"Marry me, Your Grace." The words escaped Lady Cordelia Ashton before courage had time to abandon her. For a heartbeat, the vast library of Harrow House fell utterly silent. Across the room, Adrian Blackwell, Duke of Harrow, stood beside the tall window, dark against the fading London light. The fire behind him cast long shadows across the bookshelves, making the feared Duke look even more formidable than the rumors described.
He turned slowly. The movement was deliberate, measured, dangerous. "Lady Cordelia," he said quietly. "I must confess, I did not expect a young lady of the ton to arrive at my door alone." His dark gaze swept over her. No bonnet, no maid, no carriage waiting outside, only a pale girl in a simple muslin dress standing in the private library of the most scandalous Duke in London.
Cordelia closed the heavy door behind her. The lock clicked, too loud, too final. "I had no other choice," she said. Outside, evening rain whispered against the tall windows. The great chandeliers glowed softly above them, casting warm light across polished wood and leather-bound volumes. The room smelled faintly of smoke and sandalwood. It should have felt intimidating. Instead, it felt strangely safe.
The Duke of Harrow folded his arms across his broad chest. "And yet," he murmured, "young ladies rarely visit disgraced Dukes at dusk unless they intend to cause trouble." Cordelia lifted her chin. "My stepmother intends to sell me." His brow moved slightly. "Sell you?"
"To Lord Grimby," she said, forcing the words past the tightness in her throat. "A widower of sixty-two. The engagement will be announced in four days." The Duke did not interrupt. He simply watched, evaluating, calculating. "My father will not stop it," Cordelia continued quietly. "He has allowed my stepmother to arrange everything."
The Duke leaned one shoulder against the desk. "And this concerns me why?" Because no one else could help her. Because every respectable man in London bowed politely to Lady Ashton's influence. Because only one man refused to bow to anyone. "You need a wife," Cordelia said.
The Duke's mouth curved faintly. "That rumor is greatly exaggerated." "Your mother and brother are arranging another marriage for you," Cordelia replied calmly. "One you do not want." His smile vanished. Now she had his attention. She stepped closer, her heart hammering like a war drum. "If you marry me," she said carefully, "your family cannot force another match upon you."
The Duke's dark eyes sharpened. "And what exactly do you gain from this arrangement, Lady Cordelia?" She swallowed. "Freedom." For a moment neither of them spoke. The rain grew heavier outside, tapping steadily against the tall windows. The Duke studied her with a focus that felt almost physical.
"You realize," he said slowly, "that if we do this, society will believe you ran away with me." "I know." "You will be ruined." "My reputation is already being auctioned," she replied. A flicker of something passed through his expression. Not pity. Respect.
"You're either very brave," he said quietly, "or very desperate." Cordelia met his gaze without flinching. "Perhaps both." Silence stretched between them. The Duke of Harrow pushed away from the desk and crossed the room toward her. Up close he was even more imposing. Tall, broad-shouldered, severe in a way that made lesser men instinctively step aside. The kind of man society whispered about behind gloved hands.
He stopped only a step away. "You wish to marry a man London calls a monster," he said. Cordelia's voice softened. "I wish to marry a man who cannot be controlled." Something in his eyes changed then. Interest. Real interest. "And if I refuse?" "Then in four days," she said quietly, "I will belong to Lord Grimby."
"We leave for Gretna Green at dawn." Her breath caught. "You accept?" His mouth curved again, that dangerous gambler's smile. "You came to the only man in London who enjoys defying society," he said. He extended his hand, strong, steady, a pact. "Bring only what you can carry," he continued. "No servants, no luggage that slows us down."
Cordelia stared at his hand. This single choice would destroy her reputation. It would change everything. But for the first time in three years, she felt hope. Slowly, she placed her hand in his. His grip was firm, decisive. "Very well, Lady Cordelia," the Duke of Harrow said. His voice dropped lower. "Let us scandalize London together."
And somewhere deep inside his guarded heart, a thought appeared that surprised him. This girl was not merely desperate. She was dangerous because she had looked at the most feared Duke in England and had trusted him. Adrian Blackwell, Duke of Harrow, did not move for a long moment after Cordelia left his library. The side door closed quietly behind her. Then the house fell silent again.
He stood where she had left him, staring at the empty space beside the desk where she had been only moments before. A young lady, barely twenty, walking alone through evening streets to propose marriage to a Duke the entire town avoided. Adrian exhaled slowly. "Well," he muttered to himself, "that was unexpected."
He crossed the room toward the tall windows overlooking the darkening London street. Rain glimmered across the pavement beneath lantern light. His reflection stared back at him in the glass. Tall. Severe. A man society preferred to keep at arm's length. For four years, the whispers had followed him. Ever since the night he refused Lady Penelope Stanton before half of London's aristocracy, the scandal had been spectacular.
A duke publicly rejecting a marriage arranged by powerful families. His mother had nearly collapsed from humiliation. His younger brother had called him reckless. Society had called him worse. Adrian had simply called it freedom. Yet that freedom had come with endless pressure. Letters. Negotiations. New proposals pushed upon him by his family.
He had rejected everyone until tonight. Until a pale young woman with frightened eyes and astonishing courage walked into his library and offered him something no one else had ever dared to offer. A bargain. Not obedience. Not admiration. Equality. Adrian returned to the desk where a large map of England lay open beneath the lamplight.
His finger traced the long northern road past Yorkshire, past the border, toward Gretna Green. Two days of hard travel. Perhaps three if the roads turned poor. Fast enough that her stepmother would never catch them. His jaw tightened. Selling a daughter to Lord Grimby? The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Adrian had seen plenty of arranged marriages among the aristocracy, but there was something in Cordelia's voice when she spoke the man's name. Something cold. Something frightened. And he recognized that tone. It was the sound of someone cornered. He folded the map. "Well then, Lady Cordelia Ashton," he murmured softly, "let us see if you truly intend to change your fate."
Across London, Cordelia slipped back into her father's house through the servant entrance just as dusk deepened. The kitchen was empty. The staff were busy preparing dinner in the adjoining rooms. No one noticed her. She moved quietly up the narrow service staircase she had learned to use whenever she wished to remain unseen. Every creaking stair avoided. Every shadow memorized. Three years of practice had made her nearly invisible.
By the time she reached her small bedroom beneath the upper floor, her hands were trembling. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it. He had said yes. The Duke of Harrow had agreed. Cordelia pressed both hands to her chest, trying to steady her racing heart. Tomorrow at dawn she would leave this house forever. The thought felt both terrifying and intoxicating.
She crossed the room and knelt beside her bed. From beneath the mattress she pulled out a small wooden chest hidden carefully against the floorboards. It was the only thing her stepmother had never discovered. Cordelia slid the key into the lock. Click. Inside lay the few precious things that remained of her mother. Letters tied with faded ribbon. A delicate lace shawl. And a small painted miniature portrait.
Cordelia lifted the portrait carefully. Her mother's gentle smile gazed back at her. For a moment her courage faltered. "Forgive me, Mama," she whispered softly. "This is not the life you imagined for me." A tear slipped down her cheek. "But I cannot stay here." She wiped her face quickly. There was no time for weakness now.
From the chest she selected only three things: the portrait, two letters, and the shawl that still carried the faint scent of lavender. Everything else she left behind. Memories were heavy, and tomorrow she needed to travel light. Just as she closed the chest again, the bedroom door opened. Cordelia froze.
Her stepmother stood in the doorway. Lady Ashton entered the room with graceful, predatory calm. Her sharp eyes swept across the chamber. "Dinner is nearly ready," she said pleasantly. Then her gaze sharpened. "Lord Grimby will be visiting tomorrow afternoon." Cordelia's pulse thundered. "I trust," Lady Ashton continued sweetly, "that you will behave appropriately."
Cordelia lowered her gaze. "Yes, of course." Her stepmother smiled, but it was not a warm smile. It was the smile of a woman confident she had already won. "Do try to look healthier tomorrow," Lady Ashton added as she turned toward the door. "Men of Lord Grimby's age prefer women who appear strong." The door closed again.
Cordelia stood alone in the silent room. Her fingers slowly closed around the small velvet pouch now hidden in her pocket. Tomorrow at dawn, she would walk away from this house. Away from Lord Grimby. Away from the woman who had treated her like property. And toward a duke the entire world feared. Cordelia stepped to the window. Rain fell softly across the sleeping gardens.
For the first time in years, she allowed herself to whisper the words aloud. "I will be free." The streets of London were still cloaked in darkness when Adrian Blackwell, Duke of Harrow, stepped into the quiet courtyard behind Harrow House. Dawn had not yet broken. The sky was a deep indigo. The air sharp with the chill that came just before sunrise.
His carriage stood waiting beneath the archway. Two powerful black horses stamped impatiently against the cobblestones while the coachman adjusted the harness straps with efficient silence. Adrian inspected everything himself. Extra blankets. Travel provisions. Fresh horseshoes. No family crest on the carriage door. They would travel unnoticed. That was the only way this could succeed.
He folded his arms and glanced toward the empty street beyond the gate. She would come. Of that, he felt strangely certain. Yet time passed slowly. Five minutes. Then ten. The quiet began to stretch. Adrian felt the faint stir of doubt. Had fear caught her at the last moment? Had her stepmother discovered the plan?
Or worse, had she lost the courage that had brought her to his library in the first place? His jaw tightened. He disliked uncertainty. Then at the far end of the street, a small figure appeared. Running. Wrapped in a dark cloak. Adrian's shoulders eased. Lady Cordelia Ashton. She reached the gate breathless, pushing back her hood as she approached.
Her cheeks were flushed from the cold. Her pale eyes bright with determination. "I'm here," she said softly. Adrian studied her carefully. No jewels. No heavy luggage. Only a small velvet pouch clutched tightly in her gloved hands. "You are not followed?" he asked. She shook her head. "The house was asleep. I used the servants' stairs."
A faint spark of approval crossed his expression. "Good." He stepped aside and opened the carriage door. "Then we leave immediately." Cordelia hesitated only a heartbeat before climbing inside. Adrian followed and wrapped twice against the roof. The coachman snapped the reins. The carriage lurched forward. London began to fade behind them.
For a long time neither of them spoke. Through the window Cordelia watched the city slowly disappear. Grand houses gave way to narrow streets. Narrow streets gave way to open roads. Mist clung low across the fields beyond the city limits. Everything felt unreal. Only yesterday she had been trapped inside her father's house awaiting a marriage she dreaded.
Now she was fleeing north beside the most infamous duke in England. Adrian observed her quietly from across the carriage. "You are not crying," he noted. Cordelia glanced at him. "Should I be?" "Many ladies would." She turned back to the window. "I think I cried enough while living in that house."
Something in her tone silenced him. After a moment he asked another question. "Are you afraid?" She considered the truth carefully. "Yes." Then she added softly, "But I was far more afraid of staying." Adrian's dark gaze lingered on her. There was no melodrama in her voice. No trembling panic. Just simple honesty.
"Fear can be useful," he said. "It keeps a person alert." Cordelia smiled faintly. "You speak as if you are very familiar with it." Adrian leaned back against the seat. "Every man fears something, Lady Cordelia." "And what does a duke fear?" For a moment he did not answer. The road stretched ahead in quiet gray light as dawn slowly began to rise.
Finally he said, "Losing control of his own life." Cordelia studied him with new understanding. "I think," she said softly, "that is something we have in common." For the first time since their journey began, Adrian allowed the smallest hint of a smile. "Yes," he said. "I believe we do."
The carriage rolled northward as the sun slowly broke over the English countryside. Two fugitives bound by a reckless agreement. Neither of them yet realizing how profoundly their lives were about to change. By midday, the London roads had vanished behind them. Rolling countryside stretched in every direction. Fields washed in pale spring light.
The carriage wheels hummed steadily across the dirt road as Adrian Blackwell, Duke of Harrow, leaned forward to glance through the window. The sky had darkened. Rain would come soon. "Another hour," he said quietly, "then we stop to rest the horses." Across from him, Cordelia nodded.
She had spoken little since dawn. Not because she feared him, but because the world beyond London was overwhelming. She had never traveled like this. Never seen the countryside without walls or watchful eyes. Fields of barley rippled in the wind. A distant river flashed silver between trees. It felt enormous. Free.
And yet Cordelia's fingers remained wrapped tightly around the velvet pouch resting in her lap. Adrian had noticed. He noticed everything. "That pouch," he said suddenly. Cordelia looked up. "Yes?" "You haven't set it down once." Her hands tightened slightly. "It contains everything that belongs to me."
He raised an eyebrow. "Everything?" She hesitated, then slowly untied the ribbon. Inside lay three small items: a delicate lace shawl, two folded letters, and a miniature portrait. Adrian's gaze softened slightly. "Your mother?" Cordelia nodded. "She died when I was sixteen."
He studied the small painting from across the seat. The resemblance was clear. The same pale eyes. The same quiet strength. "My stepmother arrived six months later," Cordelia continued softly. "She said the house required order." Adrian leaned back slightly, listening. "At first she was polite," Cordelia said. "Careful. Charming."
Her voice changed. "But after the wedding everything became colder. Meals turned silent. Servants were dismissed. Rooms locked. Even the gardens were cleared because flowers were apparently wasteful." Adrian's jaw tightened slightly. "And your father?" Cordelia's gaze lowered to the portrait in her hands. "He avoids conflict," she said. "He always has."
A bitter truth. Adrian knew the type well. "Two weeks ago," Cordelia continued quietly, "my stepmother announced that Lord Grimby wished to marry again." Adrian's expression darkened. "He is sixty-two." "Yes." "And your father agreed?" Cordelia gave a small nod. "He never even looked at me."
Silence filled the carriage. The wheels continued their steady rhythm along the road. Adrian felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest. Anger. Not the loud kind. The cold, quiet kind. He had agreed to this marriage because it suited his purposes, but hearing her story shifted something inside him.
Cordelia carefully returned the portrait to the pouch. "My mother used to say something," she added softly. "What was that?" "That no woman should ever live where she is not respected." She met his gaze. "And yesterday I realized she would never forgive me if I allowed myself to be sold."
Adrian held her eyes for a long moment. Then he gave a slow nod. "Your mother sounds like a sensible woman." Cordelia smiled faintly. "She was." The carriage slowed. Adrian leaned forward and knocked once against the roof. Moments later it rolled to a halt beside a small stream beneath a sprawling oak tree.
The coachman stepped down to water the horses. Adrian exited first, then turned to offer his hand. Cordelia placed her fingers in his. When her boots touched the ground she swayed slightly. The long journey had exhausted her more than she wished to admit. Adrian steadied her instinctively.
For a brief moment, they stood closer than either expected. His hand still around hers. His voice quieter now. "You did the right thing leaving," he said. Cordelia blinked in surprise. "You believe that?" "I know it." Something warm flickered behind her ribs. No one had ever said that before.
Adrian released her hand and reached into the carriage, retrieving a small basket. "Bread, cheese, apples. Eat," he instructed. "We still have a long road before Gretna Green." Cordelia accepted the bread, but her gaze lingered on him. There was something different in his manner now. Less distance. Less calculation.
Perhaps he had begun to understand something. She had not come to him merely to escape. She had come to reclaim her life. And somehow, the Duke of Harrow had begun to respect that. They reached the inn shortly before nightfall. The road had grown rougher as the carriage traveled north, and a thin mist now clung to the surrounding hills.
A crooked wooden sign creaked above the doorway of the small roadside inn as Adrian Blackwell, Duke of Harrow, stepped down from the carriage. He scanned the area with the instinct of a man who trusted nothing too easily. A stable boy led a horse toward the barn. Two farmers lingered near the well. No one paid them much attention.
"Good." Adrian turned and offered his hand. Cordelia accepted it, stepping carefully onto the ground. The journey had left her weary, and the evening air felt colder than before. "Keep your hood up," he murmured quietly. She nodded. They entered the inn together.
Inside, the air was warm with firelight and the comforting scent of stew and fresh bread. The innkeeper looked up from the counter and greeted them with the easy indifference of a man accustomed to travelers. "Rooms for the night?" "Two," Adrian replied calmly. "And supper."
The innkeeper nodded and slid two keys across the counter without further curiosity. Moments later, a maid led them up a narrow wooden staircase. The rooms were small but clean. Cordelia's chamber contained little more than a bed, a washbasin, and a narrow window overlooking the road.
Adrian tested the lock on the door before stepping back. "You should rest," he said. "We leave before sunrise." Cordelia nodded, but she did not move. Instead, she remained standing near the center of the room, her fingers still clutching the velvet pouch. Adrian noticed. "What is troubling you?" he asked.
Cordelia hesitated. Then she spoke quietly. "What happens when we reach Gretna Green?" Adrian folded his arms. "We marry. The ceremony takes minutes. It will be witnessed and legally binding." "And after that?" He studied her carefully. "After that," he said, "we return to London."
Cordelia lowered her gaze. "As husband and wife?" "Yes." The room fell silent. The fire downstairs crackled faintly through the floorboards. Finally, she asked the question that had been sitting quietly in her heart since dawn. "And us?" Adrian's expression stilled.
Cordelia forced herself to continue. "This marriage began as a bargain. Protection for me. Freedom for you." Her voice softened. "But when we return to London, we will live beneath the same roof. Share the same name." She lifted her eyes again. "What will we be to each other then?"
Adrian did not answer immediately. He crossed the room slowly, stopping a few feet from her. Up close, the lamplight revealed the tired shadows beneath his eyes. He had not slept since their journey began. "Lady Cordelia," he said quietly, "I will not pretend to be a romantic man."
She said nothing. "I cannot promise grand declarations," he continued, "or poetry, or the sort of affection society expects from newly married couples." Her chest tightened slightly. "But I can promise you this." His voice grew firmer. "I will never treat you as your stepmother did."
He held her gaze. "I will never use you for advantage, and I will never force you into anything." The words were simple, but they carried a weight she had not expected. Cordelia felt the tight knot inside her chest loosen slightly. "You give me your word?" Adrian answered without hesitation. "You have it."
For a moment they simply looked at one another. Then Cordelia nodded slowly. "Thank you, Your Grace." Adrian inclined his head and stepped toward the door. "I will be in the room next to yours. Lock the door after I leave." He paused at the threshold. "Rest, Lady Cordelia."
The door closed softly behind him. Cordelia stood alone in the quiet room staring at the wooden door long after he had gone. The bargain between them remained intact. Yet something about his promise felt different now. Not colder. Not distant. Something steadier. Something that made the long road ahead feel less lonely.
Cordelia did not sleep. The small room above the inn lay silent, lit only by a thin stripe of moonlight that slipped through the narrow window. Wind brushed softly against the shutters, carrying the distant scent of rain. She lay awake staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow they would reach Gretna Green, where tomorrow she would marry Adrian Blackwell, Duke of Harrow.
The thought made her chest tighten. Not from regret. From uncertainty. And us? Her own question echoed again in her mind. What would their life be after this journey? A polite partnership? Two strangers bound by necessity? Cordelia turned onto her side, clutching the pillow against her chest.
He had promised dignity. Protection. Kindness. For most women in London that alone would have been considered a fortunate marriage. So why did part of her wish for something more? A faint sound came from the corridor. Footsteps. She held her breath. Then she realized the sound came from the room beside hers. The Duke. He was awake.
Without quite understanding why, Cordelia slipped from the bed and wrapped her mother's shawl around her shoulders. The hallway outside was dim and quiet. Adrian's door stood slightly open, lamplight spilling through the narrow gap. Cordelia hesitated, then she knocked softly. "Your Grace?"
The door opened almost immediately. Adrian stood there, still fully dressed. His dark hair slightly disordered as though he had been running his hands through it repeatedly. His eyes searched her face. "Lady Cordelia." His voice was lower than usual. "Is something wrong?" She shook her head. "I could not sleep."
He stepped aside. "Then come in. The corridor's cold." Cordelia entered slowly. The room looked much like hers. Small bed. Wooden chair. Narrow window. But the air felt different. Warmer, perhaps because he was there. Adrian leaned against the wall with folded arms. "What troubles you?"
Cordelia clasped her hands together. "I am afraid." "Of tomorrow?" "Yes. And of what comes after." Adrian's gaze softened slightly. "Explain." She hesitated, feeling foolish now that the words were about to leave her mouth. Then she forced herself to say them. "When we return to London, you may discover you have made a terrible mistake."
His brow furrowed. "Why would I think that?" Cordelia looked down at the floor. "I'm not important." The confession came out quietly. "I have no fortune. No powerful relatives. I'm not the sort of duchess society admires." Her voice trembled slightly. "I'm simply me."
The room fell silent. For several seconds Adrian did not move. Then he pushed away from the wall and walked toward her. "Look at me." The command was gentle but firm. Cordelia raised her eyes. He stood very close now. Close enough that she could see the faint scar along his jaw and the intensity in his dark gaze.
"You walked alone through London to my house," he said slowly. "You proposed marriage to a man society fears. You fled your home before dawn knowing your reputation might never recover." His voice dropped lower. "And you believe that makes you insignificant?"
Cordelia felt her breath catch. Adrian tilted his head slightly. "Lady Cordelia Ashton, you are braver than half the noblemen I have met." Something inside her chest tightened painfully. "You truly believe that?" "I do." The words carried quiet certainty.
For a moment neither of them moved. The air between them felt charged with something fragile and dangerous. Adrian noticed the tears forming in her eyes. He stepped back immediately. The distance returned. "You should sleep," he said roughly. "Tomorrow will be a long day."
Cordelia nodded slowly. She walked toward the door, pausing before leaving. "Thank you, Your Grace." He inclined his head but said nothing. The door closed softly behind her. Adrian remained standing in the middle of the room long after she left. His jaw tightened.
This arrangement had been meant to remain simple. A practical marriage. A mutual escape. Yet the longer he spent in her presence, the more uncertain that simplicity became. Because somewhere along the road north, he had begun to care what happened to her. And that realization made tomorrow far more dangerous than he had planned.
Morning arrived wrapped in pale mist. The small inn was quiet when Adrian Blackwell, Duke of Harrow, stepped outside to prepare the carriage. The air had grown colder as they traveled north, and the wind carried the sharp scent of approaching rain. He had slept little. Too many thoughts had followed him through the night.
Too many questions he had never intended to ask himself. A door opened behind him. Cordelia stepped onto the road wrapped in her dark cloak. The familiar velvet pouch clutched gently in her hands. She looked tired but resolute. "Good morning," she said quietly. Adrian nodded once. "Good morning."
Neither of them mentioned the conversation from the night before. Some things were better left unspoken for now. They climbed into the carriage and began the final stretch of their journey north. Hours passed. The English countryside slowly changed around them. Fields gave way to rocky hills. Stone fences lined the winding road.
And finally, near midday, the coachman slowed the horses. Adrian stepped down first. Cordelia followed. Before them stood a weathered stone marker half covered with moss. The border. England behind them. Scotland ahead. Cordelia stared at the line in the earth as if it were something sacred.
"Is this it?" she whispered. Adrian nodded. "Once we cross, there is no turning back." He looked at her carefully. "This is your final chance, Lady Cordelia. If you wish to return home." She shook her head before he could finish. "I have no home to return to."
He watched her for a moment longer. Then he extended his hand. "Then we cross together." Cordelia placed her hand in his. And together they stepped across the border. By dusk, they reached the small village of Gretna Green. It was quiet, unassuming, yet famous throughout Britain for one reason: runaway marriages.
Adrian led Cordelia into the small blacksmith's forge where the ceremony would take place. The smell of hot iron and smoke filled the room as the broad-shouldered blacksmith set down his hammer. "A wedding?" he asked with a grin. Adrian nodded. "Yes."
Two workers stepped forward to serve as witnesses. The blacksmith opened a worn ledger on a wooden table. "Names?" "Adrian Blackwell," the duke replied. "Cordelia Ashton," she said softly. The blacksmith dipped his quill. Then he looked up. "Ready?"
Adrian turned to Cordelia. Her face was pale but calm. "Ready," she whispered. The vows were brief. Direct. No grand speeches. Only truth. "Adrian Blackwell," the blacksmith said, "do you take this woman as your wife?" Adrian looked into Cordelia's eyes.
Three days ago, she had walked into his library asking for protection. Now she stood before him trusting him with her future. "I do." The blacksmith turned to her. "Cordelia Ashton, do you take this man as your husband?" Cordelia held his gaze. Not with fear. With quiet determination. "I do."
The ledger was signed. The blacksmith closed the book with a firm thud. "Then, by witness of this forge," he declared, "you are husband and wife." Outside, the evening wind swept across the quiet village. Cordelia stood beside him staring down at the simple silver ring now resting on her finger.
Adrian watched her carefully. "You are now the Duchess of Harrow," he said. She blinked in surprise. "I had not thought of that." He stepped closer. "You will need to." She looked up at him. "And when we return to London?"
Adrian held her gaze. His answer came slowly. "With me." Cordelia searched his expression. "You mean, as your wife?" "Yes." "Even when society begins to whisper?" Adrian's mouth curved faintly. "Society has whispered about me for years." Then his voice softened slightly. "But this time they will whisper about us."
Cordelia felt something warm settle inside her chest. He offered his arm. She slipped her hand through it. Together they walked back toward the carriage. Two strangers who had begun a journey out of desperation. Yet as the road turned south toward London once more, neither of them felt like strangers anymore.
And somewhere between London and Scotland, a bargain had quietly begun to transform into something neither of them had expected. Something far more dangerous. Something that looked very much like love.