My Husband Married Me Out Of Duty And Ignored Me — Until I Became Society’s Perfect Duchess

Part 1

The chill of the grand cathedral marble seeped through the thin silk of my ivory wedding gown, but it was nothing compared to the ice radiating from the man standing beside me.

Greg recited his vows with the precise, clipped efficiency of a man dictating the terms of a tedious business merger.

He didn’t look at me.

When he slid the magnificent sapphire ring onto my finger, his touch was entirely impersonal.

We had spoken exactly three times before this day, and each conversation had felt more like an interview for a position than a courtship.

My family needed his wealth, and he required a wife with an impeccable lineage.

That was the arrangement.

I was nineteen, foolishly clutching a secret sliver of hope that beneath his intimidating exterior, the formidable Greg might harbor some hidden warmth.

That hope died the moment we stepped into the carriage bound for his ancestral estate.

Greg stared out the window for the entire journey, his jaw clenched, his broad shoulders rigid.

Upon our arrival, he deposited me in the grand foyer like a mislaid parcel, instructed the housekeeper to show me to my chambers, and vanished into his study.

He didn’t visit my rooms that night.

Or the next.

Or the one after that.

I spent my days wandering the echoing halls of the fifty-two-room mansion, passing Persian carpets and Italian marble statues that felt just as hollow and ornamental as I did.

By night, I dined alone at a table long enough to seat twenty.

The silence of the house became a physical weight, pressing against my chest until I could barely breathe.

Then came the morning the housekeeper timidly asked how I wished to run the estate, assuming I would defer entirely to the old traditions.

Something fractured inside me.

If Greg refused to treat me as a wife, I would force him to acknowledge me as his equal.

I started below stairs, appalled to discover the servants shivering in cramped, unheated quarters while we sat surrounded by priceless art.

I reorganized their accommodations, modernized the archaic kitchens, and instituted regular wages and time off.

When Greg arched a dark eyebrow at the sudden increase in the household budget during one of our rare, tense meals, I met his gaze across the vast expanse of mahogany.

Happy servants serve better, I told him, keeping my chin raised.

He offered a curt nod, returning his attention to his ledgers, completely missing the fire burning beneath my calm exterior.

I didn’t stop there.

I reopened the east wing, throwing open the heavy velvet drapes that had suffocated the rooms for a decade.

I invited the local gentry to dinner parties.

I established a school for the tenants’ children and personally visited the sick in the neighboring villages.

The estate bloomed, the halls filled with music and laughter for the first time in a generation, and my reputation began to spread.

They started calling me the perfect hostess.

Greg remained largely absent, frequently traveling to London on extended business trips, a ghost haunting the edges of the vibrant life I was building.

When he was present, he offered nothing more than polite, monosyllabic responses to my attempts at conversation.

A year passed.

The London season approached, and I arrived in the city not as a timid country girl, but as a woman who knew exactly how to command a room.

Our townhouse on Grosvenor Square transformed from a dark, shuttered tomb into the epicenter of society.

Invitations to my gatherings became the most coveted currency in the city.

Gentlemen composed terrible poetry about my eyes, and young ladies copied the precise cut of my gowns.

I navigated the treacherous waters of the ton with practiced ease, guided by the sharp-tongued Heather, an older widow who took me under her wing.

I was a sensation.

And Greg was still nowhere to be found.

He sent polite notes congratulating me on restoring the family name to prominence, writing to me as though I were a particularly well-performing investment.

I smiled until my cheeks ached, pouring tea and deflecting inquiries about my absent husband with smooth, practiced lies.

Then Heather arrived at my drawing room one afternoon, dismissing the servants with a sharp wave of her hand.

The whispers had started.

Greg had been seen repeatedly riding through Richmond Park and sharing intimate, private dinners with a beautiful, enigmatic widow named Megan.

The humiliation tasted like ash.

I had transformed myself into the absolute pinnacle of society, the envy of every woman in London, and my husband still preferred the company of a mistress.

The Mayor’s annual Midsummer Ball was that evening, the most important event of the season.

I dismissed my maid’s selection of a demure ivory silk gown.

Instead, I chose a daring, deeply cut gown of spun gold.

I left the modest pearls in their velvet box and fastened a heavy, dramatic emerald necklace around my throat.

The stones felt like armor.

When I entered the Mayor’s ballroom, a hush fell over the crowd, every eye tracking my progress as I glided across the floor.

I danced with notorious rakes, laughed a little too loudly, and ignored the scandalized whispers trailing in my wake.

I felt reckless, dangerous, completely untethered from the dutiful wife I had tried so hard to be.

Near midnight, the crowd parted.

Greg stood in the doorway, his sudden appearance sending a jolt of pure electricity straight down my spine.

He crossed the room with predatory grace, asking for a dance in a voice that left no room for refusal.

We waltzed in agonizing silence, the heat of his hand searing through the silk of my gown, the tension between us thick enough to choke on.

Before the final notes faded, a woman in burgundy silk materialized at his elbow, her smile sharp and knowing.

Megan.

He introduced us with flawless courtesy, entirely ignoring the knife twisting in my gut.

I excused myself with a perfect curtsy, my dignity a brittle shell, and fled to the deserted terrace.

The night air hit my burning cheeks as I gripped the stone balustrade, fighting the tears that threatened to ruin my defiance.

Greg appeared on the terrace, his eyes falling to the emeralds resting against my skin, and for the first time since our wedding day, the facade of the perfect gentleman broke.