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Page 46 of A Wife for the Beast (Scandals and Second Chances #6)

Maplewood Hall, Kent

The clouds had settled low over Maplewood Hall, casting the landscape in shades of pewter and ash.

A steady drizzle kissed the lead-paned windows, tracing thin rivulets over the glass as if the house itself were weeping.

Beyond the fogged panes of Vera Huxford’s father’s study, the skeletal trees of early spring bowed and trembled beneath the wind’s moaning sigh.

Even the birds, usually so irrepressible in March, seemed cowed by the gloom.

Inside, the air was still, much too still.

The musty smell of ancient vellum and decaying pipe smoke clung to the walls like a faded memory.

The hearth offered meagre warmth, its fire now mostly embers, casting no cheer upon the dark-wood interior or threadbare carpet.

The study, once Sir Reginald Huxford’s domain, a place of vibrant discussion and brilliant theories scribbled with haste, had grown as faded and frail as its master.

Before her, the marriage contract lay open, unrolled and waiting, a gaping chasm of inked rules and binding promises, none of which seemed remotely desirable. The ink upon the parchment gleamed darkly in the weak afternoon light, as though it knew the weight of the words it bore.

Vera stood motionless before her father’s great writing desk, rigid with the effort to remain composed, the carved mahogany surface cool beneath her fingertips as she battled to calm her racing heartbeat.

Beneath the haze of pipe smoke lingered the subtle but unmistakable scent of laudanum and lavender — a byproduct of her father’s repeated, though futile, attempts at a restful night. Once, the aroma had been a comfort, a reminder of his gentleness. Today, it brought no such solace.

The once-proud study, filled with relics of scholarly pursuits and catalogued curiosities from a brighter past, now felt like death’s antechamber, and Vera had all but resigned herself to a joyless future; an altogether much more sombre fate than that of her childhood dreams.

She knew that today’s business would bring a great deal of relief to her ailing father and provide a much brighter future for her siblings, but it felt more like a sacrifice than a solution.

Vera could feel the draft from the poorly sealed windows injecting a sharp nip in the air, but it was not only the cold that gave her cause to tremble.

Her fingers hovered above the document, thin and pale against the rich mahogany surface, as though even her writing hand refused to accept what her mind had already deemed unavoidable.

Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the quill.

It seemed impossibly heavy, as if it too rejected the finality of what was about to happen.

How on earth has it come to this?

There had been no great scandal, no dramatic reversal of fortune.

Only a steady, inexorable decline — the quiet erosion of security through grief and misjudgment.

Her father’s investments, entrusted to an unscrupulous ‘friend’ he had, most regrettably, trusted as a brother, had been drained beyond recovery.

A man who had now vanished with their future sewn into his coat lining. What remained were debts, a mortgaged estate, and two brilliant children—Olivia and Robert—who deserved more than the slow fade into genteel poverty that they now faced.

“Father,” Vera finally said, her voice calm and steady despite the weight of terror in her chest. “Are you certain this is the only way?”

Sir Reginald cleared his throat softly. “My darling girl, if there were any other option, do you not think I would have taken it?”

His voice broke slightly, the sound brittle as he fought to contain his guilt and sorrow. “I have thought of nothing else for months. This... this… arrangement, Vera, it is all I have left to offer. It is the only means to secure your brother and sister’s futures, and your own.”

She nodded slowly, absorbing his words with the practicality both of her parents had impressed upon her since childhood. Yet inside, her thoughts churned restlessly. It is duty, she reminded herself firmly, nothing more.

“And the earl—Lord Thornborough,” she began carefully, dipping the quill lightly into the inkwell, “did he... did he express no wish to meet before the contract was signed, or exchange letters, perhaps?”

Mr Porter cleared his throat gently, the solicitor’s gaze shifting uncomfortably. “He desires only that you are respectable, educated, and efficient. He did not inquire further, or indicate any other wishes.”

Across the desk, her father reclined weakly in his wingback chair, the blanket around his legs unable to disguise the gauntness that had overtaken his once-robust frame. His eyes—still sharp, still painfully aware—watched his daughter with something perilously close to shame.

“My dear,” her father said softly, leaning forward as if it took great effort, “do you resent me terribly for this?”

She hesitated, her quill suspended above the paper, droplets of ink poised to fall. Her amber eyes met his, searching and thoughtful. “No, Father. I know you had no wish for things to come to this point. It is hardly your fault the world turned… unkind.”

He sighed, the sound heavy and weary with the weight of his burdens. “I wish your mother were here. She would know exactly how to reassure you.”

Vera cleared her throat in an effort to remove all traces of emotional vulnerability before she answered.

“She would tell me to do my duty,” Vera said evenly. “And to find strength in practicality. She always did.”

A quiet fell again, filled only by the soft crackle of dying embers in the grate and the whispering rain outside. Vera considered the paper before her, its demands clear and unwavering.

“I suppose it is not the worst of fates… to become a countess,” her father said in a low murmur, though his voice lacked any hint of conviction.

Vera managed a faint, dry smile. “No,” she murmured. “Not the worst.”

But perhaps not far from it.

The words rang within her mind. How did this become my responsibility? Trading myself over to a scarred recluse to save my family. I am to be bound to a man I’ve never met, known only by rumour and reputation. The Beast of Thornborough Abbey, they call him. A creature of shadows and scars.

“Please… my darling girl… you must not feel this is a punishment,” her father said quietly. “This is... a solution. The only one left to us.”

Vera turned her head slightly to regard him.

The man who had once loomed larger than life now seemed shrunken in his chair.

His face had grown hollow and pale, his hands too thin as they clutched the woollen blanket across his lap.

He spoke the words with conviction, as if hoping he might believe them himself, but it was clear from his haunted expression that he was paying lip service and nothing more.

“I know, Papa,” she said gently, as though speaking too loudly might shatter them both. “It is simply difficult to feel grateful for such a future when it requires the surrender of one’s own.”

His eyes flickered with guilt. “You are not being sold, Vera.”

“No,” she agreed. “Merely... exchanged.” Her father winced.

“Do not look so crushed, Father. This is my choice as much as it is yours,” she said finally, more to herself than him.

“If this marriage secures Olivia and Robert’s futures and ensures their education and comfort, then it is most definitely a price worth paying. ”

Her father nodded, mixed expressions of relief and shame wrestling for dominance as they flitted across his face. “You are so very much like your mother, my dear. Far stronger than I deserve.”

She inhaled slowly and deliberately. Her eyes fell upon the place where her name was to be written—lines left blank for the final stroke of obligation.

It seemed prudent to read what was required of her before signing her life away, but what did it matter? She could not take in the magnitude of what was being asked. In the end, it would amount to the same thing whether she agreed or not.

What choice do I have, when Father sits there with such a vacuous expression, and the twins’ futures hang by so fragile a thread?

She straightened slightly, touching the quill decisively to the paper, the tip scratching firmly against the surface.

“Not stronger, Father. Merely determined.” Vera signed her name with measured, decisive strokes— Vera Margaret Huxford —each letter sealing her fate with a grace that belied the knot twisting in her chest.

Mr Porter, seated to one side with spectacles perched low upon his nose and hands folded with professional satisfaction, gave a brief nod of approval.

“Excellent penmanship, Miss Huxford. Quite legible.”

Sir Reginald exhaled loudly in relief.

Mr Porter retrieved the document with care, tapping it into alignment before sliding it into a leather folio.

“You will depart for Yorkshire in a fortnight. All arrangements shall be seen to, of course—travel, trousseau, the posting of the banns. You need do nothing more until you arrive at Thornborough Abbey.”

Vera turned to him, her voice composed though her fingers still tingled from the quill. “Mr Porter, may I ask—what precisely does the earl expect from this arrangement?”

The solicitor paused, his pen stilled above the page. His eyes flicked to Sir Reginald and then returned to her.

“As I have said, His Lordship requested a wife of respectable lineage, sound education, and steady temperament. A lady capable of managing a household of stature.”

“Nothing more?”

Another pause. Then, carefully, “He made no mention of beauty, nor of affection. His interests lie in propriety and posterity. In short, Miss Huxford, he seeks a countess—not a companion. To the best of my knowledge, this shall be a marriage of convenience.”