They pitied her, whispered behind their lace fans that she was being sold to a man who would sooner look at his valet than his bride. Lady Clara knew the rumors about the Duke. She expected a cold marriage of convenience, a locked bedroom door, and a lonely life wandering the halls of a sprawling, empty estate. She braced herself for a lifelong arrangement devoid of passion. But when the heavy oak door clicked shut on their wedding night, what the Duke did next shattered every rumor and left her entirely undone.
The study smelled of stale gin, damp wool, and impending ruin. Clara stood before her father's mahogany desk, her posture rigidly straight. Her ribs ached against the whalebone corset her mother's maid had laced too tightly that morning. But she did not let her discomfort show. Showing weakness in this room was akin to bleeding in shark-infested waters.
Lord Ashford did not look up from his ledger. He simply scratched his quill against the parchment, crossing out another line of credit he had long since exhausted. "The Duke of Windermere," her father said, his voice a dry rasp, "he has agreed to the settlement. Your debts, our debts, will be cleared by the end of the quarter." Clara stared at the bald spot on the crown of her father's head.
"Windermere," she repeated. The name tasted like ash. "Yes." He finally looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin beneath them sagging with the weight of decades spent at the faro tables.
"The papers are signed. You will marry him by the end of the month." She didn't cry. She had stopped crying over her father's gambling at the age of 14. Romance, she had learned early on, was a lie sold in cheap penny dreadfuls to keep stupid girls compliant.
Marriage was commerce. She was a commodity. Her dowry was nonexistent, but she possessed an old aristocratic name and a face that was deemed conventionally pleasing. It was enough to buy her family's salvation. "I understand," she said evenly.
Her father blinked, perhaps surprised by her lack of hysterics. "You know the talk, I presume. The society whispers. I am aware of the rumors regarding the Duke's preferences, yes." Ashford scoffed, waving a dismissive hand.
"Gossip. Nonsense meant to sell society papers. But even if it is true, it works to your advantage. You will have his title, his wealth, and his country estates. He will demand very little of you in return."
"Produce an heir, somehow, and you will be left to your own devices. It is a brilliant arrangement. A brilliant arrangement." Clara turned and walked out of the study, the heavy door clicking shut behind her. She leaned against the hallway wall, closing her eyes.
Theodore Fitzroy, the Duke of Windermere. He was 10 years her senior, notoriously reclusive, and the subject of London's most vicious drawing room gossip. He had spent his 20s in Italy, returning only when his elder brother died in a riding accident. Since taking the title, he had attended the requisite societal functions, but remained entirely aloof. He danced with no one.
He courted no one. He was frequently seen in the company of a close circle of bachelor friends, a fact the ton seized upon with ravenous delight. They said he hated women. They said he was unnatural. Clara didn't care.
If he preferred men, it meant he wouldn't force himself upon her in drunken, fumbling, late-night visits, the way she had seen her father do with her mother. A polite, distant roommate who paid her bills was more than she had hoped for. She met him 3 days later at a stifling assembly in Mayfair. The room was a suffocating crush of silk, sweat, and overpowering floral perfumes. Clara stood near a potted fern, sipping lukewarm lemonade, waiting.
"He's coming," her mother hissed, gripping Clara's elbow tight enough to bruise. "Smile, for God's sake. Look agreeable." Clara pasted on a flat, practiced smile. She watched him approach through the crowd.
Theodore Fitzroy did not look like the flamboyant, delicate aesthete the gossip rags painted him to be. He was tall, his shoulders broad beneath a severely cut coat of dark navy wool. He wore no ostentatious jewelry, no intricate cravat folds. His face was sharp, angular, and deeply tired. His dark hair was brushed back, threading with early silver at the temples.
He stopped before them. He bowed perfectly. "Lady Ashford, Lady Clara." His voice was a low baritone, rough around the edges, like he didn't use it often. "Your Grace," Clara said, dipping into a flawless curtsy.
"Would you care to walk?" he asked, not looking at her mother, focusing entirely on Clara. His eyes were a startling pale gray. Cold, she thought. Like winter ice.
"I would be delighted." She placed her gloved hand on his forearm. Underneath the fine wool, his arm was solid, tense. They walked away from the glaring eyes of her mother and the hushed buzzing whispers of the surrounding crowd. The parting sea of aristocrats watched them with undisguised fascination.
The ruined lord's daughter and the duke society called unnatural. What a pair. They reached the edge of the terrace. The cool night air hit Clara's face, a blessed relief. "I detest these things," Theodore said suddenly.
He didn't look at her. He was staring out into the dark garden. "The feeling is mutual, Your Grace," Clara replied. He glanced at her, a faint crease appearing between his brows. "You do not need to flatter me, Lady Clara."
"I am well aware of the nature of our arrangement. Your father was entirely transparent regarding your family's financial constraints." "And what of your constraints, your grace?" Clara asked. She was tired."
She had no energy for coy society games. "Why marry me? Surely there are wealthier, more influential families willing to turn a blind eye to the gossip in exchange for a ducal coronet." He turned fully to face her. The pale gray eyes studied her face with a strange clinical intensity.
"You do not talk much. You do not simper. And when you look at me, you do not look at me with either fear or disgust. You look at me with absolute indifference." Clara held his gaze.
"Is that what you want? Indifference?" "I want peace," Theodore said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "I want the society mothers to stop parading their daughters in front of me. I want the House of Lords to stop questioning my stability."