She Agreed to Pretend to Love a Duke for Three Months—He Said “Backbone. How Refreshing.” and She Knew She Was in Trouble

Chapter 1

Lady Eugenie Weatherstone had positioned herself in what she considered the most advantageous spot in the entire drawing room — a small settee near the window, partially obscured by an enormous potted fern.

From here she could observe the quarterly charitable society meeting without being drawn into tedious conversations about bonnet styles or which gentleman had danced with whom at last week’s ball. At twenty-six, Eugenie had perfected the art of social invisibility. Not that she was unattractive. Her dark auburn hair and intelligent gray eyes had caught attention enough during her first season nine years ago. But after her father’s investments had gone catastrophically wrong, leaving the Weatherstone family teetering on the edge of financial ruin, suitors had evaporated like morning mist.

She sipped her tea and allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction.

This was perfectly pleasant — observing humanity from a safe distance, contributing her required attendance, and avoiding the pitying glances that inevitably came when unmarried women of a certain age gathered together.

That one, a crisp, aristocratic voice declared from somewhere behind the fern.

Eugenie froze, her teacup halfway to her lips.

I beg your pardon, your grace? Another voice — Mrs. Pemberton, if Eugenie wasn’t mistaken.

That young woman by the window. Who is she?

Eugenie’s heart sank as she realized they were discussing her. She considered standing up to announce her presence, but something in the tone of the first voice — imperious, calculating, and utterly confident — kept her seated.

That is Lady Eugenie Weatherstone, your grace. Lord Weatherstone’s daughter. A perfectly respectable family, though I understand they’ve had some difficulties in recent years.

Difficulties? The aristocratic voice sounded intrigued rather than dismissive. Financial troubles, I’m afraid. Nothing scandalous, mind you. Poor investments. Her father is too trusting by half, but Lady Eugenie is quite proper. She’s been out for years, though she never took. Too bookish, some say. Too opinionated, others claim.

Personally, I think she simply never found anyone worthy of her notice. Or perhaps no one worthy gave her the attention she deserved, the first voice said thoughtfully. Tell me, is she desperate to marry?

Eugenie nearly choked on her tea. The audacity.

I wouldn’t say desperate, your grace, but she must be aware that her prospects diminish with each passing season. At her age, she cannot afford to be too particular.

Perfect, the voice declared with satisfaction. Absolutely perfect.

Before Eugenie could process this alarming statement, a woman swept around the fern with the force of a small hurricane. She was perhaps sixty years of age, dressed in an exquisite lavender silk gown that screamed both wealth and impeccable taste. Her silver hair was arranged in an elaborate style, and she wore diamonds that could probably feed a small village for a year. Most notably, she wore an expression of absolute determination.

Chapter 2

“Lady Eugenie Weatherstone,” the woman announced, settling herself onto the settee with the authority of someone accustomed to having her smallest wish obeyed. “I am Winifred Merrow, Dowager Duchess of Silverly, and I have a proposition for you that will sound utterly mad.”

Eugenie blinked at her, acutely aware that several other ladies had noticed the Dowager Duchess’s sudden interest. “Your grace, I’m honored by your attention, but I’m not certain—”

“You’re unmarried,” Winifred interrupted with characteristic bluntness. “Twenty-six years old, intelligent, and from what I’ve observed, entirely too sensible to waste your time with the nonsense these other ladies consider conversation. You also desperately need money, though you’re too proud to show it. Am I correct thus far?”

Eugenie felt her cheeks flush. “Your grace, I hardly think—”

“Your gloves,” Winifred continued. “Beautifully made, but you’ve turned them twice. Your gown is at least three years old. And those are paste pearls at your throat, not the genuine Weatherstone pearls your grandmother was famous for.” A pause. “Your family has sold the real ones, haven’t they?”

The frank assessment left Eugenie momentarily speechless. She had spent years perfecting her facade, and this woman had seen through it in seconds.

“I have a son,” Winifred said. “Callum Merrow, Duke of Silverly. Thirty-two, devastatingly handsome, wealthy beyond measure, and possessing absolutely no interest in finding a wife. I’ve paraded dozens of beautiful, accomplished young ladies before him over the past decade. He treats them all with perfect courtesy and complete indifference.”

“I fail to see how this concerns me.”

“Because,” Winifred leaned closer, “you are going to pretend to be his fiancée. Starting immediately. There are several particularly odious women at this gathering who have been hounding me about Callum’s unmarried state. You are the perfect solution.”

“Your grace, I cannot possibly—”

“You can, and you will,” Winifred said firmly, “because I am going to make it worth your while. Stand up.”

Somewhere in Eugenie’s sensible mind, a voice was screaming at her to refuse, to make her excuses, and leave immediately. But another part of her — the part that had spent years watching her father’s worry lines deepen, that had seen her mother quietly sell family heirlooms piece by piece, that had lain awake calculating how many more months they could maintain appearances before the creditors came calling — that part of her stood up.

“Excellent.” Winifred rose as well, linking her arm through Eugenie’s with proprietary satisfaction. “Now smile as if I’ve just shared delightful news. And for heaven’s sake, try to look like a woman in love.”

“I don’t even know your son.”

“Minor detail. Hold your head high. You’re about to become the most talked about woman in London.”

Before Eugenie could protest further, Winifred had steered her into the center of the drawing room and announced their engagement to the entire assembled company.

The room erupted. Women surged forward with congratulations. Eugenie felt herself being pulled into embraces by people she barely knew.

“Your grace,” she hissed during a brief lull, “this is madness. When your son discovers—”

Chapter 3

“Oh, Callum will be furious,” Winifred agreed cheerfully. “Absolutely apoplectic. It will be magnificent.” She paused. “You have a choice, my dear. You can publicly humiliate us both by denying it in front of these witnesses — or you can play along this afternoon, and tomorrow we discuss compensating you for your trouble. Enough to pay off your father’s debts and provide a comfortable settlement.”

Eugenie looked at the faces surrounding her — women she’d known for years who had never particularly noticed her before. They were looking at her now, with interest, with envy.

She thought of her father’s tired eyes. Her mother’s brave smile. Her brother’s education hanging in the balance.

“What will convince people we’re actually engaged?” she heard herself ask. “What are his habits? His sense of humor?”

Winifred looked at her with something approaching respect. “Very practical. He’s sardonic rather than jovial. Reads voraciously — philosophy and political theory. Takes his coffee black, his whiskey neat, and his privacy seriously.” She added, with significant weight, “He has very little patience for dishonesty or manipulation.”

“Then he’s going to absolutely despise this.”

“Undoubtedly. But by the time he discovers it, the fiction will be far more trouble to unravel than to maintain.” A pause. “Three months, then a quiet dissolution. Are we agreed?”

All she had to do was pretend to love a man she’d never met for three months. It was mad. Completely, utterly mad.

“Very well,” Eugenie said.

The Duke of Silverly’s London residence was a masterpiece of Georgian architecture, and Eugenie stood before it the following morning feeling profoundly inadequate in her second-best morning dress.

“Remember,” Winifred said as they approached, “Callum will bluster and rage. Let him. Underneath all that ducal outrage, he’s actually quite reasonable.”

The study they were shown to managed to be both magnificent and oddly comfortable — floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined with volumes that actually looked read rather than decorative. And standing by a window, reading a letter, was the Duke of Silverly.

Winifred hadn’t exaggerated. Callum was tall and lean, dark hair falling across his forehead, all clean lines and aristocratic angles.

Then he turned, and Eugenie saw his eyes.

Gray-green, intelligent, and absolutely furious.

“Mother,” he said in a voice of deadly calm. “Would you care to explain why I’ve received fourteen messages of congratulation this morning regarding an engagement I knew nothing about?”

“Good morning, darling. How wonderful that word has spread so quickly. Eugenie, may I present my son. Callum, this is Lady Eugenie Weatherstone, your fiancée.”

The temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

“Lady Eugenie,” he said with excruciating politeness. “How unfortunate that we’re meeting under such creative circumstances.”

“I assure you, this situation is as unexpected for me as it is for you,” Eugenie managed, resisting the urge to curtsy. She might be pretending to be engaged to him, but she’d be damned if she’d act intimidated.

“I’m standing right here,” she added, when he directed his next comment to his mother, “and perfectly capable of speaking for myself. Perhaps you could direct your anger where it actually belongs — at your mother rather than taking it out on me.”

There was a moment of shocked silence. Then Callum’s lips twitched.

“Backbone. How refreshing.” He crossed to his desk. “Your mother offered compensation,” Eugenie said directly, seeing no point in dissembling. “My family has financial difficulties. Three months of engagement, then a quiet dissolution, in exchange for enough funds to resolve our debts.”

“Honest, at least,” he observed. “Most women would pretend to some romantic motive.”

“I’m not most women.”

A long pause. Then: “Very well. I’ll agree to this absurd charade on two conditions. First, compensation paid in thirds to ensure cooperation from all parties. Second—” he looked directly at Eugenie— “you move into this house immediately.”

“All right,” she said.

Both Merrows stared at her.

“If it makes the arrangement more practical, I see no reason to object.”

“Then we have an accord.” He glanced at the papers on his desk. “We’ll have dinner this evening — seven o’clock. If we’re going to convince people we’re madly in love, we should probably have at least one proper conversation first.”

Eugenie followed Winifred out, her mind churning.

In the space of a single morning, she’d gone from impoverished lady to the Duke of Silverly’s fiancée.

What had she gotten herself into?

Dinner that evening was precisely as uncomfortable as Eugenie had feared — and then, unexpectedly, wasn’t.

She arrived at seven o’clock in her best evening gown and found Callum already there, dressed impeccably, devastatingly handsome, and completely unapproachable.

“Lady Eugenie. Punctual. I appreciate that.”

“I try not to waste other people’s time. Even when I’m being forced into their company through maternal scheming.”

His lips twitched. “At least we agree on something.”

The silence stretched until Callum said, “We should probably make an effort to actually know each other. People in love generally have conversations.”

“What a revolutionary concept.”

“Don’t be sarcastic.”

“Then don’t state the obvious.”

They glared at each other. Then Callum laughed — a genuine sound that transformed his face entirely.

“You’re not what I expected. Most women confronted by a duke’s displeasure would be apologizing profusely by now.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong. Your mother did. If you want apologies, direct them appropriately.”

What followed was the most interesting dinner Eugenie had had in years. She told him about Locke and epistemology and mathematics her father had taught her before realizing it wasn’t proper. He told her about factory reform and first-edition philosophy texts and despising dancing.

“Why do you hate dancing?”

“Because it requires small talk with simpering debutantes while their mothers evaluate me like prize livestock.” He grimaced. “Though I suppose I’ll have to dance with you now.”

“Lucky me.”

“Lucky us. We’re both stuck in this ridiculous situation.”

They finished the meal with increasingly comfortable banter. Callum was sharp-witted and surprisingly honest. When he wasn’t being coldly formal, he was actually rather likable.

Dangerous thought, Eugenie reminded herself. This was a business arrangement. Nothing more.

The six weeks that followed passed in a blur of social engagements and increasingly comfortable domesticity that Eugenie found both pleasant and deeply unsettling. Breakfasts were companionable. Evenings in the library, each in a separate chair, reading but somehow still together. Terrifyingly domestic.

Somewhere in the last six weeks, something had shifted. Callum remembering she preferred her tea with lemon. Him pulling down books he thought she’d enjoy. The way he’d positioned himself between her and a persistent admirer at Lady Morrison’s ball, his hand at her waist, protective.

And then there was the evening he’d found her crying in the library over a letter from her father — enthusiastic and hopeful for the first time in years. The relief of it, combined with the guilty knowledge that this was all built on deception, had overwhelmed her. Callum had walked in, taken one look, and without a word, pulled her into his arms. She’d cried against his shoulder while he held her.

“You’re saving your family,” he’d said when she could explain. “That’s nothing to feel guilty about.”

“I’m lying to everyone.”

“We’re lying to everyone. This was my choice, too. Don’t carry that burden alone.”

The memory haunted her.

One afternoon Callum appeared in the doorway where she and Winifred were taking tea, looking unusually disheveled. “The reform bill is being blocked by men who care more about their factory profits than ten-year-olds working fourteen-hour days,” he said tightly.

“May I join you?” He noticed the tea. Eugenie poured him a cup. Lemon, no sugar. He took it with a small smile. “You remembered.”

“Hard to forget after six weeks.”

They talked until Winifred left, and afterward the quiet between them felt charged. “You’ve got a sharper mind than half the men I studied with at Cambridge,” Callum said at one point, with the simple directness she’d come to recognize as his highest compliment.

“Anyone who’s dismissed you as merely decorative is an idiot who doesn’t deserve your attention.”

Winifred, still present, cleared her throat meaningfully.

They both realized simultaneously they’d been staring. Callum stood abruptly. “I should return to work.”

After he left, Winifred turned to Eugenie with a knowing smile. “Still just playing roles?”

“Don’t,” Eugenie said quietly.

“I’ve watched you two together for six weeks,” Winifred said. “What I’m seeing isn’t acting. Not anymore.”

“I’m not his equal. I’m an impoverished lady from a family on the edge of ruin. In the real world, outside this temporary fiction, we don’t belong together.”

Winifred stood to leave. “Don’t dismiss the possibility of something genuine simply because it began unconventionally.”

After she left, Eugenie sat alone with her cooling tea.

The problem was Winifred was right.

It no longer felt like acting.

With only three days remaining before their agreed-upon separation, Winifred summoned Eugenie to the drawing room with unusual urgency.

“We have a problem,” the Dowager Duchess announced without preamble.

Eugenie’s stomach dropped. “What kind of problem?”

“Lady Cromwell has been investigating. She’s gotten it into her head that this engagement is fraudulent. She’s been questioning servants, checking records — and she’s discovered that there’s no record of Callum ever visiting the British Museum during the time period we claimed you met.”

Eugenie felt the blood drain from her face. “Can she prove anything?”

“Not definitively, but she’s spreading rumors. Suggesting the engagement was arranged for financial reasons. That you’re a fortune hunter who trapped Callum into this sham.” A pause. “If these rumors gain traction, it could damage both your reputations significantly.”

“Then we’ll end the engagement early as planned.”

“That will only confirm suspicions that something was wrong from the beginning. There is another option.” Winifred studied her carefully. “Make it real. Marry Callum. Not in three months — but now. This week. Before Lady Cromwell’s poisonous rumors can spread further.”

Eugenie’s heart hammered. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m entirely serious. The best way to silence gossip about a fraudulent engagement is to actually get married. It becomes impossible to claim deception when you’re legally bound.” Winifred paused. “Callum knows about Lady Cromwell’s investigation. I told him this morning, and he agrees that an immediate marriage is the most practical solution.”

“Practical,” Eugenie repeated hollowly. “How romantic.”

“Romance is lovely, but survival is more important. You’ve spent six weeks building something genuine with my son, whether you want to admit it or not. Don’t let pride and fear destroy that because the timing isn’t perfect.”

Before Eugenie could respond, Callum himself entered the drawing room. He looked tired — shadows under his eyes suggesting he’d slept poorly.

“I assume mother has explained the situation,” he said without preamble.

“She has. And what do you think?”

His voice was carefully neutral, giving nothing away. Eugenie looked between them — Winifred with her calculating determination, Callum with his guarded expression.

“I think,” she said slowly, “that I need to speak with Callum alone.”

Winifred took the hint, sweeping out with a knowing smile.

Once they were alone, Callum moved to the window, staring out at the garden. “You don’t have to do this. Marry me to salvage the situation. I won’t force you into anything, Eugenie. If you want to end this now, face the scandal — I’ll support whatever you decide. My reputation will survive. I’m a duke. I have certain privileges when it comes to weathering gossip.” He turned to face her. “But yours might not recover. An impoverished lady accused of trapping a duke into a false engagement. Society won’t be kind.”

“I’m aware.”

“So the question is—” he moved closer, his expression intense— “what do you want? Not what’s practical or sensible. What do you actually want?”

It was the most direct question anyone had ever asked her.

And standing there looking at Callum — this complicated, brilliant, unexpectedly tender man who had somehow become the center of her world — Eugenie realized she was tired of lying. To society, to Winifred, to herself.

“I want you,” she said simply. “I’ve wanted you for weeks, but I was too afraid to admit it.”

His expression softened. “You’re never going to be rid of me now. Not after admitting that.”

“Is that a threat?”

“A promise.” He closed the remaining distance between them. “I love you — not because of any arrangement, but because you challenge me and fascinate me and make me laugh when I least expect it. Because when I imagine my future, you’re in every part of it.”

“We barely know each other.”

“We’ve spent six weeks having conversations deeper than most married couples manage in a lifetime. I know how you take your tea, what makes you laugh, and that you chew your lip when you’re thinking hard about something.” He searched her face. “Don’t let fear stop you from taking something that could make us both happy.”

Eugenie reached up to cover his hands with hers.

“If we do this — if we actually get married — it has to be real. No more pretending.”

“That’s all I’ve wanted,” Callum said. “Possibly since that first dinner, though I was too stubborn to acknowledge it.”

“And your mother—”

“Will be politely but firmly discouraged from interfering in our marriage.” He looked at her steadily. “Is that a yes?”

Eugenie looked at him — the man who’d been her fake fiancé and had somehow become something infinitely more important — and felt the last of her resistance crumble.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’ll marry you. For real this time.”

The kiss that followed was nothing like their previous careful performances for society. This was real, and raw, and absolutely honest.

“We’re completely mad,” Callum said afterward.

“Undoubtedly.” She smiled. “But at least we’re mad together.”

A discreet cough from the doorway made them spring apart.

Winifred stood there, looking insufferably pleased with herself.

“I take it you’ve reached a decision?”

“We’re getting married,” Callum said, his arms sliding around Eugenie’s waist. “This week, as you suggested. But mother—” his tone turned serious— “this is where your involvement in our relationship ends. You’ve had your fun playing matchmaker. Now let us actually live our lives without interference.”

“Of course, darling,” Winifred said, with suspicious sweetness. “Though I do hope I’m still invited to the wedding.”

“You’re invited,” Eugenie assured her. “But Callum’s right. This is our marriage, our choice. We are grateful for your creative intervention — but no more.”

Winifred waved a hand. “I understand perfectly. I’ll simply enjoy my grandchildren when they arrive and resist all urges to meddle further.”

“Grandchildren?” Callum muttered. “We’re not even married yet.”

“Details, darling.”

The wedding took place on a crisp autumn morning at St. George’s — intimate and immediate, far fewer than five hundred guests. Eugenie wore a cream silk gown, simple but elegant.

When she reached Callum at the altar, he leaned close enough to whisper.

“You look beautiful. And I’m terrified.”

“So am I,” she whispered back. “Good. At least we’re equally terrified.”

When the vicar pronounced them married, and Callum kissed her, Eugenie felt something inside her finally settle. All the fear and doubt about whether this was right — it dissolved in the certainty that yes, this was exactly where she belonged.

Afterward, in the quiet of the house before the guests departed, Callum pulled Eugenie aside into a private corridor.

“How are you feeling, your grace?”

It took her a moment to realize he meant the title. She was the Duchess of Silverly now.

“Strange. Overwhelmed. Happy.”

“Good. Those are all appropriate reactions.” He produced a folded paper from his jacket. “I have something for you. Open it.”

Eugenie unfolded the document, scanning the contents. Her breath caught.

It was a trust deed establishing a permanent income for her family — managed independently of their marriage, more than enough to maintain their estate comfortably and provide for her brother’s education and future.

“Callum, this is—”

“Insurance,” he said quietly. “So you’ll never have to wonder if you married me for money. This is yours regardless of what happens between us. If our marriage succeeds — and I fully intend that it will — this gives your family security without being tied to my goodwill. If somehow we’re completely wrong about each other and everything falls apart, you’ll still have provided for them. Either way, that burden is lifted.”

She looked at him through tears. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I did. Your choice to stay has to be just that — a choice.” He looked at her steadily. “Not obligation.”

Eugenie threw her arms around him. “You impossible, wonderful man.”

“I believe my mother ambushed you at a charity tea,” he said dryly. “But I like to think fate played a role, too.”

Their story had started with a lie whispered at a tea party. It had become a truth worth fighting for.

And she wouldn’t change a single ridiculous, improbable moment of it.

__The end__