"I am a man of direct action, Huntington," Arthur said, standing in the center of the room. "I will not waste your time. I have made my decision regarding my future."
Margaret let out a tiny, breathless squeak. Clara lowered her head, ready to accept.
"I am prepared to offer you £50,000 to settle your debts," Arthur said.
Lord Huntington's knees gave out. He had to grab the back of a chair to stay upright. "Fifty... Your Grace, my God..."
"In exchange," Arthur continued, his voice echoing in the silent room, "I ask for your daughter's hand in marriage to become the Duchess of Ashborne."
"Yes!" Margaret cried out, practically shoving Clara forward. "Yes, a thousand times yes! Clara, go to him!"
Clara took a step forward, a radiant smile breaking across her face.
"Stop," Arthur commanded.
Clara froze. The entire room went dead silent.
Arthur looked past the golden child, past the weeping mother and the stunned father. His gaze locked onto the shadows by the drapes.
"I wasn't asking for Clara," Arthur said. He walked past the prettiest girl in the county without a second glance. He stopped in front of Norah, holding out his hand. "Miss Eleanora," Arthur said, his voice laced with that same dangerous, hidden warmth. "Will you do me the honor?"
Lady Margaret fainted. Lord Huntington began to stammer incoherently. Clara just stared, her perfect mouth hanging open in shock.
Norah looked at the hand offered to her—a hand that promised an escape, a challenge, and a terrifying new world. She slowly brought her hand from behind her back and placed it in his.
"Yes," Norah said, her voice steady and clear. "I will."
Arthur's fingers tightened around hers. A small, victorious smile touched his lips. The transaction was complete; the fallout was just beginning.
The smell of burnt feathers and bitter ammonia flooded the drawing room. Lady Margaret gasped, batting away the vial of smelling salts Lord Huntington held under her nose. She blinked, her gaze darting wildly around the room until it locked onto Norah. The shock on her mother's face warped instantly into a sneer of pure, desperate denial.
"It is a misunderstanding!" Margaret gasped, clawing her way up the upholstery of the sofa. "Your Grace, you have confused their names. Clara is the eldest—well, practically! Norah is... Norah is not meant for society!"
Arthur didn't drop Norah's hand. He turned his head slowly, his expression freezing over. "I am perfectly aware of who I am speaking to, Lady Margaret. I do not make mistakes regarding my own future."
"But Clara—"
"Clara will have a dowry," Arthur interrupted, his voice cutting through the hysterics like a steel blade. "I am placing £10,000 in a secure trust for her. It is enough to secure a respectable match in London next season."
He looked at Lord Huntington, who was sweating profusely into his collar. "The remaining 40,000 will clear your estate's debts. However, the capital will be managed by my solicitors. I will not have my money thrown at card tables or squandered on bad investments. Your butcher will be paid. Your tailor will be paid. Your creditors will answer to me. Are my terms understood?"
Lord Huntington opened and closed his mouth like a suffocating fish. He looked at the vast, intimidating fortune standing in his drawing room, and then he looked at his unkempt, quiet daughter. "Yes. Yes, Your Grace, completely understood."
Norah stood perfectly still. Her hand was still engulfed in Arthur's. His skin was warm; it was the only warm thing in the entire freezing house.
"Pack your trunks, Norah," Arthur said quietly, turning his attention back to her. "We leave for Ashborne in the morning. We will be married by special license on Friday."
He didn't wait for her to agree. He bowed sharply to the room and walked out.
That night, Norah's bedroom was quiet. She didn't own enough to require a trunk. A single battered valise sat on her narrow bed containing three plain dresses, a handful of undergarments, and a worn pair of boots.
The door clicked open. Clara stood on the threshold, a silver candelabra in her hand. Without her practiced smile, she looked startlingly young. She was 18, but right now, wrapped in a heavy dressing gown, she looked 12.
"May I?" Clara whispered.
Norah nodded. She resumed folding a gray woolen shawl.
Clara set the candles on the washstand and sat on the edge of the bed. She stared at the floorboards for a long time. "Mother is tearing the upholstery in her sitting room," Clara said softly. "She says you bewitched him. Or that you cornered him in the library and trapped him in a compromise."
"Do you believe her?" Norah asked, not pausing in her folding.
Clara looked up. Her blue eyes were wide and remarkably clear. "No. I saw the way he looked at you at dinner. He looked at you the way Father looks at a winning racehorse."
Norah paused, a dry laugh escaping her throat. "How romantic."
"It is better than how he looked at me," Clara admitted, her voice trembling slightly. "He looked at me like I was a remarkably dull piece of furniture. Norah, he terrifies me."
"He doesn't terrify me," Norah said.