Chapter One

 

 

“Look, the Ice Duke graces us with his presence. Evidently, someone neglected to warn him there would be dancing.”

Lady Araminta Stratton delivered this observation with the sort of crystalline clarity that ensured it carried across precisely half the ballroom: far enough to be scandalous, but not quite far enough to be ruinous. The calculation was instinctive by now. She had been navigating society’s treacherous waters for five seasons and knew exactly how much rope one might play out before risking the noose.

The Duchess of Redmere’s winter ball was, by all accounts, the event of the season. The ballroom at Redmere House had been transformed into something approaching a fairy tale, if fairy tales involved five hundred of London’s most vicious gossips crowded amid gilded splendour, all watching one another like hawks circling particularly plump rabbits. Chandeliers the size of carriages scattered crystal tears over the assembled company. The champagne fountains sparkled in the candlelight. Every surface capable of taking a shine had been polished within an inch of its existence.

The overall effect was rather like being trapped inside a very expensive jewellery box.

Araminta had positioned herself beside the third champagne fountain, surrounded by her usual coterie of admirers, because if one intended to make cutting remarks about dukes, one might as well do so from a position of strategic advantage. Lord Hadleigh was in the midst of some tedious account of his new hunters. Miss Harriet Beaumont was pretending to listen while actually watching the door for the arrival of someone more interesting. And Mr Frederick Mallord was doing what Mr Frederick Mallord always did: gazing at Araminta with the devotion of a spaniel and displaying the conversational gifts of a turnip.

“I say, Lady Araminta,” Mr Mallord ventured, with the air of a man embarking upon some heroic undertaking, “that is rather… that is to say… the Duke of Wycliffe is quite…”

“Insufferable?” Araminta supplied helpfully. “Arrogant? So stiff he might be mistaken for an architectural support?”

“I was going to say distinguished,” Mr Mallord finished weakly.

“Were you? How diplomatic.” She raised her champagne glass towards the ballroom entrance, where the subject of her commentary had just appeared. “Though I suppose, if one considers distinguished synonymous with possessing all the warmth of a January morning in the Arctic, then yes, he is terribly distinguished.”

This earned her a ripple of laughter from her assembled audience. Even Miss Beaumont abandoned her study of the doorway long enough to smile.

The Duke of Wycliffe stood at the entrance with the bearing of a man who owned not only the building but the entire street upon which it stood, and was considering evicting its occupants for good measure. He was tall and dark-haired, possessed of the sort of classical features that might have been genuinely attractive had they not been arranged in an expression of perpetual disapproval. His evening clothes were immaculate: his black coat fitted to perfection, his cravat tied in what had to be the Gordian knot of neckwear. He was, in every respect, the picture of ducal magnificence.

He looked, Araminta thought uncharitably, as though he had been carved from marble and the sculptor had neglected to include those details which might have made him human.

Their eyes met across the ballroom.

Oh, splendid. He heard me.

His expression did not alter, which was rather the difficulty, since his expression never altered, but something in the set of his shoulders suggested that he intended to cross the room. Wonderful. She had wanted excitement that evening, though perhaps not quite so much of it.

“Oh dear,” Miss Beaumont murmured. “He is coming this way.”

“Is he?” Araminta took a deliberate sip of champagne, the very picture of unconcern. “How terrifying. Whatever shall I do? Faint? Swoon? Apologise for possessing opinions?”

“You might attempt to be pleasant,” Lord Hadleigh suggested.

“I might,” Araminta agreed. “But where would be the entertainment in that?”

The Duke of Wycliffe moved through the crowd with the inexorability of a particularly well-dressed glacier. People parted before him, some out of respect and most out of self-preservation. He had a reputation for cutting remarks capable of flaying a man’s pride at twenty paces. Araminta had once watched him reduce Lord Bramwell to near tears with nothing more than a lifted eyebrow and the word “Indeed.”

She straightened her spine. If he expected her to be intimidated, he was about to receive a thorough education in precisely how unintimidated Lady Araminta Stratton could be.

He stopped directly before her. At close quarters, he was even more vexingly perfect: grey eyes like winter storms, a mouth that appeared to have forgotten how to smile sometime around 1805, and a jaw that might have been fashioned to cut glass. All of it wasted upon a man with the disposition of a particularly judgmental iceberg. His gaze travelled over her exactly once, unhurried and entirely unimpressed, and she had the novel experience of being catalogued: the chestnut hair, the blue eyes, the celestial silk chosen to be remembered by everyone in the room except, apparently, him.

“Lady Araminta.” His voice was deep, cultured and thoroughly glacial. “Still mistaking wit for wisdom, I see.”

The company around them tittered nervously. Araminta smiled.

“And you are still mistaking arrogance for charm, Your Grace. How delightful that we may both cling to our delusions.”

His eyes narrowed. Only slightly. Anyone else might have missed it, but Araminta had made a study of reading people. When one was the daughter of a man who had gambled away most of the family fortune, one learnt to recognise the slightest tell. And there it was: the faintest flicker of something that might have been surprise, irritation or, conceivably, indigestion from the oysters.

“I was not aware that I had ever claimed to be charming,” he said.

“Oh, you have not. That is rather the point.”

“Whereas you claim to be witty.”

“I have no need to claim it, Your Grace. Others do so for me. It is called having friends. You might try it one day.”

Several people gasped. Lord Hadleigh emitted a small sound reminiscent of a dying rabbit. Even Miss Beaumont looked impressed, which was saying something; Miss Beaumont had once watched Lady Melbourne throw a footstool at her husband without so much as blinking.

The Duke regarded Araminta for a long moment. She met his stare. It was rather like a battle of wills, if one of those wills had been forged in a furnace and the other consisted chiefly of a stubborn refusal to be intimidated by men who believed a title excused them from ordinary civility.

Then, and she would deny this later, firmly and repeatedly, his mouth twitched.

It was not a smile. It was not even one quarter of a smile. It was merely the ghost of one, as if the notion had strayed across his face and left the faintest impression before fleeing in terror.

“You are quite determined to dislike me,” he observed.

“Not at all, Your Grace. I dislike you quite naturally, without the least determination. It comes as easily as breathing.”

“How efficient.”

“I pride myself upon my efficiency.”

“Then you will be equally efficient at dancing, I trust.” He extended his hand with the air of a man issuing a royal decree. “Waltz with me.”

Araminta blinked. Of all the things she had expected him to say, and she had prepared herself for anything from a cutting remark to a lecture upon proper conduct, an invitation to dance had not appeared among them.

“I do not recall accepting.”

“I do not recall asking.”

“Then you will be disappointed to learn that, in civilised society, a gentleman generally requires a lady’s consent before commandeering her for a waltz.”

“Will I?” His hand remained extended between them, a challenge in itself. “I am always eager to learn. Consent to dance with me, Lady Araminta. Or are you afraid?”

Oh, the wretch. He knew precisely where to strike.

Very well. If he wanted a dance, she would give him one; and ensure that he regretted every step.

“Afraid?” She placed her hand in his, wearing a smile that would have given a wiser man pause. “Your Grace, I have faced down the patronesses of Almack’s, survived five London seasons and once spent an entire evening in conversation with the Prince Regent. I believe I can endure a waltz with you without suffering permanent injury.”

“How brave.”

“How condescending.”

His fingers closed around hers, firm, impersonal and gloved. She felt the contact like a shock. Not unpleasant. Merely… unexpected. As though her hand had encountered something she had believed to be marble and discovered it was strangely warm.

Stop it. He is insufferable. The agreeable shape of his hands is entirely irrelevant.

He led her onto the dance floor with the confidence of a man who had never been refused anything in his life. Most likely because he had not. When one was the Duke of Wycliffe, possessed of more money than the Bank of England and more land than certain minor principalities, refusal was not something one encountered with any frequency.

The orchestra struck up a waltz. Of course it did. Because apparently the whole evening had conspired to press Araminta into close proximity with the most aggravating man in London.

His hand settled at her waist. The proper distance, the proper pressure, everything scrupulously correct and thoroughly infuriating. His other hand held hers at precisely the appropriate height. She could feel the heat of him through gloves, silk and every layer of social convention between them.

This is fine. This is perfectly fine. It is only a dance. You have danced with dozens of men. This is no different.

Except it was different, because the moment they began to move, she realised with sinking dismay that the Duke of Wycliffe was an exceptional dancer.

Of course he was. It would never do for the man to possess a single flaw that might render him more human.

“You dance well,” she said when the silence between them grew uncomfortable.

“You sound surprised.”

“I am surprised. I had assumed you would move with all the grace of a wooden plank.”

“Disappointed?”

“Devastated.”

They swept past Lord and Lady Mallord, who watched with the avidity of spectators awaiting a scandal. Past Miss Beaumont, whose expression had progressed from impressed to utterly fascinated. Past the Duchess of Redmere herself, who regarded them with the speculative air of a woman already composing the tale she would circulate on the morrow.

“You are very good at this,” the Duke said suddenly.

“At dancing?”

“At deflection. Each time I attempt conversation, you parry with sarcasm.”

“You are criticising my conversational abilities? That is rather rich, coming from a man whose notion of scintillating discourse consists of ‘Indeed’ and ‘I see.’”

“I say other things.”

“Do you? I had not noticed.”

His hand tightened fractionally at her waist. She felt the subtle increase of pressure through the silk of her gown, suggesting… what? Annoyance? Amusement?

Impossible. The Ice Duke did not feel amusement. It would crack his façade.

“What, precisely, have I done to earn such devoted hostility?” he asked. Something had entered his voice that she could not quite identify. Curiosity, perhaps.

“Beyond being insufferably arrogant?”

“Specifically, yes.”

Araminta considered the question. It was a fair one, in truth. They had been introduced perhaps three times over the years, always at gatherings such as this: grand, glittering affairs in which conversation was an art and honesty decidedly unfashionable. They had never exchanged more than cursory pleasantries. She had no particular reason to dislike him beyond the general principle that men of his kind, wealthy, titled and possessed of the absolute certainty that the world ought to arrange itself according to their preferences, tended to regard women as decorative furnishings.

“You represent everything that is wrong with society,” she said at last. “The assumption that birth and wealth are measures of worth. The expectation that everyone around you must accommodate your whims. The way you look at people as though calculating their value in pounds sterling.”

“That is quite a list of grievances against a man you scarcely know.”

“Am I wrong?”

He was silent for a moment. They turned, and the candlelight caught in his dark hair, lending it an almost blue-black sheen. His face remained impassive, but something flickered in those grey eyes.

“Perhaps not entirely,” he admitted.

She nearly stumbled. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

“Did you just… agree with me?”

“I conceded that you might have a point. There is a difference.”

“That is the nearest thing to humility I have ever heard from you.”

“Do not become accustomed to it.”

Despite herself, Araminta felt a smile tug at her lips.

They danced in silence for a moment. The waltz was drawing to its conclusion; she could hear it in the music, in the gradual resolution of the melody. Soon she could escape, return to her friends and spend the remainder of the evening safely avoiding the Duke of Wycliffe and his disconcerting moments of near-humanity.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you are not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Someone more… conventional.”

“How tedious for you.”

“On the contrary.” His voice dropped, becoming strangely intimate despite the crowd surrounding them. “I find myself rather interested.”

Before she could formulate a response, the music ended. He stepped back, released her with perfect propriety and bowed.

She curtsied. The dance was over. They would part now, return to their separate spheres and presumably resume their adversarial acquaintance at some future gathering.

Except the Duke did not move.

The orchestra had fallen silent.

Araminta glanced towards the musicians, wondering whether some mishap had occurred, but every face was turned towards the dais at the far end of the ballroom. The Duchess of Redmere was ascending its shallow steps, an ivory card held between her gloved fingers.

Conversation dwindled into expectant silence.

A formal announcement.

Araminta looked back at Wycliffe. His attention had fixed upon the card in the duchess’s hand, and something in his expression had altered. Not recognition, precisely, but unease.

The duchess surveyed the company with unconcealed satisfaction. Then her gaze found Araminta and the Duke, still standing together at the edge of the dance floor.

Araminta’s stomach tightened.

“Your Grace,” she murmured, “why is she looking at us?”

His jaw tightened. “I… was not told there would be an announcement.”

His voice had lost its glacial composure. He sounded wary.

The Duchess of Redmere cleared her throat.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen, I have been entrusted with an announcement which will, I am certain, delight us all.”

A murmur of interest travelled through the ballroom. Araminta became acutely conscious that Wycliffe still stood beside her and that the duchess’s attention had not strayed from them.

“Following an understanding reached between their families, it is my very great pleasure to announce the forthcoming marriage of Lady Araminta Stratton…”

Araminta’s breath stopped.

No.

The room seemed to tilt beneath her. She turned towards the Duke, but he was staring at the dais, his face stripped of all expression.

The duchess smiled.

“…and His Grace, Edmund Blackwood, Duke of Wycliffe.”

 

 

Chapter Two

 

 

The ballroom erupted.

Not into the polite applause that ordinarily followed the announcement of a betrothal, but into startled exclamations and an immediate swell of whispers. Fans opened; heads inclined towards neighbouring shoulders. Within moments, astonishment had sharpened into avid speculation.

Araminta stood motionless. Every eye in the room seemed to have turned upon her.

Upon them.

The Duke, Edmund, apparently, though she had never called him by his Christian name and had no intention of beginning now, turned towards her. His expression was carefully composed, but she glimpsed anger in his eyes.

“Did you know?” she whispered.

“I knew discussions had taken place between your father and my representatives.” His voice was low and rigidly controlled. “I did not know anything had been settled, because nothing had been.”

“Then why has she announced it?”

“That,” he said, looking towards the dais, “is a question for your father.”

Her father.

The truth began to take shape. Lord Stratton knew the state of the family finances better than anyone. He would have recognised in the Duke of Wycliffe not merely an advantageous match but deliverance from ruin. Evidently, the possibility had been sufficient for him to act as though the matter were already decided. She was going to be sick.

“I need air,” she managed.

“For the moment, you need to smile.” The Duke offered his arm, his expression settling into one of impenetrable calm. “The entire ton is watching us. We need not furnish them with a greater spectacle than they have already received.”

“You expect me to pretend that I am pleased?”

“I expect neither of us to discuss private negotiations before five hundred delighted witnesses.”

People were already approaching, eager to offer congratulations and probe for particulars. The unexpected union of the Ice Duke and Lady Araminta Stratton was far too enticing. Society would dine upon it for months.

Lord Bramwell reached them first, his effusive congratulations doing little to conceal his delight at having witnessed so rich a piece of gossip. Lady Mallord followed close behind, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“Your Grace, Lady Araminta, how wonderful! How utterly unexpected!”

“Was it not?” Araminta heard herself reply. Her voice sounded strange; bright and brittle, scarcely her own. “I am quite overcome.”

“When is the wedding to be?”

“Where will you reside?”

“How long has the match been arranged?”

Questions assailed them from every side. The Duke met them with the smooth composure of a man trained from birth to withstand society’s scrutiny. “No date has yet been determined.” “The particulars remain under discussion.” And, whenever anyone addressed Araminta directly, “You must forgive Lady Araminta. The announcement has taken us both somewhat by surprise.”

Araminta smiled when required and offered replies that sounded suitably gracious, while her mind clamoured in protest.

This cannot be happening. I cannot marry him. I scarcely know him. I do not even like him.

Yet cannot had little place in the matter, did it? The announcement itself did not bind her, but someone had presumed to speak on her behalf. Her father, most likely. Who else could have given the duchess reason to believe that an agreement had been reached?

She had spent five seasons guarding her independence, refusing men who regarded marriage as ownership and preserving what freedom society permitted her. Now, without so much as consulting her, someone had placed that freedom in jeopardy before half the ton.

“If you will excuse us,” the Duke said, cutting smoothly through the surrounding chatter, “Lady Araminta requires some air.”

Before anyone could object, he guided her away from the crush of well-wishers towards the terrace doors. His hand at her elbow was firm but careful, and he released her as soon as they stepped outside.

The cold struck her face. The terrace overlooked the gardens, where a few lanterns had been set among the bare trees for the look of the thing and lit nothing at all. Behind them, the ballroom blazed with light, its tall windows crowded with indistinct figures.

Araminta crossed to the balustrade and gripped the cold stone with both hands.

Breathe. She needed only to breathe.

“Are you going to faint?” he asked from behind her.

“I do not faint.”

“That is most reassuring.”

She turned upon him. “How can you be so calm?”

“I am not calm. I am furious.”

“You conceal it remarkably well.”

“I was taught not to parade my emotions before an audience.”

“And I was taught that possessing emotions at all is perfectly acceptable.”

They stared at one another, anger sharpening the cold air between them.

“This is a disaster,” she said at last.

“The announcement was inexcusable.”

“The announcement?” She gave a disbelieving laugh. “Is that the only part to which you object?”

“No.”

“I do not wish to marry you.”

His expression did not alter, though something tightened about his eyes. “You scarcely know me.”

“I know enough.”

“How fortunate. I had not realised my character could be so swiftly and comprehensively assessed.”

She studied him for a moment. “Did you mean to offer for me?”

He hesitated.

“I had authorised inquiries,” he said at last. “And I had spoken to your father about the possibility of a match.”

The admission struck almost as forcefully as the announcement.

“You had selected me.”

“I had expressed an interest. That is not the same as concluding an engagement.”

“Yet your solicitors were already involved.”

“Because marriages between families such as ours entail property, settlements and obligations that must be examined before any offer is made. I intended the matter to remain private until we had both agreed.”

“How considerate of you to intend to consult me eventually.”

His jaw tightened. “I did not authorise what happened in that ballroom.”

“But you began it.”

“Yes.”

The blunt admission momentarily deprived her of an answer.

“Why?”

“Because I require a wife,” he said, after the slightest hesitation, “and I had reason to believe that we might suit.”

She stared at him. “We have exchanged scarcely a dozen civil words in five years.”

“None of them was particularly civil.”

“And from that you concluded we might suit?”

“I concluded that you would not bore me.”

“How flattering.”

“It was not intended as flattery.”

“No, I imagine charm would be too great an exertion.”

He moved to the balustrade but left a careful distance between them.

“For what it is worth, Lady Araminta, I intended to approach you properly. I did not intend for you to learn of the negotiations before an entire ballroom.”

“And what happens now?”

“Nothing need happen tonight.”

She looked back through the windows. Faces shifted beyond the glass; even from the terrace, she could feel the weight of their attention.

“You cannot truly believe that. By morning, all London will consider us betrothed.”

“London’s opinion is not a legal instrument.”

“But it may ruin a woman just as effectively.”

He did not deny it.

“If we repudiate the announcement,” she continued, “you will remain the Duke of Wycliffe, wealthy, eligible and mildly inconvenienced. I shall be the woman publicly offered to a duke and rejected before dawn.”

“I would make it clear that the error was not yours.”

“And society will be scrupulously fair once you explain?”

His silence was answer enough.

“My father knew that,” she said. The realisation left a bitter taste in her mouth. “He knew that once the announcement was made, refusal would cost me far more than it would cost him.”

“Yes.”

“And you still call this a choice?”

“It is a choice,” he said quietly. “But not a fair one.”

For the first time, there was no arrogance in his voice. Only an acknowledgement of the truth.

Her composure threatened to fracture.

“So that is it, then. I am to become the Duchess of Wycliffe. Live in your undoubtedly enormous and depressing house. Produce heirs. Fade obligingly into obscurity.”

“You make it sound like a prison sentence.”

“Does it not resemble one?”

Silence settled between them. From within came the muffled rise of conversation and the tentative opening notes of another dance. The evening was already resuming, as though her future had not just been announced without her consent.

“I would not ask you to disappear,” he said at last.

“Would you not?”

“No.”

“What would you ask of me?”

He looked out over the darkened gardens. “That we approach the matter honestly. If, after we have considered it, we decide to proceed, we establish terms upon which we can both live.”

“Live,” she repeated. “A stirring aspiration.”

“Would you prefer me to promise love and devotion before we have exchanged a single honest conversation?”

“I would prefer not to be discussing marriage at all.”

“As would I; at least not in this fashion.”

That qualification did not escape her.

“There can be no agreement without your consent,” he continued. “Whatever your father may have announced, I will not sign a settlement on your behalf or compel you to accept one.”

“How noble.”

“No. Merely accurate.”

She studied him. His posture remained rigid, his expression unreadable, but his earlier certainty had deserted him. For the first time, the Ice Duke appeared unsure of the ground beneath his feet.

“If my father’s actions have left me no tolerable alternative,” she said, “then I shall have terms.”

His attention returned fully to her. “What terms?”

“I will not become a decorative wife who sits quietly and produces heirs upon command. I have opinions, interests and a life beyond whatever use your title may find for me.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

“Would you not?”

“No. Had I wanted an obedient ornament, Lady Araminta, I should hardly have considered you.”

She could not decide whether she had been complimented or insulted.

“I want separate chambers.”

He did not so much as blink. “Agreed.”

“And authority over the household accounts.”

“Household expenditure, certainly. The estates are another matter.”

“Define the distinction.”

“You would have your own allowance and authority over the management of whichever residences we occupy. The wider estate finances would remain under my supervision, though the accounts would not be concealed from you.”

It was more than she had expected. More than most husbands would permit.

“I intend to pursue charitable work.”

“What sort of work?”

“I have not yet determined the particulars, but I should like to establish a school where young women might acquire practical skills.”

His eyebrows rose. “That is… ambitious.”

“Is that an objection?”

“No.” He considered her for a moment. “It is admirable.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “You would allow it?”

“I would support it, provided you allowed me to examine the plans before you bankrupted us both.”

“You are the wealthiest man in England. I should have to be exceedingly ambitious.”

“I begin to suspect you are.”

Despite herself, she nearly smiled.

Nearly.

“Then those are my terms,” she said. “Separate chambers, authority over the household and freedom to establish my school.”

“They are acceptable.”

“And nothing is to be signed until I have read every word.”

“Agreed.”

She searched his face, looking for some sign that he meant to placate her only until they returned to the ballroom. She found none.

“This does not mean that I have forgiven what happened tonight,” she warned him. “Nor that I have consented to marry you.”

“It means only that, should you consent, we understand one another.”

“A provisional truce, then.”

“Very provisional.”

“I suppose we must return,” she said. “Before the gossips decide we have fled to Gretna Green.”

“That would be a scandal.”

“As opposed to this, which is…”

“An inconvenience?”

“I was going to say ‘a catastrophe,’ but let’s go with your interpretation. It’s more diplomatic.”

They paused before the terrace doors. Araminta drew a steadying breath, lifted her chin and stepped back into the ballroom at his side.

 

***

 

 

Her sister Beatrice found her near the champagne fountain, pale and plainly distressed.

“Minta,” she whispered, catching Araminta’s hand. “Is it true?”

“So everyone appears to believe.”

“But did you agree?”

“Not yet.”

“Then who authorised the announcement?”

“That is precisely what I intend to discover.”

Beatrice glanced towards the Duke, who had remained a discreet distance behind her. “Was it Papa?”

Araminta tightened her hold on her sister’s hand. “I do not know.”

It was not entirely true. She strongly suspected the answer, but suspicion was not proof, and Beatrice looked frightened enough already.

“But you cannot abide him,” Beatrice whispered.

“That does appear to complicate matters.”

“This is not amusing.”

“No.” Araminta forced a brittle smile. “But if I do not laugh, I may begin to cry, and I refuse to provide the ton with further entertainment.”

“Lady Araminta.”

A footman had appeared beside the Duke and murmured something into his ear. Wycliffe dismissed him with a nod before approaching the sisters.

“Your father wishes to speak with us.”

“Of course he does.”

“You need not see him tonight.”

Araminta looked sharply at him. “You would refuse?”

“Postpone. It is often the more effective form of refusal.”

Beatrice looked between them, evidently uncertain what to make of this unexpected accord.

“I shall be quite all right, Bea,” Araminta assured her.

Her sister did not appear convinced, but she squeezed Araminta’s hand before withdrawing.

The Duke offered his arm. “Shall we discover what your father has done?”

Araminta placed her hand upon his sleeve. “Lead the way, Your Grace.”

They crossed the ballroom beneath the scrutiny of several hundred interested observers. She became uncomfortably conscious of the warmth beneath his coat and the steadiness with which he guided her through the crowd.

“You are gripping my arm rather tightly,” he observed.

“My apologies.”

“None are necessary. I am no more pleased with your father than you are.”

That startled her into looking up at him. “You know my father?”

“We have met at White’s.”

There was something in his tone that discouraged further inquiry. Before she could press him, they reached the small sitting room adjoining the ballroom.

Lord Stratton awaited them inside, wearing the expression of a man struggling to conceal his triumph. Beside him stood an elderly gentleman Araminta recognised as the Duke’s solicitor and a younger man whose resemblance to Wycliffe suggested some familial connection.

“Araminta! Your Grace!” Her father beamed. “Wonderful news. Come, let us settle the arrangements.”

Araminta felt the Duke’s arm tense beneath her hand.

“What arrangements?” she asked.

Her father’s smile faltered. “Why, the settlement, the wedding. Everything that follows an engagement.”

“There is no engagement,” Wycliffe said.

The room fell silent.

Lord Stratton stared at him. “But the announcement…”

“Was made without Lady Araminta’s consent or my authorisation.” His voice remained perfectly courteous, which somehow made it more formidable. “Until she agrees to the match, there is nothing to settle.”

“Minta understands the necessity…”

“I understand,” Araminta interrupted, “that my future has been announced before half the ton without anyone troubling to consult me.”

Her father flushed. “I acted in the family’s best interests, my dear.”

“Did you?”

“Perhaps,” the Duke interposed, “Lady Araminta has endured enough for one evening. Any discussion of settlements can wait until tomorrow.”

“But Cornwell is already here, and the preliminary papers…”

“Tomorrow, Lord Stratton.”

The quiet finality of the words silenced him.

The Duke turned to Araminta. “Would you prefer to return to the ballroom or retire for the evening?”

It was the first time anyone had asked what she preferred since the Duchess ascended the dais.

“I should like to go home.”

“Of course. My carriage is at your disposal. Lady Beatrice may accompany you.”

He arranged the matter before her father could object and escorted the sisters through the ballroom. His presence discouraged even the most determined well-wishers from approaching.

When his carriage arrived, he handed Beatrice inside before offering Araminta his hand.

“I shall call tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Nothing will be signed unless you have read and accepted it.”

“Assuming I agree to read it at all.”

“Assuming that,” he conceded.

The door closed between them. Through the window, Araminta watched him step back, his expression once more unreadable.

The announcement did not bind her. She knew that.

Yet as the carriage carried her away, with society’s whispers following behind and her father’s eagerness fixed in her memory, freedom had never felt more precarious.

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

“You owe how much?”

Araminta’s voice carried through the breakfast room of the Stratton townhouse, a room that had once been elegantly appointed and now bore the quiet marks of genteel poverty. The wallpaper had faded around the spaces where paintings had been removed and sold. The silver service had been replaced with plate. Even the curtains appeared exhausted by the effort of maintaining respectability.

Her father would not meet her eyes. He sat hunched over his untouched breakfast like a man awaiting sentence.

“Forty thousand pounds,” he repeated miserably.

Araminta sank into the nearest chair. Forty thousand pounds. The sum was almost beyond comprehension; the sort of debt that swallowed estates and left behind nothing but scandal.

“How?” she whispered. “How is that even possible?”

“Cards, chiefly. Some unfortunate investments. The harvest was poor last year, and I thought I might recover the losses, but…” He gestured helplessly. “The matter escaped me.”

“Escaped you?” she repeated. “You have gambled us to the brink of ruin.”

Her mother sat at the foot of the table, her hands folded and her expression carefully composed. Lady Stratton had perfected the art of appearing serene while the world collapsed around her. It was a skill many aristocratic wives acquired: preserving dignity in the face of their husbands’ disastrous decisions.

Araminta wanted to scream. Or throw something. Possibly both.

“The announcement last night,” she said slowly. “That is why you arranged it.”

Her father had the grace to look ashamed. “There had already been discussions concerning a possible alliance with Wycliffe. When his representatives learnt the extent of our financial difficulties…”

“You accepted on my behalf.”

“I secured an advantageous future for you.”

“You announced my engagement to a man I scarcely know without first asking whether I wished to marry him.”

“I knew you would object before you understood the necessity.”

“So you ensured that half the ton heard of it before I did.”

Silence followed, broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock, another possession that had escaped being sold, perhaps because it kept such unreliable time.

“Without this marriage,” her father said at last, “we shall lose everything. The estate, this house, Beatrice’s dowry. Your mother will be left with almost nothing.”

“And Wycliffe?”

“His proposed settlement would discharge the debts and preserve the estate.”

There it was.

“You offered him your daughter in exchange for forty thousand pounds.”

“I saved this family!” His voice cracked. “Do you imagine I am proud of the necessity?”

“I imagine you ought to have considered your family before gambling away its future.”

“Araminta.” Her mother’s voice was soft but firm. “That is enough.”

“Is it? Father has placed me before the whole of society as Wycliffe’s intended because he could not manage his cards, and I am expected to accept it calmly?”

“The Duke of Wycliffe is an excellent match,” her mother replied. “Wealthy, titled and respectable. You might fare far worse.”

“At least with worse I might have been consulted.”

Araminta rose so abruptly that her chair scraped across the floor. She needed air; anything beyond that room with its faded gentility, her father’s shame and her mother’s crushing practicality.

“Where are you going?” her father asked.

“Out.”

“Wycliffe is calling at two to discuss the settlement.”

“Then you may discuss it without me. You have managed every other part of the arrangement without my assistance.”

She reached the entrance hall before Beatrice intercepted her.

“Minta, wait.”

“Not now, Bea.”

“Please.”

Her sister’s eyes were red-rimmed. Araminta stopped and drew a steadying breath. Whatever their father had done, Beatrice did not deserve her anger.

“Are you going to marry him?” Beatrice asked.

“What would you have me do?”

“Refuse.”

Araminta set down the pen. “And watch the estate pass to our creditors? Leave Mother dependent upon relations who scarcely acknowledge us? Sacrifice your dowry along with everything else?”

“I do not care about my dowry.”

“You might when the absence of it determines the course of your life,” Araminta said.

“There must be another way.”

“If there were, Father would surely have seized upon it before offering me to Wycliffe.”

Beatrice flinched.

Araminta softened and took her hand. “I shall not consent to anything until I have read every term. Whatever happens, I will not allow this marriage to erase me.”

“Eleanor did not believe hers would.”

Their eldest sister’s name struck with familiar force. Eleanor had married for love at nineteen and died in childbirth scarcely two years later, leaving behind a grieving husband who had remarried within six months.

“I am not Eleanor,” Araminta said. “And Wycliffe will understand that before I agree to anything.”

Beatrice’s expression remained troubled. “He seems so terribly controlled.”

“Then he may exercise that control upon himself. He shall not exercise it upon me.”

“Minta…”

“I need to walk. I shall return before two.”

She left before Beatrice could protest further, accompanied at a discreet distance by one of the maids. The Stratton townhouse stood in a respectable but unfashionable quarter, the sort of neighbourhood to which old families retreated when they could no longer afford to display their decline elsewhere.

Araminta walked without any destination in mind. Forty thousand pounds. A sum so vast it scarcely seemed real, yet every step carried her back to the same conclusion: her family’s security now depended upon her marrying a man she barely knew.

She had always understood that marriage among their class was a species of business. Love was a luxury few could afford. Yet she had secretly hoped to find someone who saw her as more than a womb, a lineage and a convenient signature upon a settlement.

Foolish.

By the time she returned, it was nearly two o’clock. The Duke’s carriage already stood outside the house, its black lacquer gleaming and the Wycliffe crest prominent upon the door. It was less a conveyance than a proclamation.

For one fleeting moment, she considered walking past.

Then she climbed the steps. Whatever else Araminta Stratton might be, she was not a coward.

 

***

 

The drawing-room door stood ajar. From within came her father’s ingratiating tones, another man’s easier voice and, beneath them both, the Duke’s distinctive baritone.

She entered without waiting to be announced.

Three men rose: her father, Wycliffe and the younger gentleman she had seen with them the previous evening.

“Lady Araminta,” Wycliffe said. “You have arrived at an opportune moment.”

“Have I? How convenient.”

If he detected her sarcasm, he gave no indication of it.

“May I present my cousin, Viscount Ravensmere? James, Lady Araminta Stratton.”

The younger man bowed with considerably more warmth than his cousin ordinarily displayed. He was handsome in a more approachable fashion, with lighter hair, hazel eyes and an expression that suggested familiarity with smiling.

“Lady Araminta. My cousin is a fortunate man.”

“That remains to be determined.”

Ravensmere’s smile widened. “I like her already, Edmund.”

“I had gathered that.”

Ravensmere reclaimed his seat beside a sheaf of documents. “Has my cousin explained the proposed settlement, Lady Araminta, or has he merely expected you to accept whatever is placed before you?”

“James,” Wycliffe warned.

“What? I merely wish to know whether the lady’s interests have been considered.”

“They have.”

“Then perhaps she ought to see the evidence.”

Araminta extended her hand. “The lady would be interested to see it.”

Wycliffe passed her the papers. “These are preliminary articles only. Nothing will be executed until you have reviewed the formal settlement.”

“That is reassuring.”

She began to read. The provisions they had discussed the previous evening were present: separate apartments, authority over household expenditure and an acknowledgement of her intention to establish a school. The financial clauses were less comprehensible.

“What is meant by pin money?”

“An allowance for your personal expenses,” Wycliffe explained.

“Two hundred pounds a year?” Ravensmere leant across to inspect the figure. “Edmund, you cannot be serious.”

“It is a preliminary sum.”

“It is a parsimonious one. A duchess cannot dress and maintain her social obligations upon two hundred pounds.”

Araminta looked from one man to the other. “What sum would be customary?”

“For Wycliffe’s duchess?” Ravensmere said. “Five hundred at the least.”

“Five hundred is excessive,” Wycliffe replied.

“Then you should have married less expensively.”

They had begun arguing about her as though she were absent.

Araminta laid the papers upon her lap. “If the gentlemen have finished determining my requirements between them, I should like to contribute.”

Both men turned towards her. Wycliffe had the grace to look faintly abashed; Ravensmere merely smiled.

“What would you consider fair?” Wycliffe asked.

“I cannot judge what is fair until I understand what the allowance is expected to cover. I should also like to examine every page before agreeing to any figure.”

“Of course.”

“Your conduct thus far has not led me to assume that anything is of course.”

His expression tightened. “I never intended you to sign without reading the settlement.”

“Yet I was publicly announced as your intended before I had agreed to the marriage. You must forgive me if I no longer place great confidence in anyone’s intentions.”

Her father shifted uncomfortably. Ravensmere’s amusement faded.

Wycliffe inclined his head. “A reasonable objection. Take whatever time you require.”

Araminta returned to the papers. Most of the financial language would require explanation, but one provision immediately caught her attention.

“‘Reasonable freedom in pursuits of a charitable or educational nature,’” she read aloud. “What is reasonable freedom?”

“That your proposed school may proceed provided it does not interfere with your responsibilities to the household and estates.”

“Then it does not reflect what we agreed last night. I will not have the continuance of my work depend upon what you later decide is reasonable.”

“I must retain some protection against obligations neither of us can presently foresee.”

“And I must retain some protection against a husband who may find my independence inconvenient once we are married.”

Silence settled over the room.

“I do not wish to own you,” Wycliffe said at last. His voice was quiet and carefully controlled. “I want a wife, not a possession.”

“Then do not place language in the settlement which allows you to manage me as one.”

“What wording would satisfy you?”

“That I may establish and oversee my school, employ its staff and devote my own funds to it without requiring your permission.”

“Provided the money comes from your allowance or other funds placed at your disposal.”

“Agreed.”

“And prolonged residence away from the principal household should be discussed between us.”

“Discussed,” she said, “not forbidden.”

“Discussed.”

He looked towards Ravensmere, who had taken up a pencil and was noting the alteration in the margin.

“The clause will be revised,” Wycliffe said.

Araminta examined the remaining pages. “And the pin money?”

“Five hundred pounds,” he conceded.

Ravensmere sat back with a satisfied expression.

“I shall decide whether that is sufficient after the solicitor explains what it must cover,” Araminta said.

Wycliffe’s mouth moved almost imperceptibly. “Naturally.”

There was one matter no settlement could adequately govern, but after Eleanor, Araminta could not consent without raising it.

“If we marry, you will expect an heir.”

Her father made an embarrassed sound. Ravensmere suddenly found the papers intensely interesting.

Wycliffe’s attention remained upon her. “In time, yes.”

“My sister’s labour became obstructed. The surgeon believed he could save her, but not the child. Her husband would not permit him to act until it was too late.”

Something in Wycliffe’s expression softened. “I had heard that her confinement ended tragically. I did not know the circumstances.”

“Then you know why I must ask. If my life should ever be endangered by childbearing, I require your word that it will take precedence.”

“You have it.”

“Without condition?”

“Without condition. If such a choice were ever placed before me, your life would come first.”

She searched his face for hesitation or evasion and found neither.

“I hope I shall never have cause to test that promise.”

“As do I.” He held her gaze for another moment before inclining his head. “Are there other matters you wish to raise?”

“Not until I have examined the settlement with someone capable of explaining the legal language to me.”

“My solicitor will do so.”

“Your solicitor represents you.”

“Then you shall have one of your own.”

Her father stared at him. “Surely that is unnecessary. The expense…”

“I shall meet it,” Wycliffe said. “Lady Araminta should receive independent advice before signing.”

It was, perhaps, the first unambiguously fair concession anyone had made since the announcement.

“Very well,” Araminta said. “Once the amendments have been made and I have received that advice, I shall decide whether I am prepared to proceed.”

Her father’s relief dimmed at the reminder that nothing had yet been settled. Ravensmere, by contrast, appeared pleased.

“I shall have the revised articles prepared,” Wycliffe said. “My solicitor can recommend someone to advise you independently.”

“Someone who is not beholden to you.”

“Naturally.”

“How very efficient.”

“You say that as though it were a criticism.”

“Merely an observation.”

Ravensmere rose. “On that promising note, I believe my presence is no longer required. Lady Araminta, it has been a pleasure.”

He bowed to her, nodded rather less warmly to Lord Stratton and left the room.

Wycliffe gathered the papers with methodical care.

“I shall send word when the revised articles are ready.”

“I shall await them with breathless anticipation.”

His eyes lifted to hers. “Was that sarcasm?”

“Certainly not.”

For the briefest moment, something resembling amusement disturbed his composure.

He bowed and followed his cousin from the room. Araminta’s gaze happened to follow him, noting, purely by accident, the breadth of his back, the narrow line of his waist and the rather striking fit of his coat and breeches across his retreating figure.

She looked away a moment too late.

It meant nothing, naturally. A woman might observe that a man was unusually well formed without finding him the least bit attractive.

Wycliffe disappeared through the doorway, leaving her alone with her father and the unsettling impression that the conversation had not been wholly unpleasant.

 

***

 

Once the carriage door closed behind them, James settled opposite Edmund.

“Well,” he said. “Lady Araminta is formidable.”

Edmund looked back towards the Stratton townhouse. “Her father had no right to arrange that announcement.”

“No. Nor will she forgive either of you quickly.”

“I did not authorise it.”

Edmund’s jaw tightened. He had intended to approach Araminta privately, after the necessary arrangements had been made. Instead, Stratton’s impatience had cornered her before half the ton.

“I meant to give her a choice.”

“Then make certain she still has one.”

The carriage moved away. Edmund watched the house disappear from view, troubled by the memory of Araminta demanding authority over her own life as though she expected every man in the room to deny it.

Whatever else came of the proposed marriage, he would not become another gaoler.