My Stepbrother Traded Me To A Monster — Then I Met The Duke
Part 1
The grand ballroom of the Duchess’s estate felt less like a celebration and more like an opulent slaughterhouse.
A thousand beeswax candles dripped golden wax from the chandeliers above, their light catching on diamonds and rubies as London’s elite swirled across the marble floor.
I pressed myself back against the heavy velvet drapes, praying the shadows would swallow my emerald silk gown entirely.
My stepbrother, Craig, had chosen this dress specifically for its high lace collar and long, suffocating sleeves.
Those thick layers of fabric were not meant to reflect the height of fashion.
They were a carefully constructed cage designed to hide the horrific damage he had inflicted upon my skin.
Craig’s fingers suddenly dug into the soft tissue of my waist.
A sharp gasp caught in my throat.
He leaned in close, the stench of stale brandy masking the venom in his whisper.
Smile, Brenda.
You look like a corpse standing in the corner.
Lord Brian is watching us from the far side of the room.
If you do not secure his proposal tonight, you will learn the true meaning of regret when we return home.
My stomach rolled violently at the mention of the older man’s name.
Brian was notoriously cruel, possessing a vast fortune and a reputation that made the bravest men shudder.
Craig needed that fortune to clear the massive gambling debts he had racked up in the hells of Soho.
I was merely the collateral he intended to trade for his survival.
Across the sprawling expanse of the room, a man stood completely still beside an imported Italian marble pillar.
Dan, the Duke of Rothesay, observed the chaotic swirl of the marriage mart with the icy detachment of a general surveying a battlefield.
Society matrons whispered that his heart was carved from the same impenetrable stone as his ancestral Highland fortress.
He was a man governed by absolute order, notoriously detesting the frivolous games of the season.
Yet, tonight, his piercing blue gaze remained fixed unwaveringly on my trembling form.
I felt exposed under his intense scrutiny, as if his sharp eyes could see straight through the emerald silk to the terror vibrating in my bones.
A sudden, terrifying shift in the crowd parted a path directly toward our dark corner.
Conversations dropped into hushed, eager whispers.
The elusive Duke was making a deliberate beeline for us.
Craig spun around, his tight grip on my arm instantly melting into a sickening mask of sycophantic delight.
Your Grace, what an unexpected honor.
Dan did not so much as glance at my stepbrother.
His focus remained entirely locked on my face.
A fine sheen of cold sweat dotted my upper lip.
My breathing had become shallow and erratic, my chest rising and falling in tight, panicked jerks.
Miss Brenda, he murmured, executing a flawless, minimal bow.
I find myself in need of a distraction from the stifling politics of this room.
Would you do me the honor of this waltz?
The request hit the immediate vicinity like a physical blow.
The Duke of Rothesay never waltzed.
He certainly never asked impoverished, scandal-ridden girls to take the floor with him.
Craig practically shoved me forward, his fingers digging one last painful warning into my spine.
She would be absolutely delighted, Your Grace.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird desperately seeking a broken window.
Refusing a duke of his standing was equivalent to social suicide.
Such a transgression would earn me a punishment from Craig that I might not survive.
Accepting meant movement, close contact, and the very real danger that my agonizing secret would be discovered.
With trembling, icy fingers, I reached out.
I placed my hand lightly upon the Duke’s offered arm.
He guided me toward the center of the floor just as the string quartet launched into a sweeping, melodic waltz.
Dan turned to face me fully.
He raised his right hand, a pristine white glove catching the candlelight.
The very second his palm made contact with the silk at my side, my lungs collapsed.
A sharp, ragged sound ripped its way out of my throat.
My entire body recoiled violently.
Every muscle stiffened into a rigid board of unadulterated agony.
Please, Your Grace, I whispered frantically, my voice barely audible over the swelling music.
Do not touch me.
Dan froze instantly.
His gloved hand hovered a mere fraction of an inch above the crushed silk of my waist.
The rigid societal protocols he lived by dictated that he should step back immediately.
A gentleman never forced a reluctant lady, and a duke certainly never tolerated public humiliation.
Instead of walking away, his piercing eyes searched my pale, terrified face.
Are you unwell? he asked, his rich baritone dropping to a private, dangerous register.
I am merely fatigued from the heat, I stammered, staring fixedly at the intricate embroidery on his lapel.
I beg your pardon, but I cannot dance.
Then we shall not dance, Dan stated firmly, the absolute certainty in his voice sending a strange jolt through my chest.
Allow me to escort you to the conservatory.
It is cooler there, and we will be far away from your brother’s prying eyes.
I hesitated, throwing a terrified glance toward the edge of the room.
Craig’s face had already darkened into a mask of brutal suspicion.
Dan stepped deliberately into my line of sight, using his broad shoulders to physically block my stepbrother from view.
You are with me now, he commanded softly.
No one in this room will dare question my actions.
The glass conservatory was heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth.
Cool air provided immediate relief from the suffocating heat of the ballroom.
Dan led me down a secluded stone pathway flanked by towering ferns.
We stopped near a small bench partially hidden by a heavy velvet draft curtain.
Sit, he instructed gently.
My legs practically gave out beneath me as I collapsed onto the cold stone.
I clutched my small reticule so tightly my knuckles turned stark white.
The reality of my situation crashed over me like a freezing wave.
I was completely alone in a dimly lit room with the most powerful nobleman in London.
Craig was undoubtedly pacing the perimeter, counting the seconds until he could drag me back to the carriage.
Breathe, Brenda, Dan said, using my Christian name with a shocking lack of permission.
He remained standing at a respectful distance, his hands clasped firmly behind his back.
You are safe here.
You do not understand, Your Grace, I choked out, a single hot tear finally escaping to track through the powder on my cheek.
My brother expects me to be with Brian tonight.
He will not tolerate this defiance.
Your brother is a known degenerate who owes half the syndicates in the city, Dan interrupted, his voice dripping with icy contempt.
I care absolutely nothing for his expectations.
I looked up at him, entirely startled by his blunt, ruthless assessment.
Then why did you single me out?
Because you looked as though you were walking to your execution, his brow furrowed as he stepped closer.
When I placed my hand on your waist, you reacted as if I had pressed a branding iron to your bare skin.
His voice dropped to a terrifying whisper.
Who did this to you?
My blood turned to ice water.
No one, I lied, my voice shaking uncontrollably.
I am simply clumsy and suffered a bad fall.
Do not insult my intelligence, Dan countered smoothly.
I have served in the military and know the distinct difference between a clumsy fall and the flinch of repeated trauma.
Panic seized my chest in a vice grip.
If the Duke discovered the truth, Craig would actually kill me.
It was not a metaphorical fear.
I knew exactly what violence my stepbrother was capable of when his back was against the wall.
I must return to the ballroom immediately.
I stood up abruptly, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of Dan’s gaze.
As I lunged forward, the heel of my slipper caught violently on the uneven stone floor.
I stumbled, a cry of genuine alarm tearing past my lips.
Dan reacted with blinding speed.
He reached out, his large hands gripping my upper arms to steady my fall.
A wretched, guttural scream of pure pain ripped from my throat.
My legs gave way entirely.
As I collapsed heavily against his chest, the delicate seam of my tight emerald sleeve strained and ripped entirely open at the shoulder.
He caught my weight easily, lowering me gently back onto the stone bench.
As his hands left my skin, his eyes locked onto the sickening, blackened bruises covering my arm.
