My Aunt Banished Me For Dancing With A ‘Monster’ — Then He Made Me An Offer That Changed Everything

Part 1

The music at the Cavendish Ball did not stop when the Duke of Somerset entered.

The breathing of four hundred guests certainly did.

For five years, Greg had stood at the edge of every ballroom, leaning heavily on a carved wooden cane.

He was a walking ghost, bearing the brutal, puckered scars of a fire that had nearly killed him.

No one looked him in the eye.

Absolutely no one dared to ask him for a dance.

Until I did.

The ballroom was a suffocating crush of silk and expectation.

I sat rigidly on a gilded chair near the potted ferns, my hands folded over the dull green fabric of an old dress.

At twenty-six, I was firmly entrenched in the invisible ranks of the unmarriageable.

From my corner, I watched the marriage mart execute its brutal, nightly choreography.

I hated the collective cruelty of a room that decided a person’s worth based entirely on symmetry and income.

Then the atmosphere shifted.

A low, buzzing hum of overlapping conversations faltered.

It dissolved into a tense, vibrating silence.

I set my glass down.

Greg stood in the arched double doorway of the ballroom.

He did not look ashamed.

He looked utterly resigned to the reaction his presence commanded.

He gripped the silver head of a heavy oak cane.

He stepped forward.

Click.

Drag.

Click.

The crowd parted in a fluid, deeply insulting movement.

Men and women drifted backward, ensuring a wide, empty berth existed between themselves and the Duke.

His right leg was stiff.

It took visible effort for him to propel himself forward.

But the limp was not what made the matrons clutch their daughters’ arms.

It was his face.

Five years ago, a fire had gutted the west wing of his country estate.

He had gone back in for a trapped scullery maid.

The left side of his face was untouched and sharply handsome.

The right side bore the devastating map of the fire.

The skin was tightened and roped with pale, shiny burn scars that stretched from his temple down across his jaw.

He made his slow, methodical way to the far wall.

He stopped near a heavy velvet curtain and planted his cane.

He crossed his arms over his chest.

Slowly, the noise returned to the ballroom.

The string quartet struck up a waltz.

The swirling couples instinctively swung wide as they passed his corner.

They treated him like a hazard to be avoided.

I watched a group of young men in military dress standing a few yards from him.

One of them mimicked a limp.

The others snickered behind their gloved hands.

A cold, hard knot formed in my stomach.

It was not pity.

It was a sudden, violent surge of disgust for the entire cowardly society that could not stomach the sight of a survivor.

Greg had seen the young men mocking him.

He didn’t react.

He simply tightened his grip on the silver head of his cane until his knuckles turned white.

I looked down at my hands.

I had no reputation to protect and no matrimonial prospects to ruin.

I stood up.

I smoothed the front of my dull green skirt.

I stepped out from behind the safety of the potted ferns and began to walk across the floor.

My strides were measured.

As I cut directly through the center of the room, the perimeter of dancing couples began to notice.

Murmurs erupted around me.

I ignored the whispers.

Greg saw me coming when I was ten yards away.

His good eye narrowed.

He shifted his weight slightly and braced himself on his cane.

I stopped directly in front of him, invading that ring of isolation.

The young men who had been mocking him fell completely silent.

I looked directly at his face, letting my eyes rest on the burns for a fraction of a second before meeting his dark, weary gaze.

Your Grace.

My voice was quiet and steady.

His expression was a fortress.

Are you lost, Miss Brooks?

His voice was gravel-scraped and raw from smoke inhalation.

I am perfectly aware of the room’s geography.

I am here to ask if you would care to dance.

For a long moment, Greg did not move.

His grip on the cane trembled slightly.

Is this a wager, or perhaps a sudden bout of Christian charity?

He wielded the words like a weapon.

I do not require your pity.

I am simply irritated by the profound cowardice of everyone in this room.

I matched his hardness.

Will you dance with me?

A muscle feathered in his ruined cheek.

I cannot waltz.

I drag my leg.

I possess two of my own, and a slow measure will do.

A grim, dark resignation touched his face.

He moved his heavy walking stick to his opposite hand.

He held out his right arm.

You will regret this, Miss Brooks.

I regret most things.

I placed my gloved hand lightly on his dark sleeve.

He led me onto the floor.

The crowd actively scrambled backward to make room.

Put your hand on my shoulder.

His voice was low and strictly professional.

You will have to guide the turns.

I stepped in.

I placed my right hand firmly on his shoulder.

He wrapped his right arm around my waist in a heavy, necessary hold.

He was using me for balance.

The orchestra faltered before the conductor frantically waved them into a slower, sweeping tempo.

We moved.

It was a mechanical, grinding effort.

I felt the immense weight of him every time he shifted onto his bad leg.

I braced my core, pushing back against his shoulder to keep us upright during the turns.

You’re doing all the work.

He murmured roughly near my ear.

I have broad shoulders.

Stop apologizing and just keep the time.

He let out a short, rusty sound that might have been a laugh.

His grip on my waist tightened securely.

We focused purely on the mechanics of movement.

When the final chord struck, we stopped.

The ballroom was dead silent.

Thank you.

He spoke softly, the defensive hostility gone from his good eye.

The pleasure was mine.

I walked calmly back to my chair.

The next morning, the first tangible consequence arrived.

A thick cream envelope brought an uninvitation to a major garden party.

By noon, three more letters arrived.

Aunt Brenda stood in the doorway of the parlor.

Her face was a mask of pale, aristocratic fury.

You have destroyed us.

She hissed the words, stepping into the room.

You asked a monster to dance.

Now they will shun us.

I refuse to play along with such profound stupidity.

I snapped my embroidery thread.

Then you will starve with your principles.

She glared at me with absolute contempt.

I will send you to a decaying cottage in Cornwall, and you will rot there.

She turned and swept from the room.

The massive, suffocating pressure of being entirely dependent on people I despised crashed down on me.

I pinned a plain woolen coat over my dress and walked out the front door.

I kept my head down, walking briskly toward Hyde Park.

I turned onto a quiet, gravel-strewn walking path near the Serpentine.

You walk exactly as you dance, with a complete disregard for anyone in your way.

I stopped.

Sitting on an iron bench beneath a massive oak tree was Greg.

His scars were even more pronounced in the harsh daylight.

Are you following me?

I sat down on the opposite end of the cold iron bench.

I have a townhouse overlooking the park.

He kept his good eye fixed on the gray water.

You have achieved social suicide.

He turned his head to look at me.

What did you hope to gain?

My motive was a profound lack of patience.

I was tired of watching them pretend you didn’t exist.

He stared at me.

If you are bound for Cornwall, how exactly do you intend to survive?

I will manage.

He shifted his weight, his leather gloves squeaking against the silver cane.

My heir is my cousin Brian.

He stated this abruptly.

Brian is a gambling addict with the moral backbone of a jellyfish.

He is currently waiting for me to succumb to an infection so he can liquidate my estate and pay off his markers.

That sounds terribly inconvenient for you.

It is.

He turned fully toward me, letting me see exactly what he was.

I need a wife.

I sat perfectly still.

A wife?

I do not expect a love match.

He leaned forward slightly.

I expect a business arrangement.

Why me?

Because you are already ruined.

He matched my bluntness.

Any woman of rank my solicitors approach would rather enter a convent than look at my face across a dining table.

You, however, possess an iron spine, and you are currently staring down the barrel of poverty.

I offer you a dukedom.

You will have absolute financial independence.

And in return?

You will stand beside me in public, manage my estates, and bear me a son.

He swallowed hard.

I will not force myself upon you.

We will perform the act strictly for the purpose of succession in darkness.

Once a son is born, you need never share my bed again.

It was the most brutally unromantic proposal in the history of England.

I thought of my aunt’s cold, triumphant face.

I thought of the dripping, damp ceiling of a cottage in Cornwall.

I require a separate budget for my own charities.

My voice was steady.

And my cousin is to be provided a dowry to purchase my aunt’s silence.

A flare of genuine surprise crossed his face before he let out a deep, rumbling laugh.

Done.

He shifted his cane and held out his right hand.

I reached out and placed my hand firmly in his.

We have an arrangement.

I agreed to sell my life to the monster they all feared, completely unaware of what he was about to demand of me behind the closed doors of his estate.