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Lord Nathaniel Fairfax, the Marquess of Loxley, didn’t bother with a cravat that morning. His coat hung unfastened, the dark wool creased from where he’d shrugged it on half-asleep, summoned before breakfast by a note bearing his father’s unmistakable script:

See me at once.

Nathaniel had expected estate ledgers or word of the shipping consortium in Leith. A report from the Commons, perhaps, or another tangle in the tenants’ arbitration in Shropshire.

What he certainly had not expected was to be told, with the clinical clarity of a man discussing rainfall, that he was to marry.

“Lady Eleanor Henshaw,” his father Reginald Fairfax, the Duke of Wycombe said, as if the lady’s name were simply the next step in a long arithmetic.

Nathaniel stared at him across the desk.

The scent of ink and tobacco clung to the study like a second skin.

Behind his father, the tall casement windows revealed the manicured rear gardens of Loxley House, untouched by the rising heat of the day.

The light had not yet softened the frost of morning.

The muscle in Nathaniel’s jaw twitched.

“I’ve made my position clear several times already, Father,” he said evenly. “I have no need of a wife.”

The duke did not so much as glance up from the sheaf of correspondence he was arranging with fastidious precision. “And I’ve made mine clear. You require an heir. More than that, you require stability. The Henshaw girl provides both.”

“I am perfectly capable of finding my own wife,” Nathaniel spat, holding back.

“No, you are not,” his father replied calmly, but underneath that serenity, a storm was already brewing.

“And that is why I have taken it upon myself to make that choice for you because you have wasted enough of both our time. Truth be told, your mother also needed some convincing regarding the girl, but I have made detailed enquiries, and her father assured me that their family is in the same situation as ours.”

Nathaniel’s fingers curled around the arm of the leather chair. “You’ve signed the contract.”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t think I might wish to meet her first?”

“Why? Would that alter the necessity?”

His voice remained calm, that practiced ducal detachment Nathaniel had loathed since boyhood. It was the same tone used to discuss troop movements, estate expansions, and the price of coal.

The world, as the Duke of Wycombe saw it, was a ledger. Daughters were columns to balance. Sons were ink and signature.

“The identity of the girl in question is utterly irrelevant,” his father reminded him cruelly.

“As I’ve said, you have wasted enough time, and it has become clear that you will not make that choice on your own.

So, I have made it easier for you. Lady Eleanor is well-bred and educated, with an unblemished reputation.

No debts, no scandal. The earl is eager to secure a position for her now that his sons are inconveniently scattered to the wind.

You will marry her within the fortnight.

A special licence has already been arranged. ”

The tick of the mantle clock filled the space between them.

His father blinked heavily upon not hearing a response. “I refuse to leave this world without seeing you settled.”

“You mean married,” Nathaniel scoffed. “That is not the same.”

“It most certainly is. You are just too stubborn to see it.” His father’s jaw tightened. “You know what the physicians have said.”

He knew well. His father had the wasting disease, also known as cancer of the bowels. His lack of appetite was becoming more and more noticeable, as well as his intermittent abdominal pain, but he had been concealing it with excuses of the usual kind: stress, overwork, old age.

However, they both knew that once it reached a certain stage, the decline would become painfully obvious to all.

“It would bring me peace, Nathaniel,” he finally said, and this was one of the rare times that he actually sounded more like a father and less like a duke issuing an order.

Nathaniel sighed. He could say nothing to that. All he could do was nod. As it turned out, that was more than enough for his father.

“Well then, If that is all …”

Nathaniel stood slowly, forcing his hands to remain loose at his sides. “Yes. That is all.”

He left the study with controlled, measured steps, though every muscle in his body ached to break into movement, to transform it into something fast, something violent, something his.

In the corridor, he drew a breath through his nose. The sharp scent of bay rum still clung faintly to his skin from his morning shave. He closed his eyes for a beat and exhaled.

Lady Eleanor Henshaw.

He knew the name. The Henshaws were old blood; they had solid lineage. He’d seen her once, perhaps twice at some society affair he’d been obligated to attend.

A glimpse across a crowded ballroom: chestnut hair pinned in elegant coils, a mouth set not in flirtation but in quiet thought. She hadn’t looked in his direction. That, oddly, had stuck with him.

Still, she could be anyone. Pretty or plain. Sharp or dull. Willing or furious.

None of it mattered.

His marriage, like every other facet of his life, had been prearranged by forces greater than whim. His father did not believe in affection. He believed in empire. A son who questioned his role in that design was merely a cog refusing to turn.

He poured himself a glass of water from the crystal decanter in his chamber and drank it cold and fast. Then, he braced his hands on the edge of the washstand, breathing steadily.

He reminded himself that marriage was no tragedy. It was a tool like any other. But something was unsettling about this match, perhaps because he hadn’t chosen it, perhaps because it had been decided so easily as if he were the part being bartered, not the lady.

Or perhaps because he did not know what this woman would ask of him, not in words, but in glances, in silences, in expectation.

The glass clinked as he set it down. Somewhere beyond the window, horses moved in the mews, hooves sharp against cobbles. The city would wake soon. He hastily grabbed his coat.

Minutes later, his carriage cut through the streets with smooth, unhurried purpose, and the wheels were whispering over cobblestones slick with the morning’s dew.

The city unfurled around him in measured grey light. Shopkeepers were slowly lifting shutters, messengers darting like hares, all while chimney smoke curled above damp slate roofs. But inside the carriage, the world was silent but for the steady ticking of his pocket watch.

He sat rigidly, gloved hands resting on his cane, though he did not need it. It was a prop. A weapon, sometimes. A shield more often.

Marriage.

The word looped through his mind with the same cold regularity as the horses’ hooves. He had spent his adult life weaving order from chaos.

He learned everything there was to know about managing estates, debts, politics, war, and the mess men made of themselves. He’d never allowed passion to unseat him, never chased scandal or flirted with ruin.

This marriage wasn’t simply an inconvenience. It was a disruption. A threat, even.

He stepped from the carriage before the footman had fully lowered the step, nodding once to the doorman of St James’.

The club was as it always was. Its wood-panelled, fire-warmed atmosphere offered both cigar smoke and quiet judgement. This was where, in the hush of polished leather and cut glass, a man could still believe himself master of his fate.

At the far end of the reading room, Captain Jonathan Marsden lounged in his usual armchair. His boots were outstretched, and there was a glass of brandy in one hand, but the most obvious thing about him was the mischief in his eyes.

“You’re late,” Marsden said, lifting the glass in salute. “I’ve already insulted two members and scandalized a third with an anecdote about a Portuguese duchess. You’ve missed the fun.”

Nathaniel pulled off his gloves and sat opposite with a sigh. “I’ve been summoned. Ordered, really.”

Marsden’s brows rose. “To Parliament? The Admiralty? Or your tailor?”

“My father.”

“Ah.” Marsden winced. “God preserve us. What’s the damage?”

Nathaniel accepted the brandy offered him and took a long drink before replying. “I am to marry.”

Marsden blinked. “To whom?”

“Lady Eleanor Henshaw.”

There was a pause. Then a low whistle.

“Well,” Marsden said, shifting to sit straighter. “You don’t do things by halves, do you?”

Nathaniel only looked at him.

Marsden set his glass down as if what he intended to say required his full focus.

“She’s not one of the silly ones if that’s your concern.

I’ve seen her in company, old boy. She never simpers, never scrambles for notice.

People say she’s clever. Sharp-tongued if crossed.

Has a fondness for books, painting, and the kind of quiet that makes hostesses uneasy. ”

Nathaniel drained half his brandy in a single swallow.

“I’ve never spoken to her,” he said flatly. “I’ve barely looked at her. And now her name clings to my every thought like a burr.”

Marsden chuckled. “Burrs can be dangerous things.”

“I’ve heard her to be independent,” Nathaniel continued, ignoring him. “Not easily impressed. The kind of woman who demands … things. Space. Answers. Opinions.”

Marsden grinned. “So … a person, then.”

Nathaniel scowled. “Don’t be absurd.”

“I’m not.” The captain leaned forward with a hint of amusement tempered by a glint of understanding.

“You don’t want a challenge, Loxley. You want quiet.

Control. A wife who nods and smiles and never asks why.

You simply could have chosen a mousey thing like that and got it over with.

Now, your father has chosen for you and you’re brooding. ”

Nathaniel said nothing. He looked down into his glass, where the amber liquid caught the light like a flame behind glass.

Was Marsden right?

He set the glass down with a soft clink. “This is politics. That’s all. My father’s game. I’ll play it.”