My Stepmother Sent Me To The Duke As A Joke — Then He Opened The Door

Part 1

The laughter of my stepmother, Brenda, was a sharp and brittle thing.

It followed the carriage as it rattled away from the curb like a final parting gift of pure malice.

I sat ramrod straight on the worn velvet seat.

My hands were clenched so tightly in my lap that my knuckles were bone white against the drab gray of my gown.

The dress itself was a masterpiece of humiliation.

It was a faded relic from a forgotten servant, chosen specifically for its ill fit and washed-out color.

It made my skin look sallow and my hair appear as dull as straw.

I was a joke.

That was the point of this entire excruciating exercise.

Brenda had spent the entire morning ensuring my misery was complete.

She had supervised my dressing, offering cruel critiques of my figure and my lack of grace.

She made sure I wore no jewelry, not even the simple silver locket my father had given me.

I was to look as destitute and pathetic as possible.

Brenda had announced the summons over breakfast with a triumphant smirk.

Brian, the Duke of Blackwood, the formidable and reclusive Iron Duke, had requested my presence.

My stepsisters had tittered into their napkins, their eyes dancing with cruel delight.

I knew, with the certainty of long suffering, that no such request had actually been made.

This was a story concocted by Brenda, a performance designed to have me thrown from the Duke’s doorstep like a beggar.

It was meant to cement my status as a worthless burden.

The carriage swayed, and I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass.

A pale, pinched face stared back, framed by hair scraped back so severely it pulled at my temples.

I looked like a scullery maid, and a particularly plain one at that.

A wave of heat washed over my skin, a familiar tide of shame.

For years, I had been made to feel invisible, a ghost haunting the halls of my own home.

Every day was a reminder that I did not belong, that I was merely tolerated because of my father’s fading legacy.

Now, I was being sent out to have that invisibility confirmed by one of the most powerful men in England.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a frantic bird trapped in a cage of bone.

I wished I could just disappear into the upholstery.

I wished I had the strength to leap from the moving carriage and run until the city was a smudge on the horizon.

But I had nowhere to run to.

A woman without means or connections in this world was entirely at the mercy of others.

Since my father’s death a decade ago, my world had shrunk to the size of my stepmother’s contempt.

Resilience was my only currency.

I maintained a quiet, stubborn refusal to break even as I was bent low.

I would endure this as I had endured everything else.

I would walk to that door, suffer the butler’s scorn, and carry the memory of my dismissal back home.

It would just be another scar to add to my extensive collection.

The carriage slowed, its iron-rimmed wheels grinding against the pristine cobblestones of a grand square.

I peered out the window at the looming structure.

Blackwood Manor was not a house, it was a fortress.

It was a monolith of gray stone and dark, unblinking windows that seemed to absorb the afternoon light.

It looked as cold and unyielding as its master’s reputation.

The stories about Duke Brian were legion.

He was a man of ruthless business acumen with a heart of ice and a past shrouded in tragedy.

He was said to have never smiled in a public setting.

Men feared him in the boardroom, and women avoided his cold gaze in ballrooms.

The carriage door was opened by a footman whose expression was a perfect mask of polite indifference.

He did not offer a hand to help me down.

I gathered the thin fabric of my skirt and stepped down onto the pavement.

My worn slippers made absolutely no sound on the stones.

I stood for a moment, a small gray figure before the colossal black door.

I felt the weight of a thousand judging eyes from the windows of the neighboring townhouses.

I took a deep breath, the air tasting of dust and defeat.

I began the long walk up the stone steps.

Each step felt like a lifetime of dread condensed into a single movement.

I imagined the door opening and a sneering butler looking me up and down with his lip curling in disgust.

I imagined him slamming the door directly in my face.

I imagined the footman laughing as I retreated to the carriage.

I imagined returning to Brenda’s triumphant questions and my stepsisters’ gleeful mockery.

The humiliation was so vivid and complete in my mind that the reality almost felt like an afterthought.

I reached the top step.

My hand rose, trembling, to reach for the heavy iron knocker.

Before my knuckles could make contact, the door swung silently inward.

My hand froze in midair, my breath caught in my throat.

It was not a butler who stood in the shadowed entryway.