My Cynical Duke Offered Me A Fake Marriage — And Then The Trap Snapped Shut
Part 2
When the carriage lurched and his calloused hand clamped around my arm in the dark, I felt a terrifying spark.
I stared down at the documents resting on my lap.
The thick parchment felt impossibly heavy.
Greg sat across from me in the dim carriage.
The shadows under his eyes looked like bruises in the flickering light of the street lamps.
He had just offered to solve every single one of my family’s problems.
He hadn’t made a grand, romantic speech.
He had simply handed me a pragmatic solution wrapped in a scandalous lie.
The stiffness of my new emerald velvet gown dug into my ribs.
It was armor bought with his money.
We had just survived dinner with his uncle Dan.
The older man had dissected my poverty like a specimen on a slide.
I had expected Greg to play the charming suitor.
Instead, he had leaned into our natural friction.
He had acted like a man captivated by a woman who constantly challenged him.
It was entirely backward.
It was incredibly effective.
Dan had watched us with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
He had searched for the lie in every sharp remark we exchanged.
He found nothing but genuine, crackling tension.
Now, hidden in the safety of the carriage, the performance was supposed to end.
But the air between us felt thick and charged.
Greg leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
He didn’t look like a duke.
He looked like a man carrying the weight of a crumbling legacy.
He told me he had read the timber yields from my original proposal.
He pointed out the over-logged ridges and the untouched southern valley.
He discussed building a stone thoroughfare to sustain my estate’s costs.
I was entirely disarmed.
He had treated my family’s shameful crisis like a puzzle to be solved.
The carriage hit a harsh rut in the road.
The violent jolt threw me sideways.
My papers scattered across the floorboards.
Greg reached out instantly.
His hand locked around my bare forearm.
His grip was tight and warm.
It grounded me against the violent sway of the cab.
My breath hitched in my throat.
He didn’t let go immediately.
His thumb brushed against the frantic pulse at my wrist.
I stared at his long fingers against my skin.
The cynical mask he wore for the world had slipped completely.
We were supposed to be staging a battlefield for his uncle.
But as I felt the heat radiating from his touch, the lines of our fiction blurred.
I looked up into his gray eyes.
I saw a raw, unguarded vulnerability that mirrored my own.
How could I convince the world we were enemies when my own heart was starting to betray me?
Part 3
Ninety-nine women had walked into Greg Croft’s estate with a dowry and left with a rejection.
He wasn’t just a duke.
He was a brick wall dressed in silk.
He turned high society into a graveyard of broken engagements.
Megan Lynfield didn’t come with a dowry.
She came with a bruised knuckle, a headache, and zero patience.
Gravel crunched beneath the carriage wheels.
It was a rhythmic grinding sound that vibrated straight into Megan’s aching shins.
The air inside the cab smelled of damp wool and old horse sweat.
The scent clung to the heavy winter cloak she had borrowed from her aunt.
It was too large.
Its stiff collar scraped relentlessly against her jawline.
She adjusted it for the fifth time.
Her bare fingers were stiff with cold.
She had forgotten her gloves.
It was a stupid, trivial mistake that made her feel absurdly vulnerable.
Greg Croft lived in a fortress of limestone and ivy.
It looked less like a home and more like a mausoleum.
As the carriage jerked to a halt, Megan pressed her thumb against her index finger.
She bit at a tiny strip of peeling skin until a sharp sting grounded her.
She wasn’t here out of romance.
Romance was a luxury afforded to women who didn’t have a ledger of debts sitting on their dining table.
She was here because society dictated that a formal audience with the Duke granted a family a grace period from their creditors.
It was an unspoken rule of the peerage.
If Oak Haven was considering you, the hounds backed off.
The heavy oak doors groaned open before she even reached the top step.
A footman with dead eyes ushered her inside.
The grand hall was drafty.
It smelled faintly of beeswax and old coins.
Brian Gable stood at the top of the stairs.
He looked like a man who hadn’t slept since the turn of the century.
The skin under his eyes was the color of bruised plums.
He instructed her to follow him to the study.
Megan thanked him.
Her throat felt tight and raspy.
As she followed Brian down a long corridor, a door opened ahead of them.
A young lady burst out.
She shoved a handkerchief against her nose.
Her shoulders hitched in silent, ugly sobs.
The scent of heavy cloying rose water trailed behind her.
Ninety-nine.
That made ninety-nine rejections.
Megan was number one hundred.
Brian didn’t blink.
He simply stepped aside.
He gestured towards the open door.
Megan stepped into the study.
The room was suffocatingly warm.
It was dominated by a crackling hearth and the overpowering smell of burning pine.
Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling.
They were stacked on shelves and piling up on the floor like architectural ruins.
Behind a sprawling desk of dark mahogany sat Greg Croft.
He didn’t look up immediately.
He was scraping the nib of a fountain pen against a blotter.
It was a maddeningly loud sound in the quiet room.
He didn’t possess the chiseled marble perfection the gossip rags claimed.
His jaw was covered in a shadow of stubble.
His dark hair was messy.
Ink stained his right index finger.
He looked exhausted, bored, and utterly detached.
He told her to have a seat.
His voice was a low, resonant baritone.
It dragged, lacking any inflection.
Megan sat in the stiff leather wingback chair opposite him.
Greg finally looked up.
His eyes were a muted flat gray.
He didn’t scan her face or look at her dress.
He looked at her the way one looks at a ledger entry.
He announced he had read the proposal forwarded by her father.
He leaned back.
He picked up a sheet of thick parchment.
He tapped the edge against the desk.
He listed the terms of the Lynfield estate in exchange for an alliance.
Megan held her breath.
She didn’t want to marry him.
She just needed him to drag out the process.
She attempted to explain the mutual benefits of the northern timber borders.
He stopped her with a single, heavy word.
No.
The word dropped into the room like a lead weight.
Megan blinked.
She asked him to excuse her.
Greg repeated his refusal.
He tossed the parchment onto a pile of similar rejections.
He wished her the best of luck in her future endeavors.
He stated that Brian would see her out.
He reached for his pen.
He was already dismissing her.
He hadn’t even let her finish a sentence.
The dismissal wasn’t just cold.
It was mechanical.
A hot, prickly sensation crawled up the back of Megan’s neck.
She looked at the top of his head as he began writing something else.
The sheer arrogance of it hit her hard.
The absolute lack of humanity stung.
She had spent three weeks agonizing over this meeting.
She had paced the floorboards of her crumbling house.
She had endured her father’s desperate, alcohol-laced rants.
She had practiced her exact cadence so she wouldn’t sound desperate.
When he handed her the same practiced dismissal, she didn’t cry.
She stood up.
She stepped across the desk.
She slapped him so hard his signet ring rattled against the mahogany desk.
He gave her thirty seconds and a no.
She demanded to know if that was it.
Her voice dropped a register.
It lost the polite society polish she had carefully applied.
Greg paused.
His pen hovered over the paper.
He looked back up.
A faint line appeared between his brows.
He stated he believed he was clear.
Megan accused him of not listening to the timber yields.
He replied that he didn’t care about the timber yields.
She demanded to know why he took the meeting at all.
Megan felt her hands balling into fists in her lap.
Her ungloved knuckles ached.
She asked why he took any of these meetings.
She pointed out he had rejected ninety-nine women before her.
She asked if he enjoyed it.
She asked if it made him feel powerful sitting behind his desk watching people beg.
Greg sighed.
It was a slow rattling sound.
He told her he was not obligated to explain his calendar to her.
He wished her a good day.
He looked back down.
Something inside Megan snapped.
It wasn’t a heroic, righteous anger.
It was an ugly, exhaustion-fueled rage.
The scratch of his pen grated against her eardrums.
The heat of the fire felt suddenly oppressive.
It was choking her.
She stood up.
Her chair scraped violently against the wooden floorboards.
Greg didn’t flinch.
His eyes flicked upward just in time to see her cross the short distance.
Megan didn’t think.
If she had thought, she would have remembered the social ruin.
She would have remembered the potential lawsuits.
She would have remembered the sheer scandal of assaulting a peer of the realm.
But all she saw was the bored, dismissive slant of his mouth.
Her hand swung in a tight, fast arc.
The crack of her palm against his jaw echoed like a gunshot in the stuffy room.
It wasn’t a delicate, theatrical slap.
It was hard, sloppy, and entirely unrefined.
The base of her palm caught his cheekbone.
Her fingers slapped across his ear.
Greg’s head snapped to the side.
The heavy gold signet ring on his left hand knocked against the mahogany.
He jolted back.
A profound, heavy silence crashed down on the room.
The only sound was the frantic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
Megan’s own breathing hitched in a sudden shallow gasp.
Pain flared instantly in Megan’s hand.
A hot, throbbing sting radiated from her palm down to her wrist.
She stood there.
Her arm was frozen in the air for a second too long.
Her chest heaved.
Immediate sickening regret flooded her stomach.
She lowered her hand slowly.
She curled her stinging fingers inward.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
She called herself a stupid impulsive fool in her mind.
Greg didn’t yell.
He didn’t jump up and call for the guards.
He stayed perfectly still.
His head turned toward the bookshelves.
Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he brought his hand up.
He pressed two ink-stained fingers against his cheek.
When he turned his face back to her, a distinct red mark was already blooming across his pale skin.
The outline of her fingers was stark against his jaw.
His gray eyes were wide.
The flat, dead look was gone.
It was replaced by a jarring, sharp clarity.
He looked at her, not with anger, but with profound, genuine shock.
He asked if she had just hit him.
His voice was very quiet.
The baritone was stripped of its usual smooth veneer.
Megan told him he wasn’t listening to them.
Her voice trembled, and she hated it.
She crossed her arms tightly over her chest to hide the shaking.
She dug her fingernails into the wool of her oversized coat.
She accused him of playing some twisted game.
She demanded the truth.
She demanded to know why he was collecting rejections like morbid trophies.
The door creaked open behind her.
Brian stopped dead in the doorway.
He took in the scene.
Megan stood rigid, breathing hard.
The Duke of Oak Haven was touching a bright red handprint on his face.
Greg ordered Brian to close the door.
He didn’t take his eyes off Megan.
Brian retreated.
The heavy oak clicked shut with a soft snick.
Greg stood up.
He was taller than Megan had realized.
His frame cast a long shadow across the worn Persian rug.
He walked around the desk.
His movements were slow, almost cautious.
The smell of his cologne became stronger as he approached.
It was bergamot, black pepper, and old paper.
Megan forced herself to hold her ground.
She wanted to step back to put distance between them.
But backing down now felt like conceding.
She tilted her chin up.
She met his stare.
Her hand still burned.
He noted her aggressive method of negotiation.
He stopped a few feet away.
Megan shot back that it wasn’t a negotiation.
Her voice lacked its earlier bite.
The adrenaline was fading.
It left a cold sweat on the back of her neck.
It was a wake-up call.
She told him he dismissed people without looking at them.
She told him he treated her like a nuisance.
She stated she was a human being.
She reminded him her family was starving.
She accused him of being unable to grant her thirty seconds of genuine consideration.
Greg studied her.
He looked at the oversized cheap wool coat.
He looked at her bare hands.
He noticed the rough cuticles and the slight tremor in her fingers.
He looked at the redness in her cheeks.
He dropped his hand from his bruised face.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
It was not quite a smile, but a break in the armor.
He told her she was right.
Megan blinked.
The fight drained out of her.
It left her utterly bewildered.
Greg repeated that she was right.
He turned away from her.
He walked toward a side table where a crystal decanter caught the flickering light of the hearth.
He admitted he hadn’t looked at anyone who had walked into his room for three months.
He pulled the stopper from the decanter.
The sharp sweet smell of amber brandy spilled into the air.
He poured two glasses.
The amber liquid splashed heavily against the crystal.
He turned back and held one out to her.
He ordered her to drink.
He observed she looked as though she was going to faint.
He joked that if she collapsed, Brian would assume he murdered her in retaliation.
Megan stared at the glass.
She didn’t trust him.
She didn’t trust the sudden shift in the atmosphere.
But the throbbing in her hand was a constant distraction.
Her knees felt dangerously unmoored.
She reached out and took the glass.
Her fingers brushed against his.
She felt a brief, startling warmth.
His skin was calloused.
It was entirely unlike the soft hands of the aristocrats she occasionally danced with.
She took a sip.
The brandy burned going down.
It left a trail of fire in her throat.
It settled warmly in her empty stomach.
She closed her eyes for a fraction of a second.
She let the alcohol steady her nerves.
Greg leaned against the edge of his desk.
He crossed his long legs at the ankles.
He took a sip of his own drink.
He winced slightly as the alcohol touched the side of his mouth.
He muttered that she packed quite a punch.
He rubbed his jaw again.
Megan apologized stiffly.
She admitted it was unseemly.
Greg corrected her.
He said it was the most honest thing anyone had done in his house since his father died.
He stared down into his glass.
He swirled the liquid.
The firelight caught in the crystal.
It threw fractured shadows across his waistcoat.
He noted she had demanded the truth.
She confirmed she did.
He ordered her to sit down.
He nodded toward the chair she had vacated.
Megan hesitated.
She sat back down.
The leather felt a little less cold this time.
She gripped the glass with both hands.
She waited.
Greg looked at the ceiling.
He took a slow breath.
He looked incredibly tired.
The heavy weight of the estate seemed to press down directly onto his shoulders.
He started by saying he didn’t enjoy the rejections.
His voice was barely above a murmur.
He insisted he didn’t collect them as trophies.
He hated every Tuesday.
He hated the smell of the perfumes.
He hated the trembling hands holding out ledger books.
He hated the tears.
Megan asked why he did it then.
She leaned forward slightly.
She pointed out no one was forcing him to hold court.
She reminded him he was a duke.
He answered to the crown, not the gossipmongers.
Greg gave a short, bitter laugh.
He explained he answered to a piece of paper locked in the royal archives.
It was his father’s will.
He took another drink, swallowing heavily.
The estate was encumbered heavily.
The wealth she saw was locked in a trust.
The terms of the trust were archaic and incredibly specific.
He could not access the principal capital until he was married.
Megan frowned.
She noted that wasn’t a secret.
Half the ton knew Oak Haven was looking for a bride.
Greg locked his gray eyes onto hers.
He agreed they knew he needed a bride.
But they didn’t know the second clause.
The marriage could not be purely transactional.
His father was terrified he would marry an heiress just to secure the funds.
His father added a stipulation.
The union had to be verified by the trust’s executor.
The executor was his uncle Dan.
His uncle loathed him and stood to inherit if he failed.
Megan’s grip on her glass tightened.
She asked how it was verified.
Greg spat the words as if they tasted foul.
His uncle had to be convinced that the match was genuine.
There had to be affection, compatibility, a shared spark.
He pushed off the desk and began to pace.
The floorboards groaned softly under his boots.
He opened the doors.
He let them come.
The daughters of earls, the merchant heiresses, the desperate, the ambitious.
Ninety-nine of them.
Every single one walked into his room.
They recited a speech their mothers wrote for them.
They smiled with dead eyes.
They offered dowries, timber, shipping routes, political alliances.
They treated him like a bank vault that needed unlocking.
He stopped pacing and turned to face Megan.
He asked how he was supposed to convince a cynical, greedy executor.
Every woman treated the interaction like a business merger.
If he married any of them, his uncle would see right through the farce.
He would declare the terms unmet.
He would dissolve the trust.
Oak Haven would go bankrupt.
Thousands of tenants would lose their homes.
He would lose everything.
The room grew quiet again.
Only the crackling of the pine logs could be heard.
The scent of smoke and brandy hung heavy between them.
Megan absorbed the information.
The contradiction of it all made her head spin.
He was rejecting them out of a desperate paralysis.
He was searching for a needle in a haystack of carefully rehearsed societal performances.
Dan’s smile widened.
A sound of triumph rumbled in his chest.
He reminded her of her own words about poverty breeding pragmatism.
Megan picked up the draft.
The ink was dark.
The signature was jagged and arrogant.
She felt the heavy silence of the library pressing down on her shoulders.
She thought of the cold, drafty halls of her childhood home.
She thought of the smell of cheap gin.
Then she thought of Greg.
She thought of the raw, violent way he had inserted himself between her and Tyler Finch.
She thought of his exhaustion.
She thought of the way he rubbed his ink-stained fingers against his bruised jaw.
She remembered the carriage ride.
She remembered the absolute unvarnished honesty in his gray eyes when he promised to clean up her father’s mess.
Greg was trapped in a gilded cage built by a dead man.
He was surrounded by vultures like Dan, who were simply waiting for him to starve.
Megan folded the bank draft in half.
Then she folded it again.
She told Dan he misunderstood pragmatism.
Her voice dropped into a low, steady register.
She held the thick square of paper up.
She defined pragmatism as recognizing a bad investment.
She accused him of wanting her to take the money to declare Greg in breach of the will.
He wanted to dissolve the trust, seize the principal capital, and leave his nephew bankrupt.
She stated he didn’t care about the sanctity of marriage.
She called him a parasite waiting for the host to die.
Dan’s face flushed a deep mottled purple.
He called her an insolent creature.
Megan snapped.
The aristocratic veneer shattered completely.
It revealed the street fighter underneath.
She leaned forward, mirroring his aggressive posture.
She declared Greg didn’t treat her like a transaction.
She pointed out that Dan did.
She explained Greg read her ledgers and saw the ruin of her family.
Instead of using it to control her, he used his own assets to shield her.
She stated that was not a corporate merger.
She called it a partnership.
She tossed the folded bank draft back onto the table.
It slid across the polished mahogany.
It came to rest against Dan’s silver cigar case.
She told him to keep his money.
Her voice was entirely devoid of fear.
She declared she was marrying the Duke of Oak Haven.
She threatened that if he attempted to block the trust execution tomorrow, she would ruin him.
She promised to stand before the House of Lords and detail his bribe attempt.
Dan stared at her.
The silence in the room was absolute.
It was heavy with the smell of old paper and the sharp tang of Megan’s adrenaline.
The older man’s eyes searched her face.
He was looking for the bluff, looking for the lie.
He found a brick wall.
Slowly, Dan sat back.
The purple flush faded.
It left him looking suddenly very old and entirely defeated.
He looked at the bank draft, then back to Megan.
He had demanded proof of a genuine, fiercely protective match.
Megan had just handed it to him, wrapped in barbed wire.
Dan muttered she was a terrifying creature.
Megan replied she learned from the best.
She didn’t break eye contact.
She ordered him out of her chair.
The fire in Greg’s study had burned down to glowing red embers.
It cast a dim, hellish light across the scattered books and ledgers.
The air was thick with the scent of pine smoke and the sharp bite of amber brandy.
Greg stood by the window.
He stared out into the pitch-black London rain.
He had discarded his coat and cravat hours ago.
His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar.
The sleeves were rolled up to the elbows.
They exposed the hard lines of his forearms.
He looked like a man who had survived a war, only to realize he had no home to return to.
The door clicked open.
Megan stepped into the study.
She wore a simple wool dress.
The expensive emerald velvet was packed away in her trunk upstairs.
Greg didn’t turn around.
He mentioned Brian told him his uncle paid her a visit.
Megan confirmed he did.
She walked toward the center of the room.
Her boots made no sound on the thick Persian rug.
She mentioned he brought a bank draft for fifty thousand pounds.
Greg’s shoulders flinched.
It was a microscopic tightening of muscle beneath his shirt.
He closed his eyes.
His forehead rested against the cold windowpane.
He assumed she was packed.
He offered to have Brian arrange a carriage to take her wherever she wished to go.
Megan stated she didn’t take it.
Greg froze.
He turned around slowly.
The embers caught the deep exhaustion etched into the lines around his mouth.
He asked what she said.
Megan repeated she told him to keep his money.
She stopped a few feet away from the heavy mahogany desk.
She added she threatened to ruin him in front of the House of Lords if he didn’t sign the trust execution.
Greg stared at her.
His gray eyes were wide.
He processed the words.
He walked over to the desk.
His movements were stiff.
He picked up a thick stack of vellum parchment bound in red ribbon.
The wax seal of the Oak Haven Executor was pressed heavily into the bottom corner.
Greg stated he signed it.
His voice was entirely hollow.
He explained he sent it over by courier an hour ago.
The trust was unlocked.
The estate was secure.
Megan concluded they won.
She felt a strange twisting pain in her chest.
The victory felt entirely like a funeral.
Greg set the documents down.
He picked up a smaller unsealed envelope.
He held it out to her.
He explained he went to Chancery Lane today.
He confirmed her father’s debts were completely liquidated.
The deeds to her estate were clear.
He offered the envelope as proof.
Megan took the envelope.
Her fingers brushed his.
He pulled back immediately.
He put physical distance between them.
He told her she was free.
His voice dropped to a rough whisper.
He stated the farce was over.
He said she didn’t have to marry a cynical, exhausted man she despised.
He reminded her she had her home back and her life.
Megan stared down at the envelope.
This was the moment she had fantasized about for three years.
It was absolute financial freedom.
But the paper felt cold and meaningless in her hands.
She looked up at Greg.
He had retreated behind the brick wall.
He locked himself away inside his limestone fortress.
He refused to look at her as anything other than a successfully closed ledger.
Megan quietly stated he sold his mother’s hunting lodge.
Greg’s jaw tightened.
He argued it was an asset.
He said it was the fastest way to secure the capital before the trust unlocked.
Megan interrupted, taking a step closer.
She pointed out he didn’t know if Dan was going to sign the release.
The anger was back.
It wasn’t the ugly, exhaustion-fueled rage from their first meeting.
It was a fierce, protective heat.
She accused him of selling his own property to pay her father’s debts before knowing if their trap would work.
Greg snapped that she shouldn’t be bound to him by a debt.
His control finally cracked.
He planted his hands on the desk.
He leaned toward her.
He confessed she had looked at him in the carriage with absolute terror.
He realized he was becoming exactly the kind of monster his uncle was.
He wanted her to have a choice.
He wanted her to be able to walk away.
Megan breathed that he was an idiot.
She dropped the envelope.
It hit the mahogany desk with a soft slide.
She didn’t stop moving.
She stepped around the desk.
She invaded his space.
It was exactly as he had done to her on the dance floor.
Greg straightened up.
His eyes darted to her face, confused and entirely disarmed.
Megan reached up.
She didn’t swing her hand in a tight, fast arc.
Instead, she pressed her palm gently against the exact spot on his jaw where she had struck him a week ago.
Her fingers traced the faint shadow of his stubble.
His skin was burning hot.
Greg inhaled sharply.
His chest expanded.
His hands hovered uselessly at his sides as if he was afraid to touch her.
Megan whispered that ninety-nine women came into the room and offered a business merger.
She reminded him she came in and demanded the truth.
She looked up into his fractured gray eyes.
She promised to give him the truth in return.
She stepped closer.
The wool of her dress brushed against his trousers.
She confessed she didn’t despise him.
She stated she despised the world that forced them to play this game.
But she didn’t despise him.
She declared she was not leaving.
Greg looked down at her.
The last remnants of his cynical armor shattered into dust.
He brought his hands up.
He gripped her waist just as tightly as he had at the ball.
But this time there was no audience.
There was no performance.
He buried his face in the crook of her neck.
He let out a long, ragged breath.
It sounded like a man who had finally stopped drowning.
He murmured against her skin to make him a proposal.
His voice was thick with raw, unchecked emotion.
Megan smiled.
She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders.
She pulled him against her.
The smell of pine smoke and bergamot surrounded her.
For the first time in her life, she felt entirely safe.
She whispered for him to marry her.
He said yes.
THE END
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Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. If you would like to share your story, please send it to [email protected].
