"I'm afraid I lack the skills to produce toast, Miss Norah."
Norah's head snapped up. Arthur stood in the doorway. He was dressed simply in a white shirt, breeches, and boots. His cravat was missing, his collar open at the throat. Without his heavy coat, he looked broader, more imposing.
"Your Grace," Norah said, startled. She shoved the ledgers instinctively, trying to cover the red ink that blared their debt to the world. "It is barely 6:00."
"I have an estate of 10,000 acres," Arthur said, walking into the room. He didn't bother waiting for an invitation. He pulled out a chair opposite her and sat down. "If I sleep past 5:00, money is lost."
He reached out and boldly pulled the top ledger toward him.
"Hey!" Norah snapped, grabbing the edge of the book. "That is private."
Arthur looked at her hand covering his on the leather binding. He didn't let go. "Your father owes £2,000 to the Bank of London. He owes another £800 to various tradesmen. You are mortgaged to the hilt, and your roof is currently held together by hope and tar."
Norah froze. She let go of the book and sank back in her chair. "You investigated us."
"I investigate any family I consider marrying into," Arthur said smoothly. He opened the ledger, glancing at her neat, precise columns. "What I didn't know was who was holding the dam together. Your father is a fool. I assumed he had hired a clever lawyer. But it's you, isn't it?"
Norah crossed her arms defensively. "I do what needs doing."
"You do the impossible," Arthur corrected. He tapped a finger against a page. "You managed to stretch a £50 yield into three months of household expenses. That isn't accounting. That is witchcraft."
Norah felt a hot flush creep up her neck. She wasn't used to praise; she was used to being told to get out of the way. "Are you mocking me, Your Grace?"
"Arthur," he said.
She blinked. "What?"
"If we are going to have this conversation, you can call me Arthur. We are alone. The pretense can end." He leaned back, folding his arms. He looked at her with an intensity that made her want to squirm. "Tell me about your sister."
Norah's jaw tightened. "Clara is exactly what she appears to be: beautiful, accomplished, kind."
"She is a peacock," Arthur said bluntly, "bred for a cage. If I put her in charge of Ashborne, she would weep at the first sign of a bad harvest and bankrupt me on silk curtains within a year."
"Then why are you here?" Norah demanded, her temper finally flaring. "If you despise us so much, why come at all? Go back to London. Find a duchess who meets your exact specifications of misery."
Arthur didn't flinch. He leaned forward, closing the distance across the small table. "I didn't say I despised you. I said I despised the charade." He paused, his eyes locked on hers. "I need a wife, Norah. I am expected to produce an heir, and I am expected to host political dinners, and I am expected to manage an estate that is growing too large for one man. I don't want a fragile flower who needs constant tending. I want a partner."
Norah's breath hitched. The room suddenly felt very small. "And you think Clara—"
"I don't want Clara," Arthur said.
The words fell between them like heavy stones. He reached out and gently took her hand. His grip was warm, rough with calluses from riding and working. He turned her hand over, running his thumb over the permanent ink stain on her index finger.
"I want the girl who waters the wine, calculates crop yields, and isn't afraid to tell a duke to leave her alone." Arthur looked up, his gaze piercing. "I want you, Norah."
Norah yanked her hand back as if she had been burned. "You are out of your mind."
"I am entirely rational. You need money to save your family from the debtors' prison. I need a duchess who understands reality. It is a perfect transaction."
"A transaction," she whispered. The word hurt, though she told herself it shouldn't.
"A marriage," Arthur corrected softly. "Built on respect. Not poetry, not illusions. Just us facing the world." He stood up. "I will speak to your father at 10:00. If you are opposed, you have 4 hours to tell me to leave. If you say nothing, I will make the offer."
He turned and walked to the door.
"Arthur," Norah called out, her voice shaking slightly. He paused, looking back. "I am not pretty," she said. It was a vulnerable, stupid thing to say, but it tore out of her throat before she could stop it. "I don't know how to be a society wife. I don't know how to charm people."
Arthur's eyes softened. It was a devastating look. "Norah, you are the most captivating creature I have met in a decade. Wear the ink stains. Let them stare."
He walked out, leaving Norah alone in the breakfast room. The tea was ice cold. Her heart was beating frantically against her ribs.
At exactly 10:00, the house was summoned to the main drawing room. Lord Huntington was vibrating with excitement, wearing his best coat. Lady Margaret was squeezing Clara's hand so tightly Clara was wincing. Clara looked radiant, a practiced, demure blush resting on her cheeks.
Norah stood in the back by the heavy velvet drapes, her hands clasped tightly behind her back. She hadn't said a word to Arthur. She had let the clock tick down.
Arthur entered. He looked authoritative, calm, and utterly impenetrable.
"Your Grace," Lord Huntington beamed. "To what do we owe the honor of this formal gathering?"