She Ruined Herself by Kissing a Stranger to Save Him From a Society Trap — Never Knowing He Was England’s Richest Duke, Until He Appeared at Her Door the Next Morning and Said He Intended to Marry Her.

 PART 4

He gestured vaguely toward the window, toward the foggy streets of London.

“If I marry one of them, I reward the behavior. I tether myself to a family of sycophants who care only for the Westland coffers. If I marry you — ” He paused, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a fraction of a second before meeting her eyes again. “I marry a woman who threw herself on a grenade for a stranger. A woman who believed I had nothing to offer, yet risked everything to pull me from the fire. You have no powerful family. You have no hidden agenda. You simply have a spine.”

“You want a shield,” Lydia realized, the truth settling in her chest like a stone.

“I want a wife,” he corrected softly. “I require an heir, and I require a duchess who will not faint when the wind changes direction, nor bleed my accounts dry to impress people she despises. We understand each other, Lydia. We both view society for the blood sport it is.”

He used her Christian name deliberately. It felt like a trespass — a heavy footstep in a quiet room.

Lydia looked at her hands. Her fingernails were short, unpolished. She thought of the butcher’s bill on the mantel. She thought of the cold winters, the terrifying cough Margaret had developed last December, the constant grinding anxiety of counting pennies.

She looked up.

“This is a transaction.”

“The most successful marriages usually are.”

Alistair reached into his coat again and produced a gold pen and a small, leather-bound ledger. He uncapped the pen.

“Name your terms.”

Lydia didn’t hesitate. “My sister. She is a widow. Her pension is nothing. If I do this — if I step into the firing line of the ton as your wife — she is to be taken care of. A house of her own. An income that guarantees she will never have to look at a ledger again.”

Margaret let out a choked gasp. “Lydia, no — you cannot sell yourself — ”

“Quiet, Meg.” Lydia did not break eye contact with the Duke. “Those are my terms.”

Alistair didn’t blink. He dragged the pen across a blank page, the scratch of the nib loud in the quiet room. He tore the page out and slid it across the table. Lydia looked down. The sum written in sharp, slanting black ink was astronomical. It was enough to buy a country estate and staff it for fifty years. It was more money than her mind could comfortably comprehend.

“Is that sufficient?” Alistair asked.

Lydia swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. She pushed the paper toward Margaret without looking at it again.

“Yes,” Lydia said, her voice barely a whisper. “The transaction is complete.”

The Archbishop of Canterbury smelled of peppermint and ancient dust. He read the vows with the weary speed of a man who had been heavily bribed to skip his afternoon nap. Lydia stood in the cold, echoing chapel of Lambeth Palace, wearing her best and only walking dress of faded navy wool.

Beside her, Alistair was a wall of black broadcloth and silent authority. When he took her hand to slide the heavy gold band onto her finger, his skin was surprisingly warm. His grip was firm, anchoring her to the stone floor when she felt entirely unmoored.

There was no kiss. The Archbishop pronounced them man and wife. Alistair signed the registry with a sharp, aggressive flourish. And it was done.

Lydia was a duchess.

She felt exactly the same — only vastly more terrified.

The carriage ride to Montgomery House in Mayfair was conducted in absolute silence. Lydia sat rigidly on the plush velvet cushions, watching the familiar, grimy streets of London transform into the sweeping, immaculate avenues of the elite. She belonged here now. The thought made her nauseous.

Montgomery House was not a home. It was a fortress of pale Portland stone, boasting a portico that rivaled the British Museum. When the carriage pulled into the circular drive, a small army of servants stood waiting in perfect, terrifying formation.

Alistair stepped out first, offering his hand. Lydia took it, her worn boots stepping onto the pristine gravel.

“Your Grace,” the butler said, bowing deeply. He was a severe man with silver hair and eyes that missed nothing.

“Dorson.” Alistair did not break stride as he led Lydia up the sweeping stairs. “This is the Duchess. She is the absolute authority in this house. If she asks for the roof to be painted pink, you will purchase the paint.”

Dorson did not bat an eye. “Very good, Your Grace. Welcome, Your Grace.”

Lydia felt her cheeks burn. It was a clear, brutal drawing of the lines. Alistair was daring the staff to disrespect her.

The interior of the house was a suffocating display of wealth. Marble floors. Gilded mirrors. Tapestries that looked older than the monarchy. It was cold. It lacked entirely the cramped, chaotic warmth of her Bloomsbury parlor.

“Your chambers are in the east wing,” Alistair said, stopping at the foot of the grand staircase. He released her hand. The sudden absence of his heat left her fingers feeling hollow. “I have instructed the housekeeper to attend to your immediate needs. Dressmakers will arrive tomorrow morning. I require you to be appropriately armed before we face the wolves.”

“Armed?” Lydia asked, gripping the banister.

“Society does not forgive easily,” Alistair said quietly. “They will try to tear you apart for what you did — and for what you have gained. I will not allow that.” He looked at her. Really looked at her, for a long moment. The harsh lines of his face softened infinitesimally. “Rest, Lydia. The war begins on Friday.”

He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing against the marble, leaving her utterly alone in a house of strangers.