Page 2 of The Duke’s Unwilling Bride

And yet, as if none of it even matters, I’m right back to where I was mere moments ago when I bid farewell to my last friend. I’m right back to that moment when I stood beside my father’s bed, holding his hand as he took his last rattling breath. Try as I might, nothing I do can let me feel at peace for more than a handful of minutes.

It’s been nearly six months since he left this mortal plane, and yet I still grieve his loss, feel it keenly, as if it happened only yesterday. I’ve endured six months where I should have been able to manage my feelings and put these futile longings aside. Six months since that horrid cousin of mine has taken over the house and turned it upside down. Six months, though it feels more like six days, six hours, six minutes… six seconds. It still slices me to my core with every breath.

If only father were still here. Silent sobs threaten to choke me as my vision blurs, obscuring the letters on the worn spines. But I don’t need to see them to know what they are. I can tell by their feel, their smell. It doesn’t matter that Asher has taken everything from me; he won’t be able to take my memories.

Off in the distance, the clatter of hooves on cobblestone jolts me out of my foray into memories, which should long be buried, spurring me into action. If it’s him, I won’t have much time. Grabbing what I can, I pay little attention to which volumes I’m snatching, only taking what my arms can carry. After I’ve made it safely away, I’ll sift through my treasures.

In truth, every book here has meaning. It doesn’t matter which I rescue right now; I’ll walk away happy. Plucking books from all over the office to not draw attention to large swaths of blank spaces, I blindly take and stack until an odd sight catches my attention.

There, behind several short books, is a hidden pipe. I blink at it for several precious moments before setting my burden down. With a reverence I usually save for church or babies, I pick it up and clutch it to my chest. Though I do not recall Father using this one, it still smells of his special blend of tobacco.

Tears finally drip from my eyes as I inhale the memories, letting them flood my brain. All the other pipes are gone. Asher claimed they’d fetch a great price and would ease the financial burden bequeathed to us. He didn’t even allow me one last look or touch. I simply walked into the study and they were gone.

Smatterings of conversations, interspersed with Asher’s abrasive timber, float up the stairs, spiking my body with a flood of adrenaline. With the fine quality of this pipe, there is no doubt in my mind he would snatch it from me and take it to market. I can’t let that happen.

I’ve already given up so much—all my nice clothes, my jewelry, and now my lady’s maid. I can’t let him have this too. Gaze darting about the room, my stomach clenches as my mind whirrs into action. I cannot stuff it into my pocket and risk Asher seeing, or worse, patting me down like some common criminal when he finds me in the study.

That leaves down the front. He’s at least enough of a gentleman not to accost me in an unseemly way. He won’t check there, much less look at that area. That is, unless I’ve sorely mistaken his abrasiveness as something romantic hidden underneath—a mask to hide his true feelings?

Shaking my head, I drive out the ideas placed there by imbibing a gothic novel or two. Such scandalous thoughts have no place here. Taking the stem of the pipe, I wiggle it behind the fabric, sliding it between my breasts with the stummel, the place where the tobacco rests, setting against the swell.

If only my breasts were bigger, then the curves would hug against the wood, keeping it firmly in place. Staring down at the flat expanse, I can’t help but mourn my lack of a figure. As an omega, I thought I should be curvier. At least, that’s how the modiste made it sound.

Thankfully, it’s never been an issue before, seeing as Father never pushed me toward the marriage mart where such things could determine just how successful a coming out would be. But now I’m of age, and no doubt nearing my first heat, I’m afraid I’ll have no choice.

We had no plans in place for that dreadful day, and I sure as bollocks didn’t crave the idea of an Alpha helping me through this female affliction, whatever it is. If it were an Alpha who was kind and attentive like Father, maybe. But from what I’ve seen of Asher, I want nothing to do with the lot of them. I must conduct more research to figure out how to get myself through it without any aid.

But then, again, what information is to be found? I know nothing about this monumental time in an omega’s life. Whenever I asked Father, he’d simply turn red and change the subject, leading me to believe it has something to do with a more private affair. None of the books I’ve read have gone into detail. They simply mention this coming-of-age rite and move on.

Sliding my hands back down my front, I push air through my lips to fluff up the hair surrounding my face. Perhaps they were wrong and I’m not an omega after all? Classic omegas all seem to be buxom beauties, their curves an allure of all who see them.

Is it breasts that make an omega? Surely not. But then, the only thing about me that even hints at my dynamic is my short stature and slight frame. From what I’ve read on genetics, it could be simply a trait and not an exact indicator.

If only my mother were still here. Perhaps she’d be willing to impart her knowledge to me. She could probably tell me if I was truly an omega and not just a small beta. But I can still dream of being normal with nothing special to entice the massive brutes.

It stirs an itch in me, one that demands I pour myself back into the books, consequences be damned. And, as much as I want to travel down those paths, to once more pick up another book to do research, I cannot allow myself. In truth, I’ve indulged these idle thoughts for long enough.

Maybe later, when I’m alone, I can revisit them. As it is, time is far too limited, and my chance of discovery grows with every passing second. Besides, I don’t want to give Asher the satisfaction of seeing me so discombobulated.

Glancing back down, I shift the pipe again, praying it will stay secure. Instead of an ample bosom, I’ll have to put faith in God and in my chemise that this precious cargo won’t jostle loose. The moment I wedge it down as best as I can, I grab the books and race toward the door, holding them in front as not only a barrier but also a buttress. I press the pipe so deeply into my skin I fear I will wear the grooves for several minutes after.

Maybe luck will be on my side today. Maybe I can get out of this unscathed. My hand poised over the knob, I go to turn it, to open the door and flee to freedom; however, all hopes of a clean getaway are dashed the minute the entryway slams open, nearly knocking into me. Asher strides in his blue eyes, so like mine, so like my father’s, flashing in his anger.

“I believe I made it quite clear you were not to enter my study when I was not present.”

CHAPTER 2

Teresa

My insides bristle at his proclamation of this room being his. It will never be his, despite his wishes. “Forgive me,” I simper, doing my best not to gag at the saccharine tone of my voice. “But you see, my lady’s maid left, and I wanted one last goodbye. This room affords the best view of the road.” I hug the books closer for protection, biting back the grimace of discomfort as it pushes the pipe harder into my breastbone.

For a moment, his eyes flash with something else. Guilt perhaps? But there’s no way someone like him feels anything other than the savage need to control and bend people to his will. Just like every other Alpha out there. No, I chide myself. Not every Alpha. My father was one of the good ones.

And just like that, those useless emotions swamp me once more. I move to clutch my heart, almost giving away the pipe, but refrain, opting to grip the books instead at the last minute. With a sigh, Asher pushes past me and walks over to the desk, jostling the drawers.

“I didn’t snoop or pry into your precious affairs, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

For a moment, he glares at me, his anger spicing the air with his acrid scent. “Why are you here then? And don’t give me your pathetic excuses. You could have well enough said your goodbyes elsewhere.”