Page 1 of The Duke’s Unwilling Bride

CHAPTER 1

Teresa

Cold.

Desolate.

Alone.

The words thrum through my head in an endless refrain as I place my hand against the frosty glass, letting the chill seep into me. But I don’t feel it. Everything is numb, hollow, and so desperately fractured as I stare down at what should be a wintry tableau.

The glare of the sun is muted somehow, as if the skies themselves feel the sorrow of my soul and thus hide the light, refusing to allow it to intrude on the melancholy of my thoughts. For a moment, I look to and fro, refusing to glance upon what’s causing my heart so much agony. But I cannot look away forever.

I can’t play these childish games in my mind. As a girl on the cusp of becoming a woman, soon to possibly go into heat, I must put away such frivolity and face my problems head-on. And so, despite the tugging of my heartstrings, I turn my gaze downward, staring at the large carriage, poised to leave.

My lady’s maid glances up at me from in front of the door leading into the infernal coach waiting to whisk her from my side. Her eyes widen for a moment before she blinks the snow away. Or is it her tears? From here, I can’t tell, though my heart whispers the truth to me in such blatant tones.

And that’s when I feel it. The painful thump of the useless organ beating beneath my breastbone. When Father died, I thought my heart went with him, buried beneath the ground where it can no longer pain me; however, just standing here, my fingers clenched into a fist at my side while the other hand splays against the glass in a silent pleading for her to stay, I know it still resides, ever-beating, ever-feeling, ever-agonizing.

Even now, her scent fades from within my nostrils, and soon, I know I’ll not be able to remember it. It’s funny how that works. Even with my heightened sense of smell, some scents just won’t stay. If only there was a way to bottle them.

With Father, it’s simple. Just one smell of his pipe, and I’ll be transported back. But with my lady’s maid, Mary? What can I smell to bring her back? It’s not as if she has anything remarkable about her she’s leaving behind.

With the way my cousin Asher, now the current Earl of Middlehey, is cleaning house, she’s lucky to leave with the clothes on her back. Everything else has been sold off. Same as her redundant clothes. Same as my father’s pipes. Soon, I’ll have no way of remembering either of them without sitting with my memories.

We both stand there, locked in an unwanted battle of inevitability, as she curtsies one final time and climbs into the carriage. Anger burns in my chest, edging out the pain that afflicts me. Somehow, we no longer have the funds to keep my lady’s maid employed - friend and confidant that she is - and yet, Asher can still keep both a stately carriage and a more casual phaeton, along with the thoroughbreds to carry them.

To my calculations, selling at least one of these modes of transportation, along with two of those four horses, should have been more than enough to pay off my father’s supposed debts and allowed me to keep the one person I had left in the world. I long to tear at my hair as I puzzle through the mathematics. I know of art, philosophy, and science, but nothing of money.

With all the lessons I lapped up at the feet of my father, this was the one thing he would never teach me. I asked to see the accounts, to have him show me where the money went and how to manage it. But he refused. Laughably, it’s the one thing he never indulged me in. Such a curious matter that I was fit to learn as well as any man, but with finances, that was a line too far.

To him, that was the job of my husband. The man controls the money and not the woman. How I wish I could go back in time and beg him, making him see reason. But hopes and wishes amount to nothing.

I wish he had told me something, anything. Even if it wasn’t a true education. Just something so I didn’t feel so ill-prepared when his untimely death ripped him from my arms. On his deathbed, the only thing he told me was he had made sure I was taken care of. No elucidation, no clarification on what ‘taken care of’ meant.

With no other male heir, everything went to Asher, and I had no choice but to let him take over, relying on him to tell me the state of our affairs. If Father had shown me something, a ledger here or there, perhaps we wouldn’t have been in this situation to begin with. But even my cousin wouldn’t let me see anything.

In fact, the very question seemed to gall him, driving him into fits of rage, some nameless sense of anger and terror that tied my insides into knots. Though he never harmed me, his screams as he threw my father’s books and documents about seized my insides, setting my body to quake. I never asked again and vowed to rescue what I could from the office when I could.

As much as I loathe to think of my father in an unseemly light, considering our past, I’m forced to wonder if he was keeping something from me. Is this truly why he never allowed me even a glance at his spending? Because he was gambling it away instead of preparing for our future? My future?

If Father had just come to me, I’m sure I could have helped him in some way. Maybe I could have given him other things to do besides while away our fortunes in some secret room somewhere. But as it is, I’m forced to stand there, unspent tears burning in my eyes, and rage thumping hard in my chest as I watch the carriage move forward, disappearing into the heavy blanket of snow. I stand there, a silent sentinel, refusing to leave my post as my gaze searches out any hint she’s still within eyesight, straining past the fat, wet flakes encircling the house. They keep falling, enshrining everything into a muffled tomb.

And with that, she’s the last of my life leaving the Middlehey household. With her leaving, it draws up far more questions than there are answers. I continue to stare out into the bleak, wintery mess as my mind drifts, conjuring every memory and scrutinizing it with an unfeeling eye. Were there signs I didn’t see?

Though I am not worldly in an improper way, I still have some bits of knowledge, mostly from my father, but also from listening in on the servants. Typically, those who gambled were away from the house, constantly visiting gaming hells and partaking in cups. But that was never Father. He was home more often than abroad, only venturing out to attend to matters of Parliament.

After Mother died, we were rarely separated, spending our nights either reading or conducting some experiment. When did he have the time to squander his money? Something isn’t adding up. Since I’m not at all able to access the books, I cannot put the pieces together for myself.

Not that I’d understand it fully, anyway. It’s not like with my science and philosophy books, where everything is laid out in black and white. I have no concept of figures, no comparisons to go by. Sure, the math part I can handle, but I have no idea what things are supposed to cost and what’s appropriate spending or not.

A weary sigh slips from my lips as I lean forward, resting my forehead against the window. The cold feels good against my fevered skin, reminding me I’m still alive and not some shell of a being forced to roam these halls like a spectre or wraith. Still though… As much as I rejoice in the fact I’m not dead, there is a part of me that wonders if my current existence is even living.

I stand there at the window, my thoughts drifting about like the snow, but eventually, I have no choice but to admit she’s gone. The one person I could talk to, confide in. She was the only solace I had in this empty world. Now, I’m completely alone in this house full of people who do not have my best interest in mind. Another sigh heavy on my lips, I pull away from the study window and glance about the space.

Asher will be home soon, and my presence in what’s now his study will make him angry. When I entered this ‘sacred realm’ it wasn’t just to say my silent goodbyes. This reasoning is an alibi, at best. There are far more important matters to attend to now that my heart is fully ripped from my breast. I shove the pain aside, concentrating instead on the subterfuge afoot.

I must hurry if I want any hope of rescuing a few precious tomes from my father’s haven and place them in the library unscathed. Sliding my fingers along the books we used to read together, my throat tightens as more emotions flood my senses, emotions I had just recently cast aside for the sake of remaining unfeeling.