Page 7 of The Duchess He Couldn’t Resist

“I am asking you to be logical!”

“Remember your place, Marigold. You are still my daughter.”

“And yet you didn’t hesitate to use me as collateral,” Marigold exploded, the memories from last night still on her skin.

“You will not speak to me like this. I demand respect and obedience. I cannot believe I raised such an ungrateful child.”

“Should I be grateful that I was sold to loan sharks?”

Lady Covington lowered her chin and pinned Marigold with the coldest look.

“Speak to me like this again,” her tone was cold and icy, “and I will make sure you understand there are fates much worse than being sold.”

And with that, she turned her back and walked away and out of the office, slamming the door.

Marigold was left alone, collapsing back onto the leather chair that creaked under her weight. In the loneliness of the cold study, she chuckled cruelly. What fate, she wondered, could be worse than what Donny had openly laid out for her?

For a few moments, she sat there motionless, both hands on the desk, eyes closed, haunting memories flashing before her eyes.

“I will be the first one that will take you.”

Donny’s words echoed in her head, sending a shiver down her spine. She was alone, fighting a war defenseless.

Right then, an image came before her eyes, that of a tall, imposing stranger, the only person who had ever defended her in any way. She still remembered his giant silhouette, that deep resonant voice, those dark eyes. So the question still remained. Who was he? What was he doing in that dark alley? Because Marigold knew he was not just some street urchin. He was a gentleman. And above all, how could she repay the only kindness she had felt over the past many years?

Marigold inhaled and came back to reality. She couldn’t dwell on her mother’s threats or Donny’s ominous promises or mysterious strangers. She still had a household to keep together.

For a while, she reviewed the accounts and cataloged the little income they could have.

She got out of the room and down the stairs. She made her way out to the garden. Once it was a place of happiness and leisure in her house, but now, it was an essential part of their survival.

With a soft smile, she made her way to the little farm she had cultivated herself out of necessity which was now her pride and joy. At first, she didn’t know what she was doing, but luckily, they had some books in the small library that helped her out. Soon she produced all the potatoes, turnips, carrots, and onions they needed for their household. She had managed to grow cabbage, spinach, and peas.

“Hello, my beauties!”

She was truly proud and grateful for that little slice of land they had, or else they would have gone hungry a long time ago. She was thinking that she could add maybe some chickens for eggs, and that brought her mind to the butcher. The debt to the man was piling up, and Marigold knew she had to go and negotiate.

She went back into the house and found her cloak. She had had that thing for almost seven years. She thanked her previous self for buying something of good quality, but still, everyday use of the same cloak left visible marks on the garment.

“Alfred,” she called upon the butler, the only member of the staff they had left.

The man came, looking exhausted. It was her priority to pay him first above all whenever she had money—not only because she needed help around the house but also because she knew that the man stayed because of her.

“I am going out.”

“Perhaps I should escort you, Lady Marigold,” he said.

“Do not be absurd, Alfred,” she replied. “I am a penniless spinster. No one would even bat an eye if I walked around the streets of London unchaperoned.”

She went out. She thought to herself that if they stretched the household meals, perhaps made do with less variety at breakfast, the garden produced enough for some meals, so they wouldn’t starve.

She walked out of the house and made her way to the butcher. In her mind, she was cataloging all the things that she could sell, if she could sneak something from her mother’s room that she wouldn’t notice, or anything else they could spare. It was unthinkable for a lady of the ton to get a job, but she wouldn’t be above it.

While she walked, everyone turned to her and gazed. She must have looked quite miserable under the grey skies and muddy streets. People she met, especially ladies, looked at her with disdain, a harsh look on their faces. Whispers followed her everywhere she passed, cruel words spoken behind fans and hands.

Marigold viewed what they were saying with indifference. That she was a cruel, stingy daughter who tortured her own mother. That was the lie that her mother spread to save face. It was not that they didn’t have money to afford her new gowns or luxuries. It was because her daughter managed their finances with spite and an iron fist.

Marigold saw merit to that narrative. It helped with the creditors. If they thought that they actually had money, but she was negotiating because she was penny-pinching, it was easier for them to give them credit, believing that at some point they would get their money back.