Who Dressed You Tonight The Duke Asked — His Jaw Had Not Unclenched Since She Entered
The crystal chandeliers of the Harrington estate cast a brilliant, unforgiving light across the ballroom. But when Lady Genevieve Hastings descended the grand staircase, the orchestra practically choked on its own notes. She was draped in a scandalous sweep of liquid crimson silk, a gown that clung to her silhouette with a brazen intimacy that dared the aristocracy to gasp. Across the sea of powdered wigs and polished boots, Alistair Sterling, the Duke of Blackwood, stopped dead. The crystal stem of his champagne glass snapped in his grip, the sound sharp as a pistol shot. He cut through the crowd, his eyes burning with a lethal, possessive fury. “Who dressed you tonight?” he demanded, his voice a low, terrifying rasp. His jaw had not unclenched since she entered.
The descent into ruin was rarely an abrupt plunge. For the Hastings family, it had been a slow, agonizing bleed. Lady Genevieve stood before the full-length gilded mirror in her freezing bedchamber, the breath pluming from her lips in the damp London air. The townhouse on Mayfair, once a beacon of her family’s prestige, was practically hollowed out. The silver had been sold to settle the butcher’s bills. The fine Aubusson rugs had been quietly rolled up and carted away in the dead of night to appease the aggressive creditors circling her father, Lord Richard Hastings. Her father was a man who believed that the next hand of cards at White’s or the next roll of the dice in the murky, exclusive hells of St. James’s would restore their fortune. Instead, he had wagered their very survival. Now, at twenty-two, Genevieve was no longer a debutante fluttering through her first season. She was a commodity, the last valuable asset the Hastings family possessed.
“You must wear it, Genevieve,” her stepmother, Lady Beatrice, had said earlier that evening, her voice carrying that sharp, aristocratic edge that brooked no argument. Beatrice had swept into the room, followed by a maid carrying a massive, unmarked dress box, a gift from an anonymous benefactor who wishes to see the Hastings name restored to its rightful glory at the Harrington ball tonight. Genevieve traced the exquisite, scandalous fabric now clinging to her body. It was an unmistakable creation by Madame Celeste, the notoriously expensive modiste favored by the wealthiest women in London and, more scandalously, by the most highly kept mistresses of the Prince Regent’s inner circle. The silk was a shade of deep arterial crimson. It was not a color for a respectable, unmarried daughter of an earl. It was the color of a woman who had already been bought.
The bodice was cut perilously low, the fabric rouched and draped to accentuate every curve, falling into a train that moved like spilled blood across the floorboards. “I cannot wear this, Beatrice,” Genevieve had protested, her heart hammering against her ribs. “It is practically a declaration of availability. It looks as though I am auctioning myself.”
“You are auctioning yourself, you foolish girl,” Beatrice had hissed, dropping her pretenses. “Lord Richard owes forty thousand pounds. Forty thousand. Do you know what happens to a peer of the realm who cannot pay his gambling debts? He is ruined, and we are thrown into the street. The man who sent this gown intends to claim a dance with you tonight. He holds your father’s promissory notes. If you do not wear it, he will call the debts in tomorrow morning.”
Genevieve had closed her eyes, the weight of her family’s sins pressing down on her slender shoulders. She had allowed the maid to lace her into the gown. She wore no jewelry, for there was none left to wear. Her dark hair was swept up into a severe, elegant twist, drawing all attention to the long line of her neck and the devastating cut of the crimson dress. When the carriage finally pulled up to the Harrington estate, the panic in Genevieve’s chest was a living, thrashing thing. The London season was in full swing, and the Earl of Harrington’s ball was the pinnacle of the social calendar. Everyone who mattered was there. Beau Brummell was holding court in the card room. Lady Jersey was casting her critical, sweeping judgments over the debutantes.
Genevieve stepped out of the carriage, the cold night air biting at her exposed skin. She felt entirely naked. As she handed her velvet cloak to the footman at the top of the grand staircase, the hum of polite conversation in the ballroom below seemed to falter. She took a breath, lifting her chin with the ingrained pride of a hundred generations of nobility, and began her descent. The silence spread like a ripple in a pond. Heads turned. Fans paused mid-flutter. Monocles dropped from the eyes of startled lords. The whispers began immediately, a hissing tide of speculation and judgment. “Crimson at a respectable ball? Has Hastings finally sold her? Madame Celeste, surely. Only she cuts silk to look so sinful.”
Genevieve kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, forcing her legs to move steadily down the marble steps. She felt the predatory gazes of the men, the horrified fascination of the women. She was walking into a lion’s den, adorned in meat. She did not know who held her father’s debt. She did not know whose eyes were claiming her from the shadows. But as she reached the bottom of the stairs, the crowd parted. Not out of respect, but out of a desperate need to distance themselves from the scandal. And there, standing in the newly formed clearing, was a man she had prayed never to see again. Alistair Sterling, the Duke of Blackwood.
He was a man carved from granite and old money, tall, broad-shouldered, impeccably dressed in stark, unrelenting black. He radiated a cold, commanding authority that made lesser men quail. Three years ago, he had almost been hers. They had shared stolen moments in the gardens of Hyde Park, whispered promises under the cover of rain. But the Duke was a man of logic and duty. And when rumors of Lord Hastings’ financial instability first began to surface, Alistair had abruptly severed the connection, departing for the continent without a word of explanation, leaving Genevieve to face the humiliation of a broken, unspoken betrothal. Now, he was back. And he was staring at her as if she were a ghost who had suddenly materialized to torment him.
Genevieve’s breath hitched. She saw the shock register in his ice-blue eyes, followed immediately by a darkening storm of utter fury. He held a crystal flute of champagne. As his gaze raked over the plunging neckline of her dress, the tight bodice, the sheer audacity of the crimson silk, his hand tightened. With a sharp crack, the crystal stem snapped in his grip. Champagne spilled over his dark gloves, but he did not care. He dropped the broken glass onto the marble floor. He moved toward her. The crowd shrank back, recognizing the danger rolling off the Duke in waves. Genevieve froze, trapped between the humiliating reality of her gown and the suffocating presence of the only man who had ever broken her heart.
Alistair crossed the distance between them in three long strides. The air around him seemed to drop in temperature. Up close, the lines of his face were harsher, more defined than they had been three years ago. There was a cruel edge to his mouth that had not been there before, and a shadow in his eyes that spoke of profound, cynical weariness. But right now, that weariness was incinerated by sheer, possessive rage. He stopped mere inches from her, disregarding every rule of polite society that dictated appropriate distance. He loomed over her, his broad chest rising and falling with a constrained, violent rhythm. His jaw was locked tight, the muscles ticking beneath his skin. He did not look at the crowd. He did not look at Lady Beatrice, who was hovering nervously near the punch bowl. He looked only at Genevieve.
“Who dressed you tonight?” he demanded. The words were not spoken loudly, but they carried a terrifying, lethal weight. It was a command, not a question.
Genevieve swallowed hard, forcing herself to meet his furious gaze. “Your Grace,” she murmured, dipping into a flawless, shallow curtsy. “It is a pleasure to see you return to England.”
“Do not play parlor games with me, Genevieve,” Alistair sneered, his voice dropping an octave meant only for her ears. His eyes dropped to the exposed swell of her breasts before snapping violently back to her face. “You are wearing a Madame Celeste gown, and not just any gown. You are wearing the Rouge de la Nuit. Do you have any idea what this garment means in this city?”
Genevieve’s heart stutered. “It is a gift.”
“A gift?” he repeated, the word dripping with venom.
“Alistair,” she whispered, the old, familiar name slipping out before she could stop it. “Please, you are making a scene.”
“The scene was made the moment you descended those stairs looking like a high-priced courtesan,” he replied brutally. He saw the flinch that rippled through her at the insult, and for a fraction of a second, a flicker of regret crossed his rigid features, but it was quickly swallowed by anger. “That dress is a signature. When a man commissions Madame Celeste to craft a crimson gown for a woman, it is a public declaration to the ton that he has purchased her exclusivity. You are wearing a collar, Genevieve. I want to know whose name is on the tag.”
The blood drained from Genevieve’s face. The ballroom around her seemed to tilt. She knew the dress was scandalous. She knew it was a transactional requirement to save her father, but she had not fully understood the absolute, damning coded language of London’s elite. She had walked into the most prominent ball of the season broadcasting to every lord, lady, and peer that she was a kept woman. “I,” her voice broke. She suddenly felt violently ill. “I did not know the specifics of the modiste’s traditions.”
“Ignorance does not protect you from the wolves,” Alistair said, his jaw remaining rigidly clenched. He leaned in closer, the scent of bergamot and crisp linen intoxicating her senses, reminding her of a time when she thought she would be his duchess. “Your father is in deep, isn’t he? Deeper than the rumors suggest. How much does he owe the man who bought this silk?”
“Forty thousand,” she whispered, the truth battered out of her by his relentless intensity.
Alistair closed his eyes for a brief moment, a sharp exhalation escaping his lips. “God in heaven, Genevieve. Forty thousand pounds? Who holds the paper?”
Before she could answer, a smooth, oily voice slid through the tension between them. “A magnificent evening, is it not, your grace?”
Alistair’s eyes snapped open, his posture stiffening even further. Genevieve turned her head. Approaching them with a self-satisfied, predatory smirk was Lord Reginald Croft. Croft was a man of immense wealth and notoriously foul appetites. He was older, his face carrying the bloated, flushed look of too much port and too little morality. He was known for ruining young women, both financially and socially, treating the impoverished daughters of desperate peers as his personal playthings. Croft’s gaze slid over Genevieve, an overtly sexual appraisal that made her skin crawl.
“Lady Genevieve,” Croft purred, “you honor me. The dress is even more magnificent on you than I had envisioned when I selected the silk.”
The final piece of the horrific puzzle clicked into place. Genevieve felt her knees go weak. Croft, Lord Reginald Croft, was the anonymous benefactor. He held the forty thousand pounds in debt. He was the man who had bought her. Alistair did not move, but Genevieve could feel the sudden, terrifying stillness that overtook him. It was the stillness of a predator calculating the exact moment to strike. His jaw, which had been tight since he first laid eyes on her, seemed to lock with the force of a steel trap.
“Croft,” Alistair said, his voice stripped of all emotion, a dead, flat sound that was infinitely more frightening than his previous rage. “You overstep.”
“Do I?” Croft chuckled, adjusting his cravat. He seemed entirely unbothered by the duke’s menacing aura. Croft’s immense wealth often insulated him from the consequences of his actions. “I believe I am merely claiming what is rightfully mine. Lord Hastings and I came to a very specific arrangement regarding his outstanding promissory notes. The Lady Genevieve’s presence in that gown tonight seals our bargain.”
Croft reached out, his thick, ringed fingers moving to grasp Genevieve’s bare arm. Alistair moved faster than a man of his size had any right to. His gloved hand shot out, clamping around Croft’s wrist with the crushing force of a vise. The loud hum of the ballroom ceased entirely. Every eye in the vicinity was now locked on the tableau. A duke physically restraining a baron. It was a scandal that would feed the gossip sheets for a decade.
“Do not touch her,” Alistair said.
“Your grace,” Croft said, his smirk faltering as genuine pain flared in his eyes. “You are hurting me, and you are interfering in private business.”
“She is not your business,” Alistair replied, his grip tightening until Croft gasped. “And if you ever attempt to lay hands on her again, I will strip you of your titles, beggar you in the House of Lords, and personally throw you into the Thames. Do we have an understanding?”
Croft yanked his arm back the moment Alistair released him, massaging his bruised wrist. His eyes were wide with a mix of fear and indignation. “You cannot do this, Blackwood. I hold her father’s ruin in my vault. She is mine.”
“Not tonight,” Alistair stated coldly, without looking at Genevieve. He extended his arm toward her. “Lady Genevieve, they are playing a waltz. I believe you promised me this dance.”
It was not a request. It was an extraction. Genevieve, trembling and acutely aware of the hundreds of eyes dissecting her every move, placed her hand on Alistair’s forearm. His muscles were rigid as iron beneath the fine black wool of his sleeve. He led her away from the sputtering, humiliated Lord Croft, guiding her straight toward the center of the polished dance floor. The orchestra, which had been faltering under the heavy tension in the room, hastily resumed playing the sweeping, romantic notes of a Viennese waltz. The waltz itself was still considered daring by the older generation, requiring a level of physical contact that bordered on the improper. To dance it with the Duke of Blackwood, while wearing the crimson brand of a ruined woman, was tantamount to throwing a lit match into a powder keg.
Alistair turned to face her. He placed one hand firmly on her waist, his fingers pressing into the delicate, scandalous silk. His other hand engulfed hers. He stepped into her space, pulling her closer than the dance strictly required. “Follow my lead,” he ordered quietly, “and smile, Genevieve, unless you want the entire town to know you are terrified.”
She forced the corners of her mouth up, though her eyes remained wide and panicked. “What are you doing, Alistair? You are ruining your own reputation by associating with me tonight.”
“My reputation can withstand a waltz,” he replied, sweeping her into the first turn. The world spun in a blur of candlelight and gaping faces, but Alistair’s gaze remained locked on hers, a fixed, intense anchor in the chaos. “Yours, however, is teetering on a precipice. How could you be so foolish?”
“I had no choice,” she hissed back, her voice masked by the swelling music. “Beatrice told me the debts would be called in tomorrow. Forty thousand pounds. My father would face debtors’ prison, or worse. The gown arrived with a note. I did not know it was Croft. I did not know what the dress meant.”
Alistair’s grip on her waist tightened fractionally. “Your father is a fool, but even he is not stupid enough to owe Croft forty thousand pounds purely through faro and whist. Croft doesn’t play for those stakes. He buys debt. He consolidates it. He hunts.”
Genevieve frowned, struggling to keep up with the complicated steps while processing his words. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Croft did not win that money from your father. He purchased your father’s vowels from other men. He engineered a trap specifically to acquire you.” Alistair’s jaw worked, the muscle ticking furiously again. “And you, draped in red silk, walked right into the snare.”
“Why do you care?” Genevieve challenged, a sudden spark of defensive anger flaring in her chest. The fear was receding, replaced by the deep-seated hurt he had caused her three years ago. “You abandoned me. When the whispers of our poverty first began, you fled to Paris without a backward glance. You made your disdain for my family’s situation perfectly clear. So why play the white knight now?”
Alistair’s steps faltered for a fraction of a second, a micro-hesitation that only an expert dancer, or a woman who knew him intimately, would notice. He recovered instantly, spinning her toward the edge of the floor, away from the closest gossiping dowagers. “You know nothing of why I left, Genevieve,” he said, his voice tight, betraying a crack in his icy facade. “I did not leave because of your poverty. I left because your father came to me. He demanded a settlement. He tried to extort a fortune from me in exchange for his blessing for our marriage. He tried to sell you to me then, just as he is trying to sell you to Croft now.”
Genevieve gasped, missing a step. Alistair’s strong arm kept her from stumbling. “No,” she breathed, horrified. “My father, he would never.”
“He did,” Alistair said ruthlessly. “And when I refused to be blackmailed, he threatened to ruin your reputation by claiming we had engaged in illicit relations, forcing my hand. I left to protect you from the fallout of his desperate schemes. I thought, away from my wealth, he would seek a more respectable, moderate match for you.”
Tears pricked the corners of Genevieve’s eyes. The betrayal cut deeper than the impending ruin. Her own father had used her as a bargaining chip, driving away the only man she had ever loved. “I didn’t know,” she whispered, a tear escaping and tracking down her cheek.
Alistair stared at that tear. His expression shifted, the cold fury finally fracturing, revealing something far more dangerous beneath, an intense, unrelenting desperation. He pulled her closer, the crimson silk whispering against his dark trousers. “I know,” he said softly, his breath brushing her ear. “But that changes nothing about tonight. Croft has the notes, but there is something else. Croft is merely a dog on a leash. He hasn’t the intellect to orchestrate a consolidation of debt this massive without a backer.”
Genevieve looked up at him, bewildered. “A backer? Who?”
“That,” Alistair said, his eyes scanning the crowd over her shoulder, “is what I intend to find out. But I know one thing for certain. Croft acquired a significant portion of those debts from a private gaming club in Mayfair, a club owned secretly by my estranged half-brother, Silas.”
Genevieve felt a cold chill wash over her. Silas Pemberton, the illegitimate son of the late duke, a man who harbored a bitter, lifelong resentment toward Alistair and the legitimate Sterling empire. “You think Silas is behind this?” she asked. “To what end?”
“To draw me out,” Alistair corrected grimly. “Silas knows my weaknesses. He knows what I left behind.” The music began to build toward its crescendo. Alistair looked down at her, his eyes blazing with a frightening intensity. “He knows that despite three years, despite the ocean between us, despite the extortion and the lies,” he paused, spinning her one final time as the last chord struck, bringing them to a breathtaking halt. His chest heaved against hers. The entire ballroom was staring. “He knows,” Alistair finished, his voice a low, gravelly whisper meant only for her soul, “that I have never stopped considering you mine, and I will be damned if I let another man parade you in his colors.”
Before the applause could even begin, Alistair stepped back, bowed sharply, and without another word to the crowd, seized Genevieve’s hand. He did not lead her back to her stepmother. He led her past the gaping lords, past the furious Lord Croft, and straight toward the grand arch doors leading out into the dark, labyrinthine gardens of the Harrington estate. The real game had just begun.
The cold bite of the London night was a violent shock after the suffocating heat of the Harrington ballroom. Alistair did not slow his pace as he practically dragged Genevieve down the sweeping gravel drive. The fog had rolled in off the Thames, a thick, yellow-tinged miasma that swallowed the glow of the gas lamps and muffled the clatter of carriage wheels.
“My cloak,” Genevieve gasped, struggling to keep her footing on the loose gravel in her thin silk slippers. “Alistair, my cloak is inside.”
“I will buy you a hundred cloaks tomorrow,” Alistair clipped, signaling sharply to a massive midnight black carriage waiting in the shadows of the estate’s perimeter. The crest of the Duke of Blackwood was barely visible on the door panel. “Get in.”
Before she could protest further, his hands were at her waist, lifting her effortlessly into the dark velvet-lined interior. He climbed in after her, slamming the door shut. The carriage lurched forward instantly, the horses’ hooves striking sparks against the cobblestones as they plunged into the fog. Inside the carriage, the silence was absolute, save for the rhythmic thud of the horses and the rattling of the wheels. The only light came from the erratic flashes of street lamps passing by the curtained windows.
Genevieve huddled in the corner, shivering violently. The crimson silk of the Rouge de la Nuit offered no protection against the November chill, but her trembling was born of adrenaline and delayed shock. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly acutely aware of how little she was wearing and how close Alistair sat opposite her. He reached up, unfastening the heavy multi-caped driving coat he wore over his evening attire. Without a word, he draped the thick wool garment over her shoulders. It was still warm from his body, smelling sharply of starched linen, cold rain, and the faint masculine scent of bergamot that she had spent three years trying to forget.
“Thank you,” she whispered, pulling the lapels tightly together.
Alistair leaned back into the shadows, his face obscured. “Your father has crossed a line from which there is no return, Genevieve. Extortion was one matter; selling you to a predator like Croft to settle his debts at the Faro tables is an entirely different sin.”
“You said Silas was involved,” Genevieve said, her voice shaking. She needed to focus on the logistics, on the danger, rather than the agonizing revelation that her father had bartered her happiness away three years ago. “Silas Pemberton, why would he go to such lengths? Why use my father?”
Alistair exhaled, a harsh sound in the confined space. “Silas has spent his entire life looking through the window of the Sterling estate. My father, our father, provided for him financially, setting up trusts through Thomas Coutts at Coutts and Co. Bank. It was a generous settlement for an illegitimate son, but Silas never wanted money. He wanted the title. He wanted the respect. And because he cannot have the dukedom, he wishes to obliterate it,” Alistair finished quietly. “He has spent the last five years quietly buying his way into the underground echelons of London. He owns three gaming hells in St. James’s, heavily shielded by front men. He caters to the desperate and the greedy, men like your father, Lord Richard.”
Genevieve closed her eyes, the shame burning hot in her chest. “So Silas instructed his croupiers to let my father win just enough to stay and then bleed him dry until he owed forty thousand pounds.”
“Precisely. And when the debt was insurmountable, Silas offered to buy the promissory notes. He consolidated your father’s ruin into one neat, lethal package.”
“But Silas cannot publicly hold the paper. A man of his shadowy reputation trying to collect from an earl would raise the eyebrows of the magistrates. So, he sold the debt at a discount to Lord Croft with the stipulation that Croft demand me as payment,” Genevieve concluded, the bile rising in her throat.
“A masterstroke of cruelty,” Alistair admitted, his tone turning deadly. “Silas knew that if you were paraded at the Harrington ball in a Madame Celeste gown as Croft’s newly purchased property, word would reach me within the hour. Even if I had remained in Paris, the scandal sheets would have carried the news across the channel. He knew I would return. He knew I would intervene.”
“To what end?” Genevieve demanded, leaning forward, the heavy coat slipping slightly from her shoulders to reveal the scandalous crimson silk. “If he wants to ruin you, how does fighting Lord Croft accomplish that?”
Alistair’s gaze dropped to the red silk, his jaw clenching once more before he forced his eyes back to hers. “Because, Genevieve, interfering with a recognized debt between peers is a matter for the House of Lords. If Croft brings a formal grievance against me for physical assault and interference in his legal financial right to your father’s collateral, which is, horrifically, you, it will trigger a moral scandal. I am scheduled to cast the deciding proxy votes next week on the new agricultural tariffs opposed by Lord Liverpool’s faction. If I am embroiled in a public scandal involving a ruined earl, a kept woman, and a physical brawl with a baron, my political allies will abandon me. My votes will be nullified.”
Genevieve stopped breathing. The magnitude of the conspiracy crashed over her. It wasn’t just about gambling debts or broken hearts. It was parliamentary politics, economic warfare, and aristocratic revenge, all woven together with a thread of crimson silk. “I am the bait,” she whispered.
“You are the trap,” Alistair corrected softly, “and I have just willingly stepped my foot firmly into the steel jaws.”
The carriage finally rolled to a halt, the iron gates of Blackwood House clanging shut behind them. It was Alistair’s private townhouse on Grosvenor Square, a sprawling, imposing structure of Portland stone that looked more like a fortress than a residence. A footman instantly opened the carriage door, offering a low bow. Alistair stepped out first, then turned and lifted Genevieve down onto the pristine cobblestones. He kept his arm securely around her waist, ushering her up the grand stone steps and through the heavy oak doors.
The interior of Blackwood House was a stark contrast to the hollowed-out shell of her own family home. It was unapologetically wealthy, but devoid of the ostentatious, gilded clutter favored by the ton. The marble floors gleamed under the light of a massive crystal chandelier, and the walls were lined with dark mahogany and austere portraits of previous dukes. A startled butler, roused from his late-night duties, hurried forward.
“Your Grace, we did not expect you back from the continent until next week.”
“Plans change, Higgins,” Alistair said briskly, removing his gloves and tossing them onto a silver tray. “Have a fire lit immediately in the primary drawing room. Bring tea, brandy, and whatever hot food the kitchens can manage at this hour. And Higgins?”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
“Lock the gates. If Lord Richard Hastings or Lord Reginald Croft appear at my threshold, you are to inform them that they will be shot for trespassing.”
Higgins did not bat an eyelash. “Very good, Your Grace.”
Alistair guided Genevieve into the drawing room. It was a masculine sanctuary of deep leather chairs, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the faint scent of cigar smoke and old paper. A maid hurried in, quickly coaxing a roaring fire into the hearth. Genevieve moved toward the flames, pulling Alistair’s heavy coat tighter around herself. The heat was a blessed relief, but it did nothing to thaw the ice in her veins. She turned to face him as the door clicked shut, leaving them alone. Alistair walked over to a crystal decanter on a side table, poured a generous measure of amber brandy, and brought it to her.
“Drink,” he commanded gently. “It will stop the shivering.”
She took the glass with trembling hands, taking a sip. The liquor burned a fiery path down her throat, settling in her stomach with a heavy warmth. “What happens tomorrow?” she asked, her voice raspy. “Croft will not simply let this go. You publicly humiliated him. He will call in the debt. He will send the bailiffs to Mayfair. My family will be thrown into the Fleet Prison by noon.”
Alistair ran a hand through his dark, impeccably styled hair, ruining the perfect waves. The veneer of the untouchable duke was beginning to crack, revealing the exhausted, driven man beneath. “Croft will not send the bailiffs,” Alistair said, pacing in front of the fireplace. “He wants you, not the money. And Silas wants my political head. They will wait for me to make an offer to buy the debt from Croft. When I do, Croft will demand an astronomical sum, perhaps double the forty thousand, and attach public conditions that will ensure my reputation is dragged through the mud.”
“Then you cannot pay it,” Genevieve said firmly. She set the brandy glass down on the mantelpiece with a sharp click. She turned to fully face him, letting the heavy driving coat slide from her shoulders. It pooled on the floor, leaving her standing in the firelight in the scandalous, blood-red silk. Alistair’s pacing halted abruptly. His eyes darkened, locking onto her. “Put the coat back on, Genevieve,” he warned, his voice dropping to a dangerous velvet register.
“No,” she said, lifting her chin. The aristocratic pride of the Hastings lineage, battered and bruised, flared to life. “I will not be a pawn anymore, and I will not allow you to sacrifice your political standing and your family’s legacy to fix my father’s sins. I will return to the townhouse tonight. Tomorrow, I will go to Croft.”
Alistair closed the distance between them so quickly she didn’t have time to blink. His hands clamped down on her bare shoulders, his grip tight enough to bruise, though he instantly lessened the pressure when she gasped. “Do not ever speak those words again,” he snarled, his face inches from hers. The scent of him was overwhelming. “You will not go within a hundred miles of that swine.”
“It is forty thousand pounds, Alistair,” she cried, tears of frustration finally spilling over. “My father sold me. If I do not go to Croft, he goes to prison, Beatrice is ruined, and the Hastings name is erased. You cannot fix this without destroying yourself.”
“Watch me,” he vowed. His thumb brushed roughly across her cheek, wiping away a tear. The touch was electric, sending a jolt straight to her core. The anger between them was dissolving, morphing into something far older and far more volatile. “Three years ago, I walked away because I thought it was the only way to protect you from the stain of your father’s extortion. I thought I was doing the honorable thing. It was the greatest mistake of my life.” He looked down at the crimson neckline of the Rouge de la Nuit, his breathing shallow. “When I saw you on those stairs tonight, wearing this, I wanted to burn London to the ground.”
“Alistair,” she breathed.
“You are staying here,” he stated, his eyes lifting to meet hers with absolute unyielding resolve. “You will sleep in the guest chambers. Tomorrow morning, I am going to Drummond’s Bank to secure the capital. Then, I am going into the St. James’s Hells. I’m going to find Silas.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to remind my dear half-brother,” Alistair said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper as he pulled her flush against him, the crimson silk a thin barrier between their beating hearts, “that while he may play with shadows, I was born to rule them. I will buy your father’s notes, Genevieve. And then, I will buy you. Not as a mistress, not as collateral, but as my Duchess. And heaven help any man who tries to stand in my way.”
The night outside Blackwood House remained thick with fog, but inside the drawing room, the fire burned with a fierce, renewed intensity. Genevieve looked up at the man she had loved and hated in equal measure, and for the first time in years, the weight of her family’s ruin felt like something she didn’t have to carry alone. The scandal of the Harrington ball would ring through London for weeks, but as Alistair’s lips finally found hers in a desperate, reclaiming kiss, the rest of the world ceased to exist.
As the morning light began to filter through the heavy velvet curtains, the reality of their situation settled back upon them. Alistair had spent the remaining hours of the night drafting letters and organizing his affairs. He was a man of action, and the lethargy of his years in Paris had been completely stripped away. He had arranged for a specialized team of solicitors to begin investigating the legality of the debts Croft claimed to hold.
Genevieve, meanwhile, had found little sleep. She wandered the halls of Blackwood House, a place she had once imagined as her home. Every portrait and every piece of furniture seemed to mock the current state of her life. She was still wearing the crimson silk, having found nothing else in the house that would fit her. The dress was a constant reminder of the bargain her father had made and the dangerous game Alistair was now playing.
By eight o’clock, the house was a hive of activity. Alistair was dressed in a dark traveling suit, looking every bit the formidable duke. He found Genevieve in the library, staring out at the grey London morning.
“I have sent word to your father,” he said, his voice steady. “He is to remain at the townhouse until I return. He is not to speak to anyone, especially not Croft or Silas.”
Genevieve turned to him, her eyes tired but resolute. “And if Croft doesn’t wait? If he comes for me?”
“He won’t get past the gates,” Alistair assured her. “And by the time I am through with Silas, Croft will have more pressing matters to attend to than his imaginary claim on you.”
He stepped closer and took her hands in his. “Trust me, Genevieve. I let you go once; I will not let it happen again. Everything I have, everything I am, is now dedicated to ensuring you are safe.”
“I do trust you,” she whispered. “But the cost, Alistair… the cost is so high.”
“There is no price too high for what we lost three years ago,” he replied, his gaze intense. “Wait for me here. I will return before nightfall.”
With a final, lingering look, he turned and left the room. Genevieve watched from the window as his carriage pulled away, disappearing into the lingering mist of Grosvenor Square. The hours that followed were a torturous wait. She paced the library, she tried to read, she spoke briefly with Higgins, but her mind was always with Alistair.
She knew the world he was entering. The gaming hells of St. James’s were places of desperation and vice, where fortunes were lost in a single night and reputations were destroyed by a single whisper. Silas Pemberton was a master of this world, a man who thrived on the ruin of others. To confront him on his own turf was a move of incredible risk.
As the afternoon dragged on, a sense of unease settled over Genevieve. She felt the eyes of the servants on her, their whispers hushed but palpable. She was the woman in the red dress, the scandal of the season, the cause of the Duke’s sudden and violent return.
Just after four o’clock, a carriage arrived at the gates. Genevieve’s heart leaped, but it was not the Duke’s carriage. It was a smaller, more discreet vehicle. A man emerged and spoke with the guards at the gate. After a few moments of tense negotiation, he was allowed through.
Higgins entered the library shortly after. “A messenger from Lord Richard Hastings, My Lady. He insists on seeing you immediately.”
Genevieve felt a chill. “Show him in.”
The man who entered was disheveled and clearly nervous. He handed Genevieve a sealed note. “From your father, My Lady. He said it was a matter of life and death.”
Genevieve tore open the letter. Her father’s handwriting was shaky, nearly illegible. Genevieve, come home at once. Croft is here. He has the notes. He says if you do not come, he will burn the house with me in it. Please, for the love of God, come back.
“Is he alone?” Genevieve asked the messenger.
“There are men with him, My Lady. Rough-looking men. They’ve blocked the entrances.”
Genevieve looked at the note, then at the messenger, and finally at the door. She knew it was a trap. Croft and Silas were moving faster than Alistair had anticipated. If she stayed, she was safe behind Blackwood’s walls, but her father—despite everything he had done—was in genuine danger.
She turned to Higgins. “I need a cloak and a carriage. Now.”
“But Your Grace’s orders—”
“My father is in danger, Higgins. I cannot sit here while he is threatened. If the Duke returns, tell him where I have gone. Tell him I had no choice.”
Reluctantly, Higgins obeyed. Within minutes, Genevieve was wrapped in a heavy traveling cloak, stepping into a plain carriage. As she left the safety of Grosvenor Square, she felt the weight of the crimson silk beneath her cloak, a reminder that she was walking back into the very snare Alistair had tried to break.
The drive to Mayfair felt like an eternity. When the carriage finally pulled up to the Hastings townhouse, the scene was as the messenger described. Dark figures lurked in the shadows of the neighboring buildings, and the front door stood slightly ajar.
Genevieve stepped out, her heart hammering. She walked up the steps and into the foyer. The house was silent, the air heavy with the scent of stale tobacco and fear. She moved toward the study, where she heard the low murmur of voices.
She pushed the door open. Her father sat slumped in his chair, looking older and more broken than she had ever seen him. Standing over him was Lord Reginald Croft, a triumphant smile on his face. And in the corner, leaning against the bookshelf with a look of bored detachment, was a man who could only be Silas Pemberton.
“Ah, the Lady Genevieve,” Croft purred. “I knew you would come. Family loyalty is such a touching, if predictable, trait.”
“Let him go,” Genevieve said, her voice steady despite her fear. “You have what you wanted. I am here.”
“Not quite yet,” Silas interrupted, stepping forward. He was younger than Alistair, with the same sharp features but a cruel, calculating light in his eyes. “We are still waiting for my dear brother to join the party. It would be a shame for him to miss the final act.”
“Alistair is coming,” Genevieve warned. “And he will not be merciful.”
Silas laughed, a cold, dry sound. “I’m counting on it. I want him to see exactly what his ‘mercy’ has brought him. I want him to watch as the Hastings name and the Sterling reputation are both erased in a single night.”
He turned to Croft. “Prepare the documents. Once the Duke arrives, we will settle all the debts, one way or another.”
Genevieve stood in the center of the room, the hidden crimson silk feeling like a brand. She looked at her father, who wouldn’t even meet her eyes. She looked at Silas, who was orchestrating her destruction. And she waited for the sound of the one man who could save them all, knowing that tonight, the price of her freedom might be more than any of them could pay.
The tension in the room was a physical weight, thick and suffocating. Outside, the sounds of London continued—the distant clatter of hooves, the muffled shouts of street vendors—but inside the study, time seemed to have frozen. Silas Pemberton checked his pocket watch with an exaggerated flick of his wrist.
“He’s late,” Silas remarked, his tone light but edged with a growing impatience. “Alistair was always so punctilious. It seems his time in Paris has made him soft.”
“He’s not soft,” Genevieve snapped, her eyes flashing. “He’s careful. Something you wouldn’t understand, Silas.”
Silas walked toward her, his movements predatory. He stopped just inches away, his gaze tracing the outline of her cloak. “And you, Lady Genevieve, are you careful? Or are you just desperate? To walk into this house after everything… it’s either very brave or very stupid.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to know the difference,” she retorted.
Before Silas could respond, the sound of a carriage screeching to a halt outside echoed through the house. Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs, and the front door was thrown open with such force it hit the wall. A moment later, the study door swung wide.
Alistair stood there, his coat stained with rain, his face a mask of cold, concentrated rage. He didn’t look at Croft or Silas first. His eyes immediately found Genevieve. Seeing her safe, he allowed himself a single, sharp exhale before his gaze shifted to his half-brother.
“Silas,” Alistair said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You always did have a penchant for the dramatic.”
“And you always did have a penchant for the discarded, Alistair,” Silas replied, not moving from his position. “Did you bring the money? Or did you come to plead for mercy?”
Alistair stepped into the room, and the space seemed to shrink around him. He ignored Silas’s taunt and looked at Croft. “I have the forty thousand pounds, Croft. In gold and certified notes from Drummond’s. I also have something else you might find interesting.”
Croft shifted uncomfortably. “What are you talking about?”
Alistair reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a thick envelope. “A detailed record of your transactions over the last five years. It seems you’ve been double-dealing with the Admiralty, selling information on merchant routes to French privateers. I believe the Crown takes a very dim view of treason, especially from a member of the peerage.”
The color drained from Croft’s face. “That’s a lie. You can’t prove that.”
“I don’t have to prove it to you,” Alistair said coldly. “I only have to prove it to the Home Secretary. He’s waiting for my word at the Carlton Club. Now, you have a choice. You can take this money, hand over every promissory note you hold in the Hastings name, and disappear from this city tonight. Or, I can send this envelope to the authorities, and you can spend the rest of your very short life in the Tower.”
Croft looked at Silas, his eyes wide with panic. “You didn’t say anything about this! You said he was neutralized!”
Silas’s expression hadn’t changed, but a muscle in his jaw ticked. “He’s bluffing, Reginald. He wouldn’t risk the scandal of a public trial.”
“Try me,” Alistair challenged, stepping closer to Croft. “I have nothing left to lose, Silas. You’ve already taken my reputation. Do you think I care about a little more scandal if it means seeing you both destroyed?”
Croft didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the satchel of money Alistair had brought and tossed a bundle of papers onto the desk. “There. Every note. Every vowel. Now give me the envelope.”
Alistair handed over the papers—not the envelope—to Genevieve. “Check them,” he commanded.
Genevieve’s hands shook as she leafed through the documents. She saw her father’s messy signature on note after note, the totals adding up to the staggering forty thousand pounds. At the bottom of the stack was a separate agreement, the one that mentioned her specifically as collateral. She felt a wave of nausea, but she forced herself to nod. “They’re all here, Alistair.”
Alistair looked back at Croft. “The envelope is with my solicitor. If you are still in London by sunrise, it will be delivered. Now, get out.”
Croft didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled out of the room, his heavy footsteps retreating down the hall and out of the house.
Now, only Silas remained. He straightened up, his eyes meeting Alistair’s with a cold, mutual hatred. “You think you’ve won, don’t you? You saved the girl, you saved the Earl. But you’re still the Duke of a ruined house, Alistair. The ton will never forget that night at the Harringtons’. You’ll be a pariah.”
“I’ve been a pariah for three years, Silas,” Alistair said quietly. “I found I quite like the silence. It makes it easier to hear my enemies coming.”
Silas stepped toward the door. “This isn’t over. You haven’t seen the last of me.”
“I expect not,” Alistair agreed. “But next time, I won’t be using solicitors and bank notes. Next time, it will be much simpler.”
Silas sneered and walked out, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.
Genevieve let out a breath she felt she’d been holding since the ball. She looked at the papers in her hand, then at her father, who was still staring at the floor, his face buried in his hands.
“It’s over, Father,” she said softly.
Lord Richard looked up, his eyes red and brimming with shame. “Genevieve… Alistair… I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything,” Alistair interrupted, his voice devoid of warmth. “You will leave for the estate in Sussex tomorrow. You will remain there, out of the public eye, for the foreseeable future. I will provide a modest allowance, but you are never to touch a deck of cards or a pair of dice again. If you do, I will personally ensure you are stripped of your remaining assets.”
Lord Richard nodded slowly. “I understand. Thank you, Alistair. I… I didn’t deserve this.”
“No, you didn’t,” Alistair agreed.
He turned to Genevieve. The anger had finally left his face, replaced by a profound, echoing exhaustion. He reached out and took the papers from her, throwing them into the dying fire in the hearth. They watched together as the evidence of her family’s ruin curled into black ash.
“You should change,” he said, glancing at the crimson silk peeking out from her cloak. “The carriage is waiting. I’m taking you back to Blackwood House.”
“And then?” she asked.
Alistair stepped closer, his hands framing her face. “And then, we deal with the scandal. Together. I told you, Genevieve, I am buying you back. Not with money, but with everything I am.”
He kissed her forehead, a gesture of tenderness that felt more profound than any passion. “Let’s go home.”
As they left the Hastings townhouse for the last time, the morning sun was finally beginning to break through the London fog. The streets were starting to wake up, oblivious to the drama that had unfolded during the night. Genevieve leaned her head against Alistair’s shoulder in the carriage, the weight of the last three years finally beginning to lift. The crimson dress was gone, destroyed by the flames, and with it, the woman who had been a commodity. Ahead of them lay a path filled with whispers and judgment, but as Alistair held her hand, Genevieve knew that for the first time in her life, she was exactly where she was meant to be. The Duke of Blackwood had returned, and this time, he wasn’t going anywhere.
