Chapter 3

Imogene spent the days that followed in a haze of optimism.

She did all that she could to keep herself busy rather than letting the claws of despair reach for her whenever she let her guard down, and thought about her helpless situation.

It was remarkable to those who saw her laughing along with her lady's maid or embroidering with her aunt as the older woman relayed some of the gossip circling about town. To them, Imogene seemed to have forgotten the burden upon her, appearing to have let it all be as it would be.

But at night, she could hardly sleep, often seated by the window of her room, staring at the night sky, wondering how the freedom she had longed for managed to fly so far out of her reach. It was all so unfair for her life to be a mess of mistakes and consequences—none of them her fault.

Her sister Agnes had dropped by briefly and had been aghast to hear the news of her ruin.

"But there must be something we can do! I will ask Silas. Perhaps we can?—"

"I do not think so, Aggie." Imogene had cut her off softly, doing her best to focus on the way her hands were still softer and smaller than Agnes's—as she had when they were young girls—to keep herself from crying. "What's done is done. I do not think we can remedy this situation. And, you are currently preoccupied, right? You should focus on your duties and your family."

The look on Agnes's face had broken Imogene's heart, even more so when her eldest sister held her close and promised softly, "you are my family, Imogene. You are mine to care for and to help. You are deserving of my attention and assistance. And I will not rest until we find a way around this."

Imogene trusted in her sister, although she thought her efforts would be futile without a dowry. She had chosen not to tell Agnes about Laurent gambling it away, not wanting to add to the pressure her sister would put on herself to achieve the impossible. She also knew Laurent would not want to fight with anyone, much less her sister, who would not hesitate to rid herself of pests that got in her way.

It was more grace than he deserved, but Imogene was rather insistent on maintaining whatever semblance of peace she had left. She could not go out without being the subject of nosy finger-pointing and harsh whispers.

Agnes had left after spending only half a day with her, and perhaps it might have been too short of a visit, but Imogene consoled herself with the reminder that, at some point in the past, she had been unable to see her sisters for two years. That they were able to have such random visitations at all was quite a luxury she had never thought they would have.

After Agnes's departure, Imogene expected that her life would return to the boring, mundane cycle of routine, but she was shocked when Kate approached her the next day while she was attempting—and failing—to put her nervous energy into composing a song on the piano.

Just as she had begun to repeat the very same sequence of tunes for what felt like the fifth time, her maid burst into the room. Kate looked out of breath and flushed, gently pulling Imogene to her feet as she inhaled deeply.

"Heavens, Kate, what has gotten into you? Did something happen?" Imogene asked as Kate continued to nudge her in the direction of her dressing room.

"… guest… coming for your… hand," Kate gasped, leaning against the wall for a moment.

"Who is doing what?" Imogene questioned, confused.

Kate held up a hand, urging Imogene to wait for her as she caught her breath. Then, slowly, she spoke, "I was told to prepare you for the arrival of a guest. A guest who is coming to ask for your hand."

Imogene stared at her in disbelief. "W-What? How is that possible? Who is he?"

The maid looked nervous for a moment, then sighed before replying.

"The Duke of Marson."

"Surely this must be some sort of joke," Imogene said in lieu of greeting her aunt, who was waiting in the drawing room for her.

"Good afternoon to you too, dear. Don't you look lovely? The duke is going to be absolutely smitten once he lays eyes on you." Gertrude beamed with pride.

"How does he even know about me? I expected someone to take advantage of the situation—hoped, even—but not a duke. Especially not… him," Imogene muttered, sitting next to her aunt.

"Are you going to be picky at this moment?" Gertrude questioned incredulously. "A few days ago, we were worried that you might not find a husband at all, and now one has presented himself—practically on a silver platter. If this goes well, you will be a duchess!"

"I am not being picky! I know, better than anyone, just how much I need this. I just… never expected it to be someone so high-ranked. Even with all the rumors that surround him, he's still a duke. Why would he want me?"

"Oh, so you are aware of the rumors about him."

Imogene shifted uncomfortably. "Only the ones that say that he was responsible for the death of his wife. But they have always lacked clarity and proper context, so I never really believed them."

"Well, let me be the one to provide you with the knowledge you seek, then. He got married young—really young—to a woman he had ruined. It was said that there was no love between them, but because he was the noble sort, he did the responsible thing and wedded her. Then, they had a child together. Before the child was born, his wife started to argue with him a lot. No one thought anything of it because pregnancy can cause a lot of strain on the mother. I am certain I threatened to toss Laurent's father off a balcony more times than he would be willing to remember if he were alive—God rest his soul. But after the child's birth, things became worse.

"Some say she tried to harm them both. Others say she lost her mind and tried to hurt herself. Eventually, it all came to a head, and they had a big fight over whatever had transpired. Apparently, this was much worse than all their previous arguments, and it left the staff worried about the well-being of the duke and duchess. As it turned out, they had a cause to be because, days later, the duchess took her life. It seems that whatever they fought about really upset her to the point that she felt she had no more will to live."

Imogene could not believe what she had heard. Just when she thought it could not get worse, it took a darker turn than she had expected, and she could not help but worry for herself.

A knock sounded at the door, and Imogene was startled out of her thoughts, sitting up straighter as their butler, Richard, walked in and announced, "The Duke of Marson has arrived."

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Imogene shakily rose to her feet, preparing herself to meet the man who would likely become her husband.

When the duke walked in, she felt as if the air was knocked out her lungs, unable to adequately think of anything other than how handsome he was.

The duke was tall, so much taller than her—to the point that she had to tilt her head up quite a bit to look at his face. His broad shoulders hinted at his fit, chiseled physique, and his hair gleamed gold as sunrays streaming through the windows fell on it. His blue eyes seemed to stare right through her as they raked over her from head to toe, sending shivers up her spine.

"Good afternoon, Your Grace?—"

"I suppose you are Lord Fitzroy's cousin? I have come to marry you," the duke declared, ignoring her greeting.

Imogene glanced at her aunt, suddenly irritated at the fact that this man had come into her home and demanded her hand as though she were some cheap trinket. She might have been ruined, but her pride was still intact, and she would not be made into easy prey.

"Is that so?" she drawled, unimpressed. "It is customary for one to ask first. If you wish to marry me, then you have to ask for my hand, Your Grace."

Narrowing his eyes with a tsk, he told her disapprovingly, "that tongue of yours simply will not do. It will benefit you greatly to know your place."

Imogene felt anger simmering in her veins, hot and heavy, facing her aunt and responding to the glare the elder woman had waiting for her with one of her own.

How dare he? Who on earth does he think he is?

"My apologies, Your Grace. Our Imogene is a spirited young woman, and she is just?—"

"Imogene. That is your name?" the duke asked, ignoring her aunt as well.

Imogene clenched her fists at her sides and stared at him defiantly, pretending to be unfazed by his intimidating figure as he stepped closer to her. "Yes, Your Grace."

The corner of his lips twitched slightly, and he leaned a little closer, making sure they were at the same eye level before asking, "Lady Imogene, what did you do that resulted in your ruin?"

His question caught her off guard. She assumed that he would have heard the details before he had come to ask for her hand, and he would not care enough to ask for her version of the story. That he was curious enough to ask about it made her feel a little unsettled, unsure of what to think of his motives.

Still, she held her head high, reminding herself that she had done nothing wrong.

"I slapped a man who tried to impose his selfish, disgusting desires on me."

Ah. So it had been Lord Hertford's fault, after all.

Aaron did not appreciate how he kept losing his focus, thanks to the woman standing before him.

His friends had implied she had enough good looks to qualify as a duchess, but he had not expected her to look so… lovely. Her dainty form and soft features sparked conflicting feelings within him. He was struggling with the decision to either treasure her or put her away, safe and protected from all that would cause her harm—including himself.

Needless to say, this impression was greatly concerning to Aaron, who had come prepared for a cut-and-dry affair, not keen about the fact that he had barely stepped foot in this abode and she already seemed to have carved a space for herself in his mind.

Aaron was shocked by her curt responses. He had expected things to progress much more smoothly than they had started. Still, the young lady's beauty disoriented him—despite her sharp tongue—and it confused him how someone like her had not been wholly claimed in her very first Season.

Now that he had learned of the reasons for her ruin, he could not deny that he was slightly impressed by her, especially since she had values and morals she would not compromise for anyone. Aaron simply hoped it would not be a problem when they were married.

Still, something in him wanted to commend her actions, to tell her that she probably should have struck him in the nose with a closed fist. Then the ruffian would have had a bruise as nasty as his intentions to wear around the city.

But before he could speak—and possibly spew some foolishness in the process—the door to the drawing room creaked open, and the earl walked in, looking flustered and nervous as he approached the duke.

"Good afternoon, Your Grace. I apologize for being late. I had some matters to attend to. Shall we move to my study to discuss things further?"

Aaron could tell that the invitation to talk privately was an attempt to save face. While he wished for things to have proceeded much quicker than they had, he could not help but feel as though he owed Imogene some modicum of respect.

And so he nodded, telling himself that it was probably better to iron out the details in private as he pointed in the direction of the door.

"Lead the way."