Chapter Four
By seven o’clock, Celine had bathed, dressed in her best evening gown—a deep blue silk that had been fashionable two years earlier—and arranged her hair in a simple but elegant style. She sat in the drawing room, the contract the Duke had left spread before her on the writing desk, pen in hand.
The legal language was dense but unambiguous.
Marriage within fourteen days. Her meagre dowry would become his property.
In return, all her father’s debts would be cleared.
There was a provision for pin money—surprisingly generous—and guarantees for her family’s continued security should anything befall the Duke.
She had expected harsh terms, perhaps even humiliating ones. Instead, the contract was almost mundanely fair.
“He’s early,” Lucy announced from the doorway, where she’d been keeping watch. “His carriage just pulled up.”
“The Duke of Rothwest is never early or late,” Celine said, glancing at the clock. “He arrives precisely when he intends to.”
“How terrifyingly efficient of him.”
Before Celine could reply, Marsh appeared. “The Duke of Rothwest,” he intoned with the same dignity he would have offered a monarch.
The Duke entered the drawing room like a force contained only by the limits of evening dress.
He had clearly come from another engagement—his attire was too formal for a simple business call.
The black coat fit him flawlessly, emphasising broad shoulders and a lean waist. His cravat was tied in a style she did not recognise, elegant yet severe, secured with an onyx pin that caught the light like a watchful eye.
“Miss Beckett.” He bowed. “Ladies,” he added, acknowledging her mother and Lucy, stationed like sentinels on either side of Celine’s chair.
“Your Grace.” Celine rose, curtseyed, and gestured to the contract. “I’ve reviewed your terms.”
“And?”
She dipped the pen, signed her name with a steady hand, and set it aside. “And I accept.”
A flicker crossed his face—surprise, perhaps, or disappointment that she had not argued. “Without negotiation?”
“Would negotiation change anything substantial?”
“No.”
“Then why waste both our time?” She blotted the ink, then faced him. “I do have questions, however.”
“I expected as much.” He moved further into the room, and Lucy instinctively stepped back. “Ask them.”
“The separate bedchambers you mentioned. That’s not in the contract.”
“A gentleman’s word should suffice.”
“In my experience, gentlemen’s words are worth approximately as much as my father’s markers.”
His mouth twitched—the almost-smile she’d seen the night before. “Fair point. Shall I add it?”
“Yes.”
He produced a small leather notebook and silver pencil, making a notation with efficient strokes. “Done. What else?”
“My family. What provisions will be made for them?”
“Your father’s debts will be cleared entirely.
Your mother will receive a quarterly allowance sufficient to maintain this household and provide for your sisters.
When they come of age, I will provide appropriate dowries—ten thousand pounds each, assuming they do not emulate your father at the gaming tables. ”
Lucy let out a small, shocked breath. Ten thousand pounds each was more than they could have hoped even at their prosperity’s height.
“That is… generous,” Celine said carefully.
“It is practical. I’ve no wish for impoverished relations appearing at inconvenient moments with outstretched hands.” Another note. “What else?”
“My personal belongings. My books, my letters, my—”
“Will remain yours. I have no interest in your diary, Lady Celine, despite what gothic novels say about tyrannical husbands.”
Heat crept into her cheeks. “I don’t keep a diary.”
“No?” His head tilted, studying her. “You strike me as the sort who would. How else do you organise your thoughts?”
“I pace,” she admitted before she could think better of it. “In the garden, usually. Or the attic in poor weather.”
“We have extensive gardens at Rothwest House. And several attics, though I cannot speak to their suitability for pacing. We shall have to explore.”
The word ‘we’ sent an involuntary shiver down her spine. In two weeks, there would indeed be a we. Husband and wife. Bound together until death.
“Any other questions?”
“Hundreds,” she confessed. “But none that can be answered in my mother’s drawing room.”
This time his smile was fuller, though still edged. “Prudence restrains you? Or propriety?”
“Both. Along with the presence of my very interested sister, who is memorising every word for later dissection.”
“I am not,” Lucy objected—then ruined the denial by adding, “though you are being remarkably calm about selling your soul.”
“Lucy!” their mother gasped.
But the Duke only looked amused. “Not her soul, Miss Lucy. Souls are too abstract for my taste. I prefer more tangible acquisitions.”
“Like wives?” Lucy shot back.
“Like security,” he corrected. “For all of you. Your sister has made a practical choice. You might consider being grateful for her sacrifice.”
“Should I?” Lucy demanded, stepping forward with her chin raised in an echo of Celine’s stubbornness. “Should I be grateful that she must marry a stranger because my father couldn’t control himself? Should I celebrate that she’s being treated as property?”
“Lucy, enough,” Celine murmured.
But the Duke lifted a hand. “No—let her speak. Honesty is refreshing in a drawing room.” He turned his full attention on Lucy, and she faltered only slightly under its weight.
“You’re quite right. None of this is fair, or just, or romantic.
Your sister deserves better than a marriage of necessity to a man with my reputation.
But the world rarely gives us what we deserve.
It gives us what we can negotiate, what we can survive, what we can transform through will and wit into something bearable. ”
He turned back to Celine. “Your sister will do far more than survive. She will have comfort, status, and freedom from desperation. Happiness…” He shrugged. “That will depend on how we conduct ourselves within the constraints we’ve accepted.”
“And how do you intend to conduct yourself?” Celine asked.
“With civility, respect, and clearly defined expectations.” He glanced at his pocket watch, movements precise. “Speaking of which, we should discuss the wedding. I assume you prefer something small?”
“Minuscule,” Celine said. “Family only, if possible.”
“I’ve no family to speak of, so that simplifies matters. St George’s?”
“If they’ll have us on such short notice.”
“They will.” His tone allowed no doubt. “Next Thursday, then. Ten o’clock. That gives you enough time for arrangements.”
“What sort of arrangements?” her mother asked faintly.
“Whatever ladies require for weddings. Gowns, flowers, and so forth.” He handed Lady Broker a card. “Send the bills here. My man of business will attend to them.”
“That is not necessary—” Celine began.
“It is entirely necessary. You cannot appear at St George’s in a two-year-old gown.” His gaze swept over her dress; she had the unnerving sense he could recite its entire history. “My wife will be properly attired.”
“Your wife,” she repeated softly. “How strange that sounds.”
“You will grow accustomed to it.” He moved toward the door, then paused. “One more matter. There will be talk. Speculation about the haste, the circumstances. I trust you will conduct yourself with caution?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that, should anyone ask, this is a love match which your father initially opposed because of my reputation, but which he has come to accept. We’ve been privately—though with all the dignity required—attached for some months, and the swift wedding is merely due to my impatience to make you my wife. ”
“You want me to lie?”
“I want you to protect yourself from gossip that would make your life unnecessarily difficult. Unless you would prefer to be known as the woman wagered away in a card game?”
She flinched. He was right. The truth would destroy what little social standing she retained.
“I understand,” she said quietly.
“Good.” He bowed to her mother and Lucy. “Ladies. Lady Celine, I shall send my carriage on Thursday morning at nine.”
“That won’t be necessary. We have our own—”
“You have a hired hack that smells of tobacco and despair,” he interrupted. “You will take my carriage.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of his cologne and a contract bearing her newly dried signature.
“Well,” Lucy said after a long silence, “he’s actually quite handsome, in a terrifying sort of way.”
“Lucy!” their mother protested.
“What? He is. All sharp edges and winter storms. Rather like one of those heroes in Celine’s novels—the ones who begin dreadfully but turn out to have hidden depths.”
“This isn’t a novel,” Celine said, staring at her signature on the contract.
“No,” Lucy agreed. “But that doesn’t mean it cannot have an interesting ending.”