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Page 1 of Duke of no Return (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #23)

CHAPTER 1

L ady Frances Rowley moved through the throng with practiced poise, each graceful step a careful performance masking the storm raging within her. Her ice-blue gown skimming the polished floor, she nodded and smiled at the aristocratic faces turned her way, though the gesture felt hollow—mere habit, not sincerity.

She heard them before she saw them.

A cluster of matrons, their lace fans fluttering like the wings of trapped birds, leaned toward one another, their voices hushed yet pointed.

“Have you heard? Lord Cranford has won Lady Frances’s hand.”

The words coiled around her like a vise, squeezing the air from her lungs. A chill prickled at the nape of her neck, and she fought the urge to glance over her shoulder.

“A triumph for the viscount. I suppose she had no choice in the matter.”

Her fingers hovered over her dance card, tracing its edges before she realized how tightly she was holding it. She forced herself to release her grip, smoothing the delicate paper with careful precision, as if she could will away the tension knotting inside her.

Then, the whisper that sent ice down her spine…

“Poor girl. Did you hear what happened to the last woman who refused him?”

Frances stiffened, her chest tightening as though invisible hands had seized her lungs. A cold sweat broke across her back, and the room seemed to tilt ever so slightly, the glittering chandeliers blurring into streaks of light.

She had heard the rumors, of course. Everyone had. And yet, the words conjured a memory she could never shake—Lady Ellen’s glassy-eyed stare, the faint bruise peeking from beneath the lace at her wrist, the way her voice trembled when she claimed to be ‘perfectly happy.’ That memory clung to Frances like damp fog, each word from the matrons a bell toll forewarning her own fate. And yet, hearing them spoken aloud, woven into the hushed murmurs of the ton, made them feel all the more suffocating.

Fear clawed at her throat, but it was not fear of Cranford alone. Her hands felt clammy, her breath shallow, as if an invisible force were tightening around her ribs. Every muscle in her body tensed, instinct screaming at her to flee, but the weight of expectation rooted her in place. She was a pawn in a game she had never agreed to play, a prisoner in a world that saw her as nothing more than a transaction. Was this to be her life? A gilded prison where her every step, her every breath, was dictated by men who saw her as nothing more than a means to an end?

Frances forced herself to move forward, inhaling sharply as she willed her legs to remain steady. She forced a polite smile, though she could feel its fragility, the edges trembling with the weight of her turmoil. She clenched her hands at her sides to stop them from shaking, her pulse a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. How effortlessly they reduced her to an object, a prize to be bartered away.

Frances had always known her father would arrange her marriage. She had learned that lesson at sixteen, when a hopeful mention of marrying for love was met with a curt dismissal: “Love is a luxury, Frances. You will marry where it best serves our family’s interests.” His voice had been calm, but unyielding. That day, she had learned precisely where she stood in the hierarchy of his affections—somewhere beneath legacy and ambition. That was the way of things. Daughters of powerful men were bartered like commodities for land, wealth, and alliances.

But Cranford?

She would not shackle herself to a monster.

A voice—her father’s voice—rose in her mind. This is your duty, Frances. You will do as you are told.

No. She would not.

The ballroom felt suffocating, the chandeliers blinding, the press of bodies unbearable. With a murmured excuse, she slipped past a trio of debutantes and toward the terrace doors, pushing them open and stepping into the cool embrace of the night.

The sky stretched vast and dark above her, jeweled with stars. The air carried the scent of the gardens—roses and damp earth, fresh and grounding.

She had to think. What were her options? She could flee to her aunt in Bath, but her father would surely find her before she could secure any means of independence. She could go to a friend, though few would dare oppose her father’s will. Fleeing seemed impossible, yet staying meant condemning herself to a lifetime of misery. The risks were overwhelming, but so was the certainty of her fate if she did nothing.

She had to act.

Before, it was too late.

“Frances.”

The voice, sharp and commanding, sent her spine straight.

She turned slowly to find Lord Henry Rowley, her father, standing in the doorway, his imposing figure silhouetted against the golden light spilling from the ballroom.

He descended the steps toward her, his expression unreadable. “What are you doing out here?”

“I needed air,” she said, lifting her chin.

“Your absence has been noted.” His tone was edged with disapproval, his gaze sweeping over her with thinly veiled irritation. He exhaled sharply, adjusting the cuffs of his coat as though the matter were a tiresome inconvenience rather than a concern.

Frances ignored the rebuke. “Tell me it is not true,” she said instead, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with a desperation she could no longer hide. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her skirts, knuckles whitening. “Tell me…” Frances’s voice wavered, her throat tightening around the words. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to continue. “Tell me you have not promised me to him.”

Her father’s gaze did not waver. “The contract is signed.”

The words struck her like a physical blow.

“You will be Viscountess Cranford…” He paused, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with meticulous precision, letting the words settle like a weight upon her. Then, with an air of finality, he continued, “…as soon as the banns can be read.” His tone was devoid of warmth, finality woven into each syllable, a man who had already dismissed any notion of defiance. Because, in his mind, it was.

Frances’s hands clenched at her sides. “He is a cruel man,” she said, her voice shaking. A vision of Lady Ellen flitted through her mind—her forced, brittle smile at a ball, the way her gloved hands trembled as she accepted Cranford’s arm. Frances had once overheard hushed whispers in the retiring room: A temper like that—God help the woman who displeases him. The thought turned her stomach. “You know what they say about him, Father. And you would still hand me over?”

Frances swallowed hard, a cold knot forming in her stomach. She could almost feel the ghost of Lady Ellen’s fearful gaze upon her, a silent warning echoing through the depths of her mind.

Lord Rowley’s mouth tightened. “He is a powerful man,” her father said, his tone edged with exasperation, as though she were a foolish child incapable of understanding. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head before flicking an impatient glance toward the ballroom. With a measured sigh, he straightened his coat, as if composing himself before speaking again. “You will thank me when you are secure. When you have a husband who can protect you from the harsh realities of the world.” His voice dipped lower, almost menacing. “This is not a matter for debate, Frances.”

She brushed past her father, striding back into the ballroom with her head held high and her resolve hardening with every step. The echo of his words rang in her ears, but they no longer held power over her. She would not be bartered or broken. Not tonight. Not ever again. Her heart pounded with determination as a name took root in her mind—Johnathan. If there was any chance to escape this fate, she would seize it. Even if it meant placing her trust in the one man she had sworn never to rely on again.

The single thought took root, sharp and sudden.

Johnathan Seton. The Duke of Hargate. She remembered the summer they stole away from a garden party and hid in the old stables, whispering secrets and dreams of lives they would carve out far from their parents’ expectations. He had held her hand when she cried over her mother’s disapproval, and she had made him laugh when he feared his father’s wrath. In those sun-drenched days, they’d sworn an oath—ridiculous and childish—that if the world turned on them, they’d always have each other.

She could still remember the summers spent racing through fields, their laughter carried on the wind. He had been her closest friend, the boy who had dared her to climb trees and sneak into the library to read forbidden novels by candlelight. But the years had changed them both.

He was no longer the carefree boy she had known. The Johnathan Seton of today was a rogue, his name entangled in whispered scandals. There had been rumors—duels fought over women, debts left unpaid, nights spent in gaming hells. And yet, despite everything, she knew in her heart that if anyone could help her now, it would be him.

But would he be willing?

Their last meeting had ended in sharp words—her accusing him of squandering his potential, him calling her a coward for yielding to society. The words had burned, leaving a rift between them. And now, she was wagering on him.

The boy who had once been her closest friend. The one person she had trusted with her secrets, her dreams, her fears.

They had been inseparable.

But that had been years ago. Before he had turned away from her, before his name had become synonymous with scandal and recklessness.

And before Frances had turned away from him, convinced that whatever loyalty had once existed between them was long gone.

Still, she had no one else.

Decision made, Frances turned on her heel and strode toward the stables, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Panic pulsed through her veins like fire. Every step was laced with dread that her father might see her. Stop her. Her hand fumbled with the laces of her cloak as she reached the stables, her chest burned. There was no time to question, no room for second thoughts. If she did not flee now, she would never be free. She made haste, lest her father catch her and drag her back to that suffocating ballroom.

The cloak barely shielded her from the chill, and her evening slippers were ill-suited to the stirrups, but she urged the horse onward. She had not ridden like this in years—not since Johnathan had dared her to race him across the orchard path when they were twelve. The wind whipping past her cheeks and the steady rhythm of hooves beneath her brought a rush of childhood memory, a sense of freedom she had not felt in far too long. That wild, fearless girl she used to be—she was still inside her. And tonight, she was riding toward a choice, not away from one.

A sliver of moonlight cut through the dense cloud cover, casting a pale sheen on her path ahead, and with it came a surge of hope laced with dread. Frances’s breath hitched as the silhouette of the estate emerged, majestic and unfamiliar. Her mind wavered between memories of laughter and the chilling possibility that Johnathan might not open the door. Every hoofbeat echoed with fear—and the fragile hope that she might find salvation behind those doors.

Twenty minutes later, she turned up the familiar drive. Lanterns cast elongated shadows across the gravel path, their dim glow barely piercing the midnight gloom. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the distant rustle of leaves in the wind. A shiver ran through her, the night’s chill creeping into her bones as the relentless ride caught up with her. Her muscles ached, stiff from the strain, but she straightened her spine, refusing to let exhaustion win.

She swallowed hard, pushing down the knot of nerves coiling in her stomach. The towering structure loomed before her, its stone facade bathed in cold moonlight. The massive double doors, adorned with an intricate brass knocker, seemed foreboding. She faltered.

Had she come all this way only to find herself unwelcome? Would he turn her away? The boy who had once vowed to stand by her side had grown into a man cloaked in mystery.

She reined in her horse, drawing a slow breath to steady her racing heart.

This was her gamble, her last chance to escape an untenable fate. She had risked everything to come here, to throw herself on the mercy of a man she had not seen in years.

She prayed he would stand by her now, as he once had—prayed the boy she once knew hadn’t vanished beneath the man he had become.

Frances stepped up to the door, raised her hand, her knuckles poised to strike, her breath stuttered. If he refused her now, she had nowhere else to go.

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