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 4

The summons arrived two weeks later, sealed with the heavy wax crest of the Court of Chancery.

Arthur stood by the window in his study, the gray morning light casting long shadows across the floorboards. He read the parchment twice, his expression hardening into stone.

Beatrice sat quietly in the wingback chair, the grain store ledger open on her lap. She watched him carefully. She had learned to read the micro-expressions of his silence. A tightened jaw meant annoyance. A still, unblinking stare meant fury.

Right now, he was entirely still.

“Pack your trunks,” Arthur said, tossing the letter onto the desk. “We are going to London.”

Beatrice’s pen paused. A drop of black ink fell onto the pristine page, ruining a column of numbers.

“Your father has filed a formal grievance.” Arthur turned to face her. “He claims I coerced the marriage under false pretenses, that I have sequestered you against your will, and that the union remains unconsummated. He is attempting to void the marriage settlements, reclaim the Sussex land, and sue for damages arising from breach of the marriage settlement.”

A cold sweat broke out on the back of Beatrice’s neck. “Can he do that?”

“He can try to drag my name through the mud.” Arthur’s voice was a low rumble. “He is banking on my distaste for public scandal. He assumes I will reinstate his allowance to keep him quiet.”

“Will you?”

If Arthur paid him, it meant her father still had power. It meant she was still just a pawn on his board.

“I do not negotiate with extortionists.” Arthur walked over to the desk and leaned against it, crossing his arms. “But we must return to the city. We must attend the remaining weeks of the season. We must be seen together.”

Beatrice looked down at her hands. Her fingernails were short and unpolished. She wore a simple dark blue wool day dress. The cut on her cheek had healed into a thin, pale pink line, but she felt entirely exposed.

“Arthur.” The name still felt strange on her tongue. “I cannot face them. The ton knows why we married. They know he sold me. If I walk into a ballroom, they will tear me apart.”

“Let them try.”

“You don’t understand. Society is a blood sport. I am not equipped. I don’t have the pedigree. I don’t have the wit. And I certainly don’t have the wardrobe to play the part of a duchess.”

Arthur looked at her for a long time. He took in her rigid posture, her pale face, the genuine terror in her eyes.

“Mrs. Higgins!” His voice carried easily through the open door.

The housekeeper appeared instantly.

“Send a rider to Madame Delacroix in Mayfair. Tell her I am bringing her grace to London tomorrow. I require her entire shop closed for a private fitting on Thursday morning. If she protests, double her usual fee.”

“Arthur, no.” Beatrice stood up. “I don’t want you spending money on me. It feels—”

She couldn’t say the word. Transactional.

“You are going to war, Beatrice.” His voice was quiet. “A soldier does not ride into battle wearing rags. You will be armored.”

The fitting at Madame Delacroix’s was an exercise in exhaustion. For six hours, Beatrice stood on a velvet pedestal while seamstresses pinned, tucked, and draped fabrics around her. Arthur did not wait in the carriage. He sat in a delicate gilt chair in the corner of the shop, his presence entirely overwhelming the pastel, perfumed space.

Madame Delacroix — a shrewd Frenchwoman who recognized power when she saw it — tried to push Beatrice toward pale pinks, ruffles, and soft, demure lace.

“No.”

Arthur’s voice cut through the shop. He hadn’t looked up from the newspaper he was reading.

The modiste paused, a length of pink silk slipping from her hands. “Your grace?”

“My wife is not a confectionary.” Arthur folded the paper and stood. He walked over to the bolts of fabric lining the wall. He ran his hand over a roll of heavy midnight blue velvet, then a striking emerald green silk. “She is the Duchess of Westford. Dress her like it.”

He selected deep, saturated colors. Jewel tones that made Beatrice’s pale skin look like porcelain rather than sickly. He chose structured bodices, high necklines with dramatic lines, fabrics that held their own weight. He refused anything fussy.

When Beatrice looked in the mirror wearing the final fitting — a blood-red silk gown — she didn’t recognize the woman staring back. Her severe bun was gone. Her brown hair was pinned up in an elegant, intricate coil. The dress clung to her waist and flared out in a massive sweep of skirts. It was intimidating. It was magnificent.

She looked past her own reflection and met Arthur’s eyes in the mirror. He was standing behind her.

“Are you satisfied?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“The question,” Arthur replied softly, his gaze locked on hers in the glass, “is whether you are ready.”

She lifted her chin. The pale pink scar under her eye caught the light. It wasn’t a flaw anymore. It was a casualty of the last battle she would ever lose.

“Yes.”

The Earl of Danbury’s summer ball was the premier event of the late season. The grand house on Park Lane was a blaze of a thousand wax candles. The string quartet was drowned out by the roar of three hundred aristocrats desperate for gossip.

When the carriage pulled to a halt, Beatrice felt her stomach drop to her knees. Her hands, encased in elbow-length white silk gloves, trembled.

Arthur noticed. He didn’t offer a platitude. He stepped out of the carriage, turned, and offered his hand.

“Breathe,” he ordered softly. “Keep your eyes on the far wall. Do not look at their feet. Do not look at their faces. You own the ground you walk on.”

Beatrice took a sharp breath, placed her hand in his, and stepped down.

The moment the majordomo banged his staff and announced, “Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Westford,” the ballroom went dead silent.

The music seemed to falter for half a beat.

Beatrice locked her arm through Arthur’s. He felt like a pillar of iron beside her. Together, they descended the grand staircase. The whispers started immediately, rustling like dry leaves in a strong wind. They were not subtle.

“Bought her to clear Harrington’s gambling debts…”

“Looks entirely different, doesn’t she?”

“Someone paid for a decent modiste…”

“They sleep in separate wings. A sham, my dear. A complete sham.”

Beatrice kept her chin high. The midnight blue velvet of her gown absorbed the candlelight, making her look stark and regal. She focused on the gilded molding on the far wall, just as Arthur had instructed.

They navigated the room. Arthur was a master of the polite dismissal — greeting peers with curt nods, steering Beatrice through the predatory crowd with military precision.

But they couldn’t evade everyone.

Near the punch bowls, a blockade formed. Lord Davenport, a notoriously cruel viscount and a known associate of Lord Harrington, stepped directly into their path.

“Westford!” Davenport drawled, bowing with exaggerated slowness. “What a rare treat to see you in town. And your bride. I must say, you clean up remarkably well, my dear.”

The insult was thinly veiled. It implied she was dirt before.

Arthur’s grip on Beatrice’s arm tightened incrementally. “Davenport. Step aside. Now.”

“No need for hostility.” Davenport chuckled, swirling his champagne. He looked Beatrice up and down. “Your father was just telling me about your sudden departure from the country. A tragic misunderstanding, he called it. He’s quite worried about your welfare, your grace. He fears you are being kept in the dark about certain realities of your position.”

Beatrice felt the heat rise in her throat. Her father was in the room. He was hiding behind Davenport, using him as a proxy to test their defenses.

She felt Arthur tense, preparing to verbally eviscerate the viscount.

But Beatrice didn’t want Arthur to fight this battle.

This was her terrain.