"You dare declare her too frail? Leave this house at once!"
"Come, my love. Let us go in for supper."
Marriage to a powerful duke came with one ruthless expectation: produce an heir or be replaced. When a prestigious London doctor declared the young duchess completely barren and physically broken, her future crumbled. Surprisingly, her terrifying husband simply hurled the physician into the street and demanded a roast for supper.
Grosvenor Square lay steeped in the heavy golden light of late afternoon. Yet inside the cavernous drawing room of the Westmore estate, a profound chill had settled over the furniture.
Brynn Wyndham, the Duchess of Westmore, sat rigidly upon a velvet settee, her slender hands clutching the embroidered silk of her skirts. For two years, she had worn the title of duchess with grace, navigating the treacherous waters of high society, the venomous whispers of dowagers, and the sharp, scrutinizing gazes of peers who felt a simple baron's daughter had no right to such an elevated station. She had endured it all for Alaric.
But today, the very foundation of her marriage was being dismantled by a man with a leather medical bag and a permanent scowl.
Dr. Horace Abernathy, a physician whose clientele boasted the highest echelons of the British peerage, snapped his polished wooden stethoscope case shut with a sound that echoed like a gavel striking a block. He stood before the grand marble fireplace, warming his hands with a nonchalance that made Brynn's stomach churn.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor—heavy, deliberate, and commanding. The oak double doors opened, and Alaric Wyndham, the Duke of Westmore, strode into the room. Tall, dark-haired, with piercing gray eyes that missed nothing, Alaric was a man who commanded obedience merely by existing. He had built his reputation on the battlefields of the Peninsula before returning to claim his title, bringing with him a ruthless pragmatism that terrified his political opponents and enthralled the women of the ton.
Yet, when he looked at Brynn, his gaze usually softened. Today, however, tension radiated from his broad shoulders.
"Well, Abernathy?" Alaric demanded, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that vibrated through the silent room. He did not bother with pleasantries.
He crossed the Persian rug and stood behind Brynn, resting one large, warm hand upon her trembling shoulder. It was a gesture of protection, but she felt entirely defenseless against the medical verdict she knew was coming.
Dr. Abernathy adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles, puffing out his chest. "Your Grace, I have concluded a thorough examination of the Duchess. I have reviewed the symptoms she has presented over the past six months: the dizzy spells, the persistent pallor, the faintness, and her continued inability to quicken with child."
"Get to the point," Alaric warned, his grip tightening fractionally on Brynn's shoulder.
Abernathy cleared his throat, adopting an expression of practiced, somber pity. "It is my professional duty to inform you, Your Grace, that the Duchess is afflicted with a profound internal frailty. Her constitution is exceedingly weak. It is my learned opinion that she is barren. Her reproductive faculties are simply not equipped for the natural duties of a wife."
Brynn closed her eyes, a silent sob catching in her throat. The words felt like physical blows. Barren. It was the greatest failure a woman of her station could commit. A duke needed an heir to secure his lands, his wealth, and his legacy. Without a child, she was useless to him.
But Abernathy was not finished. "Furthermore, Your Grace," the physician continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "even if by some tragic miracle she were to conceive, I assure you she would not survive the confinement. The strain would tear her fragile heart to pieces. For her own preservation, and for the future of your illustrious line, I strongly advise separate arrangements. Perhaps a discreet annulment based on non-consummation, or a quiet retirement to the country while you secure a more robust vessel for your lineage."
Silence descended upon the drawing room, so absolute that Brynn could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for Alaric to withdraw his hand. She waited for him to step away, to agree with the learned man, to begin calculating the legal maneuvers required to sever their union. She knew his cousin, Nansen Wyndham, had been loudly parading around London as the heir presumptive, much to Alaric's irritation. Now, Nansen's position seemed unassailable.
Instead, Alaric stepped out from behind the settee.
He moved with a terrifying, coiled slowness, closing the distance between himself and the physician. "Let me ensure I have grasped your meaning, Dr. Abernathy," Alaric said, his voice dangerously soft, devoid of its usual booming authority. "You come into my home, by God, insult my wife's constitution, declare my marriage a failure, and suggest I toss the woman I chose into the country like a broken mare, so I can breed with another?"
Abernathy blinked, stepping back slightly, his arrogance faltering in the face of the Duke's glacial fury. "Your Grace, I am merely advising you on the medical realities—"
"You are a charlatan and a fool," Alaric interrupted, his voice finally cracking like a whip. "You dare speak of her as a vessel? You dare suggest I abandon my wife for the sake of a title that I care less about than the hair on her head?"
Alaric reached out, grabbing the lapels of Dr. Abernathy's expensive coat. He hauled the older man onto his toes.
"Listen to me closely, Abernathy: you will take your bag, and you will walk out of my house. If I ever hear that you have spoken a word of this consultation in the clubs, if I hear a single whisper of my wife's frailty upon the lips of the gossips, I will not bother ruining your practice. I will ruin your life. Do you understand me?"
"Yes! Yes, Your Grace! I assure you, absolute discretion!" Abernathy sputtered, his face turning a mottled crimson as he clutched at Alaric's unyielding wrists.
Alaric released him with a violent shove that sent the doctor stumbling backward into a side table. Abernathy scrambled for his leather bag, his previous pomposity entirely vanished, and fled the room without another backward glance. The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind him.
Brynn sat frozen, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. She looked up at her husband, who was currently straightening his cuffs with frustrating calm.
"Alaric," she whispered, her voice trembling. "He is the finest physician in London. If what he says is true—"
"What he says is a heap of unmitigated drivel," Alaric snapped, though his eyes softened as he turned back to her.
He crossed the room and knelt before her, entirely disregarding the crease it would put in his tailored trousers. He took both of her cold, trembling hands in his large, warm ones. "Brynn, look at me."
She forced herself to meet his gaze, tears finally spilling over her lashes. "I cannot give you an heir. I am failing you."