Page 4 of Taken by the Icy Duke (Marriage Deals #3)

Chapter Four

G ilbert 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.”

“I heard the rumors and wondered if they might be true,” she continued, refusing to let him walk away. Her eyes came to rest on the paper in his hand. “I assumed the ton had it wrong, that your brother would be marrying a silly chit. But I have since heard that he has left town and here you are, marriage license in hand.”

“I see no need to explain further then,” Gilbert said, facing her with a roll of his eyes. “If there is nothing else, my lady…”

“Do you truly intend to give it all up?” Her gaze dropped pointedly, leaving no doubt in Gilbert’s mind that she meant their liaison. “This soon-to-be duchess of yours—so young, inexperienced, and likely skittish. You may find…fulfillment lacking.”

The innuendo slid between them like a thin blade. Gilbert narrowed his eyes. He could sense her attempt to unnerve him, to remind him of the comfort he had once found with her, a comfort without the entanglements of marriage or duty. The parchment in his hand crackled as he tightened his grip.

“No,” he said, his voice flat. One word, inflexible and final. “Our arrangement ends here, Josephine.”

She paused at that, lashes lowering. Just a trace of acknowledgement, but enough. He had denied her before, but never with such complete finality. However, she recovered quickly; her next smile was a polished shell.

“Is that so?” She took a step forward, as if testing the space between them. “I never thought you a man to deny himself. If your brother’s folly forces your hand, I would think you would keep at least one avenue of pleasure open.”

Gilbert leaned a fraction closer, letting the cool edge in his eyes counter her honeyed words. The street behind him remained quiet, with only a clerk passing by and a distant hackney rattling along. No one paid them heed, and he intended to keep it that way. “I will not dishonor my future wife,” he said, his voice low and steady. “And I have no desire to continue this…understanding.”

For a brief moment the real Josephine emerged. Her polite facade cracked and a taut silence stretched between them. She took a small step back, releasing the invisible hold she believed she had on him. He could see her mind working, searching for a final barb. Instead, she inclined her head in a graceful though stiff acknowledgment. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

He exhaled slowly, then straightened. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left her standing there. The sound of his boots striking the cobblestones marked the end of that chapter. Once, her company had provided him respite from duty and expectation. Now, he had no time or desire for such entanglements, especially with a woman who would not yield to decorum.

Their relationship was finished, and Josephine could find other amusements to fill her days. He had neither the time nor the desire for complicated women or memories, not when a future awaited him, ready to be to be shaped.

The special license burned between his fingertips, reminding him of the woman who refused to be molded and the fact that she would soon be his wife, living under his roof, and sleeping just one door away.

Gilbert swept into his residence and strode directly to his study, ignoring the gentle inquiries of the butler and the curious glance of a passing maid. He closed the door quietly behind him, pausing for a moment against the polished oak panels. The room felt still, save for the muted crackle of fresh coal in the hearth. He preferred silence and order, yet his thoughts were anything but orderly.

With a sudden urge to conceal the license, he lifted the lid of a small, sturdy coffer and placed the parchment inside before locking it with deliberate care. He stood there a moment, tapping the key ring against his palm. The arrangement was sealed. He would marry Diana Gillingham.

A knock sounded. Gilbert straightened, settling his face into neutral lines. “Enter,” he barked.

Victor stepped inside, closing the door with discreet finality. His best friend dressed much more foppishly than Gilbert, expressive in both his clothing and his thoughts.

“Rivenhall,” he said, a note of welcome in his voice. “Your butler seemed surprised to find me calling this early, but I thought it best to come straightaway.”

“You are always welcome, Camburn,” Gilbert replied, indicating to a chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

Victor settled into a leather armchair near the hearth, comfortable from his frequent visits to Rivenhall Manor. “I saw your carriage not an hour ago by Doctors’ Commons. A special license, Rivenhall?” He arched a brow, his tone light but curious. “My God, you are a man of decisive action.”

Gilbert lowered himself behind his desk, choosing to busy his hands with a stack of correspondence: letters from tenants seeking clarification on leases, a note from his steward regarding a new drainage project, and an inquiry about an overdue shipment of tools. Mundane matters that should, under normal circumstances, provide a calming counterpoint to the complexities of his life, barely dulled the edge of his thoughts that morning.

He picked up a letter, then set it down again. “The situation demanded expedience.”

Victor observed him with narrowed eyes. “You thought this was the best way to resolve the issue?”

Gilbert’s jaw tightened. He leaned forward, folding his arms on the desk. “What else would you have me do? My brother ruined a poor woman; I could not just leave it.”

Victor shrugged. “You could have announced an engagement between the two and waited until he was found. The ton would understand a delay, given Leopold’s… proclivities.”

“Have you any word of him? Any whisper at all?” Gilbert asked, rubbing his face with his hand and ignoring Victor’s suggestion.

Victor sobered, adjusting his cuff. “None. He has covered his tracks well. I have asked discreet questions among our acquaintances. No one claims to have seen him.”

Gilbert pressed his lips together. He had thought as much, but it still rankled to hear his suspicions confirmed. As he reached for another letter, he caught himself recalling Diana’s face instead: the set of her shoulders, the way she refused to let him bully her. He cleared his throat. “Thank you for looking into it.”

Victor noticed the tension and leaned forward, his voice low. “This lady, Miss Gillingham, how much of a burden is it for you to be doing your duty, so to say?”

Gilbert turned in his chair, glancing toward the window before returning his gaze to Victor. Duty. Yes, it was his duty. Necessity. But her image lingered in his mind. He could still feel the flash of stubborn heat in her gaze, and hear the strength in her voice. He forced a smooth answer.

“My brother’s recklessness leaves me no choice. I will not let the Gillingham name be dragged through the mud because of Leopold’s folly.”

“So, this is all honor and no sentiment?” Victor pressed gently. “No… personal interest?”

“Personal interest?” Gilbert let out a short, dry laugh. He would not voice how her defiance intrigued him, how thoughts of her mouth and warmth had remained since their encounter. “I assure you, Camburn, this is nothing more than a practical arrangement.” He picked up a quill, as if the act of holding it would anchor his focus. “I must restore order, that is all.”

“Order, yes. That sounds like you. But it begs the question—how long can you keep emotion at bay when you have married someone like her?”

“Someone like her?” Gilbert’s gaze snapped to Victor, trying to discern his friend’s teasing.

“She is quite handsome, so I hear, though many speak of the shame of her low standing as a contributing factor to her not yet receiving an offer. I dare say the ton will say she is quite lucky to have enraptured you with her looks once this news breaks,” Victor explained with an amused expression.

Gilbert practically growled, annoyed by the implication.

Victor laughed and slapped his knees, rising. A lesser friend might have pushed further, but Victor knew better. He stood, smoothing his lapels.

“Very well. I shall keep my ear to the ground about your brother. Should anything surface, you will know of it immediately.”

“I am obliged,” Gilbert nodded stiffly. “Thank you, Camburn.”

After Victor took his leave, Gilbert remained behind the desk, the latch clicking softly as the door closed. He dipped the quill into ink and tried to fix his attention on the first letter: his steward’s request for revised guidelines on tenant leases.

He dictated notes to himself in a hushed murmur: “Adjust terms… reasonable payment schedule… ensure spring planting goes unhampered.”

But between each careful phrase, Diana intruded. The shape of her mouth when she challenged him. The feel of her hand, small yet firm, pressed against his chest. The memory tightened low in his belly; a sensation he had no right to feel. He lowered the quill and let out a slow breath.

Her chin had lifted when she spoke, the faintest tremor in her voice betraying her nerves. Yet she had stood her ground, meeting his gaze without flinching. A scandal like hers would crush most women, yet Diana continued to carry herself with a ladylike composure that pricked at his own resolve.

Could he truly shield her from the harsh scrutiny of the ton? Gilbert had seen countless women wilt under his scrutiny, but Diana Gillingham had faced him as if she dared him to underestimate her. It unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

He would be her husband soon. What would it be like to kiss her properly, and silence that quick tongue with something more potent than words?

Such distracting and dangerous thoughts twisted inside him. He tried to banish them and resumed writing, forcing his pen to glide over the parchment. He would not give in to desires that complicated his duty. Still, the taste of such imaginings lingered in his mind.

Could he shield himself from the emotions she stirred within him? He frowned, pushing the thought aside. Duty, not desire, had guided him all his life. He would not waver now.

The letters did not flow easily. He set the quill down and pressed a thumb and forefinger to his temple.

He was a duke, accustomed to command. He would master their arrangement as he had mastered everything else—through discipline and resolve. The sooner he turned his focus to what must be done, the sooner his inconvenient longings would vanish.

Until then, Diana’s face hovered in the corners of his mind, refusing to be tamed.