My Aunt Dragged Me To Society Balls As A Cruel Joke — Until The Duke Did The Unthinkable
Part 1
Twenty-eight was not merely an age in London society.
It was a slow, agonizing public execution.
I knew this absolute truth because Aunt Brenda tallied every single one of my gray hairs like a ruthless debt collector.
I was the invisible ghost at every glittering ball, eternally draped in heavy, unforgiving dark green silk.
Enduring the stifled giggles of girls ten years my junior had become my primary occupation.
They called me the relic behind their painted fans, assuming I was completely deaf to their cruelty.
None of those cruel debutantes ever suspected that before the season ended, the Duke of Ashborne would ruin them all for me.
Beeswax and stale lavender water hung thick in the air of the Danforth ballroom, creating a sickly sweet miasma that settled at the back of my throat.
This was my seventh season, or perhaps my eighth.
Counting had stopped entirely after the fifth, when the polite inquiries from passing gentlemen had curdled into tight, pitying smiles.
The men always hurried past my corner to claim dances with fresh-faced girls straight from the schoolroom.
Standing stationed near a potted fern that was browning at the edges was my usual routine.
My gown felt far more like heavy upholstery than clothing, an unyielding mass of bruised sage silk.
The rigid boning of my corset dug a sharp, familiar ache into my lower ribs with every shallow breath I managed to take.
Beside me, Aunt Brenda vibrated with nervous energy and misplaced ambition, her fan snapping open and shut like a bird of prey snapping its beak.
She hissed at me to stand straight, never actually looking in my direction, but scanning the room with predatory intent.
Her sharp voice pointed out that a wealthy lord had just glanced our way, demanding I fix my posture.
My response was entirely flat, completely devoid of the musical lilt expected of unmarried women.
Trading hope for mere endurance changes the very octave of a woman’s voice.
Brenda clicked her tongue in a wet, dismissive sound, gesturing violently toward the center of the room.
She demanded I look at Heather Carter, a girl barely out of leading strings who somehow commanded the entire floor.
Looking was entirely unnecessary.
Heather’s high, reedy laugh could be heard from twenty paces away, scraping against my eardrums like coarse sandpaper.
The seventeen-year-old was wrapped in pale pink tulle, her cheeks flushed with the heat of the room and the intoxicating power of being desired.
A tight circle of whispering silk and glittering jewels had formed around Heather.
They stood close enough that fragments of their conversation drifted over the screech of the string quartet attempting a waltz.
One girl in lemon yellow tittered, casting a blatant, sideways glance toward my wilting fern.
She loudly remarked that my dress looked as though someone had torn down the curtains at a cheap country inn.
Heather leaned in, her faux secrecy serving as a weapon in itself.
She loudly whispered that I was nearly thirty, practically a museum piece, the undisputed relic of Mayfair.
A chorus of muffled giggles erupted from the pastel-clad group.
Flinching was simply not an option.
Pressing a hand to my chest or casting my eyes downward in silent martyrdom would only give them victory.
My shoulders slumped under the heavy, stifling weight of the thick silk, my feet throbbing so intensely I nearly sank to the slick parquet floor just to take off my slippers.
Biting the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper, I firmly locked my jaw against the sudden urge to tell Heather her pink gown made her look like an undercooked prawn.
The murmur in the room suddenly shifted, dropping an entire octave.
Frantic, buzzing hums replaced the collective chatter as the massive doors at the far end of the ballroom opened.
Greg Stanton, the Duke of Ashborne, had finally arrived.
Watching him navigate the threshold was fascinating.
He walked with a heavy, uneven gait, favoring his left leg just slightly instead of gliding into the room like a penny dreadful hero.
His tall frame sloped with a terrible, visible weariness under his impeccably tailored dark coat.
A violently tied cravat lacked the intricate folds the fashionable dandies favored.
Dashing was not the word for him; he looked profoundly annoyed.
Mothers violently shoved their daughters forward as the sea of pastel dresses parted.
The Duke offered curt nods, brushing past the traps laid out for him with brutal efficiency.
Even from a distance, he smelled like cold rain and something sharp, perhaps cloves or cheap gin.
Turning my gaze back to the browning fern felt safer.
The most desired man in London did not concern the relic.
My feet throbbed relentlessly in tight satin shoes, while the corset dug deeper into my ribs.
Reaching a hand up, I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling the bumpy, raised skin of a stress rash forming just beneath my hairline.
Muttering a desperate excuse about needing the retiring room, I slipped away from Aunt Brenda’s complaints.
The retiring room was full of young women reapplying rouge, so I navigated the narrow, dimly lit back hallways instead.
Unpolished floorboards muffled my footsteps as I sought the small card room at the end of the east wing.
Pushing the heavy oak door open, I stepped into the gloom, finally letting out a breath I felt I had been holding for hours.
Weak moonlight filtered through a dusty window, illuminating dying embers in the hearth.
Walking straight to the closest leather armchair, I sank into it and reached down to unbuckle my right shoe.
A low voice, rough around the edges, came from the shadows near the fireplace.
The stranger noted that if I planned to remove my stockings as well, he should probably announce his presence.
Freezing completely, my fingers remained curled around the leather strap of my shoe.
A figure leaned heavily against the mantelpiece.
The Duke of Ashborne was holding a crystal tumbler, his white-gloved thumb rubbing absent-mindedly against the rim.
His formal coat lay in a crumpled heap on a nearby table, his waistcoat unbuttoned at the top.
Slowly pulling my hand away from my shoe, I sat back against the leather, my heart beating uncomfortably fast.
Apologizing with a dry voice, I explained that I thought the room was empty.
Taking a slow sip from his glass, he noted that I had marched in looking as though I were planning an assassination.
I muttered that I only intended to assassinate my cobbler.
Stepping slightly out of the shadows, his pale face revealed dark eyes shadowed by deep purple bags.
He agreed softly that a poorly fitted shoe is a torture device, his tone completely devoid of amusement.
He instructed me to take it off, promising he would not look.
Propriety dictated I flee the room immediately, but ruin implied I had something left to lose.
Yanking the shoe off brought an agonizingly sweet rush of blood to my cramped toes.
A tiny, barely audible sigh escaped my lips.
Turning fully to face me, Greg kept his gaze pointedly fixed on the dead embers in the grate.
He asked if I was hiding from the matrimonial auction, his tone laced with heavy, bitter cynicism.
Correcting him, I stated I was merely hiding from the noise, as I was no longer on the auction block.
Explaining my status as unsellable inventory left in the window to make newer models look appealing earned a short, harsh breath from him.
Looking straight at my face, the dim light highlighted the dark circles under my own eyes that perfectly matched his.
He poured a small measure of amber liquid into a second glass and walked it over to me.
The whiskey burned my throat, leaving a trail of fire down my chest, but it dulled the sensation of tight corsets.
I asked why he was hiding when he could have any woman in that ballroom.
Dragging a gloved hand down his face, he stated flatly that they did not want him, they only wanted his title and his estate in Kent.
The raw, ugly honesty in his voice caught me completely off guard.
I told him gently that it was the nature of the market; he was the prize bull, and I was the lame horse.
Silence stretched thick and heavy in the room, until Greg Stanton smiled a dark, crooked smile that changed his entire face.
He ordered me to put my shoe back on, grabbing my elbow to steady me as I stood.
Returning to the bright, suffocating ballroom felt like stepping into an oven.
Minutes later, the room fell dead silent as the Duke strode directly into the center of the floor.
Lady Carter shoved Heather right into Greg’s path, her daughter giggling and fluttering her fan desperately.
Greg did not bow, but simply stepped around Heather as if she were a piece of misplaced furniture.
A collective, suppressed gasp echoed from the bystanders as Heather’s jaw dropped.
He walked past the heiresses and the Earl’s daughters, moving in a straight, unwavering line.
He stopped directly in front of my browning fern.
Aunt Brenda made a sound exactly like a strangled cat.
Under the harsh glare of the chandeliers, Greg held out his white-gloved hand to me.
His voice carried perfectly into the cavernous silence, stating that he believed this was his dance.
Staring at his hand, my chest tightened to the point of absolute pain.
This was a massive, insulting blow delivered to every ambitious mother and sneering debutante in the room.
Slowly, stiffly, I placed my bare hand in his.
The room erupted into furious, scandalized whispers as he led me to the center of the floor.
His grip on my waist was firm, his fingers pressing into the heavy silk, feeling the rigid boning of my corset beneath.
I whispered furiously that they would tear us apart.
Muttering for them to try, he stepped forward, forcing me backward into the staggered, off-kilter rhythm of his limp.
He hoisted me up, pulling me closer until the overwhelming scent of cloves and rain surrounded me.
Accusing him of using me, I kept my face perfectly frozen in a neutral mask.
He corrected me, his voice a low rumble vibrating in his chest, stating I was the only woman there who did not want to strip the flesh from his bones.
The fierce, burning intensity in his eyes replaced all his previous exhaustion.
For the first time in eight years, I closed my eyes on the dance floor, anchored only by the bruising, defiant grip of the Duke.
