Page 5 of The Duke’s Unwilling Bride

“The History of Fortunatus by Thomas Churchyard.” My heart skips a beat as I pull it out from the other books, my touch almost reverent. I had all but forgotten this delightful book, and seeing it now causes my heart to clench, sending shards of physical agony through my body.

Memories swirl about my mind as I clutch it close to my chest, murmuring soft prayers, my voice thick with emotion. Out of all the things I planned on doing today, stumbling across this gem wasn’t one of them. My lips twitch into a soft smile as I open the front and run my fingers across my father’s careless scrawl.

My dearest Teresa,

May your life always be full of adventure. May you look to the heavens and find your path lit by the numerous stars. It is my dearest wish and prayer you find a life of enjoyment and contentment. That every moment is filled with delirious happiness. Though it is but your first birthday, I hope this book accompanies you on your journey into adulthood. No matter what, never forget to laugh, to smile, and to bestow love onto another.

Your ever-loving father and mother.

The words blur as I stare down at the inscription, my heart tearing open as I picture my father sitting over by the fire, me affixed atop his knees as he reads aloud the tales and adventures found in this book. More than that, the conviction of his words burns me, scalding me in their recrimination.

When was the last time I laughed? The moment he became ill, my heart shuttered itself away, preparing for the inevitable. Is it possible I made his passing far harder than it should have been?

A loud screeching laugh assaults my ears, breaking the spell weaving around me. Asher’s bloody maids. At this point, I don’t even mutter up a prayer for forgiveness at the oath slipping through my mind. If anything, it should be forgiven for all I have to endure.

Pulling the cotton from my pockets, I set the book down so I can twist the strips and shove them into my ears, effectively cutting off the cacophonous tones of the women who despise me. Silence descends, shutting out everything until all that remains is the steady beating of my heart flooding my brain in a soothing cadence. It's as if I’m enshrined in a tomb.

I walk over to the roaring fireplace and hunch down for a moment, striking at the logs with the iron poker until the flames swirl even higher. It drives away the winter chill in the room and grants me the cozy warmth I so miss from when I could snuggle into Father’s arms and listen to his deep baritone. Even now, with my sense of hearing stilted, if I turn my head just right, I can hear him again echoing in my mind.

“Oh Father,” I whisper out into the flames, trusting them to keep my secrets. “If only you were still here. What I wouldn’t give up to have you hold me. Just for a few more precious moments.”

Wiping at my face with the back of my hand, I push away from the fireplace and back over to the mess of books bisecting the room with various heights of piles. Pausing, I tilt my head toward the door, straining in the silence, but still hear nothing. I shouldn’t be so relieved to be alone, not in my own house, but I cherish these moments, the silence that brings peace to my soul.

With the cloth firmly shoved into my ears, I can enjoy my day in peace. Reaching down, I grab the book and walk over toward a soft settee near the window and settle in, allowing myself just a few moments to indulge in the memories this book evokes before getting back to work. I cast a quick glance out the window, my soul lightening as the rays of the sun struggle to break through the thick clouds.

It’s as if my father himself opened up the heavens, blessing me with the warmth the beams cast into the room. By the light of the pale, watery sun, I open the pages and flip through, my lips sliding into a grin as I recall the tales from my youth.

CHAPTER 3

Joseph

Squinting up into the midday sun, I blink against the bright glare of the rays as it bounces off of the snow. The drifts and piles are not so far gone it’s a gray, watery mess, tainted by the tromping of feet or dirty carriage wheels. Instead, it’s pristine, blinding even. However, the cleanliness of the snow is a far cry from the house I am set to visit.

Pausing outside the Middlehey townhouse, I take in the surroundings as my servant goes to knock on the door. My lips twist into a scowl as my gaze flits over the unkempt exterior. I’ve passed by this place many a time while traversing London, but don’t remember it ever being in such a state of shambles.

Vines wind their way around wrought iron, in an unseemly twisty-turny disarray that is far more unrefined than the foliage of the other homes nearby. Snow covers every inch of the place, cocooning it, turning it into a picturesque scene. However, I can still spot the rot under the inviting picture. Nothing about this place is as it seems.

Nothing has been done to maintain the upkeep of this house, and it’s a shame. What used to be one of the statelier homes now pales in comparison. Gritting my teeth, I pull my greatcoat around me and glance up at the roof, noting the smoke drifting out from various chimneys. At least it will be toasty inside.

Grumbling, I continue to clench the fabric of my coat around me, cutting off the bitter chill as I make my way to the door, waiting with my servant for far longer than is deemed appropriate. I stand there, marking the moments as we both freeze, biding my time until it opens.

At this moment, my needs are simple. I just need the doors to open, allowing me into the warmth I know resides inside its heart, but no one acknowledges me. A fierce frown pulls down my lips as I curl my hand into a fist and slam it against the withered wood. Loud shouts bark out, but still, the house remains closed to me.

When it finally opens, a footman stumbles out, clearly already deep in his cups. Unable to contain myself, I grip the man by the collar and stand him up, growling as I look him up and down. With quick movements, my servant darts off back to the carriage, not wishing to get caught up in the fray.

Smart man. The buffoon in front of me, however, the beta servant who reeks of ale, quivers as the sound of my displeasure washes over him. A wet stain gathers at the front of his breeches, and the acrid stench of piss and fear invades my nostrils. All it does is anger me more, but I refuse to cause my friend to lose even one of his precious help.

Tossing him into a nearby snowbank, I storm inside, stomping off the snow from my Hessian boots to not cause any more misfortune to befall this house in the way of rotting wood and mold. The servants, pitiful as they are, flutter down the stairs, their breaths catching in their throats as they present themselves to the duke gracing their doorstep. One by one, they curtsy and bow, and I glance them over, not really caring they’re there.

“Where is Lord Middlehey?” I remove my hat and overcoat, tossing them at some unsuspecting male who just happens to be close enough to catch them.

The household is in even worse shambles than what poor Middlehey wrote in his correspondences. Seeing them like this, with no regard for the station of their master, fills me with anger. I know he can’t afford much, but anyone is better than this flock of cork-brains.

From the back of the pack, an unpresuming beta steps forward, no doubt their poor excuse of a steward. “He is in his study, Your Grace. Allow me to show you.”

At least he knows well enough to address me by my title. Giving him a cursory nod, I follow him down a series of hallways until we reach the door. I’m unable to keep my eyes from trailing over the dusty busts and peeling paper. Why didn’t the poor chap tell me it was this bad? I would have helped him.

“I’ll take it from here.” Dismissed, the man bows and hurries off, no doubt afraid I’ll thrash him even worse than the pisspot outside.