She Kissed Him In Front Of Everyone To Save Him — Not Knowing That She Had Just Saved The Richest Duke
Chapter 8
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She looked up. "This is a transaction.""The most successful marriages usually are." Alistair reached into his coat again and produced a gold pen and a small, leather-bound ledger. He uncapped the pen. "Name your terms."Lydia didn’t hesitate. "My sister. She is a widow. Her pension is nothing. If I do this, if I step into the firing line of the ton as your wife, she is to be taken care of. A house of her own. An income that guarantees she will never have to look at a ledger again."Margaret let out a choked gasp. "Lydia, no! You cannot sell yourself for—""Quiet, Meg," Lydia said, not breaking eye contact with the Duke. "Those are my terms."Alistair didn’t blink. He dragged the pen across a blank page, the scratch of the nib loud in the quiet room. He tore the page out and slid it across the table. Lydia looked down. The sum written in sharp, slanting black ink was astronomical. It was enough to buy a country estate and staff it for 50 years. It was more money than her mind could comfortably comprehend."Is that sufficient?" Alistair asked.Lydia swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. She pushed the paper toward Margaret without looking at it again. "Yes," Lydia said, her voice barely a whisper."Excellent." Alistair stood up. He seemed to consume the entire room when he was on his feet. He picked up his hat. "The carriage is waiting. We are expected at Lambeth Palace in an hour. Have your maid pack whatever you wish to keep, though I suggest leaving the wardrobe. It will be replaced.""An hour?" Lydia stood, her knees shaking in defiance of her steady voice. "You expect me to marry you in an hour?""The scandal sheets hit the streets at dawn," Alistair said, his hand on the brass doorknob. His eyes were dark, serious, and entirely uncompromising. "By sunset, they will be printing the retraction. You are not a ruined spinster, Lydia. You are the Duchess of Westmorland. Act accordingly."He walked out. The front door clicked shut.Lydia stood in the middle of the faded rug, the red wax of the license glaring at her. She had saved a stranger, and the stranger had just bought her life.The Archbishop of Canterbury smelled of peppermint and ancient dust. He read the vows with the weary speed of a man who had been heavily bribed to skip his afternoon nap.Lydia stood in the cold, echoing chapel of Lambeth Palace, wearing her best and only walking dress of faded navy wool. Beside her, Alistair was a wall of black broadcloth and silent authority. When he took her hand to slide the heavy gold band onto her finger, his skin was surprisingly warm. His grip was firm, anchoring her to the stone floor when she felt entirely unmoored.There was no kiss. The Archbishop pronounced them man and wife. Alistair signed the registry with a sharp, aggressive flourish, and it was done.Lydia was a duchess. She felt exactly the same, only vastly more terrified.