My Father Sold Me To A Cold Duke — But He Did The Unthinkable To Defend Me

Part 1

I learned everything not in a dusty solicitor’s office, but in our drawing room, from the tight, brittle way my mother held a teacup.

My father stared at the faded floral carpet, unable to meet my eyes for a fortnight.

The Duke of Ashbourne has made a most generous offer, he announced.

I sat perfectly still on the chaise longue, my hands folded over a book I had long stopped reading.

A duke.

An offer.

Generous.

The words fell like stones, chipping away the fragile pieces of my world.

What sort of offer? I asked, clinging to the steadiness in my voice.

My mother set down her cup with a clatter.

Megan, my dear, it is a marriage proposal.

The Duke of Ashbourne was a name spoken in hushed, fearful tones throughout London.

Incredibly wealthy, incredibly powerful, and profoundly cold.

He moved through glittering ballrooms like a ghost, a dark judgment on the frivolity around him.

He was thirty-two and had shown absolutely no inclination toward marriage.

I see, I said, and I truly did.

I saw the frayed cuffs on my father’s coat and the dwindling number of servants.

I saw the ghost of the gaming tables living behind my father’s desperate eyes.

He has agreed to settle all of our accounts in full, my father finally admitted, his face a mask of shame.

There it was.

The price tag.

I was not being courted.

I was being sold.

My life, my future, my name, all traded for a stack of paid-up vouchers to restore my father’s hollowed-out honor.

I did not cry.

Tears were a weakness my father expected, a way for him to feel a paternal authority in comforting me.

Instead, I stood up, my spine rigid.

When am I to meet him? I asked.

The inspection took place the next afternoon.

I wore my best gown, a simple gray muslin refitted twice by my own hands.

It was the dress of a respectable woman, not a future duchess.

Dan, the Duke of Ashbourne, arrived precisely at three.

He was a figure of stark lines and dark colors, his face dominated by eyes the color of a winter storm.

They were not cruel eyes, merely empty, as if all feeling had been leached out of them long ago.

He bowed with a correct, dismissive gesture.

Miss Hastings, he said.

Your grace, I replied, my curtsy just as cool.

My father hovered, sweating and blustering about the agreeable terms of the arrangement.

I met the Duke’s gaze directly.

The terms are agreeable to my father, your grace.

He is the one with the debts, while I am merely the currency.

A flicker of recognition moved in the depths of his stormy eyes.

He had anticipated a swooning girl, not a spine of steel.

He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.

The marriage will take place by special license in three days, he said, speaking only to me.

I require a duchess who understands her duties, maintains her dignity, and does not cause scandal.

I can be that woman, I said.

And then he was gone.

The wedding was a brief, cold affair.

Dan spoke his vows like he was reciting a contract.

When he placed the heavy gold ring on my finger, his touch was impersonal.

We rode to his London residence in a silence as profound as a tomb.

The first week of my marriage was a lesson in pure invisibility.

He was a phantom in his own magnificent house, rising early and dining out.

We exchanged polite, meaningless greetings in the vast hallways.

He did not look like a man who had bought a wife, but rather one who had concluded uninteresting business.

His grandmother, the Dowager Duchess Brenda, was the one who refused to let me disappear.

She was a formidable woman of seventy, sharp and observant.

She insisted on taking me out to present me to society.

You are the Duchess of Ashbourne now, she told me firmly.

You will hold your head high and make them respect you.

But respect is difficult to command when everyone knows your exact price.

The whispers followed me everywhere.

I saw the speculative looks and the women who smiled with their mouths but not their eyes.

Everyone knew my father’s ruin and the Duke’s sudden marriage.

I bore it all with a quiet dignity, smiling until my face ached.

Then came the invitation to the grandest ball of the season.

Dan told me he would be occupied with business and would meet me there later.

He did not want to be seen arriving with his charity bride.

I dressed with care in a shimmering silver silk gown the Dowager had commissioned.

When I looked in the mirror, I saw a stranger adorned in heavy diamonds.

The ball was a crushing assault of heat, perfume, and ruthless ambition.

I felt like an actress in a play without knowing any of the lines.

Overwhelmed, I found a small alcove behind a potted palm to catch my breath.

That was when I heard the voices.

They were low but sharp with malice.

Can you believe the nerve, parading her about as if she were a true lady?

It was Lady Heather Finch, the vicious queen of the local gossips.

Ashbourne didn’t just buy her a new gown, he bought the entire family, another voice chimed in.

I heard he refers to it as his Hastings acquisition, Lady Heather laughed cruelly.

The Duke’s charity bride, how utterly pathetic.

The words struck me with actual physical force.

I knew they whispered behind their fans, but hearing it spoken aloud was like a slap.

I did not cry, anchored by my stubborn pride.

But I could not move.

I was a frozen statue in silver silk, trapped by the echoing laughter.

Then a shadow fell over me.

I froze, waiting for the final, crushing blow to my dignity, when a voice like breaking ice shattered the air right behind me.