My Fiancé Dumped Me For A Debt-Ridden Widow — So I Married The Prince To Destroy His Life
Part 1
Nausea is a deeply unromantic feeling.
I sat perfectly rigid in the swaying carriage, pressing my bare knuckles into the cold leather seat.
I tasted stale mint tea and raw humiliation.
By morning, the gossip columns would eagerly declare me a discarded spinster tossed out so a duke could bed a debt-ridden widow.
Rain streaked the carriage glass.
I didn’t cry.
I had just lost a kingdom.
The grandfather clock in the corner of Craig’s drawing room ticked with a heavy metallic thud.
My tea had gone tepid twenty minutes ago.
Craig was late.
When the heavy oak doors finally parted, he walked in smelling of damp riding wool and sharp citrus cologne.
He walked to the sideboard, poured a brandy, and downed it in one swallow.
“I don’t know how to do this gracefully, so I won’t,” he said, gripping the mahogany edge as if he needed steadying.
“The engagement is off.”
The words landed in the space between us, heavy and absurd.
I picked at a loose thread on my kid-leather glove.
“Is it a matter of the dowry?” I asked, my tone perfectly conversational.
Craig cut me off.
“It’s Megan.”
Megan.
A widow of three years whose debts were the subject of every parlor room whisper.
“I love her,” Craig declared, his chin tilting up in defiance.
He wanted an argument, but I refused to give him one.
“Marrying you made sense, you are good, you are appropriate,” he swallowed hard.
“But Megan makes me feel alive, and I can’t marry a ledger book, Brenda.”
The insult didn’t burn.
It froze.
A ledger book.
I stood up, smoothing the front of my skirt with shaking hands.
I forced my jaw to unclench.
“Where is she?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Craig shifted his weight nervously.
“She’s in the library, isn’t she?” I had smelled her distinct rosewater and gin perfume when I walked in.
Craig flushed an ugly red.
“Brenda, please, let’s not strip the dignity from this.”
A short, ugly laugh scraped out of my throat.
“My dignity.”
I reached into my reticule, pulled out the velvet box containing his heavy gold signet ring, and set it on the sideboard.
“Keep the ring,” my voice dropped to a near whisper.
“I imagine you’ll need to pawn it to cover her dressmaker’s bills.”
I turned and walked out.
Two weeks dragged by like a rusted chain.
The societal fallout was swift and merciless.
Invitations ceased entirely, and acquaintances crossed the street to avoid me.
The society papers devoured the scandal, painting Craig as a romantic hero who chose passion over duty.
I was simply the dull, frigid spinster left rightfully behind.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, the sky the color of bruised iron.
I was in the conservatory, mindlessly pruning a potted fern.
“My lady.”
I didn’t look up, assuming it was the butler.
“I told you, I don’t want any tea.”
“I am not your butler.”
The voice was a low baritone, rough around the edges, entirely unfamiliar.
I dropped the pruning shears and spun around.
Standing in the doorway of the conservatory was Prince Tyler.
He was not a handsome man.
His nose was slightly crooked, his jaw too square, and dark, bruised-looking circles sat heavily beneath his pale gray eyes.
“Your Highness,” I stammered, dropping into a clumsy curtsy.
“Rise, Lady Brenda, the curtsy is unnecessary.”
He dropped into a wicker chair, sighing a long, exhausted sound.
“My father is dying.”
He stated it flatly, no preamble.
“When he dies, the parliament will fracture.”
He pulled a silver cigarette case from his pocket and lit one.
“Craig is currently rallying the southern lords against me, arguing I am unfit to rule because I remain unmarried and without an heir.”
I crossed my arms over my chest.
“I fail to see how Craig’s political maneuverings involve me anymore.”
Tyler exhaled a thin plume of gray smoke.
“Because Craig’s power rests entirely on his reputation.”
His lip curled in a sneer.
“I need a wife immediately, by Friday.”
I stared at him.
“You are mad.”
“I am pragmatic.”
Tyler leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
“If I marry a foreign princess, the parliament will call it a weak alliance.”
He tapped his cigarette ash into a terracotta pot.
“If I marry into one of Craig’s allied families, I sleep with a knife at my throat.”
His pale gray eyes locked onto mine.
“But if I marry you, I inherit the loyalty of the northern families who despise him for insulting you.”
The words tasted like copper in my mouth.
“I land a direct public blow to his ego.”
Tyler stood up, crushing the cigarette beneath his heavy boot.
“The woman he threw away becomes his queen.”
My breath hitched.
Queen.
“I’m not offering you a romance, Brenda.”
He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him.
“I’m offering you a partnership, a crown, and revenge.”
I looked up at his cold, exhausted face.
I thought of Craig’s shaving nick, the way he called me a ledger book.
I thought of Megan’s high-pitched laugh.
A cold, sharp stone of resolve settled in my stomach.
I pulled off my soiled apron and held my hand out to him.
“I accept your terms, Your Highness.”
