Page 1 of A Tale of Two Dukes

CHAPTER 1

Kitty

Terror.

It’s a nameless dread hovering on my lips. It’s in every ragged breath that seeps from my mouth in a silent, fervent prayer. However, there is no God here. There is no one able to hear the silent cries as they leak from my body, dissipating into the hot water surrounding me.

I claw and scratch at my skin, desperate to remove the trembling from my limbs. But it never goes away. It settles low in my gut where it takes on a life of its own, twisting and writhing deep inside, until I’m sure I’ll either pass out or upend the contents of my stomach from the intensity.

It’s not supposed to be like this. I was supposed to find a respectable place to hide out—a lady’s maid at best, a scullery maid at worst. My mind couldn’t even fathom something worse than a lowly maid meant to scrub pots and pans until their hands were cracked and bleeding.

But no.

By some sheer twist of fate, I dare not call it luck, I happened upon the one establishment a good, pure girl should never step foot into. I shouldn’t even so much as pass by, let alone dare to enter here. A brothel, a house of ill-repute, spoken about in hushed whispers but never brought out to the light of day.

Sinking lower into the water, I gather my arms about my waist, a paltry means of protection. Not that it really matters. In truth, it seems as if the women milling about have no care of who I am. They seem to ignore the obvious innocent in their midst, carrying on conversations that no lady should ever hear.

Though truth be told, I’m grateful for their prattling. It gives me an idea of just what I should say and how I should act if I’m going to stay here. Glancing back over at the pile of clothes left pitifully off to the side, the tremors start again. But this time, for a far different reason.

Closing my eyes, I dip under the hot water, allowing the warm waves to cover me, hide me. The letter that resides in the folds of my dress is the only thing I took with me when I fled. It’s that note which spells out my doom.

Not just mine, however. If it were only my life on the line, I could see fit to stand my ground, to fight the nameless threat head-on. But no. Whoever decided to threaten my life also threatened those of my mother and sister.

I have no earthly idea who it was that sent that note. The handwriting looked thick, masculine, and sinister, but gave me no clue as to the owner of the quill. In my gut, however, I worry it’s someone connected with the man I was destined to marry.

Before he swung for his crimes, Birchleigh never spoke much of his family. To my knowledge, his parents were dead, and he was the only child. No doubt his desperation to marry me, to keep to the arrangement forged before I even knew of this man, was borne from his need for an heir.

Whatever his reasons, I did not care. He seemed like a kind man; one I could be content with. However, the moment he was executed, all of that became smoke drifting about on the wind.

Life carried on until the fateful day I found the letter. It wasn’t even delivered to me by the butler. No. It was outside, perched on the tree stump, where I enjoyed my moments of solitude.

This person knew me. He or she knew my habits, and that alone was enough to terrify me. But when they threatened my sister and my mother…

It’s for their sake that I ran. It’s for them I currently find myself in this den of iniquity. It’s for them I will play the role of a soiled dove, selling my soul so that theirs remain untarnished.

I lie there at the base of the tub, holding my breath as I beg for clarity to reign over my mind. But all too soon, strong hands grasp my arms, hauling me out. Sputtering, I flail about, my heart leaping into my throat. Though they feel far more feminine, there’s that constant dread that chokes me until I’m unable to breathe. Has my assailant found me so soon?

Part of me wishes to slip back into the water, to allow it to swallow me up, drowning my problems. It would be the easiest path, the one that would allow me to drift into oblivion. That is, if my pursuer chooses to not announce just where they found me.

But there’s no guarantee they will remain silent. If I’m dead, I cannot control the narrative. It leaves my family vulnerable to scandal. At that thought, I find I can no longer stay still.

As air fills my lungs in erratic gasps, I struggle, the water splashing about. But I no longer care if I mess up the room or not. Though I thought the water would be a buffer, a way to slip free, I find the hands hold on even tighter.

Flailing about, I strike out as best as I can, fingers curled as my nails rake through the air. But it’s all for nothing. Soon, a stronger set, most definitely belonging to a large male, engulfs my wrists, holding them aloft. It’s then I realize not only am I naked, but two sets of eyes devour me hungrily.

“It is enough!” The low, feminine voice invades my mind, the barked command forcing my body to still.

An Alpha female? I've heard tales of them. However, they're so few and far between, it's as if they are a myth, spoken of in soft, reverent tones. But it’s the only explanation my brain can conjure for why the fight drains from me completely.

Until now, my father was the only one who could stop time with just a single command. His voice held some magical quality—an Alpha’s command I learned later on. No one else had ever dared to order me in such a way, but I never forgot the forced helplessness I felt in those moments.

It’s the same powerlessness that swamps my senses, threatening to overwhelm me. And in that span of time, I almost revert to that repentant girl who would do anything to garner her father’s love and respect again. Only now, he’s nowhere in sight. It’s just a stern-looking woman and a fierce man who occupies the room.

Taking in a deep breath, I force my heart to settle. No doubt they can still hear the rapid staccato as it pulses out into the room, a beacon of my terror. If I am to stay here under the mercy of this strange female Alpha, I need to show myself competent, a worker of the night.

Though I have no direct form of reference, I conjure the girls and their prattling to mind. If I can just play a farce, act the part well enough, perhaps she’ll let me stay. Besides, whoever wrote that note was certainly one of the educated Ton and not someone who would frequent a place such as this.

At least, that’s the lie I tell myself as I relax in the firm grip, pretending not to notice how the water drips down my breasts while he holds me taut. History tells me my delusions are just that. However, the comfort it gives me far surpasses any truth that threatens to turn my insides into water.