NO MERCY, MY DUCHESS

2

The gasp that rippled through the gathered servants and guards was a tangible thing, thick with shock and scandal. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, the tableau of Lady Livia draped across the Duke of Blackmoor in his overflowing bath etched into the memory of all present. But the stillness shattered as Duke Julian Lancelot Blackmoor, the paragon of composure, stirred.

His winter-sky eyes, moments ago wide with disbelief, narrowed to dangerous slits. The usual placid depths were now swirling with an incandescent fury, a cold, contained inferno that promised more devastation than any shouted curse. This was not a man who raged; this was a man who calculated. Every muscle in his body, even submerged in the steaming water, seemed to tense, coiled and ready to strike.

His gaze, sharp as a winter's blade, cut through the steam, fixing first on Livia. The initial shock on her face was rapidly giving way to a dawning horror, her eyes wide as saucers, her lips parted in a silent, mortified O. For a fleeting second, a flicker of something akin to pity might have crossed his features, quickly extinguished by the overwhelming tide of his outrage. He had been manipulated. Publicly humiliated. And by this... this impudent woman who now lay sprawled across him like a drowned kitten. The sheer audacity of her presence, her blatant disregard for his privacy, ignited a pure, unadulterated disdain for her.

Then, his icy glare swept past Livia, landing squarely on his trembling butler, Mr. Finch, who stood pale and rigid at the front of the bewildered retinue. Finch, usually the picture of stoic efficiency, looked as though he might faint. Behind him, the guards shifted uncomfortably, their faces a mixture of mortification and professional awe at witnessing their formidable Duke in such an unprecedented state.

Julian's voice, when it came, was dangerously soft, a low rumble that nonetheless resonated with absolute authority.

"Finch," he enunciated, each syllable precise and laced with venom, "explain to me how a... guest... found her way into my private chambers. Unannounced. And, it appears, unescorted."

It wasn't a question that demanded an answer as much as it was a statement of profound displeasure. His eyes, still fixed on Finch, were a silent promise of retribution for this colossal lapse in security. The implication was clear: heads would roll, and the very foundations of Blackmoor Manor's impeccable order would be shaken to their core. For Julian Blackmoor, competence was not merely expected; it was demanded. And in this moment, his household had failed him spectacularly.

The sudden shift in the Duke's demeanor, from shocked victim to terrifyingly calm arbiter of justice, sent a fresh wave of panic through Livia. The water in the tub, once warm, now felt icy cold. The steam, once a comforting veil, now seemed to press in on her, suffocating her with the sheer magnitude of her transgression.

She hadn't just ruined Clara's gowns; she had detonated a bomb in the Duke's perfectly ordered life. And the fallout, she realized with a sickening lurch, was only just beginning.

The aftermath of the bath chamber debacle was a disorienting blur for Lady Livia. Eleanor, her face a mask of concern beneath her usual composure, had whisked her away from the gaping stares and hushed whispers, leading her through a labyrinth of back corridors to her own bedchamber. The warmth of Eleanor's room, a stark contrast to the icy judgment she'd just faced, offered a fleeting reprieve.

"Quickly, Liv," Eleanor urged, her hands already unfastening the sodden remnants of Livia's gown. "You'll catch your death."

Livia shivered, less from the cold than from the lingering terror of Julian Blackmoor's eyes. His fury hadn't been a roaring inferno, but a chilling, contained fire that promised to burn slow and deep.

The disdain in his gaze was a brand on her soul.

Eleanor rummaged through her wardrobe, pulling out a simple, dark green gown.

"Here, this should fit. We're almost the same size."

As Livia slipped into it, the fabric stretched taut across her chest, a little too snug, but it served its purpose. The fresh, dry material was a small comfort amidst the chaos of her thoughts. Everything else – the sympathetic murmurs of Eleanor's maids, the hurried explanations from Eleanor, even the comforting cup of hot tea she was offered – seemed to filter through a thick fog.

The incident replayed in her mind, a horrifying tableau: her fall, the splash, the sudden, shocking intimacy, and then those piercing, cold eyes. The Duke. Naked. And her, draped across him like a waterlogged scarf.

By nightfall, the full force of the scandal had descended upon Blackmoor Manor. Messengers, riding at breakneck speed, had summoned Lady Livia's parents, the Viscount and Viscountess Thorne, to the Duke's estate.

The drawing-room, usually reserved for polite afternoon calls, had transformed into a tense chamber of judgment. The Blackmoor elders, stern-faced and imposing, sat like a jury, their expressions grim. Lady Clara and her parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Ashworth, were also present, Clara herself radiating a frigid disapproval that could curdle milk.

Livia, still feeling a faint tremble in her limbs, found herself seated beside Eleanor, directly across from her parents. Her father, Viscount Thorne, ever the opportunist, wasted no time in seizing the moment.

He was a man whose ambition often outstripped his sense of decorum, and the current predicament, while scandalous, presented a unique, unforeseen advantage.

He cleared his throat, his voice booming with a feigned indignation. "Duke Julian," he began, his gaze sweeping around the room with a self-important air, "I am a man of honour. My daughter, my innocent Livia, has been... defiled. Compromised beyond repair in your chambers. There is only one recourse, one way to salvage her good name, and indeed, to maintain the honour of my family. You must wed her."

A collective gasp rippled through the room. Livia's head snapped up, her eyes blazing. Wed the Duke? That cold, arrogant man, ten years her senior, whose very presence was a study in controlled displeasure? The thought was utterly abhorrent.

Before anyone else could react, Livia's notoriously loud mouth and quick wit took over. "Father!" she exclaimed, her voice ringing with disbelief, cutting through the stunned silence. "What nonsense is this? Defiled? Nothing of the sort happened! It was an accident, a ridiculous, unfortunate accident, and I can assure you, no defilement occurred!"

Her outspokenness, her blatant disregard for the delicate sensibilities of the situation, surprised the elders seated for the meeting. Their dignified faces, already etched with disapproval, now registered a profound astonishment.

Even Eleanor blinked, a faint smile threatening to play on her lips.

Lady Clara, however, recovered quickly. Her lips curled into a sneer. "Such uncouth behaviour," she drawled, her voice dripping with disdain. "Truly unladylike, to speak in such a manner in mixed company, let alone to one's own father during such a... sensitive discussion."

Livia's eyes, already alight with defiance, narrowed. The insult, delivered with such haughty condescension, was the final straw. She turned to Clara, her gaze steady and unwavering.

Her voice, though low, carried through the hushed room, each word carefully articulated. "Lady Clara," she began, her tone outwardly respectful, almost deferential, yet infused with a razor-sharp edge of sarcasm that made it clearly meant to insult her, "while I appreciate your concern for my comportment, I would respectfully request that you shut up."

A gasp, sharper this time, erupted from the assembled company. The Marquess of Ashworth choked on air. The Blackmoor elders, pillars of decorum, looked utterly flabbergasted, their jaws slack.

Then, from the corner of the room, a low, rumbling sound began. It grew, quickly escalating into a full-throated, unrestrained peal of laughter. Julian's younger brother, Lord Gareth Blackmoor, a man known for his irreverent charm and easygoing nature, was hunched over, shaking with mirth.

His eyes, though similar to Julian's in colour, danced with unholy delight. "Oh, by Jove!" he gasped between guffaws, wiping a tear from his eye. "The girl has fire!" He found it utterly hilarious that this young woman, barely out of the schoolroom, possessed such a spirited, unyielding nature.

Duke Julian, however, remained unnervingly still. His face was a mask of restrained anger, his jaw tight, a muscle ticking violently in his cheek. His eyes, cold and hard, were fixed on Viscount Thorne, the man who so clearly wanted to take advantage of the situation, seeking to elevate his family through a forced marriage.

The sheer audacity of the Viscount's demand, coupled with Livia's volatile outburst, was pushing Julian's legendary calm to its very limits.

The Marquess of Ashworth, having recovered his voice, finally spoke, his face a mottled purple. "Duke Julian, with all due respect, after such a... a public humiliation, my daughter cannot possibly be expected to proceed with this engagement." He gestured vaguely towards Livia. "Her reputation, her very standing, would be irrevocably tainted by such association."

Livia scoffed, her gaze still fixed on Clara's appalled face. "My humiliation, Marquess," she corrected, her voice dripping with disdain, "not yours. And certainly not Lady Clara's."

Despite her defiance, the decision was made. The weight of society, the need to preserve at least a semblance of order and reputation, pressed down on them all. A marriage was the only solution.

"Lady Livia," one of the Blackmoor elders pronounced, his voice grave, "it has been determined that the only suitable course of action is for you to wed Duke Julian Blackmoor."

Livia stared at him, then at the Duke, a wave of cold dread washing over her. Marry him? Be trapped in this grand, stifling manor, playing house with a man ten years her senior, a man who clearly loathed her? No. A fierce refusal welled up inside her.

"No!" she declared, her voice firm, resolute. "I will not! I refuse to marry a man ten years my senior and be stuck playing house like some dutiful broodmare!"

The room erupted. The elders gasped anew. Lady Clara looked as though she might spontaneously combust from indignation. And then, Lord Gareth, who had been struggling valiantly to compose himself, utterly lost the battle. A bellow of laughter, louder and more triumphant than before, escaped him. His face was red, tears streaming down his cheeks.

For the first time ever, his brother was being rejected, publicly, unequivocally, and by a spirited, defiant girl who cared not a whit for his formidable title or fortune.

The irony was too delicious.

Julian Blackmoor's face, already a study in rigid control, became even more stark. His eyes, devoid of any discernible emotion, turned slowly to Livia.

Livia, emboldened by Gareth's mirth and her own defiance, pressed on, the words tumbling out before she could properly consider their consequence.

"Besides," she declared, her chin lifting defiantly, "I have someone I like! Someone I intend to marry! He's a baron's son, yes, but he's younger, and infinitely more handsome than... than the Duke!"

The effect of her words was instantaneous and profound. The laughter died in Gareth's throat, replaced by a stunned silence. The room held its breath.

Julian's jaw ticked, a small, almost imperceptible movement, but one that spoke volumes of his barely contained fury at the blatant insult. His eyes, which had seemed cold moments before, now gleamed with an almost predatory intensity.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, and then his voice, low and resonant, cut through the silence. Each word was a chill wind, sliding down Livia's spine, a promise of something far more formidable than a polite refusal.

"I will marry her."

The statement hung in the air, a declaration that brooked no argument, no defiance. Livia's bravado evaporated, replaced by a sudden, gut-wrenching fear.

The game, she realized, had just become terrifyingly real. And she, in her foolishness, had just bound herself to the very man she had so carelessly insulted.