Her father was already seated, while the Duke of Ironford stood near the hearth.
He wore dark clothes again, his broad frame making the room feel smaller without seeming to move at all. Yet there was fatigue in him now too, a fine strain at the edges that had not been there in full yesterday.
Emmeline stopped just inside the room and curtsied. “Your Grace.”
He bowed in return. “Lady Emmeline.”
The sound of her own name from his lips made something low in her stomach tense.
She turned quickly. “This is Miss Margaret Godwin,” she said, introducing her friend because the manners had to be observed even now. “My dearest friend.”
Margaret curtseyed with perfect grace. “Your Grace.”
The Duke bowed again. “Miss Godwin.”
“I ought not stay,” Margaret said lightly. “Good afternoon. Emmeline.” Her eyes held Emmeline’s for one brief, pointed second. “Send for me later.”
“I shall,” Emmeline said.
Margaret departed, leaving the room quieter than before.
Lord Weston gestured at the chairs at once. “Please. Sit.”
They obeyed, though the Duke seemed built to resist sitting in any room he did not fully command. He took the chair opposite Emmeline with the same grim efficiency he brought to everything else.
Her father rang for tea, more from habit than desire, and once the servants had withdrawn, the room settled into the sort of hush that makes every word seem heavier before it is spoken.
The Duke did not waste time. “I met with Foxdale this morning,” he said. “He is not amenable.”
The phrase was so measured that for a second Emmeline almost wanted to laugh.
Her father made a sound of disappointment so genuine that it would have been touching if it had not made her chest hurt. “I was afraid of that.”
The Duke’s eyes shifted to Emmeline. “Which leaves only one honorable course.”
There it was. She had known it before he spoke, but knowing and hearing were not the same thing.
“I would like to ask for Lady Emmeline’s hand.”
Her father’s face changed so quickly it was almost comical. His eyes widened. His back straightened. His mouth did something indecisive between relief and reverence. For one impossible instant, he looked like a man who had discovered a chest of gold hidden beneath the floorboards and was trying very hard to continue behaving as though he had merely found a dropped glove.
The Duke continued before anyone could drown in the silence.
“I am prepared to settle upon her all the rights and privileges due to a duchess,” he said, his tone turning almost maddeningly precise. “My London residence, Ironford House, is hers to manage once we are wed, and Ironford Hall in the country as well. My income is more than sufficient for all household needs. I require no dowry.”
Emmeline felt her father go very still beside her. Even she, who had spent the last day trying to think only in practical terms, could not miss the enormity of what the Duke was placing before them with such brutal simplicity.
Lord Weston blinked. “No dowry?”
“No.”
Her father managed, heroically, not to gape, though Emmeline could see the effort of it in the set of his mouth. Had the circumstances been different, she might even have laughed.
“I see,” Lord Weston said, his voice almost touched. “That is… very generous.”
The Duke inclined his head once. “Lady Emmeline would also, of course, assume the position of duchess fully. There would be expectations regarding household management, social appearances, and the care of my son.”
Emmeline’s jaw almost dropped.
