NO MERCY, MY DUCHESS

3

The air in the drawing-room solidified into a block of utter shock. Lady Livia's defiant declaration, her outright refusal to marry the Duke, had been audacious enough. But Duke Julian's subsequent, chilling pronouncement – "I will marry her" – had been a seismic shift. And now, his final, utterly possessive statement, delivered with the quiet authority of a man accustomed to having his will obeyed, sent a shiver through everyone present.

Lady Clara, who had been struggling to compose herself, felt a wave of dizzying disbelief. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Her father's bold demand that the Duke wed Lady Livia had been a calculated gamble, a strategic move designed to leverage the scandal.

The plan was clear: Julian, appalled by the prospect of marrying such a "common" and "unladylike" woman, would be forced to beg her father for forgiveness and find a way to compensate the Ashworth family handsomely, ensuring Lady Clara's pride and future remained intact.

But Julian's words, cold and resolute, sounded terrifyingly final. There was no room for negotiation, no hint of appeasement. Her carefully constructed scheme had imploded.

Livia's father, the Viscount Thorne, however, was practically preening. His face, usually set in a cautious expression of ambition, was now split by a wide, triumphant grin. He was laughing like he had won the world, oblivious to the undercurrents of the Duke's formidable will.

His daughter, by pure, scandalous accident, was to become a Duchess. It was more than he could have ever dreamed.

Livia, however, was far from triumphant. Her earlier defiance had been fueled by indignation and a naive belief that she held some power in this situation.

Now, a cold sense of dread began to wash over her. She glared at the Duke, her eyes still holding a defiant glint, even as her heart hammered against her ribs.

"I will not marry you," she stated, her voice tight, barely more than a whisper, yet infused with every ounce of stubbornness she possessed. "You will have to drag me by the hair down the aisle." It was a desperate, childish threat, flung at a man who clearly operated on an entirely different plane of existence.

The Duke stood, his tall, broad frame looming over her, casting a chilling shadow. His silence was more menacing than any shout could have been. His eyes, fixed on hers, seemed to pierce through her bravado, seeing the fear lurking beneath. The air crackled with a tension so thick it was almost suffocating. He didn't raise his voice, he didn't even clench his fists.

He simply stood, a picture of implacable will.

Then, his gaze flickered from Livia's defiant face to the stunned faces of the assembled company. His lips, thin and unyielding, curved into a barely perceptible, chilling smile.

"Then I will, Duchess," he stated, his voice a low, gravelly promise that sent an undeniable chill up Livia's spine. The word "Duchess" hung in the air, a pronouncement, a claim, utterly devoid of warmth but steeped in an iron resolve.

With that, he turned on his heel. His movements were swift, decisive, leaving no room for further argument or protest. He simply walked out of the room, leaving behind a stunned silence that slowly, gradually, began to fill with the whispered, awestruck murmurs of a scandal unlike any Blackmoor Manor had ever witnessed. Livia was left alone, reeling from the realization that her life had irrevocably changed, and she was now bound to a man whose cold fury promised a future far darker and more complicated than she could have ever imagined.

*********

Back at the Viscount's estate, the usual Thursday quiet was shattered by Lady Livia's sobs. Huddled in her bedchamber, she wept with a intensity that shook her slight frame. Her mother, usually reserved, tried to console her, stroking her hair and murmuring reassurances that did little to stem the flow of tears.

"This is a good thing, Livia," her father, the Viscount, declared later, his voice resonating with an almost gleeful satisfaction. He paced their drawing-room, a triumphant glint in his eye. "A Duchess! Think of the connections, the influence! Our family will be elevated beyond anything we could have imagined."

But Livia hated it. Hated the idea of being bound to a man who looked at her with such cold disdain, hated the thought of a life devoid of passion and warmth.

The Viscount's words, meant to soothe, only fueled her misery.

Later that afternoon, a familiar figure appeared at the estate gates. Thomas, the Baron's son, arrived as he always did on Thursdays, his smile eager, a small bouquet of wildflowers in his hand. He was a year older than Livia, with a kind face and an easy laugh that always brightened her day.

But before he could even dismount, the Viscount himself stepped forward, his expression chillingly formal. "Lord Thomas," he announced, his voice stiff with a newfound arrogance. "I'm afraid Lady Livia is indisposed. You may not see her."

Thomas, bewildered, stammered, "But... it's Thursday, my lord. We always—"

"Things have changed, Lord Thomas," the Viscount cut him off, a dismissive wave of his hand accompanying the words. "My daughter's station is now... elevated. Her future alliances preclude such casual acquaintances." The disdain in his voice was palpable.

He had no time for a mere Baron's son now that his daughter was destined to wed the Duke of Blackmoor. Thomas, heartbroken and confused, was sent away, leaving the estate with a heavy heart.

Livia, watching from her window, felt a fresh wave of despair. Her father's cruelty cemented her resolve. She had to see Thomas, had to explain.

Under the cloak of dusk, Livia, ever resourceful, snuck out of the estate. She knew a secluded path through the woods that led to the boundary of Thomas's family lands, a place where they often met. She ran, her gown catching on twigs, her breath coming in ragged gasps, until she found him waiting by their usual oak tree, his shoulders slumped in dejection.

"Thomas!" she whispered, throwing herself into his arms.

He held her tightly, his own heart aching. "Livia, what is happening? Your father—"

Tears welled in her eyes again as she pulled back, looking up at him. "He means to marry me to the Duke of Blackmoor," she confessed, her voice thick with anguish. "Because of an accident, a terrible, humiliating accident in his bath chamber." She told him everything, the entire sordid tale, from her ill-conceived prank to the Duke's chilling declaration.

Thomas's face crumpled. His eyes, usually so full of warmth for her, now reflected a deep, profound sorrow. He was heartbroken. The dream they had quietly nurtured, of a future together, seemed to shatter into a thousand pieces.

"No," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "You can't. You can't marry him."

Livia gripped his hands tightly, a flicker of her usual defiance returning amidst her despair. "I won't," she vowed, her voice fierce. "I promise you, Thomas, I will find a way out of this. I won't be trapped in a marriage I don't want, not with him. We will be together."

The promise, born of desperation and love, hung in the cool evening air, a fragile hope against the formidable power of a Duke's will.