Updated Apr 18, 2026 • ~19 min read
Chapter 3: The Proposal
Emmeline
Emmy spends Christmas morning in a state of suspended anxiety that makes it impossible to enjoy the modest breakfast her father insists on sharing despite his illness, impossible to focus on the brief church service he conducts for the handful of parishioners who brave the cold, impossible to think about anything except the fact that at noon she’s supposed to return to Ashford Hall to discuss an “alternative arrangement” with a man who explicitly doesn’t believe in mercy and whose idea of a solution is probably going to be something Emmy finds deeply unpalatable.
“You don’t have to go,” her father says for the third time as Emmy prepares to leave, wrapping herself in her worn cloak and trying to look more confident than she feels. “Whatever arrangement the Duke proposes, you don’t have to accept it. We’ll find another way.”
“There is no other way, Papa,” Emmy says gently, because they both know the truth even if her father doesn’t want to admit it. “We have six days left. The Duke is our only option. Whatever he proposes, I at least need to hear it.”
The walk to Ashford Hall feels shorter in daylight—less ominous, more ordinary, just a country road leading to a grand estate instead of the journey to potential doom it felt like last night—and Emmy arrives precisely at noon because being punctual seems important when negotiating with a man who’s already demonstrated his appreciation for precision and control.
A different footman answers the door this time—the Christmas party is clearly over and the house has returned to its usual state of formal quiet—and he escorts Emmy to the same study where she argued with the Duke last night, though the room looks different in daylight, less menacing and more just expensively comfortable.
The Duke is already there, standing by the window looking out at his winter gardens with his hands clasped behind his back, and he doesn’t turn immediately when Emmy enters, just continues staring at whatever he’s seeing outside while she waits in uncomfortable silence near the door.
“Sit,” the Duke says finally without turning around. “This conversation will take some time.”
Emmy sits in the same chair from last night and folds her hands in her lap while the Duke continues his contemplation of the gardens, and she’s starting to wonder if this is some kind of power play—making her wait while he demonstrates his control over the situation—when he finally turns to face her with an expression that’s as carefully neutral as ever.
“I’ve been thinking about your situation,” the Duke says, moving to take the chair across from Emmy with that same precise control he brings to every movement. “About your father’s debts and your complete lack of options and the rather spectacular mess you’ve found yourselves in through his poor judgment.”
“How generous of you to spend your Christmas morning contemplating our misfortune,” Emmy says, unable to keep the edge out of her voice despite knowing sarcasm probably won’t help her cause.
“I’m trying to help you,” the Duke says with a hint of exasperation. “You might attempt to be less hostile while I do so.”
“Forgive me,” Emmy says without much sincerity. “I’m not accustomed to help from men who don’t believe in mercy.”
The Duke’s jaw tightens fractionally—the only indication that her barb landed—but he continues in the same measured tone he’s been using.
“I have a problem,” the Duke says, apparently deciding to ignore her commentary. “I’m thirty-three years old with no heir and a title that will pass to distant cousins if I die without producing a son. My solicitors have been nagging me to remarry for years. Society expects it. The estate requires it. But I find the prospect of courtship and romance and all the attendant complications utterly intolerable.”
“How tragic for you,” Emmy observes. “Being wealthy and titled and expected to marry. My heart breaks.”
“Are you capable of listening without commentary?” the Duke asks sharply. “Or should I simply have you escorted out now and let your father face the consequences of his debts?”
Emmy bites back her retort because he’s right—antagonizing him when he’s apparently trying to propose some kind of solution is stupid even if his entire manner makes her want to argue with every word he says.
“I’m listening,” Emmy says through gritted teeth. “Please continue explaining your tragic problem, Your Grace.”
The Duke studies her for a long moment like he’s trying to decide whether she’s worth the effort of this conversation, and then he leans forward slightly with his hands steepled in front of him in a gesture that Emmy is starting to recognize as his thinking pose.
“I need a wife,” the Duke says bluntly. “You need money. The solution seems obvious.”
Emmy stares at him while her brain tries to process words that make absolutely no sense in any context she can imagine. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Marriage,” the Duke clarifies, as if that makes his insane suggestion any clearer. “I marry you. Your father’s debts are cleared immediately. You become a duchess with all the security and wealth that entails. I get a wife who understands from the beginning that this is a business arrangement rather than a romance, which saves both of us considerable trouble.”
“You’re proposing marriage,” Emmy says slowly, trying to make the words make sense in her head. “To me. A woman you met twelve hours ago. Because you need an heir.”
“Yes,” the Duke confirms with the same casual tone he might use to discuss the weather. “I need a wife. You need money. Marry me, debts cleared. It’s quite straightforward.”
Emmy laughs—sharp and disbelieving and slightly hysterical—because this is the most absurd thing she’s ever heard, this cold duke sitting in his expensive study proposing marriage like it’s a simple business transaction instead of the most intimate relationship two people can have.
“You’re insane,” Emmy says flatly. “Completely insane. You don’t even know me!”
“I know enough,” the Duke says, and he’s clearly thought this through based on how calmly he’s presenting his argument. “You’re poor, desperate, and no one will miss you.”
“Romantic,” Emmy can’t help but interject.
“This isn’t romance,” the Duke says firmly, ignoring her sarcasm. “It’s business. I need an heir. You need security. Your father needs his debts cleared and medical care for whatever time he has remaining. This arrangement solves all those problems efficiently.”
“Why me?” Emmy demands, because surely a duke could have his pick of wealthy, well-connected women who would be far more appropriate duchesses than a vicar’s daughter with no dowry and no training in aristocratic society. “Why not choose someone from your own class? Someone who knows how to be a duchess? Someone who could have anyone—”
“Anyone would want affection,” the Duke interrupts. “Anyone from my social circle would expect courtship and romance and eventually love. They’d be disappointed when I remained exactly what I am. But you, Miss Shaw—you understand this is transactional. You’re marrying me to save your father, not because you harbor romantic illusions about taming the cold duke with the power of your love.”
Emmy’s mind is racing, trying to find the trap in his offer, trying to understand what he’s actually proposing and what it would cost her beyond the obvious sacrifice of marrying a man she doesn’t love and who explicitly can’t love her back.
“Let me make certain I understand,” Emmy says carefully. “You want to marry me—a complete stranger—in a loveless arrangement where I provide you with an heir and you provide me with money and security. That’s the proposal.”
“Essentially, yes,” the Duke confirms. “Though I’d expect you to run my household, host when required, and maintain the appearance of a respectable marriage. But affection, companionship, love—those aren’t part of the arrangement. I’m not capable of offering them, and I don’t expect them from you.”
Emmy stands because sitting feels impossible when her entire world is tilting sideways, and she paces to the window where the Duke was standing earlier, trying to organize her thoughts into something resembling coherent objections to this absolutely insane plan.
“This is madness,” Emmy says to the winter garden outside. “You can’t just marry a stranger because it’s convenient. Marriage is supposed to be—” She breaks off because what is marriage supposed to be when her own parents’ marriage ended with her mother’s death and the only other marriage she’s observed closely was the village butcher’s, which seemed to be mostly resigned tolerance punctuated by occasional shouting.
“Marriage is a legal and social contract,” the Duke says from behind her. “In our case, it would be an honest contract. No false expectations. No disappointing revelations later. Just clear terms agreed upon by two rational adults who both benefit from the arrangement.”
“You’re asking me to sell myself,” Emmy says, turning back to face him. “To trade my future for my father’s debts. That’s what this is.”
“I’m asking you to make a practical choice,” the Duke corrects. “Marry me and save your father, or refuse and watch him die in debtor’s prison. Those are your options. I’m simply offering you the choice.”
“Some choice,” Emmy says bitterly. “Marry you or lose everything. That’s coercion, not choice.”
“Your father created this situation,” the Duke points out with brutal honesty. “I’m offering you a way out of it that benefits both of us. If that feels like coercion, take it up with your father and his gambling debts.”
Emmy wants to throw something at him—the brandy decanter, one of the expensive books on his shelf, anything that might crack that perfect cold control—but violence won’t solve her problem and might actually make it worse, so she forces herself to take a breath and think rationally instead of emotionally.
“If I accepted this—and I’m not saying I am—but if I did, I would have conditions,” Emmy hears herself say, because if she’s going to sell herself into a loveless marriage with a man made of ice, she’s at least going to negotiate terms.
The Duke’s eyebrow rises fractionally. “You’re hardly in a position to negotiate, Miss Shaw.”
“You just said you value that I understand this is transactional,” Emmy challenges. “So let’s transact. If you want me to agree to this arrangement, I need certain guarantees.”
“Such as?” the Duke asks, and he’s studying her now with what might be actual interest instead of just cold assessment.
“My father lives with us until he passes,” Emmy says immediately, because that’s non-negotiable, that’s the entire reason she’s even considering this insane proposal. “Not in some separate property. With us. In your house—our house—where I can care for him properly and he can die in comfort instead of alone.”
“That’s acceptable,” the Duke says without hesitation. “He’ll have rooms here at Ashford Hall and the best medical care available. What else?”
Emmy’s mind scrambles for other protections, other terms that might make this arrangement slightly less horrible.
“I want access to your library,” Emmy says, because if she’s going to be trapped in a loveless marriage, she at least wants books. “All your libraries. Not just whatever limited collection you think is appropriate for ladies.”
Something that might almost be amusement flickers in the Duke’s ice-blue eyes. “I have four libraries. You may use whichever you prefer. Though I warn you, my private study library contains some rather dry estate management texts that you’ll probably find tedious.”
“I’ll risk it,” Emmy says, and she’s running out of demands, running out of things to ask for when what she really wants—love, affection, an actual partnership—is explicitly not part of what he’s offering. “And I want to be treated with basic respect even if we’re not in love. I won’t be ignored or dismissed or treated like I’m invisible. If I’m going to be your duchess, you’ll at least acknowledge my existence.”
“Fair enough,” the Duke agrees. “Respect I can manage. Affection is impossible, but respect is reasonable.”
Emmy realizes with sinking certainty that she’s going to accept his proposal because what other option does she have—refuse and watch her father go to prison, or accept and at least know he’ll be comfortable and cared for until he dies even if it costs her everything resembling a normal future.
“I accept,” Emmy says, and the words feel like signing away her soul but also like saving her father’s life. “On the conditions we discussed. My father lives here, I have library access, and you treat me with respect. And in exchange I’ll marry you and be your duchess and give you your heir and pretend this is all perfectly normal instead of absolutely insane.”
“Excellent,” the Duke says, and he’s already pulling papers from his desk drawer like he was expecting this outcome all along, like he knew she’d say yes because desperate people always accept whatever lifeline is offered even when that lifeline is actually a chain. “We’ll marry by special license as soon as possible. Given your father’s condition, I assume you’d prefer not to delay.”
“How soon?” Emmy asks, staring at the marriage contract he’s laying out on the desk with terms already written in neat legal script.
“Tomorrow,” the Duke says. “Boxing Day. December twenty-sixth. We’ll have a small ceremony here, sign the papers, and your father’s debts will be forgiven immediately. Then you’ll be the Duchess of Ashford and all this unpleasantness will be behind us.”
“Tomorrow,” Emmy repeats, because apparently she’s going to spend the day after Christmas marrying a cold duke in a loveless arrangement, and if that’s not the strangest holiday gift she could possibly receive, she doesn’t know what is.
The Duke is already preparing ink and pen for her to sign the contract, already moving forward like her agreement is simply the next step in a process he’s orchestrated perfectly, and Emmy looks at the document that will bind her to this man for the rest of her life—at the clauses about property and succession and duties and responsibilities that read more like a business agreement than a marriage contract.
“Sign here,” the Duke says, indicating the bottom of the document. “And Miss Shaw—before you do, I need you to understand something very clearly.”
Emmy looks up from the contract to find him watching her with unusual intensity, like whatever he’s about to say actually matters to him instead of just being another term to negotiate.
“Don’t imagine this will end in some romantic transformation where I learn to love again because of your perseverance,” the Duke says, and his voice has gone even more serious than usual. “I’m not a puzzle to be solved or a frozen heart to be thawed. I’m exactly what you see—cold, practical, and fundamentally broken in ways that aren’t fixable. If you’re expecting anything more than what I’ve explicitly offered, you will be disappointed.”
Emmy stares at him—at this scarred, damaged man who’s warning her away from hope while simultaneously offering her the only solution to her family’s destruction—and she makes a decision that’s probably going to haunt her for the rest of her life.
“I’m not expecting anything from you,” Emmy says clearly, taking the pen and signing her name to the contract that will make her a duchess. “I’m doing this to save my father. That’s all. So you can keep your cold heart and your tragic past and your determination to be miserable forever. As long as my father is cared for and I have my books, I don’t care if you never smile again.”
“Good,” the Duke says, taking the signed contract and folding it with precise movements. “Then we understand each other perfectly.”
He signs his own name below hers with a flourish that somehow manages to look both elegant and emotionless, and just like that, Emmy Shaw is engaged to be married to the Duke of Ashford in a business arrangement that will save her father and cost her everything resembling the future she might have once imagined for herself.
“There’s one more matter we should discuss,” the Duke says, setting aside the signed contract and looking at Emmy with an expression she can’t quite read. “The matter of… producing an heir.”
Emmy feels her face heat because of course that’s part of this arrangement, of course there will be expectations about marital intimacy even in a loveless marriage, and she’s been trying very hard not to think about what it would mean to share a bed with this cold stranger who’s about to become her husband.
“When?” Emmy asks, forcing herself to be direct since he seems to prefer directness. “When would you expect to… fulfill that part of the arrangement?”
“Not immediately,” the Duke says, and he actually looks uncomfortable for the first time since Emmy met him. “Not until we’re both… adjusted to the circumstances. I’ll inform you when I deem it appropriate. You’ll have advance warning. But Miss Shaw, I want to be very clear—that aspect of our marriage will be purely functional. No romance. No pretense of affection. Simply the mechanical process required to produce an heir.”
“How lovely,” Emmy says faintly. “I’ve always dreamed of mechanical reproduction with a man who finds me so unappealing he has to schedule it in advance.”
“It’s not about you,” the Duke says, and for once he sounds almost apologetic. “It’s about my ability to… to be intimate with someone who isn’t Caroline. To enter chambers that remind me of her death. To risk caring about someone enough that losing them would destroy me again. None of that has anything to do with your worth or appeal. It’s entirely about my limitations.”
“Caroline,” Emmy repeats, latching onto the name. “Your late wife.”
“We’re not discussing her,” the Duke says flatly, the momentary vulnerability disappearing behind his usual ice. “That’s another term you should understand—my past is not open for discussion. My late wife is not a topic for conversation. The reasons I am the way I am are not subject to your analysis or attempts at fixing. Are we clear?”
“Perfectly clear,” Emmy says, standing because this conversation has gone on long enough and she needs air and space and time to process that she just agreed to marry this impossible man. “Is there anything else, Your Grace? Or may I return home to tell my father that I’ve sold myself to save him?”
“Don’t be dramatic,” the Duke says, also standing. “You’ve made a practical choice in difficult circumstances. There’s no shame in that.”
“Easy for you to say,” Emmy points out. “You’re getting exactly what you want—a convenient wife who won’t demand affection or bother you with expectations of actual marriage. I’m getting a cold husband who’s explicitly warned me not to hope for anything resembling love or happiness.”
“You’re getting security,” the Duke corrects. “And your father’s life. That should be enough.”
“Should be,” Emmy echoes. “But I suspect it won’t be.”
She walks to the door before he can respond, before she can start crying in front of him and reveal exactly how devastated she is by this arrangement she just agreed to, and she’s reaching for the handle when his voice stops her.
“Emmy.”
She turns back, surprised that he’s used her given name, and finds him looking at her with something that might be actual concern beneath all the ice.
“Thank you,” the Duke says quietly. “For accepting. For making this easier than it might have been. I know this isn’t what you would have chosen. I’m… I’m sorry that your father’s circumstances forced you into this position.”
“But not sorry enough to simply forgive the debts without demanding marriage in return,” Emmy observes.
“No,” the Duke agrees honestly. “Not sorry enough for that.”
Emmy leaves Ashford Hall for the second time in two days, and she walks home through the cold December afternoon trying to process that she just agreed to marry a man who’s promised her nothing except coldness and respect while warning her explicitly not to expect his frozen heart to ever thaw.
Her father cries when she tells him—tears of relief and guilt and gratitude all mixed together—and Emmy holds his frail hands and tries to smile despite the despair rising in her throat like poison.
“I’m so sorry,” her father keeps saying. “You shouldn’t have to sacrifice yourself for my mistakes. This isn’t right.”
“It’s done,” Emmy says, because there’s no point in regret when the contract is already signed. “Tomorrow I’ll be the Duchess of Ashford. You’ll be safe and cared for. That has to be enough.”
That night Emmy lies awake in her small bed in her small room in the small vicarage that will no longer be her home after tomorrow, and she thinks about the Duke of Ashford’s ice-blue eyes and scarred face and cold voice telling her not to expect love or warmth or anything resembling actual marriage, and she wonders what kind of woman agrees to marry a man like that.
A desperate one, she supposes.
A practical one.
A woman with no other choices and too many people depending on her to refuse the only option available.
Tomorrow is Boxing Day, and instead of celebrating Christmas properly with her father, Emmy Shaw will become the Duchess of Ashford, married to a man who’s promised her nothing except that he’s cold and broken and fundamentally incapable of love.
It’s the worst gift she could possibly imagine.
And also the only thing standing between her father and complete ruin.
So she’ll accept it, and she’ll wear whatever dress they provide, and she’ll speak whatever vows are required, and she’ll become the wife of a man who doesn’t want love from her and can’t offer it in return.
And somehow she’ll find a way to survive it.
Because surviving is what desperate people do when all their other options disappear.
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