Her heart thudded painfully as Giltford gestured for her to follow him to a corner of the drawing room. Margaret’s steps were hesitant, but she forced herself to appear composed.
Once they were alone, he turned to her. “Your uncle has agreed to the marriage,” he said, his tone as matter-of-fact as if he were confirming a business arrangement.
Margaret’s mouth went dry. She clenched her fists, the weight of his words pressing down on her. Surely, her life had become the work of a mercilessly rushed novelist.
“We will marry in a week,” Giltford continued, his gaze steady and unyielding.
Margaret could only stare at him, her mind struggling to keep pace.
“Under certain conditions,” he added. Margaret’s spine stiffened at the Duke’s tone, each word falling from his lips with maddening precision.
Her chin lifted, defiance sparking in her eyes. “Do not speak as though you are doing me a favor,” she shot back, her voice firm despite the flutter of unease in her chest.
His brow quirked, an expression of faint amusement playing on his face. “Am I not?” The audacity of his words sent a flush of indignation rushing to her cheeks.
“It is either this, or a ruined reputation,” he added, his tone calm and measured, as though he were pointing out a simple fact of nature. Margaret bristled, her hands curling into fists at her sides.
“You presume much,” she bit out, though her voice faltered slightly. The weight of his words, of the cold reality he presented, pressed heavily upon her.
He ignored her rising ire, continuing with unflappable ease. “We would marry in a sennight. After which, we would live as a married couple for one month. By then, any potential rumors would have been staunched.”
She stared at him, her thoughts a tangle of outrage and disbelief. Before she could muster a reply, he continued, his voice as even as if he were discussing the weather. “Afterward, I would settle you with a generous stipend and a home of your own. You would carry on living independently, unburdened by me.”
Margaret’s mouth fell open. Was this man serious? Did he truly believe she would agree to such a cold, transactional arrangement? “I—” she began, her voice rising, but the words died in her throat as he stepped toward her.
Her back met the edge of an end table, halting her retreat. The air between them felt charged, and her heart hammeredpainfully against her ribs. She forced herself to meet his gaze, though the intensity in his dark eyes made it difficult to breathe.
“Dowshire will have the contract ready for signing in two days,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. His closeness was overwhelming, and Margaret felt a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name—something sharp and unsettling.
“You have two days to consider, ” he continued, his tone softening just enough to feel like a warning. “I trust you will make the wise choice. You seem like a clever girl after all, Margaret.”
The sound of her name from his lips—spoken with such infuriating familiarity—brought her back to herself. She drew in a shaky breath, her nails digging into the fabric of her dress as she struggled to steady her trembling hands.
And then, without waiting for her reply, he stepped back, his movements unhurried as though he had all the time in the world. With a final, infuriatingly calm glance, he turned on his heel and left the room.
Margaret remained frozen in place, her thoughts spinning wildly. How had this man—this overbearing, infuriating man—turned her life on its head so completely in the span of two days? She pressed a hand to her forehead, her breath coming in shallow bursts as she tried to make sense of it all.
The Duke of Giltford, she realized, had the unnerving ability to leave her utterly astounded and helplessly confused. And it was becoming a most unwelcome pattern.
Sebastian strode into the room, his brow furrowed with concern. “Margaret, I must know—why did you not speak of this incident last night?”
Margaret stiffened, the weight of the morning’s events still pressing heavily on her. She hesitated, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve, but her uncle’s expectant gaze left no room for evasion. “I felt ashamed, Uncle,” she admitted quietly, her voice trembling as she blinked back the tears that had threatened to fall since Giltford’s departure. “I did not want to trouble you—or anyone—with such an embarrassment.”
Sebastian sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he stepped closer. “My dear girl, there is no shame in an accident,” he said, his tone kind but firm. “And you must not bear such burdens alone. We are your family, Margaret.”
His words, though meant to comfort, only made her throat tighten further. “But I—” she began, only to stop herself. She swallowed hard and looked away, her hands twisting in her lap.
Sebastian’s voice softened. “This is your choice to make, Margaret. No one, not even the Duke of Giltford, can force you into something you do not wish to do.”
Margaret drew a shaky breath and finally raised her eyes to meet his. “I have to do this,” she said, her voice firmer than she felt.“For Anna’s reputation, for our family’s good name. I cannot risk another scandal.”
Sebastian’s expression darkened slightly, but he nodded. “I would not lie to you, Margaret,” he said gravely. “The truth is, our family’s association with a second Duke—especially one of Giltford’s stature—would be of immense advantage to us.”
Margaret’s chest constricted as she absorbed his words. Though he meant well, his pragmatism felt like another stone added to the weight on her heart. She knew of the debts her father had left behind, the burden her uncle had borne to stabilize their household. Elizabeth’s marriage to the Duke of Sterlin had provided some reprieve, but it was not enough.
Her hands stilled, gripping the armrest of her chair. She had thought of herself as steadfast, but the enormity of what was being asked of her—what she was about to agree to—made her doubt her own strength.
Still, for her family’s sake, there was no other choice. “I understand, Uncle,” she said softly. “It is the right thing to do.”
