DUKE'S UNWANTED BRIDE

London always looked better when I was not the one standing in it. From the train window, the city was all old stone and wet streets and elegant buildings pretending they hadn’t been built on money, stress, and people having emotional meltdowns in office bathrooms. It looked romantic if you didn’t actually have to live there. Which, unfortunately, I did. I shifted my bag higher on my shoulder and checked my email again, even though I already knew what it said. Subject: Blackwood Project — Immediate Meeting Required There it was. Still there. Still ruining my morning. I exhaled slowly through my nose and resisted the urge to throw my phone out the window. I had worked at Whitmore & Lane Publishing for eight months. Eight months of fixing commas, chasing authors, pretending I understood the difference between “elegant prose” and “rambling nonsense,” and trying very hard not to cry whenever someone said, “Can you just take a quick look at this?” because it was never quick and it was never just a look. Still, I had started to get comfortable. Not happy, exactly. Let’s not get dramatic. But comfortable enough that I had stopped waking up every morning with the distinct feeling that my life was one missed rent payment away from collapse. And then the Blackwood project showed up. Of course it had. Because apparently my career had decided to develop a sense of humor. Everyone in publishing knew the Blackwood name. Blackwood House Publishing was one of those old, prestigious, terrifying companies that made people lower their voices when they said it. They owned half the literary world, or at least it felt that way. London, Edinburgh, New York. Big offices, big money, bigger egos. And then there was Alexander Blackwood. Twenty-nine, wealthy, brilliant, allegedly unbearable. The kind of man people described using the same tone they’d use for storms or expensive wine they couldn’t pronounce. I had never met him and intended to keep it that way. My phone buzzed in my hand. Margaret: My office now, two sec I stared at the message. “Fantastic,how the hell is that even possible, some humans don't just have brains” I muttered to myself. Because when Margaret Whitmore said now, she meant now. Not after you finished your tea and she's never waiting, I shoved my phone into my bag and stood up just as the train slowed. The morning was cold enough to make me regret leaving my scarf in the flat, and the platform outside looked as if London itself had collectively decided to be miserable. I pulled my coat tighter around myself and made my way through the office building, trying to look like someone who belonged here and not like a woman who had once spent twenty minutes crying in a bathroom because an editor had called one of my comments “technically correct but spiritually unhelpful.” Which, honestly, was rude. Margaret’s office was on the top floor with the kind of view that was meant to intimidate people into remembering who signed their paychecks. The Thames stretched out beyond the glass, grey and cold and expensive-looking. I knocked. “Come in.” I did, trying not to look as wary as I felt. Margaret Whitmore stood by the window with a folder in her hand. She was one of those women who looked like she had been born knowing exactly what everyone in the room was thinking and had already decided she didn’t care. “You know why you’re here,” she said. I tried to keep my face neutral. “The Blackwood project?” “Yes.” She came around her desk and placed the folder in front of me. “I want you on it.” I blinked. “Me?” “You.” “Margaret, I’m not senior enough.” “I know.” “I’ve never worked on something this big.” “I know that too.” I narrowed my eyes. “Then why me?” A tiny smile touched her mouth. “Because you’re one of the few people in this office who is not afraid to tell a difficult man when he’s wrong.” I let out a short laugh before I could stop myself. “That sounds like a terrible reason.” “It’s an excellent reason.” “I haven’t even met him.” “That’s part of why you’re useful.” I stared at her. “You have met him.” “Unfortunately.” “And?” She looked at me for a second too long before answering. “He’s… not easy.” That was an understatement with the emotional depth of a teaspoon. “How not easy?” Margaret leaned back against her desk. “Imagine a locked door.” I waited. “Now imagine the door has inherited several billion pounds and believes this fact excuses everything.” I stared at her for a second, then snorted despite myself. “Oh, brilliant.” “You’ll be working from Blackwood Manor for several weeks.” The laughter left my body so fast it was almost rude. “Sorry?” “Blackwood wants the editorial team on-site while the manuscript is being developed. At his family estate?” “Yes.”I said but my mind screamed at me, who the hell does that “For several weeks?” “Yes.” nope, I said mentally while trying hard to keep my unbothered look “ but how many?” “Six, possibly eight.” I just looked at her knowing I was making that expression I always made when I was trying not to panic and probably failing badly. Margaret probably knew it too, which was annoying. “I can’t,” I said, though the words came out weaker than I wanted. She lifted one eyebrow. “Can’t?” “I mean…” I paused, hesitant ‘I have a flat. And bills. And a plant that is technically still alive. I’m not exactly ready to disappear into the countryside for two months and be psychologically bullied by a Blackwood.” That earned me a real smile. “You need this project, Elena.” And that was the problem because she was right. I did need it. Spending eight months being helpful in the way assistants were supposed to be helpful, which meant invisible when things were going well and instantly available when things were going badly. I was good at my job, but not in a way anyone seemed eager to reward yet. This project could change that. I looked down at the folder. “Do I at least get a warning if he’s terrible?” Margaret gave me a very dry look. “You’re being warned right now.” “Comforting not” “You leave tomorrow.” I looked up sharply. “why tomorrow” She was enjoying this now. I could tell. “Tomorrow morning.” She added and I could feel her eyes boring holes into my skin A sigh escaped. my lips"You do realize that’s emotionally violent.” “Pack warm clothes.” she said and I instantly knew she was purposely ignoring all my words “I hope you know I’m blaming you when I hate this.” “I’m prepared to live with that.” her lips spread forming a playful smirk. The next morning, I arrived at King’s Cross with one suitcase, one handbag, and exactly the sort of low-grade resentment that kept me alive in office jobs. The train to Oxford was already waiting. I climbed aboard, found my seat, and immediately wished I had stayed in bed and become a hermit instead. Six weeks. I could survive six weeks. Probably. I sat down, tucked my bag between my feet, and opened the folder Margaret had given me. The first pages were all neat project details and editorial notes. Historical romance. Famous author. Impossible deadline. Enormous budget. The sort of thing that made senior people say words like “legacy” and “vision” and “market positioning” while everyone else did the actual work. At the bottom of the final page, in neat black print, was the one line that made my stomach sink. Final editorial approval: Alexander Blackwood. “Oh, come on,” I muttered. “Problem?” I looked up. A man was standing beside my seat. Tall. Dark hair. Expensive coat. Calm face. The sort of beautiful that was irritating because it looked effortless. He had one hand resting on the luggage rack as if he belonged there, and his expression was mildly amused, which was somehow worse than if he’d been stern. I gave him a cautious look. “No.” He glanced toward the empty seat across from me. “May I?” I hesitated for a second, then nodded. “Sure.” He sat down. For a few moments, neither of us spoke. The train jerked into motion, and I turned my attention back to the folder, partly because I was trying to look busy and partly because I was suddenly aware of how sharply he was looking at me. Not at my face. At the page. Specifically, the name at the bottom. Alexander Blackwood. I frowned and looked up. “Do you know him?” His mouth twitched. “Unfortunately.” That answer made something in me go slightly suspicious. “I’ve heard he’s impossible.” “He is.” I let out a short laugh. “At least the rumors are useful.” “You’ve met him?” “No.” “Then you’re lucky.” I shut the folder with a soft snap. “I’m beginning to think that.” Now he really looked at me. Grey eyes. Clear and unreadable. The kind of eyes that made you feel examined even when you were trying very hard not to be. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Elena.” “Elena what?” I blinked. “Hart.” Something changed in his expression. Not much. Just a flicker. A pause. So small I almost convinced myself I’d imagined it. But I hadn’t. I narrowed my eyes. “What?” “Nothing.” I did not believe him. The train moved on through the countryside, grey fields and old stone houses slipping past the window. It should have been peaceful. Instead, I found myself increasingly irritated by the man across from me and by the fact that I could not figure out why. He was too composed. Too quiet. Too attentive. And, annoyingly, very attractive in a way that suggested he knew it and had never once had to work for it. Wonderful. An hour later, the train pulled into Oxford. I grabbed my suitcase, stood up, and stepped onto the platform, already planning to survive the day with coffee and determination. I did not notice the man from the train following behind me. Outside the station, a black car waited at the curb. A driver stepped out and opened the back door. “Mr. Blackwood.” I froze. Slowly, I turned around. The man from the train stood a few feet away, hands in his coat pockets, looking at me with the kind of calm that made me want to throw something at him. Alexander Blackwood. My stomach dropped. He was the heir. The impossible man. The one I had just spent an hour complaining about without the slightest idea who he was. My face went hot immediately, which was humiliating, because I was not sixteen and this was not supposed to be the kind of moment that made me want to evaporate into the pavement. “You,” I said. His mouth curved, faintly. “Me.” I pointed at the car, then at him, because apparently my brain had abandoned me. “You knew who I was.” “Yes.” “And you let me talk about you?” “I was curious.” “Curious about what?” He stepped closer, just enough to be irritating. “How honest you would be.” I folded my arms. “And?” His gaze stayed on mine, steady and unreadable, and I hated the fact that it made my pulse do something inconvenient. “I haven’t decided yet.” Then he walked past me and got into the car as if he hadn’t just completely destroyed my dignity. I stood there for a second, staring after him. Okay. Fine. So Alexander Blackwood was a smug, infuriating man with excellent eyes and a completely unreasonable habit of hiding his identity from unsuspecting strangers. Fantastic. I had a terrible feeling this trip was going to be much longer than six weeks.