My Father Sold Me To The “Beast Of London”—Until Our Wedding Night Storm Changed Everything
Part 2
Would I ever find any warmth within these dark, towering walls, or would I forever be a prisoner of the Beast’s grand estate?
That was the question haunting me as I followed Mrs.
Blackwood, the stern housekeeper, through the labyrinthine corridors to my chambers.
The room was enormous, dominated by a massive four-poster bed draped in emerald green.
It felt less like a bedroom and more like a beautifully decorated cell.
I had barely caught my breath when a knock at the door startled me.
Frederick stepped through, still in his traveling clothes.
His presence made the cavernous space suddenly feel entirely too small.
“I wanted to ensure you were settling in,” he said, an awkwardness in his voice I hadn’t heard before.
“How very considerate,” I replied, my tone dripping with ice.
He moved to the window, staring out at his vast lands.
“I know this is not what you wanted, but it is what we have.
I would prefer we not spend our lives as enemies.”
“What would you prefer?
A partnership?”
I challenged.
“I ask for basic human decency between two people bound together by law and circumstance.
This house has been cold and silent for too long.
We shouldn’t turn this place into a war zone.”
I looked at him properly for the first time since the wedding.
He looked genuinely, deeply tired, carrying burdens I couldn’t yet fathom.
“Why did you choose me?”
I asked quietly.
For once, his expression was unguarded.
“Because you were alive.
I saw you at a ball six months ago, arguing with some young lord, being so vibrantly, fiercely yourself.
I thought perhaps someone with that much life in them might bring some warmth back to this place.”
The confession stripped away my anger, leaving behind something far more complicated.
He wasn’t just cold; he was desperately, achingly lonely.
I told him I couldn’t promise to make it easy, but I would try not to make it deliberately difficult.
The small olive branch transformed his face with something akin to gratitude.
Later that evening, during a dinner swallowed by the sheer size of the dining room, a violent storm broke overhead.
Rain pelted the glass in sheets.
Frederick stood abruptly, declaring he needed to help secure the garden furniture.
Before I could think better of it, I volunteered to join him.
We raced into the deluge, fighting the wind to secure an elaborate marble fountain.
When a heavy stone dolphin shifted dangerously, pulling me forward, Frederick caught me.
Pressed against his solid, warm chest in the freezing rain, the strangest thing happened.
He laughed.
And heaven help me, I laughed too.
The ice between us shattered in the storm.
Could this cold, imposing estate truly become a home, or would the ghosts of Blackmore House always stand between us?
Part 3
The Duke of Blackmore arrived precisely at three o’clock the following afternoon, exactly as promised.
Alexandra watched from her bedroom window, hidden behind the heavy velvet curtains, as the impressive black carriage, bearing the Blackmore coat of arms in bright gold leaf, rolled up the curved gravel drive of Montgomery Hall.
Even the conveyance seemed ominous to her, radiating a dark elegance and restrained power that made her stomach twist into tight knots.
A footman rushed to open the carriage door, and Alexandra held her breath as a tall figure emerged.
Frederick Hawthorne was not what she had expected.
The vicious society rumors had painted him as some gothic horror, a literal monster in human form who scowled at children and kicked dogs.
But the man who stood before Montgomery Hall, adjusting his leather gloves with precise, deliberate movements, was handsome.
Devastatingly so, in a cold, severe way that made Alexandra’s breath catch in her throat despite her deep-seated resentment.
He was incredibly tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders that perfectly filled his impeccably tailored dark coat.
His hair was as dark as midnight, swept back from a face composed of sharp angles, high cheekbones, and aristocratic features.
Even from this distance, she could see the hard, unyielding set of his jaw and the rigid, almost military line of his spine.
He moved like a man accustomed to absolute command, every gesture controlled, deliberate, and powerful.
“He looks rather like a Greek statue,” her mother observed quietly from the doorway, making Alexandra jump.
“Cold and perfect, and utterly unyielding.”
“A statue would be preferable,” Alexandra muttered, turning away from the window.
“At least it would not expect conversation.”
“Alexandra.”
Her mother’s voice held a sharp warning.
“You promised you would be civil.”
“I promised I would be present.
Civility was never guaranteed.”
Lady Catherine sighed deeply, crossing the room to adjust a stray curl on Alexandra’s head.
“Please, darling.
For your own sake, if not for mine.
Try.
Just try to make this easier on yourself.”
Before Alexandra could formulate a sharp response, a knock sounded at the door.
A young maid appeared, curtsying low.
“Begging your pardon, my lady, miss, but the Marquis requests your presence in the drawing room.
His Grace, the Duke, has arrived.”
“We shall be down directly,” Lady Catherine said.
She turned to her daughter, her eyes filled with something close to desperation.
“Please, Alexandra.
Do not make this worse than it already is.”
Alexandra looked at herself in the tall standing mirror.
She took in the pale pink dress her mother had insisted upon, her hair arranged in careful, immaculate ringlets, the picture of docile, obedient femininity she presented to the world.
She barely recognized the woman staring back at her.
“Very well,” she said quietly, her voice devoid of emotion.
“Let us go meet my purchaser.”
The drawing room had been prepared as though for visiting royalty.
Fresh, vibrant flowers adorned every available surface, perfuming the air heavily.
The finest china had been brought out, with delicate cakes and sandwiches arranged symmetrically on gleaming silver trays.
All this pageantry, Alexandra thought bitterly, for a man who has already paid for his prize.
Her father stood near the grand fireplace, engaging the Duke in conversation about hunting—it sounded like.
How perfectly ordinary.
How wonderfully banal.
As though they were not actively discussing the disposal of a human being, as though she were a prize mare or a newly acquired painting.
“Ah, there you are,” the Marquis said smoothly as Alexandra and her mother entered.
“Your Grace, may I present my wife, Lady Catherine, and my daughter, Miss Alexandra Montgomery.”
The Duke turned, and for a terrifying second, Alexandra forgot how to breathe.
Up close, Frederick Hawthorne was even more imposing than he had appeared from her window.
He radiated a quiet, dangerous authority.
But it was his eyes that truly unsettled her.
They were gray as a winter storm, and just as cold.
They swept over her with the calculating, assessing gaze of a man examining a ledger.
She felt her spine stiffen instinctively, her chin lifting in an act of silent defiance.
“Miss Montgomery,” he said.
His voice was deep, cultured, and utterly devoid of any warmth.
He bowed with perfect, practiced propriety.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Liar, she thought viciously.
You care nothing for me beyond what I represent.
A womb to bear your heirs.
A hostess for your sprawling estate.
A decorative ornament to prove you have fulfilled society’s expectations.
But aloud, she said only, “Your Grace,” and executed a curtsy that was technically flawless but entirely lacking in warmth.
His eyes narrowed slightly—the only microscopic indication that he had registered her coldness.
“Please, do sit,” Lady Catherine said with forced, brittle cheerfulness, gesturing frantically to the arrangement of plush furniture.
“I shall ring for tea.”
The next thirty minutes were a special, excruciating kind of torture.
Her parents made polite, agonizing conversation about the weather, the upcoming social season, and estate management.
The Duke responded with equal, measured politeness.
Alexandra sat in frozen silence, her tea growing cold and scummy in her delicate porcelain cup, watching this farcical play unfold.
“Miss Montgomery has been greatly looking forward to this visit,” her father lied smoothly, sending a warning glare in her direction.
“Haven’t you, my dear?”
“With bated breath,” Alexandra replied, her tone so incredibly dry it could have started a brushfire.
The Duke’s attention shifted fully to her for the very first time since their introduction.
The sheer weight of his gaze was almost physical.
“You do not seem pleased with this arrangement, Miss Montgomery.”
The bluntness of his observation startled her.
She had expected continued pretense, not this direct, unapologetic confrontation.
“Would you be pleased, Your Grace, if you were being sold into matrimony with a complete stranger?”
“Alexandra!” her mother gasped, nearly dropping her teacup.
But the Duke held up one large, gloved hand, his eyes never leaving Alexandra’s face.
“A fair question.”
He leaned back in his chair with the easy, infuriating confidence of a man who had never once doubted his own absolute power.
“However, I was not aware that ‘selling’ was an accurate description of our circumstances.
Your father and I have come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“How lovely for you both,” Alexandra shot back, the reckless anger finally bubbling over.
“How wonderful that you both had any say in the matter at all.”
“That is quite enough,” her father snapped, his face flushing dark red.
“You will apologize to His Grace immediately.”
“Will I?”
Alexandra stood up, her hands trembling with rage.
“And if I refuse, will you threaten to cut me off again?
Oh, but wait.
You need not bother.
I am already sold, am I not?
The contracts drawn, the settlements agreed upon.
What more can you possibly take from me?”
The silence that followed was deafening, heavy enough to crush them all.
Lady Catherine looked as though she might genuinely faint, her hand clutching her pearls.
The Marquis looked ready to commit murder.
And the Duke… the Duke was watching her with something that might have been interest, had his expression not been carved from solid ice.
“Perhaps,” the Duke said quietly, his deep voice cutting through the tension like a blade, “Miss Montgomery and I might take a turn about the gardens.
Alone.”
“I hardly think that would be appropriate,” Lady Catherine protested weakly, recovering slightly.
“We are to be married in less than three weeks,” the Duke said, his tone making it abundantly clear this was not a request but a command.
“I believe propriety can be stretched to allow a brief, chaperoned walk.
Your maid can follow at a discreet distance.”
Alexandra recognized the voice of a man accustomed to total obedience.
“Very well,” her father said through clenched teeth.
“Alexandra, you will accompany His Grace.
And you will endeavor to behave with some measure of the decorum expected of your station.”
They walked in absolute silence for several minutes, a nervous maid following twenty paces behind them.
The gardens of Montgomery Hall were extensive, consisting of manicured paths, precisely trimmed hedges, and careful landscaping.
They were beautiful, and utterly, rigidly controlled.
Rather like my life, Alexandra thought bitterly.
“You may speak freely,” the Duke said finally, not breaking his measured stride.
“I prefer honesty to pretty lies.”
“How magnanimous of you.”
“You are angry.”
“What keen powers of observation you possess, Your Grace.”
He stopped walking abruptly, turning to face her directly.
“Miss Montgomery, let us dispense with these childish games.
You do not wish to marry me.
This is abundantly clear.
However, the marriage will proceed regardless of your wishes, or mine.
Given that unalterable reality, would it not be more practical to approach this situation with some degree of civility?”
“Civility?”
Alexandra repeated, something finally snapping entirely inside her.
“You speak of civility while discussing a transaction that treats me as nothing more than property!
Do you have any idea how that feels?
To know you are worth nothing beyond your bloodline and your biological ability to produce heirs?”
“I do, actually.”
His voice remained perfectly level, but something dark and intense flickered in those gray eyes.
“I am also a commodity, Miss Montgomery.
I have wealth, a title, vast estates that must be maintained.
Society expects me to remarry, to produce an heir, to continue the Blackmore line.
I have as little choice in this as you do.”
“You have every choice!
You are a man!
You could refuse.
You could walk away.
No one can force you to do anything.”
“And what would you have me do?”
He took a step closer, his massive frame towering over her, and Alexandra had to fight every instinct urging her to retreat.
“Remain alone in that vast, empty house for the rest of my days?
Watch the title and the estates I have worked tirelessly to maintain fall into ruin and decay simply because I was too selfish to do my duty?”
“Duty.”
She spat the word like a vile curse.
“Everyone speaks of duty as though it absolves all sins.
As though fulfilling one’s obligations to society matters more than one’s own happiness, one’s own heart.”
“The heart,” he interrupted, his voice suddenly sharp and biting, “is a poor, treacherous guide for making decisions that affect not only ourselves, but entire families, estates, and legacies.”
“Spoken like a man who has never consulted his heart about anything in his life.”
“Spoken like a woman who has never had to consider anyone’s needs beyond her own,” he countered instantly.
The accusation stung fiercely, precisely because it held a sliver of truth.
But Alexandra refused to flinch.
“You know nothing about me.”
“I know enough.
I know you are spoiled, willful, and apparently determined to make both our lives completely miserable out of some misguided, romantic notion of feminine independence.”
“And I know you are cold, arrogant, and utterly incapable of seeing women as anything beyond convenient vessels for your precious heirs!”
They stood nearly nose-to-nose now, both breathing hard, their eyes locked in a battle of mutual fury and stubborn pride.
“In three weeks,” the Duke said, his voice dropping to a dangerously quiet whisper, “you will become my wife.
You will be the Duchess of Blackmore, and you will learn exactly what that title requires.
Obedience, propriety, and the good sense to know when you have been granted a privilege rather than subjected to a punishment.”
“A privilege?
You call this a privilege?”
“Do you have any concept of how many women would trade places with you in an instant?
The immense wealth, the exalted position, the absolute security I am offering you?”
“I do not want your wealth!
I do not want your position!”
She stopped, her throat closing around words she could not bear to say.
“I want to be free.
I want to choose my own path.
I want to matter as more than just a womb and a title.”
“What do you want?” he asked, and for just a fraction of a second, something in his tone shifted.
It became almost curious, rather than condemning.
Alexandra looked away, unable to bear the intense, penetrating weight of his gaze any longer.
“It does not matter what I want.
As you so graciously pointed out, the decision has been made.”
“Yes, it has.”
He stepped back, the brief flash of curiosity vanishing as his expression shuddered once more into impenetrable coldness.
“I shall return in one week to discuss the final wedding arrangements with your father.
I suggest you use that time to reconcile yourself to your new circumstances, Miss Montgomery.
Blackmore House is not a place for childish tantrums and foolish rebellion.”
“And what is it a place for, Your Grace?
Misery?
Resignation?
The slow, agonizing death of every hope and dream one has ever dared to hold?”
“It is a place,” he said quietly, looking past her to the horizon, “where duty comes before all else.
The sooner you accept that fundamental truth, the easier this will be for both of us.”
He bowed perfectly, coldly proper, and strode back toward the grand house, leaving Alexandra standing alone among the blooming roses.
Her hands were trembling with rage and something else she could not quite name.
This was the man she was condemned to marry.
This cold, imperious stranger who spoke only of duty and legacy, and saw her as nothing more than a necessary inconvenience to be managed.
Heavens above, she thought, looking up at the gray sky.
What have I done to deserve such a fate?
Three weeks later, the wedding ceremony passed in a blur, as did the agonizing carriage ride to her new husband’s estate.
The sheer scale of Blackmore House was terrifying.
Left alone in her cavernous new chambers by the housekeeper, Alexandra stood on the balcony, wondering how she would ever survive in this beautiful, gilded tomb.
A sudden, sharp knock at the door pulled her back inside.
“Enter,” she called, expecting Mrs.
Blackwood to have returned, or perhaps the promised maid.
Instead, Frederick stepped through the door.
He was still in his traveling clothes, his expression completely unreadable.
“I wanted to ensure you were settling in,” he said.
There was an awkwardness, a hesitation in his deep voice that she had not heard before.
“How very considerate.”
He moved further into the room, his massive presence somehow making the enormous space feel suddenly cramped.
“Alexandra, I…”
He stopped, seeming to actively struggle with his words.
“I know this is not what you wanted.
But it is what we have.
And I…
I would prefer we not spend our entire lives as bitter enemies.”
“What would you prefer?
A partnership, perhaps?”
“Mutual respect, if not affection.
Civility, at absolute minimum.”
“You ask a great deal.”
“I ask for basic human decency between two people bound together by law and circumstance,” he countered softly.
He moved to the window, staring out at his vast, darkening lands.
“This house has been cold and silent for far too long.
I do not wish to make it a battlefield as well.”
Something in his voice—a profound weariness, a deeply ingrained loneliness—made Alexandra pause.
It made her look at him properly, really look at him, for the first time since the wedding.
He looked exhausted.
Not just physically tired from the journey, but tired in a way that suggested years of carrying heavy burdens entirely alone.
“Why did you choose me?” she asked quietly, the anger draining away, replaced by genuine curiosity.
“Of all the women available in London, all the willing debutantes… why me specifically?”
He turned to face her, and for once, his expression was completely open, unguarded.
Vulnerable.
“Because you were alive.”
Alexandra blinked, confused.
“What?”
“Because when I saw you at the Henderson’s ball six months ago—you do not remember, but I was there, watching from the balcony—I saw you laughing with your friends.
I saw you arguing fiercely with some young lord about politics, refusing to back down.
You were being so vibrantly, fiercely yourself.”
He paused, looking down at his hands.
“I thought…
I thought that perhaps someone with that much life in them might bring some warmth back to this place.”
Alexandra stared at him, utterly thrown.
The Beast of Blackmore had chosen her not for her bloodline, but for her spirit.
“You chose me because I was alive?”
“I chose you because you seemed completely incapable of pretense.
Because you were honest, even when honesty was inconvenient or impolite.
Because this house has been filled with ghosts and silence for too long, and I thought…”
He trailed off, looking away, the vulnerability vanishing behind his mask.
“I thought perhaps you might chase some of the darkness away.”
“So I am to be your source of light,” she said, though the anger didn’t return.
Only a profound sadness.
“A decorative candle to brighten your gloomy house.”
“That is not what I meant.
I just…”
He stopped, seeming as surprised by his own confession as she was.
“I want peace, Alexandra.
I want to walk through my own home without feeling like a ghost haunting it.
I want to sit down to dinner with another human being and have a civil conversation.
I want to stop being so damned alone all the time.”
The raw, unfiltered honesty in his voice stripped away the last vestiges of her anger, leaving behind something infinitely more complicated.
He wasn’t a monster.
He was just a man.
A cold, arrogant duke, yes, but also a man who was desperately, achingly lonely.
“I cannot fix that for you,” Alexandra said softly, the truth hanging heavy between them.
“I cannot be what you need me to be.
I can barely manage to be what I need myself to be right now.”
“I know.”
He moved toward the door, his broad shoulders slumping slightly in defeat.
“I apologize for disturbing you.
Please rest.
Dinner is at eight.”
He was nearly to the door when Alexandra heard herself speak.
“Frederick.”
He turned, a tiny spark of hope flickering in those storm-gray eyes.
“I shall try,” she said, the words costing her more pride than she expected, but feeling right nonetheless.
“I cannot promise to make this easy.
But I shall try not to make it deliberately difficult.”
It was the smallest olive branch imaginable, but his expression transformed.
Something almost like profound gratitude crossed his striking features.
“That is all I ask,” he said quietly.
And then he was gone, the heavy door closing softly behind him, leaving Alexandra alone with the deeply uncomfortable realization that her husband might be less beast and more man than she had ever wanted to believe.
Which somehow made everything infinitely more complicated.
Dinner that first night at Blackmore House was an exercise in careful, practiced civility.
They sat at opposite ends of a dining table that could easily have seated thirty people.
An absurd expanse of polished mahogany stretched between them, illuminated by dozens of flickering candles.
They were served by silent footmen who appeared and disappeared like well-trained phantoms.
Alexandra had changed into an evening gown of deep, midnight blue—one her mother had insisted upon, claiming it brought out her eyes.
She had allowed her assigned maid, a nervous young woman named Betty, to arrange her hair in an elaborate style she would never have chosen herself.
Playing dress-up, she thought bitterly as she sat down.
Playing at being a Duchess.
Frederick had also changed, now wearing stark evening dress that made him look even more imposing.
All severe black and white, perfectly tailored, devastatingly handsome in a way that irritated Alexandra more than she cared to admit.
“The soup is excellent,” she offered, because someone had to break the oppressive, echoing silence of the room.
“Mrs.
Henderson has been the cook here for twenty years.
She is quite skilled.”
Frederick gestured slightly to a footman, who immediately stepped forward to refill his wine glass.
“I have instructed her to consult directly with you regarding all menus, should you wish to make changes.”
“That is considerate.
Thank you.”
More silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
The footman served the next course—some sort of delicate fish in a white sauce.
Alexandra pushed it around her expensive plate, her appetite entirely vanished.
“Tell me about your first wife,” she said abruptly, tired of tiptoeing around the massive elephant in the room.
If they were to be partners, as he suggested, she needed to know.
“If we are to live together, should I not know about the woman who held this position before me?”
Frederick’s silver fork stilled halfway to his mouth.
He set it down carefully, precisely on the edge of his plate, then reached for his wine glass.
“Catherine,” he said finally, his voice tight, “was everything a duchess should be.
Beautiful, accomplished, perfectly mannered.
She came from an excellent, ancient family.
Our parents arranged the match when we were both quite young.”
“Did you love her?”
“I cared for her greatly.
She was…”
He paused, staring into the dark red depths of his wine as though it might hold answers.
“She was fragile.
Delicate.
The sort of woman who needed constant protecting.
And she died in childbirth.
The babe as well.
A son.”
His voice remained remarkably steady, but Alexandra saw his large knuckles whiten dangerously around the delicate crystal stem of the wine glass.
“She suffered for two days before… before the end.”
“Frederick, I…”
Alexandra stopped, horrified by her own callousness, her own desperate need to push.
“I am so sorry.
I should not have asked.”
“No.”
He looked up, meeting her eyes directly across that ridiculous expanse of table.
“You have every right to ask.
This house carries her memory in every single corner.
You should know whose ghost you are expected to live alongside.”
“Is that why everything feels so…”
She gestured vaguely at their surroundings—the formal place settings, the heavy silver, the oppressive, unchanging grandeur.
“So carefully preserved?
As though time stopped the day she died?”
He set down his wine glass with a decisive, sharp click.
“After she passed, I could not bear to change anything.
It felt like erasing her somehow.
Like admitting she had truly gone.”
“But she has gone, Frederick.
And you…”
Alexandra chose her words with extreme care.
“You are still here.
Still living.
This house should reflect that.”
“Are you suggesting I have been dwelling in the past?”
“I am suggesting that perhaps we are both prisoners here.
Me of circumstance, you of memory.”
Something shifted dramatically in his expression.
Surprise, perhaps, that she would extend that sort of psychological understanding.
Before he could formulate a response, a massive crack of thunder rumbled outside, loud enough to violently rattle the tall glass windows.
Within moments, heavy rain began pelting the glass in sheets.
“The storm has finally arrived,” Frederick observed, rising quickly from his chair.
“I should check that the groundskeepers properly secured the heavy garden furniture.
If you will excuse me.”
“I shall come with you.”
She was already standing, deeply grateful for any excuse to leave this cavernous, depressing dining room.
He turned, surprise clear on his face.
“That is not necessary.
The rain is quite fierce.”
“I am not made of sugar, Frederick.
I shall not melt.”
She walked toward him.
“Besides, you said you wanted a partnership.
Partners do not sit idly by while the other works.”
For a moment, she thought he would argue and order her to stay.
But instead, something very much like respect flickered across his features.
“Very well.
But we shall need coats.”
They made their way rapidly through corridors that seemed to stretch endlessly, Frederick leading her through a narrow servant’s passage—faster, he explained, than navigating the main house.
A startled housekeeper produced heavy woolen coats and sturdy boots.
Alexandra struggled with the unfamiliar, stiff fastenings until Frederick wordlessly knelt before her on the stone floor, adjusting the buckles with surprising gentleness.
“I am capable of managing my own footwear,” she protested weakly.
“I know.
But these buckles are tricky, and we are in rather a hurry.”
He finished with the second boot and stood, shrugging into his own coat.
“Ready?”
They emerged into the storm through a side door, instantly assaulted by howling wind and freezing rain.
Alexandra gasped as cold water struck her face, but Frederick had already grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the center of the gardens.
“This way!” he shouted over the roar of the wind.
“The main fountain needs securing!”
They ran together through the torrential downpour, their coats quickly soaked through.
The fountain, a massive, elaborate marble affair featuring a mythological scene, stood in the center of the main garden.
Water was overflowing its basins rapidly, and the heavy decorative figures around its base were at risk of being toppled and shattered by the fierce wind.
Frederick immediately set to work, bracing the loose elements with his own weight, his movements sure and powerful despite the blinding rain.
Alexandra watched for only a second before joining him, grabbing hold of a large marble dolphin that was rocking dangerously on its pedestal.
“Careful!”
Frederick called out.
“That piece is heavier than it looks!”
As if on cue, the dolphin shifted suddenly, its massive weight pulling Alexandra forward.
She would have fallen directly face-first into the overflowing basin had Frederick not moved with lightning speed.
He caught her, his strong arms coming around her waist, steadying her firmly against him.
For a moment, they stood completely frozen.
Pressed flush against each other, the rain streaming down their faces, his arms incredibly solid and warm around her despite the freezing cold.
“Thank you,” Alexandra gasped, her heart pounding against her ribs, acutely aware of every single point where their bodies touched.
“You must be more careful,” he said, but there was no anger in his voice.
Only genuine concern, and something else—something dark and intense in his gray eyes.
“I was being careful!
The wretched dolphin was not!”
Despite the absurd circumstances—despite the freezing cold, the howling storm, the forced marriage, and everything else—Frederick laughed.
He actually threw his head back and laughed.
The sound was startled out of him, deep and rich, his harsh face completely transformed by genuine amusement.
And Alexandra, soaked to the bone and shivering in her husband’s arms in the middle of a midnight storm, found herself laughing too.
“We are completely mad,” she managed between breathless giggles.
“Standing in a deluge, wrestling with decorative sea creatures.”
“Attempting to save them from the indignity of toppling over,” Frederick added, his own laughter subsiding into a wide grin that made him look ten years younger.
“You are completely soaked.”
“As are you, Your Grace.”
The laughter slowly faded, replaced by an intense, charged silence that the roaring storm could not drown out.
He was still holding her waist.
She was still looking up at him, the rain washing away the last of her carefully maintained hostility.
In the silver flashes of lightning, he wasn’t a beast.
He was just Frederick.
He leaned down slowly, giving her every opportunity to pull away.
When she didn’t, his lips met hers.
It was nothing like the cold, perfunctory kiss at the altar.
This kiss was warm, desperate, and remarkably tender.
It tasted of rain and wine and sudden, terrifying hope.
Alexandra closed her eyes, kissing him back, her hands coming up to grip the wet lapels of his coat.
In that single, breathless moment amidst the storm, the walls between them finally collapsed.
They eventually broke apart, both breathing heavily, the rain still pouring around them.
Frederick rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed.
“Let us go inside,” he murmured softly.
“Before we both catch our death.”
Hand in hand, they walked back to the massive, imposing house.
But as they stepped through the heavy wooden doors and into the warmth of the hallway, the house no longer felt like a tomb.
It felt, for the very first time, like it might eventually become a home.
THE END
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Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. If you would like to share your story, please send it to [email protected].
