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 8

Two years later, the air in the Sussex Valley was crisp, carrying the sharp metallic scent of autumn and woodsmoke.

From the crest of the hill, Westford Abbey looked less like a fortress and more like a heart — pumping life into the sprawling acres of gold and green that surrounded it.

Beatrice sat astride a sleek bay mare, overlooking the lower tenant farms. She did not ride sidesaddle. It was wildly improper, and she did not care. She wore a tailored wool riding habit of deep forest green, her hair braided securely down her back.

Beside her, Arthur sat on his massive black stallion.

They were watching the harvest. A line of wagons, heavy with grain, was slowly making its way up the dirt road toward the Abbey’s massive stone silos. The estate was thriving. The coal foundries were operating at peak efficiency. Lord Davenport had quietly surrendered a minor estate in Yorkshire to cover his “clerical errors” after Beatrice filed the lien.

As for Lord Harrington — he was gone. Facing a criminal warrant and the ruin of debtors’ prison, he had fled across the channel to France in the dead of night, before the constables could reach him. Beatrice had not heard from him since. She did not look for him. The rotten branch had been severed, and the tree was finally allowed to grow.

“The yield from the lower valley is up twenty percent from last year.” Beatrice’s eyes scanned the fields. “The new irrigation channels you designed are working.”

“They are working because you ensured the contractors used proper stone rather than the cheap shale they tried to smuggle in.” Arthur’s eyes crinkled at the corners.

The harsh, hollow look he had worn when they first met was entirely gone. He looked settled. He looked happy.

“A manager must be diligent,” she teased, adjusting her leather reins.

As she moved her hand, the autumn sun caught the gold on her left ring finger. It was no longer the oversized, heavy band that had hung loosely on her knuckle. A year ago, Arthur had taken the ring while she slept. He had given it to a master jeweler in London. When he returned it, it had been melted down and reforged.

It was now a delicate, intertwined braid of gold and iron. A perfect, unyielding fit.

Gold was for the title, he had told her. But iron was for the woman who held it.

“We should return to the house.” Arthur glanced up at the sky. Heavy gray clouds were gathering in the west. “It’s going to rain. And Mrs. Higgins will have my head if I let you catch a chill.”

“Mrs. Higgins is more afraid of me than she is of you,” Beatrice pointed out factually.

“True.” Arthur’s smirk was small but genuine. “But she knows I am the easier target.”

He nudged his stallion closer to hers. He reached out, his gloved hand covering hers on the pommel of her saddle.

“Are you content, Beatrice?”

It was a question he asked her often. A quiet check-in. A constant reassurance that her agency in this marriage was absolute.

Beatrice looked out over the valley. She looked at the wagons, the thriving farms, the ancient stone of the Abbey waiting for them in the distance. She looked at the iron band on her finger.

And finally, she looked at the man who had bought her for dirt, only to give her the earth.

“Your grace.” Beatrice smiled, leaning over to kiss him briefly, fiercely on the mouth. “I am the Duchess of Westford. I am far too busy to be merely content.”

She kicked her heels into the mare’s flanks and took off down the hill, the wind catching her laughter.

Arthur watched her go for a fraction of a second — his heart seizing with a fierce, possessive joy — before he spurred his own horse to follow her.

Home.

THE END