My Sister Mocked My Spinster Status at 40 — Then the Coldest Duke in England Begged for My Hand
Part 2
Greg made a small, choking sound beside the fireplace.
He stammered, asking the Duke to repeat himself.
He gestured vaguely in my direction, utterly at a loss for words.
He bluntly stated that I was forty and a spinster.
He practically called me nothing.
The words hung in the air, unspoken but deafening.
The Duke’s gaze did not leave my face.
He seemed entirely unconcerned with Greg’s sputtering shock.
He was speaking to me and only to me.
He steepled his fingers, stating frankly that romance held no place in his proposal.
A sprawling household like his required a duchess capable of managing it with sharp intelligence.
His ideal partner understood the weight of duty, rather than a bride demanding constant entertainment.
His voice remained steady and void of inflection, presenting a series of cold, undeniable facts.
The reality of the business proposition hung heavily in the air between us.
The Winter Duke was simply negotiating a contract to hire a duchess.
He told me he had observed me at the ball.
He claimed I possessed a stillness and dignity that was rare.
He believed I would be suitable.
Suitable.
The word was as unadorned as his coat.
It was a statement of fact.
I looked at him, truly looked at the man who had everything and yet seemed to possess nothing.
I saw eyes that held a grief so profound it had frozen him solid.
He was offering me an escape.
I thought of my room at the top of the house.
I thought of Megan’s pitying voice.
I thought of the endless identical days stretching before me.
I had stopped hoping for a husband, but now a position had been offered.
It was a life of my own.
Greg continued to stammer, bringing up my age again.
The Duke cut him off, his voice clipped.
He stated the succession was secure through a cousin.
He leaned forward slightly.
He said his primary concern was finding a partner who understood silence.
I found my voice, and it was steadier than I expected.
I asked him why he chose me.
He considered me for a long moment.
He said that at the ball, everyone else was performing, but I was simply there.
He said I was real.
It was the most extraordinary thing anyone had ever said to me.
The Duke of Ashbury was offering me a gilded cage.
In its way, it offered more freedom than the suffocating prison of my current life.
I would be the mistress of my own home.
I would have a purpose that was not tied to my sister’s whims.
In return, he asked only for my quiet dignity.
I raised my eyes and met his gaze directly.
I accepted his proposal.
The aftermath of my acceptance was a storm of disbelief.
Megan burst into my room an hour after the Duke departed.
She shrieked that the match was preposterous and absurd.
She demanded to know if I had bewitched him.
I sat by my window, strangely calm.
She paced the small room, her eyes calculating.
She warned me he was cold and cruel, and that I would be miserable.
It was the first time she had expressed concern, but it rang utterly false.
She was indignant that the perpetual spinster had made a match far beyond her own.
The power dynamic between us had fractured.
Two weeks later, we were married in a small private ceremony.
Megan wept into a lace handkerchief for effect.
The Duke was a marble statue at my side.
We stepped directly into his waiting carriage.
The door closed, shutting out my old life.
We sat in silence on opposite sides of the wide seat.
I watched the familiar streets slide by, giving way to the countryside.
I was on my way to his sprawling estate in the north.
I was heading into a new life and a new silence.
What had I really married into?
