I Was The Useless Spinster Cousin For 10 Years — Then The Duke Chose Me

Part 1

April fifteenth arrived with a relentless downpour, the kind of evening that promised a successful ball for everyone but me.

I sat alone in my cramped attic room, my needle moving with practiced precision through the emerald silk of my cousin Megan’s ball gown.

My aunt Heather reminded me of my thirty-two years of age at least once daily.

She viewed my unmarried state as a personal affront, a persistent stain upon the family’s otherwise spotless reputation.

The lavender gown laid across my narrow bed was five years out of fashion.

Its waist sat too high and the sleeves ended awkwardly short, but it was the best garment I possessed.

I would wear it tonight, standing in the shadows, watching my beautiful cousins dance.

That warm world had vanished a decade ago when my father’s sudden death left me entirely dependent upon his brother’s widow.

For ten years I had served as companion, ladies maid, chaperone, and seamstress for the family.

Aunt Heather’s sharp voice drifted up from below, cutting through the quiet of my small sanctuary.

The Peton Ball was at its height by nine, the grand ballroom ablaze with the light of three crystal chandeliers.

I stood in my appointed corner near the potted palms, my outdated lavender gown marking me as clearly as a servant’s uniform.

Across the room, Megan danced with a wealthy baronet, her pink silk gown shimmering as she turned.

My other cousin, Tracy, accepted congratulations on her recent engagement with a calculating smile.

Two matrons stopped just beyond the palms, their voices carrying with perfect clarity over the music.

One of them wondered aloud why the Ashworths continued to drag such a useless spinster about.

The other woman laughed carelessly, suggesting I was trotted out occasionally merely so people wouldn’t forget I existed.

Those words struck my chest like physical blows, cracking the careful numbness I relied upon.

I did not move or allow my expression to change, having learned long ago that showing hurt only invited more of it.

The air in the ballroom suddenly felt suffocating, thick with perfume and casual cruelty.

I slipped through the French doors with practiced invisibility, seeking the blessed emptiness of the darkened terrace.

Deep, measured footsteps sounded behind me, entirely unfamiliar.

A tall man in evening black stood regarding me with an expression of genuine concern.

I recognized Craig instantly, the Duke of Thornmere, the most powerful nobleman in England.

I curtsied hastily, managing to force out a steady assurance that I was quite well.

He moved closer with careful deliberation, his dark eyes studying my face with an intensity that made me want to retreat.

He asked if I was enjoying the ball, a standard question that usually received a standard lie.

I found myself unable to summon the appropriate falsehood, admitting instead that I found such gatherings endlessly tedious.

A genuine smile transformed his austere features into something breathtakingly warm.

He expressed quiet satisfaction that my face had suggested intelligence rather than vapidity.

Three days passed in a strange suspended state before I accompanied Aunt Heather on a weekly constitutional through Hyde Park.

Craig appeared on a magnificent bay stallion, dismounting with fluid grace to intercept our walking party.

He offered his arm to Aunt Heather while falling into step beside me, resuming our previous conversation with ease.

Invitations began arriving at our house the following week, addressed directly to me.

Aunt Heather summoned me to the drawing room, her face arranged in a terrifying combination of calculation and displeasure.

Megan laughed harshly, suggesting the Duke was merely amusing himself with a pitiable charity case.

Aunt Heather threatened to ruin me completely, insisting Craig was using me as a social experiment.

The poisonous certainty in her voice took root in my mind, twisting every memory of his kindness into something mocking.

I realized I had to protect him from the scandal of associating with someone so far beneath him.

Two nights later, I sat beside him in his private opera box, painfully aware of every speculative whisper.

At the intermission, Craig guided me into a dim alcove away from the crowds, sensing my withdrawal.

He demanded to know what was frightening me away, his voice edged with a frustration that broke my heart.

I looked into his dark eyes, knowing the next words I spoke would destroy the only happiness I had ever known.