My Mother Treated Me Like A Servant To Marry Off My Sister — Until The Most Dangerous Duke In England Made His Move
Part 1
The spring of 1815 in London was mercilessly bright, a season characterized by extravagant wealth and ruthless social maneuvering.
In the grand but fading townhouse of my family, the scent of blooming wisteria only barely masked the suffocating fog of desperation.
At twenty-seven years old, I was entirely invisible to the world.
I sat by the tall window of our morning room, my needle flashing silver in the pale light as I meticulously repaired the delicate Belgian lace on a gown that was not mine.
My dark hair was pulled back into a severe knot.
I wore a dress of faded dove-gray muslin that had seen three prior seasons.
“You are pulling the thread too tight, Megan,” my mother, Brenda, snapped from across the room.
She paced the length of the Persian rug.
Her eyes darted anxiously toward the gilded clock on the mantle.
“I am being careful, Mother,” I replied softly.
I kept my gaze fixed on my work.
“Careful is not enough,” Brenda continued, her voice sharp as glass.
“Heather must look flawless tonight.”
From the plush velvet chaise lounge, a light and utterly vacuous laugh rang out.
My nineteen-year-old sister, Heather, popped a sugared almond into her mouth.
With spun-gold hair and eyes the color of summer skies, she was the undisputed diamond of the season.
She was everything I was not.
“Oh, do not fret, Mama,” Heather said.
She examined her manicured fingernails with profound interest.
“Lord Tyler is completely besotted.”
Brenda stopped pacing.
“Tyler is fine, but I am more interested in the new arrival.”
“Have you heard the whispers about Brian, the Duke of Westall?”
The needle in my hand paused for a fraction of a second.
Even in my isolation, relegated to the shadows of the household, I had heard the name.
He had spent the last decade on the continent, amassing a fortune in shipping that rivaled the crown’s.
He was rumored to be ruthless, cold, and entirely unpredictable.
Tonight, he was hosting a grand ball at his sprawling estate, an affair that had sent the entire elite class into a frenzy.
“If you could turn his eye, Tyler would be a mere footnote,” Brenda breathed, her eyes glinting with predatory hunger.
“His estates span three counties.”
Heather smirked and finally rose to inspect my work.
“Are you finished yet, Megan?”
She snatched the seafoam-green silk gown from my hands without a word of thanks.
“You look dreadfully tired.”
“It depresses the entire household to look at you.”
Brenda waved a dismissive hand in my direction.
“You will take your supper in your room tonight.”
“I cannot have guests calling tomorrow and seeing you hovering about like a forgotten specter.”
“You are a confirmed spinster, a burden on this family.”
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper.
I bowed my head and quietly gathered my sewing supplies.
As I slipped out of the morning room, the heavy oak door clicked shut behind me.
I was nothing to them but an unpaid maid, a receptacle for their scorn.
My father, Craig, was locked in his study right now, drowning his massive gambling debts in cheap gin.
The family was a hollow shell, desperate to sell its youngest daughter to the highest bidder to maintain the illusion of grandeur.
By ten o’clock that evening, the townhouse was tomb-silent.
The carriage had departed hours ago, carrying Brenda, Craig, and a radiant Heather to the Duke’s estate.
I sat in my small attic room, a restless energy throbbing in my chest.
I walked to my narrow window and looked out toward the distant, golden glow of a thousand wax candles burning in the Duke’s ballroom.
Suddenly, my eyes caught something glittering on my small wooden dresser.
It was Heather’s reticule.
The delicate pouch of embroidered silk contained her smelling salts, a lace handkerchief, and the family crest seal my mother used for carriage tabs.
Heather had forgotten it.
Brenda would be furious, and I knew exactly who would bear the brunt of that fury tomorrow morning.
A daring, utterly reckless thought seized me.
I could not attend the ball, but I could deliver the reticule.
I could walk to the servant’s entrance, hand it to a footman, and perhaps steal just a glimpse of the grandeur.
Pulling a heavy woolen cloak over my plain navy gown, I slipped out of the house and into the fog-laden night.
The walk was a blur of adrenaline and fear.
When I arrived, the sheer scale of the mansion took my breath away.
Hundreds of carriages lined the cobblestone drive.
The sweeping strains of a waltz spilled from the open terrace doors.
Avoiding the grand entrance, I skirted the perimeter to seek the servant’s path.
The gardens were a labyrinth of high hedges and marble statues.
Lost in the sprawling maze, I turned a corner and suddenly found myself in a secluded, moonlit alcove.
I froze.
Standing by a stone fountain, shrouded in the shadows of an ancient oak tree, was a man.
He was tall, his broad shoulders cutting a striking silhouette against the silver moonlight.
He wore a stark black evening coat devoid of the ostentatious jewels favored by the elite.
The glowing ember of a cheroot illuminated the sharp, uncompromising angles of his jaw.
“If you are looking for a place to swoon, madam, I must warn you the grass is damp,” a deep, gravelly voice cut through the darkness.
“I have no inclination to catch you.”
I bristled, my natural wit piercing through my initial shock.
“I assure you, sir, my constitution is quite robust.”
“I have no intention of swooning, nor would I trust a stranger lurking in the bushes to break my fall.”
The man paused.
He stepped forward into a patch of moonlight.
My breath hitched slightly.
He was devastatingly handsome, but not in the polished, fragile manner of society dandies.
His face bore the subtle lines of a man who had seen profound hardship.
His lips twitched in the faintest hint of a smile.
“I am seeking refuge.”
“The air inside is thick with cheap perfume and cheaper flattery.”
“What is your excuse for dressing like a smuggler?”
I pulled my cloak tighter around my shoulders.
“I am running an errand, delivering a forgotten item for my sister.”
His dark eyes swept over me, missing nothing.
“You are a sister, not a servant.”
“Yet you are relegated to delivering parcels in the dead of night.”
“Let me guess.”
“You are the invisible one, the spinster.”
The word stung, but I lifted my chin.
“I am twenty-seven, sir.”
“In the eyes of society, I am ancient, kept out of sight so as not to taint the market value of my younger sibling.”
A genuine, dark chuckle escaped his chest.
He crushed his cheroot beneath his polished boot.
“You speak of marriage as if it were a livestock auction.”
“Is it not?” I challenged, my frustration bleeding into my voice.
“My sister is currently inside parading her virtues before the highest bidders.”
“Lord Tyler, who possesses a fortune and the morals of an alley cat.”
“And the new Duke of Westall, who they say is a ruthless tyrant with a heart of ice.”
“She will marry one of them, and she will wear very expensive diamonds while she weeps.”
The man took a slow step closer.
The scent of sandalwood and crisp night air enveloped me.
“And what of you, invisible sister?”
“What do you want?”
“I want peace,” I said, the truth slipping out before I could guard it.
“I want to read my books without being told I am wasting candles.”
“I want to be spoken to as a human being, not a burden.”
He stared at me with a piercing intensity that made my heart hammer violently.
“You are a remarkably dangerous woman,” he said softly.
“You perceive the harsh realities of this society without shrinking away from them.”
Before I could process the compliment, the harsh crunch of footsteps on gravel broke the spell.
A liveried footman rounded the corner, bowing deeply.
“Your Grace, forgive me, but the guests are asking for the Duke.”
My blood turned to ice in my veins.
I stepped back, my eyes wide with horror.
He was the ruthless tyrant my family was currently hunting like a prize stag.
He didn’t look at the footman.
“Tell them I will join momentarily,” he commanded.
The footman scurried away.
“You are Westall,” I stammered.
“I am,” Brian said, reaching out toward me.
I turned and fled into the London fog, praying the most dangerous man in England hadn’t just made me his target.
