Page 43 of His Stolen Duchess (Stolen by the Duke #7)

Chapter One

“ S tand straighter. Chin up,” Lady Grisham barked.

Elizabeth Brighton, the Marquess of Grisham’s second daughter, tried her best to obey her stepmother. She pulled her shoulders back while still under the unforgiving and ever-assessing eye of Lady Grisham.

The chandeliers glittered above like captured starlight, casting golden reflections across polished floors and silk gowns, but the beauty only made her more uneasy.

Everything shimmered and sparkled, and yet all it stirred in her was dread.

Other young ladies might have seen the ballroom as a place of enchantment, but to Elizabeth, it was little short of a waking nightmare.

“Has anyone told you that you slouch like a milkmaid, Elizabeth?” her stepmother asked, sounding perpetually aggravated with her.

To be fair, Lady Grisham gave her own daughter—Elizabeth’s younger half-sister—the same treatment.

“Wilhelmina, do compose yourself. If you persist in glowering so, you shall frighten away every eligible gentleman in the room. A young lady ought not to appear as though she means to duel the first man who approaches.”

“That’s rather the point, Mother,” Wilhelmina muttered. “Heaven forbid I blend in with this flock of overdressed, self-congratulating peacocks.”

Elizabeth had to suppress a smile. She was genuinely grateful to be out here with her younger half-sister. Wilhelmina might be only seventeen, but she could hold her ground and even defend Elizabeth’s far better than anyone else could these days.

That role had once belonged to their eldest sister, Marianne, but she was now married to the Duke of Oakmere, so her duties had shifted elsewhere.

Thankfully, Lady Grisham was too consumed by her logistical maneuverings to have caught Wilhelmina’s muttered remark. The marchioness was already orchestrating their positions in the ballroom with the precision of a general, arranging her daughters like life-sized chess pieces.

Elizabeth and Wilhelmina now stood at a calculated distance from the dance floor: close enough to be noticed, yet not so near as to appear eager.

“Smile, both of you,” Lady Grisham commanded through a tight grin that showed all her teeth. “It’s not an execution. It’s a ball.”

Elizabeth wondered if an execution was, in fact, preferable to what she would be dealing with. She never had macabre tendencies, but the thought flitted in her mind so easily.

“Aren’t we the very picture of delight,” Wilhelmina muttered, forcing a smile.

Elizabeth attempted to mimic the expression, but her cheeks ached with the effort, and she knew the truth would still show in her eyes: dull, weary, and perhaps a little lost.

Rooms like this always set her heart racing. They were too loud, too bright, too filled with glittering strangers who moved with effortless ease, as though they all knew precisely where to go and what to say.

Unlike her.

She tightened her grip on her fan, the only thing in the room that felt solid in her hand.

“Elizabeth, you will make a favorable impression this evening,” Lady Grisham said coldly.

With her, it was never a suggestion—it was a decree. The lady might not carry a cane like her late father, but she wielded her will like a blade.

“Marianne may be comfortably ensconced at Oakmere with her noble husband and their perfectly timed child,” she added, “but do not imagine the family name rests entirely on her accomplishments. You , my dear, are our standard-bearer now. I expect you not to falter.”

It was never about concern for her happiness or future. It was about disposing of her, securing a new alliance, turning her into a useful connection. The ordeal with Lord Linpool last Season still lingered in her memory, sharp and humiliating, a lesson in how little her well-being truly mattered.

Lady Grisham’s mention of her sister stirred a pang of longing.

Elizabeth missed Marianne terribly. Her elder sister had promised to visit, but her time was now consumed by her infant son, and understandably so.

Still, her letters arrived faithfully, filled with warmth and gentle encouragement.

Elizabeth clung to them with quiet desperation, as if the ink and paper might somehow hold her together.

“I will try my best,” Elizabeth whispered, knowing that she was saying it more to herself than to anyone, but Lady Grisham seemed to be satisfied.

“Good. I will see what I can do on my end,” the marchioness said with a smile.

“Ten shillings says she’s off to charm some ancient earl or marquess for you, Elizabeth,” Wilhelmina whispered, clearly reveling in her own mischief. “And to make matters worse, he’ll have gout, a crumbling castle, and no fortune to speak of. You’ll be married off for money that doesn’t exist.”

Elizabeth smiled, though nervously. She knew her sister was trying to coax a laugh from her, but oddly enough, she could almost see the ridiculous scene playing out exactly as Wilhelmina described.

Then they heard it.

The unmistakable clamor of an approaching group.

No , Elizabeth thought, not this. Not now.

Though she was accustomed to such assaults, the harshness of their voices still grated painfully on Elizabeth’s ears. She steeled herself against the torrent of satin, silk, and sharp sneers that swept toward them.

The young ladies made no effort to soften their words; their laughter was loud, their malice unmistakable.

“Did you see how she nearly stumbled on the steps? Is that the sort of clumsiness a respectable duke or earl would tolerate? At one-and-twenty, no less! Her knees are already giving way. What a fright she’ll be in five years,” sneered the one with the blonde ringlets, her voice sharp and cold as winter frost.

“ Hopefully married off before then,” the black-haired lady beside her giggled with obvious sarcasm.

“As for Lady Wilhelmina? She looks as if she’d make a husband’s life unbearable. And I doubt many men would last long enough to regret it,” the third said with a biting smile.

“Half-sisters, apparently. It’s painfully obvious: one’s trembling at her own shadow, the other frightens everyone else to death,” the blonde concluded, eyes glittering with scorn.

Wilhelmina could no longer hold her temper. Before Elizabeth could stop her, she had already bridged the distance between her and the other young ladies.

“I dare you to say one more thing about us, in front of my face,” she said coldly.

The girls startled, their faces blanching even beneath layers of rouge and powder. One placed a handkerchief on her mouth as if she would faint. Elizabeth might be awkward, but she somehow suspected these women were acting more affected than they really were.

Wilhelmina did not get to say everything she had to say, though. Her mother was soon at their side, a storm cloud pretending to be a rainbow.

“Ladies, do forgive my daughter,” she cooed sweetly as Elizabeth spied Wilhelmina rolling her eyes. “They are still learning, but they are very much willing. Come, Wilhelmina. Apologize to these young ladies.”

Elizabeth flinched. She was indeed a wallflower, but she didn’t see the sense of apologizing when one was right. Wilhelmina apparently agreed, because she faced the other young women with her jaw clenched and her eyes blazing.

“Apologies,” she said flatly.

“S-she didn’t look like she was sorry!” the one with the blond ringlets complained.

“She didn’t do anything wrong,” Elizabeth whispered, her palms cold with anxiety.

Meanwhile, Lady Grisham looked like she would throttle the two sisters. Elizabeth suspected that was why the trio finally left them alone.

“Come here,” the disgruntled marchioness ordered in a low voice.

Lady Grisham leaned in close, her voice soft but resolute as she whispered into Elizabeth’s ear. “You will marry this Season, Elizabeth. If you don’t… your sisters’ futures will suffer. Their prospects rest with you.”

A heavy weight settled over Elizabeth’s heart. The thought of her half-sisters’ happiness and security dangling precariously because of her own actions filled her with unbearable guilt. She swallowed hard, the silent pressure pressing her toward a decision she felt she could not refuse.

“Marianne may now be a duchess, but that does not mean you will all sit down and relax.” Lady Grisham turned to Wilhelmina, “Your turn has come now, child. But your sister must find a husband soon so we can focus on you more.”

“I’m not asking for that, Mother,” Wilhelmina retorted.

“I know, and I believe that’s a problem you want your dear mama to solve.”

Meanwhile, Elizabeth was still absorbing the marchioness’s words. Ambition colored everything that her stepmother did or said. For Elizabeth, her father’s second-born, she had no other option but to agree to be presented like a broodmare.

“I understand,” Elizabeth said softly. “I will… I will do my best tonight, Lady Grisham.”

“That’s better,” Lady Grisham said approvingly.

And so, the next hour became a flurry of introductions. It was sad that Elizabeth would only remember the worst, the uninterested, and the ones who wasted much of her precious time.

Lord Weston spent much of their time conversing and dancing, his gaze lingering a little too long in places Elizabeth wished it wouldn’t—namely her bosom.

Though her frame was slender, she carried a fullness that often drew unwelcome attention, something she neither sought nor appreciated, especially in such a setting.

“My lord, um, what do you think of the delicacies laid out this evening?” Elizabeth asked, thinking of persuading Weston to head to the buffet.

“They do look quite appetizing, my lady,” he replied, his eyes briefly flickering downward at her décolletage.

A flush of embarrassment rose to Elizabeth’s cheeks, prickling beneath his gaze.

Meanwhile, her second suitor, Viscount Hampwell, thankfully did not linger on her figure, but his ardent obsession with fox hunting proved equally distracting in its own way.