Page 54

Chapter One

“ M y lord,” the footman’s voice was breathless and laced with fear. “We have searched high and low. I regret to inform you that we cannot find your daughter, Lady Violet.”

Lady Christine Andrews, who was waiting on the church steps with her father, couldn’t prevent the gasp which escaped her lips at the shocking news about her older sister. Her head began to spin in a dizzying way.

Her father, the earl of Dunhill, looked just as shocked as she felt. His face turned white, and his watery blue eyes boggled alarmingly. He gripped her arm so tightly she grimaced.

Where is Violet? How could she simply vanish only minutes before she was due at the church to walk down the aisle to her intended husband?

There was a deathly silence for a moment. Christine gaped at the footman, her eyes flickering around in a dazed way. She could not focus on the grand bluestone church, one of the finest in London, nor the birds twittering merrily in the trees, or anything at all, as she tried to absorb the news.

“What do you mean, you cannot find her?” The earl’s voice was a low hiss. He let go of Christine’s arm and approached the footman, in a threatening way. The man slunk back, his eyes wide. “She only stepped out of the house for a breath of air! She was supposed to be in the carriage behind us!”

“She is gone, my lord,” repeated the footman, shrugging his shoulders ineffectually. “We searched the house and the entire grounds. The housekeeper saw her step outside for air—but now, she is nowhere to be found!”

“This is intolerable!” The earl’s face turned puce with rage, now. “Get back to the townhouse, find her, and get her here before her intended husband gets wind of this! How could Violet do this? To the Duke of Ironstone, no less? Oh, the shame!”

How indeed , thought Christine, biting her lip.

For Violet’s intended husband was a duke; a very great man. Her sister was about to become a duchess. Whereas Christine’s intended husband, Lord Trentham, was only a slightly impoverished viscount. Much, much lower on the social ladder.

But neither of them had questioned it when the matchmaker had told them who she had found for them.

Violet had always been far more admired by the ton than Christine.

Her sister was beautiful, extremely accomplished, clever and charming.

Violet had always been the far superior of the Andrews sisters. It was just the way it was.

“Well, what are you waiting for, man?” The earl reached out and slapped the stunned footman on the shoulder. “A royal decree? Get cracking!”

The footman yelped, shook himself like a dog, scurrying away. The earl turned to his daughter. His face and voice were grim.

“We must keep this from the duke for as long as possible,” he whispered, his face contorting with fear. “But if Violet does not appear soon, he is going to know something has happened! Oh Lord, how could she do this to me?”

Meanwhile, inside the fine bluestone church, Edwin Hunton, the Duke of Ironstone, stood stiffly at the altar. Irritably, he pulled at his silk cravat.

Why was it so unbearably hot? How long had they been waiting?

His eyes slid to the gentleman at his side. Lord Trentham, the other bridegroom and a man he didn’t know particularly well, looked as frightened as a rabbit who sensed a hound on its tail. Trentham hopped from foot to foot. Edwin noticed a nervous tic twitching above his left eyebrow.

For some reason, Edwin’s eyes were drawn to the bright green handkerchief peeking out of the gentleman’s jacket pocket. His gaze turned withering.

The man is one of those detestable dandies so common amongst the ton in London. A veritable milksop.

Edwin’s eyes swept to the congregation, which filled most of the pews. They were getting restless, too, chattering quietly amongst themselves.

He stiffened as he noticed his daughter Isabella, the elder of his twins, who was sitting in a second pew, leaning forward and pinching the back of his great aunt Clementine’s neck.

The old lady gasped, swatting her neck.

“Are there flies in here?” remarked the old lady, looking bewildered.

Edwin frowned at Isabella. His daughter immediately withdrew, pulling back, pursing her lips. But the next minute, she started kicking her feet restlessly against the pew.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lean forward and yank a stray tendril of his aunt’s hair, quite hard, which caused the old lady to yelp, whipping around and glaring at his daughter.

“Isabella!” he snapped, glaring at her. “Enough!”

Isabella pursed her lips, withdrawing into the back of her seat. “Sorry, Papa.”

“Aunt Clementine,” he nodded in apology to the old lady, who harrumphed, her back stiff with offended outrage.

To make matters worse, Isabella’s younger sister—by five minutes—Beatrice, who was seated beside her, started humming in a loud, atonal way, yanking one of the blue silk ribbons in her freshly ringleted hair.

Oh, dear Lord. The girls will be climbing the rafters before too long if this damnable double wedding does not start soon.

Edwin frowned, glowering at the priest, who shrank back.

This was intolerable. The only reason he was marrying Lady Violet Andrews was because the twins needed a mother.

His seven-year-old daughters were growing wild and unruly, making mincemeat of their nannies and governesses. They needed a firm hand. A stabilizing influence. A stepmother to replace the mother they had never known, who had died birthing them.

To the mother Edwin had made a vow to. The mother who had died too young, too early.

He had consulted a matchmaker, who had chosen Lady Violet, and that had been the end of that. Or so he had thought.

Pain and frustration rose in his chest. Edwin decided to focus on the latter, for the first was a dusty chest full of demons—one without hope, unlike Pandora’s box.

What the deuce is happening?

Another excruciating five minutes passed with no sign of movement from the front of the church.

His eyes slid to Trentham again. The gentleman gasped, paling. It seemed the viscount was scared of him. But then, Edwin seemed to have that effect on many people. It was most gratifying.

“Enough is enough,” said Edwin, in a low growl. “Trentham, come with me. We are going to find out where our brides are.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” said Trentham, visibly gulping. “Whatever you say.”

“Follow me,” growled Edwin, gesturing to the man. He turned, striding down the aisle, his impatience and anger growing with every step.

He didn’t know Lady Violet from Eve. But the lady needed to know that he didn’t tolerate this sort of thing. Not at all. And what kind of lady was shockingly late for her own wedding? Not the type of lady he wanted to be the mother of his children. But the die was cast, and it was all too late now.

Or was it?

Christine jumped as the church doors flew open. She turned, staring at the glowering face of her sister’s intended husband, the Duke of Ironstone.

He looked murderous .

Hastily, she took a step back, taking in his commanding, imposing physique. It was only the second time she had seen the gentleman.

She had forgotten how tall he was—and how muscular. His arms, constrained by his expensive black jacket, had the girth of tree trunks.

The duke raked his curly brown hair off his forehead, staring at the earl, ignoring Christine entirely.

“What is going on, Dunhill?” he snarled. His eyes flickered toward Christine, then back to her father. “One of your daughters has arrived. But where, pray tell, is my bride-to-be?”

Christine noticed her intended husband, Lord Trentham, hovering nervously behind the duke. He was pale, and refused to even look at her. Christine’s heart dropped to the ground.

Lord Trentham looked so small and ineffectual, especially when standing next to the Duke of Ironstone. She guessed he was most likely a dandy.

Why is he wearing a green handkerchief in his jacket pocket?

Her eyes slid away. She barely knew Lord Trentham; she had met him two times before. She hadn’t particularly cared about his gnome-like physique then. But now, when compared to the tower-like duke, she was starting to mind. Just a little.

“Violet has been delayed,” replied the earl, trying to laugh. It fell flat. “You know ladies, Your Grace. She is probably changing her necklace or fussing with her hair?—”

“I am not here for The Canterbury Tales , Dunhill,” interjected the duke, with a snarl. “I will not be taken for a fool. Where is your daughter, man?”

There was a tense silence. Lord Trentham gulped. Christine bit her lip.

It was a good question.

Where is Violet? Where is my sister?

She knew that Violet wasn’t crazy about the thought of marrying. Her older sister had been rejecting suitors at a rapid rate since her debut, after all. Still, she hadn’t protested when their father had told her that she was to become the next Duchess of Ironstone—not at all.

Violet had simply given him a half cat-like smile, before dipping her eyes to her embroidery patch, which had been beautifully crafted, like everything else Violet did.

Christine shifted uneasily on her feet. She recalled that Violet had grown quieter in the days leading up to the wedding. And she had noticed a faraway, sad look on her sister’s face as well.

Her heart dropped to the ground again. Had Violet planned this? Had she meant to leave the Duke of Ironstone standing at the altar?

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” The earl’s voice burst forth like a torrent of water through a dam. “We do not know where she is, Your Grace! We cannot find her!”

There was another deathly silence.

The duke took a step toward the earl, leaning over him, in a menacing way. Her father shrank back against the cold bluestone church wall. Christine couldn’t remember when she had last seen him look so frightened.

“I refuse to suffer this humiliation,” spat the duke, his dark brown eyes slits of outrage. “I came here today for a bride—and a bride I shall have!”

“I am sorry, Your Grace, we are searching high and low! I promise, we’ll find Violet in no time…”

The duke’s head flicked back. He turned his eyes to Christine, who felt herself shrinking like her father against the wall. The duke of Ironstone just had that effect. To say the gentleman was intimidating was to utter the understatement of the year.

Intimidating. Powerful. And extremely handsome. How did I not notice that before?

“No. I am done waiting. I will take your younger daughter instead,” snapped the duke, his eyes full of fire. “She will become my bride instead of the elder.”

The earl blanched. “But Your Grace—my youngest daughter is betrothed to Lord Trentham!”

“You do not mind, do you, Trentham?” The duke turned to the viscount, glaring at him. “Will you put up a fight?”

Lord Trentham gulped again. He looked like he was about to be ill.

“I-I will not p-put up a fight, Your Grace,” whispered the gentleman. He was backing away. “In fact, I believe I shall be away now. Good day!”

“Lord Trentham—” her father called after the viscount, to no avail.

To Christine’s shock, her intended bridegroom started walking, then running, before veritably leaping over the church wall, breaking into a sprint toward his carriage.

“Oh dear,” her father mumbled under his breath.

Her mind was spinning like a top again.

Violet was missing, her intended bridegroom had just run away with his tail between his legs, and her sister’s intended bridegroom was demanding he marry her , instead.

She simply couldn’t make head nor tail of any of it.

“Very well, Your Grace.” Her father’s voice reached her as if from a distance. “You may marry my younger daughter instead of her sister.”

“What?” Christine gasped.

“Very good,” growled the duke with a decisive nod, completely ignoring her. “I will come back with a special license in two days.” His eyes narrowed. “And now, I will tell the congregation that there shall be no wedding today.”

He turned, marching back into the church, without another word. The loud bang of the church door made both Christine and her father jump.

“What just happened?” Christine’s voice came out as a squeak. “Did he just say what I thought he said?”

“It appears he did,” replied her father, tight-lipped. “One does not deny the duke what he wants, Christine.”

Christine slid down, kneeling on the church step, taking deep gulps of air. Clutching her already wilting wedding bouquet, she stared into the distance at the busy streets of London. She didn’t see anything at all.

I am going to become the next Duchess of Ironstone. How on earth did this happen?