My Aunt Tried to Humiliate Me at Dinner — Then the Duke Made a Shocking Move
Part 1
Blood pounded behind my ears, drowning out the polite murmurs echoing off the vaulted ceilings.
They had placed my chair at the far end of the long table, wedged humiliatingly close to the drafty kitchen door.
It was a deliberate and calculated insult.
I stared at the cheap porcelain, my nails digging into my palms as I prepared to swallow my pride.
Rain lashed against the leaded glass of the grand foyer.
I shivered in a damp woolen cloak.
Footmen in livery the color of clotted cream glided past me.
Their eyes were carefully fixed on the middle distance.
They pretended the wet, impoverished cousin of the host simply did not exist.
I hated the towering floral arrangements that smelled oppressively of decaying lilies.
My stomach cramped with a sharp, twisting ache of hunger and nerves.
I dug my teeth into my lower lip, tasting copper.
My boots felt like blocks of ice against the pristine marble.
Aunt Brenda materialized from the drawing room, swathed in violently purple velvet.
She did not offer a hug.
She simply looked down her long powdered nose at the puddle forming around my boots.
The older woman smelled of stale lavender and gin.
It was a sweet, cloying mixture that made me want to gag.
“The roads were mud.”
My voice was too loud in the cavernous space.
I winced internally.
“The carriage threw a wheel near the crossroads.”
“Fascinating.”
Brenda drawled the word, already turning away.
“Do try to dry off before you enter the dining hall.”
“The carpets are expensive.”
“And pinch your cheeks, you look consumptive.”
I was left alone again with the ticking of a massive grandfather clock.
I stripped off my heavy cloak, handing it to a reluctant servant.
Underneath, my faded slate-blue dress was clean but tired.
I smoothed the frayed cuffs over my wrists, my hands trembling.
I told myself it was just the cold.
When the heavy oak doors finally opened, the noise hit me like a physical blow.
A wall of heat and the dizzying scent of roasted venison rolled over me.
I hesitated on the threshold.
The table was an enormous expanse of white damask beneath three dripping crystal chandeliers.
Uncle Brian sat at the head, red-faced and boisterous.
Radiating outward were the important guests in a sea of glittering jewels.
I walked forward, my sensible boots completely silent on the thick rugs.
I reached the middle of the table, looking for my name card.
It was not there.
I kept walking past the heavy silver salt cellars that marked the boundary between the honored guests and the lesser additions.
The tablecloth here was rougher and slightly yellowed.
And there, practically brushing the swinging door, was a small smudged card bearing my name.
Heat flared in my chest, rushing up my neck to burn my cheeks.
Brenda managed her household with the precision of a military general.
This was a statement.
I stood frozen, considering turning around and walking back out into the storm.
But I needed Brian’s signature on my brother Tyler’s naval commission.
If I walked out, Tyler’s future was dead.
I pulled out the squeaky chair and sat down.
Every time a servant rushed out, a blast of grease-scented air slapped the back of my neck.
I folded my hands in my lap, focusing entirely on the chipped empty plate in front of me.
I traced the rim with my gaze, refusing to let them see my tears.
The atmosphere suddenly shifted.
The volume of the laughter dipped.
Heads turned toward the grand double doors.
I kept tracing the chip on my plate.
A bead of sweat trickled down my ribs beneath my tight bodice.
“Your grace.”
Brian’s booming voice echoed off the plasterwork.
“We had feared the storm kept you.”
Heavy, deliberate bootfalls approached.
“Lost a boot in the mud.”
The rough, gravelly voice cut through the polite silence.
“Had to dig it out.”
I finally glanced up.
The Duke, Craig, was handing a dripping leather riding crop to a horrified footman.
He wore no cravat, just an unbuttoned shirt and a dark, damp riding coat.
Brenda fluttered in her purple velvet.
“Please, your seat is right here at Brian’s right hand.”
Craig did not move toward the plush high-backed chair.
His pale, intelligent eyes scanned the table.
He looked past the plunging necklines and forced smiles.
Through the flickering candlelight, his gaze locked onto me.
I stiffened and looked away, my heart kicking against my ribs.
Why was he looking at me?
I shrank in my seat, wishing I could fold myself into nothingness.
“Is the seat not to your liking, your grace?”
A note of panic bled into Brian’s bluster.
Craig remained silent for a long, agonizing moment.
“No.”
The word dropped like a stone in a quiet pond.
Before Brenda could apologize, Craig gripped the top of his heavy mahogany chair.
He did not ask a footman to move it.
He pulled backward.
The hideous sound of wood protesting against stone ripped through the room.
Several dowagers flinched.
Craig dragged the chair down the length of the dining hall.
Scrape.
Thud.
Scrape.
He let the heavy wooden legs gouge a path across the floorboards.
The entire table watched in stunned, horrified silence.
My breath hitched.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
The sound grew louder as he passed the salt and the silver centerpieces.
He stopped right beside me.
The scent of rainwater, sharp pine, and leather washed over me.
He jammed his heavy chair into the tiny gap next to mine with a sharp screech of wood.
He sat down.
His broad shoulder brushed against my arm.
I stared at the side of his face as he ripped a bread roll in half.
“Pass the butter,” he murmured softly.
