Page 20 of The Duke’s Unwilling Bride

I want to cover my diminutive chest with my hands, to protect them from the insult, but to do so would be to give Foxford credit for landing a blow. At least it was a side compliment to the roundness of my posterior. Instead of responding, I merely whip out my fan and flutter it in my face. “If you care for a dance, Your Grace, you need merely ask. You needn't comment on my attributes to do so.”

With a self-satisfied smirk, he extends his hand as the next dance is called—a cotillion. He leads me onto the floor, where once again, I’m in awe of the space and how every bit is illuminated. Too bad such extravagance is wasted on this farce of a ball.

Though I long to tip over one of the candles, setting the house ablaze, I cannot risk putting lives in danger over my lack of social ability. And so, I resign myself to dance, indulging Foxford in this display, meant only to show me off to the best buyer.

“And now, my little doll, we shall see if those lessons have paid off. Mayhap my feet, as well as the other gentlemen's, will come out of this unscathed?”

Little doll? Is that what he thinks of me? As if I’m nothing more than a lifeless plaything for him to pose and position as he sees fit? My head throbs as anger infuses my being.

However, I remain calm and placid, a still lake unruffled by either air or animals. “If it pleases you, Your Grace.”

If only it were just the two of us. I would happily relish in smashing every single toe until all he can do is hobble off to lick his wounds. But here, with everyone watching me, I cannot dishonor my father’s name with such a petty vendetta. Any lack I show will reflect directly on him. Just the thought alone, of someone thinking so ill of such an amazing man, sets my stomach to turning.

And so, as if I’ve never faltered in my life, I dance beautifully, keeping my father in the forefront to keep me centered. All of this is to please him, to make him smile as he watches me from above. Even Foxford seems to take notice of my betterment, his eyes narrowing as he watches my steps. No doubt, he will credit himself for my transformation since I couldn’t possibly be able to learn so well in so little time without his assistance.

Before too long, however, the dance is over, and Foxford takes me about the room, allowing the men to stare and whisper. Some tip their noses in the air, scenting me in an almost scandalous manner. Unfortunately, they must like what they smell, since their pupils widen as I pass by.

It clenches my stomach, souring my mouth with disgust. But I can’t stop it. Until they do something that’s beyond the pale, I must endure this loathsome display. Even Foxford doesn’t do or say anything to make them cease. The only way I know he’s aware at all is the nearly imperceptible tightening of his shoulders.

Once we arrive back at my cousin’s side, the men flock to us, demanding introductions be made. With a large smile, Foxford attends to them, extolling virtues he knows nothing about, lying to the men about my prowess with the pianoforte and my drawing skills. I’ve not shown him any of my talents, thus revealing us both to be liars.

How fitting.

Bending low, Foxford murmurs into my ear. “You seem bored, my dear, pained even. I’ll make you a deal. Dance five more dances, and you may escape to my library, where I know you’ll no doubt be far happier.”

For once, I look upon the monster in a more benevolent light. Since the moment I stepped foot in this house, I wanted to leave, and now there is an end in sight! Pasting on a bright smile, I take the hand of some nameless man, a viscount if I’m remembering correctly. Honestly, none of it matters since any decision in marriage will be made by people other than me. What point is it in learning their names?

One by one, I dance with a lightness I hadn’t felt before, counting down the steps until I know I can be free. And once my last gentleman brings me back to the shelter of the two men set to destroy me, I wilt as if I’m about to faint.

Picking up on my cue, Foxford takes my arm in his and draws me away from the dance floor, sending his apologies out to the other men, joking about the delicate disposition of women. This time, I don’t care about the pointed jabs he lobs my way, knowing it’s the price of my freedom.

The music softens, waning as we go from the ballroom to his library. Since coming here for lessons, he never even let me step foot in it once, determined to break me of my ‘insufferable habit of placing my nose in a book.’ And so, this is indeed a treat for me, for I so want to know what manner of man he is.

What better way than pouring through the books he owns? It will tell me where his tastes lie, that is, if he actually has any. More than likely, whatever books are there were passed down to him and will have no bearing on the man next to me. However, the moment he opens the door, my jaw drops and my breathing stutters.

It’s far grander than I pictured in my mind, far outshining my little haven at home. I drift from his arm, barely noticing as he closes the door behind me and slips away to the ball. A roaring fireplace lulls me in as my eyes scan the titles, my heart pounding as so many of them are familiar.

Off in a separate alcove sits a cabinet. Curious, I make my way over, my gaze dancing across the names of the books held within. All of them are old, yet they seem in such pristine condition. I try to open it, to see what makes these so special, but it’s locked.

It’s puzzling.

It’s madness.

It’s wholly enchanting.

Consumed with the mystery before me, I don’t hear or even notice I’m no longer alone—not until strong fingers wrap around my lips, sealing off any chance of screaming. I grunt, but the sound is so faint, there’s no way anyone would ever hear. Fear rolls through me, setting my skin to buzzing.

I fight the attacker as best as I can, but they’re far larger than me, their bulk pinning me to the glass case with such violence I fear everything shattering and piercing me through. My mind races as their hand creeps forward, tearing at the silks in front of my bodice.

There has to be something memorable I can report back about this fiend—a scent, a scar, a sound, something. But there’s nothing. The only thing that’s assaulting my nose is the overwhelming stench of oil, like that from the lamps. I gag as it infiltrates my nostrils, pushing out all reason.

His arms are implacable, keeping me rooted as he destroys my clothing, but oddly touching nothing of my person. I do the only thing available to me and draw up my knee before slamming my heel down onto what I hope is his foot. A soft grunt is the only thing that tells me I’ve connected with the man, but it doesn’t stop him, doesn’t deter him.

I long to turn around, to see my attacker face on, but never once does he allow it. Scraps of lace and silk litter the floor until, just as suddenly as he appeared, he’s gone. I whirl about, seeking out his face, or anything that can identify him, but he’s like a wisp of smoke.

Whatever shall I do? I cannot go back out into the ball looking like this. The Ton will think the worst of me, no doubt casting me out to fend for myself. Though I wanted nothing more than to be a spinster, I wanted to do it respectfully, gracefully aging until the men no longer wanted me. Not like this.

Not causing everyone to turn their backs on me. Tears stream down my face as I crumple into a heap on the floor. I don’t even know if I can call for a servant without them alerting Foxford. And how will I explain this to him? A phantom came after me in his library? He will think I’ve been ruined for sure.