He placed his hand firmly on the small of her back. The heat of his palm bled through her thin coat; it was a grounding force, propelling her forward up the steps.
The massive oak doors opened before they even reached them. The entry hall was cavernous, lined with marble and grim-faced portraits of previous dukes. A line of staff, at least 40 people deep, stood in rigid, silent attention. At the front of the line stood a tall, severely dressed woman with a ring of heavy iron keys at her belt and a thin, balding man in a sharp black suit.
"Your Grace," the balding man said, bowing deeply.
"Harrison," Arthur acknowledged. He didn't stop moving, leading Norah to the center of the hall. "And Mrs. Croft. Gather the staff."
"They are gathered, Your Grace," Mrs. Croft said. Her voice was crisp and heavily starched. Her eyes darted to Norah, taking in the plain dress, the wet hair, and the battered valise the footman had carried in. A microscopic tightening of the housekeeper's lips communicated her exact opinion of the new duchess.
"Good," Arthur said. He turned, facing the assembled crowd. He didn't raise his voice, but it carried effortlessly off the marble walls. "This is Eleanora. On Friday, she will become my wife and the Duchess of Ashborne. Her authority in this house is absolute. It supersedes Harrison. It supersedes Mrs. Croft. If she gives an order, you will execute it as if it came from my own mouth. If you show her disrespect, you will pack your bags that same hour. Is that understood?"
A unified murmur of "Yes, Your Grace" echoed through the hall.
Mrs. Croft stepped forward, offering a curt curtsy to Norah. "Welcome to Ashborne, Madam. I have prepared the guest chambers in the east wing for you, as the primary suites are undergoing airing."
It was a polite deflection, a test of territory. Norah looked at Mrs. Croft. She felt the heavy silence in the room. She felt Arthur watching her from the corner of her eye. He wasn't going to step in; he had given her the sword, and it was up to her to swing it.
Norah stepped away from Arthur's side. She looked around the cavernous hall, feeling the temperature. "The east wing," Norah said, her voice steady, carrying the same calm, authoritative tone she used with the butcher in Oak Haven. "That would put me above the old kitchens, correct?"
Mrs. Croft blinked, startled. "Yes, Madam."
"The old kitchens have not been used in decades, meaning the flues are cold. The east wing will be damp. I am not sleeping in a damp room to accommodate an airing schedule that should have been completed prior to the master's return." Norah met the housekeeper's shocked eyes. "You will prepare the suite adjoining His Grace's chambers. If it requires airing, put three maids on it with warming pans immediately. Furthermore, the sconces in this hallway are burning four candles each. It is midday. Extinguish two in every sconce. We are running a household, Mrs. Croft, not a lighthouse."
Total silence fell over the hall. Harrison, the steward, covered his mouth to mask a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Mrs. Croft flushed deeply. She bowed her head, the starch completely knocked out of her. "Right away, Madam."
Norah turned back to Arthur. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, but her face remained impassive.
Arthur was staring at her. The hard, cynical edge that usually defined his features was gone; in its place was a look of pure, unadulterated fascination.
"Harrison," Arthur said, not taking his eyes off Norah.
"Yes, Your Grace?"
"Bring the estate ledgers to the library. All of them." Arthur offered his arm to Norah. "My future wife and I have work to do."
Norah took his arm. As they walked away from the stunned staff, Arthur leaned down slightly, his voice a low, rough rumble near her ear. "A lighthouse?" he murmured.
"You are wasting £20 a month in this hallway alone," Norah whispered back, her fingers tightening on his sleeve.
"Remind me never to argue with you about the budget," Arthur said.
They reached the top of the stairs, and the reality of their destination hit Norah like a physical blow: the suite adjoining his chambers.
She stopped. Arthur paused, looking down at her.
"Friday," Norah said, the word sticking in her throat. She wasn't talking about the ledgers anymore.
Arthur's gaze darkened. He stepped closer, crowding her slightly against the heavy oak banister. The smell of rain and sandalwood surrounded her.
"Friday," he confirmed softly. He reached out, his knuckles brushing lightly against her cheek. It was a fleeting, shockingly gentle touch. "Don't be afraid, Norah. I am a man of my word. We build this together, or not at all."
He dropped his hand and turned down the corridor, expecting her to follow. Norah took a breath, steeling her spine. She wasn't the quiet sister in the corner anymore. She was the Duchess of Ashborne, and she had ledgers to balance.
The chapel at Ashborne Hall smelled of old stone and lingering dampness. There were no flowers. There was no choir. There was only a sleepy local vicar, Harrison serving as a witness, and the heavy, undeniable weight of a contract being sealed before God.
Norah stood at the altar in a gown of dark slate silk. It was not a wedding dress; it was a practical garment, entirely lacking in lace, ribbons, or the frivolous netting her mother would have insisted upon. Arthur had ordered it from the village modiste the day they arrived, citing that a duchess could not walk the halls in frayed wool.
Arthur stood beside her. He wore a dark, impeccably tailored coat that made his shoulders look impossibly broad in the narrow, shadowed chapel. He didn't fidget; he didn't look away.
"To have and to hold," the vicar mumbled, clearly eager to return to his breakfast, "from this day forward..."
"From this day forward," Arthur repeated. His voice was a low, steady rumble that echoed off the cold stone walls. He looked down at Norah. His eyes were entirely unreadable, save for a fierce, intense focus that made her stomach tighten.
"For richer, for poorer," Norah said, her voice remarkably clear. It was a promise she understood perfectly. She had survived the poorer; she was ready to manage the richer.
Arthur took her left hand. His long, calloused fingers slid a heavy gold band onto her ring finger. It was an antique piece etched with the Ashborne crest. It was heavy; it felt like an anchor.
"I pronounce you man and wife," the vicar concluded rapidly. "You may kiss the bride, Your Grace."