The Duke's Stolen Bride

by Sophie Jordan

  After the day she’d endured, she was in no mood to have these ugly truths thrown in her face from the likes of Mr. Lawrence.

  For some reason the image of the Duke of Warrington filled her mind. His handsome face. His haughty bearing. He likely never knew deprivation or struggle. He spent his days in fine privilege. Warm and well-fed, waiting for any numbers of courtesans to visit him. Marian shoved away all thoughts of the dreadful man.

  She knew she was out of time, but she could not accept Mr. Lawrence as her savior.

  And yet something must be done.

  “What of your sisters? Think of them,” he pressed. “Have you heard Miss Charlotte’s young Mr. Pembroke is paying court to Miss Delia Smith?”

  “What?” She shook her head, feeling slightly stunned. “No. It cannot be.” It was the first she had heard such a thing. Charlotte would be crushed to learn of this.

  Marian had hoped she could get Pembroke to renew his courtship and offer for her sister. Eventually. Either when he gained the courage to break free of his father’s yoke or when her family was restored to its former status and Charlotte once again qualified as eligible.

  Marian shook her head. Perhaps it was naïve of her, but the assumption, the conviction, that everything would be well, that a comfortable lifestyle would somehow be returned to her family, burned inside her, clinging to life. Perhaps it was a desperate hope, but what did she have left if not hope?

  Now, however, she felt the first wilting of that conviction.

  Perhaps it was time she confronted reality.

  “It is true,” Mr. Lawrence insisted. “He has taken tea with her twice this week.”

  How could she have not heard such tattle? Pembroke’s family was at the helm of local Society—they were Society in the shire. It began and ended with them.

  At least that had been the case prior to the duke’s arrival, but after coming face-to-face with Warrington, she did not think he would be throwing any grand parties or soirees. Pembroke and his wife could continue their reign over Brambledon like a feudal lord and lady without fear of being usurped.

  Mr. Lawrence continued, “Considering the history between Miss Charlotte and young Pembroke, no one wished to be the bearer of unfortunate news. I’m sure that’s why you were unaware of this development.”

  “All except you,” she said numbly. Indeed, he had no hesitation in telling her. In fact, he seemed to relish it.

  His hands flexed on her arms. “That’s correct. You may count me as your truest friend for I, dear girl, will tell you the truth.”

  Her truest friend?

  “To what end?” She knew his purpose was not altruistic.

  “I have been unfailingly clear about my intentions.”

  “I cannot marry—”

  “You cannot afford to not marry me, fool girl.” He dropped his hands from her arms, stepped back and looked down at her sternly. “I know you’re a sensible lass. If you would just let that good sense of yours lead you to the correct decision, we could cease this tedious dance and you could put all your troubles behind you.”

  Except she would be married to him.

  He continued, “If not for yourself, then think of your sisters. Your brother. How can you afford his schooling?”

  Simple. She could not. She could not meet the cost of his next tuition.

  He adjusted his hat. “You have my offer. You’ll not get a better one. You might find yourself with admirers, but none whose pockets run deep enough to keep you and your three siblings afloat.”

  He spoke true. Since her return to Brambledon, she’d been flirted with and propositioned—mostly from tradesmen who thought they could collect payment from her beneath her skirts.

  None put forth honorable offers.

  None but Mr. Lawrence. His offer was honorable, if not palatable.

  “I will leave you to consider all I have said. Good eve.” Turning, the man left her standing at the gate to her yard.

  Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she really should set aside her aversion to him.

  Plenty of girls married for reasons that had nothing to do with love or affection.

  Simply because her mother and father had that manner of match did not mean she was due the same. Perhaps she had not been born beneath a lucky star and she must come to terms with that.

  She exhaled. Mr. Lawrence rounded the bend in the road and she could no longer see him in the dusk.

  He was out of sight if not out of mind.

  One thing was certain. There was no happy solution despite her hopes that one would miraculously present itself.

  This was no fairy tale, and no knight atop a charger would be arriving to rescue her.

  Whatever solution she arrived at, it would not be to her liking. She just needed to decide on the least repellent course of action.

  Upon entering the kitchen, she inhaled. Dinner had now taken on a decidedly delicious aroma with the addition of the ham. Even if it came from Mr. Lawrence, she was glad for it—glad that Nora and Charlotte would have a much-needed hearty meal.

  “We shall feast tonight,” Nora exclaimed in way of greeting as she stirred the contents of the pot.

  “Smells delicious.” Marian forced a smile. She always donned a smile and feigned as though everything was fine.

  “How was Mr. Lawrence?” Charlotte looked at her carefully. She was well aware that he had proposed after Papa’s death.

  “Yes. Did he propose again?” Nora asked, as straight to the point as ever.

  Marian hesitated.

  Nora looked up from the pot. “Of course he did. What did you say this time?” For one so young, she was a cheeky lass.

  “What do you think she said, Nora?” Charlotte looked askance at her. “She said no, of course. She doesn’t love him. She would never marry him.”

  Now Charlotte turned to look at her, her expression expectant, waiting to hear Marian confirm her belief.

  Marian supposed this was all because of their parents. They’d had a love match and Papa had raised them with the full expectation that any marriage of theirs would be founded on love. When so many people around them, if not most, married for reasons other than love, this was a bit more than optimism perhaps. It definitely made them singular among other females.

  She shook her head. They were penniless, not a dowry to their names, and yet they still imagined they would marry for love.

  “I am not certain I can decline him any longer,” she confessed.

  “Marian, no!”

  “He is a man well-respected and he has been very good to us in our misfortune.” The words were meant to make her sisters feel better. Charlotte and Nora did nothing to soothe Marian, but they didn’t need to know that.

  “And that means you must marry him?” Charlotte shook her head.

  “He is twice your age and looks like Mrs. Pratt’s dog with his many jowls,” Nora said as she served their dinner into bowls. “Too bad you couldn’t be a rich man’s mistress. Then you wouldn’t be bound for life to the likes of Mr. Lawrence.”

  “Nora!” Charlotte cried. “Where do you get such notions?”

  “Oh, you needn’t be such a prig, Charlotte. You’re only eighteen, but you behave as though you’re someone’s grandmother.”

  “You speak of ruin,” Charlotte hissed.

  Nora sniffed and lifted her nose. “Everyone knows Mrs. Ramsey is no widow, and she leads quite a comfortable life.”

  “You shouldn’t pay mind to rumors,” Marian chided even though she suspected those particular rumors about Mrs. Ramsey to be true.

  Papa had treated the alleged widow on occasion, and Marian had become friendly with her since her return home. She’d sat in Mrs. Ramsey’s parlor a few times, and Nora was right. She possessed a fine house with many fine things. In fact, Marian had often admired a music box on Mrs. Ramsey’s mantel.

  “Pretty bauble, is it not?” Mrs. Ramsey had remarked.

  Marian had nodded, stroking the mother-of-pearl lid. “Yes, ma’am
. Lovely.”

  “He was one of my favorites . . . the man who gave it to me.”

  “A suitor?” Marian had inquired.

  Mrs. Ramsey had smiled somewhat mysteriously. “Yes, you could call him a suitor, I suppose.”

  “We don’t know that it’s not true,” Nora countered, intruding on Marian’s reminiscing. “No one knew Mrs. Ramsey before she arrived here, claiming to be a widow.” Nora licked a bit of soup off her thumb and fetched three spoons. “No one knows anything of her past and yet she lives in a fine house with two servants and a cook and a carriage and she is always attired in the height of fashion.”

  “So she must have lived as a courtesan? That’s the conclusion we’re reaching?” Marian mocked, although she did think Nora’s instincts were close to the mark. She simply refused to openly agree on the matter.

  “Enough talk of mistresses,” Charlotte declared.

  Marian nodded in agreement. Nora visibly pouted, but she let the unsuitable subject drop.

  They ate their dinner with no further conversation on the matter of marriage or the merits of the demimonde, but it remained at the forefront of Marian’s mind long into the evening. As she prepared for bed in her chamber with its cold, empty grate, it weighed heavily in her thoughts.

  Nora had a point. There was more freedom in that life. Marriage was forever. A courtesan . . . well, she wasn’t bound to any man. She made her own way.

  Marian would prefer that to marriage, to spending forever with a man like Mr. Lawrence. She knew it was scandalous, but taking vows that joined her to Mr. Lawrence felt the far greater sin.

  She donned a pair of her brother’s woolen socks and wore them under her warmest nightgown. Piling an extra blanket upon her bed, she slipped under the comforting weight. Down the hall her sisters shared a bed piled similarly with heavy blankets.

  As little girls, they had all felt so safe under this roof.

  She wanted to feel that way again.

  She tried to imagine herself as the future Mrs. Lawrence. Such a future did not fill her with feelings of warmth and safety. It filled her with dread.

  Her mind strayed to another possibility—a remote and outrageous and wildly improper possibility. She wondered how one even became a courtesan. Was it something one planned? How did one go about orchestrating such a thing?

  She wondered all through the night.

  Chapter 5

  Marian stepped across the threshold into Mrs. Ramsey’s drawing room, trying not to feel as though she were taking the proverbial leap into the unknown. She’d called on the lady before. This shouldn’t feel so very different from those visits. Except it did. Now there were notions in her head, wild ideas that she couldn’t cast out.

  She’d deliberately left her sisters at home. She hadn’t even mentioned to them that she would be calling on the woman. She didn’t permit herself to examine too closely why she had done that.

  “Come in. Come in.” Mrs. Ramsey waved one pleasantly plump hand toward a sofa. All of her was soft and inviting: from her curvaceous figure to her pleasantly round face with its charming dimples. Characteristics that must have made her an excellent courtesan.

  Marian couldn’t help the inappropriate thought.

  Mrs. Ramsey’s full lips beamed in greeting at Marian. “You’re just in time to join me for tea.” She nodded to the tea service in front of the sofa. A book was propped nearby, a ribbon in place, marking her page. Marian knew from their past conversations that Mrs. Ramsey was a voracious reader.

  “I’m sorry for intruding.” Marian hovered in the threshold.

  “Nonsense. I don’t get many callers, and I can’t recall the last time we had a visit.” She waved at her servant. “Diana, please fetch us extra cakes, would you?”

  Marian knew Mrs. Ramsey did not entertain many guests. Speculation of her former occupation kept most people at bay. Lack of society did not seem to affect the woman, however. She seemed quite happy with her situation, cheerfully busying herself with her home and garden and other hobbies.

  She had one of the loveliest houses in town. It was like a perfect little gingerbread house with its gabled rooflines, scalloped trim and magnificent gardens. Most days, she could be spotted lovingly attending the myriad blooms. It was on one such afternoon that Marian had first made her acquaintance.

  Shortly after her return home, Marian had spotted Mrs. Ramsey wrists-deep at work in a bed of roses. She’d never seen such glorious blooms. They’d lifted her spirits and she had stopped to compliment the lady at work.

  That conversation led to an invitation to tea, which led to more invitations to tea. Marian had not let the rumors circulating about the woman scare her away. She enjoyed her company.

  “Now tell me. What have you been up to? Still tutoring that wretched Walker girl.” She tsked her tongue and wrinkled her nose. “That cannot be an easy task.”

  “Mrs. Walker increased Annabel’s lessons. She’s determined she be prepared for her come-out.”

  Mrs. Ramsey snorted indelicately as she poured their tea. “She’d best prepare for a large dowry as that girl has neither the face nor the disposition to land herself a good match. No man of merit will take her to wife.”

  “Perhaps she will simply settle for a husband and leave out the merit part.”

  Mrs. Ramsey tsked again. “Poor lamb. ’Tis a shame you cannot imbue her with any of your wit or grace.”

  Marian winced. “Wit and grace have not gotten me very far in life.”

  “Not true. You were doing quite well for yourself before you left your employ with the Duke of Autenberry, and you shall do well for yourself again. In time. You will see.”

  Marian had divulged to Mrs. Ramsey in her previous visits. It felt good to have someone to talk to, and a worldly woman like Mrs. Ramsey was the perfect confidante.

  “I appreciate your faith in me, even if you are entirely too optimistic.”

  “It’s not optimism, dear. I just know you’re a smart lass.” She tapped her temple. “You will see your way out of this. For you and your family.”

  Marian blew out a breath, feeling that invisible noose around her neck tightening as she acknowledged that Mr. Lawrence might be her only way out.

  “Oh, lovely.” Mrs. Ramsey clapped her hands delightedly as her housemaid returned to the room, bringing forth a plate of iced biscuits. “Here we are. Have a biscuit. Please be a dear, Diana, and box up some of these lovely confections for Miss Langley’s sisters.” She lifted one iced biscuit and bit into it with a moan of relish.

  “That’s very kind of you,” Marian said as Diana left them alone again.

  “Oh, I recall that Nora has quite the sweet tooth.”

  “Yes, she does,” Marian agreed.

  “Any time you girls crave biscuits . . . or a hearty meal, you come here. I have an excellent cook who keeps me well satisfied.” She patted the slight curve of her stomach.

  Marian smiled tightly. She knew Mrs. Ramsey was being kind, but it was a difficult thing knowing that the woman was aware that food was not something they had in abundance. Goodness, the entire village knew that—or could rightly assume so. Still, Mrs. Ramsey’s gracious offer stung her pride nonetheless.

  Marian cleared her throat. “I met the Duke of Warrington.” It seemed as good a time as any to announce that. She did not often have gossip to share—not when she was so busy concentrating on the struggles of her own life.

  “Ohhh, did you?” Mrs. Ramsey sat a little straighter. “Do tell. Is he handsome? His stepfather was a handsome man. I remember him well. He enjoyed some of the salons I frequented in Town. I hear the duke is quite the rogue and young. Well, younger than me.” She wrinkled her nose in that charming fashion of hers. “Occasionally I forget I am no longer in the first blush of youth.”

  Marian shook her head. “Rubbish. You’re as fresh as a spring rain, Mrs. Ramsey.” The woman had to be approaching her fortieth year, but was as lively and pretty as any debutante. She reminded Marian of Clara’s
mother. Both were of similar years, but they turned the heads of gentlemen wherever they went. It was not so long ago that the dowager duchess had scandalized everyone by marrying the younger Lord Strickland and giving birth to a set of twins soon after.

  Mrs. Ramsey waved her off with a flip of her wrist. “Flatterer. You should have seen me in my glory . . . when I was your age.”

  “I should have liked that,” Marian hedged warily, uncertain how to proceed, but very much determined to continue in this vein of conversation. It was the impetus for her visit, after all. She need only envision Mr. Lawrence’s face to bolster her decision.

  In the light of day, the idea that had taken form in her mind last night felt bold. Too bold perhaps, but she could not stray from her course now. She was at a point where only bold action would save her. This she knew.

  “You were in London, yes?” she added. “Before Brambledon?”

  “Mostly, yes. Although I spent a few years in Bath, then Sheffield. Wherever my vocation took me.”

  “Your vocation, yes.” She cleared her throat again.

  “Are you coming down with an ague?” Mrs. Ramsey looked her over in concern. “I’m sure your clever young Nora could come up with a remedy for that, but let’s get you some honey and lemon for your tea. That will be just the thing.” She moved to ring for a servant, but Marian stalled her.

  “No, no, I’m fine,” she reassured and took the plunge. “I’ve never heard you speak so frankly of your vocation before.”

  There. No more skirting the topic. It was time she got to the heart of it. Something had to change, and only Marian could make that change.

  Mrs. Ramsey stared at her, all frivolity gone from her expression. “Does that make you uncomfortable, my dear?”

  “No, no. Not at all. I’m interested. Quite so. In fact, I wanted to ask you about it.” Mrs. Ramsey was the only person who would understand what Marian was considering and not deem her mad.

  “Did you, now?” the woman asked mildly.

  Marian nodded. “I know it’s untoward to speak of such matters—”

  “No more untoward than being the woman who once engaged in the scandalous profession you find of such interest. And yet here you sit in my parlor. So let’s talk about what has you so interested, Marian.”