She Was Sold to an Old Duke — But His Wedding Night Gift Changed Everything
Chapter 16
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He reached into the pocket of his smoking jacket and pulled out a small, heavy iron ring holding a single brass key. He placed it on the small table between them."That is the key to the private safe in my study," he said. "The combination is in the ledger, written in the margin of the April accounts. The deed to the London townhouse is in there; I transferred it to your private trust yesterday. Reginald will have the country estate, but he will have to pry the London house from your dead hands."Josephine stared at the key, her vision blurred. She swallowed hard, forcing the tears back down: crying was useless."You are a stubborn, cynical old man.""And you are a terrifying young woman," Thomas replied. He closed his eyes, resting his head back against the chair. "Burn the papers, Josie. Promise me.""I promise," she whispered.He did not make it to December.It happened on a Tuesday night in late November. The wind was howling over the moors, rattling the heavy glass panes of the master bedchamber. Josephine was reading aloud from a book of history, sitting in her usual chair by his bed. Thomas had been drifting in and out of sleep all evening.He opened his eyes: he looked at the heavy velvet canopy above him, then turned his head slowly to look at her. He reached his hand out from beneath the blankets. Josephine took it immediately; his skin was ice cold."The gates," he rasped, his breath catching in his throat."I have them," she said, her voice steady, though her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. "I have the gates, Thomas. No one gets past me."He squeezed her hand. A faint, genuine smile touched his lips. He closed his eyes.He did not open them again.Josephine sat there for a long time. She did not scream; she did not weep. She held his cold hand in the silent room, listening to the wind tear at the stone walls outside, feeling the massive, crushing weight of the duchy settle squarely onto her shoulders.Finally, she let go of his hand. She stood up. She smoothed the blankets over his chest. She walked to the washstand, poured a basin of cold water, and washed her face. She looked at herself in the silver-backed mirror: her eyes were dark, hard, and entirely dry.She walked to the door, unlocked it, and stepped into the hallway.Mrs. Higgins was waiting at the end of the corridor, holding a silver tray with a pot of tea. The housekeeper took one look at Josephine's face and stopped dead."Your Grace," Mrs. Higgins whispered."Send a rider to Dr. Evans," Josephine ordered, her voice ringing clear and cold in the quiet house. "Then send a telegram to the solicitors in London. The Duke is dead. The house is in mourning. Lock the front gates: no one enters without my express permission. Is that understood, Mrs. Higgins?"Mrs. Higgins bowed her head deeply. "Yes, Your Grace."Josephine turned back toward the study. The vultures would be coming, but they would not find a terrified girl waiting for them: they would find a duchess built of iron and spite, standing alone in a fortress of her own making.