My Duke Husband Proposed A Loveless Marriage — Then His Ex Appeared
Part 1
Spring brought the familiar flutter of anticipation for another London social season.
For me, Brenda Smith, it marked the beginning of my sixth season of quiet humiliation.
I sat with practiced poise in the corner of the glittering ballroom.
My dove gray gown was a deliberate choice that blended into the pale wallpaper.
At twenty-three, I was considered firmly on the shelf.
My fate was sealed not by a lack of beauty, but by my father’s absolute financial ruin.
Across the room, my younger sister Megan giggled brightly with a group of wealthy debutantes.
My mother appeared at my side, sighing heavily at my utter social invisibility.
Five seasons of sitting against walls had taught me to perfectly mask my inner longing.
Suddenly, the massive crowd seemed to part like the Red Sea.
Craig Blackwood, the Duke of Ashford, had entered the ballroom.
He was feared in ruthless business circles and whispered about constantly in elegant drawing rooms.
They called him the shadow duke for his unwavering preference for dark attire.
His rare presence at a social event caused an absolute, undeniable sensation.
I observed him with detached curiosity, knowing our paths would never cross.
His piercing stare traveled slowly across the enormous hall.
I realized with a jolt of pure disbelief that his eyes had settled firmly on me.
He moved purposefully in my exact direction, cutting through the stunned crowd.
He stood directly before me, his features sharp and fiercely intimidating.
He presumed I was Miss Smith, his deep voice vibrating through my bones.
I rose on unsteady legs, executing a perfect curtsy despite my profound shock.
He extended his gloved hand to me with unmistakable authority.
He commanded me to dance with him.
I knew I should refuse such a shocking, scandalous invitation immediately.
Yet my hand moved completely of its own accord.
Every single eye in the ballroom followed us onto the polished floor.
Lady Heather Davies, the season’s reigning diamond, watched us with sharply narrowed eyes.
Society had long assumed the stunning heiress would eventually secure his proposal.
Yet he chose to lead me, the penniless wallflower, onto the dance floor.
He swept me into the dizzying waltz with smooth, practiced ease.
He noted my unusual habit of speaking frankly to a man of his high station.
He sought a woman who truly understood the immense value of directness.
When the waltz ended, he requested I join him on the dark terrace in ten minutes.
It was highly improper, but I found myself nodding anyway.
Ten minutes later, I stood nervously on the cold, moonlit terrace.
Without a single word of polite introduction, he announced his need for a bride.
I blinked in the darkness, entirely certain I had misheard him completely.
His brother and sister-in-law had tragically died, leaving behind a sweet daughter named Lily.
Lily’s maternal grandparents had petitioned the courts for permanent guardianship.
Her grandparents argued that a notorious unmarried man was unfit to raise a young girl.
Acquiring a proper duchess would demonstrate the necessary stability to appease the magistrates.
He desperately needed a practical arrangement with a woman who harbored no romantic illusions.
My family’s dire financial situation meant a practical arrangement would be highly welcome.
He promised my father’s crippling debts would be settled immediately and in full.
In return, I would provide the pristine respectability he desperately needed to save his niece.
Our convenient marriage would be entirely in name only.
It was a deeply pragmatic proposal completely devoid of false flattery.
My only alternative was another five agonizing seasons of sitting against walls.
I accepted his practical offer the very next afternoon.
We were married exactly a fortnight later in a very quiet, private ceremony.
I settled into my demanding role as Duchess at his Yorkshire estate.
Lily arrived on a crisp autumn morning, accompanied by her stern-faced grandmother, Mrs. White.
Mrs. White clearly and loudly doubted my true suitability as a duchess.
My husband immediately stepped between the harsh matriarch and his young niece.
Away from Mrs. White, Lily transformed into a sweet, incredibly curious child.
I quickly developed a deep, abiding affection for the solemn little girl.
The Duke proved impossible to decipher, offering polite conversation while keeping me at arm’s length.
He joined me for dinner each evening but never sought my company beyond formal interactions.
I found myself oddly, painfully disappointed by his strict adherence to our business agreement.
During a particularly bleak afternoon, our quiet isolation was shattered by an uninvited arrival.
My beautiful rival from London stood in my hallway completely unannounced.
I received her politely in the elegant blue drawing room.
Her perfect smile did not reach her cold eyes as she greeted me.
Her flimsy excuse involved calling upon distant relatives who supposedly lived nearby.
We settled into the elegant furniture, the silence between us charged with heavy tension.
She confessed that all of London was still astonished by our sudden marriage.
I smoothly replied that true love often strikes quite unexpectedly.
Her harsh laugh sounded exactly like crystal breaking on a stone floor.
She smugly declared the true reason behind my hasty marriage was glaringly obvious.
She knew entirely too much about my family’s severe financial difficulties.
She leaned forward, her voice lowering into a conspiratorial whisper.
She claimed she and Craig had a deep understanding that completely predated our hasty marriage.
She confidently assured me that my practical marriage changed absolutely nothing about their ongoing relationship.
A terrible chill settled deep in my chest.
She mentioned their passionate time together in Vienna and their intimate summer correspondence.
She wondered aloud if I would maintain my perfect composure when Craig resumed his customary habits.
She insinuated that while a boring wife served social functions, other companions fulfilled different needs.
Before I could formulate a sharp response to this blatant insult, the drawing room door swung open.
My husband suddenly filled the entrance, still dressed from his time on the moors.
A terrifying fury washed over his features when he realized who was sitting in my drawing room.
