The Duke's Stolen Bride

by Sophie Jordan

  Nora and Charlotte sat as close to the grate as they dared without catching their skirts afire. Marian watched them undetected from the doorway. They were bent over their sewing. The light in the room was meager, forcing them to peer closely at their stitching.

  Marian frowned. They’d be blind before they were old, sewing in such poor lighting, their backs permanently stooped.

  Not if she could help it, Marian vowed. They were her sisters and she’d save them from such a fate. She’d save her sisters and keep her brother at school. Somehow.

  Chasing away her frown, she cleared her throat as she stepped forward, letting her presence be known.

  “It’s almost dark. Put that sewing away,” she directed.

  Nora looked up and eagerly tossed her sewing aside. Her youngest sister didn’t need to be told twice. Nora was an efficient seamstress, but not enamored of the task. She did the minimum required and not a stitch more.

  Nora would rather be working in her herb garden or preparing a tonic in what was once their father’s laboratory. Nora was more like Papa than any of them—skilled at healing and creating remedies. Marian and Charlotte knew she could mix up a batch of herbs that would shave days off a common catarrh. They did not hesitate to take any elixir Nora concocted for them. Unfortunately, she could not earn money at her vocation, so she was stuck sewing to bring in some much needed coin.

  Charlotte, on the other hand, took pleasure in sewing. For her, it was art. She was both gifted and quick. She wanted only one other thing. Someone who was not to be hers. She didn’t complain, however. Charlotte accepted that her fate did not hold what she wanted.

  And that simply broke Marian’s heart.

  Charlotte may have accepted that fate, but Marian had not.

  “Marian! You’re back,” Nora proclaimed as though Marian had left for the plains of Gibraltar and been gone decades.

  Marian removed her gloves and hung her pelisse on the hook near the door. “Mrs. Walker wanted a word with me after Annabel’s lessons.”

  Not an untruth precisely. Mrs. Walker had wanted a brief word, but it was the dodging of the coal peddler through the village and into the tavern that took so much time and made her later than usual. Of course, she didn’t mention that. She hated to see the worry in their eyes. She tried her best to shield them.

  “I hope she wasn’t trying to dock your wages this week with some excuse or another,” Charlotte grumbled, not even looking up. She squinted in the fading light as she worked her needle. “That woman is so stingy with her pennies.”

  “Awful is what she is,” Nora chimed in as she moved to the pot bubbling on the stove.

  “Nora,” Marian tsked. “Mind your tongue.”

  Nora pulled a face and continued, “As is that daughter of hers. Annabel is a nasty creature who relishes belittling others.” She lifted the lid, and wafts of steam drifted up on the air. Nora stirred the contents.

  Marian was well acquainted with Annabel’s traits, but she would prefer not to discuss her in her free time. She devoted several hours a week to the difficult girl, and that was more than enough as far as she was concerned.

  “Oh, good. You started dinner.” Happy for a change of subject, Marian stepped forward and peered over her little sister’s shoulder at the pale broth. “What is it?” She was afraid she knew the answer.

  “I made a soup with the last of the potatoes.” Nora lifted the ladle and let the thin broth dribble back into the pot. Clearly there was more water than potatoes in the soup. It looked nothing like the appetizing fare the Duke of Warrington had been enjoying.

  Masking her distaste, Marian turned her attention back to Charlotte still hunkered over her needle and thread. Marian strode over to her and plucked her sewing from her diligent little hands. It was the only way to get her to stop.

  “Marian!” Charlotte protested. “I promised the Hansens I’d have that finished by tomorrow.”

  Marian deftly turned and hung the bodice of the dress on a peg near the door. “You’ve done enough for the day. The Hansens can wait. You work faster and harder for them than any of their apprentices.”

  “Yes, about that.” Charlotte stood and removed some bowls from a shelf. “Mrs. Hansen offered me that apprenticeship again—”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Dressmaker apprenticeships were generally a miserable existence for the apprentices. Marian would not release her sister to the dubious care of the Hansens. They’d treat her like a slave and never promote her beyond the level of apprenticeship, nor would they ever pay her more than a meager wage, deeming her room and board as sufficient recompense for long grueling hours of sewing by candlelight.

  Those were reasons aplenty . . . even if Marian didn’t mind the way Mr. Hansen looked at her lovely sister. Mr. Hansen’s gaze always followed Charlotte with a keen avarice reminiscent of a wolf eyeing its prey. The very last thing Marian would do would be to send her sister to live under their roof.

  Marian knew something about the wickedness of man—especially that of a man in a position of power over a female. She’d witnessed how aristocratic men behaved toward females in their employ.

  For a short while her charge, Lady Clara, had been betrothed to one such man. Marian had recognized him for what he was—pure poison. Maliciousness embodied. The Earl of Randall was the manner of man who enjoyed breaking those weaker than himself.

  Thankfully Clara had discovered the truth for herself before it was too late and she bound herself to him in matrimony.

  Marian would keep Charlotte safe from men like that. She’d protect her and do everything to see her wed to her young Mr. Pembroke. Her sister deserved a happy and suitable match. She was beautiful inside and out. She was gentle and kind and deserved all good things. A husband. Children.

  “One of the Hansens’ apprentices left—”

  “Ran away ’tis more like it,” Nora volunteered.

  Nora was likely correct on that score. They treated their apprentices abominably, and Marian would not toss gentle Charlotte into that wolf den.

  Indeed not. Her sister wanted to marry young Pembroke. That had always been the plan. Unfortunately, it was one of many plans that had changed after Papa died.

  Marian knew the Pembroke lad still longed for Charlotte. She saw it in his face every time he stared after Charlotte in town or during church. The lad still wanted her even if his father forbade their union.

  Marian had to come up with the dowry. She snorted. Hard to imagine how she could accomplish that when she could not even afford coal.

  “It would be very helpful and could alleviate . . . our situation,” Charlotte said delicately, intruding on Marian’s desperate musings. Apparently she had not given up on the subject of apprenticing for the Hansens.

  Marian stubbornly shook her head. It was unbearable to think how low their circumstances had fallen that this was an offer Charlotte would even consider. She should be planning a wedding, not laboring over needle and thread.

  A year ago Charlotte was happily betrothed. Papa had approved the match when he was alive and even agreed to a dowry—a generous dowry and yet one he believed he could scrape together.

  If Papa ceased to accept chickens and poorly knitted gloves as payment for services rendered, he could have supported the agreed-upon dowry, and he had started to do that very thing, collecting actual money for his services.

  Then he had died.

  It was a shame he had not seen to their future before that.

  Marian cast out the uncharitable thought. She’d loved her father. She could not fault him for his generosity of spirit . . . even if it left them in dire straits now.

  It was a sad turn of events. Especially for Charlotte. Not only had she lost Papa, she also lost her future husband.

  “Put the notion from your head,” Marian instructed. “I told you not to worry about our situation. I’m working on a solution.”

  Nora snorted and Marian sent her a swift glare.

  Charlotte looked
merely unconvinced.

  Marian opened her mouth, but was saved from having to prove her claim.

  A hard knock sounded on the kitchen door. Before anyone could answer, the door was unceremoniously pushed open.

  Mr. Lawrence strode into the room like he owned the place.

  She felt the usual tightening of her skin and souring inside her mouth. It happened every time in his presence.

  His bright eyes immediately found her. For his great height and girth, the man possessed the smallest eyes. They were dark and small like buttons set deeply in his face. “Miss Langley, there you are.”

  “Here I am,” she agreed dully. In her own kitchen. The most obvious place to find her at this hour. She bit back the sarcastic comment, however. She knew better than to make an enemy of the town’s primary blacksmith. He was a man of means in the village.

  He dropped a burlap sack on the table with a shuddering bang.

  Charlotte jumped slightly whilst Nora, always fearless, strode forward and opened the bag. “A ham!” she cried in delight.

  Almost immediately Marian felt her stomach clench in hunger. She resisted taking a step closer to assess said ham. She hadn’t eaten since tea this afternoon with Annabel and her mother. Mrs. Walker insisted they take tea together on the days Marian instructed Annabel. It took everything in Marian not to fall like a ravenous beast on the tray of food.

  She had called upon her breeding and years in service to the nobility and gently nibbled at a single sandwich and iced tartlet. To do anything more would earn a frown from Mrs. Walker. The woman was always watching Marian closely, as though she would reveal some grand secret from her time in the Duke of Autenberry’s household—some grand secret that would make her daughter more marriageable.

  Mr. Lawrence slapped a meaty paw on the hunk of ham. “I saw this today at the butcher’s and said to m’self: Hiram, the lovely Langley lasses could do with a bit of ham to thicken their lady frames.” He nodded in a self-satisfied manner.

  Marian shifted self-consciously on her feet. It was no secret the Langley family had fallen to dire straits. Everyone in the village knew it. Still, it stung to think the townsfolk were remarking how low they had fallen.

  “Mr. Lawrence, you are much too kind. We cannot accept such generosity.”

  “Of course you can.” He jerked a thumb toward their dinner simmering on the stove. “Throw a bit of it in the pot. Right tasty. I might even stay to dine with you lasses m’self.”

  Marian bit back a groan.

  Nora gave her a look that conveyed she was glad she wasn’t the recipient of his attentions. Then, without missing a beat, her sister reached for a large paring knife and went at the ham, the look in her eyes turning decidedly greedy. She was clearly only thinking of her stomach.

  Marian reached out and circled her wrist with her fingers, stopping her. “Nora,” she admonished.

  Her younger sister scowled at her.

  Marian frowned back.

  “Ladies,” Mr. Lawrence’s voice boomed over them. “You need the sustenance. Take the ham.” He spread his arms wide.

  But at what cost?

  Marian did not wish to be in this man’s debt. He did nothing to hide his interest in her. She would not be beholden to him.

  “You need it,” Mr. Lawrence added. “Enjoy it.”

  You need it.

  She despised the truth of that statement.

  Nora’s expression turned beseeching. Please, she mouthed.

  Marian sighed and looked at Charlotte. Her sister was much too pale and could doubtless use a good meal. Marian felt the defeated slump of her shoulders. “Very well. Thank you, Mr. Lawrence.” After all, her sisters had not eaten as she had today. There had been no sandwich and iced tartlet for them. Marian was not even certain what they had eaten. If she had to guess, it was stale bread and jam. Scarcely enough.

  Mr. Lawrence beamed in a very self-satisfied manner. “Enjoy, enjoy. It warms my heart to know that I can help you lasses.” His eyes rested overly long on Marian. “I enjoy helping. I’d like to help more if you will permit me.”

  She felt the weight of her sisters’ eyes . . . in addition to the weight of Mr. Lawrence’s unwavering focus.

  The man had not minced words with her a year ago. He had let her know his intentions, and at the time she had let him know that she was in no position to entertain the prospect of matrimony. She was deep in mourning for her father. It was reasonable to reject his suit. Forget the fact that if the Pembroke lad came knocking and wanted to renew his courtship of Charlotte, then they would all happily agree to such a circumstance. That was different, but a moot point as young Pembroke had not come for Charlotte.

  Marian had noticed lately that Mr. Lawrence had renewed his pursuit of her with more obvious intent. Heavy dread settled in the pit of her stomach—alongside all the other burdensome rocks that had already taken residence there.

  Clearly her time was up. Reprieve over.

  Nora finished unwrapping the ham and started cutting hunks off the pink meat eagerly. The sight pained Marian. Her sister was so hungry she could not stop herself from falling upon the side of ham, no matter who had gifted them the food.

  Mr. Lawrence’s significant person wasn’t budging from where he stood. Indeed not. He looked here to stay, taking up all the space inside their kitchen. She hoped that he didn’t really expect them to invite him to dine with them.

  Blast. That would be wretched and send entirely the wrong kind of message to the man. She was trying to discourage him, not break bread with him over her kitchen table. No. She would not have that.

  She moved toward the door. “Mr. Lawrence, might I walk you out?” There. That seemed clear enough. She was not inviting him to stay.

  His eyes lit up. “You may.” Taking her elbow he led her to the door.

  She stifled a cringe. Apparently the prospect of time alone with her kept him from feeling rejected.

  They stepped out into the yard. Dusk had fallen. Mr. Lawrence maintained hold on her elbow, and she abided his proprietary touch as they moved down the stone path. It was a small thing to suffer in order to remove him from her home . . . in order to set the matter of them to rights. She winced. Or rather the nonexistent matter of them.

  She cleared her throat. “I appreciate all your kindness toward me and my sisters.” This, she managed to choke out. She had no wish to offend him.

  Mr. Lawrence was an important man in the community. His pockets ran deep. She suspected his interest in her was what had staved off most of their creditors from being too demanding with her this past year. She knew a great many people believed it was only a matter of time before she and Mr. Lawrence married. Even if that misapprehension helped spare Marian and her family, the notion that people thought she might be the future Mrs. Lawrence was intolerable.

  He stopped and turned to face her. “I’m here to support you in any way I can. With your father gone, you need someone to look after you.” He waved toward her house. “I hate to think of the three of you alone here. Why, anything could happen to you. I would never forgive myself were that the case. You need a good man to stand guard over you.”

  A good man to stand guard . . .

  The words made her want to retch. As far as a good man, he meant himself. There was no question as to that.

  “Perhaps,” she allowed. “But I’m still deeply in mourning. I cannot, in good faith, take a husband.” It was the only thing she could think to cling to.

  He clucked his tongue. “Your daughterly devotion is admirable, but well past justification. Why, only this past week, there was a report of highwaymen in these parts. They accosted a carriage that had departed from the Duke of Warrington’s. A conveyance full of spoiled womanhood, no doubt.” His lips curled. “Nonetheless, I shudder to think what would happen if such rogues befell you and your sisters whilst you live here alone without even a manservant present to defend your honor.”

  “Mr. Lawrence, there have been no occurrences of home
s being set upon.”

  “Is that supposed to provide comfort? Nonsense, lass.” He stepped forward and seized her hand. “These are perilous times. You need a protector, a husband.”

  “Mr. Lawrence,” she reprimanded, attempting to tug her hand free. He only tightened his grip.

  “Threats of bandits aside, your finances are dire, Miss Marian. Forgive my bluntness, but you owe money to every tradesman in town.”

  Mortification stung her cheeks. It was too much to tolerate. She again tried to tug her hand free. “Mr. Lawrence. Your concern is misplaced. I am sure you needn’t worry yourself with my affairs—”

  “I realize it is the height of gauche to discuss fiscal matters with the fairer sex, but as you’ve appointed yourself the head of your family, I have no choice.” He shook his head, looking at her sternly in the deepening shadows. “You’re but a female. You should be sheltered and led through life with a guiding hand. Your father could not have wanted this for you.”

  That last bit was likely true, but neither would Papa have approved of her marrying Mr. Lawrence. However high-placed in this community Mr. Lawrence happened to be, Papa had never cared for him. He’d found the man uncouth.

  She at last managed to free her hand from his meaty paw. “Mr. Lawrence, you go too far. This is beyond improper—”

  It was as though he didn’t hear her at all. He seized her by her upper arms and stepped so near she was assaulted by the stink of his breath.

  “The way I see it, you are out of choices. You’re destitute.” He nodded again to her house. “You’re on the brink of losing your home. Your many creditors are done waiting. Their good will has run out. I know. There is much talk. They care not anymore who your father was. You will be given no further pardon.”

  His words struck her like the flay of a whip even though he said nothing she had not already told herself. It was still miserable to hear it from him. Miserable and humiliating.