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He lifted the paper and she gasped. There, written in strong black capital letters, and underlined twice, without even a question mark, were two words:

MARRY ME

* * *

Miss Wilson sat down, hard.

Not the response one might hope to receive from one’s first marriage proposal.

He might be innocent of a woman’s body, but he wasn’t exactly ignorant. He’d spent a lifetime reading romantic novels and sexual manuals…and knew this wasn’t how a hero’s proposal of marriage usually happened.

Alistair twisted the paper to glance down at the words. Perhaps he should have been more polite?

You are not a particularly polite man.

That was true.

And she must already think the worst of him; she’d been prepared to remove her clothing just because she thought that’s what he was demanding.

He would examine that reaction later.

His cock very much demanded he examine it now.

She was gaping at him, her gaze flicking back and forth between the paper and his face, as if looking for the joke. Alistair schooled his expression and lifted the paper.

Then, when he was certain he had her attention, he turned the paper over to show her the financial report. The one which said her paper was in dire need of funding.

Her tongue darted between her lips, a nervous habit he was beginning to find adorable.

She opened her mouth. Then closed it, as if second-guessing herself. Alistair continued to watch her patiently, hoping she’d understand.

“Are you…are you saying…” Miss Wilson shook her head. “If I marry you, you’ll invest in my newspaper?”

If he married her, she would have access to far more resources than she understood.

But short of showing her a bank statement, he couldn’t explain that now. Instead, he tapped the number on the report, the number equaling the investment his idiot financial broker had pulled.

Her eyes were wide, and he realized they really were the most intriguing shade of brown. More like a warm caramel than anything else; a color he found himself wanting to study for a while.

“Your Grace, I… I don’t want to marry you—I mean, you don’t have to marry me. I’m just asking you to reconsider pulling your funding. Please. I’m—I’m living in truly reduced circumstances. I’m desperate.”

He knew that. That’s why she was perfect.

In the drawer to his right, Mother’s special license waited, the lady’s name conveniently left blank—how she’d managed to talk around the Archbishop to allow that one, Alistair dreaded to think. He’d been offended when he’d found it waiting for him that morning, but now…

He could be married to Miss Wilson by sundown.

A wife of a lower social standing than him would ensure he’d never be humiliated in front of her. He wouldn’t have to embarrass himself by attending social events, and wooing her. She would accept his proposal and be grateful. That would be an end to it.

But…

I don’t want to marry you.

He’d never heard those exact words before, but it had been what he’d always dreaded hearing. They were the reason he’d never courted a debutante, never attended a Society function. He couldn’t stand the thought of their revulsion—or worse, pity.

But he was a goddamn duke, and she was merely a newspaper reporter.

Owner.