My Rivals Maliciously Tore My Only Gown At The Royal Assembly — So The Duke Humiliated Them All
Part 1
My mother’s dying wish was the only reason I received the heavy invitation to Westford Estate.
The Dowager Duchess Eleanor had resurrected an archaic county tradition purely out of impatience.
Her nephew, Arthur, the Duke of Westford, had returned from a foreign war three years ago with a hollow look in his eyes.
Eleanor decided the most efficient solution was to invite twelve eligible women to the estate for a fortnight, forcing him to choose one.
I was the twelfth.
I did not belong there, and the other eleven made sure I knew it from the moment I arrived.
The Fletcher family purse had run dangerously thin long ago, leaving me with exactly one acceptable gown that I had altered twice.
The other women were daughters of immense wealth, practically vibrating with practiced charm and ambition.
Brenda Sutton and her tight circle of friends made their opinions of my presence known before the first supper was even served.
They simply looked right through me, whispering behind their ivory fans whenever I entered a room.
I spent my days avoiding the grand parlor, finding a quiet sanctuary in the vast library.
The first time Arthur walked into the library, I immediately closed my book and gathered my skirts to leave so I wouldn’t disturb his peace.
He stood by the window, a man seemingly carved from winter, staring out at the frost-covered grounds.
He didn’t say a single word as I slipped past him.
But the next morning, when I entered the library, a fresh fire was already crackling in the hearth.
Two days later, he held a door for me in the main corridor, his gaze resting on my face for just a fraction of a second.
It was an incredibly small thing.
But the other women in the house were connoisseurs of small things.
They had noticed his absolute, icy indifference to their rehearsed smiles.
They noticed the door he held for me.
Brenda’s narrowed eyes followed me down the hall that afternoon, calculating and dangerous.
I should have known they wouldn’t let a penniless girl in a mended gown humiliate them without a fight.
The grand assembly was the climax of the fortnight.
The great gallery blazed with a hundred candles, their golden light reflecting endlessly in the tall mirrors.
I stood alone near the cold marble hearth, trying to make myself as small as possible in my worn silk.
Arthur stood at the far end of the room, his back turned to the glittering crowd, holding a crystal glass he wasn’t drinking from.
I watched the way his shoulders remained rigidly locked.
Then, the music swelled, and Brenda Sutton moved purposefully toward me with two of her friends flanking her.
They adjusted their trajectory instantly, boxing me into the corner.
Brenda offered a bright, brittle laugh that didn’t reach her eyes.
I felt a sudden, sharp pull on the back hem of my dress.
One of her friends had planted her heel squarely on my fragile fabric.
As I stumbled forward, Brenda reached out to steady me, her fingers digging hard into my right sleeve.
The worn, thrice-mended silk gave way under the coordinated assault.
It didn’t just tear; it shrieked.
The bodice ripped violently off my shoulder, exposing my collarbone, and the seam down the skirt split nearly to my knee.
I gasped, instantly crossing my arms over my chest, clutching the ruined fabric against my bare skin.
The orchestra faltered into a messy, discordant halt.
The gallery went deathly quiet for one terrible heartbeat.
Then, the laughter started.
It was a cruel, spreading wave of amusement from a crowd utterly thrilled to witness a public ruin.
A destroyed gown at a high-society event like this was the definitive end of a girl’s reputation.
I was supposed to run out the doors weeping, cementing my disgrace forever.
My vision blurred with hot, angry tears that I absolutely refused to let fall.
I tightened my grip on my torn bodice until my knuckles turned white.
I forced my chin up, locking my jaw so it wouldn’t tremble.
I took a deep breath, preparing to walk out of the gallery with whatever dignity I had left.
But a sudden, sharp movement across the room caught my eye.
The laughter nearest the high windows was dying out abruptly, replaced by a terrified hush.
Arthur was crossing the room.
He moved with the terrifying speed and straight-backed precision of a man crossing open ground under heavy artillery fire.
He didn’t glance at the county elite who were parting frantically out of his way.
He didn’t look at Brenda, whose triumphant smile was curdling into sheer panic.
He only looked at me, his hands already unbuttoning his own dark evening coat.
