My Father Sold Me To A Duke — His Reaction Left Me Speechless
Part 2
I hesitated, shivering in the freezing draft.
My pride warred with my exhaustion.
Exhaustion won.
My fingers uncurled from the leather loop.
My joints were stiff and aching.
Thomas moved in without hesitation or fumbling.
He reached one thick, heavily muscled arm behind my back.
His hand flattened between my shoulder blades.
His other arm slid under the backs of my knees.
He ordered me to hold his collar.
I reached up.
My hands awkwardly found the rough, wet wool of his lapels.
With a sudden, powerful shift of his weight, he lifted me.
The vertigo was instantaneous.
I gasped.
My fingers clamped down hard on his coat as the ground vanished beneath me.
I expected him to stagger.
I was a fully grown woman, and my legs were a dead, heavy drag.
Thomas barely grunted.
He stepped backward off the runner.
His boots found the wet gravel with absolute certainty.
He pulled me tight against his chest to balance the load.
He radiated a startling, furnace-like heat through his damp clothes.
I felt the hard brass buttons of his waistcoat pressing uncomfortably against my ribs.
I felt the heavy, rhythmic thud of his heart.
As he turned toward the house, my cheek brushed the side of his neck.
His skin was cold from the rain, but smelled distinctly of musk and shaving salt.
I hated the sheer, terrifying vulnerability of being airborne.
I was completely dependent on the physical strength of a man who had bought me like a prized mare.
My breath hitched in a small, involuntary sound of distress.
He strode up the wide stone steps, ignoring the battering rain.
His voice rumbled through his chest and into mine, commanding me to breathe.
He promised he was not going to drop me.
I choked out an apology for being heavy, hating myself for apologizing for my own body.
He simply replied that he had carried heavier things.
He kicked the heavy oak front door open with his boot.
He carried me straight down a long, dark corridor.
He pushed his way into a library that smelled heavily of beeswax and wood smoke.
He stopped beside a heavy wingback leather armchair.
He lowered me carefully until I felt the solid seat beneath me.
With practiced, clinical movements, I hauled my lifeless legs together.
I expected him to look away.
Gentlemen always looked away to pretend the deformity didn’t exist.
Thomas stood by the roaring fire and watched me.
His gaze was steady, observant, and entirely unapologetic.
He poured two glasses of whiskey and thrust one into my hand.
He ordered me to drink before my chattering teeth summoned a chill.
I snapped, demanding to know if I was to be a punching bag or a silent ornament while he paraded mistresses through the hall.
He set his glass down with a sharp clack.
He explained he had bought my father’s debts to regain control of the water rights for his starving tenant farmers.
He revealed his uncle’s will dictated he marry before his thirty-first birthday to keep the unentailed portion of the estate.
That portion funded the village orphanage.
He didn’t want a society debutante who expected quadrilles and diamonds.
He looked at me, recalling a time he saw me drag my chair out of a muddy rut until my palms bled.
He declared he didn’t need a wife who could walk.
He needed a wife with a spine.
He turned and walked out, leaving me alone in the firelight.
For the first time in twelve years, I buried my face in my hands and cried from the sheer shock of being seen.
How was I supposed to survive a marriage where my buyer expected me to be a partner instead of a prisoner?
