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“This is not a polite request,” he said, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “I intend to marry you. I will set everything to rights. I expect your agreement.”

Diana’s heartbeat thundered in her ears; his proximity unsettling her, yet she refused to shrink away. She became acutely aware of his closeness—the heat radiating from his body, and the faint scent of sandalwood lingering on his clothes. Diana felt a subtle tremor course through him, as if he were battling something within himself.

When she did not immediately respond, his grip shifted from her wrist to cradle her chin, tilting her face so she could not avoid his gaze. In that breathless moment, she thought he might kiss her. The intensity in his eyes made her legs feel unsteady and weak.

“Do I make myself clear?” he asked, his voice almost a whisper, his breath warm against her lips.

She swallowed hard, her eyes flicking to his lips. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter but no less resolute. “If it must be so, then say it plainly, Your Grace,” she dared. “Ask it of me as you would ask any free woman with the right to choose.”

He drew in a breath, his grip softening slightly on her chin. His thumb grazed along her jaw, as if he, too, felt the dizzying attraction between them. For an instant his composure cracked and exposed an unmistakable flicker of raw desire. The duke exhaled, releasing her face and stepping back sufficiently to restore a small cushion of space between them.

Yet the charge in the air did not dissipate. Diana’s wrist still tingled from his touch, and he looked as though he was resisting the urge to close the gap again. His voice, when it came, was all the more dangerous for its quiet restraint. When he spoke again each word was carefully enunciated.

“Miss Gillingham,” he said, “will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

His request resonated with a command that felt more like a challenge, and Diana’s breath became short. The decision hung between them, a single spark amidst a rising storm of conflicting emotions. Her heart clenched as she realized there was no escape, but she lifted her chin nonetheless.

“I accept,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the tempest within her. “But only under the condition that you pay off my father’s debts in full.”

He nodded, his expression calm, as if he had anticipated her demand. “Consider it done.”

“You will not regret this decision,” he said finally, his voice once again cool and composed.

Diana held her ground, her breath uneven but her resolve intact. “I pray you are right, Your Grace.”

Chapter Four

Gilbert frowned at the cramped chamber’s narrow windows in the Doctors’ Commons and the stale scent of old parchment. The clerk rustled through a stack of documents, dragging a quill across ledgers with agonizing slowness. Gilbert stood rigid, arms folded, his boot tapping impatiently against the worn floorboards. Each pause, each shuffle of papers, tightened the coil of impatience in his chest.

“Your Grace,” the clerk said softly, finally producing a neat sheet of vellum stamped with the archbishop’s mark, “this should satisfy your request.” He bent his head, careful not to meet Gilbert’s eyes. “A special license from the archbishop, as requested.”

Gilbert nodded, not trusting himself to speak. With a curt inclination of his head, he plucked the license from the clerk’s fingers. Another delay survived; another task completed. He could hardly believe that he was marrying a complete stranger, let alone getting married at all.

Still, the memory of Diana Gillingham’s upturned chin and daring words lingered in his mind. He rubbed his thumb over the raised seal of the license, recalling her defiance, her refusal to yield without a fight. An unbidden heat stirred beneath his ribs. Unwelcome. Distracting. Gilbert attempted to shake it loose from his thoughts.

“Will that be all, Your Grace?” the clerk ventured a timid glance.

Gilbert cleared his throat. “Yes. That will be all.” With brisk, measured steps, he departed. Outside, the morning offered a meager breeze and the distant grind of carriage wheels. He exhaled, tried to banish the image of Diana’s flashing eyes, and strode toward his waiting coach.

“Your Grace.”

A low, cultured voice drifted from a shadowed alcove, bringing Gilbert to a halt. He recognized the speaker at once: Josephine Kneller, the Dowager Countess of Halfacre, a wealthy widow of some repute who once shared his bed. He had nearly forgotten about her amid the recent chaos—his brother’s scandal, his own hurried marriage—but seeing her now reminded him of every entanglement he needed to leave behind.

His jaw tightened. How cleverly she positioned herself, as though by chance, just outside Doctors’ Commons where few ladies of quality ventured. She stepped forward, the lamplight glistening on her fair curls.

Her voice carried a smooth confidence, a reminder of nights past when he found comfort in her willing company. Now, in the haze of the morning’s obligations, it grated on his nerves. Those nights had been a welcome diversion when duty had weighed heavily upon him.

In their last meeting, Gilbert thought he had made his intention to end their affair perfectly clear. Yet, her approaching him in public made him wonder if she had received his intended message. With all that had transpired since his brother’s folly, she no longer had a place in his life.

“Lady Halfacre,” Gilbert nodded with a dip of his head, intending to keep walking. However, Josephine reached for his arm. He caught her wrist lightly, plucking her fingers from his sleeve, which hovered too familiarly and intimately for a public display.

“I would advise more discretion, Countess,” he said, leaning in just enough for her to hear him clearly. “We are not at a private gathering.”

Her eyes sparkled mischievously and a slight strain tightened her jaw, but she did not retreat. Instead, her lips curved into a half-smile that would appear friendly to any distant observer.

“Discretion, yes,” she agreed softly. “You have always prized that, have you not?” She tilted her head, a few curls falling forward.

“Do you not?” Gilbert asked, annoyed with her taunting. He bowed again. “I really must be going.”