My Father Gambled Away Our Home To A Ruthless Duke — So I Screamed In His Face

Part 1

The silence in our dining room didn’t just fall, it crashed like a physical weight against my chest.

It tasted like ash and burnt butter, clinging to the back of my throat.

Across the table, Dan slowly lowered his wine glass.

He left a smear of grease on the cut crystal, a stark contrast to his immaculate tailoring.

He had just insulted my father, humiliated my sister, and completely ruined the roast.

My knuckles were white around the handle of my cheap iron fork.

I didn’t want to be a hero, I just wanted him to leave.

So, I opened my mouth and ruined my entire life.

The rain had been falling since Tuesday.

It was a relentless, drumming sheet of gray that smelled of crushed worms and damp soot.

It seeped through the porous brick of our estate.

I sat near the hearth, desperately trying to draw warmth from a meager fire.

I rubbed a faint ink stain on the pad of my left thumb.

The rough wool of my third-season gown scratched uncomfortably against my collarbone.

Our house was suffused with the heavy, greasy scent of roasting mutton and boiled cabbage.

It was an honest smell, but a poor one.

My mother, Brenda, had been frantically burning dried lavender for an hour to mask it.

We were expecting a local baron, a prime candidate for my younger sister, Heather.

The entire household vibrated with a frantic, pathetic sort of energy.

Then came the knock.

It was a heavy, dull thud that rattled the iron latch.

My father, Brian, jumped so violently he spilled his sherry down his waistcoat.

I shoved my hands deep into the folds of my skirt.

Our lone footman pulled the heavy oak door open.

The wind howled into the hall, blowing out the candles in the sconces.

A man stood in the doorway, entirely too tall for the low entryway.

He wore a heavy riding coat, currently plastered to his broad shoulders.

He dripped a puddle of muddy water onto my mother’s prized Persian rug.

His carriage had lost a wheel in the ditch a mile down our abominable road.

He finally pulled off his hat, revealing dark hair plastered to a sharp, aristocratic skull.

His eyes were a pale, striking gray.

They swept over my family with the detached assessment of a man looking at a collection of dull furniture.

My father’s knees actually buckled a fraction of an inch.

It was Dan, a man of vast wealth and influence.

He owned half the county, though he hadn’t set foot in it for five years.

He was a creature of London, of Parliament, and of vast, untouchable wealth.

And here he was, smelling of wet horse, damp wool, and cold rain.

Dan allowed the servant to peel the heavy coat from his shoulders.

He did not look at the footman, nor did he look at my father.

He looked entirely at the fire.

He apologized for the intrusion, though his tone held absolutely no contrition.

My father scrambled forward, practically vibrating with terror and sudden blinding ambition.

He bowed so deeply I felt a hot prickle of shame flush my cheeks.

The dining room was suffocating.

My mother had ordered the fire built up to dry Dan’s clothes.

The smell of boiled cabbage clung to the damp wool of Dan’s trousers.

I sat opposite him, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached.

The table was meant for six, but his broad frame occupied the center.

My elbow bumped my water glass every time I tried to cut my tough, gray meat.

Dan stared down at his plate.

He picked up his fork, turning it over with long, calloused fingers.

He saw the spot where the silver had worn away to reveal the dull iron beneath.

He didn’t eat a single bite.

My father nervously mentioned the weather and the flooded western fields.

Dan casually stated that the tenants on that land were lazy.

He corrected my father in a flat, unyielding tone.

He declared he had told his agent to raise the rents and evict them by winter.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop despite the roaring fire.

I knew those tenants intimately.

Craig, the old farmer on the ridge, worked the rocky soil with hands knotted by arthritis.

He had lost two sons and could barely hold a plow straight.

They weren’t lazy, they were starving.

My father eagerly agreed with Dan, his voice trembling slightly.

He abandoned all dignity just because the man speaking owned a title.

Dan reached for his wine glass, perfectly and utterly detached.

He held the lives of fifty families in his hands and spoke of them like pruning dead leaves.

I looked down at my trembling hands.

The ink stain on my thumb seemed very dark against my pale skin.

I shouldn’t speak.

I was a practical, unlovely daughter with no dowry and no power.

The rules of my existence dictated that I keep my eyes down and my mouth shut.

But the room was hot, my father looked small, and Dan looked so very comfortable.

I spoke up, my voice cutting through the heavy silence like a gunshot.

The clinking of silverware stopped instantly.

Dan lowered his glass very slowly and turned his pale gray eyes toward me.

For the first time all evening, he actually looked at me.

My mother hissed a sharp warning, desperate and terrified.

I ignored it, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I told him the fields were flooding because he ordered the ancient tree lines cut down to sell the timber.

His eyes narrowed infinitesimally.

I told him Craig was trying to clear the mud with a broken shovel because his agent refused to allocate funds.

My voice shook, but I pushed on, my fingernails digging into my palms.

I told him evicting starving people before winter wasn’t a firm hand.

I called it cowardice.

The word hung in the air, heavy and lethal.

Heather let out a terrified whimper and covered her mouth.

My mother looked as though she might faint, the color draining from her face.

Dan did not shout.

He did not slam his fist on the table.

He simply stared at me with an unreadable expression.

The silence stretched so taut I thought it might physically snap.

He repeated the word, rolling it around in his mouth as if tasting a foreign spice.

Then he leaned forward, the shadows catching the sharp angles of his face.

He asked how I dared to speak of cowardice while my father broke his spine trying to lick the mud from his boots.

The cruelty of his words was casual, but deeply precise.

It cut straight to the bone of my family’s shame.

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes from hot, blinding rage.

I pushed my chair back, the wood scraping harshly against the floorboards.

I stood up, my legs feeling like water.

I told him we might be poor, but at least we knew the names of the people we were failing.

I didn’t wait for his response.

I turned on my heel, my skirts catching slightly on the edge of the table.

I walked out of the dining room and down the drafty hallway until I reached the freezing kitchen.

I leaned heavily against the cold stone sink, pressing my palms to my burning cheeks.

I had doomed my family with my temper.

I splashed icy water onto my face, trying to drag in a shuddering breath.

Then I heard a voice behind me mention my dropped napkin.

I turned around, and there he was, blocking the only exit from the kitchen with my cheap linen napkin in his hands.