My Uncle Sold Me to the Most Dangerous Man in England to Cover His Debts — He Didn’t Realize What He Unleashed

Part 1

Sweat pooled at the base of my spine, trapped beneath three merciless layers of rigid silk and unyielding whalebone.

The air in the dowager countess’s library was thick, tasting distinctly of souring lavender water and the desperate metallic tang of too many human bodies packed into the adjoining ballroom.

I pressed my shoulders flat against the mahogany wainscoting, hoping the wood’s faint coolness might seep through my gown.

It did not.

The incessant scrape of fiddles bled through the heavy double doors, a frantic, shrill sound that set my teeth on edge.

Out there, the marriage mart was in full bloody swing.

Mothers were circling like hawks in taffeta, younger sons puffing out hollow chests, men with rotting teeth sizing up terrified girls as if checking the teeth of a broodmare.

I dragged a jagged breath into my lungs, the corset biting hard into my lower ribs.

I was twenty-four, ancient by the brutal metrics of the ton.

This was my fifth season, funded by the rapidly dwindling dregs of my late father’s estate.

My uncle Craig’s ultimatum had been delivered that morning over cold toast and tepid tea.

Find a husband by the end of the week, Megan, or I am packing you off to Yorkshire to marry cousin Dan.

Dan, a man who breathed entirely through his mouth and collected dead moths.

You cannot hide in here forever, Brenda hissed.

My younger sister was pacing the perimeter of the Persian rug, her own pink skirts rustling like dry leaves.

Brenda was nineteen, still possessed the shiny, unbruised optimism I had shed years ago, and smelled pleasantly of rosewater rather than impending doom.

Lord Harrington is looking for you.

He asked me twice if you had retired to the retiring room.

Tell him I died, I muttered, closing my eyes.

The red glare of the gas lamps bled through my eyelids.

Tell him I caught cholera in the carriage and spontaneously combusted.

Tell him anything, Brenda, just keep that man and his wet grasping hands away from me.

He has ten thousand a year.

He has the breath of a dying badger, I shot back, opening my eyes.

The library was suffocating.

Dust motes danced lazily in the heavy air, indifferent to my panic.

I reached up, fingers fumbling with the high lace collar of my gown, desperately trying to create a fraction of space against my throat.

My pulse throbbed against the delicate skin there, frantic and trapped.

Megan, please, Brenda pleaded, stopping her pacing to wring her gloved hands.

The white kid leather squeaked slightly.

Uncle Craig was not making idle threats.

You know he wasn’t.

You have to secure someone, anyone.

It does not have to be a love match, it just has to be a match.

The sheer crushing reality of it settled over me like a wet wool blanket.

My life was not my own.

My body, my time, my future, they were commodities and depreciating ones at that.

A sudden, hysterical bubble of laughter lodged in my throat.

The absurdity of it all.

The indignity of being paraded around like cattle.

I pushed myself off the wall, the silk of my skirt catching on a splinter of the wainscoting with a quiet rip.

I did not even care.

Anyone, I repeated, my voice dropping an octave, entirely stripped of the polite musical cadence I was trained to use.

I stalked toward the heavy oak doors separating the library from the corridor, my boots clicking sharply against the polished floorboards where the rug ended.

You want me to marry anyone?

Keep your voice down, Brenda whispered, eyes darting to the door.

Why?

Who is listening, the dead moths?

I slapped a palm against the cool, dark wood of the door.

The wood grain was rough against my skin.

I was so tired.

My bones ached with it.

My mind was a frayed rope snapping thread by thread.

Fine.

You want a match?

I surrender to the whims of the market.

I will marry the first man who enters this room.

I do not care if it is the footman with the lazy eye.

I do not care if it is the chimney sweep.

I will take the bloody coal boy over another minute in that ballroom.

Megan, stop being dramatic.

I am completely serious, I said, leaning closer to the door.

The hysterical edge in my voice sharpened into something dangerously close to a sob.

I swallowed it down, forcing a bitter, wide smile.

The very next man to turn this handle, I will drop to my knees and propose myself.

Let us let fate decide, Brenda.

It could not possibly do a worse job than Uncle Craig.

The heavy brass handle beneath my left hand turned.

With a sharp, metallic clack, the latch disengaged.

I snatched my hand back as if the metal had turned to red-hot iron.

The heavy oak door groaned on its hinges, swinging inward, pushing a rush of distinctly cooler air into the stifling library.

It did not smell like lavender water or beeswax.

It smelled like damp wool, leather, and rain.

He did not stroll in.

He appeared.

Brian, the Duke of Rainsford, stepped over the threshold.

The air in the room seemed to instantly, violently compress.

I stopped breathing.

Brenda made a small, pathetic squeaking sound at the back of her throat and took three rapid steps backward.

The Duke was not supposed to be here.

He was a phantom of the upper echelons, a man who existed mostly in hushed, terrified whispers.

He carried a reputation so black it practically absorbed the light in the room.

He stopped just inside the room.

His eyes, the pale startling color of fractured winter ice, locked instantly onto me.

I stripped off my frayed glove, reached out, and bound myself to the most dangerous man in England.