Page 34 of The Duke and the Hellion Bride (Duchesses of Convenience #7)

Diana’s heart hammered as her father held the letter at arm’s length and cleared his throat. He stood near the drawing room window, the morning sun casting thin shadows on the worn carpet. She stopped pacing and gripped the back of an old armchair, her breathing ragged from circling the same patch of floor.

“My Lord Gillingham, I have learned of last night’s events, and suggest that we address the matter at once. Miss Gillingham’s circumstances must not remain uncertain. My brother and I shall arrive by noon today,” her father’s voice quavered as he read.

Diana blinked hard, trying to chase away the dreadful pressure behind her eyes. One night had ruined her. Stepping away from the ballroom unchaperoned had given Leopold Ashwell the opening he had sought. Now she had only hours left before her fate became sealed by their visitors.

“Diana, if the Duke of Rivenhall takes such pains, he must intend for his brother to make amends,” Alison assured her in a hushed, steady voice.

Diana’s chest tightened. Leopold’s fumbling words, the distasteful reek of spirits, and her shock at being discovered in that narrow corridor hardly made him suitable husband material. However, if he did not marry her, she would be mercilessly scorned, ridiculed and cast from the ton. Her sister and father would be dealt a similar hand.

No, she had to marry this wretched man to ensure her family did not suffer for her careless mistake.

Diana was sure that by now her name had been whispered in every parlor across London. Lady Whittaker would make certain of it. If the duke and his brother failed to set things right, who would have her? Her family held debts that no one could ignore, and her dowry was laughable. She had no illusions. Without this marriage, she was worthless in the eyes of the ton.

“If they do not come, if they fail to offer a proper marriage…” she said, turning to her father, her voice barely above a whisper. She dared not finish the thought. She could beg some distant relation for help, perhaps, or find a lord who would overlook her tarnished name. The prospect left a bitter taste in her mouth, but Diana could think of no other choice.

“They promised to arrive by noon,” he said, glancing toward the door. He folded the letter and pressed his lips into a thin, tense line. “Let us not make any hasty decisions until after they have stated their piece.”

The minutes dragged on without a sign of their carriage or the crunch of wheels on gravel. The mantel clock ticked away a quarter hour, then a half. The throbbing in Diana’s temples increased with each passing minute.

“Surely they are delayed.” Alison said, touching Diana’s arm lightly. Diana looked at the empty doorway and shook her head. Noon had long come and gone.

“Papa, if they do not appear, what then? I cannot linger like spoiled fruit. I must find a man who cares little for my reputation, so long as some arrangement can be made with haste.”

Her voice caught. The words rattled from her mouth like stones, each one weighing her down further. She imagined approaching a stranger, an older widower, perhaps, someone who might accept her if the price was right. While they had little money, the value of bearing heirs for a man of title or fortune could not be underestimated. The thought made her stomach roil.

“Do not speak of that, Diana,” he said quietly. Her father frowned, his eyes darting to a side table as if it might offer guidance. “We must grant them more time.”

She pressed her fingertips to her forehead, breathing slowly. Time. She had precious little of it. If the duke and his brother had no intention of keeping their promise, then her fate lay in scouring the darkest corners of the marriage market. Could she endure that indignity? She swallowed hard and focused on the clock’s slow hands. Every second without a visitor drained what remained of her hope.

Diana drew a shaky breath and fixed her gaze on the door, determined not to cry.

“I will not wait forever,” she murmured. “I cannot.”

Diana stood as the front door finally opened, their butler greeted the guest, followed by footsteps in the corridor, steadier and more purposeful than any servant’s. She forced herself to breathe slowly, waiting to see what fate held in store for her.

“Lord Crayford,” the Duke of Rivenhall greeted as he entered the drawing room alone. His deep voice filled the small space, and Diana’s heart fluttered in her throat. She dipped a shallow curtsy, her eyes lowered, but as she straightened she could not help but look at him fully.

He was broader than she had imagined, his shoulders straining against the seams of an impeccable coat. There was an austerity in the lines of his face, and a keen intelligence shone in his dark eyes. His handsome face was framed by thick, black hair. When his gaze met hers, he held it a moment longer than necessary.

A small thrill of fear rippled through her, and she stiffened her spine, but beneath her fear was an unexpected, intoxicating sense of wonder. Diana attributed the feeling to being in the presence of a duke and capturing his attention for the first time in her life.

Her father stepped forward and motioned to an assortment of threadbare chairs assembled around the hearth.

“Your Grace, please. We are grateful you have come.” He offered a short bow, though the tension in his posture revealed his frayed nerves.

The duke inclined his head and settled into a seat, his coat draping with military neatness. Diana hovered near the settee while her father took a seat opposite the duke. Alison remained discreetly at the far end of the room, her presence a silent support, yielding the foreground to Diana.

An uneasy and brittle silence descended upon the small party. Diana noticed how the duke’s gaze swept over the furnishings: the faded upholstery, the scuffed floorboards, and the lone footman standing stiffly by the door—each detail seemed to register in his mind.

She tried not to bristle. If he disdained their modest circumstances, he need not have come. Yet why did the hint of disapproval in his eyes bother her so? Her family’s debts were a fact, not something they could hide behind new draperies.

The duke cleared his throat softly, irritation flickering in the set of his jaw.

“I must apologize, Lord Crayford, for the delay. Circumstances prevented me from arriving sooner.” He shifted in his chair, as if vexed by the mere mention of tardiness. “I trust you received my letter?”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Diana’s father replied, nodding and leaning forward slightly. “You have my thanks for coming at all, under these unfortunate circumstances.”

Again, silence reigned and Diana’s heart pounded. She wanted to inquire why he had come alone, but knew she needed to hold her tongue and let her father lead. Eventually, Lord Crayford cleared his throat and asked the question that stood at the forefront of all their thoughts.

“Your Grace,” he began, voice hesitant, “may I inquire—Lord Leopold…where is he?”

At that, the duke’s brow tightened fractionally. Diana caught the faintest narrowing of his eyes before he looked away, as if gathering his words. She clasped her hands together, her knuckles whitening. If Lord Leopold refused to come, what prospect remained for her future? All her fragile hopes hinged on the answer to that single question.

The Duke of Ravenhall’s gaze lingered on Diana once more, his penetrating assessment making her spine stiffen. Her stomach fluttered, and she found it difficult to breathe. She tried to recall if they had ever been properly introduced; surely, she would have remembered the handsome face of a powerful man, especially one who stole the air from her lungs.

He turned back to her father, who promptly hiccupped, breaking the strained silence. Lord Crayford pressed a hand to his mouth, cleared his throat, and attempted to regain his composure. Diana stifled a groan; her father was prone to developing hiccups during stressful situations. This early onset did not bode well for the conversation that lay ahead.

“Your Grace,” he managed, his voice wavering slightly as he asked again, “where—hic—where is Lord Leopold?”

“When I arrived at his accommodation this morning to collect him,” the duke said, tightening his jaw as he spoke each word with clipped precision. “I found only this letter.” He produced a folded sheet from an inner pocket. “My brother, it seems, has decided to continue with his planned journey to the continent—an extended European tour. He expresses his regrets and… his confidence that one day the ton will forget this entire matter.”

A flush crept up Diana’s neck. Forget? How convenient for him. She stood rigidly, gripping the back of the settee with white knuckles, furious that Lord Leopold would so easily abandon her to face the destruction he had caused. Her father hiccupped again and muttered something soothing under his breath, but it did nothing to calm the spark of anger burning in her chest.

Alison’s eyes darted to Diana, but she refused to contain her displeasure. Drawing a steadying breath, she ignored the anxious flutter in her chest and faced the Duke of Rivenhall directly.

For a heartbeat, she felt a trickle of nerves at having such a powerful man’s full attention and the impropriety of interrupting the conversation, but she refused to be cowed. “If Lord Leopold has run off, Your Grace,” she said, her voice firm, “then why have you come at all?”

She braced herself for a scathing rebuke—something clipped and dismissive. Instead, the duke inclined his head, as if amused by her outburst. His dark, steady gaze settled on her face. She could not help but notice the sudden quickening of her pulse; a spark of awareness that unsettled Diana.

“I have come,” he said, his voice low and steady, “to take responsibility for my brother’s actions.”

Diana’s heart lurched. She heard her father hiccup once more, and sensed Alison’s wide-eyed stare, but all her attention was focused on the duke. A subtle heat coiled in her stomach at the implication of his words. She had never expected to find him so formidable, or that such quiet authority could elicit a tension she half-recognized as attraction.

Silence stretched thin. Lord Crayford hiccupped again while clutching the arm of his chair, and Alison’s brows shot up; they all waited with bated breath for the duke to continue. Diana dared not hope that his meaning was what it seemed.

“Your Grace,” her father began, “to be perfectly certain—hic—are you suggesting that you…?”

The duke’s expression did not waver. He regarded them with an unyielding calm, his shoulders set like a fortress wall.

“I shall marry Miss Gillingham,” he said, each syllable clear and authoritative. “I will see to it that this matter is resolved properly.”

Diana stifled a gasp. She could hardly believe what she had just heard. Her father hiccupped again, clutching his handkerchief as if to steady himself. Her sister stared openly at the duke, her usual composure replaced by wide-eyed astonishment. Diana moved around the settee, her cheeks flushed with shock, while the Duke of Rivenhall’s declaration hung in the air like a drawn blade, both decisive and final.

“Miss Gillingham,” the duke began, addressing her directly,, “this arrangement will benefit everyone. We shall marry. Your dowry shall remain untouched. In return, I will provide Lord Crayford with a modest monthly allowance to mitigate any damage stemming from this unfortunate scandal.”

His words were an edict passed down from on high. Although his announcement was more than Diana could have hoped, she was aghast at his sudden proclamation, and his gross assumption regarding her acceptance.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice trembling as she lifted her chin, “you speak as though I have already agreed to your proposal.”

Lord Crayford snapped his gaze to her, his expression torn between alarm and embarrassment. “Diana,” he said sharply, “you will not take such a tone with His Grace.”

“But Papa—” Diana began, only to be silenced by his curt gesture.

“Do you not understand the weight of what is being offered?” he continued, his voice heavy with frustration. “This is no time for pride or petulance. The duke is being more than generous in rectifying this matter.”

Diana’s stomach churned at her father’s words. Pride? Petulance? Before the duke arrived, she had offered to marry anyone who would have her. Surely her father could not believe her to be prideful at such a time. She bit her lip, glancing at Alison, who was watching her with an expression of quiet alarm. Her sister had always been the steadier of the two of them, but even she seemed unmoored by the strain in the room.

Alison leaned forward slightly, her voice hesitant. “Diana, perhaps you should?—”

“That is enough,” the duke interrupted, his voice cutting cleanly through the rising tide of tension. He swept his gaze over Lord Crayford and Alison, his tone firm but devoid of malice. “I must speak with Miss Gillingham privately.”

“Privately, Your Grace? Surely—” Diana’s father blinked in surprise.

“I understand it is unconventional,” the duke said, his expression unyielding. “But this is no ordinary matter. I assure you, it will be handled with all appropriate decorum.”

Lord Crayford hesitated, twisting his handkerchief in his hands before nodding reluctantly.

“Very well,” he said, though his tone made it clear that he was anything but pleased. “Alison, come.”

Alison cast a lingering glance at Diana, worry flickering in her eyes, but she obeyed her father without protest. Diana watched them leave, her chest tightening as the door closed behind them, leaving her alone with the Duke of Rivenhall.

The silence that followed was thick, his presence suddenly far more palpable without the buffer of her family. Diana straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, willing herself not to falter under his gaze. Except for the unfortunate incident with Lord Ashwell, she had never been alone in a room with a man who was not a family member. Diana sighed. She seemed to be moving from one scandalous situation to another. Her nerves tingled beneath the surface, putting her on edge as the duke’s dark eyes met hers.

The duke stood and walked to the fireplace; his eyes fixed on Diana as she approached. She took a step closer, feeling disadvantaged as he towered over her. He openly scrutinized her every movement, as if measuring her worth. Diana felt undone by his silent, focused gaze, his formidable presence, and his unreadable expression.

Diana broke the silence, her voice firmer than she had anticipated. She needed to assert herself, to be more than just a pawn in his game.

“You have dismissed my family, Your Grace. If we are to discuss this arrangement further, I would appreciate being addressed as an equal, not as a burden you have taken upon yourself. Although I am grateful for your offer, you speak as though my agreement is a foregone conclusion.”

His brow lifted slightly at her words, yet his expression remained inscrutable. His dark eyes continued to assess her, analyzing every twitch of her face and each movement of her body, exposing her innermost thoughts.

“You misunderstand me, Miss Gillingham. I am here to resolve this matter in a way that benefits us both,” he replied in a low voice.

“And yet,” she countered, narrowing her eyes, “it feels as if I am the only one expected to sacrifice. You speak of restoring honor and reputation, but you do not treat me as someone involved in the decision.”

“I speak as a man of action. I do not waste time on needless debate when lives hang in the balance. I will not stand by and watch as the Rivenhall reputation becomes tarnished,” he said simply.

“Is it not my life that is most at risk? Do you consider mine expendable?” she shot back, surprised by her own boldness.

The duke’s jaw tightened, his composure faltering. He closed the distance between them with a swift movement that made Diana take a half step back. Instinctively, she raised a hand to stop him, her palm pressing against the firm expanse of his chest.

The warmth of his body startled her, sending her heart racing. She struggled to hide the fear that surged within her at the realization that she had touched a man, a duke, without permission.

His gaze flicked down to her hand, and in an instant he grasped her wrist. His grip was firm but not cruel; his strength was undeniable. The feel of his bare fingers around her wrist set her pulse racing. “Miss Gillingham,” he said, his voice low and steady, “look at me.”

Diana’s breath hitched. For a moment she hesitated, then raised her eyes to meet his. The dark depths of his gaze held her captive, and the tension in the air thickened with each passing second.

“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.”