Chapter Four
Once the study door shut behind them, silence settled like a fog.
Nicholas remained near the fireplace, arms folded, gaze levelled at the woman who stood just beyond the threshold as if she were weighing whether to step closer or set the drapes on fire.
Lydia Grantham was nothing like what he’d expected.
Not dowdy or overdressed. No false sweetness or whiff of desperation.
She wore a simple slate grey coat, well-fitted but not fashionable, buttoned neatly over a pale blue gown that had clearly seen more function than flair.
No jewels, no frills. Her gloves were clean but unadorned, the hat she wore modest, sensible.
She looked neither rich nor poor, only deliberate, like every inch of her presentation had been chosen to disarm and unsettle in equal measure.
Her dark hair was pulled back tightly, with a few stubborn curls escaping near her ears.
There was no powdered artifice to her, no painted cheeks or dripping jewels.
Just cool, hazel eyes that scanned him like an account book, and a mouth set in a line that suggested she'd already anticipated whatever arguments he might throw at her.
She stood straight-backed in the doorway, hands still at her sides, and something about her posture, so grounded, so self-possessed, made him acutely aware of how few women ever looked at him directly.
She did.
No fluttering lashes or softened gaze. Just that unnerving, unblinking intelligence.
She was not demure or delicate. But quietly, infuriatingly vital, like she might walk into a ballroom and set it on fire just to see who tried to put it out.
Nicholas found it unsettling and intriguing.
And, most inconveniently, attractive.
Damn it.
“I’ll repeat myself,” she said, her voice cool and controlled. “You owe my family money.”
He crossed to the sideboard, pouring a drink without asking if she wanted one. He needed the motion, something to do with his hands.
“If you must know, this debt isn’t exactly a pressing legal matter,” he said. “There was no formal contract. No promissory note. Just…an arrangement.”
“And that arrangement,” she said, stepping forward, “remains unpaid.”
He took a sip, eyeing her over the rim. “I’ll pay it. In a month or so.”
She didn’t flinch. “You won’t. Because you can’t.”
The words hit harder than he wanted to admit, like a slap he hadn’t seen coming.
Nicholas’s jaw tightened as something ugly and familiar curled in his chest. It wasn’t just the truth of it; he couldn’t pay her, not now, not soon.
It was the fact that she knew. A merchant’s daughter.
Standing in his study, cool as you please, dissecting his failure with the precision of a surgeon and the poise of someone who had nothing left to lose.
How much longer would he have to endure this?
How many more whispers about the Duke of Hawthorne behind their fans and snifters of brandy?
He could feel the weight of it now. The London gossip, the narrowed eyes at White’s, the looks passed in drawing rooms. He had tried so hard to maintain the illusion of control: the sharp tailoring, the perfect manners, the detached arrogance of someone whose bloodline excused his insolvency.
But this woman had peeled that illusion back in two sentences, and his pride burned. Not because she was wrong, but because she was right.
Nicholas lowered his glass slowly. “I beg your pardon?”
“I found my father’s ledgers,” she continued, unabashed. “The amounts owed. The orders were fulfilled. The silk, the brocade, the rare dyes from Naples. It was all delivered, all recorded. And all unpaid.”
He stared at her.
She met his gaze squarely. “I know everything, Your Grace. Including that your estate is all but bankrupt. You’re holding onto the title with one gloved finger and a chipped teacup.”
He bristled. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, but I do.” She removed her gloves one finger at a time, like she had all the time in the world. “And I came with a proposal.”
His brows lifted, mockery already blooming. “Do you often threaten nobility before offering business proposals?”
She smiled, just barely. “Only when they deserve it.”
He almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, he gave her a cold, assessing look. “Go on then. Let’s hear it.”
She didn’t hesitate. “Marry me.”
There was a beat of silence.
Nicholas blinked.
It was so unexpected, so wildly, outrageously bold, that for a moment, he thought he must have misheard her. But no. She was still standing there, steady as a statue, eyes clear and jaw set like granite.
His mouth opened, but no sound came. Not right away.
Marry me.
From the lips of a merchant’s daughter, with all the composure of a duchess offering him a business contract.
He wasn’t sure whether to laugh, throw her out, or, God help him, admire her. Because the gall of it… the sheer, fearless audacity.
Most women, ladies of breeding and wealth, tripped over their fans and giggled when they spoke to him. They fluttered and flattered, trying to tempt him with wide eyes and thinly veiled desperation. But not her.
No, Lydia Grantham stared him down like a general laying siege. It grated, but it also impressed him. More concerningly, it made something hot and unwelcome twist in his gut.
A merchant’s daughter proposing marriage to a Montclair. In his study.
It was insulting, and, if he wasn’t careful, it could be tempting.
Then Nicholas laughed. A sharp, startled bark of disbelief. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Oh, I did. I’m simply giving you the chance to admit you’ve lost your mind.”
“I haven’t.”
“You’re suggesting marriage?”
“Yes.”
“To a complete stranger.”
“To a duke,” she corrected, as if that settled things.
He shook his head, incredulous. “You cannot possibly think I’d agree to that.”
“I think you need money. And I have it, in the form of a dowry. One that would be yours, entirely, upon marriage.”
“I’m a Montclair,” he said tightly. “I don’t sell the title to the highest bidder.”
“No,” she said calmly. “But you’re broke. And this is your best option. You marry me, I gain standing. You gain solvency. I get to continue running my father’s business, and you get to keep pretending Hawthorne House isn’t held together with mothballs and inherited arrogance.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You’re infuriating.”
“Thank you.”
There was something maddeningly composed about her.
No simpering, no false flattery. No attempt to seduce or manipulate.
Just clear-eyed, surgical logic. And yet, his mind, traitorously, wandered to what it might be like to undo that coat.
To press her mouth into silence. To see if that backbone bent in private.
He looked away, jaw tightening. No.
“You’re suggesting a marriage of convenience,” he said finally.
“Yes. No emotional or physical expectations.”
He turned back, eyes sharp. “So I marry you, but I’m forbidden to touch you?”
She blinked once. “Correct.”
He smiled without warmth. “You realize that’s the part most men would like about being married.”
Colour crept into her cheeks. She held his gaze anyway.
Bold little thing, he thought. Embarrassed, yes, but not retreating.
His amusement faded.
No physical expectations, she’d said. No intimacy.
But what of an heir? What of the bloodline that had passed through eight Montclair dukes, through centuries of duty and scandal, war and Parliament? What of the ancient stone estate rotting into the earth, waiting for a child to revive it, someone to inherit more than debts?
Nicholas said nothing, but a cold edge pressed against his chest like a blade.
He had no brothers. No male cousins close enough. No contingency.
Just Charlotte.
And she, brilliant and uncomplaining as she was, bore the weight of their name alone. Unmarried. Without a dowry. With no escape unless he provided it.
“You said this is a marriage of convenience,” he said slowly. “No entanglements. No emotion. And, I assume, no... heirs.”
Her brow lifted slightly. “That was implied, yes.”
He exhaled, sharp. “You understand what you’re asking of me.”
“I’m asking you to solve both our problems.”
“You’re asking me to end my line.”
There it was.
She looked at him, steady. “Your line is already dying, Your Grace. You said it yourself—you can’t afford to keep the house running, let alone raise a child in it.”
He flinched slightly but recovered.
“That doesn’t mean it has to end with me.”
She took a step forward, voice quiet. “What legacy are you clinging to? A title no one respects? A name whispered behind fans like a warning?”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t, because she was right.
And yet…
“I was born into this,” he said. “Trained from boyhood to protect it. The estate. The title. The name. It’s not just something you walk away from.”
Lydia’s voice softened, not cruel, but not gentle, either. “I know what it means to carry a name you didn’t choose. I watched my father build his from nothing, and I watched society tear it down in a week.”
Nicholas looked at her.
She stepped closer. “You don’t have to pass on your father’s ruin, Your Grace. You could end it. Clean. On your terms.”
Silence.
The fire crackled, dry wood snapping in the hearth.
He looked at the mantle, then back at her. This woman stood there, calmly dismantling centuries of expectation.
“Do you ever want children?” he asked suddenly.
Lydia blinked.
“I…” She hesitated. “That’s not what this is.”
“It may not be what you want it to be, but if we’re marrying, we don’t get to pretend the rest of the world stops spinning. People will ask. People will expect—”
“Let them expect,” she said. “Let them whisper and speculate. I won’t be tied down by what they want from my body.”
He stared at her. Her steel. He hated how much he admired it and how much it unsettled him.
“No heirs,” he said again, more to himself than her.
“Not unless both of us decide otherwise. Together.”
That “together” sat strangely in his ears.
He turned away, staring into the fire. The flames licked and hissed like they had something to say, too.
No heir. No future. No Montclair legacy.
Maybe that was mercy.
“Convenient,” he said flatly, “isn’t quite as simple as you make it sound.”
“This is not blackmail,” she said. “It’s a transaction. We both get what we want. I’m not asking for love or even kindness. Just partnership.”
He didn’t answer.
If he married a noblewoman, someone with a proper lineage and delicate sensibilities, he’d have to hide everything.
The debts, the decay, the truth. Her family would demand to see ledgers.
And when they found the truth? His name would be dragged through every salon and supper club from London to Bath.
But Lydia Grantham already knew. She walked in with eyes wide open and a pen already in hand.
His father would be furious if he were still alive.
Which made it more appealing.
And then there was Charlotte. If Lydia’s dowry was as generous as her father’s fortune had been, Charlotte might actually have a chance at a future beyond their crumbling halls.
Nicholas looked at her again.
She stood still, waiting. Calm, composed, and dangerous.
A woman offering him salvation, on paper, with ink, not affection.
He was going to regret this.
He opened his mouth to speak, but the door opened first.
Charlotte entered, clearly mid-sentence. “Nicholas, I need to speak with you about the stable boy. He’s insisting—”
She stopped short, eyes flicking from him to Lydia.
He turned slowly.
Then, before he could talk himself out of it, Nicholas said flatly, “Charlotte, meet your future sister-in-law.”