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 7

Alistair looked at the glass, then up at her. The sharp gray intensity of his eyes was softened by fatigue. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking in the quiet room.

“There was a storm off the coast of Cornwall,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. “Three of my merchant vessels took heavy damage. I am trying to ascertain if the cargo is salvageable — or if I need to authorize the widows’ pensions for the crews.”

Lydia’s breath hitched. She had spent a month marveling at the sheer, terrifying scale of his wealth. She hadn’t considered the sheer, terrifying scale of his responsibility. Hundreds of lives. Thousands of livelihoods. All balanced on the stroke of his pen in a quiet room at midnight.

“Drink,” she ordered quietly.

He picked up the glass. He didn’t break eye contact as he drank, the firelight catching the sharp line of his throat as he swallowed. He set the empty glass down.

“You are not wearing your armor,” he noted.

Lydia looked down at herself. She was wearing a simple dark green day dress. No diamonds. No corset tight enough to crack ribs. Just cotton and wool.

“There is no one here to shoot at me,” she said.

“I am here.”

“You are the one who bought the shield,” Lydia countered, crossing her arms. “It seems counterproductive to shoot at it.”

Alistair let out a sound that was half laugh, half sigh. He stood up. He bypassed the desk, closing the distance between them until they were standing in the center of the Persian rug. The heat radiating off his body was palpable in the chilly, drafty room.

“I didn’t buy a shield, Lydia.” His voice was low, devoid of the cynical bite he wore in public. “I bought a partner.”

“A business transaction,” she reminded him. The words felt thin, even to her own ears.

Alistair reached out. He didn’t touch her face. He took hold of her wrist, gently uncrossing her arms. His large fingers wrapped completely around the delicate bones, his thumb resting over her frantic pulse.

“Is it?” he asked.

He stepped closer. The scent of rain, cedarwood, and ink enveloped her. Lydia looked up, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

“My sister is secure,” she whispered, a desperate attempt to cling to the facts. “I am secure. You have your untouchable duchess. The transaction is complete.”

“The transaction,” Alistair murmured, dipping his head until his mouth was a fraction of an inch from her ear, “did not account for the fact that I cannot stop thinking about the taste of your mouth.”

Lydia gasped — a sharp intake of air that drew the scent of him deep into her lungs. His lips brushed the shell of her ear, a barely-there contact that sent a jolt of lightning straight down her spine.

He didn’t press further. He released her wrist, stepped back, and picked up his glass.

“Good night, Lydia,” he said quietly, his eyes dark and heavy.

Lydia fled the library. She ran up the grand staircase, her lungs burning, realizing with absolute, terrifying clarity that the most dangerous thing in her life was not the society she had escaped. It was the man she had married.

The isolation of Derbyshire could not last forever. In late October, Alistair was required to host a small hunting party to secure a political alliance in the House of Lords. Ashbourne was suddenly flooded with twenty guests. The quiet was shattered by the baying of hounds, the crack of fowling pieces, and the endless, exhausting chatter of the aristocracy.

Lydia strapped her armor back on. She wore the diamonds. She wore the cold, imperious mask of the Duchess. But the enemy had infiltrated the walls.

Lord Ashford was a man who looked like an overripe plum — purplish, soft, and carrying a faint stench of rot. He was a political rival of Alistair’s, a man who had long resented the Westland monopoly on northern coal. He was also a man with a long memory.

On the third afternoon, the men returned early from the damp moors. Lydia was in the conservatory — a massive glass structure filled with exotic, humid ferns — attempting to find ten minutes of silence. The heavy glass door opened.

Ashford stepped in, his boots tracking mud onto the pristine tiles. “Your Grace,” he said, his smile resembling an open wound.

Lydia did not turn around immediately. She carefully snipped a dead leaf off a fern with a pair of silver shears. “Lord Ashford. I trust the hunt was successful.”

“Passable,” he said, stepping closer. The smell of wet wool and stale brandy hit her. “Though I find the true sport is usually found indoors.”

Lydia turned. She kept her face perfectly blank. “If you are looking for the billiards room, you have taken a wrong turn.”

“I am exactly where I intend to be.” Ashford looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on the heavy silk of her gown. “It truly is a remarkable transformation — from a penniless spinster in Bloomsbury to the mistress of Ashbourne. Does the guilt ever keep you awake?”

Lydia’s grip tightened on the silver shears. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Oh, come now.” Ashford took another step, invading her personal space. “We both know why Westland married you. You were a convenient scandal — a way to shut the doors on the marriage mart. But a man like Alistair Montgomery does not keep a stray dog on the velvet cushions forever. Eventually, he will want a true-bred hound. Someone with bloodlines. Not a woman whose brother drank himself into an early grave after cheating at cards.”

The world stopped. The air in the conservatory suddenly felt too thin to breathe.