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 8

The mention of her brother. The wound that had never truly healed — a jagged knife twisted directly into her ribs. The polite, cynical facade Lydia had worn for months cracked straight down the middle.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t flinch. A cold, absolute fury settled in her bones, heavy and terrifying.

Lydia took one step forward, closing the distance until she was inches from Ashford’s chest. The older man blinked, surprised by her advance.

“My brother,” Lydia said, her voice dropping into a register so cold it could freeze boiling water, “was a naive boy who was preyed upon by vultures who needed to pay their tailoring bills. Vultures very much like you, Ashford.”

Ashford’s face darkened. “You dare — ”

“I dare whatever I please.” Lydia’s voice sliced through the humid air like a razor. “I am the Duchess of Westland. You are a guest in my home — a guest whose estates in Yorkshire are currently heavily mortgaged, if the rumors regarding your gambling debts are to be believed.”

She leaned in, her eyes locked onto his, channeling every ounce of Alistair’s brutal authority.

“Do not mistake my lack of a pedigree for a lack of teeth. If you ever speak my brother’s name again, I will not ask my husband to ruin you. I will do it myself. I will buy your debts. I will foreclose on your ancestral home. And I will turn it into a stable for my horses.”

She held his gaze.

“Do we understand each other?”

Ashford stared at her. The plum color of his face drained away, leaving him a sickly gray. He opened his mouth, closed it, and took a frantic step backward — nearly tripping over a potted orchid. He turned and practically ran out of the conservatory.

Lydia stood trembling, the silver shears slipping from her fingers to clatter loudly against the tiles. The adrenaline crashed, leaving her hollow and shaking. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the sudden burning sting of tears.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Lydia gasped, spinning around. Alistair was standing in the shadows of the large palm fronds near the far entrance. He was still wearing his damp riding coat, a riding crop held loosely in his left hand. He stepped into the light. He didn’t look angry. He looked fiercely, terrifyingly proud.

“How much of that did you hear?” Lydia asked, her voice cracking.

“Enough to know that Lord Ashford will likely be packing his trunks before dinner,” Alistair said. He walked toward her, his heavy boots echoing on the tile. He stopped directly in front of her, tossing the riding crop onto a nearby table. He reached out.

This time, he didn’t grab her wrist. He framed her face with both of his large, warm hands. His thumbs gently brushed the wetness from beneath her eyes — tears she hadn’t realized had fallen.

“You didn’t step in,” she whispered.

“You didn’t need me to.” Alistair’s voice was soft, his gray eyes burning with an intensity that made her breath catch. “You are exactly as lethal as I am, Lydia. You just never had the ammunition until now.”

He stared down at her, his hands holding her face as if she were something infinitely precious — something he was terrified of breaking.

“You are not a stray dog,” he murmured, his voice thick with raw emotion. “You are the absolute center of this empire. And you are the center of me.”

Lydia’s heart stopped. She looked up into the harsh, beautiful face of the man she had married for money. The man she had kissed in a crowded ballroom to save him from a trap. There was no ledger between them anymore. There was only this.

Alistair lowered his head. He didn’t ask. He simply claimed.

His mouth came down on hers — not with the clumsy desperation of their first kiss, but with a deep, consuming hunger. Lydia made a soft, wrecked sound in the back of her throat. She reached up, her hands tangling in the damp hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. He tasted like rain and dark tea. The heat of him burned through the layers of her clothes, searing the coldness from her bones.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her entirely off the ground. Lydia clung to him, the world outside the glass walls entirely forgotten.

They were no longer playing a part. The transaction was dead.