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 5

She placed her free hand over Arthur’s — a silent command for him to wait.

Then she met Davenport’s mocking gaze without blinking.

“Lord Davenport.” Her voice carried an icy, ringing clarity that cut through the surrounding chatter. “My father is a man prone to exaggerated worries. Just as he is prone to exaggerated investments. Speaking of which, I was reviewing the Westford estate ledgers just last week.”

Davenport’s smile faltered slightly. “Ledgers?”

“Yes.” Beatrice continued smoothly, taking a half step forward. The velvet of her gown rustled heavily. “I noticed an anomaly regarding the coal shipments from your northern mines to our foundries. The contract stipulates payment upon delivery of three hundred tons monthly. Yet the tonnage weighed at our gates has been consistently twenty percent light for the past four months.”

The silence around them deepened. People were actively eavesdropping now.

Davenport’s face lost its color. “I—I assure you, Duchess, there must be a clerical error. A miscalculation by your steward.”

“I am the one who calculates the household accounts, my lord.” Beatrice’s tone was pleasant but razor-sharp. “And my arithmetic is flawless. You are defaulting on a contract to a duke to cover your own shortfalls. If the missing eighty tons are not delivered by the end of the month, I will have our solicitors file a lien against your primary estate.”

Davenport opened his mouth. No sound came out. He looked like a fish pulled onto a dock. He glanced at Arthur, expecting the Duke to silence his wife for speaking of business in a ballroom.

Arthur did not silence her.

He looked down at Beatrice. His pale gray eyes were alight with a dark, profound amusement.

“You heard the Duchess,” Arthur said softly to Davenport. “Eighty tons. By the thirtieth.”

Arthur placed his hand on the small of Beatrice’s back and guided her past the stunned viscount. The crowd parted for them instantly. The whispers had changed. They were no longer mocking.

They were fearful.

When they reached the terrace doors, out of earshot of the worst gossip, Arthur stopped. He turned her to face him.

“You did not tell me Davenport was skimming the coal deliveries.”

“I was going to file the paperwork on Monday.” Beatrice’s heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. “I thought it best to handle it quietly. Until he decided to speak.”

Arthur stared at her. The cold, impenetrable wall he kept between himself and the world had fractured completely.

He reached up, his gloved hand lightly tracing the line of her jaw, his thumb resting just beneath the faded scar.

“You are a terrifying creature, Beatrice.”

“I learned from watching you,” she answered, holding his gaze.

Arthur leaned in. It wasn’t a sudden, passionate grab. It was deliberate. Slow. Giving her every opportunity to pull away.

He kissed her.

It was a firm, bruising assertion of absolute solidarity.

When he pulled back, the air between them had fundamentally altered.

The transaction was dead. The partnership had begun.

The Court of Chancery smelled of old dust, floor wax, and centuries of bitter resentment.

The chamber was small, lined with dark oak panels that seemed to absorb the meager light struggling through the high leaded windows. Beatrice sat at a heavy mahogany table beside Arthur. Her posture was rigidly straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap over a plain charcoal gray day dress. She wore no jewelry save for the oversized gold band on her left hand.

Next to her, Arthur was a study in absolute stillness. He wore a dark, impeccably tailored coat. He did not fidget. He did not look around the room. He kept his eyes fixed on the empty Vice-Chancellor’s bench.

Across the aisle, Lord Harrington sat with his solicitor, a weasel-faced man named Mr. Finch. Harrington looked haggard. The past weeks in London without his customary allowance had taken a toll. His collar was slightly frayed, and the reddish hue of his cheeks spoke of cheap gin rather than fine brandy.

When he looked at Beatrice, his eyes burned with a toxic mixture of desperation and fury.

The heavy wooden door behind the bench opened. Lord Albright — a Vice-Chancellor known for his utter lack of sentimentality — took his seat. He adjusted his spectacles, opened a thick leather folder, and sighed.

“Let us dispense with the theatricalities.” Albright’s voice was like dry leaves over gravel. “Lord Harrington, you petition to void the marriage settlements of your daughter to the Duke of Westford. Your grounds are coercion, failure of consummation, and cruel treatment. Furthermore, you demand the restitution of the Sussex farmlands. Speak to your grievance.”

Mr. Finch stood up, practically vibrating with nervous energy. “My lord, it is a matter of public record that Lord Harrington was under extreme financial duress. The Duke of Westford preyed upon this desperation, forcing the inclusion of Lady Beatrice into a simple land transaction. Since the vows were spoken, the Duke has kept her sequestered at Westford Abbey, treating her as little more than a prisoner. He has withheld her from her family, ceased the agreed-upon financial support to her father, and the union itself remains a sham — unconsummated and devoid of affection.”

Finch paused for dramatic effect. “We ask that the contract be struck down as unconscionable. The land must return to its rightful owner, and Lady Beatrice must be freed from this tyrannical arrangement.”

Albright looked over his spectacles at Arthur. “Your grace. Do you care to respond to being called a tyrant before midday?”

Arthur stood. He did not look at Finch. He did not look at Harrington.

“The transaction was lawful, my lord.” His voice was even. “The settlement was drafted by Harrington’s own solicitors. The Sussex land was exchanged for the clearing of forty thousand pounds of debt to Lord Roth, which I paid in full on the morning of the wedding.”

Harrington slammed his hand on the table. “You bought my daughter like a brood mare, and you haven’t even the decency to bed her or pay her keep!”

“Silence in my court!” Albright struck the flat of his hand against the bench. He turned back to Arthur. “Is it true, your grace, that you have isolated the Duchess and severed her father’s allowance?”

“I banned Lord Harrington from my properties.” Arthur’s voice dropped an octave, carrying a dangerous edge. “I did so after he arrived uninvited, demanded an extortionate sum of money, and struck my wife across the face.”

The courtroom went dead silent. Finch paled. Harrington shot to his feet.

“A lie! A complete fabrication to cover his own breach of contract! He is trying to steal my land and my daughter’s future. Where is the proof? She is a terrified girl entirely under his control. She will say whatever he commands!”

Albright frowned, leaning forward. The accusation of physical violence among the peerage was a severe escalation. He looked at Beatrice.

“Duchess.” Albright’s voice softened. “You are the center of this matter. The court will hear from you. Step to the stand.”

Beatrice rose. She felt the heavy gaze of every man in the room pressing down on her. She walked to the small wooden enclosure beside the Vice-Chancellor’s bench. She did not look at her father.

She looked at Arthur.

He gave her a single, almost imperceptible nod.

You own the ground you walk on.