SHE WAS HAVING TEA ALONE—UNTIL THE DUKE’S MOTHER WHISPERED: “PRETEND YOU’RE MY SON’S FIANCÉE”.

The drawing room of Asheford House hummed with the polite chatter of London’s finest ladies, all gathered for the quarterly charitable society meeting. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over silk gowns and elaborate quaffurs, while servants glided between clusters of women bearing silver trays laden with tea and delicate pastries.

Lady Eugenie Weatherstone had positioned herself in what she considered the most advantageous spot in the entire room: a small seti near the window, partially obscured by an enormous potted fern. From here she could observe the proceedings without being drawn into tedious conversations about the latest bonnet styles or which gentleman had danced with whom at last week’s ball.

At 26, Eugenie had perfected the art of social invisibility. Not that she was unattractive. Quite the contrary. Her dark auburn hair and intelligent gray eyes had caught attention enough during her first season nine years ago. But after her father’s investments had gone catastrophically wrong, leaving the Weatherstone family teetering on the edge of financial ruin, suitors had evaporated like morning mist.

Pride had prevented her from accepting offers from men who viewed her solely as a pretty ornament, and practicality had kept her from pursuing romantic fantasies when her family needed her dowry money for more pressing matters—like keeping their ancestral home from falling into complete disrepair. She sipped her tea and allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. This was perfectly pleasant: observing humanity from a safe distance, contributing her required attendance to the charitable cause, and avoiding the pitying glances that inevitably came when unmarried women of a certain age gathered together.

“That one,” a crisp, aristocratic voice declared from somewhere behind the fern.

Eugenie froze, her teacup halfway to her lips.

“I beg your pardon, your grace?” came another voice—Mrs. Pebertton, if Eugenie wasn’t mistaken.

“That young woman by the window. Who is she?”

Eugenie’s heart sank as she realized they were discussing her. She considered standing up to announce her presence, but something in the tone of the first voice—imperious, calculating, and utterly confident—kept her seated.

“That is Lady Eugenie Weatherstone, your grace, Lord Weatherstone’s daughter. A perfectly respectable family, though I understand they’ve had some difficulties in recent years.”

“Difficulties?” The aristocratic voice—definitely belonging to someone titled, Eugenie noted with growing alarm—sounded intrigued rather than dismissive.

“Financial troubles, I’m afraid. Nothing scandalous, mind you. Poor investments. Her father is too trusting by half, but Lady Eugenie is quite proper. She’s been out for years, though she never took. Too bookish, some say; too opinionated, others claim. Personally, I think she simply never found anyone worthy of her notice.”

“Or perhaps no one worthy gave her the attention she deserved,” the first voice said thoughtfully. “Tell me, is she desperate to marry?”

Eugenie nearly choked on her tea. The audacity. Desperate?

“I wouldn’t say desperate, your grace, but she must be aware that her prospects diminish with each passing season. At her age, she cannot afford to be too particular.”

“Perfect,” the voice declared with satisfaction. “Absolutely perfect.”

Before Eugenie could process this alarming statement, a woman swept around the fern with the force of a small hurricane. She was perhaps 60 years of age, dressed in an exquisite lavender silk gown that screamed both wealth and impeccable taste. Her silver hair was arranged in an elaborate style that must have taken her ladies maid hours to complete, and she wore diamonds that could probably feed a small village for a year. Most notably, she wore an expression of absolute determination.

“Lady Eugenie Weatherstone,” the woman announced, settling herself onto the seti with the authority of someone accustomed to having her smallest wish obeyed. “I am Winifred Merrow, Dowager Duchess of Silverly, and I have a proposition for you that will sound utterly mad.”

Eugenie blinked at her, acutely aware that several other ladies had noticed the Dowager Duchess’s sudden interest and were now watching their corner with unconcealed curiosity.

“Your grace,” Eugenie managed, setting down her teacup before she dropped it. “I’m honored by your attention, but I’m not certain…”

“You’re unmarried,” Winifred interrupted with characteristic bluntness. “26 years old, intelligent, and from what I’ve observed, entirely too sensible to waste your time with the nonsense these other ladies consider conversation. You also desperately need money, though you’re too proud to show it. Am I correct thus far?”

Eugenie felt her cheeks flush. “Your grace, I hardly think—”

“Your gloves,” Winifred continued, gesturing to her hands. “Beautifully made, but you’ve turned them twice. I can see the faint marks where the original stitching was. Your gown is at least three years old, though you’ve disguised it cleverly with new ribbon, and unless I’m very much mistaken, those are paste pearls at your throat, not the genuine Weatherstone pearls your grandmother was famous for wearing. Your family has sold the real ones, haven’t they?”

The frank assessment, delivered without malice but with absolute certainty, left Eugenie momentarily speechless. She had spent years perfecting her facade of genteel normalcy, and this woman had seen through it in seconds.

“I mean no offense,” Winifred said more gently, though her eyes remained sharp. “I merely need to ensure you’ll understand the value of what I’m about to propose. You see, I have a son.”

“Congratulations,” Eugenie offered weakly.

Winifred’s lips twitched. “Callum Merrow, Duke of Silverly. 32 years old, devastatingly handsome—if I do say so myself—wealthy beyond measure, and possessing absolutely no interest whatsoever in finding a wife. Do you know how many debutantes I’ve paraded before him over the past decade? Dozens. Beautiful, accomplished young ladies from the finest families in England. He treats them all with perfect courtesy and complete indifference.”

“I’m sorry for your difficulty, your grace, but I fail to see how this concerns me.”

“Because,” Winifred leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carried more weight than a shout. “You are going to pretend to be his fiancée, starting immediately.”

Eugenie stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“Just for this afternoon,” Winifred continued as if she hadn’t just suggested something completely insane. “I… you see, there are several particularly odious women at this gathering who have been hounding me mercilessly about Callum’s unmarried state. Lady Cromwell actually had the audacity to suggest that perhaps my son prefers unconventional companionship. I need to silence them, and you, my dear, are the perfect solution.”

“Your grace, I cannot possibly—”

“You can, and you will,” Winifred said firmly, “because I am going to make it worth your while. Stand up.”

Somewhere in Eugenie’s sensible mind, a voice was screaming at her to refuse, to make her excuses, and leave immediately. But another part of her—the part that had spent years watching her father’s worry lines deepen, that had seen her mother quietly sell family heirlooms piece by piece, that had lain awake at night calculating how many more months they could maintain appearances before the creditors came calling—that part of her stood up.

“Excellent.” Winifred rose as well, linking her arm through hers with proprietary satisfaction. “Now smile as if I’ve just shared delightful news. That’s right. And for heaven’s sake, try to look like a woman in love.”

“I don’t even know your son.”

“Minor detail. Now hold your head high. You’re about to become the most talked about woman in London.”

Before Eugenie could protest further, Winifred had steered her into the center of the drawing room, where the gathered ladies turned to observe them with varying degrees of interest.

“Ladies,” Winifred announced in a voice that carried effortlessly across the room, bringing all conversation to an immediate halt. “I have the most wonderful news. May I present my son’s fiancée, Lady Eugenie Weatherstone. The wedding will be in three months time at St. George’s. We are keeping it small—only 500 guests or so.”

The room erupted. Women surged forward with congratulations and questions, their voices blending into an incomprehensible cacophony. Eugenie felt herself being pulled into embraces by people she barely knew, heard herself murmuring responses that she couldn’t quite process, and caught glimpses of faces ranging from delighted to devastatingly envious. Through it all, Winifred remained at her side, a small smile of triumph playing about her lips.

“Your grace,” Eugenie hissed under her breath during a brief lull in the onslaught. “This is madness. When your son discovers what you’ve done—”

“Oh, Callum will be furious,” Winifred agreed cheerfully. “Absolutely apoplectic. It will be magnificent. He’s been far too complacent lately. This will do him good.”

“Do him good? You’ve just announced to all of London society that we’re engaged!”

“Indeed, I have. And now you have a choice, my dear. You can publicly humiliate both yourself and me by denying it in front of all these witnesses, ensuring that neither of our reputations ever recovers, or…” Winifred’s voice took on a steely quality, “…you can play along for the remainder of this afternoon, and tomorrow morning you and I will have a proper discussion about compensating you for your trouble.”

“Compensating me?” Eugenie’s mind raced. “You mean…”

“I mean that I am prepared to be exceedingly generous to the woman who helps me solve my problem. Your family’s financial difficulties could become a thing of the past, Lady Eugenie. All you need do is pretend to be in love with my son for one afternoon. Surely that’s not too high a price.”

Eugenie looked at the faces surrounding her—women she’d known for years, but who had never particularly noticed her before. They were looking at her now, though—looking at her with interest, with envy, with the kind of attention that came from being associated with one of the most eligible men in England. She thought of her father’s tired eyes. Her mother’s brave smile when she’d sold her grandmother’s brooch last month. Her younger brother’s education hanging in the balance because they couldn’t afford the fees.

“What do I need to know about him?” she heard herself ask.

Winifred’s smile widened. “Ah, splendid. Well, let me see… Callum is brilliant. Cambridge, first in his class. He manages our estates with impressive competence and takes his duties in the House of Lords seriously, unlike most of his peers. He’s an excellent horseman, a fair shot, and he detests dancing despite being quite good at it.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Eugenie said. “I meant what will convince people we’re actually engaged. What are his habits, his preferences? Does he have a sense of humor?”

Winifred looked at her with something approaching respect. “Very practical. Yes, he has a quite wonderful sense of humor, though he hides it behind that ducal reserve he’s perfected. He’s sardonic rather than jovial—wit over warmth, if you take my meaning. He reads voraciously, particularly philosophy and political theory. He takes his coffee black, his whiskey neat, and his privacy seriously. He’s loyal to those he cares about, but slow to trust. And,” she added with a significant look, “he has very little patience for dishonesty or manipulation.”

“Then he’s going to absolutely despise this,” Eugenie said flatly.

“Oh, undoubtedly. But by the time he discovers it, you’ll have made such an impression on London society that breaking the engagement will be far more trouble than maintaining the fiction. At least for a short while.”

“A short while?”

“Three months should suffice. Long enough to satisfy the gossips and get everyone accustomed to the idea that Callum is finally settling down. After that, we can arrange a quiet dissolution of the engagement. Mutual decision, no scandal, everyone parts as friends.”

“And the compensation you mentioned…”

“We’ll discuss specific terms tomorrow,” Winifred said. “But I assure you, it will be more than adequate to resolve your family’s financial concerns. Shall we say… enough to pay off your father’s debts and provide a comfortable settlement besides?”

Eugenie’s breath caught. That kind of money would change everything. Her father could stop selling off pieces of their heritage. Her mother could hold her head high in society again. Her brother could finish his education. All she had to do was pretend to love a man she’d never met for one afternoon—and then apparently continue the pretense for three months. It was mad. Completely, utterly mad.

“Very well,” Eugenie said. “But tomorrow morning we discuss terms properly, and if your son wishes to end this charade immediately, I’ll support whatever explanation he prefers.”

“Excellent,” Winifred said, “though I doubt Callum will want to end it once he thinks through the implications. He’s far too clever for that. Now, smile. Lady Cromwell is approaching, and she’s the worst gossip in London. Whatever you tell her will be repeated in every drawing room by evening.”

Lady Cromwell was a formidable woman in pew satin, her expression hovering between congratulation and calculation. “Lady Eugenie, my dear girl, I had no idea you even knew the Duke of Silverly. How delightfully secretive you’ve been.”

“The Duke and Lady Eugenie preferred to keep their understanding private,” Winifred answered before Eugenie could speak. “Young love, you know. They wanted time to know each other without society’s scrutiny.”

“How romantic!” Lady Cromwell’s eyes narrowed with interest. “And where did you meet, if I may ask?”

Eugenie’s mind went blank. Where would a duke and an impoverished lady even cross paths? She opened her mouth, desperately grasping for a plausible explanation.

“At the British Museum,” Winifred supplied smoothly. “They both have a passion for ancient Greek philosophy. Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Yes,” Eugenie seized on the lie gratefully. “We… we discovered we were both examining the same collection of manuscripts. We struck up a conversation about Aristotle’s ethics, and…” she gestured vaguely, “…one thing led to another.”

It sounded absurd, even to her own ears, but Lady Cromwell seemed to accept it. “How very intellectual. I suppose that explains why the Duke hasn’t been seen courting anyone. He was too busy courting you in secret.”

“Precisely,” Winifred said with satisfaction.

The afternoon continued in much the same vein. Eugenie found herself repeating variations of the museum story, accepting congratulations from women who had barely acknowledged her existence before, and feeling increasingly like she’d been swept up in a theatrical production without being given her lines. By the time the charitable society meeting concluded, her face ached from forced smiling, and her mind reeled from the sheer audacity of what she’d just done.

As the ladies began to depart, Winifred squeezed her arm. “You did beautifully. My carriage will collect you tomorrow morning at 10:00. We’ll discuss everything properly then.”

“Your grace,” Eugenie said quietly. “What happens when your son finds out what we’ve done?”

Winifred’s expression turned thoughtful. “Callum has spent the last decade avoiding his responsibilities where marriage is concerned. Perhaps this will remind him that a duke has duties beyond managing estates and attending Parliament. Sometimes, my dear, we must be forced into recognizing what we truly need.”

“And what if what he truly needs isn’t me?”

“Then we’ll have three months to discover that, won’t we?” Winifred patted her hand. “But I have a feeling you’re going to surprise us both. There’s more to you than a pretty face and good breeding, Lady Eugenie. I saw it the moment you started asking practical questions instead of swooning over the honor of becoming a duchess. Callum needs someone with intelligence and spine, not another simpering debutante. You might be exactly what he requires.”

With that cryptic statement, the Dowager Duchess swept away, leaving Eugenie standing in the emptying drawing room, wondering what on earth she had just agreed to. She was supposed to pretend to be the Duke of Silverly’s fiancée—a man she had never met, a man who, according to his mother, despised dishonesty and manipulation. This was without question the most ridiculous situation she had ever found herself in.

And yet, as she made her way home in the Weatherstone shabby carriage—another reminder of their reduced circumstances—Eugenie couldn’t quite suppress a flutter of something that might have been anticipation. For the first time in years, something interesting was happening to her. Something unexpected and absurd and potentially disastrous, but also possibly something that could save her family.

She arrived home to find her mother in the drawing room mending curtains that should have been replaced two years ago.

“Eugenie, darling, how was the charitable society meeting?”

Eugenie looked at her mother—still beautiful despite the lines of worry around her eyes, still maintaining the graceful dignity that had made her one of the most admired women of her generation, still pretending that everything was perfectly fine even as their world crumbled piece by piece.

“Actually, mother,” Eugenie said slowly, “something rather extraordinary happened. I appear to have gotten engaged.”

Her mother’s needle stopped mid-stitch. “You what?”

“To the Duke of Silverly. His mother announced it to the entire charitable society. The wedding is to be in three months at St. George’s.”

There was a long, profound silence. Then her mother set down her mending with great care. “Eugenie Charlotte Weatherstone, sit down and explain yourself this instant.”

As Eugenie recounted the afternoon’s events, she watched her mother’s expression cycle through disbelief, horror, and finally cautious calculation.

“Let me understand this correctly,” her mother said when Eugenie had finished. “The Dowager Duchess of Silverly has promised to compensate you—us—for participating in a false engagement to her son.”

“Yes. An engagement that will last three months and then be quietly dissolved. That’s what she proposed.”

“And you believe she’ll actually pay what she’s promised?”

“The Dowager Duchess didn’t become one of the most influential women in London by breaking her word, mother. If anything, her reputation for keeping promises is fearsome.”

Her mother was quiet for a long moment. “Do you know what this could mean for us if she keeps her word?”

“I know. Your father could hold his head up again. We could repair the roof. Edward could finish his education properly. I know, mother.”

Another silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken implications.

“You’ll have to meet him eventually,” her mother said finally. “The Duke. He’ll undoubtedly have thoughts about his mother announcing his engagement without his knowledge or consent.”

Eugenie felt her stomach twist with apprehension. “Yes, I imagine he will. Is the Dowager Duchess certain he won’t simply denounce the engagement immediately?”

“She seems to think he’ll be practical about it once he considers the implications. A public scandal would harm his reputation as much as ours.”

“Perhaps.” Her mother picked up her mending again, though her hands trembled slightly. “This is dangerous, Eugenie. If it goes wrong…”

“If it goes wrong, we’ll be no worse off than we are now,” Eugenie said firmly. “And if it goes right, we might actually have a future that doesn’t involve selling grandmother’s things piece by piece.”

Her mother’s eyes filled with tears. “I never wanted this for you. Any of this.”

“I know.” Eugenie crossed to her mother’s chair and knelt beside it. “But this is our reality, and for once, I have a chance to actually do something about it. I’m not going to let pride or fear stop me.”

Her mother touched her cheek gently. “You’re so much braver than I ever was.”

“I learned from the best,” Eugenie said softly. “You’ve been brave every day, keeping this family together.”

They sat together in the fading afternoon light, both aware that tomorrow would bring challenges neither of them could fully anticipate. Somewhere across London, in a house Eugenie had never seen, a Duke was going about his evening entirely unaware that his life was about to become complicated in ways he couldn’t possibly imagine.

The Duke of Silverly’s London residence was a masterpiece of Georgian architecture, all elegant proportions and understated magnificence. Eugenie stood before it the following morning, acutely aware of how inadequate her second-best morning dress appeared in comparison to such grandeur.

The Dowager Duchess’s carriage had collected her precisely at 10:00, and Winifred herself had accompanied her, keeping up a stream of cheerful chatter that did nothing to calm Eugenie’s increasingly anxious nerves.

“Remember,” Winifred said as they approached the front door. “Callum will bluster and rage. Let him. He needs to work through his temper before he can think rationally. And underneath all that ducal outrage, he’s actually quite reasonable.”

“That’s reassuring,” Eugenie said faintly.

“Also, he may say some rather cutting things. Don’t take them personally. He has a tongue like a razor when he’s angry, but he’s never deliberately cruel.”

“Your grace, you’re not actually helping.”

Winifred laughed. “Sorry, dear. I’m simply excited. This is the most interesting thing that’s happened in years.”

They were admitted by a butler whose expression suggested he had witnessed many interesting things in his time and been impressed by none of them. He led them through an entrance hall that made Eugenie’s breath catch—marble floors, soaring ceilings, artwork that belonged in a museum—and into a study that managed to be both magnificent and oddly comfortable.

Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes that actually looked read rather than decorative. A massive desk dominated one end of the room, covered with neat stacks of correspondence and documents. Morning sunlight streamed through tall windows overlooking a private garden.

And standing by one of those windows, reading what appeared to be a letter, was the Duke of Silverly.

Eugenie’s first thought was that Winifred hadn’t exaggerated about her son being devastatingly handsome. Callum Merrow was tall and lean, with dark hair that fell across his forehead in a way that suggested he’d been running his hands through it. His profile was all clean lines and aristocratic angles—high cheekbones, strong jaw, straight nose. He wore no coat, just shirt sleeves and a waistcoat, and even in this casual state of dress, he radiated the kind of authority that came from generations of breeding and power.

Then he turned, and Eugenie saw his eyes. Gray-green, intelligent, and absolutely furious.

“Mother,” he said in a voice of deadly calm. “Would you care to explain why I’ve received 14 messages of congratulation this morning regarding an engagement I knew nothing about?”

“Good morning, darling,” Winifred said brightly. “How wonderful that word has spread so quickly. Eugenie, may I present my son, Callum Merrow, Duke of Silverly. Callum, this is Lady Eugenie Weatherstone, your fiancée.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Callum’s gaze shifted to Eugenie, and she felt herself being assessed with the same thoroughness his mother had displayed the day before, but with considerably less warmth.

“Lady Eugenie,” he said with excruciating politeness. “How unfortunate that we’re meeting under such creative circumstances.”

“Your grace,” Eugenie managed, resisting the urge to curtsy. She might be pretending to be engaged to him, but she’d be damned if she’d act intimidated. “I assure you, this situation is as unexpected for me as it is for you.”

One dark eyebrow rose. “Somehow, I doubt that. Most women who claim to be my fiancé generally have at least a passing acquaintance with me first.”

“Callum, don’t be nasty,” Winifred said. “Eugenie is doing us a tremendous favor.”

“A favor?” His voice could have frozen water. “By participating in my mother’s deranged scheme to manipulate me into marriage. How charitable.”

“I’m standing right here,” Eugenie said sharply, her own temper stirring. “And I’m perfectly capable of speaking for myself, your grace. So perhaps you could direct your anger where it actually belongs—at your mother—rather than taking it out on me.”

There was a moment of shocked silence. Then, to Eugenie’s surprise, Callum’s lips twitched. “Backbone. How refreshing.” He crossed to his desk and tossed down the letter he’d been holding. “Very well, since my mother has decided to stage-manage my life without consultation, perhaps someone should explain to me exactly what happened yesterday.”

Winifred settled herself into a chair as if preparing for a pleasant chat. “It’s quite simple really. I observed Lady Eugenie at the charitable society meeting: intelligent, composed, and clearly not interested in the usual social nonsense. Perfect wife material, I thought, so I suggested she pretend to be your fiancée for the afternoon.”

“Suggested?” Callum repeated flatly.

“Well, strongly encouraged. Lady Cromwell was being particularly odious about your unmarried state, and I needed to silence her. Eugenie here was the perfect solution.”

“Perfect.” Callum’s gaze swung back to Eugenie. “And you simply agreed without question?”

“Your mother offered compensation,” Eugenie said directly, seeing no point in dissembling. “My family has financial difficulties. She proposed a business arrangement. I pretend to be engaged to you for three months, and in exchange, she provides enough funds to resolve our debts. It seemed straightforward enough.”

She watched his expression carefully, trying to read his reaction. To her surprise, he looked more intrigued than insulted. “Honest, at least,” he observed. “Most women would pretend to some romantic motive.”

“I’m not most women, your grace. And I have no interest in deceiving you about my reasons.”

“No, apparently you only have interest in deceiving all of London society.” But there was less heat in his voice now, more calculation.

“That was your mother’s idea,” Eugenie pointed out. “I was simply drinking tea and minding my own business when she dragooned me into this scheme.”

“And yet you didn’t refuse.”

“No,” Eugenie admitted. “I didn’t because my family needs help, and I’m not too proud to accept it when it’s offered, even if it comes with strings attached.”

Callum studied her for a long moment. Then he turned to his mother. “Three months?”

“Three months,” Winifred confirmed. “Long enough to satisfy society and get the gossips talking about something else. After that, you and Eugenie can have a quiet dissolution of the engagement. No scandal, no drama.”

“Except that I’ll be known as the man who broke an engagement with a respectable young woman,” Callum pointed out. “That won’t exactly enhance my reputation.”

“We’ll say it was mutual,” Winifred said. “Discovered you didn’t suit. Happens all the time.”

“And in the meantime, I’m expected to play the devoted fiancé?”

“It would be helpful,” his mother agreed serenely.

Callum was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he moved to pour himself a glass of whiskey from the decanter on his desk.

“It’s 10:00 in the morning,” Winifred observed.

“Yes, and I’ve just discovered I’m engaged to a complete stranger. I believe that warrants morning drinking.” He downed half the glass, then looked at Eugenie again. “Tell me, Lady Eugenie, are you aware of what being engaged to a duke actually entails? The social obligations, the scrutiny, the endless parade of tedious events you’ll be expected to attend at my side?”

“I imagine it’s considerably more pleasant than watching my family’s home fall apart around us,” Eugenie said evenly.

Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, perhaps, or reluctant respect. “You’re remarkably pragmatic about this.”

“I find pragmatism useful in difficult situations.”

“And this is a difficult situation.”

“Extraordinarily so,” Eugenie agreed, “but not insurmountable. Your mother is right about one thing. If you denounce the engagement now, it creates a scandal that harms both of us. Better to maintain the fiction for a short time and then end things quietly. Three months isn’t so very long.”

Callum finished his whiskey and set down the glass with precise care. “Very well. I’ll agree to this absurd charade on two conditions.”

“Which are?” Winifred asked.

“First, we establish clear terms. Lady Eugenie will receive her compensation in stages: one-third now to demonstrate good faith, one-third at the halfway point, and the final third when the engagement ends amicably. That ensures cooperation from all parties.”

“Agreed,” Winifred said promptly. “And the second condition?”

Callum looked directly at Eugenie. “You move into this house immediately.”

“What?” Eugenie and Winifred spoke simultaneously.

“If we’re going to convince London Society that this engagement is real, we need to be seen together frequently. That means dinners, events, morning rides in the park—all the tedious courtship rituals people expect. It will be far easier if you’re living under my roof, with my mother as chaperone.”

“Of course, Callum, that’s highly irregular,” Winifred protested.

“So is arranging a fake engagement without my knowledge,” he countered. “Besides, plenty of engaged couples live in the same household with appropriate chaperonage. It will actually make our story more convincing.”

He had a point, Eugenie realized with dismay, and she could see the calculation in his eyes. This was a test. He expected her to refuse, to balk at such an unconventional arrangement.

“All right,” she said.

Both Merrows turned to stare at her.

“All right?” Callum repeated.

“If it makes the arrangement more practical, I see no reason to object. As long as the living situation is properly chaperoned, and as long as you understand that this is purely a business arrangement.”

“Purely business,” Callum agreed. But something in his expression suggested he found her compliance surprising. “Then we have an accord. Mother, I trust you can make the financial arrangements Lady Eugenie and I have discussed.”

“Of course.” Winifred looked between them, clearly pleased with how this was unfolding. “I’ll have the first payment delivered to Lord Weatherstone this afternoon.”

“Excellent. Lady Eugenie, how soon can you relocate your belongings?”

“Tomorrow.” Eugenie’s mind was reeling. Everything was moving so fast.

“Tomorrow it is.” Callum moved back to his desk, already dismissing them. “Mother, please show Lady Eugenie to whatever rooms you think appropriate, and someone should probably notify the staff that we’re about to have another resident.”

“Wait,” Eugenie said. “That’s it? We’re just doing this?”

Callum looked up, and for the first time she saw a hint of humor in his eyes. “Did you expect more discussion? You’ve accepted my terms. I’ve accepted yours. The arrangement is settled. Unless you’re developing cold feet?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I simply thought that…”

“I’d rage and threaten and throw you out?” His smile was sardonic. “I considered it, but as you pointed out, the damage is already done. My mother has ensured that half of London believes we’re engaged. Fighting it would only create more problems, so we might as well make the best of this farce.”

He returned his attention to the papers on his desk. “We’ll have dinner together this evening, 7:00. Please dress appropriately. If we’re going to convince people we’re madly in love, we should probably have at least one proper conversation.”

It was clearly a dismissal. Eugenie followed Winifred out of the study, her mind churning with everything that had just transpired. In the space of a single morning, she’d gone from impoverished lady to the Duke of Silverly’s fiancé. She was moving into his house tomorrow to spend three months pretending to be in love with a man who clearly resented the entire situation.

What had she gotten herself into?

Moving into the Duke of Silverly’s London residence proved to be considerably more complicated than Eugenie had anticipated. Her mother had spent the entire evening in a state of anxious excitement, alternating between concerns about propriety and relief at the promised financial assistance that had indeed arrived that afternoon, delivered in person by the Dowager Duchess’s secretary with a bank draft that had made Eugenie’s father’s hands tremble.

“This is real,” he’d said quietly, staring at the paper as if it might vanish. “This is actually happening.”

“Try not to spend it all at once, Papa,” Eugenie had said, attempting levity to cover her own anxiety. “I’ve committed to three months of extremely awkward social theater.”

Now, watching her meager belongings being loaded into the Merrow family carriage, she felt the full weight of what she’d agreed to settle over her like a physical thing.

“It’s not too late to change your mind,” her mother said softly, squeezing her hand. “We could find another way.”

“There is no other way, mother. We both know that.” Eugenie returned the pressure. “Three months. I can survive three months of anything.”

The Duke’s residence was even more imposing by daylight. Eugenie was greeted at the door by Mrs. Thornbury, the housekeeper—a formidable woman in her 50s who radiated competent efficiency and barely concealed skepticism about this entire arrangement.

“His grace has instructed that you be given the rose suite,” Mrs. Thornbury said as she led Eugenie through marble corridors. “It’s traditionally reserved for family members. The Dowager Duchess will be staying in the adjoining rooms.”

“How convenient,” Eugenie murmured.

“Indeed.” Mrs. Thornbury’s tone suggested she had opinions about this entire situation but was too professional to voice them. “His Grace takes his breakfast in the morning room at 8:00 precisely. Luncheon is informal. Most days he’s out managing estate business. Dinner is at 7:00. Formal dress required.”

They reached a set of double doors that Mrs. Thornbury opened with a flourish. The rose suite took Eugenie’s breath away. The sitting room was decorated in shades of cream and rose with elegant furniture that looked both beautiful and comfortable. Through another door, she could see a bedroom with a four-poster bed draped in silk hangings. It was easily three times the size of her bedroom at home.

“His grace’s private apartments are in the east wing,” Mrs. Thornbury continued. “He values his privacy greatly. The library is on the ground floor. You’re welcome to use it, though his grace requests that volumes be returned to their proper places. The music room is on the second floor, should you play, and please inform me if you require anything for your comfort.”

After Mrs. Thornbury departed, Eugenie stood in the center of her new sitting room and tried not to feel overwhelmed. This was temporary, she reminded herself. Three months of play-acting, then back to her real life—hopefully with enough money to ensure that life would be considerably more comfortable.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. She opened it to find Winifred looking delighted.

“Settling in?” the Dowager Duchess asked, sweeping past her without waiting for invitation. “Excellent. Now we need to discuss strategy.”

“Strategy?”

“For convincing society that you and Callum are genuinely in love. It won’t be easy. My son has never shown interest in anyone before. People will be scrutinizing every interaction.”

Eugenie sank into one of the chairs. “Wonderful. More pressure.”

“Don’t be dramatic, dear. I have complete faith in your abilities.” Winifred settled across from her. “Now, there’s a dinner party at Lady Hatheraway’s tomorrow evening. Excellent opportunity to be seen together in public. Callum will need to be attentive—holding your chair, fetching refreshments, that sort of thing. And you’ll need to look at him as if he’s utterly fascinating.”

“That might be challenging, given that he looks at me as if I’m a particularly irritating inconvenience.”

“Oh, he’s simply sulking. He’ll come around.” Winifred waved a dismissive hand. “Beneath that ducal frost, Callum is actually quite capable of charm. He just rarely bothers with it.”

“How reassuring.”

“Trust me, dear. My son is many things—stubborn, proud, occasionally insufferably arrogant—but he’s not stupid. He knows this arrangement benefits him as much as you. Once he stops being annoyed about being outmaneuvered, he’ll commit properly to the performance.”

Eugenie hoped she was right. The thought of spending three months with a man who resented her presence was exhausting to contemplate.

Dinner that evening was precisely as uncomfortable as Eugenie had feared. She’d chosen her best evening gown—emerald silk that had been beautiful four years ago and was merely presentable now—and arrived in the formal dining room at exactly 7:00. Callum was already there, dressed impeccably in black evening clothes that made him look like something from a Renaissance painting. Devastatingly handsome and completely unapproachable.

He rose when she entered, which was proper, but the gesture felt mechanical rather than courteous. “Lady Eugenie. Punctual. I appreciate that in a person.”

“I try not to waste other people’s time,” she replied, taking the seat the footman held for her, “even when I’m being forced into their company through maternal scheming.”

His lips twitched. “At least we agree on something.”

The first course was served—a delicate soup that Eugenie barely tasted. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the quiet clink of silver on china. Finally, Callum spoke.

“We should probably establish some ground rules.”

“Beyond moving in with you and pretending to be madly in love?”

“Beyond those, yes.” He set down his spoon with precise care. “First, I expect discretion. Whatever happens or doesn’t happen within these walls stays private. No gossiping with friends, no confiding in family beyond what’s necessary.”

“Agreed.”

“Second, we’ll need to coordinate our schedules. I have obligations that can’t be avoided—Parliamentary sessions, estate business, social events that I’ve already committed to. You’ll need to accompany me to at least some of them.”

“I expected that.”

“Third,” he paused, studying her. “We should probably make an effort to actually know each other. People in love generally have conversations.”

“What a revolutionary concept,” Eugenie said dryly. “Engaged couples talking to each other.”

“Don’t be sarcastic.”

“Then don’t state the obvious.”

They glared at each other across the table. Then unexpectedly, Callum laughed—a genuine sound of amusement that transformed his face entirely.

“You’re not what I expected,” he admitted.

“What did you expect?”

“Someone more compliant. Simpering, perhaps. Most women confronted by a duke’s displeasure would be apologizing profusely by now.”

“I’m not most women, and I didn’t actually do anything wrong. Your mother did. If you want apologies, direct them appropriately.”

“Fair point.” He leaned back in his chair, regarding her with new interest. “Tell me about yourself, Lady Eugenie. Beyond the financial difficulties that brought you into this mess.”

It was the first time he’d asked her anything personal. Eugenie considered how much to reveal. “I’m 26 years old. I had one season nine years ago that was moderately successful until my father’s investments collapsed. I enjoy reading—philosophy mostly, and history. I’m reasonably competent at watercolors, though I have no particular talent. I speak French adequately and Italian poorly. I’m better at mathematics than is considered appropriate for a lady, and I strongly dislike gossip, which has made me rather unpopular in society circles.”

“Philosophy?” Callum’s interest sharpened. “My mother said something about that. What do you read?”

“Currently working through Locke’s essays. Before that, Hume. I find epistemology fascinating—the question of what we can truly know versus what we merely believe.”

“Most ladies I’ve met consider philosophy tedious.”

“Most gentlemen I’ve met consider ladies tedious, so perhaps we’re even.”

He laughed again, clearly surprised by her response. “Touché. And the mathematics?”

“My father taught me when I was young, before he realized it wasn’t proper. I’ve kept studying on my own. There’s something satisfying about problems with definite solutions, unlike most of life.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Callum reached for his wine glass. “All right, my turn. I’m 32. Cambridge, as my mother mentioned. I take my seat in the House of Lords seriously. Currently involved in reform discussions about poor laws and factory working conditions. I collect first-edition philosophy texts, which probably makes me tedious. I fence regularly because I enjoy the discipline. And I despise dancing despite being adequately skilled.”

“Why do you hate dancing?”

“Because it requires making small talk with simpering debutantes while their mothers evaluate me like prize livestock,” he grimaced. “Though I suppose I’ll have to dance with you now to maintain appearances.”

“Lucky me.”

“Lucky us,” he corrected. “We’re both stuck in this ridiculous situation.”

The main course arrived—roasted duck with vegetables—and they ate in more comfortable silence. Eugenie found herself relaxing slightly. Callum Merrow might be arrogant and clearly resentful of this engagement, but he was also intelligent and surprisingly honest. There were worse qualities in a temporary fiancé.

“Lady Hatheraway’s dinner party tomorrow,” Callum said after a while. “Are you prepared for that? It will be your first proper appearance as my fiancé.”

“As prepared as one can be for public deception.”

“You’ll need to stay close to me. Answer questions about our courtship consistently. Stick to the British Museum story my mother invented, and for heaven’s sake, try to look at me occasionally as if I’m not completely insufferable.”

“That might require considerable acting skill.”

“I have complete faith in your abilities,” he said, echoing his mother’s earlier words with obvious sarcasm.

“Likewise, your grace. I’m sure you can manage to look besotted for a few hours.”

“I’m a duke. I can manage anything when necessary.”

“What a humble attitude.”

“I prefer ‘confident.'”

They finished the meal with increasingly comfortable banter, and Eugenie realized with some surprise that she was actually enjoying herself. Callum Merrow was sharp-witted and had a bone-dry sense of humor that appealed to her. When he wasn’t being coldly formal, he was actually rather likable.

Dangerous thought. This was a business arrangement, nothing more. She couldn’t afford to forget that.

After dinner, Callum escorted her to the library—an enormous room that made her gasp with delight. Books lined every wall, floor to ceiling, more volumes than she’d ever seen outside of a university.

“You’re welcome to read anything here,” Callum said, watching her reaction with amusement, “though I’d appreciate volumes being returned properly. They’re organized by subject and author.”

“Of course.” Eugenie moved along the shelves, reading titles with growing excitement. “You have Aristotle’s complete works, and Plato… and is that a first edition of Descartes?”

“It is.” He pulled the volume down and handed it to her. “Careful with it, but yes, you may borrow it.”

Their fingers brushed as she took the book, and Eugenie felt an unexpected jolt of awareness. She pulled back quickly, clutching the volume like a shield. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I generally spend evenings here when I’m not required elsewhere. Feel free to join me or not, as you prefer. I don’t expect us to be constantly in each other’s company.”

“That would be exhausting.”

“Agreed.” He moved toward the door, then paused. “Lady Eugenie… for what it’s worth, you’re handling this situation with considerably more grace than I expected. I apologize if I was unduly harsh this morning.”

It was unexpected enough to leave her momentarily speechless. “Thank you, your grace.”

“Callum,” he said. “If we’re supposed to be engaged, you should probably use my given name, at least in private.”

“Callum, then. And you should call me Eugenie.”

“Very well. Good night, Eugenie.”

“Good night.”

After he left, she sank into one of the library chairs and released a shaky breath. This was going to be more complicated than she’d anticipated because, against all reason and common sense, she was beginning to like Callum Merrow—and that was absolutely the last thing she needed.

Lady Hatheraway’s dinner party was exactly the sort of glittering social event that Eugenie had avoided for years. The drawing room blazed with candlelight, reflecting off jewels and silk gowns. London’s most influential families had gathered, ostensibly for dinner, but really to observe the Duke of Silverly and his mysterious new fiancée.

Eugenie could feel their eyes on her the moment she entered on Callum’s arm. He’d called for her earlier, looking devastatingly handsome in his evening clothes, and offered his arm with formal courtesy that somehow still managed to convey reluctance.

“Remember,” he’d murmured as they descended to the carriage. “Stay close. Smile occasionally and try not to look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

“I’ll do my best not to embarrass you.”

“I’m more concerned about you being devoured by the social piranhas. They’re going to circle the moment we enter.”

He wasn’t wrong. The moment Lady Hatheraway finished her effusive greetings, they were surrounded by curious guests, all asking variations of the same questions: How did you meet? When did you realize you were in love? When is the wedding?

Callum handled it with practiced ease, his hand at the small of Eugenie’s back—a gesture that appeared possessive but felt oddly protective.

“Lady Eugenie and I discovered we share intellectual interests,” he said smoothly. “Everything else followed naturally.”

“How romantic!” Lady Peton cooed. “And so unlike you, your grace. We’d quite given up hope of you ever settling down.”

“Apparently, I simply needed the right motivation.” His tone was perfect—warm enough to suggest genuine affection but not so effusive as to be unbelievable. Eugenie found herself impressed despite herself.

Throughout dinner, Callum played his role flawlessly. He held her chair, ensured her wine glass was filled, and engaged her in conversation about philosophy that was actually interesting rather than merely performative. To any observer, they appeared to be a couple genuinely fascinated by each other.

“You’re quite good at this,” Eugenie murmured during a lull in conversation.

“Years of practice at social deception,” he replied quietly. “Every duke learns early how to appear charming while feeling nothing whatsoever.”

“How exhausting.”

“Exceedingly.” His eyes met hers, and something flickered in them. “Sympathy, perhaps? Though I suspect you understand that—playing roles for society’s benefit.”

Before she could respond, Lady Cromwell descended on them with her daughter in tow—a pretty blonde girl who looked barely 18 and absolutely miserable.

“Your grace, Lady Eugenie, how delightful to see you both. May I present my daughter, Miss Arabella Cromwell. Bella, dear, say hello to the Duke.”

Arabella curtsied prettily but with visible reluctance. “Your grace.”

“Miss Cromwell.” Callum’s courtesy was impeccable, but Eugenie noticed his slight withdrawal, the way he’d positioned himself closer to her as if using their engagement as a shield.

“Bella has been so looking forward to this season,” Lady Cromwell continued obliviously. “Though, of course, now that your grace is engaged…” she trailed off meaningfully.

“Mother!” Arabella hissed, clearly mortified.

Eugenie felt a surge of sympathy for the girl. “Miss Cromwell, that’s a lovely gown. The color suits you beautifully.”

Arabella’s expression brightened. “Thank you, Lady Eugenie. I chose it myself. Mother wanted me in white, but I insisted on the blue.”

“Quite right. White is so insipid.”

They chatted for a few moments about fashion, and Eugenie noticed Callum watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read. When Lady Cromwell finally dragged her daughter away to meet other potential suitors, he leaned closer.

“That was kind of you. She looked uncomfortable.”

“I remember what it was like being paraded around like livestock. Hence your sympathy for my earlier complaint about dancing.”

“Precisely.”

The evening continued in much the same vein. Eugenie found herself actually enjoying parts of it, particularly when she and Callum managed to find a quiet corner and discuss the political reform bill he was working on. He was passionate about improving conditions for factory workers, and his arguments were well-reasoned and compelling.

“Most people don’t expect Dukes to care about such things,” he said. “They assume we’re all too busy enjoying our privilege to notice suffering.”

“But you’re not.”

“No. Perhaps because my father made sure I understood that privilege comes with responsibility. Power should serve a purpose beyond personal gratification.”

“That’s quite progressive thinking.”

“Don’t spread that around. I have a reputation for aristocratic arrogance to maintain.”

She laughed and he smiled—a genuine expression that transformed his usually stern features. For a moment, it was easy to forget this was all pretense. As the evening wound down and they prepared to leave, Lady Hatheraway pulled Eugenie aside.

“My dear, I must say, I’ve never seen the Duke look at anyone the way he looks at you. You’ve quite captured his attention.”

Eugenie manufactured an appropriate blush. “He’s very special indeed.”

“And you seem perfect for each other. Intelligent conversation, shared interests… much better than some simpering debutante who’d bore him within a week.”

In the carriage ride home, Callum was quiet, staring out the window at the dark London streets. “You did well tonight,” he said finally. “Very convincing.”

“As did you.”

“Yes. Almost too convincing.” He turned to look at her, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “We need to be careful, Eugenie.”

“Careful of what?”

“Of forgetting this isn’t real. It would be easy to get confused, to start believing our own performance.”

Her heart gave an odd thump. “I’m not confused.”

“Good. Neither am I. Just establishing clarity.”

But his tone suggested he was trying to convince himself as much as her. When they arrived home, Callum escorted her to her suite with formal courtesy.

“Good night, Eugenie.”

“Good night, Callum.”

She closed the door and leaned against it, her mind whirling. He was right to be concerned. Tonight had felt disturbingly natural: the conversations, the shared humor, the way they’d moved together through the social minefield. It would be very easy indeed to forget this was temporary—to start imagining that the warmth in his eyes was real rather than performed.

She couldn’t afford that kind of foolishness. In three months, this engagement would end. Callum would return to his ducal life, and she would return to hers—hopefully with enough money to secure her family’s future. That was the agreement. That was reality. Everything else was just acting, even if it was starting to feel like something more.

The next six weeks passed in a blur of social engagements, afternoon teas, and increasingly comfortable domesticity that Eugenie found both pleasant and deeply unsettling. She and Callum had fallen into a routine. Breakfasts were companionable affairs where they discussed the day’s papers and planned their social calendar. Afternoons often found them in separate pursuits: Callum managing estate business or attending Parliament; Eugenie reading in the library or accompanying Winifred on charitable calls. Evenings varied between social obligations and quiet hours in the library, where they’d sit in separate chairs, reading, but somehow still together.

It was all terrifyingly domestic.

“You realize people are starting to believe this?” Winifred observed one afternoon as she and Eugenie took tea in the drawing room. “The engagement, I mean. Even the skeptics are convinced.”

“Isn’t that the point?” Eugenie poured tea with practiced grace, still marveling at the quality of the china—Sèvres porcelain that probably cost more than her family’s annual income.

“Yes, but…” Winifred studied her with those sharp eyes. “How are you finding the arrangement?”

“Honestly? It’s fine.”

“Fine? What a passionate endorsement.”

Eugenie set down the teapot with more force than necessary. “What do you want me to say, your grace? That I’m enjoying playing house with your son? That I’ve forgotten this is temporary?”

“Have you forgotten?”

“No.”

But even as she said it, Eugenie felt the lie of it. Because somewhere in the last six weeks, something had shifted. It had started small: Callum remembering she preferred her tea with lemon rather than milk; him pulling down books he thought she’d enjoy without being asked; the way he’d positioned himself between her and an obnoxiously persistent Lord Ashford at Lady Morrison’s ball, his hand at her waist, possessive and protective.

Then there were the conversations—long, meandering discussions about everything from philosophy to politics to whether the new gaslighting being installed throughout London was progress or madness. He listened to her opinions as if they mattered, challenged her thinking without dismissing her, and seemed genuinely interested in her perspective.

She’d caught herself watching him when he wasn’t looking—the way he ran his hand through his hair when frustrated with a particular passage in a book, the rare smile that transformed his stern features, the competent grace with which he moved through both ballrooms and his own study.

And then there was last week when he’d found her crying in the library. She’d received a letter from her father—enthusiastic and hopeful for the first time in years, talking about repairs to the estate and her brother’s excellent progress at school. The relief of it, combined with the guilty knowledge that this was all built on deception, had overwhelmed her.

Callum had walked in, taken one look at her tear-stained face, and without a word, pulled her into his arms. She’d cried against his shoulder while he held her, one hand stroking her hair, murmuring nonsense comfort.

When she’d finally calmed enough to explain, he’d said simply, “You’re saving your family. That’s nothing to feel guilty about.”

“I’m lying to everyone.”

“We’re lying to everyone,” he’d corrected. “This was my choice, too. Don’t carry that burden alone.”

The memory of his arms around her—the solid warmth of him, the unexpected gentleness—it haunted her.

“Eugenie.” Winifred’s voice pulled her back to the present. “Where did you go just now?”

“Nowhere important.”

“Hm.” Winifred looked skeptical. “You know, I’ve been watching you and Callum together. The way he looks at you when you’re not paying attention. The way you light up when he enters a room.”

“We’re playing our roles, Eugenie said firmly, “as agreed.”

“If you say so, dear. But I’ve known my son his entire life, and I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. Not once in 32 years.”

Before Eugenie could formulate a response, Callum himself appeared in the doorway, looking unusually disheveled. His cravat was loosened, his hair mussed as if he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly, and his expression was somewhere between frustrated and exhausted.

“Problems, darling?” Winifred asked.

“The reform bill is being blocked by idiots who care more about maintaining their factory profits than basic human decency,” Callum said tersely. “I’ve spent four hours in debate with men who think ten-year-olds working 14-hour days is perfectly acceptable.”

“How dreadful,” Eugenie said. “Can the bill be salvaged?”

“Possibly, if we can convince enough votes. But it’s exhausting, arguing with people who refuse to see reason.” He noticed their tea setup and moved toward them. “May I join you, or is this ladies’ time?”

“Join us,” Eugenie said, pouring him a cup. “Lemon, no sugar.”

He took it with a small smile. “You remembered.”

“Hard to forget after six weeks.”

He settled into the chair beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him. “Tell me something completely unrelated to factory reform and parliamentary obstinacy. Please. I need to think about anything else.”

“I finished the Descartes,” Eugenie offered. “And I’ve started on Spinoza.”

“Ah, yes. Nothing says ‘light reading’ like 17th-century rationalism.” But his tone was teasing rather than dismissive. “What do you think of it?”

“Dense, occasionally brilliant. Sometimes I suspect he’s making things more complicated than necessary just to sound intellectual.”

Callum laughed—the genuine sound that she’d come to treasure. “Fair assessment. Though don’t let the philosophy dons hear you say that.”

“What philosophy dons would I be speaking with?”

“Good point.” He stretched his legs out, relaxing visibly. “Though you’d hold your own if you did. You’ve got a sharper mind than half the men I studied with at Cambridge.”

The casual compliment sent warmth through her. “That’s quite a statement from someone who graduated first in his class.”

“It’s also true.” His eyes met hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. “You know that, don’t you? That you’re genuinely intelligent—not just ‘intelligent for a woman.'”

“I…” she faltered, unsure how to respond to such direct praise.

“Because you are,” he continued, “and anyone who’s dismissed you as merely decorative is an idiot who doesn’t deserve your attention.”

Winifred cleared her throat meaningfully. “Well, this is enlightening.”

They both seemed to realize simultaneously that they’d been staring at each other, that the atmosphere had shifted into something charged and complicated. Callum stood abruptly.

“I should return to work. I have correspondence to review before tomorrow’s session.”

“Of course,” Eugenie managed.

He paused at the doorway, looking back. “We’re attending the opera tomorrow evening. Winifred, you’re joining us.”

“Yes, naturally,” his mother confirmed. “Can’t have the engaged couple attending alone. Propriety must be observed.”

After he left, Winifred turned to Eugenie with a knowing smile. “Still just playing roles?”

“Don’t,” Eugenie said quietly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t encourage whatever you think you’re seeing. This ends in six weeks. We both know that.”

“Do we?” Winifred’s expression turned serious. “Eugenie, dear, I know I orchestrated this arrangement initially. And yes, I had hopes it might become something more. I won’t deny that. But I’ve watched you two together, and what I’m seeing isn’t acting. Not anymore.”

“It has to be,” Eugenie insisted. “Because if it’s not…” she broke off, unable to complete the thought.

“If it’s not, then what? You might actually be happy? Heaven forbid.”

“I’m not his equal,” Eugenie said bluntly. “I am an impoverished lady from a family on the edge of ruin. He’s a duke. In the real world—outside this temporary fiction—we don’t belong together.”

“The real world,” Winifred repeated thoughtfully. “What an interesting phrase. As if the past six weeks haven’t been real. As if the conversations, the laughter, the genuine connection you’ve built… none of that counts because it started with a lie.”

“It doesn’t matter how it feels. The arrangement expires in six weeks. We agreed.”

“Arrangements can be renegotiated.” Winifred stood, preparing to leave. “All I’m saying is: don’t dismiss the possibility of something genuine simply because it began unconventionally. Some of the best things in life happen when we least expect them.”

After she left, Eugenie sat alone with her cooling tea and increasingly confused thoughts. The problem was, Winifred was right about one thing. It no longer felt like acting. When Callum smiled at her, her heart did foolish things. When he touched her hand or stood close enough that she could smell his cologne, her pulse raced. When they talked late into the evening about philosophy or politics or nothing in particular, she felt more alive than she had in years.

But that didn’t change reality. Callum Merrow was a duke with responsibilities and social standing. She was Lady Eugenie Weatherstone from a family whose financial stability currently depended on maintaining this fiction. Even if something real had developed between them—and she wasn’t admitting it had—pursuing it would be complicated beyond measure. Better to maintain the boundaries, finish the agreed-upon three months, take the money that would secure her family’s future, and walk away—even if the thought of walking away from Callum made her chest ache with surprising intensity.

The opera the following evening was a grand affair. Eugenie wore the new gown Winifred had insisted on purchasing—deep sapphire silk that made her skin glow and her eyes appear almost luminous. She’d caught Callum staring when she descended the stairs, an expression on his face she couldn’t quite interpret.

“You look,” he paused, seeming to search for words. “Magnificent.”

“Thank you.” She’d wanted to say something equally complimentary about how devastatingly handsome he looked in his evening clothes, but the words stuck in her throat.

The Merrow family box at the opera house was positioned perfectly—visible to the entire theater but elevated enough to provide some privacy. As they settled into their seats, Eugenie was acutely aware of the eyes upon them.

“Ignore them,” Callum murmured, leaning close enough that his breath stirred her hair. “They’re just curious. Let them look.”

The opera was Mozart’s Don Giovanni—dramatic and passionate and somehow entirely too appropriate for Eugenie’s current state of mind. She tried to focus on the music, the spectacular staging, anything other than Callum’s presence beside her, but she could feel him: the warmth of his arm nearly touching hers on the shared armrest, the way he shifted slightly closer during the more dramatic passages as if unconsciously seeking proximity, the occasional glance in her direction that made her pulse race.

During the interval, they remained in the box while Winifred went to greet acquaintances. Alone for the first time that evening, the silence between them felt heavy with unspoken things.

“Are you enjoying the performance?” Callum asked finally.

“Very much. Mozart was a genius.”

“Agreed. Though Don Giovanni himself is rather insufferable.”

“Completely. A rake and a scoundrel.”

“Yet somehow compelling,” Callum observed. “That’s the genius of it—making us fascinated by someone who should be purely despicable.”

“I prefer to find compelling people who are actually worth my attention.”

He turned to look at her fully, something intense in his eyes. “And have you found anyone compelling?”

The question hung between them, loaded with meaning. Eugenie felt her heart hammering. “I… perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” he repeated softly. “Not a definitive answer.”

“I’m not certain definitive answers are wise in my current situation.”

“No, I suppose they’re not.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but Winifred returned with several acquaintances in tow, and the moment dissolved. The second half of the opera passed in a blur. Eugenie couldn’t focus on the stage; she was too aware of Callum beside her, of the tension thrumming between them, of the impossible situation they’d created.

In the carriage ride home, Winifred maintained a steady stream of chatter about who had been at the opera and what they’d been wearing, but Eugenie barely heard her. She stared out the window at the London streets passing by, trying to sort through her tangled emotions. When they arrived home, Callum walked her to her suite, as had become their custom. But tonight, he didn’t simply wish her good night and leave. Instead, he stood in her doorway, looking conflicted.

“Eugenie, I need to…” he trailed off, running a hand through his hair in that familiar gesture of frustration.

“Need to what?”

“I need to be honest with you about something. This situation—this arrangement—it’s become complicated.”

“Yes.” She felt relieved that he understood. “Significantly complicated.”

“Because somewhere in the last six weeks, I’ve stopped pretending.”

Her breath caught. “Callum—”

“No, let me finish.” He stepped closer, his voice low and urgent. “I know this started as a farce, a business arrangement to solve our respective problems. But it’s not that anymore. Not for me. And I don’t think it is for you either.”

“It doesn’t matter what it is,” Eugenie said, even as her heart raced. “We made an agreement. Three months, then we part ways.”

“Agreements can be changed.”

“To what? You’re a duke. I’m an impoverished lady whose family’s survival depends on your mother’s generosity. There’s no version of this that doesn’t end in complication and heartbreak.”

“Unless we make it real,” he said quietly.

The words hung in the air between them, impossibly tempting. “You don’t mean that,” Eugenie managed. “You’re caught up in the fiction we’ve created.”

“I’m caught up in you,” Callum corrected. “Your intelligence, your humor, your resilience… the way you challenge me and make me think. The way you see through social nonsense to what actually matters. The way you…” he broke off, seeming to struggle for words.

“The way I what?”

He stepped closer still, until they were barely a foot apart. “The way you make me want things I’ve never wanted before. Partnership. Companionship. Someone who actually understands me rather than just tolerating me for my title.”

Eugenie felt tears prickling behind her eyes. “You can’t say these things.”

“Why not? They’re true.”

“Because they make everything harder. Because in six weeks, this ends. We agreed, Callum. We had a plan.”

“Then let’s change the plan.” His hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing away a tear she hadn’t realized had fallen. “Let’s make this real. Marry me. Not as part of an arrangement, but because we choose it. Because what we found together is worth keeping.”

It was everything she wanted and couldn’t allow herself to have. “I can’t,” she whispered. “Don’t you see? I came into this for money. To save my family. If I say yes now, I’ll never know—and neither will you—whether it’s real or just desperation and proximity and pretending for so long that we’ve confused ourselves.”

“I’m not confused.”

“But I am.” She pulled away from his touch, wrapping her arms around herself. “I don’t know what’s real anymore, Callum. I don’t know if I’ve actually fallen in love with you or if I’ve just convinced myself I have because it makes the charade easier to maintain. And you don’t know either. Not really.”

He looked stricken. “Eugenie—”

“We need to stick to the plan,” she said firmly, even as her heart broke. “Six more weeks, then we end the engagement as agreed. If what you’re feeling is real, it will still be real after three months of separation. And if it’s not—if we’ve just been caught up in playing house—then we’ll have saved ourselves from making a terrible mistake.”

“And if you’re wrong? If I know right now, with absolute certainty, that I want you in my life permanently?”

“Then you’ll still want me in six weeks,” she said quietly. “But we need that time, Callum. We need space away from this intensity to be certain.”

He looked at her for a long moment, a dozen emotions flickering across his face. Finally, he nodded. “Six weeks. Then we’ll revisit this conversation.”

“Thank you.”

He turned to leave, then paused. “For what it’s worth, Eugenie, I’ve never been more certain of anything. But I’ll give you the time you need.”

After he left, Eugenie closed the door and slid down to sit on the floor, her elaborate gown pooling around her. She buried her face in her hands and let herself cry—for what she wanted, for what she was afraid to take, for the impossible situation they’d created. Because Callum was right. Somewhere in the last six weeks, she had stopped pretending, too. She’d fallen in love with him: with his intelligence and his unexpected kindness, with his passion for making the world better and his dry humor, with the way he looked at her as if she was the most fascinating person he’d ever met.

But loving him didn’t make the complications disappear. It didn’t change the fact that their relationship was built on deception, that her family’s financial security still depended on maintaining this fiction. Six more weeks. Then they would see if what they’d built could survive in the real world, outside the protective bubble of their arrangement.

It was going to be the longest six weeks of her life.

The remaining weeks of the engagement crawled by with agonizing slowness. Eugenie and Callum maintained their public facade—attending balls, dinners, and social events with perfect courtesy. To the outside world, they appeared the ideal engaged couple. In private, things were infinitely more complicated. They still shared breakfasts and occasional evenings in the library, but now every interaction was weighted with unspoken tension. Callum never again mentioned making the engagement real, but his eyes said everything his words didn’t, and Eugenie found herself aching with the need to close the distance between them, to give in to what she wanted.

But she held firm to her decision. They needed time apart to be certain.

With only three days remaining before their agreed-upon separation, Winifred summoned Eugenie to the drawing room with unusual urgency.

“We have a problem,” the Dowager Duchess announced without preamble.

Eugenie’s stomach dropped. “What kind of problem?”

“Lady Cromwell has been investigating. She’s gotten it into her head that this engagement is fraudulent.”

“What? How?”

“She’s been questioning servants, checking records, generally being a nosy nuisance. And she’s discovered something rather damning.” Winifred paused significantly. “There’s no record of Callum ever visiting the British Museum during the time period we claimed you met.”

Eugenie felt the blood drain from her face. “Can she prove anything?”

“Not definitively, but she’s spreading rumors. Suggesting the engagement was arranged for financial reasons, that you’re a fortune hunter who trapped Callum into this sham.”

“That’s not—” she broke off, realizing it was partially true. She had entered this arrangement for money, even if her motivations were more complex than Lady Cromwell could imagine.

“I know it’s not the full truth,” Winifred said gently. “But perception matters in our world. If these rumors gain traction, it could damage both your reputations significantly.”

“Then we’ll end the engagement early, as planned. Issue a statement about discovering we don’t suit.”

“That will only confirm suspicions that something was wrong from the beginning.” Winifred studied her carefully. “There is another option.”

“Which is?”

“Make it real. Marry Callum. Not in three months, but now. This week. Before Lady Cromwell’s poisonous rumors can spread further.”

Eugenie’s heart hammered. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m entirely serious. Think about it, my dear. The best way to silence gossip about a fraudulent engagement is to actually get married. It becomes impossible to claim deception when you’re legally bound.”

“But Callum—”

“Callum knows about Lady Cromwell’s investigation. I told him this morning, and he agrees that an immediate marriage is the most practical solution.”

“Practical?” Eugenie repeated hollowly. “How romantic.”

“Romance is lovely, but survival is more important.” Winifred’s tone turned sharp. “You’ve spent six weeks building something genuine with my son, whether you want to admit it or not. Don’t let pride and fear destroy that because the timing isn’t perfect.”

Before Eugenie could respond, Callum himself entered the drawing room. He looked tired, she noticed—shadows under his eyes suggesting he’d slept poorly.

“I assume mother has explained the situation,” he said without preamble.

“She has.”

“And what do you think?” His voice was carefully neutral, giving nothing away.

Eugenie looked between them: Winifred with her calculating determination, Callum with his guarded expression. This was madness—complete and utter madness.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that I need to speak with Callum alone.”

Winifred took the hint, sweeping out with a knowing smile. Once they were alone, Callum moved to the window, staring out at the garden.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Marry me to salvage the situation. I won’t force you into anything, Eugenie. If you want to end this now, face the scandal… I’ll support whatever you decide.”

“And your reputation?”

“I’ll survive. I’m a duke. I have certain privileges when it comes to weathering gossip.” He turned to face her. “But yours might not recover. An impoverished lady accused of trapping a duke into a false engagement… society won’t be kind.”

“I’m aware.”

“So the question is…” he moved closer, his expression intense, “…what do you want? Not what’s practical or sensible. What do you actually want?”

It was the most direct question anyone had ever asked her. And standing there looking at Callum Merrow—this complicated, brilliant, unexpectedly tender man who’d somehow become the center of her world—Eugenie realized she was tired of lying. To society, to Winifred, to herself.

“I want you,” she said simply. “I’ve wanted you for weeks now, but I was too afraid to admit it. Afraid it wasn’t real, that I was fooling myself, that you only felt obligated because of the arrangement.”

His expression softened. “You’re never going to be rid of me now, you realize. Not after admitting that.”

“Is that a threat, your grace?”

“A promise, Lady Eugenie.” He closed the remaining distance between them. “So, let me be equally direct. I love you. Not because of any arrangement or convenience, not because we’ve been playing house and it’s comfortable, but because you challenge me and fascinate me and make me laugh when I least expect it. Because you’re brilliant and kind and stronger than you give yourself credit for. Because when I imagine my future, you’re in every part of it.”

Tears spilled down Eugenie’s cheeks. “You can’t possibly—”

“I can and I do.” He cupped her face in both hands, thumbs brushing away tears. “I know this started as a farce. I know it’s complicated and unconventional and possibly the most impractical foundation for a marriage in the history of the aristocracy. But I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

“We barely know each other.”

“We’ve spent six weeks having conversations deeper than most married couples manage in a lifetime. I know how you take your tea and what makes you laugh and that you chew your lip when you’re thinking hard about something. I know you’re terrible at embroidery but excellent at mathematics. I know you cry at poetry but stay stoic through tragedy. I know…” he broke off, searching her face. “I know you’re afraid, and I understand that. But don’t let fear stop you from taking something that could make us both happy.”

Eugenie reached up to cover his hands with hers. “If we do this—if we actually get married—it has to be real. No more pretending, no more arrangements. Just us building something genuine.”

“That’s all I’ve wanted since that night at the opera,” Callum admitted. “Possibly before, though I was too stubborn to acknowledge it.”

“And your mother?”

“Her manipulations will be politely but firmly discouraged from interfering in our marriage,” he said. “I love her dearly, but she’s meddled quite enough for one lifetime.”

Eugenie laughed through her tears. “She means well.”

“She’s a menace. A well-intentioned menace, but still…” his expression turned serious. “So, is that a yes? Will you marry me—for real this time?”

“I need you to understand something first.” Eugenie took a shaky breath. “My family’s financial situation is still precarious. Even with your mother’s assistance, we’re not secure long-term. If I marry you, there will always be people who say I did it for money and position—that I trapped you with your mother’s help.”

“Let them say it. I don’t care.”

“You might eventually, when it becomes tiresome defending your choice of wife.”

“Eugenie,” he said her name with exasperation and affection in equal measure. “I’m a duke who cares about factory reform and workers’ rights. I’ve been called a radical sympathizer, a traitor to my class, and considerably worse. One more controversy isn’t going to devastate me—especially when that controversy comes with the benefit of being married to the most interesting woman I’ve ever met.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely certain.” He pulled her closer until they were barely an inch apart. “So, stop trying to talk me out of this and give me an answer.”

Looking up at him—at the man who’d been her fake fiancé and had somehow become something infinitely more important—Eugenie felt the last of her resistance crumble. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’ll marry you. For real this time.”

The kiss was inevitable. Callum’s lips met hers with a gentleness that contrasted with the intensity of the moment, and Eugenie felt herself melting into him. This wasn’t the chaste kiss they’d performed for society at various events. This was real and raw and desperately honest. When they finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, Callum rested his forehead against hers.

“We’re doing this. We’re completely mad.”

“Undoubtedly,” he grinned—that rare, transformative smile that made her heart skip. “But at least we’re mad together.”

A discreet cough from the doorway made them spring apart. Winifred stood there, looking insufferably pleased with herself. “I take it you’ve reached a decision?”

“We’re getting married,” Callum said, his arms sliding around Eugenie’s waist. “This week, as you suggested. But mother,” his tone turned serious, “this is where your involvement in our relationship ends. You’ve had your fun playing matchmaker. Now, let us actually live our lives without interference.”

“Of course, darling,” Winifred said with suspicious sweetness. “Though I do hope I’m still invited to the wedding.”

“You’re invited,” Eugenie assured her. “But Callum’s right. This is our marriage, our choice. We are grateful for your creative intervention, but—”

“Say no more.” Winifred waved a hand. “I understand perfectly. I’ll simply enjoy my grandchildren when they arrive and resist all urges to meddle further.”

“Grandchildren?” Callum muttered. “We’re not even married yet.”

“Details, darling. Now, shall we discuss wedding arrangements? Three days isn’t much time.”

The wedding took place on a crisp autumn morning at St. George’s church, with considerably fewer than 500 guests. They’d kept it intimate: immediate family, a handful of close friends, and notably absent were Lady Cromwell and her poisonous gossip.

Eugenie wore a cream silk gown that Winifred had commissioned—simple but elegant. As she walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, she caught sight of Callum waiting at the altar. He looked nervous, she realized with amusement. The confident Duke of Silverly was actually fidgeting with his cravat.

When she reached him, he leaned close enough to whisper, “You look beautiful, and I’m terrified.”

“So am I,” she whispered back.

“Good. At least we’re equally terrified.”

The ceremony passed in a blur. Eugenie heard herself making vows that no longer felt like a performance. When Callum slid the ring onto her finger—a beautiful sapphire that matched the gown she’d worn to the opera—his hand trembled slightly.

“I, Callum Edmund Merrow, take thee, Eugenie Charlotte Weatherstone.”

The words hung in the air, weighted with meaning. This was real. This was happening. When the vicar pronounced them married and Callum kissed her, Eugenie felt something inside her finally settle. All the fear and doubt and worry about whether this was right—it dissolved in the certainty that yes, this was exactly where she belonged.

The wedding breakfast afterward was a joyous affair. Eugenie’s parents seemed younger than they had in years, her father actually laughing at something Winifred said. Her brother Edward, home from school for the occasion, declared Callum “rather decent for a duke,” which everyone agreed was high praise from a 16-year-old.

As the afternoon wore on, Callum pulled Eugenie aside into a quiet corridor. “How are you feeling, your grace?”

It took her a moment to realize he meant the title. She was the Duchess of Silverly now. “Strange. Overwhelmed. Happy.”

“Good. Those are all appropriate reactions.” He pulled her closer, his arms encircling her waist. “I have something for you. Another gift.”

“You’ve already been too generous.”

“This one’s different.” He produced a folded paper from his jacket. “Open it.”

Eugenie unfolded the document, scanning the contents. Her breath caught. It was a trust deed establishing a permanent income for her family, managed independently of their marriage—more than enough to maintain their estate comfortably and provide for her brother’s education and future.

“Callum… this is…”

“Insurance,” he said quietly. “So you’ll never have to wonder if you married me for money. This is yours, regardless of what happens between us. If our marriage succeeds—and I fully intend that it will—this gives your family security without being tied to my goodwill. If somehow we’re completely wrong about each other and everything falls apart, you’ll still have provided for them. Either way, that burden is lifted.”

She looked at him through tears. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I did. Because I need you to know that I want you here as my wife, as my partner, because I love you—not because you need my money or my protection. Those come freely, but your choice to stay has to be just that: a choice.”

Eugenie threw her arms around him, the document crumpling between them. “You impossible, wonderful man. How did I get so lucky?”

“I believe my mother ambushed you at a charity tea,” he said dryly. “But I like to think fate played a role, too.”

They stood there in the corridor, holding each other, until someone called that the carriages were ready to take them home. To their home, Eugenie realized—not his house where she was a temporary guest, but their shared residence. The thought was both thrilling and terrifying.

That night, after the guests had departed and the house had quieted, Eugenie stood in her new bedroom—the Duchess’s suite adjoining Callum’s rooms—trying to process everything that had happened. A soft knock at the connecting door made her turn.

“Come in.”

Callum entered, having changed out of his formal wedding clothes into a dressing gown. He looked younger somehow, less like a duke and more like just Callum.

“I wanted to make sure you’re all right,” he said. “This has been a rather overwhelming day.”

“I’m fine. Better than fine.” She moved to where he stood. “Though I keep expecting to wake up and discover this is all an elaborate dream.”

“If it is, we’re sharing it, which seems improbable.” He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch gentle. “We don’t have to… that is, I don’t expect…” he broke off, clearly struggling.

“Are you trying to tell me we don’t have to consummate the marriage tonight?” Eugenie asked with amusement.

“Yes. Exactly that. We can take our time, get more comfortable with each other. There’s no rush.”

She considered him for a moment—this man who’d shown her kindness when he could have been cruel, who’d respected her intelligence and valued her opinions, who’d just given her family financial security to prove his love was genuine.

“What if I don’t want to wait?” she asked softly.

His eyes darkened. “Eugenie.”

“We’ve been pretending for months, Callum. Maintaining careful distance even when we wanted more. I’m tired of pretending. Tired of being careful.” She moved closer until they were nearly touching. “We’re married now. Actually married. I don’t want our wedding night to be another exercise in restraint.”

“Are you certain?” His voice had gone rough.

“Because once we cross this line—”

“I’m certain.” She reached up to cup his face, drawing him down to her. “I love you. I choose this. I choose you. No more doubts.”

The kiss that followed was nothing like their previous careful pecks for society. This was hungry and desperate and absolutely honest. Callum’s arms came around her, pulling her close as if he’d never let go.

“I love you,” he murmured against her lips. “God, Eugenie, I love you so much.”

She pulled back just enough to smile at him. “Then perhaps you should show me.”

What followed was tender and sometimes awkward—they were both nervous despite everything—but also profoundly right. Every touch felt like a discovery, every kiss a promise. When Callum finally made her his wife in truth as well as law, Eugenie felt as if something fundamental had shifted in the universe.

Afterwards, lying tangled together in the massive bed, Callum traced patterns on her bare shoulder. “So,” he said eventually, “shall we discuss how we’re going to navigate married life? Establish some ground rules?”

“Ground rules for marriage? How romantic.”

“I prefer ‘practical.'” But he was smiling. “Though I suppose rule one should be honesty. We started this with lies. Let’s make sure we continue with truth.”

“Agreed. What else?”

“We face society together. Whatever gossip Lady Cromwell spreads, whatever complications arise from our unconventional beginning, we present a united front.”

“Of course.”

“And,” he hesitated, “we try. Genuinely try to make this work. Not because of arrangements or obligations, but because we’ve chosen each other.”

“Callum.” She turned to face him fully. “I meant my vows today. I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me for the rest of your life.”

“Stuck with you?” he repeated with satisfaction. “I can live with that.”

They fell asleep wrapped around each other. And for the first time in months, Eugenie felt completely at peace.

Five years later, the nursery at Silverly Manor was in absolute chaos. Eugenie stood in the doorway, watching her husband attempt to wrangle their three-year-old son, Thomas, while simultaneously preventing their one-year-old daughter, Catherine, from eating the building blocks.

“No, Thomas, we don’t throw toys at Papa’s head, even if it’s tempting,” Callum was saying with admirable patience. “And Catherine, darling, blocks are for building, not dining. We’ve discussed this.”

Catherine responded by shoving another block toward her mouth with determination.

“Need assistance?” Eugenie asked with amusement.

Callum looked up, his hair completely disheveled and his cravat nowhere to be seen. “Your children are menaces.”

“They’re only my children when they’re misbehaving. When they’re good, they’re yours.”

“They’re never good,” Callum said, but his tone was fond. He scooped up Catherine before she could succeed in eating the block. “Though I suppose they are rather wonderful menaces.”

Thomas chose that moment to launch himself at Eugenie, who caught him with practiced ease. “Mama! Papa says we can go to the village if we promise to behave!”

“Did he now?”

“I’m already regretting it,” Callum admitted. “But they’ve been cooped up inside all week due to rain. They need to run wild somewhere that isn’t my study.”

“Your study that they’re banned from after the Great Ink Incident?”

“We don’t speak of the Great Ink Incident.”

Eugenie laughed, pressing a kiss to Thomas’s dark hair, so like his father’s. “All right, village it is. But actual good behavior, Thomas. Not your interpretation of good behavior.”

An hour later, they were walking through the village, Catherine perched on Callum’s shoulders and Thomas running ahead under strict instructions to stay where they could see him.

“You know,” Eugenie said, linking her arm through Callum’s free one. “Sometimes I still can’t believe this is our life.”

“Having second thoughts about marrying me to escape scandal?”

“Not even slightly. Though that seems like it happened to different people now.”

“It did, in a way.” Callum smiled at her. “We’re not the same people we were five years ago.”

He was right, Eugenie reflected. She’d gained confidence, taken on charitable work focused on education for working-class children, and even published a philosophical treatise under a pseudonym that had been rather well-received. Callum had successfully championed his factory reforms, served on several parliamentary committees, and generally proved that Dukes could care about more than hunting and gambling. And together, they’d built something real—a marriage based on genuine affection and respect, despite its ridiculous beginning.

“Mama! Mama, look!” Thomas was pointing at a posting board in the village square. “What does it say?”

Eugenie moved closer to read the announcement. Her eyes widened. “It says Lady Cromwell has been requested to leave the county by the local magistrate.”

“Truly?” Callum looked delighted. “Whatever for?”

“Apparently, she’s been spreading malicious gossip about too many families, and someone finally had enough.” Eugenie couldn’t suppress a smile. “The woman who tried to destroy our reputation has herself been destroyed by her own poisonous tongue.”

“Karma is real,” Callum observed with satisfaction. “Though I can’t say I’m surprised. She made enemies of everyone.”

They continued their walk, the children happily chasing each other around the village green while Eugenie and Callum watched from a nearby bench.

“Do you ever miss it?” Callum asked suddenly. “Your old life before all this?”

Eugenie considered the question seriously. Did she miss being Lady Eugenie Weatherstone—impoverished and invisible? The quiet loneliness of being overlooked by society?

“Not even a little,” she said honestly. “I have everything I never knew I wanted. Purpose. Partnership. A family. You?”

“Good,” he pulled her closer, “because I’m rather attached to keeping you around.”

“Rather attached? What passionate language, your grace. Would you prefer if I wrote you poetry? Serenaded you publicly?”

“God, no. I prefer you exactly as you are: pragmatic, occasionally insufferable, and mine.”

He kissed her temple. “Yours. Always yours.”

Thomas chose that moment to tumble spectacularly, scraping his knee and immediately wailing. Eugenie hurried over while Callum dealt with Catherine, who decided this was an excellent time to try climbing a tree.

Later, back at home with the children finally settled for their nap, Eugenie and Callum found themselves in the library—still their favorite room, still where they spent their quiet evenings together.

“We should visit your parents this weekend,” Callum said, reviewing correspondence. “Your father wants to show me something about the new drainage system.”

“He’s so proud of that drainage system,” Eugenie said with affection. Since the financial stability Callum had provided, her father had thrown himself into improving the estate. “He’s become quite the expert on agricultural management.”

“Good. He seems happy.”

“He is. They both are.” She looked at Callum over the top of her book. “Thank you for that.”

“For what?”

“For giving my family security. For never making them feel like they’re charity cases. For treating them with respect even when it would have been easy to be condescending.”

“They’re family,” Callum said simply. “Your family is my family. Besides, your father’s actually fascinating to talk to, once he’s not worried about money constantly.”

Eugenie set down her book and moved to sit beside him. “Have I mentioned lately that I love you?”

“Not in the last hour. I was beginning to worry.”

She swatted his arm but couldn’t suppress her smile. “I love you desperately.”

“Inconveniently?”

“Completely inconveniently. You distract me from reading. Very inconvenient.”

“I’ll endeavor to be more distracting, then.” He pulled her into his lap, making her laugh. “Can’t have you finding books more interesting than your husband.”

“Impossible task. You’re unfortunately fascinating.”

“Unfortunately? It would be easier if you were boring. Then I could ignore you and get more reading done.”

“My apologies for being so compelling,” he said, clearly not sorry at all.

They sat together in comfortable silence, Callum absently running his fingers through her hair while he read over her shoulder.

“Do you know what I was thinking earlier?” Eugenie said eventually. “When we were in the village with the children?”

“What?”

“That I’m glad your mother ambushed me at that tea. Glad she concocted that absurd scheme, because without it, we never would have found each other.”

Callum was quiet for a moment. “I’ve thought that, too. It’s strange, isn’t it? How the best things sometimes start in the most improbable ways.”

“Should we tell the children someday? About how we really met?”

“Absolutely. When they’re old enough to appreciate the absurdity.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “They should know that sometimes, taking a chance on something ridiculous leads to something extraordinary.”

“Very philosophical, your grace.”

“I learned from the best.” Eugenie twisted to look up at him. “I really do love you. You know? Not the convenient fiction we created, not the role we played… but you. Exactly as you are.”

“I know.” His eyes were soft with affection. “I’ve known it since that night you cried in this library and let me hold you. Since you trusted me with your fear and uncertainty. That’s when I knew this was real. Not when I agreed to marry you—that’s when I hoped. But trust… that’s when I knew.”

They sat together as the afternoon light faded, talking about everything and nothing: upcoming social obligations, Callum’s latest parliamentary efforts, the children’s antics, plans for the future. And Eugenie thought, not for the first time, that she was extraordinarily lucky. Not because she’d married a duke—though that certainly had its advantages—but because she’d married this particular man. Someone who challenged and supported her, who made her laugh and made her think, who’d given her a partnership she’d never dreamed possible.

Their story had started with a lie whispered at a tea party. It had become a truth worth fighting for, and she wouldn’t change a single ridiculous, improbable moment of it.