My Stepmother Erased Me From Our Family — Then The Wealthiest Duke Made Me His Wife

Part 1

The drawing room of Rosewood Hall was aglow with candlelight.

Outside, autumn painted the countryside in hues of amber and gold.

Inside, the atmosphere was frigid despite the crackling fire in the hearth.

I sat quietly in the corner, my fingers working methodically at my embroidery.

At twenty years old, I had mastered the art of making myself unnoticed.

It was a necessary survival skill in my own home.

My chestnut hair was pulled back in a simple style to draw as little attention as possible.

I kept my eyes downcast, focusing entirely on the needlework in my lap.

“Heather, Tracy,” my stepmother Brenda’s voice rang through the room.

I winced slightly at the sharp, commanding tone.

“Come here at once,” she continued.

“I must see how the new gowns look before the dressmaker leaves.”

Two young women, adorned in half-finished silk, hurried to their mother’s side.

“Turn around, Heather,” Brenda declared, adjusting her daughter’s sleeve.

“The blue brings out your eyes magnificently.”

She turned to her other daughter.

“And Tracy, the pink is perfect with your complexion.”

“You shall both outshine every young lady at the upcoming ball.”

I glanced up briefly, then returned to my work.

There had been no new gown ordered for me.

There never was.

“Megan,” a deep, familiar voice said.

I looked up, surprised to hear my name.

My father, Craig, the Earl of Harington, had entered the room.

Lines of worry etched themselves around his kind eyes.

I rose quickly to curtsy.

“Father,” I said softly.

“I trust your day has been pleasant,” he asked, his voice warm.

Before I could respond, Brenda interjected smoothly.

“Craig, you simply must see how lovely Heather and Tracy look.”

She stepped between my father and me.

“The Duke of Ashmont arrives in the county tomorrow.”

“We must ensure the girls make a favorable impression.”

My father’s attention was diverted, and I faded once more into the background.

It had been this way for five years, ever since he married Brenda following my mother’s death.

She had brought her two daughters into the household, and slowly, I had been pushed aside.

My father valued peace above all else.

Brenda’s displeasure was a storm he refused to weather.

“The Duke of Ashmont,” Brenda continued reverently.

“Thirty-one years of age, unmarried, and the wealthiest peer in England.”

“He arrives tomorrow to take up residence at Thornhill Court.”

Tracy adjusted her skirts.

“I heard he rarely attends social gatherings,” she said.

“They say he’s quite severe.”

Brenda dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand.

“He is simply discerning, and we shall give him every reason to look favorably upon this family.”

I listened quietly, having heard much about Brian Leeds, the Duke of Ashmont.

His reputation preceded him.

He was known to be cold, calculating, and brilliant in business.

Some even called him the winter Duke for his frosty demeanor.

I found myself curious about this man who commanded such attention.

“Megan, you’ve been at that same stitch for five minutes,” Brenda snapped suddenly.

“Do try to be useful.”

I murmured a quiet apology and lowered my head.

Later that evening, I escaped to the sanctuary of the library.

Here, among the leather-bound volumes, I found solace.

The door opened softly, and my father entered.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said with a gentle smile.

He joined me by the window seat.

“We shall be hosting a dinner for the Duke of Ashmont this Friday.”

I nodded, having gathered as much from Brenda’s excitement.

He sighed heavily.

“Megan, I know things have been difficult since I married Brenda.”

I kept my gaze fixed on the garden outside.

“You are my daughter, and I insist you attend the dinner,” he continued.

I felt a flicker of warmth in my chest.

It was a small rebellion, but it meant everything to me.

The next few days passed in a flurry of activity.

Brenda was determined that every detail of the dinner be perfect.

The silver was polished to a mirror shine.

Heather and Tracy were fitted for yet another set of gowns.

I quietly altered one of my old dresses, adding new lace at the collar to freshen its appearance.

On the morning of the dinner, Brenda cornered me in the hallway.

“Do something about your appearance before this evening,” she hissed.

“The Duke is not accustomed to shabby company.”

I swallowed the knot in my throat and retreated to my room.

When Brian Leeds arrived, he strode into the hall with the confident air of a man accustomed to command.

He was tall, with broad shoulders and piercing blue eyes that seemed to cut through all pretense.

Brenda sank into a deep curtsy, practically glowing with practiced charm.

She presented Heather and Tracy, who offered perfectly rehearsed smiles.

Then, I stepped forward and curtsied.

As I rose, I found those intense blue eyes fixed upon me.

Something flickered across his face—surprise, perhaps, or deep curiosity.

“Miss Bennett,” he said, his deep voice sending an inexplicable shiver down my spine.

The dinner party proceeded with polished formality.

Brenda strategically placed her daughters on either side of Brian.

I was seated at the far end, nearly hidden by the elaborate centerpiece.

I ate quietly, expecting to pass the evening unnoticed.

I was startled when Brian’s voice suddenly cut through the chatter.

“Megan, your father tells me you are quite the scholar.”

All eyes turned to me.

Brenda’s narrowed in pure displeasure.

“Do you have a particular area of interest?” he asked.

I found my voice, despite my stepmother’s glaring.

“I enjoy history and literature, particularly the Greek classics,” I replied.

“You read Greek?” Brian asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes,” I said quietly.

“My mother ensured I was educated in languages from an early age.”

Brenda interjected with a tight, strained smile.

She swiftly directed the conversation back to Heather’s watercolors.

Yet, throughout the dinner, Brian’s eyes kept returning to the far end of the table.

Whenever he could, he addressed questions specifically to me.

He asked about my opinions on books, music, and current affairs.

I answered carefully, aware of Brenda’s increasing tension.

After dinner, Brenda cornered me in the drawing room.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, keeping her voice low.

“Attempting to monopolize his attention is most unbecoming.”

I kept my expression blank.

“I was merely answering his questions,” I said softly.

“Remember your place,” she snapped.

“Your scholarly pretensions will only make you appear unattractive.”

I felt the heat rise to my cheeks but maintained my composure.

When Brian prepared to leave, he turned to my father.

“I am hosting a small gathering at Thornhill Court next week.”

His gaze swept across the family, lingering pointedly on me.

“I would be delighted if you would all attend.”

Brenda’s smile faltered slightly before she recovered.

The day before the gathering, Brenda made her move.

“I’m afraid you’ll need to remain at home tomorrow evening, Megan,” she announced at breakfast.

“Someone must review the household accounts.”

My father looked up from his newspaper.

“The accounts can wait,” he said firmly.

“Megan will attend the gathering as invited.”

Brenda said nothing, but the fury in her eyes was unmistakable.

When we arrived at Thornhill Court the next evening, the grand hall was a vision of elegance.

Brian stood near the entrance, greeting his guests.

His eyes immediately sought me out in my altered sapphire gown.

“I am pleased you could all attend,” he murmured.

Later in the evening, I found myself speaking with an elderly baroness.

Suddenly, Brian was standing beside me.

“Might I have a word with you, Megan?” he asked.

He offered his arm, and I placed my hand lightly upon it.

He led me away from the crowded hall, the weight of curious stares following us.

He brought me to his magnificent library, filled with thousands of leather-bound volumes.

“I recall your interest in literature,” he said softly.

We discussed Dante, history, and the quiet lives we both seemed to lead.

“I find you intriguing,” he admitted, his blue eyes searching mine.

“You are unlike any young woman I have encountered.”

We stood in companionable silence, surrounded by the soft glow of candlelight.

Then, the heavy oak doors swung open.

Brenda stood in the entrance, her expression carefully composed despite the raw fury in her eyes.

“Megan, dear, your father is looking for you,” she said smoothly.

“And Brian, I believe Lady Westfield was hoping for an introduction.”

Brian’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

“Thank you, Brenda,” he said coldly.

I curtsied, preparing to retreat back into the shadows.

But as I moved toward the door, Brian stepped forward and caught my hand.

“Megan, perhaps you would honor me with a dance when we return to the hall.”

I turned back, acutely aware of my stepmother’s stiffening posture.

“I would be delighted,” I breathed.

For the first time in years, a spark of defiance ignited within me.

The Duke had seen me, truly seen me.

But as I looked at Brenda’s white-knuckled grip on the doorframe, I knew this meant war.

She would never allow me to outshine her daughters, and I had just painted a target on my own back.