Page 5 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke

Dominic grunted. He hadn’t planned to intervene in a fight tonight, and certainly not in this particular alley.

As he frowned at the dandy’s disappearing back, Simon turned to him with a crooked grin. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, Oakmere.”

“You couldn’t,” Dominic murmured. “Though God knows you’ve tried to get on my nerves often enough, Darfield.”

“Ah. I think you’re starting to mellow. You’re going on aproperstag hunt. With ahouse partyafterward,” Simon said, giving him a knowing look.

“I don’t want to offend Lord Grisham—he’s my business partner,” Dominic replied drily.

“Is that all?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I ask because Lord Grisham has, quite likely, planned this hunt as a means of finding a husband for his daughter, Lady Elizabeth.”

“And…?”

“Well, knowing you, you’re always painfully dutiful. And your duty is to marry—eventually—for the sake of your estate,” Simon prodded, the smirk back in his voice.

“My duty,” Dominic growled, “is to see this business venture through.”

What he didn’t say—what he couldn’t admit, even to his oldest friend—was that strange, bone-deep unease had crept in earlier and hadn’t left him since.

As if someone had walked on his grave. Or worse, as if invisible strings were being pulled, and he had just stepped into someone else’s design.

Chapter Three

“Keep us safe from harm,” Marianne murmured, unsure to whom the words were addressed—God, fate, or perhaps no one at all.

She rarely attended the gatherings held at Grisham Manor, and when she did, she kept to the periphery, draped in cool detachment. But today was different.

Today had the weight of consequence. Today might decide everything.

The servants had scrubbed the manor from top to bottom in anticipation until the air itself carried the mingled scents of polished wood and crushed lavender. It was meant to impress, to soothe. Yet neither scent brought her comfort. Not today. Even the sunlight filtering through the curtains seemed duller, muted, as though it, too, sensed the tension coiling in her chest.

The drawing room was full, thick with soft laughter and whispered remarks hidden behind fans. Marianne knew, with the practiced awareness of someone often watched and often judged, that their whispers were for her. But that was hardly new.

Outside, the gentlemen had already departed—galloping into the woods in pursuit of a stag, fancying themselves hunters and heroes. In truth, they were nothing of the kind. Dressed in their tailored coats and gleaming boots, they resembled dandies playing a sport, their measure taken not by courage, but by coin and how skillfully they could shoot something defenseless.

The women, it seemed, were no different. Their smiles were sharp, and their eyes gleamed with quiet cruelty. They appraised her as one might a rival mare at auction—seeking flaw, gauging worth. They knew she would not stoop to defend herself, and so they took pleasure in making silent jabs.

Marianne stood near the hearth, her hands folded loosely before her. She kept her gaze level, her features schooled into a mask of polite indifference. She would not give them the satisfaction of unease. But beneath the surface, her thoughts churned, and her heart kept an uneasy rhythm.

“Lady Marianne,” Lady Adelaide Vaughn began in a suspiciously sweet tone. Marianne tensed, knowing that the woman more likely had something nasty planned. “You must be delighted that Lord Grisham had decided to host a stag hunt. We all know that these hunts can draw out eligible bachelors, and today proves that right.”

“Delighted? I suppose it depends on the woman, Lady Adelaide. Women who enjoy stag hunts are those who can bear watching innocent creatures being chased and shot for sport.”

The silence was sharp enough to cut.

Marianne could almost feel the shock ripple through the other gathered ladies—the very ones who had made it their business to surround her, despite her clear desire to remain apart. The air shifted subtly, the way it often did just before the claws came out.

Then came the laughter—bright, brittle, and far too loud for the moment. It rang out not with amusement, but with the practiced cruelty of women who knew how to wound with a glance, a whisper, or the slight arch of an eyebrow.

She didn’t need to hear what was said. She knew. She always knew.

“Oh, sothatis how you are spinning the story?” cooed Miss Lily Farwell, her eyes glittering with mischief. “So admirable! So true to yourself.”

“Despite everything,” Lady Adelaide murmured.