She Was Sold to an Old Duke — But His Wedding Night Gift Changed Everything
Chapter 3
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The journey to Yorkshire took three grueling days. They spoke less than a dozen words to each other. They stopped at high-end coaching inns where the Duke secured separate adjacent rooms. He ate his meals in silence, reading the financial papers, while Josephine picked at plates of roasted pheasant and root vegetables, her stomach tied in permanent, agonizing knots.On the afternoon of the third day, the carriage passed through towering wrought-iron gates and rolled up a mile-long drive flanked by ancient oaks. The Clydesdale estate rose from the Yorkshire moors like a fortress of dark gray stone: it was vast, imposing, and utterly devoid of life.The wedding took place an hour after their arrival. There was no music, no guests—just a sleepy, terrified vicar in the estate's private chapel, mumbling through the Book of Common Prayer while the rain continued to lash against the stained glass. Josephine repeated her vows in a voice that sounded like a stranger's. The Duke placed a heavy gold band on her finger; it was cold.Dinner was a quiet, sterile affair in a dining room large enough to seat 50 men. The silence pressed against Josephine's eardrums until they ached. The reality of her situation was finally crashing down upon her; the dread was a physical weight pressing against her sternum. The night had arrived.At 9:00, the Duke wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and stood. "The housekeeper will show you to your quarters, madam," he said, his voice grating in the quiet room. "I will join you shortly."Josephine's throat clicked as she swallowed. "Yes, Your Grace."She was led upstairs by a stern-faced woman who offered neither smiles nor conversation.The master bedchamber was enormous. A fire roared in the massive stone hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the heavy velvet draperies and the sprawling four-poster bed. Two maids stripped her of her traveling clothes and dressed her in a sheer white linen nightgown. They brushed out her dark hair in silence, then left, shutting the heavy oak door behind them.Josephine stood frozen in the center of the room. The heat from the fire barely touched the ice in her veins. She stared at the vast expanse of the mattress. She was 19. He was 62. The math was sickening. She closed her eyes, digging her nails into her palms until they broke the skin, bracing herself for the pain, the humiliation, the sheer indignity of what was to come.The grandfather clock in the corner ticked loudly: ten minutes passed, then 20.Finally, the brass handle turned. The heavy door clicked open.Thomas Ashbourne stepped into the room. He had discarded his formal coat and cravat, wearing only a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and a dark robe tied loosely around his waist. Without the structured suit, he looked older, frailer. He leaned heavily on his cane, shutting the door behind him and locking it with a sharp, metallic snap.Josephine stopped breathing. She forced her eyes to stay open.