My Father Disowned Me Over A Manufactured Scandal—Then The Most Feared Man In England Offered Me A Weapon

Part 1

I had the perfect life until Tyler Braxton decided he needed my dowry to pay his underground gambling debts.

The devastating trap was set at a midnight supper during the absolute height of the London season.

The ballroom was suffocatingly hot, filled with the stench of wilted orchids and heavy French perfume.

Tyler approached me near the velvet drapes, his handsome face twisted into a mask of pure, manufactured panic.

He claimed my fragile younger brother had collapsed in the conservatory and was desperately asking for me.

I didn’t hesitate for a single second.

I abandoned my strict chaperone and ran blindly into the dimly lit, labyrinthine glasshouse.

My expensive silk skirts snagged on the damp, exotic ferns.

There was no sick brother waiting for me in the shadows.

There was only the terrifying, sudden grip of Tyler Braxton pinning me against a heavy stone fountain.

Before I could even scream for help, he tore the delicate lace of my bodice and forced his mouth against mine.

I fought him like a wildcat, my nails digging deep into his cheeks.

My frantic physical struggles only made the scene look infinitely more compromising.

Right on cue, exactly as Tyler had paid a servant to arrange, the heavy mahogany doors swung wide open.

Heather Carmichael, the most vicious and prolific gossip in all of England, stood in the doorway flanked by a dozen influential matrons.

The theatrical gasps erupting from the women shattered my pristine future into a million jagged pieces.

I shoved Tyler away with all my strength, frantically trying to cover my exposed shoulders.

Tyler immediately dropped to his knees and buried his face in his hands.

He choked out a loud apology, perfectly playing the part of a man overcome by forbidden passion.

In three calculated sentences, he entirely sealed my fate.

By the following morning, the society papers were printing thinly veiled caricatures of the ruined Rose of Mayfair.

Tyler had fully expected my father, Greg Harding, to immediately demand a shotgun wedding to salvage our family’s honor.

That was the only way Tyler could get his desperate hands on my massive dowry.

He woefully miscalculated the sheer depth of my father’s ruthless pride.

I fell to my knees in the dark study, begging my father to believe my innocence.

Greg stared down at me with eyes like chips of flint.

He cared absolutely nothing for the truth or my tears.

He cared only for optics, and marrying his daughter to a penniless scoundrel was a public admission of defeat.

He hissed that I had soiled the house and stripped me of the Harding name on the spot.

I was packed into an unmarked carriage before nightfall.

In forty-eight hours, I went from being the most coveted heiress in London to an absolute pariah.

My lifelong friends crossed the street when they saw me coming.

I was exiled to a damp, decaying cottage on the dreary outskirts of Bath.

I was forced to live under the tyrannical thumb of my spinster Aunt Brenda.

For six grueling months, I scrubbed wooden floors and mended threadbare linens until my fingers bled.

I endured the daily sneers of the local townspeople who eagerly read the London gossip rags.

My vibrant spirit was slowly being crushed under the heavy weight of an unjust punishment.

I thought my life was effectively over.

I thought I would die in complete obscurity.

I was entirely wrong.

Craig Dalton, the Duke of Blackwood, did not attend provincial social assemblies.

He was a man composed entirely of sharp edges, dangerous rumors, and a staggering fortune built on cutthroat industry.

A jagged silver scar slashed across his rigid jawline.

Polite society was absolutely terrified of him.

Men avoided looking him in the eye, and women whispered that he casually destroyed rivals before finishing his morning coffee.

Yet, on a miserable, rain-lashed Tuesday evening, the Duke strode directly into the Bath Assembly Rooms.

I was there only because Aunt Brenda mandated we show the local vicar we were still observant of basic civil routines.

I sat in the darkest, furthest corner wearing a faded gray muslin dress that had been washed far too many times.

My eyes stayed glued to the scuffed floorboards to ignore the cruel giggles of the nearby girls.

When the Duke entered, the entire room seemed to experience a collective, massive drop in temperature.

The scratching of the violins faltered.

The frantic hum of gossip died instantly.

Craig handed his dripping greatcoat to a trembling footman and swept his icy gaze across the room.

It was the gaze of a predator assessing a pen of sheep.

He bypassed the glittering daughters of barons and squires.

He completely ignored the desperate, curtsying mothers.

His terrifying stare locked onto my shadowy corner.

Every muscle in my body went rigid as the towering Duke began to walk toward me.

The crowd practically parted for him like the Red Sea.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Had my infamy reached such heights that even the monstrous Duke had come to mock me?

He stopped directly in front of my chair.

For an agonizingly long moment, he simply looked down at me.

He took in my faded dress, my defensive posture, and the defiance burning beneath my deep sorrow.

He spoke my name, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder rolling over the moors.

I swallowed hard, refusing to shrink back.

I stood up and smoothed my threadbare skirts with trembling hands.

I forced myself to meet his piercing, ice-blue gaze.

I told him my father had decreed I was no longer a Harding.

Craig replied smoothly that he cared only for facts, and commanded me to walk with him.

Despite the collective gasp of the entire assembly, my feet moved.

I placed my gloved hand on his solid forearm.

Together we walked past the stunned crowd toward the deserted card room at the back of the hall.

Once the heavy oak doors clicked shut, the frantic murmurs of the ballroom were entirely muted.

Craig turned to face me.

He stated the mathematical truth of my ruined reputation, my abandonment, and my leaking roof.

My cheeks flared with hot, humiliating color.

I told him to leave if he had only come all the way from London to summarize my misery.

Craig stepped closer, the sheer magnetism of his presence making the small room feel devoid of oxygen.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a blindingly brilliant diamond ring.

He leaned down, the intoxicating scent of sandalwood and winter rain washing over me.

“I have not come to torment you,” Craig murmured, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that burned.

“I have come to offer you a weapon.”