Chapter 4
DEALINGS WITH THE DEVIL
The grey morning light coming through the kitchen window did nothing to warm Marigold.
Not even the familiar sound of the boiling kettle and the promise of warmth could calm her nerves.
She desperately needed to attribute this to the fact that she hadn’t slept all night, but she was wise enough to know that this internal spiral was not because of lack of sleep, but rather the reason that brought on this turbulence.
You will be my wife.
That is what he said with absolute certainty, with a straight face, looking at her square in the eyes. Marigold had long given up the prospect of a married life, and if she were completely honest, she still couldn’t fully believe that he was serious about this.
She was equally perplexed and relieved to know that it was all partly because he needed information. But she had provided an alternative of giving that information without having to walk down the aisle toward a Duke whose name she didn’t even actually know.
“It is perfectly all right, Marigold,” she tried to convince herself. “This is just another obstacle on the list. It just skipped the line of urgency, way past the debt to the butcher. Perhaps even the loan from Johnny and his gang.”
For one brief second, her mind offered the treacherous thought of her becoming a duchess, living in a luxurious house, and having her tea served by the servants she saw in his estate instead of toiling herself in the kitchen alone just to have some meager meal.
But just as quickly, she shook her head and chased that dream away.
It was dangerous for someone like her to think like that.
There was no universe where her marrying the Duke would ever become a sustainable reality, so all she needed to do was find a way to get herself out of this predicament before it got out of control.
She had dealt with worse than this before in her life.
“Lady Marigold,” Alfred interrupted her.
He was being quite formal, the tone that he rarely used around her. After all, she may be the lady of the house, but she just served her own breakfast, so that fact alone certainly took away some of the allure of being a lady.
“Is something the matter?”
Marigold prayed that this day hadn’t piled a new disaster into her house before she had the chance to have her tea. She had few pleasures in her life, and she would really appreciate it if she could just enjoy her tea and then deal with any new problem.
“There is a caller for you, Lady Marigold,” Alfred said, still in total disbelief.
Marigold sighed in relief. She never had any callers.
“You must be mistaken, Alfred. I’m sure whoever he is, he’s calling upon my mother,” she replied and continued procuring the butter. “I believe she’s already down in the drawing room.”
“No, My Lady,” Alfred hastened to add. “He’s calling upon you specifically.”
Marigold went absolutely still as Alfred extended the calling card to her on a small tray. She looked upon that card, as if it were threatening her openly, then picked it up and read it.
Brandon Reeves, Duke of Voss.
It was pure luck that Marigold was not holding the tea kettle because it would have gone down on the floor, wasting one of the few good china pieces they had left and the perfectly brewed tea.
But as she read the name on that card, tea was forgotten, the toast could burn, and the butter was left unattended.
“And where is this gentleman now?”
“I escorted him to the drawing room.”
“The... the drawing room.”
Her mother was in the drawing room, and the two of them together was a recipe meant for destruction.
She didn’t know the Duke all that well, but she knew her mother.
Plus, from the little she had interacted with the Duke, he didn’t seem the nice, civil gentleman.
She wasn’t even sure he wouldn’t expose their nightly meetings.
So, running on pure survival instinct for everyone involved, she rushed to the drawing room.
She stopped for one moment to compose herself, gathering her hair and looking at herself in the only mirror they had left in their house.
While she was out in the hallway, she could hear her mother’s voice through the half-open door.
“It really seems impossible,” Marigold barely recognized her mother’s voice, “that you are still a bachelor.”
The little hairs on her neck stood up. There was a very specific reason why she couldn’t recognize her mother’s voice. It had gone deep and sultry, almost as if she was trying to—
Marigold didn’t sit around to find exactly what her mother was intending, and she made her way to the room.
She stopped right before she entered, peeking through the opening of the door, still unseen.
This morning was determined to turn her world upside down because the Duke dominated her little drawing room just as she feared.
Marigold studied him and realized this was the third version of him she saw. First, it was the stranger in the alley, mysterious and decisive; then the relaxed Duke in his own residence, teasing and infuriating; and now him as a… suitor.
He was sitting on an armchair rather stiffly, and Marigold could see that there was more than just his general disposition that prompted him to do so.
It was the mere fact that her mother was sitting on the couch quite close to him, one hand on his arm, leaning too much, revealing too much cleavage.
“It is quite an honor,” her mother was saying, “to be receiving such an esteemed guest in my house.”
Marigold shivered upon hearing her mother use a very particular low purr and the crystal giggle she employed only when she wanted to be charming.
She was a beautiful woman even at her age, and Marigold was not so innocent as not to realize that men do not stay unaffected by charming women throwing themselves at them.
“You can withhold that honor,” his icy tone resonated throughout the whole house, “because I am calling upon your daughter, not you.”
Marigold decided that it was high time she interrupted that awkward situation, and she stepped inside the room.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Marigold said and didn’t even bother to curtsy.
His eyes turned on her, and they shifted quickly from extremely annoyed to partly relieved. He got up and bowed formally, tempting Marigold to comment on that like he did last night on her formality, but she remembered that they had an audience.
Marigold cast a glance at her mother, who was looking between them with a dark, annoyed look.
“Good morning, Lady Marigold.”
“If you were to allow me some time, I will prepare some tea and bring—”
“There will be no need for that,” the Duke cut her off coldly. “I would hate to stay another moment in this room with your mother.”
Marigold gaped and then closed her mouth because there wasn’t an appropriate response to that declaration.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” her mother said, shock evident on her face.
He didn’t even turn to look at her, just straightened his cufflinks like Marigold had seen him do before and focused all his dark intensity on her.
“We will go for a promenade,” he simply demanded and walked toward her.
This man was making her head spin. Calling upon her first thing in the morning, openly insulting her mother, and demanding a promenade all in the span of two minutes.
“Well,” her mother sat back on the couch, her arms crossed over her chest, “since I am such dreadful company, I will not chaperone.”
The Duke stopped in his tracks and looked at Marigold before he delivered his next line. Basically, one word, final like an executioner’s axe. He turned and looked over his shoulder at her mother.
“Good.”
Marigold was still struggling to put things in order, still not ready to decide what to address first, but he either read her turbulence or simply didn’t care about her priorities because he stood right in front of her.
“You will need your coat. It’s quite chilly outside.”
“I will… go fetch my coat,” Marigold said.
She spared one look at her mother, who was looking at her with tight lips and a harsh look, as if Marigold had taken something that belonged to her rightfully. Perhaps this stranger was right. A promenade would be good.
“Tea is ready in the kitchen,” was all Marigold said to her mother before getting her coat.
Once they were outside, the Duke offered her his arm, and she just stared at it for a moment before taking it.
“The Kensington Gardens are closer.”
“I will have to take your word for it. I rarely take walks.”
He said nothing, just guided her toward their destination.
It was slightly cold under the heavy grey London sky, but there were no clouds, so there were a few people walking around and carriages passing.
That was when Marigold started to entertain the idea that perhaps his proposal was not a joke.
He was actually making a public appearance with her.
She had no social circle, but she didn’t need to have one to imagine how the news of him declaring her his betrothed must have caught on like a fire through the ton. And yet he seemed quite unbothered.
They reached the Kensington Gardens and made their way along the path in absolute silence.
Marigold was already thinking that she was losing valuable time at securing the funds she needed, readjusting the ledgers, visiting debtors, and taking care of her garden, so it would have been better if she got this out of the way as fast as possible.
“It is my understanding that you came here to take back your offer,” she broke the silence. “I have thought about it, and I do have a way that we both come out of this unscathed if you would just follow my instructions. So, I was thinking—”
“I came here for an answer.”
Marigold tried to refrain from commenting that he never allowed her to finish her sentences and focus on what he had just said.
“An answer, Your Grace?”