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 7

He reached out and took the empty glass from her hand, setting it on the windowsill. Then he rolled back the cuff of his right sleeve.

Beatrice had seen the jagged scar near his wrist before — the night in the library — but she had never looked at it closely. It was thick, white, and raised. The mark of a deep, violent laceration that had healed badly.

“My father was not a drunk.” Arthur’s voice was quiet, his thumb tracing the old scar. “He was a perfectionist. A man who believed the title of Duke made him akin to a minor deity. He expected absolute compliance from his staff, his hounds, and his heir.”

Beatrice held her breath. Arthur never spoke of his family.

“I was ten years old.” Arthur’s eyes were focused on the rain outside. “I dropped a hunting rifle in the mud. A minor infraction. He dragged me into the stables and decided to teach me a lesson about carelessness using a riding crop.”

Beatrice’s stomach twisted. She instinctively reached out, her fingertips hovering just inches from his scarred wrist.

“He swung.” Arthur’s voice was devoid of emotion. “I put my arm up to block it. The crop had a silver cap on the end. It caught the flesh and tore it open to the bone.”

Beatrice let out a soft, shuddering breath. Her fingers finally closed over his wrist, her touch feather-light against the ruined skin.

“He told the doctor I fell on a rusted scythe.” Arthur turned his head to look at her. “I never corrected him. But I learned a very valuable lesson that day. I learned that power without restraint is merely butchery. And I promised myself I would never be at the mercy of another man’s temper again.”

He looked down at her hand, holding his wrist.

“When I saw Harrington strike you in the library — I did not just see your father. I saw mine. And I saw the same terror in your eyes that I used to see in the mirror.”

“I am not terrified anymore.” Beatrice’s voice was fierce.

“I know.” Arthur stepped closer. The space between them vanished. “You are terrifying.”

He lifted his hand — the one she was not holding — and cupped her face. His thumb brushed over the faded pink line beneath her eye.

“The consummation.” Arthur’s voice dropped to a rough, vibrating register. “Finch made quite a point of it in court.”

Beatrice swallowed hard. Her heart was hammering a frantic, completely different rhythm now. “It was the argument my father intended to use against the settlement.”

“The deed is final.” Arthur’s eyes, usually cold and unreadable, were dark and entirely focused on her mouth. “The court has ruled. The land is mine. The transaction is complete.”

He paused. His hand dropped from her face. He took a half step back — giving her space, giving her the choice.

“You owe me nothing, Beatrice. No duty. No heir. Nothing.”

It was the most agonizing distance she had ever felt.

“I do not want to be a transaction.”

Beatrice’s voice was shaking — but not from fear.

Arthur’s eyes searched hers. “You are not. You are my equal. You are the Duchess of Westford. And if you ask me to leave this room, I will walk out that door. And I will never ask for your bed.”

Beatrice looked at the man standing before her. She looked at the man who had picked up the shattered porcelain with his bare hands. Who had armored her in velvet and midnight blue. Who had stood between her and a monster and told that monster, “She has no place beneath your hand. Ever.”

She looked at the man who had shown her his deepest wound — not to burden her, but to tell her she was not alone in her scars.

She didn’t want him to leave. She wanted to bridge the final echoing silence between them.

Beatrice reached out and grabbed the lapels of his white linen shirt.

“Do not walk out that door,” she commanded softly.

Arthur groaned — a low, harsh sound deep in his chest. He closed the distance, his hands finding her waist, pulling her flush against him. He kissed her.

It wasn’t the measured, deliberate kiss from the terrace. It was desperate. It was hungry. It tasted of whiskey and rain and years of tightly coiled restraint finally snapping.

Beatrice kissed him back with equal ferocity. She tangled her hands in his hair, feeling the hard, solid reality of him. He lifted her effortlessly, her feet leaving the floor, and carried her out of the drawing room and up the sweeping staircase.

There was no awkward fumbling in the dark. There was no cold duty.

In the cavernous master suite, lit only by the embers of a dying fire, they dismantled the last of their walls.

Arthur’s touch was reverent — mapping the geography of her skin not as a conqueror, but as a man starving for a home. And Beatrice, who had spent her entire life shrinking to avoid pain, finally allowed herself to take up space. To demand pleasure. To be entirely, unapologetically seen.

When they finally lay tangled in the heavy linen sheets, the rain still battering the windows, Beatrice rested her head on Arthur’s chest. She listened to the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart.

“Arthur,” she whispered into the dark.

“Hmm?” His arm tightened around her waist.

“The Sussex land.” A small smile played on her lips. “It really is excellent soil for winter wheat.”

Arthur let out a sound that was remarkably close to a laugh. He kissed the top of her head.

“Go to sleep, Beatrice. The ledgers can wait until morning.”