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Margaret called for a tea service to be brought in while she sat, not feeling the courage to speak for the first time in her life.

The Duke waited till Margaret had finally sat down before taking a seat. Whatever the Duke of Blackhill was, he was a gentleman through and through.

“Honeyfield,” he started. “I’m here to discuss a contract between you and my father, the Fifth Duke of Blackhill.”

Helen noticed that her father suddenly dropped his gaze and made a studious point of looking everywhere but at the Duke.

“I see you remember, so I’m spared the hassle of refreshing your memory,” the Duke said, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips.

Her father laughed awkwardly. “That was a deal your father and I made a long time ago after I saved him from losing his head over a card game in a local tavern.” He laughed. “I thought it became void when he died.”

Interestingly, no one laughed along with him. The Duke just watched him with a stony expression while Helen and her sister just looked on, confused.

“It didn’t,” the Duke said seriously. “My father’s man of affairs presented it to me two nights ago on the date stated in the contract.”

“Still, it was nothing official,” the Viscount argued.

“It had both your seals.”

The Duke’s words held a note of finality that resonated around the room.

“You can’t possibly mean to hold me to that promise. That is ancient history between your father and I,” the Viscount argued.

“But then again, it was not just a promise but a contract,” the Duke said tonelessly. “I could show you the proof if you want.”

He made to pull out something from his jacket pocket, but the Viscount tried to still his action.

“That will not be necessary…”

But the Duke had already pulled it out of his jacket pocket and extended it towards him.

The Viscount hesitated, piquing Helen’s curiosity, which drove her to collect it to pass to her father, but not before reading through it. Her eyes widened as she realized it was a betrothal contract to one of her father’s daughters, which meant either she or Margaret would be the future Duchess that all of Society would hate.

“Helen!” her father scolded, extending his hand and snatching it from her. But the brief glimpse she had had was enough.

It was the irony of the highest kind how she was so used to gossiping about people that she didn’t really know, but now her family happened to be the main characters of one of the popular stories that made turns in the ton—it was quite a unique experience.

Even then she paled in fear for her sweet sister, Margaret, who would no doubt be the bride of the Duke. Of all the ways in which her sister could finally be married off, this was the worst, in her opinion.

If it were some other gentleman, she might have been open to arranging a meeting between them to see if they would be well-suited, but not the Ruthless Duke.

He was too cold, calculating, and intimidating for her mild-tempered and nonconfrontational, sweet sister. If Helen let her get married to the Duke, she knew he would intimidate Margaret until he crushed whatever was left of her fragile spirit.

The Duke needed someone who could match him in temperament and challenge him, not someone who would easily agree to his dictates.

Her sister deserved someone who was kind and mindful of her mild nature, not someone as ruthless as the Duke. She could never allow it simply because two men decided to sit and decide their children’s future even before they were of age.

She turned and marched angrily towards the Duke.

“I don’t care whatever arrangement you have with Papa, but you are never marrying my sister. I will never allow it!” she snapped, and from the heat in her face, she could tell she was already red in the face.

Anger flowed red hot in her bloodstream, and even though she knew she was behaving at the height of impropriety, she didn’t care. If she even scared him off considering either of them for marriage, she would be much happier.

“Helen!” her father scolded, visibly embarrassed by her behavior.

The Duke just stared at her with a blank look, then slowly rose from his seat to his full height. He looked down at her with that trademark smirk of his, green eyes glinting dangerously.

She felt his eyes roam down her frame, the intensity of his appraisal leaving a heated trail from the crown of her head to her shoe-clad feet. If he was aiming to intimidate her, he was succeeding because he towered over her with his impossible height against her diminutive frame. She imagined she looked like a child stomping her feet while throwing a tantrum.