Page 61 of Corrupting his Duchess

“I treat them like responsibility, not sentiment,” he snapped. “The kind that requires decisions, not feelings.”

Her jaw clenched. “I know every family in Branton Hollow by name. I’ve sat at their tables. I’ve wept with their widows. What have you done?”

“I’ve kept them housed,” he said coldly. “I’ve stopped selling off livestock at a loss. I’ve ensured Stenton doesn’t embarrass itself in town.”

“You’ve wrung it dry.”

“I’ve kept it afloat,” he said. “And you, if you had an ounce of sense, you’d see that marrying the Duke could secure all of it. Permanently.”

She looked away for a moment, gathering herself. “You want his title. His reach. His fortune.”

Isaac’s tone was too smooth to be casual. “I want whatever will keep Stenton from becoming a cautionary tale.”

Her gloves tightened at her sides.

She took a step forward. “I did everything I could. The coal venture you're chasing now, the one you're so eager to pitch to anyone willing to listen, I found it. I wrote the first reports. I met with the broker in Leeds. You said it was too risky.”

He said nothing at first.

But there was a flicker, barely a twitch in his jaw, a shift in his stance.

That was all the confirmation she needed.

“And now you’re ready to sell it off,” she added, quieter now. “So long as it doesn’t come with my name attached.”

“You didn’t act on it,” he muttered.

“I wasn’t given the authority,” her voice quieter still. “I gave you the work. You took the credit.”

He gave a low laugh, “You were speculating on possibility. I made it presentable.”

“You mean profitable,” she replied.

“Exactly. Look, I want Stenton strong. And if you won’t help secure it, I’ll find another way.”

He said it as though it was a reasonable conclusion. A simple transaction. A duty she ought to perform with gratitude.

She said nothing because she understood now…fully, that nothing she gave would ever be enough for him.

She turned again, slower this time.

Then she kept walking.

Her steps echoed down the corridor, brisk and steady.

Only when she reached the gallery did she stop, just briefly.

She pressed her palm to the cold stone balustrade, her breath shallow.

She would not cry. She would not turn back.

Somewhere in the house, a clock struck eleven.

She closed her eyes.

She still had one decision left to make tonight. She rested against the cool wall at her back..

She didn’t know how long she stood there, fingers pressed to the stone wall, but her breath was shallow, and her chest burned. The corridor behind her was empty. But inside her, everything felt blisteringly full. Too much. Too loud. Too tight.