My Uncle Sold Me To A Monster — So I Married A Rumored Murderer For Protection
Part 1
My father’s body was barely cold when Uncle Dan offered me up to a sixty-year-old monster to clear our massive debts.
I was twenty-one years old, completely alone, and trapped in a terrifying corner.
I knew instantly I would have to make a deal with the devil himself to escape this nightmare.
That devil was the Duke of Greymont, a remote recluse heavily rumored to have murdered his first wife.
“You understand your position now, I presume,” Uncle Dan’s voice sliced through my grief.
He had arrived within hours of the news.
His thin lips curled into what was meant to be sympathy, but resembled something far more predatory.
I raised my chin, refusing to let him see me tremble.
“I understand my father has passed, Uncle.”
Dan’s eyes narrowed into dark slits.
“Sentiment is a luxury you cannot afford, Brenda.”
“Your father’s debts have left this estate completely insolvent.”
“As your guardian, I have arranged a suitable match.”
A match?
The words felt like ice water in my veins.
“Lord Barnaby has expressed interest, and he is willing to overlook the financial ruin.”
I paled.
Lord Barnaby was nearly sixty years old.
Three of his wives were already in the ground, each one younger and more fragile than the last.
“I will not marry him,” I said, forcing my voice steady despite the sheer terror crawling up my spine.
Dan’s hand came down hard on the oak desk.
“You have no choice in the matter.”
“The banns will be read next Sunday.”
That night, my maid Megan found me staring sightlessly out the window.
“There’s talk, miss,” she whispered, her eyes darting nervously to the door.
“The Duke of Greymont is seeking a wife.”
“A practical arrangement, they say.”
Tyler Hartley?
The name conjured images of a remote, frightening figure.
He was seldom seen since the mysterious death of his young wife, Heather, five years prior.
“He is powerful enough to stand against your uncle,” Megan added.
“And they say he wants no love, no expectations.”
“Just a proper duchess to manage his household.”
A marriage in name only.
Hope, dangerous and fragile, flickered to life in my chest.
Two days later, I sat in the austere drawing room of Hartley House in London.
Tyler faced me across the distance.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, but it was his eyes that arrested me.
They were deep blue like the sea before a storm, and utterly, completely empty.
“You understand what I am offering, Brenda,” he said, his voice cool like water running over stone.
“A business arrangement,” I replied.
“Protection from my uncle’s schemes in exchange for my fulfilling the role of duchess.”
He nodded slowly indeed.
“I have no interest in romance.”
“My first marriage cured me of such notions.”
This cold, remote man was offering me an escape from a terrible fate.
It felt like salvation.
We married quietly, exchanging vows without a trace of warmth.
Dan stood across the street, his face mottled with rage as we left the church.
Tyler’s hand tightened slightly on my elbow, guiding me into the carriage.
“He cannot touch you now,” Tyler said quietly.
“You are under my protection.”
He sent me to Greymont Manor the very next day, remaining in London for his business affairs.
The manor rose from the misty Devon coastline like something from a nightmare.
It stood close to the edge of the cliffs, the restless sea churning violently below.
The servants were proper, but their constant watchfulness made me deeply uncomfortable.
Tyler’s strict instructions confined me to the east wing.
The west wing, particularly his private study, was strictly forbidden.
The staff whispered endlessly about Heather, the first Duchess.
She had fallen from the cliffs near the manor in the dead of night.
An accident, officially.
Unofficially, people talked in hushed tones.
They whispered that Tyler was seen coming back from the cliffs alone that night, his clothes soaked through with sea spray and blood.
What manner of man had I bound myself to?
Unable to sleep one night, I found myself drawn toward the forbidden west wing.
The corridors were deadly silent.
The main door to Tyler’s study was locked, but a connecting door stood slightly ajar.
I slipped inside, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Moonlight filtered through tall windows, casting the room in silver and deep shadow.
On his massive desk sat a small silver frame turned face down.
It was a portrait of Heather.
A worn leather notebook rested near the frame.
I opened it with trembling fingers.
The handwriting was elegant, feminine indeed.
“He watches me constantly,” the entry read.
“I cannot breathe in this house anymore.”
My pulse raced as I flipped to the final entry.
“Dr.
Craig has prescribed medicine for my nerves.”
“I pretend to take it, but dispose of it when no one is looking.”
“If anything happens to me, let it be known that I fear my husband.”
The entry ended abruptly.
A noise in the hallway startled me badly.
I quickly returned the diary and slipped out.
In the dim corridor, Dr.
Craig suddenly blocked my path.
He was the local physician, a man who had claimed to know my father but stumbled over basic details.
“It’s late for a stroll,” he said quietly.
His eyes assessed me with clinical, unsettling detachment.
“I could prescribe something for your nerves.”, I noted.
The echo of Heather’s diary made my blood run entirely cold.
I refused him and locked my door tightly that night.
Tyler arrived the next day.
I confronted him in the garden, unable to hold the terrifying secret anymore.
I told him I had read the diary.
I asked him directly if he had killed her.
Tyler’s face was a study in shadows and grief.
He told me Heather had suffered from severe delusions.
She believed he was poisoning her.
They had argued that night, and she had run to the cliffs.
He had arrived too late to stop her from stepping off the edge.
He blamed himself entirely for not protecting her.
The raw pain in his voice could not have been feigned indeed.
But something still felt terribly wrong about the whole tragedy.
The next morning, I visited Tyler’s bedridden grandfather, Lord Greg, in the isolated north wing.
He told me the devastating truth.
Heather hadn’t been mad at all.
Dr.
Craig had been slowly poisoning her with arsenic, hoping to drive her to suicide.
If Tyler died without an heir, a massive medical trust fund would fall directly under Craig’s control.
Craig was drowning in gambling debts.
Brian, the gardener, confirmed he had seen Craig with Heather on the cliff path that fateful night.
I brought this to Tyler, and his quiet fury was terrible to behold.
He rode for Plymouth immediately to secure a legal warrant.
That afternoon, the library doors suddenly burst open.
Dr.
Craig stood there, his eyes wild, his composure completely broken.
He had realized what we knew.
He pulled a small pistol from his coat pocket.
“I had hoped to resolve this quietly,” he said, aiming the weapon directly at my chest.
“A tragic relapse for the old lord, and a grieving young duchess wandering too close to those treacherous cliffs.”
I stared at the dark barrel of the pistol.
“We’re going for a walk to the cliffs,” he sneered.
I knew with absolute certainty that if I took that walk, I would never return.
