My Father Sold Me To A Cruel Duke — But His True Intentions Left Me Speechless

Part 1

The winter of 1888 did not arrive in Yorkshire; it simply invaded.

It crept through the warped window frames of our manor, frosting the glass and settling deep into my bones.

But the cold radiating from the hearth was nothing compared to the ice in my chest.

I stared at the leather-bound ledgers stacked across my late father’s mahogany desk.

My father, George, had been dead for exactly one week.

The scent of funeral lilies still hung faintly in the drafty corridors.

It masked the distinct, sour odor of decay that seemed to emanate from the house itself.

He had died of a failing heart, the physician told us.

I knew better.

He had died of sheer terror.

One hundred and forty thousand pounds.

The numbers blurred as a furious tear slipped down my cheek.

I violently wiped it away, smudging the black ink across my knuckles.

Mr. Davis, our family solicitor, stood nervously by the unlit fireplace.

He looked as though he had been pressed between the pages of his own heavy legal books.

That staggeringly large sum was only the principal owed to the bank.

It did not account for the private promissory notes my father had secretly accumulated.

I closed the ledger with a sharp snap that echoed through the cavernous, empty library.

Most of our valuable paintings had already been sold quietly to cover the interest.

The silver was entirely gone.

Even our carriage horses had been auctioned off three days prior.

I took a shaky breath.

My voice remained steady despite the nausea rolling violently in my stomach.

I asked Mr. Davis exactly who held those private notes.

I needed to know who owned my family’s complete ruin.

The solicitor refused to meet my eyes.

He focused intensely on a loose thread unspooling from his waistcoat.

A single entity had purchased the entirety of the debts six months ago.

That was why the aggressive creditors had suddenly stopped arriving at our door.

They had all been bought out.

Before I could ask the buyer’s name, the heavy double doors of the library swung open.

The rusted hinges let out a mournful, piercing shriek.

A low, resonant baritone voice sent a violent shockwave down my spine.

The stranger announced that he was the one who had purchased the debt.

I did not need to turn around to know exactly who stood in that doorway.

I had spent three agonizing years trying to forget the unique cadence of his voice.

I had tried to bury the memory of how he used to murmur my name in the dark.

Charles, the Duke.

I turned slowly, bracing my weight against the edge of the mahogany desk.

He stepped into the dim light of the library, filling the room with an oppressive gravity.

He wore a tailored black morning coat that emphasized his broad shoulders.

His dark hair was meticulously swept back from a face society papers often described as angelically brutal.

His jaw remained tightly clenched.

Intense gray eyes locked onto mine with a force that made the air feel perilously thin.

Mr. Davis stammered a greeting, bowing so deeply he nearly folded in half.

Charles dismissed him with a single, ruthless glance.

The solicitor gathered his briefcase with trembling hands and scurried out.

The click of the heavy latch sounded exactly like a prison cell locking into place.

Silence stretched between us, thick and entirely suffocating.

I lifted my chin, refusing to let him see my terror.

Three years ago, Charles had been a penniless cavalry officer with a dangerous smile.

I had loved him with a blinding, foolish passion.

Now, through a series of tragic accidents, he had inherited a massive dukedom.

He was apparently my executioner.

I asked if he had come to gloat.

He slowly unbuttoned his heavy overcoat, draping it over a nearby armchair.

He informed me that he had come to collect.

My cousin Robert had sold his claim to the estate to Charles two days ago.

The land, the manor, and the very chair I leaned against now belonged to him.

My breath hitched painfully.

Betrayed by my father and abandoned by my cousin, I was completely untethered.

I demanded to know if this was his grand revenge.

I asked if he was punishing me because I had refused to run away with a penniless soldier.

A muscle jumped violently in his jaw.

His stoic mask slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing raw agony beneath.

He accused me of leaving him waiting in the freezing rain at the crossroads.

He claimed I had sent a letter the next morning calling him a mere summer diversion.

I stepped around the desk, my hands shaking.

I shouted that I had never written such a thing.

My father had confined me to my quarters under threat of ruining Charles’s military career.

I had written letters begging for time, but he had never replied.

Charles stopped just inches from me.

The physical proximity was absolutely agonizing.

He stated that the past mattered very little now.

My father was dead, and he owed Charles a staggering fortune.

I stared at his immaculate cravat, completely ruined.

I told him to take the house and everything in it.

I planned to pack my trunks and flee to my aunt in London.

He reached out, his gloved fingers lightly catching my chin.

The touch burned against my cold skin.

He informed me that he had already severed my aunt’s allowance.

I had absolutely nowhere to go.

I was entirely at his mercy.

The journey to London was a terrifying blur of freezing rain.

He did not throw me out into the snow.

Instead, he commanded me to follow him, sending his luxurious private carriage.

Sitting inside the velvet interior felt like riding in an ornate hearse.

My loyal maid, Megan, sat opposite me, knitting nervously.

She tried to reassure me that a gentleman of his standing would not harm me.

I stared blankly out the window at the passing gray moors.

He was a creditor, and I was merely a debt to be collected.

We arrived at his sprawling, intimidating stone fortress in Mayfair.

I was ushered inside by a silent army of servants and led to opulent rooms.

Silk damask covered the walls, and a roaring fire waited for me.

I felt only the cold steel of a massive trap snapping shut.

I did not wait to be summoned.

I splashed cold water on my face, changed my gown, and marched down to his study.

He was seated behind a desk carved from a single piece of ebony.

I marched to the center of the Persian rug, demanding we end the pleasantries.

I told him I knew exactly what men of his standing did with ruined women.

I accused him of wanting to parade me as his kept mistress to complete his revenge.

Charles stared at me for a long, agonizing moment.

He let out a low, humorless laugh that sounded like scraping metal.

He stood up, walking slowly around the desk toward me.

He stated that he did not deal in temporary arrangements.

He only dealt in permanent acquisitions.

I backed away, my heart hammering violently against my ribs.

I hissed that I would freeze in the streets before I ever stood at an altar with him.

He didn’t flinch.

He walked over to a crystal decanter and poured a small measure of brandy.

He took a slow sip, a devastating, hollow smile touching his lips.

“I’m not marrying you, Anna. You already did.”