My Husband Brought His Mistress Home on Our Wedding Day — I Had No Idea Who Was Watching
Part 1
I stood at the altar of the grand cathedral, my heavy ivory silk gown feeling more like a burial shroud than a wedding dress.
Beside me stood Brian, the Viscount of Somerset.
He was thirty-two, immensely wealthy, and entirely indifferent to the seventeen-year-old trembling beside him.
He didn’t look at me once as we stood before the bishop.
He recited his vows with the bored cadence of a man finalizing a tedious business transaction.
And a transaction it was.
My family had fallen into catastrophic debt after my father’s shipping investments sank to the bottom of the ocean.
Brian had purchased those debts for a fraction of their worth.
In exchange for wiping the slate clean, he demanded my aristocratic bloodline to legitimize his ruthless, newly acquired fortune.
I was the price of my family’s salvation.
When the bishop finally pronounced us man and wife, Brian did not kiss me.
He merely offered a stiff arm, escorted me out to the waiting carriage, and spoke his first words to me.
“Do not expect poetry, Megan,” Brian said, his voice a low, gravelly monotone as the carriage lurched forward toward his country estate.
“You have your title, and your family has their salvation.”
“That is where my obligations to you begin and end.”
I swallowed the hard lump of fear in my throat, keeping my gaze fixed on my tightly clasped hands.
“I expect nothing, my lord.”
“Excellent,” he replied coldly.
“We shall get along perfectly.”
Upon arriving at his sprawling, imposing fortress of dark stone set against the moors, my isolation truly began.
Brian deposited me with the severe housekeeper and immediately rode out, claiming urgent estate matters.
For a week, I wandered the cavernous halls alone, trying to acclimate to my new reality as a Viscountess.
I took my meals in agonizing silence at a dining table built for twenty.
I was a ghost in my own home.
Then came the afternoon of the storm.
Heavy rain lashed against the tall windows of the manor.
I was in the drawing room attempting to warm my hands by a meager fire when the sound of carriage wheels crunching aggressively on the gravel drive broke the monotony.
My heart gave a sudden, hopeful flutter.
Perhaps Brian had returned, and perhaps we could start over, find some amicable ground, and build a tolerable life.
I hurried to the grand foyer just as the massive oak doors swung open.
Brian strode in, shaking the rain from his heavy wool greatcoat.
But he was not alone.
Clinging to his arm, laughing brightly as if she owned the very air in the room, was a woman.
She was older than me, perhaps in her late twenties, radiating an unapologetic, sensual glamour.
Her golden hair was perfectly coiffed despite the weather, and her traveling gown was tailored from expensive crimson velvet.
I froze at the base of the grand staircase.
Brian noticed me and stopped, his expression hardening into a mask of absolute authority.
He unlinked his arm from the woman’s and stepped forward.
“Megan,” Brian said smoothly, the echoes of his voice bouncing off the high ceiling.
“Allow me to introduce Heather.”
Heather offered a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, a look that was purely predatory.
“The little bride,” Heather purred, her gaze raking over my plain day dress.
“Brian told me you were young, but heavens, you look like you ought to be in the nursery.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“My lord,” I whispered, looking to my husband for clarification.
“Who is this?”
“Heather is my companion,” Brian stated, unblinking.
“She has been a fixture in my life for five years, and she will be taking the master suite in the east wing.”
The master suite was traditionally shared by the lord and lady of the manor.
I had been relegated to a small, drafty guest room in the west wing since my arrival.
“She is staying here?”
I asked, my voice trembling despite my desperate attempt to keep it steady.
The servants had gathered in the shadows of the hallways, watching the humiliation of their new mistress unfold in real time.
“She is living here,” Brian corrected sharply.
He stepped closer to me, looming over me, using his height to intimidate me.
“Let us be incredibly clear, Megan.”
“You are my wife on paper.”
“You will host when required, you will smile for society, and eventually, you will provide me with an heir.”
“But Heather holds my affection.”
“You will not disrespect her, you will not question her presence, and she will have whatever she desires in this house.”
“Do I make myself clear?”
Tears pricked my eyes, burning hot with shame and betrayal.
I had braced myself for a loveless marriage, but I had not braced myself to be replaced in my own home before my marriage had even truly begun.
I looked at Heather, who was now instructing the footmen on how to handle her mountain of luggage, completely ignoring me.
“Yes, my lord,” I whispered, bowing my head.
“Good,” Brian snapped.
He turned his back on me, offering his arm to Heather once more.
“Come, my dear, let me show you your rooms.”
I stood alone in the freezing foyer as the heavy doors closed against the storm, trapping me inside a nightmare from which there seemed no escape.
Six months dragged by in an agonizing display of domestic cruelty.
I learned quickly that resisting Heather was a futile endeavor.
She controlled the household budget, dictated the menus, and took whatever she pleased.
When I received a modest allowance from Brian to purchase winter fabrics, Heather intercepted the funds and bought herself a diamond necklace instead.
Brian simply turned a blind eye, treating me as a nuisance whenever I dared to speak.
But as spring arrived, the societal rules of London demanded our presence.
The London season was beginning, and Brian’s wealth required him to show his face, and his new bride, to the aristocratic elite.
The most coveted invitation of the year arrived, bearing the heavy silver wax seal of Duke Tyler of Ashbourne.
The Duke was a man spoken of in hushed, fearful tones.
He was fiercely private, obscenely wealthy, and carried a reputation forged on the battlefields.
On the evening of the ball, our townhouse was a battleground.
I had spent weeks hand-embroidering a beautiful sapphire blue silk gown for the occasion, my one source of pride.
But an hour before the carriage was to depart, Heather strolled into my room flanked by two maids and demanded the dress.
“Brian insists I wear it,” Heather lied smoothly, though her smug smile gave her away.
“You can wear that white muslin thing, it suits your innocence.”
I fought back the urge to scream and sought out Brian in his study, begging him to intervene.
Brian merely sipped his brandy and sighed in annoyance.
“Give her the dress, Megan, I will not have Heather upset before we leave.”
“Wear whatever you have, no one will be looking at you anyway.”
And so, I arrived at the grandest ball of the decade wearing an outdated, unadorned white muslin dress that made me look like a neglected governess.
The Duke’s estate was breathtaking, with thousands of beeswax candles illuminating the cavernous ballroom.
Brian didn’t even pretend to play the dutiful husband.
The moment we stepped past the receiving line, he abandoned me by a towering marble pillar and swept Heather onto the dance floor.
The whispers began almost immediately.
“Look at her, the young bride,” a woman murmured behind a feathered fan.
“Wearing rags while the mistress wears her family’s dowry, it’s despicable.”
“But what can a seventeen-year-old child do?” a man chuckled darkly.
I heard every word, my cheeks burning with a humiliating fire.
I pressed myself tighter against the cold marble pillar, desperately wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.
I closed my eyes, fighting a losing battle against the tears threatening to spill over my lashes.
“Are you attempting to merge with the architecture, or simply hiding from the vultures?”
The voice was a deep, resonant baritone that sent an unexpected shiver down my spine.
I opened my eyes and gasped.
Standing before me was Duke Tyler himself.
He was taller than Brian, broader, radiating an aura of dangerous, quiet power.
His dark hair was swept back, revealing striking, intelligent gray eyes that were currently locked onto mine with unsettling intensity.
“Your Grace,” I stammered, immediately dropping into a deep, trembling curtsy.
“I apologize, I was just catching my breath.”
The Duke didn’t look away, stepping closer to effectively shield me from the prying eyes of the room.
He glanced out over the dance floor, his gaze landing directly on Brian and Heather.
“I have commanded men in war,” the Duke said quietly, his tone laced with a dangerous edge.
“I know a strategic retreat when I see one, and I know a man acting like a coward when I see one.”
My breath hitched.
“Please, Your Grace, you mustn’t speak of my husband so.”
“Why?” the Duke asked, looking back down at me, taking in my cheap muslin dress and the aching sadness in my eyes.
“Because society dictates you must protect the honor of a man who clearly has none.”
“You are seventeen years old, thrown to the wolves, and yet you stand here holding your ground.”
“I find that far more compelling than any diamond in this room.”
Before I could find my voice to respond to such blatant, shocking candor, the music shifted into a slower, more deliberate waltz.
The Duke held out a large, gloved hand.
“Dance with me,” he commanded gently.
“Your Grace, I cannot,” I whispered, panicking.
“People will talk.”
“They are already talking,” the Duke replied, his jaw tightening.
“Let us give them something vastly more interesting to say.”
Without waiting for my permission, he gently but firmly took my hand, pulling me from the shadows and leading me directly into the center of the ballroom.
A hush fell over the crowd as the notoriously reclusive Duke of Ashbourne danced with the humiliated, plainly dressed teenage bride.
As he pulled me into his arms, his hand resting warmly on my waist, I felt a strange, terrifying sense of safety.
Brian finally noticed, stopping dead in the middle of the floor, dropping Heather’s hands as his face flushed dark with sudden, violent fury.
He recognized the profound insult, the public statement the Duke was making.
As the music ended, Brian stalked across the floor, his eyes blazing.
“Ashbourne,” Brian spat, grabbing my arm roughly and yanking me away from the Duke.
I winced in pain as Brian glared at him.
“My wife is tired, we are leaving.”
The Duke didn’t move, looking down at Brian’s hand gripping my wrist as the temperature in the room seemed to plummet to freezing.
“Take your hand off her,” the Duke commanded, his voice lethal and low.
Brian scoffed, tightening his grip, fueled by public embarrassment.
“She is my wife, she belongs to me, and I will do as I please.”
In a blur of motion, the Duke stepped forward, his large hand clamping down over Brian’s wrist with bone-crushing force.
Brian gasped, his fingers involuntarily flying open and releasing me.
The Duke smoothly pulled me behind his broad back, shielding me completely from my husband.
The entire ballroom was dead silent, hundreds of eyes watching in breathless shock.
Brian cradled his wrist, his face pale with shock and rage.
“You overstep, Your Grace, by what right do you interfere in my marriage?”
The Duke stared down at the Viscount, his gray eyes burning with a promise of absolute destruction.
The Duke’s voice rang out, clear and steady, echoing against the vaulted ceilings for every member of the aristocratic elite to hear.
“She’s mine.”
