My Aunt Dragged Me To Society Balls As A Cruel Joke — Until The Duke Did The Unthinkable
Part 2
Rain lashed against the streaked windowpanes of our dining room, dragging gray morning light across the scarred mahogany table.
The euphoria of the waltz had not survived the carriage ride home.
My bones ached with the memory of the Duke’s punishing grip, and my mouth tasted of stale chamomile and deep regret.
Sitting at the opposite end of the table, Aunt Brenda methodically shredded a piece of cold toast into unrecognizable crumbs.
Her frizzy hair framed a face hollowed out by genuine, terrifying despair.
She stated quietly that I had completely ruined us by allowing myself to be hoisted up like a warning flag.
Gripping the edge of the table, the wood bit into my cuticles.
I knew she was right, but acknowledging it aloud stripped away the tiny, pathetic sliver of pride I had hoarded during the night.
Before I could hurl my tepid tea across the room, a sharp, authoritative knock echoed from the front hall.
Our lone maid cracked open the dining room door, her eyes darting nervously as she held out a small white card on a silver tray.
Brenda snatched the rectangle, all color draining from her face as she tossed it onto the polished wood.
Greg Stanton, Duke of Ashborne, was printed in stark black ink.
A sudden, dizzying rush of adrenaline spiked through my chest as Brenda frantically ordered me into the freezing parlor.
Smoothing down the front of my dark blue day dress, I walked down the narrow, drafty hallway.
Greg stood by the unlit hearth, dwarfing the cramped room in a heavy wool riding coat dripping with rain.
He noted my exhaustion immediately, refusing to offer a charming smile or a sweeping bow.
Limping slightly away from the hearth, he ordered me to get my cloak.
Staring at him in sheer disbelief, I pointed out that it was pouring outside.
He pulled a leather driving glove onto his hand with sharp, jerky movements, stating the rain would keep the worst of the gawkers at bay.
He wanted to be seen with me to ruin their ledgers and their plans.
The carriage interior smelled intensely of rich, oiled leather and wet dog.
Stretching his bad leg out stiffly, he stared out the window at the blurred, rain-soaked streets.
I sat rigidly across from him, my heavy wool cloak smelling faintly of camphor.
He finally turned his head, confessing bluntly that his leg had been crushed because he drunkenly raced a carriage down a flooded lane.
Lying in the mud for six hours screaming for his mother was a far cry from the hero’s wound society whispered about.
He wasn’t fishing for pity; he was brutally tearing down the pedestal society had forced him onto.
I told him quietly about tearing the lace on my dress at my debut and hiding in a pantry crying until I was sick.
The carriage slowed as we entered the gates of Hyde Park, merging into a line of covered phaetons and enclosed landaus.
Faces pressed against the glass of passing carriages, creating an almost audible gasp over the rain.
Greg commanded me to sit up, reaching across the small space to rest his gloved hand heavily over mine.
Three days later, a heavy cream-colored envelope arrived, smelling cloyingly of attar of roses.
Lady Carter requested the honor of my presence at an intimate afternoon tea.
Brenda insisted I go, terrified that cowering would lose the ground I had inexplicably gained.
The Carter drawing room was a suffocating explosion of wealth, smelling of hothouse blooms and sugary sweat.
Heather wore a gown of pale blue silk, leaning forward to deliver a vicious, petulant verbal strike.
She announced loudly to the dead-silent room that I was merely a joke the Duke was playing on the ton, an aging spinster who dressed like a vicar’s widow.
The breath violently left my lungs.
I walked into her drawing room knowing it was a trap, but I never expected who would walk through the door halfway through the ambush.
