Page 43 of The Duke Steals a Bride (Stolen by the Duke #5)

Prologue

SIX YEARS AGO

“R osaline said that the music will be heavenly at the ball, Father,” Lady Sophia Balfour breathed dreamily, her hands clasped to her chest, her satin reticule dangling from her wrist and swinging gently.

“It will certainly be, my dear,” her father, the Marquess of Foxmere, reassured her.

The soft smile on his face—the one that reached his eyes—spoke of hope. At least, Sophia dared to think it was hope. A sparkle.

“It is considered the ball of the Season, after all. Wasn’t that what you and your friends were calling it?”

Her father was referring to her friends Rosaline and Genevieve, who were traveling with them to the ball in their own carriages.

Sophia felt warm all over at the thought of them just being near. Having friends like them made life a little more bearable after her beautiful, kind mother, Charlotte, had died two years ago when she was sixteen.

While it pleased her that her father valued her friends’ stories, it used to be her mother’s role to remind them of social events. Sophia felt her throat close up, but she had no right to feel and act miserable, not with her father barely living after her mother died.

“And Lady Helena would be there, wouldn’t she?” she asked with a grin.

“Oh, you certainly heard about her, didn’t you?” her father asked, but he did not seem offended—she guessed that their courtship had become serious.

“Yes, from Aunt Mary. But know this, Father. I’m truly happy for you.”

Her father sighed. “She’s not your mother,” he murmured, his face somber. “Nobody could be like your mother.”

For a moment, Sophia thought the whole mood would sour. Then, he smiled again. There was still a hint of sadness, but she could see he was trying.

“I know, Father…”

Though the atmosphere in their carriage was pleasant enough, outside was another thing entirely. The rhythm created by raindrops had become more insistent. The wind howled, sounding more like a wolf wreaking havoc on the path.

Sophia always had a wild imagination, fueled by the books she loved. She might not see much of the outside world, but she knew that the wind was flailing the tree branches about. The sound was loud enough to make her temples pound. A slight pulsing in her head, a warning—but it wasn’t that urgent. At least, she thought it wasn’t.

Inside, the storm had yet to touch father and daughter. A lantern provided a warm glow, casting soft hues on the interior. It was comforting, but Sophia preferred to see the glow on her father’s face. He seemed happier.

“I heard Lord Whitmore’s daughter will be playing the pianoforte at the ball,” Sophia said, changing the subject.

“The pianoforte,” her father murmured. Then, he chuckled as if a memory had broken through. A weary expression replaced his amused one. “A vital skill for young ladies, I suppose.”

“You don’t sound impressed, Father,” Sophia commented.

She tilted her head to the side, her brown curls bouncing in the corner of her eye as the carriage trundled more violently. Between the wind and the rutted road, this trip was becoming ever more uncomfortable.

“I am not trying to discount her talent, and I have no doubt she plays the instrument well, but a man cannot marry a woman for such a skill alone.” Her father gave her a curious look. “Some might.”

Sophia thought her father was trying to guide her toward the proper behavior expected from a young lady planning to marry. She knew it was expected of her, but she had never met a man who had captured her interest. Not yet.

“I want you to be happy,” she said instead, urged by a sudden impulse.

Her father was trying to convey a message—that he wanted her to be more than just a talent for the man she would marry one day.

She leaned forward and took his hands in hers. “Father, I know you loved Mother. We both know nobody could replace her, but she and I would like you to find happiness again.”

The Marquess’s lips parted as if he was preparing to respond. Suddenly, though, the carriage gave a violent lurch.

“T-The weather. It’s a terrible night for a ball,” he stammered, his face pale and his eyes widening.

“Yes, Father,” Sophia agreed, her voice becoming smaller, like that of a child.

For the past two years, since her mother died, she had tried to be her father’s strength. She didn’t like it when she sounded like a little child.

For a moment, the two became quiet. All Sophia could hear was her breathing and the rain’s ever-more insistent assault on the carriage. The storm seemed to be getting worse, the wind taking on a more human-like wail. Or perhaps it sounded more like a ghoul.

She shivered, rubbing her arms above her shawl. She was grateful that she agreed to wear it, though it took away some of her dress’s beauty. It was getting chillier.

“Something is wrong,” her father said. “The carriage does not feel steady.”

“It’s the storm, Father,” Sophia volunteered, but she could tell her father felt that something else was afoot.

His fear made her feel almost as uncertain.

The Marquess rapped the wooden panel that separated them from the coachman. It started soft, but there was no response. So, he pounded harder, the harshest motion he had ever made—at least as far as Sophia knew.

“What’s happening? Can we turn around?” he demanded.

“The road ish terreeble, Muh Lord, and the shtorrm—” the coachman slurred.

Sophia’s ears were bombarded by the torrential rain, but she heard the slur in the man’s voice clearly enough. He didn’t sound fine.

Before they could explore the matter further, a thunderous noise split the air. They heard wood splintering as metal screeched against stone in a final bid for balance.

Sophia had barely any time to register what was happening. The carriage jerked again, and her hands flailed to find something to hold. The horses panicked, realizing their trouble before the carriage passengers did.

Horses and metal crashed against stone and wood. Then, and only then, did Sophia remember the other two carriages.

“No,” she whispered, even as she tried to steady herself.

Through the window, she could see Genevieve’s carriage swerving off the road. The devastating impact had Rosaline’s horses neighing fearfully.

Stark fear. Sophia had known sorrow because of her mother’s death, but she had never known real fear.

Then, there was another impact, this time from Rosaline’s carriage hitting theirs. Sophia was thrown violently forward as their carriage lurched. Her head struck something hard.

Pain shot through her, but her cry was swallowed by the chaos and tempest that raged around her.

“Sophia!” her father’s voice echoed, before darkness overtook her.

* * *

Something was terribly wrong. Everything ached, and Sophia’s movements were heavy. Slow.

Her eyes fluttered open, taking in the scene. Everything was blurry at first. Her dulled senses returned alarmingly slowly. She inhaled deeply, trying to ease the ache in her chest. She couldn’t breathe well. When she did, rain-soaked earth and wet, splintered wood invaded her nostrils. She whimpered softly.

When her senses cleared, she realized why she felt heavy. A crushing weight was upon her. Her hands moved even as she struggled under the weight, her fingers reaching for something to hold on to. The realization dawned on her slowly but painfully.

Crushing weight.

Warm and sticky feeling.

“No,” she cried softly, gently pushing away at the familiar weight.

His father’s back was on her, shielding her.

However, he did not manage to save himself.

When she managed to sit up, she gaped at his body in horror. It was bent unnaturally, and wood splinters protruded from his already pale flesh. A large piece stuck out from his chest—near his heart.

“No! No! No!”

Something inside Sophia shattered into pieces smaller than the splinters that protruded from her father’s corpse.

No time to grieve. She bit back the scream that wanted to rise and forced herself to think.

Miraculously, she was still able to hear sounds. See things. Feel the danger around her. The wreckage that was their carriage groaned, giving a final warning. Sophia knew that if she remained inside, she would die.

Biting her lower lip, Sophia forced herself to begin her escape. Muscle and bone protested. There was a pounding in her temple, and she tasted blood from her efforts.

She pushed forward, though, even as her movement felt like a longer journey than the one they had undertaken through the storm. Her nails scraped against metal, wood, and even damp earth, but she no longer cared. She managed to reach the open air. With one final heave, she threw herself out the door of the overturned carriage and onto the soaked ground.

Thunder rumbled. It was as if nature was declaring its triumph. A lightning-stricken oak sagged, wavered, and toppled across the ruins Sophia had just escaped. Sophia was breathing hard, tears streaming down her face. She could have died if she had woken up just a little later or if she had hesitated for even a moment.

For a long moment, she simply lay there—a heaving and accusing figure under the grey sky. The rain continued to fall, mingling with her tears.

She was surrounded by wreckage and ruin.

Her father was dead, and she was an orphan.