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Chapter Three

T he carriage jostled back and forth, and Dorian was quite thankful that his stomach had settled down from earlier in the morning. They were making their way through London toward the Earl of Markenson’s townhouse.

“Are you doing all right?” Harry asked from where he sat in the bench seat across from Dorian.

Dorian’s blue eyes flicked up to his friend, regarding him slightly before shaking his head. “I do not want to marry,” he admitted although it was something that he knew Harry was well aware of. “I do not want a wife.”

Harry, knowing Dorian’s predicament all too well, added, “But you need one.”

Dorian nodded and blew out a hard, frustrated breath.

He might have been the Duke of Frostwood, one of the largest dukedoms in England, but that did not mean that their finances were in order.

When he had inherited the title of Duke, Dorian had been quite young, and so, his mother had made decisions in his stead until he had come of age.

Unfortunately, she had acted rather frivolously when it came to the matters of their estate.

“Without the salvation of a bride with a large dowry, everyone under the rule of the dukedom will be in peril,” he gritted out the words, a muscle in his jaw flexing.

“We barely have the funds to pay our workers, all of whom are tenants in the surrounding villages and who depend on us to keep their houses afloat. If they cannot pay for the things they need, they will come to us asking for help, but we will have no money to give them. We don’t have the funds to repair the manor or to do any of the things required of a duke who cares about the people he oversees. I just…”

His words died out as he flopped his head backward in frustration, banging it gently on the wall of the carriage.

“I don’t know what to do, Harry.”

“You go to this meeting, and you secure a bride,” Harry advised, saying the words as if the plan itself was that simple when they both knew that it wasn’t.

At the very least, Dorian was thankful that his mother had decided to stay at the townhouse.

He loved his mother and appreciated her tenacity when it came to navigating the politics of the ton, but he was glad he did not have to add managing her sometimes mercurial moods to his list of responsibilities for the day.

Not when so much was riding on his meeting with the Earl of Markenson.

The wheels of the carriage creaked as it rolled to a stop, and Dorian pulled back the curtain around the window, looking up at the building.

The bricks had been painted white, standing about three stories high and taking up the length of over half the block.

It was massive, letting him know just how affluent the Earl of Markenson must be.

The footman jumped down from the bench on the front of the carriage, hustling to pull the door open for Dorian.

“I will remain in the carriage, waiting for you,” Harry said, settling back further into his bench seat with the small book he’d brought with him for the occasion.

“Not worried that someone will try to kill me in the Earl’s townhouse?” Dorian asked, trying to keep his tone light, despite the fact that the thought of being somewhere without Harry made his pulse skip with worry.

“Not in the slightest.” Harry grinned.

Dorian just nodded, not wanting to argue about it further.

He had enough on his mind. So, he stepped down from the carriage, his boots crunching over the gravel as the footman snapped the carriage door shut behind him.

They walked up to the door, preparing themselves to knock and announce his arrival, but before they could do so, the massive wooden door before them swung open.

Standing on the threshold was a tall butler. The man had gray hair and a hooked nose that he used to look down upon the two men standing on the doorstep.

“His Grace the Duke of Frostwood, Dorian Fletcher,” the footman announced, giving a quick, respectful nod of his head before turning and scurrying back toward the carriage to wait for the end of Dorian’s meeting.

The Earl’s butler pulled the door open further, sweeping into a low bow. “Welcome, Your Grace,” he intoned, sweeping his arm forward in a broad gesture to motion for Dorian to step through the threshold. “His Lordship waits for you in the drawing room,” he announced in a clear, regal tone.

The man did not wait for Dorian to respond as he turned and began making his way down the long hallway that tunneled under the grand staircase.

Dorian tried to keep his attention fixed in front of him as they walked, not wanting to be caught staring wide-eyed at the display of riches, and he was thankful when the butler turned through an open door to his right, waving him into the drawing room.

The room was cozy with a smattering of high-backed chairs and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves surrounding an ornate marble fireplace. In one of the chairs sat a man that Dorian could only assume was the Earl of Markenson. He had golden brown hair and eyes that appeared black as they regarded Dorian.

The man pushed himself to stand, dipping his head in a polite bow as he introduced himself.

“Your Grace,” the Earl began, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Thomas Gibbs, Earl of Markenson. Thank you so much for coming to my home.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Lord Markenson,” Dorian greeted, hating every word that fell from his lips.

He did not want to be there, and every part of him ached to leave this ridiculously opulent home and return to his own manor house as drab as it might be in comparison. But he had resigned himself to seeing this through; he did not have a choice.

“You flatter me.” Thomas grinned, and something about the smile set Dorian on edge. “Have a seat, please.”

Thomas pointed to one of the stuffed, wing-backed chairs that sat around a small table while he motioned for a servant to bring them tea. They waited for it to arrive, making small talk about the Markenson coat of arms that hung proudly above the fireplace.

Once the tea had been served, and the maid had scurried out of the room, Dorian and Thomas turned their attention to each other, a shift settling into the air.

“So, I am sure you are quite curious about the woman in question,” Thomas mused, his dark eyes holding Dorian’s as he stirred his tea gently.

“I am a little curious, yes,” Dorian lied.

Truthfully, he did not care in the slightest what the woman was like. In fact, it was better for him the less that he knew about her. It was only the dowry that he needed, not love. Never love.

“If you would like, I could have her brought in for you. You could talk to her and see her. And if you are still keen, you and I could go to my study and finish all agreements and work out the details of her dowry.”

Dorian just nodded, his throat suddenly thick with apprehension as he thought of meeting his future bride. Thankfully, Thomas did not press for any further response as he called for the maid who had brought them tea.

The woman had likely been waiting just outside the door because she appeared almost the moment her name fell from the Earl’s lips. Thomas gave her the command to fetch “Anastasia,” and she disappeared once more.

“She will make a fine wife,” the Earl explained while they waited. “I am sure with the right husband, the right man to guide her, she will do quite well in the home.”

“I don’t really ca—” Dorian began, but he was cut off by the maid arriving again.

The back of Dorian’s chair was facing the door, so he did not see it when his future bride walked into the room. He did hear her tone as she spoke to her brother, though, and it made him doubt the Earl’s words from mere seconds before.

“You called for me, Brother?” The woman’s tone was sarcastic and insolent, immediately combative, as the Earl’s eyes narrowed in her direction.

“We have a guest, Anastasia,” Thomas said, a muscle in his jaw flexing as he spoke through gritted teeth. “Mind your tone and come greet him.”

Dorian heard the woman behind him sigh and then the sound of her shuffled footsteps as she made her way across the rug.

And then, she stepped into his periphery.

Dorian swung his gaze her way, and his mouth popped open in surprise.

Standing before him, looking resplendent in a gown of emerald-green, was the woman he had helped in the alley the night before.

“You!” Anastasia gasped, her brown eyes narrowing on him. “What on earth are you doing here? Did you come to insert your nose into business that is not yours again?”

“I assure you, I had no idea that this was your house,” Dorian argued, fighting to keep his tone even as he became overwhelmed with the turn of events.

“Anastasia!” Thomas snapped, shooting his sister a chastising glare. “That is no way to talk to the Duke of Frostwood. Remember yourself.”

Anastasia’s eyes widened in recognition at the title, prompting Dorian to bite the inside of his cheek in frustration. But Anastasia seemed to heed her brother’s warning, even if it was with great reluctance, as she dropped her head in a bow.

“Welcome, Your Grace,” she bit off, and he could hear that she hated every syllable that came out of her mouth. “May I ask what prompted such a magnanimous visit to our humble little home?”

Dorian couldn’t help it; he rolled his eyes at her overt display of sarcasm.

“His Grace,” Thomas explained before Dorian had a chance to speak, “is here because he is seeking a wife. And I have agreed to a contract of marriage.”

“What?” Anastasia roared, all propriety, no matter how feigned, long forgotten. “Absolutely not. There is no way that I am marrying him .”

“You do not have any choice in the matter,” Thomas ground out, glancing between his sister and Dorian nervously. “I will only remind you one more time to remember yourself.”