They Called Her the Duke’s Unwanted Wife, Sold to Pay Her Father’s Debts — But When His Signet Ring Split Her Cheek, the Cold Duke Stood Between Them and Made Her Realize She Was Never Powerless Again

PART 2

The door swung open before she could move.

Lord Harrington strode in, damp and violently irritated. He hadn’t bothered to wait for the butler to announce him.

“There you are.” He stripped off his wet leather gloves and threw them onto a velvet settee. “God, this place is a tomb. Doesn’t the Duke believe in lighting a fire?”

“Father.” Beatrice’s throat tightened. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to see my daughter. Obviously.” He sneered, pacing the room. He stopped to inspect a silver candlestick, weighing it in his hand like he was appraising it for pawn. “And to speak with your husband. Where is he?”

“Arthur is out riding the estate borders. He won’t return until evening.”

Harrington scoffed, dropping the candlestick back onto the table with a loud clatter. “Riding the borders like a common farmer. I swear the man has the title of a king and the ambitions of a plowman.”

He turned to look at her, his eyes narrowing. “You look pale and thin. Has he not taken you to his bed yet?”

Beatrice felt the color rise to her cheeks. “That is not your concern.”

“It is entirely my concern.” Harrington closed the distance between them. Beatrice instinctively stepped back, her spine hitting the heavy oak bookshelf. “My allowance from him relies on your utility, Beatrice. If you are not producing an heir, you are useless to him. And if you are useless to him, you are useless to me.”

“The allowance was agreed upon in the settlements. He pays it. I’ve seen the ledgers.”

“It’s not enough.” Harrington leaned in, crowding her space. The smell of gin and wet wool was suffocating. “I have invested in a venture. A tin mine in Cornwall. It requires capital. I need you to ask the Duke for an advance on the next three years.”

Beatrice stared at him in horror. “A tin mine? Father, Cornwall is tapped out. It’s a fool’s errand. You’ll lose everything.”

“Don’t tell me my business, you ungrateful little wretch. You will ask him tonight.”

“No.”

The word slipped out before she could stop it. Quiet. But it hung in the air like a gunshot.

Harrington froze. His face went dangerously blank — the sudden absence of anger that was always the most terrifying part. It meant the violence was no longer a threat. It was a certainty.

“What did you say to me?” he asked softly.

“I won’t do it.” Beatrice’s voice was shaking now. She pressed herself flat against the bookshelf. “He married me for the Sussex land. He owes you nothing more. I will not beg him for money to fund your gambling disguised as investments.”

“You defiant little—”

He didn’t pull back. He didn’t telegraph the strike. He simply swung.

The back of his hand caught her square across the left cheekbone. The force snapped her head to the side. His heavy signet ring tore the delicate skin just below her eye. Beatrice stumbled, her hip crashing into the small side table, sending a vase of white roses shattering onto the floorboards. Water and broken porcelain scattered across the rug.

She touched her cheek. Her fingers came away wet with blood.

She braced herself, waiting for the kick, the follow-up blow. She squeezed her eyes shut.

“If you ever touch her again—”

The voice came from the doorway. Low. Carrying the weight of a collapsing mountain.

“—I will take your hand off at the wrist.”

Beatrice gasped and opened her eyes.

Arthur was standing in the doorway. He was drenched from the rain, his heavy riding coat dripping water onto the pristine floor. His riding crop was gripped so tightly in his right hand that the leather was audibly creaking.

The hollow, empty look in his gray eyes was gone.

In its place was a quiet, absolute fury that chilled the room by ten degrees.