I Agreed to a 30-Day Fake Marriage with a Cold Duke — Until He Broke His Own Iron-Clad Rule
Part 1
The solicitor’s office smelled of boiled cabbage and damp wool.
It was not a place a duke belonged.
David, the Duke of Blackwood, sat in a cracked leather chair with his silver-topped cane resting between his knees.
He was a man carved from marble and old money.
His jaw was a hard line, and his eyes the color of winter iron gave nothing away.
I was there because my world was collapsing.
My father had left behind a staggering amount of debt and a boarding house with a rotting roof.
If I did not secure three hundred pounds by the end of the month, my younger sister Brenda would be coughing her lungs out in a debtor’s prison.
Brian, the nervous solicitor, adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat.
He explained that David needed a temporary wife before his thirty-fifth birthday to secure his Highland estate.
If he failed, his predatory cousin Craig would inherit everything and sell the tenant farms to the highest bidder.
David assessed me from the doorway, taking in my drenched wool cloak and severe hair.
He did not want a weeping debutante looking for a fairy tale.
He wanted a pragmatist.
I stepped into the room and shook my umbrella out on the cheap rug.
I told him we could dispense with the pleasantries.
I had no reputation left to ruin, and he had a fortune to save.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and offered me five hundred pounds for thirty days of my life.
I swallowed hard, imagining a warm bakery in Boston and a real doctor for Brenda’s painful cough.
I accepted the terms.
Five, no physical contact beyond what was strictly necessary to sell the illusion.
I stared at his steel eyes and agreed to the bloodless marriage.
Moving into the Blackwood townhouse in Mayfair felt like walking into a sprawling, beautiful mausoleum.
The polished marble floors echoed hollowly with every single step.
A housekeeper named Mrs. Higgins unpacked trunks of heavy, restrictive velvet gowns that cost more than my father had earned in a decade.
Dinner that first night was a masterclass in suffocating silence.
We were seated fifteen feet apart at a sprawling mahogany table.
I ate my roasted pheasant with the practical efficiency of a woman used to scrubbing floors.
He watched my red, scarred knuckles over the rim of his crystal wine glass.
The charade truly began at the Devonshire Ball.
The ballroom was a sea of glittering jewels, cloying perfume, and venomous whispers.
Hundreds of eyes pivoted to stare at the nobody the Duke had suddenly married.
My instinct was to shrink, to apologize for my mere existence in their world.
David tightened his grip on my hand, creating a firm, unyielding anchor.
His cousin Craig intercepted us almost immediately, a predatory smile playing on his lips.
Craig purred his insults, asking how a simple country girl was adjusting to Mayfair.
I did not flinch or look away.
I stepped forward and offered a smile made of sharp teeth.
I informed him that in the country, men who lacked basic manners usually ended up with broken jaws.
Nearby ladies gasped, and Craig’s face flushed an ugly, mottled red.
David pulled me onto the dance floor, a slow, unfamiliar smile breaking across his face.
He shifted his hand, pulling me an inch closer than society allowed.
The heat of his palm burned through my velvet gown.
By the end of the second week, the exhaustion of the performance was wearing us both dangerously thin.
A violent thunderstorm rattled the windows of the townhouse.
I broke rule two and walked into his, oak-paneled study.
He was sitting by a dying fire, nursing a heavy glass of scotch.
Without my severe bun and heavy silk, I felt exposed.
I confessed that the storm reminded me of the leaks in our boarding house, of calculating lost pennies in the terrifying.
He poured me a glass of scotch, our fingers brushing as I took it.
He admitted he sat in the because he hated what he saw in the light.
The fragile peace we found that night shattered at a garden party three days later.
The air was muggy and thick with the scent of crushed roses.
We were arguing on a gravel path, far away from the suffocating crowd.
I refused to endure the subtle insults of the aristocratic snobs any longer.
David snapped that I was a highly paid employee and I needed to play my part.
The words hit me like a physical blow to the stomach.
My protective anger vanished, replaced instantly by a hollow, dead exhaustion.
I wrapped my arms around myself and whispered that I would not forget my place again.
Panic spiked visibly in his chest as I turned to walk away.
He reached out and grabbed my wrist.
Before I could pull back, Craig stepped out from behind a tall hedge with a notorious gossip on his arm.
Craig sneered at the distance between us, questioning if we even shared a bed.
He threatened to investigate my past and ruin us both.
David’s jaw clenched tight.
He did not offer a, polite denial.
He grabbed the lapels of my silk jacket and yanked me flush against his chest.
He crashed his mouth down onto mine.
It was not a sweet, rehearsed kiss.
It was a violent collision of frustration and a terrifying hunger that had been building since the day we met.
I fought him for three agonizing seconds before a low sound caught in my throat.
My fingers curled into his coat, and I kissed him back with equal aggression.
The gravel crunched as Craig backed away in shock, but David did not stop.
When he finally pulled away, his chest was heaving, and my heart was hammering against my ribs.
Rule five was dead, and I had no idea how to survive the ashes.
