My Father Sold Me To The “Beast Of London”—Until Our Wedding Night Storm Changed Everything
Part 1
The morning I learned of my fate, rain lashed against the windows of Montgomery Hall with such ferocity it seemed the heavens themselves protested what was to come.
I stood in my father’s study, still wearing my riding habit, mud-splattered and improper, having been summoned directly from the stables.
My dark hair had escaped its pins during my morning gallop, wild tendrils framing a face flushed with exertion, and increasingly, with fury.
My father, Charles Montgomery, the Marquis of Asheford, sat behind his mahogany desk like a judge preparing to deliver a sentence.
His expression was granite, unmoved by the storm building in my eyes.
“You cannot be serious,” I said, my voice low and dangerous.
“I am perfectly serious.”
His tone brooked no argument.
“The contracts have been drawn.
The settlement agreed upon.
You will marry Frederick Hawthorne, the Duke of Blackmore, three weeks hence.”
“The Duke of Blackmore?”
My voice rose, incredulity giving way to outrage.
“That man is a beast!
The whole of London whispers about him.
How he shut himself away after his wife died.
How he speaks to no one.
How his very gaze can freeze a person where they stand.”
“Precisely why this match is so advantageous.”
My father rose from his chair, moving to the window to observe the rain.
“The Duke requires a wife.
We require his wealth and influence.
It is a perfectly reasonable arrangement.”
“Reasonable?”
I felt my hands curling into fists at my sides.
“You speak of me as though I were a broodmare to be sold at Tattersalls!”
“Do not be dramatic, Alexandra.
This is how our world functions.
Your mother and I were matched by our parents, and we have enjoyed a perfectly adequate marriage.”
“Adequate?”
The word tasted bitter on my tongue.
“How wonderfully romantic.”
He turned, his eyes hard.
“You are two and twenty years old.
You have refused every suitable gentleman who has shown interest.
Lord Peyton is a pompous boor.
The Earl of Essex has the wit of a fence post.
And Sir Thomas believes a woman’s sole purpose is to ornament a drawing room.”
“And what, pray tell, do you believe a woman’s purpose to be?”
The question hung in the air like a challenge.
“I believe,” I said slowly, “that a woman should have some say in her own destiny.
That she should be more than property exchanged between men for profit.”
His jaw tightened.
“You will marry the Duke of Blackmore, Alexandra.
You will become his duchess, and you will finally learn what it means to be a woman of quality in this society.
If you refuse, I shall cut you off entirely.
No inheritance, no home, no support of any kind.”
The words struck me like physical blows.
I felt my throat tighten, the hot sting of tears I refused to shed in front of this man who had just crushed every dream I never quite dared to speak aloud.
“You would cast me out, your own daughter, for refusing to marry a man I have never even met?”
I asked.
“I would do what is necessary,” he said coldly.
“You have three weeks to reconcile yourself to your new circumstances.
You are dismissed.”
Without another word, I turned on my heel and strode from the study, my spine rigid, my head high.
I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.
The following day, the Beast arrived.
I watched from my bedroom window as the impressive black carriage, bearing the Blackmore coat of arms in gold leaf, rolled up the curved drive.
Even the conveyance seemed ominous, all dark elegance and restrained power.
A footman rushed to open the door, and I held my breath as a tall figure emerged.
Frederick Hawthorne was not what I expected.
The rumors had painted him as a gothic horror, a monster in human form.
But the man who stood before our hall was devastatingly handsome, in a cold, severe way that made my breath catch.
He was well over six feet, with broad shoulders and hair as dark as midnight.
His eyes, gray as a winter storm, swept over me later in the drawing room with the assessing gaze of a man examining livestock at market.
“Miss Montgomery,” he said, his voice deep and devoid of warmth.
“A pleasure to finally meet you.”
He was lying, of course.
I was nothing but a transactional asset to him.
A womb to bear your heirs.
When he insisted we take a turn about the gardens alone, the tension between us snapped.
“Let us dispense with games,” he said once we were out of earshot.
“You do not wish to marry me.
This is abundantly clear.
However, the marriage will proceed regardless of your wishes or mine.
Given that reality, would it not be more practical to approach this situation with some degree of civility?”
“Civility?”
I spat.
“I speak of civility while discussing a transaction that treats me as property!
Do you have any idea how that feels?”
“I am also a commodity, Miss Montgomery,” he fired back.
“I have wealth, a title, estates that must be maintained.
Society expects me to remarry, to produce an heir.
My hands are just as tied as yours.”
We stood nearly nose to nose, both breathing hard.
Three weeks later, under a gray March sky, we were married.
His vows were spoken with cold precision.
His ring felt like a shackle.
As we rode in his ominous black carriage toward Blackmore House, the silence between us was suffocating.
I stared out the window at the desolate countryside, refusing to look at the stranger who now owned me.
When we finally arrived, Blackmore House rose from the landscape like something from a gothic novel—dark stone, imposing towers, ancient trees reaching toward each other like grasping fingers.
An entire regiment of servants waited outside.
Frederick stepped down and offered his hand.
I took it, stepping onto the gravel, feeling the weight of dozens of eyes upon me.
I stared up at the imposing stone walls of Blackmore House, realizing with a sudden, icy clarity that my life as I knew it was over, and my time with the Beast had just begun.
