Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
“May I come in, Your Grace?” Lucy’s voice was polite, though steady, as her knuckles lingered a moment longer on the polished oak door.
She had woken up that morning less confident than she had been when she had gone to bed.
She wasn’t sure where the boldness from the previous evening had come from, but it was already beginning to fade, leaving behind a gnawing uncertainty.
Still, she had no choice but to push forward.
She had traveled all this way, and there was a purpose to her journey, one she could not abandon.
She dressed quickly, taking a deep breath before stepping into the crisp morning air, her thoughts turning over what she would say, how she would phrase each question.
The first step, she knew, was to speak with the Duke himself, to understand what expectations he held, the sort of woman he might consider suitable, and whether there was any chance she could succeed in this audacious task.
Rowan exhaled sharply. “Is it not far too early for this, Miss Crampton? The sun has barely risen, and here you are, prepared to interrogate me before I have even had my morning drink.”
Lucy straightened, meeting his gaze from where she stood. “I have no time to waste, Your Grace. I have been given two weeks to complete this task, and every moment counts.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “So, I must endure this… torment every single day? Have you walked the gardens? Seen Langridge in the full morning light? It is a beautiful estate, Miss Crampton, and yet here you are, standing before me, insisting I submit to questions.”
Lucy held his gaze, stepping fully into the study, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor, refusing to falter under his intense gaze.
“Your Grace, if I am to do my work properly, I must understand what I am to achieve. Two weeks is hardly enough time to waste on dawdling or pleasantries. I must ask, so that I might do my job properly, what are you seeking in a wife?”
“Does it look like I seek a wife?” he questioned, leaning into his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
Lucy felt her chest tighten. This man was out to make her life impossible.
Every glance, every word carried the aura of deliberate torment.
Now, knowing the condition she had agreed to, her stomach twisted with concern.
Marriage to this man was not an option in her plans.
In fact, marriage in its entirety had never been.
Yet here she was, tasked with finding a woman who could endure his exacting nature and, somehow, coax him into matrimony, all within two weeks.
She straightened, forcing herself to concentrate.
If there was any hope of succeeding, she had to push past the intimidation, past the icy scrutiny, and focus on the task at hand.
Someone had to survive this household and survive the Duke himself.
If she could find such a woman, she might yet prevent a fate she could not possibly accept for herself.
Rowan’s lips curved slightly. “Is your task suddenly seeming impossible, Miss Crampton? Have you developed an urge to run away?”
Lucy’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. “No, Your Grace,” she said. “I intend to see it through.”
Rowan’s brow lifted. “Good,” he said. “Then speak, Miss Crampton. Tell me, what qualities do you imagine I should tolerate in a wife?”
Lucy paused, taking a breath, carefully weighing her words.
“I need to know what matters to you,” she said, eyes flicking to his then back to the floor briefly.
“Not just what she should be in appearance, but… what she should embody. Temperament, intellect, patience, all of it. Every detail that would make a marriage tolerable… even desirable to you.”
Rowan’s lips pressed into a thin line, his fingers idly fiddling with the feather pen resting on his desk. “Miss Crampton,” he said slowly, “I am not quite certain I wish to answer such questions. I am not a man easily pleased nor one who opens himself readily.”
Lucy set down her writing materials, leaning back slightly in her chair, letting her gaze settle on him fully.
She allowed a moment of quiet to pass before speaking again.
“Then allow me to ask you another question, Your Grace,” she said, tilting her head, keen to mask the flutter in her chest. “I have done some inquiries. I know you are relatively young, established, proper, with impeccable manners. Your reputation precedes you, but there are… gaps. I hope you will indulge me.”
Rowan raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Lucy pressed on. “Your first son is twelve,” she began carefully.
“Which means you married in your early twenties. That might be normal to most people, but I find it… unusual. For a man of your standing to marry so young. Was it… love? Were you so in love with the late duchess that you got married quickly?”
At her words, Rowan’s gaze flickered down to the pen in his hand, his fingers tightening slightly around it. He made no move to answer immediately, but the intensity of his eyes pinned her in place.
For the first time since she had arrived at Langridge Manor, she could feel the pull of his presence, almost magnetic, as if the air itself bent around him.
Her pulse quickened, and she realized with a small, startled jolt that her stomach had somehow betrayed her, fluttering as though it had a will of its own.
Rowan remained quiet, yet the silence spoke volumes, and Lucy knew that the answer, whatever it was, was probably too much for him to speak about.
Finally, he leaned back, letting the pen rest on the desk with a deliberate click. “Curiosity is a dangerous thing, Miss Crampton.”
Lucy swallowed, cheeks warm. “Perhaps,” she murmured. “But one must ask the questions if one wishes to find the answers.”
Rowan did not respond to that. Instead, he shifted his gaze away from her entirely, as though her question about his past had already been dismissed, filed away as irrelevant.
“You wished to know what I am looking for,” he said, changing the subject. “Let us return to that.”
Lucy straightened at once, fingers hovering near her abandoned papers.
“She must be proper,” Rowan continued. “Composed. Someone who understands order and respects it. I will not tolerate chaos in my household.”
His eyes flicked briefly to her, then away again.
“She must be good with children. That is non-negotiable. The only reason we are having this conversation is because of my children,” he added. “Capable. Patient. Not indulgent but not cruel. My sons require guidance, not sentimentality.”
Lucy noted the way he said require, not deserve.
“She must be older than twenty,” he went on. “Tall enough to command a room without raising her voice. Attractive, certainly, but beauty without sense is of no value to me.” He paused. “And she must not argue for sport. I have no appetite for constant opposition.”
Lucy’s brow arched slightly, though she kept her tone even. “So, obedience is essential.”
“No,” Rowan said calmly. “Competence is.”
Lucy laughed then, an unguarded, breathy sound she did not bother to restrain. It escaped her before prudence could catch it, light and irreverent. She lifted a hand, half in surrender, half in amusement, her eyes bright with the private joke forming in her mind.
“Well,” she said, still smiling, “that settles it neatly. I must indeed find you a wife, Your Grace, for the lady you describe could not possibly be me. I fail the requirements rather spectacularly.”
Rowan did not look surprised. His gaze remained steady, assessing in that maddeningly calm manner of his, as though he had anticipated the declaration long before she made it.
“I am aware,” he replied.
For the briefest instant, Lucy was taken aback.
Aware of what, precisely?
She bit her tongue, stopping herself from asking out loud. Aware that she was not obedient enough? That she lacked competence? That she was insufficiently tall, insufficiently composed, insufficiently… whatever other invisible measure he kept tucked away behind that maddeningly calm expression?
Her amusement faltered, though she refused to let it vanish entirely.
It could not be beauty. That notion she dismissed at once.
She had been told often enough, and by people whose opinions carried far more warmth than Rowan’s, that she was beautiful.
Nor could it be competence. Lucy might bristle, she might argue, she might occasionally press where she ought to yield, but she was not inept nor careless nor incapable.
Whatever box he had in mind, she might not fit it neatly, but that did not mean she lacked substance.
“I am not a man who expects affection,” he continued, almost absently. “Nor one who courts it. Marriage, to me now, would be a function. Stability. Continuity. Nothing more.”
Rowan turned his attention back to her fully then. “If you are searching for a woman who wishes to be cherished, Miss Crampton, you will not find her suited to me.”
Lucy cleared her throat. “That’s quite helpful, Your Grace. Thank you.”
Rowan did not soften. If anything, the air about him seemed to settle into something more immovable, as though the brief levity had merely been tolerated rather than invited.
“I will be plain with you, Miss Crampton,” he said at last. “I am cooperating with this arrangement, nothing more. I lend it no credence, nor do I place much faith in its success.” His gaze held hers. “Unless the woman you propose is… exceptional, this exercise will come to nothing.”
Lucy inclined her head, accepting the candor even as it troubled her. She understood him well enough. His words clarified what she had already suspected. He was not a man waiting to be persuaded. He had only agreed because of Anthony’s earnest plea.
Still, the enormity of it pressed in. The path she had agreed to tread suddenly appeared narrower, steeper, and far less forgiving than she had first imagined.
“If I am to do this properly,” she said after a moment, “I must also understand you, Your Grace. One cannot persuade a lady toward marriage armed only with a list of requirements. She will wish to know the man she is being asked to consider.”
Rowan’s gaze lifted slowly, amusement glinting with unmistakable intent. “How unfortunate for us both,” he replied. “I have never been much inclined toward being understood.”
Lucy exhaled a short laugh despite herself. “You see the difficulty already.”
“I see many difficulties,” he said calmly. “Most of them seated directly in front of me.”
She ignored the barb with admirable composure and reached for her quill pen again. “Then allow me to ask simpler questions. What do you enjoy? Music, perhaps? Riding? Travel?”
“Silence,” Rowan answered promptly.
Her quill pen paused. “That cannot be all.”
“It is remarkably versatile,” he said. “One may enjoy it alone, with company, indoors, outdoors...”
“And yet,” Lucy interrupted lightly, “you have sons. Three young and agile boys are living in this house. Surely, you cannot enjoy the luxury of silence that much.”
His mouth curved faintly. “You’d be surprised.”
She studied him for a moment, lips twitching. “Very well. What qualities do you value most in yourself?”
“That I am difficult to deceive...” he said, “... and harder still to persuade.”
Lucy glanced up at him. “You are doing an excellent job of proving both points.”
“I would hate to disappoint you so early in our arrangement.”
Her smile faded just enough to show resolve beneath it. “You may evade me if you wish, Your Grace, but the ladies I must speak to will not be so easily satisfied. They will ask questions. They will expect answers.”
“I have uttermost faith that you would do excellently well, Miss Crampton,” he said and interlocked his fingers on the table. “Now, if that is all, I would love to get back to the more pressing matters that require my attention.”
Lucy inclined her head at his dismissal, though it was a touch stiffer than courtesy alone required.
She gathered her papers, smoothing them more than necessary, and rose.
There was no sense in pressing further. Whatever cooperation she had hoped to extract from him had reached its limit, and forcing the matter would only harden his resolve.
If the Duke of Langridge refused to assist in his own rescue, she would simply manage without him.
She figured it wouldn’t be that difficult to find a lady willing to hear him out.
He was a duke. He possessed an ancient title, a vast estate, and enough wealth to dazzle even the most discerning families.
Though she would rather not dwell on it, the man himself was a;lso undeniably handsome in a severe, infuriating way.
That, she decided, would suffice.
Society did not require love to arrange a marriage. It required security, position, and promise. On those terms, Rowan Langridge was an exceptional prospect, whether he acknowledged it or not.
Still, the walls of the estate suddenly felt close, the air too heavy with challenges and smothered irritation. She found herself craving movement, noise, familiarity. London was near enough, and within it were allies. Cousins, conversations, and the invaluable currency of gossip.