Thames.”

Aldrich stopped. He looked down at her hand gripping his arm, then up into her terrified eyes. Slowly, the cold rage in his face melted into something fiercely tender. He reached up and covered her trembling hand with his own.

“Boggy,” Aldrich said softly. “You spent three years fighting wolves with a rusted musket to protect your brother. You are the bravest person I have ever known. But you do not have to fight the wolves alone anymore. I am the Duke of Westford. I own half the magistrates in London.”

He gently pried her fingers from his sleeve, brought her knuckles to his lips, and pressed a firm, lingering kiss against the ink stains on her skin.

“Croft is going to learn exactly what happens when a rat tries to bite a lion.”

He stood, squaring his shoulders.

“Lock the doors. Stay by the fire. I will be back by dawn.”