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 5

The next three days were a blur of silk, velvet, and pins.

Madame Devereux, a tyrannical dressmaker, invaded the east wing with a legion of assistants. Lydia was measured, prodded, and wrapped in fabric so rich it felt like spun gold. Her new maid — a quiet but fiercely competent woman named Mrs. Gable — scrubbed her with rosewater and brushed her dull brown hair until it shone like polished oak.

Lydia saw Alistair only at dinner. They sat at opposite ends of a mahogany table long enough to seat twenty. The silence between them was not uncomfortable, but it was heavy with unspoken questions. They were two strangers chained together by a mutual enemy.

On the third night, Lydia broke.

She pushed away her plate of untouched roasted pheasant. The silver fork clattered loudly. Alistair looked up from his wine glass.

“Is the food not to your liking?”

“The food is excellent,” Lydia said, her voice tight. “The geography is the problem. I feel as though I need a shouting trumpet to speak to my own husband.”

Alistair’s eyebrows rose. It was the most genuine expression she had seen from him since the ballroom. Slowly, he set his napkin down, picked up his wine glass, and stood. He walked the length of the room, the candlelight catching the hard angles of his face. He didn’t sit in the chair next to her. He leaned against the edge of the table, crossing his ankles, looking down at her.

He was too large. Too close. The scent of cedarwood and clean linen enveloped her.

“Better?” he asked.

Lydia looked up at him. “Why did you really agree to this? Don’t tell me it was just to avoid debutantes.”

Alistair stared into his wine. The silence stretched. When he spoke, the gravel in his voice was thicker.

“Because I saw your face when you dragged me out of that alcove. You were terrified. Your hands were shaking. You knew exactly what it would cost you. And you did it anyway.”

He looked down at her, his gray eyes piercing the gloom.

“No one has ever fought for me, Lydia. They fight for my title. They fight for my money. But no one has ever looked at me, thought I was a helpless fool, and thrown themselves on the sword in my place.”

Lydia’s breath hitched. Beneath the tailored clothes and the ruthless reputation, she saw a flicker of profound, isolating loneliness.

“You aren’t a helpless fool,” she whispered.

“No,” Alistair agreed. He reached out slowly. His knuckles brushed lightly against her cheek, sending a jolt of raw electricity down her spine. “But I am glad you thought I was.”

The Wellington Ball was the undisputed peak of the London season. To be absent was a social misstep. To attend under a cloud of scandal was a death sentence.

Lydia stood before the towering mirror in her chambers. She did not recognize the woman staring back. The faded spinster was gone. In her place stood a weapon — forged of midnight blue velvet and diamonds. The gown was cut dangerously low, exposing the pale curve of her shoulders, while the Westland diamonds rested heavy against her collarbone — a collar of ice that caught the candlelight and threw it back like daggers.

“You look formidable, Your Grace,” Mrs. Gable said quietly, adjusting the train.

“I feel like a target,” Lydia muttered.

A knock sounded at the door. Alistair entered. He stopped dead.

He was in formal evening wear — stark black and blinding white, a diamond pin gleaming in his cravat. He looked lethal. But as his eyes swept over Lydia, the predatory stillness shattered. His jaw tightened. A muscle feathered near his ear.

He walked slowly across the room. He didn’t speak. He reached out, his warm bare hand wrapping around her bare shoulder. His thumb brushed the base of her throat, right above the heavy diamond necklace. Her pulse leaped wildly against his skin.

“They will not look at anyone else tonight,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration that settled in her stomach.

“I am terrified they will look at me,” Lydia admitted, the truth slipping out before she could stop it.

Alistair met her eyes in the mirror. “Let them look. You are untouchable.”

The carriage ride to Apsley House was a masterclass in tension. The streets were choked with magnificent coaches. When the Westland crest was recognized, the whispers seemed to penetrate the lacquered doors. Alistair stepped out first. He turned and offered his hand.

Lydia placed her gloved fingers in his, feeling the reassuring crush of his grip. She stepped down into the glaring light of the torches.

The murmurs began instantly. Hushed voices. Pointing fans. Wide eyes.

Lydia lifted her chin. She channeled the cold, cynical armor that had kept her sane for twenty-four years. She laid her hand on Alistair’s forearm, feeling the iron-hard muscle beneath the wool, and walked up the stairs.

The ballroom was a sea of jewels and silk. The moment the majordomo struck his staff, the room fell silent.

“His Grace, the Duke of Westland — and Her Grace, the Duchess of Westland.”

Two hundred faces turned toward the entrance. The silence was absolute — thick and suffocating. It was the same silence that had followed their kiss in the alcove.

Alistair did not hesitate. He led her down the shallow steps and straight into the fray. The crowd parted. No one offered a greeting. The collective judgment of Mayfair hung in the air, thick as smoke.

Lydia kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, but she could feel the eyes clawing at her. Spinster. Opportunist. Gutter rat.

Then a figure stepped directly into their path. Lady Rutledge. She wore a gown of acid green silk and a smile so brittle it could cut glass. Agatha hovered nervously behind her.

“Your Grace,” Lady Rutledge said loudly, ensuring the entire room could hear. “What a surprise! We had assumed you would be retreating to the country to hide your recent indiscretions. It seems the new duchess lacks a sense of shame as much as she lacks a pedigree.”