For a second I thought I had pushed too far. He was a duke after all, and I was entirely at his mercy in a house that felt three steps away from a tomb. Then the corner of his unscarred mouth twitched. "You have a sharp tongue, Cecilia. It is my only remaining asset," I replied.
Since you bought the rest of me. He flinched. It was a minute movement, but I saw it. The right hand tightened on the desk. I didn't buy you.
I called in a debt. Pendleton made the offer. And you accepted. I need an heir. He said it bluntly, ripping off the bandage of societal politeness.
The terms of my father's will, stipulate that if I do not produce an heir within the decade, this estate, what's left of it, goes to my cousin. A man who makes your Henry look like a saint. So I am a broodmare. You are a duchess, he snapped back, his voice rising, bouncing off the vaulted ceiling. You will have a roof.
You will have food. You will have a title. It is more than most women get. A decaying roof, cold food, and a title that people use as a ghost story, I corrected, meeting his one good eye. Let us not pretend this is a fairy tale, your grace.
It is a transaction. You need a child to keep your lands. I need a place to exist without becoming destitute. We do not need to like each other. We simply need to endure each other.
Nathaniel watched me for a long time. The sputtering fire cast dancing shadows across his ruined profile. He looked exhausted. He looked like a man who had been fighting a war long after the enemy had gone home. "Mrs. Gable has prepared a room for you," he said quietly, the fight draining out of his voice.
"It is at the end of the east corridor. Do not go into the west wing. The floors are unstable from the fire. Thank you. I turned toward the door.
Cecilia. I stopped, looking back over my shoulder. I am not a monster, he said. The words were quiet yet almost defensive. I know, I replied.
Monsters don't hide. Morning in Harwood Hall did not break. It simply seeped through the dirty windows like a gray stain. I woke up shivering. The fireplace in my chamber was empty, thick with old ash.
The bed sheets felt damp. I lay there for a long moment, staring at the cracked plaster on the ceiling, listening to the relentless howling of the Yorkshire wind. I could pull the covers over my head. I could weep. I could write a pathetic letter to Henry, begging him to find a way to buy me back.