Chapter 6 - The Duke's Test

I stood frozen on the threshold of Duke Alaric Thorne's study, my heart thundering in my chest. The room was vast, lined with bookshelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating a massive desk where the Duke sat watching me with those piercing eyes.

The door closed behind me with a soft click that somehow sounded deafening in the silence. We were alone now, just as we had been in the garden. But this felt different—more deliberate, more dangerous.

"I wasn't expecting you to show up at breakfast time," Duke Alaric said, his deep voice filling the space between us. "Were you meant to come in the night like a thief?"

My hands trembled slightly, but I clasped them together to hide it. "I thought it best to arrive early, Your Grace. Daylight makes intentions seem more... honorable."

A hint of amusement flickered across his face. "And are your intentions honorable, Miss Beaumont?"

"They are practical," I replied, finding strength in honesty. "Just as I explained yesterday."

He gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Sit."

I moved forward, acutely aware of his gaze tracking my every movement. The chair was imposing, carved from dark wood with lion heads on the armrests. I perched on the edge, back straight, hands folded in my lap.

"You've gone to considerable effort to be here," he observed. "How did you convince your father to allow this excursion?"

I hesitated for only a moment. "I told him I wished to sketch buildings from inside the carriage. He believes I'm in town with the curtains drawn, painting."

"So you lied." It wasn't a question.

"I did what was necessary," I said, meeting his gaze directly through the slits in my mask. "Would you prefer I had sent a note announcing my intentions to become your wife? I imagine that would have reached my family's ears before the ink dried."

To my surprise, he laughed—a short, genuine sound that transformed his severe features. "You have a sharp tongue beneath that mask, Miss Beaumont."

"Only when needed, Your Grace."

He leaned back in his chair, studying me. "Tell me exactly what you're proposing. No ambiguities."

I took a deep breath and laid out my plan with as much composure as I could muster. "A marriage in name only. We would live separately within your estate. I would make no demands on your time, your fortune, or your... physical attentions." I felt heat rise to my cheeks at those last words but pushed on. "In return, I would have the protection of your name and household, freedom from my family's control, and the opportunity to live quietly with my books and painting."

"And what do I gain from this arrangement?" he asked, his expression unreadable.

"Freedom from society's expectations. No more matchmaking mothers parading their daughters before you. No more pressure from the King to select a bride." I paused, then added, "And I would never embarrass you. I would remain largely invisible, appearing only when protocol demands it."

Alaric stood abruptly, moving to the window. He stared out at the grounds for several long moments while I held my breath.

"Remove your mask," he said suddenly, still facing the window.

My heart almost stopped. "Your Grace?"

He turned, his expression hard. "If I'm to consider marrying you, even in name only, I want to see what's beneath that mask. I need to know exactly what I'd be tying myself to."

My fingers instinctively rose to touch the porcelain that had shielded me for years. Terror coursed through me—pure, cold fear that froze my limbs.

"I... I cannot." My voice emerged as barely a whisper.

"Cannot or will not?" He took a step toward me.

"Please," I whispered, hating how pathetic I sounded. "This was not part of our discussion yesterday."

"Yesterday I was intrigued by your proposition. Today I'm testing your honesty." Another step closer. "How can I trust a woman who hides her face? How do I know you're not wanted for crimes? Or that you're even who you claim to be?"

I stood up shakily. "You know my identity. Your butler recognized my family name."

"Names can be stolen or borrowed." He was directly before me now, towering over my smaller frame. "The mask comes off, or you leave now and never return."

The ultimatum hung in the air between us. My mind raced through options—leave and return to my prison at home, or reveal my greatest shame to this intimidating man. Either way, I lost.

"Very well," I said at last, my voice steadier than I felt. "But I must warn you, Your Grace. What you'll see is not pleasant."

"I've seen war, famine, and death, Miss Beaumont. I doubt your face will shock me."

His confidence only increased my dread. With trembling fingers, I reached behind my head to untie the ribbons that held my mask in place. The porcelain felt cool against my palm as I slowly lowered it.

I kept my eyes downcast, unable to watch his reaction as the damaged side of my face was revealed to him. The scars stretched from my temple down past my cheek to the corner of my lips—raised, reddened tissue that pulled my features into a permanent half-grimace. Years ago, Clara had ensured I would never be beautiful.

I heard his sharp intake of breath and braced myself for disgust or pity. Instead, after a moment of silence, his voice came low and controlled.

"Look at me."

I forced my eyes up to meet his. His expression was not what I expected—no revulsion, no shock. Just intense scrutiny and something that looked like... anger?

"Who did this to you?" he asked, the question taut with restrained fury.

The directness of his question startled me. No one had ever asked that before. "My sister," I admitted. "When we were children."

His jaw tightened. "And your father allowed you to be branded a curse rather than acknowledge his younger daughter's cruelty."

It wasn't a question, so I offered no answer. The accuracy of his assessment ached somewhere deep inside me.

"Put your mask back on if it makes you comfortable," he said, turning away to walk back to his desk. "I've seen enough."

I quickly reattached my shield, feeling oddly exposed even with it in place. He had seen me—truly seen me—and now knew my deepest vulnerability.

"You realize," he said once seated again, "that as my wife, your sister would be in a position beneath you in society's hierarchy."

The thought had occurred to me, though I hadn't dared dwell on it. "Yes."

"And does that prospect please you? The chance to make her bow to you at social gatherings? To have her seek your favor rather than torment you?"

"I don't seek revenge," I said honestly. "I seek peace."

He studied me for a moment longer. "Interesting. Most would want retribution."

"Revenge requires passion," I explained. "I stopped feeling passionate about my family long ago. I just want to be free of them."

For the first time since I'd entered, I saw approval in his expression. "A sensible approach."

He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out several sheets of paper. "I've taken the liberty of drafting an agreement based on our conversation yesterday. Review it, and we can discuss terms."

I blinked in surprise. "You... you already had this prepared?"

"I'm thorough, Miss Beaumont. It doesn't mean I've decided." He slid the papers across the desk. "But if we proceed, I want everything clearly defined."

I took the document with unsteady hands, scanning the elegant script. It outlined precisely what I had proposed—a marriage of convenience that would provide me protection and him freedom from society's pressures. No physical obligations, separate quarters, appearances together only when necessary. The agreement even specified an allowance for my personal use and guaranteed my autonomy within the household.

"This is... very generous," I said, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.

"If I do something, I do it properly." He leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "However, there's one condition not listed there that I require."

I tensed. "What condition?"

"Honesty." His eyes narrowed slightly. "No lies between us, even if the truth is unpleasant. I won't tolerate deception from my wife, even a wife in name only."

The intensity in his gaze made me swallow hard. "I can agree to that."

"Good." He stood again, this time moving to a side table where a decanter sat. "Would you like some water?"

"Yes, thank you," I said, relieved by the mundane question after such tension.

He poured two glasses and handed one to me. Our fingers brushed briefly during the exchange, sending an unexpected jolt through my body. I quickly took a sip to hide my reaction.

"I have questions," he said, returning to his seat. "About your expectations, your past, your future plans. Are you willing to answer them?"

I nodded. "Complete honesty, as agreed."

"Excellent." He took a drink of his water, then fixed me with that penetrating stare. "Let's begin with the most obvious question. Why me? Why not propose this arrangement to a lesser noble who might be more desperate for connections or wealth?"

I considered my words carefully. "Because you're powerful enough that my family wouldn't dare challenge our marriage. Because rumors say you have no interest in love or companionship, making my proposal more likely to appeal to you. And because..." I hesitated, then committed to honesty, "because you're known to be dangerous, which means others would think twice before trying to harm or control your wife—even one you don't truly want."

His lips curved into a small, cold smile. "Pragmatic. I appreciate that."

He asked more questions—about my education (largely self-taught), my interests (books, art, quiet gardens), my knowledge of running a household (theoretical rather than practical). He seemed particularly interested in my relationship with my father and stepmother, though he asked nothing more about Clara.

Finally, after what felt like hours, he set down his empty glass and regarded me with an unreadable expression.

"I'll need time to consider your proposal properly. This is not a decision I'll make hastily."

My heart sank. I'd hoped—foolishly perhaps—for an immediate answer. "I understand, Your Grace. But I must tell you that time is something I have very little of."

His brow furrowed. "Explain."

"My father is desperate for funds. My sister's presentation to society was costly, and our estate has been declining for years. He's seeking wealthy suitors for Clara, but I've heard whispers..." I paused, the words sticking in my throat.

"Continue," he prompted.

"There have been offers for my hand as well." I clutched my glass tightly. "From men who find the idea of a desperate, masked bride... intriguing. Men who believe a woman with no options will accept any treatment, no matter how degrading."

Alaric's expression darkened. "And your father is considering these offers?"

"He's rejected them so far, but our finances grow worse each month. I fear it's only a matter of time before the right price is offered." I met his gaze directly. "I would rather die than be sold to such men, Your Grace."

The intensity of his stare made me feel as though he could see straight through to my soul. The silence stretched between us, heavy with the weight of my confession.

Finally, he spoke. "Return tomorrow at midnight."

I blinked in surprise. "Midnight?"

"Yes." He stood, signaling our meeting was over. "Come alone. Tell no one. If you can manage that, I'll have my answer for you."

"But—" I began.

"Tomorrow at midnight," he repeated firmly. "Alistair will show you out through the servants' entrance. No one will see you leave."

As if summoned by his name, the butler appeared at the door. I had no choice but to rise and follow him, my mind whirling with questions.

At the threshold, I turned back. "May I ask why midnight, Your Grace?"

Duke Alaric's expression was inscrutable. "Because, Miss Beaumont, if I'm to marry you, I need to know you're capable of defying your family completely. Consider it a test of your determination."

My heart skipped a beat as the door closed behind me, leaving me alone with Alistair and the enormity of what tomorrow night might bring.