"I know," Clara whispered. She reached out, her soft, perfectly manicured fingers resting over Norah's ink-stained knuckles. It was the first time they had touched in years. "The butcher terrifies you. The roof caving in terrifies you. But men like him, you just stare them down." Clara swallowed hard. "I am glad it was you. I don't think I could survive in a house with a man made of stone."
"He isn't made of stone," Norah replied quietly. She thought of the slight smile he had given her over the turnip conversation. "He just doesn't have time for lies."
Clara squeezed her hand. "Survive him, Norah. Please."
"I am going to manage him," Norah corrected. She closed the valise and snapped the brass latches shut. "Just like everything else."
The carriage belonging to the Duke of Ashborne was a fortress on wheels. It was lined in dark plush velvet and smelled of leather, sandalwood, and expensive wax. They had been driving for 4 hours. The rain was lashing against the glass windows in violent sheets, turning the English countryside into a blurred gray wash.
Norah sat on the forward-facing bench. Arthur sat opposite her. They had not spoken since Oak Haven disappeared behind the tree line. Norah kept her hands folded tightly in her lap. She wasn't frightened, but she was intensely aware of the shift in gravity. She was no longer the invisible accountant of a dying estate; she was a piece of property transferring ownership.
Arthur uncrossed his long legs, drawing her attention. He reached into a leather satchel resting on the seat beside him and pulled out a heavy black book. He tossed it onto her lap.
Norah flinched as the weight hit her thighs. She looked down. It was a ledger. The binding was pristine, the pages edged in gold leaf.
"What is this?" she asked.
"Ashborne," Arthur replied. He leaned his head back against the velvet, watching her from beneath hooded eyes. "The tenant rolls, the agricultural yields for the past 5 years, the household expenses, and the mining profits from my holdings in the north."
Norah's fingers drifted over the smooth leather cover. "Why are you giving this to me?"
"Because you looked like you were preparing for an execution," Arthur said dryly. "I thought you might prefer to look at some numbers instead of the rain. And because you are going to run it."
Norah's head snapped up. "Run Ashborne?"
"The household and the local tenant disputes, yes. I have a steward, of course—Harrison. He is competent, but lacks imagination. He sees numbers as static things. You see them as levers. I noticed it in your father's books. You don't just record debt; you maneuver it."
Norah opened the book. The handwriting inside was sharp, aggressive, and perfectly legible. It matched the man sitting across from her. She scanned the first page, then the second. The numbers were staggering. It wasn't just a wealthy estate; it was a small empire.
"Your household expenditure on wax candles is absurd," Norah muttered almost unconsciously.
Arthur let out a low bark of laughter. It was a rich, startling sound in the confined space of the carriage. "Is it?"
"You are spending nearly £100 a quarter on lighting alone. Unless you are illuminating a cathedral every night, your staff is stealing from you."
Arthur leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. The space between them vanished. "Then you will catch them, Norah, and you will stop them."
He wasn't mocking her. His eyes were intensely focused, dark, and evaluating.
"You truly want me to manage this?" she asked, her voice dropping a fraction. "Most peers would lock their wives in a drawing room with a needlepoint hoop."
"I didn't buy a decorative piece for my drawing room. I bought a partner," Arthur said.
The bluntness of his words should have stung, but it didn't. It was honest.
Norah shivered. The cold from the rain was seeping through the carriage doors, and her thin wool shawl was entirely inadequate. Arthur noticed. He didn't ask for permission; he reached over, picked up a heavy, fur-lined lap robe from the seat, and draped it over her knees. His hands brushed against her skirts, lingering for just a fraction of a second before he pulled back.
"We stop at an inn in an hour," he said quietly. "You need a hot meal and tea. You are too thin."
"I ate what was left," Norah replied automatically.
Arthur's jaw tightened. A flash of genuine anger sparked in his eyes, but it wasn't directed at her. "I know. I saw your father's plate. I saw Clara's plate. I saw yours." He reached out and tapped the cover of the ledger resting on her lap. "You will never eat the scraps again, Norah. That is my vow to you. You are the Duchess of Ashborne now. You eat first."
Norah swallowed the sudden, sharp lump in her throat. She looked down at the ledger, hiding the sudden stinging in her eyes. Nobody had ever worried about whether she was cold or hungry; they only worried if she had finished the math.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Arthur didn't reply. He just watched her, the hard lines of his face softening in the dim light of the carriage.
Ashborne Hall did not emerge from the landscape; it dominated it. As the carriage cleared the iron gates, Norah pressed her hand against the cold glass of the window.
The estate was massive—a sprawling structure of gray stone and towering chimneys that looked more like a military stronghold than a home. It was flanked by ancient oaks and meticulously manicured lawns that rolled down to a dark, glassy lake. It was beautiful; it was terrifying.
The carriage pulled up to the sweeping front steps. Footmen in dark green livery immediately opened the doors, lowering the iron steps. Arthur stepped out first, ignoring the rain. He turned and offered Norah his hand.
She took it, her worn boots hitting the wet gravel. She felt ridiculously small standing next to him, dwarfed by the sheer scale of the architecture.
"It's built on a Roman foundation," Arthur said, noticing her wide eyes. "The south wing is drafty, the roof requires constant slate replacement, and the chimneys howl when the wind blows off the moors. Welcome home."