My Aunt Dragged Me To Society Balls As A Cruel Joke — Until The Duke Did The Unthinkable
Part 3
The man who walked through the door of Lady Carter’s drawing room to interrupt the vicious ambush was none other than Greg Stanton, the Duke of Ashborne.
His completely unexpected arrival shattered the tense atmosphere of the tea party, sending shockwaves through the very women who had just been mocking Megan Reed.
Standing tall and furious on the threshold, he surveyed the silent room.
He had not been announced.
He wore severe black dayclo lacking a walking stick, though he leaned heavily against the door frame.
His face was a mask of cold, terrifying fury.
Lady Carter leaped up, dropping a scone onto the carpet.
Your grace, we did not expect.
Clearly, Greg cut her off.
He did not look at the hostess.
He did not look at Heather, whose face had gone a sickening shade of white.
He looked only at Megan.
He crossed the room.
His limp was pronounced today, a harsh dragging sound against the plush carpet.
The sea of pastel dresses parted for him in sheer panic.
He reached Megan’s chair and stopped.
He didn’t offer a polite bow.
He reached down and took the teacup from her trembling hands, setting it on a nearby table with a loud clatter.
“You are suffocating in here, Megan,” he said.
He didn’t use her surname.
The familiarity sent a shock wave through the room.
“I’m quite well, your grace,” she managed to say, her voice barely a whisper.
“You are a terrible liar,” he murmured.
He held out his hand.
It was the exact same gesture he had made in the ballroom, but this time it was not a challenge to the room.
It was a lifeline to her.
Megan looked at his large gloved hand.
She looked at Heather, who was staring at Greg with wide, tearfilled eyes, finally realizing she had lost a game she didn’t even understand the rules of.
Megan placed her hand in his, he pulled her up.
He didn’t let go.
He tucked her hand securely into the crook of his arm, pressing her close against his side.
“Lady Carter,” Greg said, finally turning his dark, deadeyed gaze on the hostess.
Your tea is bitter and your hospitality is abhorrent.
Miss Reed will not be accepting any further invitations to this house.
He didn’t wait for a reply.
He turned, pulling Megan with him, and walked her out of the room.
They didn’t speak until they were outside, standing on the pavement in the crisp, cold air.
The sudden release of tension left Megan feeling lightaded.
She swayed slightly.
Greg caught her shoulder, his grip firm.
“Breathe,” he commanded gently.
She took a ragged gasp of air.
“You shouldn’t have done that.
You have made an enemy of the Carter family.
“I am the Duke of Ashborne,” Greg said, his voice hard, but his eyes entirely focused on her pale face.
“The Carter family are gnats.
Let them buzz.
He reached up, his thumb brushing a stray curl away from her forehead.
The touch was startlingly intimate, stripping away the harshness of the street.
“Are you all right?
Megan looked up at him.
She saw the exhaustion, the pain in his leg, the brutal cynicism, but she also saw something fiercely protective.
He wasn’t using her anymore.
They had crossed a line in that drawing room.
“No,” she said honestly, the armor finally cracking.
“I’m tired, Greg.”
He didn’t flinch at her use of his Christian name.
The crooked dark smile returned, warming his face.
“So am I, Megan,” he said softly.
“Let me take you home.”
Dust motes danced in the pale afternoon light, filtering through the Reed parlor windows, settling on the worn upholstery of the chairs.
Aunt Brenda had not stopped pacing for an hour.
Her earlier terror had mutated into something far more dangerous, ravenous, unadulterated ambition.
“He took you out of that house by the arm,” Brenda muttered, chewing vigorously on her thumbnail.
“In front of everyone.
A public declaration.
Megan, do you understand what this means?
The Carter girl is ruined and you you hold the winning ticket.
Megan sat on the sofa, her knees pulled tight together, staring at the frayed hem of her plum dress.
Her stomach churned, producing a sour, acidic burn in her throat.
She did not feel like she held a winning ticket.
She felt like a fox who had survived the hunt, only to realize she was now locked in a cage with the hounds.
He was angry, Aunt.
He acted on impulse to punish them.
Dukes do not act on impulse, Brenda snapped, rounding on her.
They act on entitlement, and he has entitled himself to you.
We must order new dresses immediately.
I will go to Madame Rouso.
We will sell the silver service if we must.
You cannot receive him again, looking like a displaced scullery maid.
Before Megan could protest the utter madness of selling their last valuable possession for a gamble, the heavy thud of the brass knocker echoed through the narrow hall.
It was not the 16-year-old maid who opened the parlor door, but Greg himself.
He had bypassed the servant entirely, an act of shocking familiarity.
He had discarded his heavy coat, standing in his waist coat and shirt sleeves, the fine white linen wrinkled at the elbows.
He looked stripped down raw.
Brenda gasped, her hands fluttering to her throat.
“Your grace!
We We were just preparing for tea.
“Leave us,” Greg said.
He did not look at Brenda.
His gaze was fixed on Megan, heavy and dark.
I it is highly improper for me to leave you unchaperoned your grace.
Brenda stammered though she was already taking a step backward toward the door.
Leave us, he repeated, the gravel in his voice hardening into stone.
Brenda fled.
The door clicked shut behind her, the sound loud like a pistol shot in the small room.
Greg crossed the space in three long uneven strides.
He bypassed the armchairs entirely and sank down onto the sofa beside Megan.
He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin.
He smelled of rain, sharp clothes, and a deep permeating weariness.
He dropped his head back against the worn floral fabric and closed his eyes.
“Tell me,” he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion, “that you do not want my money.”
Megan stiffened, her hands clenched in her lap.
“I have no use for a fortune I could never hope to spend.”
“Tell me you do not care about the title.”
“The title is a target,” she replied softly.
“I have enough bruises from simply being myself.”
Greg opened his eyes.
He turned his head on the cushion to look at her.
The violet shadows under his eyes look darker today, the lines around his mouth carved deeper.
My brother left me in a state rotting from the inside, he said, the words slipping out in a quiet, steady stream.
The ledgers are a nightmare.
The roof at the Kent Manor leaks.
I have 70 tenants who rely on me to not gamble away their livelihoods like my predecessor did.
The ton looks at me and sees a crown.
I look at it and see a millstone.
Megan listened.
She didn’t offer empty platitudes.
She didn’t tell him it would be all right.
She looked at his left leg, stretched out awkwardly in front of him, the fine trousers doing nothing to hide the rigid stiffness of the limb.
“Why are you telling me this, Greg?
“Because you are the only person who hasn’t asked me for a favor since my brother died,” he said.
He reached out, his bare hand covering hers.
His palm was hot, slightly calloused, pressing down on her cold fingers.
They want the fantasy.
You are the only woman I know who lives purely in the mud.
Megan’s breath caught.
It was not a compliment in the traditional sense.
It was a harsh, unvarnished truth.
I cannot offer you romance, Megan, he continued, his thumb tracing the prominent knuckles of her hand.
I am too tired for courtship.
I have no patience for poetry.
I have a bad leg, a terrible temper, and a profound hatred for the society we live in.
He sat up slightly, shifting his weight, grimacing as his knee popped in the quiet room.
“But I can offer you quiet,” he said, looking squarely into her eyes.
“I can offer you a library in Kent with 10,000 books and a door that locks from the inside.
I can offer you safety from Brenda’s ledgers.
I can make sure no one in this godforsaken city ever looks at you with pity again.
It was a business proposal.
It was a transaction.
But as Greg looked at her, his dark eyes wide and vulnerable, Megan felt a sharp, painful ache in her chest.
He was begging her.
The most desired man in London was begging the relic of Mayfair to save him from his own life.
“You want to marry me?” she stated.
Her voice trembled slightly.
I intend to marry you, he corrected gently.
If you will have me.
Megan looked down at their joined hands.
She thought of Heather Carter’s vicious face.
She thought of Aunt Brenda pricing out her dignity like cheap meat.
She thought of the cold, drafty room she slept in, the future of spinsterhood stretching out before her like a barren gray wasteland.
Then she looked at Greg.
She saw the relief hovering just behind his eyes, waiting for her answer.
“I require my own sitting room,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“And I will not wear pink.
A short, ragged breath escaped Greg’s lips.
It was the closest thing to a genuine laugh she had heard from him.
He lifted her hand, bringing her knuckles to his mouth.
He didn’t kiss the air above them.
He pressed his lips firmly against her skin, the slight scratch of his stubble sending a jolt up her arm.
“You may wear burlap if it pleases you,” he murmured against her skin.
“God, Megan, thank you.
They did not wait.
Greg procured a special license 2 days later.
The speed of it sent shock waves through Mayfair that rivaled an earthquake.
The gossip columns practically ignited.
They called her a witch.
They called her a black mailer.
They speculated that she was pregnant, though anyone with eyes could see Greg treated her with a cautious, almost reverent distance that suggested otherwise.
On the eve of their wedding, Greg insisted they attend the opera.
“It is a mistake,” Megan argued, standing in the foyer of Ashborne House.
Greg had sent a dress for her.
It was not heavy, unyielding silk.
It was a soft midnight blue velvet that flowed over her hips and shoulders like dark water.
It possessed no rigid bon to bruise her ribs.
For the first time in her adult life, Megan breathed easily in evening wear.
Yet she felt entirely naked.
Greg stood behind her looking at their reflection in the gilded mirror.
He held a flat velvet box in his hands.
“It is not a mistake,” he said quietly.
It is drawing a line in the sand.
I will not have them whispering that I am hiding you away in shame.
He snapped the box open.
Nestled in the white satin was the Ashborne Sapphire.
It was massive, surrounded by a cage of heavy, brutal diamonds.
It looked ancient and heavy.
Greg lifted it from the box.
He stepped closer, his chest brushing the back of her shoulders.
Megan shivered as the cold metal touched her bare collarbone.
He fastened the clasp at the nape of her neck, his fingers lingering for a second on her skin.
The necklace weighed a pound.
It pulled her posture straight.
It was not an accessory.
It was armor.
“You look exactly as you should,” he murmured in her ear, the scent of clothes and soap wrapping around her.
The carriage ride to Coven Garden was silent.
Megan’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic trapped bird.
When they stepped out onto the damp pavement, the flash of carriage lamps illuminated them perfectly.
The murmurss started immediately.
People stopped on the stairs.
Gentlemen lowered their cigars.
Ladies paused mid gossip, their mouths hanging open.
Greg did not hesitate.
He offered Megan his arm.
She took it, gripping the fine black wool of his sleeve with white knuckled desperation.
He set a slow, deliberate pace, forcing the crowd to part for them.
His limp was a steady, rhythmic tap against the marble floors.
As they reached the dress circle, the crowd bottlenecked.
Standing directly in their path was Lady Carter, draped in emerald silk, flanked by a cohort of her most vicious allies.
Megan’s steps faltered.
The heavy sapphire suddenly felt like a noose.
She wanted to turn around.
She wanted to run back to the drafty Reed parlor and hide under her motheaten blankets.
Greg felt her hesitation, his arm locked rigidly, pinning her hand against his side.
He didn’t stop.
He walked them directly up to Lady Carter, stopping mere inches from the older woman.
Your grace,” Lady Carter said, her voice ringing out loudly in the sudden quiet of the lobby.
She looked at Megan, her eyes dropping to the sapphire, her face contorting with a mixture of rage and disbelief.
“What an unexpected surprise!
We had heard rumors of your impending nuptils, but one always assumes the papers exaggerate the absurd.
Someone in the cohort giggled.
Megan felt the blood rush from her face.
She stared at the intricate pattern of the carpet, bracing herself for the humiliation.
“Lady Carter,” Greg said.
His voice was not loud, but it carried a lethal icy resonance.
“You seem to be under the delusion that your opinion holds weight.
Lady Carter blinked, her powdery cheeks flushing an angry modeled red.
“I only meant I know exactly what you meant,” Greg interrupted smoothly.
He didn’t raise his voice.
He didn’t need to.
You look at my fianceé and you see an insult to your own ambition.
You spent the season treating her as a pariah because she refused to simper and beg for scraps of attention like the rest of you.
Your grace, you go too far.
A gentleman beside Lady Carter blustered, puffing out his chest.
Greg slowly turned his head to look at the man.
The absolute deade-yed fury in the Duke’s gaze made the gentleman shrink back instantly.
“I am taking my future duchess to our box,” Greg said, turning back to Lady Carter.
“If I hear so much as a whisper against her name from you or anyone in your circle, I will personally ensure your husband’s debts at whites are called in by morning.
I will ruin you so thoroughly you will not be able to afford a seat in the gallery, let alone a box.
The silence in the lobby was absolute.
It was deafening.
No one moved.
No one breathed.
Greg looked at Megan.
The fury in his eyes vanished, replaced by a quiet, steady reassurance.
Shall we, my dear?
Megan looked at the horrified ashen face of Lady Carter.
She looked at the crowd, watching them with a newfound, terrifying respect.
They were not mocking her anymore.
They were afraid.
She lifted her chin, the heavy sapphire catching the chandelier light.
“Yes, Greg,” she said, her voice clear and unwavering.
“Let us.
The wedding was devoid of spectacle.
There were no choirs, no banks of house flowers, no royal guests.
It took place in a small, damp chapel on the edge of the Ashborne estate in Kent, smelling of old stone and beeswax candles.
An Brenda was there practically vibrating out of her skin in a new violently purple silk gown she had purchased on credit the moment the engagement was announced.
She kept glancing around the empty pews, clearly devastated that there was no audience to witness her triumph.
Megan wore a simple unadorned dress of pale ivory wool.
It was practical.
It was warm.
It suited the gray drizzly morning perfectly.
Standing at the altar, Greg looked better than he had in weeks.
The oppressive, suffocating weight of London had been left behind.
The dark circles under his eyes were lighter, and his shoulders lacked the defensive, rigid hunch he carried in Mayfair.
He wore a simple dark suit, leaning comfortably on a silver tipped walking stick.
When the vicer asked for the vows, Greg did not recite them with a booming theatrical voice.
He turned to face Megan fully.
He took both of her hands in his, ignoring the vicor entirely.
I cannot promise you a life entirely free of the ton’s venom.
Greg said softly for her ears only.
But I promise you will never face it alone.
I promise to shield you from the ledgers, the greed, and the noise.
I promise you quiet, Megan.
Sorry.
Megan looked at his hands, feeling the familiar warmth and the calluses.
This was the prize bull.
This was the man they had all fought over, bled for, schemed to trap, and he was offering himself to her, not as a prize, but as a refuge.
“I do not need you to shield me, Greg,” she replied, her voice steady, rough with emotion.
“I am used to the mud.
I promise to walk in it with you.
I promise to never look at you and see a title.
I only see you.
Greg swallowed hard, his throat bobbing.
He squeezed her hands tightly, a physical anchor.
“I do,” he told the vicer, his eyes never leaving Megan’s face.
“I do,” Megan echoed.
The journey to the manor was mercifully short.
Aunt Brenda was dispatched back to London with a generous allowance that guaranteed Megan would never have to see her again unless she chose to.
That evening, the great house in Kent was silent.
The servants had been dismissed to the lower quarters.
Rain lashed gently against the tall library windows, a soothing, rhythmic patter that erased the lingering ghosts of society gossip.
Megan sat in a deep leather armchair by the roaring fire.
She had removed the heavy walking shoes, her stocking feet resting on the warm hearthstone.
The ivory wool dress had been discarded for a simple cotton wrapper.
She held a glass of dark amber whiskey in her hand.
The library door opened.
Greg walked in.
He had shed his jacket and crevat, his collar open, revealing the strong column of his throat.
He limped slightly, carrying his own glass.
He didn’t speak.
He crossed the room, the fire light catching the faint scar above his eyebrow.
He sat in the chair opposite hers, mirroring her posture, stretching his bad leg out toward the heat of the fire.
The silence between them was thick, but it was not the suffocating tension of the Danforth ballroom.
It was a heavy, warm blanket.
It was the absence of expectations.
Greg took a sip of his whiskey.
He looked at Megan, really looked at her, stripped of the armor of the Ashborne jewels, free from the rigid cages of society gowns.
He looked at the soft lines of her face, the quiet intelligence in her eyes, the sheer unadulterated relief radiating from her posture.
“Your aunt was very upset by the lack of a wedding breakfast,” Greg noted dryly, staring into the flames.
Megan smiled, a genuine, relaxed expression that felt foreign on her face.
She will recover once she realizes how much standing credit your name affords her at the modist.
Greg let out a low chuckle.
He reached across the small distance between their chairs.
He didn’t ask.
He gently curled his hand around her ankle, his thumb resting over the pulse point just above her heel.
His touch was grounding, warm, and entirely possessive.
“Are you happy, Megan?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble in the quiet room.
Megan took a slow sip of her whiskey, letting the burn settle in her chest.
She listened to the rain.
She felt the heat of his hand, the comfortable silence of the massive house that was now her sanctuary.
She thought of the young, cruel girls in London spinning in their pastel silks, tearing each other apart for the chance to sit where she was currently sitting.
She looked at her husband, this exhausted, cynical, fiercely loyal man who had pulled her from the shadows.
“I’m exactly where I want to be,” she said.
Greg smiled, the dark, crooked smile that reached his eyes this time.
He rubbed his thumb over her skin, settling deeper into his chair.
For the first time in years, the Duke of Ashborne and the relic of Mayfair finally found peace.
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THE END
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Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. If you would like to share your story, please send it to [email protected].
