Page 7

The moment George and Helena entered, Mr. Gibbs raised his chin, and in perfect unison, every single servant bowed deeply or dropped into a low curtsy before her.

"Welcome home, Your Grace," Mr. Gibbs announced, his deep voice echoing off the domed ceiling. "May I present the solemn congratulations of the entire household to the Duke and Duchess of Cavendish."

Helena stood frozen near the double doors, feeling a surreal wave of dizziness sweep over her mind. Only three days ago, she had arrived at this very house in a hired, mud-splattered hackney carriage, viewed as an inconvenient servant fighting for a dead mistress's promise. Today, forty men and women bowed their heads in deep reverence to her as their mistress, the supreme lady of one of the oldest and grandest dukedoms in England.

She barely had time to comprehend the staggering enormity of what had just happened before George turned toward her.

"With me, Your Grace," George commanded softly, his voice leaving no room for hesitation.

Without waiting for her response, he turned on his heel and walked swiftly down the portrait-lined corridor leading to the private family quarters. Helena gathered her lavender skirts and followed him, her heels clicking softly against the polished parquet floor as she kept pace with his hurried strides.

He led her directly to his private study, the very room where their fierce battle of wills had begun. Helena stepped across the threshold, and George immediately closed the heavy double oak doors behind them.

George did not offer her a chair, but crossed the Persian carpet directly to his desk, opened a small wooden drawer, and withdrew a single, neatly folded sheet of paper.

"If this marriage is to succeed, there are three rules," George said quietly.

Helena stood in the center of the rug, her hands clasped loosely over her skirts. "I am listening, Your Grace."

George walked toward her, stopping only when he was within arm's reach. He extended his hand, presenting the folded parchment to her.

Helena accepted the paper, her slender fingers brushing lightly against his palm once more, sending another quiet jolt of heat through her veins. She broke the red wax seal with a soft click and unfolded the heavy sheet slowly, her dark eyes scanning the dark strokes of his handwriting.

Her breath caught sharply in her throat as her eyes fell upon the first line.

First: Before the world, you are to be my devoted wife. No person in Mayfair, London, or beyond must ever doubt the absolute sincerity and unity of our marriage.

"The ton is a pit of ruthless, calculating vipers, Helena," George explained as he watched her face closely. "The moment we step into London society, every eye will be upon us, searching for the slightest crack in our armor, looking for any evidence that this union was born of scandal, convenience, or ruin. If they sense weakness, they will tear your reputation to pieces and cast a shadow over Oliver's future as my heir. Therefore, whenever we leave the privacy of this estate, you will play the part of a loving, devoted duchess to perfection, and I shall play the devoted husband. We will present a unified front that no malicious tongue could ever breach."

Helena swallowed hard, her dark eyes dropping to the second line of the manuscript, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.

Second: You will never ask me for children. Oliver is the only child this marriage requires.

The line was shorter than the first, harsh, and uncompromising, written with an extra press of the quill that had left dark ink dried deep into the fiber.

"My brother's son is the heir to this house," George stated. "He is the sole reason I have taken a wife, and he is the only child who will ever inherit this title, these lands, and this name. I have no desire to father children of my own. Oliver is our sole priority, our only heir, and our entire duty."

She braced her shoulders, forcing her eyes down to the third and final line at the bottom of the parchment. Her pulse skipped a beat as she read the ruthless words written in his precise hand.

Third: You will never expect love from me. Not now, not ever.

A suffocating silence settled over the study. Helena stared at the final rule for a long moment, feeling the dark weight of his words settling into the very air between them.

She slowly folded the parchment back along its original creases, smoothing the thick paper between her fingers before raising her head to meet his searching gaze.

"Regarding your first rule: I am an Earl's daughter, although I no longer hold that rank. I was raised in the high drawing rooms of the realm, and I know precisely how to play the duplicitous games of society. I will give Mayfair a performance so flawless that no soul will ever dare question our union," Helena said, her melodious voice remarkably calm and steady, ringing through the quiet room with absolute conviction.

She took a single step toward him, closing the small gap between them, holding his cold blue gaze even as her very soul screamed at her to cower.

"Regarding your second rule," she continued smoothly, her dark eyes flashing with unyielding pride. "Oliver has my entire heart. He is Charlotte's child, and I require no other children to fulfill my life or my purpose. I shall raise him, protect him, and love him with every breath I possess, exactly as I promised his mother."

She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she addressed the final condition he had laid before her.

"And as for your third rule, Your Grace," Helena said, her tone dropping to a razor-sharp whisper that threatened to cut through his arrogant defense like a polished blade. "You need not worry about protecting your heart from me. I did not marry you seeking affection, tenderness, or love. I married you to keep a sacred promise. I expect no love from you, husband—not now, not ever."

"Then we are agreed, Your Grace," George said softly.

"Indeed we are, Your Grace," Helena replied, setting the folded parchment neatly upon the corner of his mahogany desk.