She Was Sold to an Old Duke — But His Wedding Night Gift Changed Everything
Chapter 10
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"Well," Agatha stammered slightly, recovering her sneer, "how terribly cold of you! Blood is blood, after all! One must support one's family! To discard him so easily speaks to a certain... ruthlessness.""Ruthlessness is a requirement when dealing with parasites, Lady Agatha," Josephine replied smoothly. She picked up her wineglass, swirling the dark red liquid. "Speaking of supporting one's family, I reviewed the estate disbursements yesterday. I noticed the repair bill for the roof of your townhouse in Bath was forwarded to my husband's accounts: £400."Agatha's face drained of color, then flooded with a mottled, ugly red. Several guests suddenly found their plates intensely interesting."It was a minor oversight by my man of business," Agatha hissed, her eyes darting nervously toward Thomas, who was watching Josephine with a faint, predatory smile."Of course," Josephine said, taking a small sip of her wine. "I have instructed the bank to return the bill to your man of business, along with the invoices for Reginald's tailor, which also somehow found their way to our desk. I am sure it was another minor oversight. We must be so careful with our ledgers, must we not? Vices can be so terribly expensive."No one spoke. The silence was absolute. Agatha sat rigid, her jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful. The local squires exchanged wide-eyed glances: the purchased bride had not just survived the ambush; she had gutted the Duke's sister in front of the entire county.The rest of the dinner proceeded in an atmosphere of terrified, immaculate politeness.When the last carriage finally crunched down the gravel drive, Josephine stood in the grand foyer, watching the taillights fade into the winter darkness. Her shoulders ached; her jaw was sore from holding her expression perfectly neutral.Heavy, irregular footsteps sounded on the marble floor behind her. Thomas came to stand beside her, leaning heavily on his silver-tipped cane. His breathing was shallow, his face lined with exhaustion, but his pale eyes were bright."Come to my study," he said.She followed him into the dark, leather-scented room. The fire was burning low. Thomas did not sit behind his massive desk: he walked to a side table, unstoppered a crystal decanter, and poured two glasses of amber whiskey. He handed one to her. Josephine took it, surprised; he had never offered her a drink before.He tapped his glass against hers. The crystal chimed softly in the quiet room."To the fortress," Thomas said, his voice a low gravel rumble.Josephine looked at the tired, dying man who had bought her to save himself. She felt a strange, heavy loyalty settle in her chest: it was not love—love was a fairy tale; it was mutual survival."To the fortress," she replied, and drank the whiskey neat.By late February, the damp cold of the Yorkshire moors had settled into Thomas Ashbourne's lungs. It started as a dry, persistent hack that rattled his broad shoulders; within a week, it became a wet, tearing cough that left him breathless and gray-faced.