My Stepmother Threw Me Into The Freezing Rain To Die — So I Forged A Ruthless Alliance With A Duke

Part 1

Mud tastes exactly like old copper and rot when you are face down in it.

The freezing rain did not just chill me.

It chewed straight through my thin morning dress and bit into my collarbones like dull teeth.

When Brenda slammed the heavy oak door of the manor, the deadbolt clicking shut sounded far louder than the thunder overhead.

I had absolutely nothing to my name but a split lip, ruined shoes, and three miles of completely empty flooded road ahead.

The foyer had smelled of beeswax and stale lavender just moments before.

Now, out on the gravel drive, all I could smell was the sharp metallic tang of the coming freeze and the wet wool of my own entirely useless shawl.

Brenda had not yelled when she threw me out, which was the worst part of it all.

If my stepmother had screamed, if she had thrown a vase or raged about betrayal, I could have braced myself against the heat of her anger.

Instead, she had stood in the doorway with her arms crossed tight against her ribs, her breath pluming in the damp air.

Her face was as pale and pinched as a bruised root.

She told me the creditors were arriving on Tuesday, that there were only three beds left in the house, and I was a drain on the flour, the coal, and her patience.

The door shut, the lock turned, and I stood on the crushed gravel for a very long time.

I did not weep, because weeping required energy, and my stomach was an empty, echoing cavern.

I had eaten half a heel of stale bread since yesterday morning.

The rain started as a fine mist clinging to my eyelashes before rapidly thickening into heavy, agonizing drops of sleet.

I turned away from the door and began to walk.

My boots, inherited from my late father and stuffed with rags at the toes to make them fit, immediately sank into the saturated earth of the driveway.

A cold, wet shock seeped through the cracked leather soles, soaking my stockings instantly.

The turnpike was much worse, with deep ruts carved by heavy wagons now filled completely with freezing water.

The mud here was thick and adhesive, aggressively sucking at my oversized boots with every single step I took.

My thighs burned with the effort, and my hands, shoved deep into the inadequate pockets of my dress, lost all feeling entirely.

I tripped over a submerged stone, pitching forward so hard the icy water of a puddle slapped me directly in the face.

The grit scraped my palms completely raw as I lay there on my hands and knees in the middle of the road.

The thought that I was going to die out there was not panicked, but rather a cynical, clinical observation of an entirely unoriginal death.

Then the ground began to vibrate with a low rhythmic thumping that vibrated right through my raw palms.

It was the unmistakable sound of heavy leather harnesses slapping against wet horse flesh, the jingling of brass bits, and the violent churning crunch of wooden wheels.

I scrambled backward, slipping in the slurry, dragging myself out of the main track just as the massive black bulk of a carriage surged out of the fog.

Six enormous bay horses tore down the road, steam pouring from their nostrils in thick white clouds.

The driver swore violently, hauling back on the reins as the massive beasts reared up, throwing a wave of freezing filthy water over my huddled form.

The door of the carriage swung open, and a man stepped down into the ankle-deep muck with a look of profound, exhausted irritation.

Greg, the Duke of Penrith, looked down at me not as a tragic heroine, but as a filthy shivering lump of wet wool.

He pulled on a pair of dry leather driving gloves while I froze to death in a puddle, sparking a tiny furious ember in my chest.

He told me he was not offering salvation, but merely preventing a corpse from littering the king’s highway on his property.

The interior of the carriage was a massive shock to my system, smelling intensely of dry oiled leather, sandalwood, and the faint bitter tang of expensive cigar smoke.

A brass foot warmer radiated actual physical heat beneath the crushed velvet seats.

I collapsed onto the rear-facing bench, hunched forward to keep my filthy skirts from touching the pristine burgundy velvet.

Greg watched me with an unnerving clinical detachment as the carriage lurched violently forward.

He tossed a heavy dark gray wool blanket across the small gap between us, ordering me to wrap up because the paperwork for my death would be endless.

I huddled beneath it, shaking violently as the sudden introduction of heat forced sluggish blood back into my freezing extremities.

He handed me a silver flask of brandy, which burned a fiery path down my throat and bloomed a genuine radiating warmth in my chest.

He informed me that we were stopping at an inn in four hours, and after that, I was entirely no longer his problem.

When we finally arrived at the Boar and Barrel, the taproom was crowded and the innkeeper immediately tried to throw me back into the rain.

Greg did not raise his voice, but placed two gold sovereigns on the scarred wood of the bar and demanded a private room and food.

I sat on the edge of the cheap mattress in a dry, scratchy scullery maid’s dress he bought for me, eating charred mutton with my bare hands.

The fever broke shortly after I drank the vile willow bark tincture he forced upon me.

The smell of brewing chicory and roasting oats dragged me from a heavy narcotic sleep into a bruised gray morning light.

I walked to the window and looked down into the muddy courtyard where the massive black carriage was already being hitched.

I had absolutely nothing, no money, no connections, and no reputation to fall back on.

I stood in the freezing mud of the courtyard as his driver prepared the horses, knowing I had exactly one minute to give the Duke a reason not to leave me behind to die.