Chapter 2

CHAPTER2

“Your Grace, this is my wife, the Marchioness of Tillington, and these are my daughters, the Lady Joanna Swinton, and the Lady Nancy Swinton,” Joanna’s father continued, for the duke had yet to say anything.

In the ensuing, awkward silence, Joanna took a moment to further appreciate the dashing, surprising beauty of the duke’s appearance. His burgundy tailcoat looked like it ought to be straining at the buttons, it was so tightly fitted to his tall and athletic physique, and yet not a single button budged. His matching waistcoat highlighted his excellent posture, as if it were a corset, holding his upper half so erect that he might have been a statue. Meanwhile, light-colored trousers in the Brummell style drew the eye to places a lady’s gaze should not wander; the thin material inviting Joanna’s eyes to note the detailed outline of powerful thighs, sculpted in such a way that they did not look real. Indeed, there were muscles there, flexing as he stood proud, that she had never seen before.

Diverting her attention to his face, she could not help but marvel. Everything about his noble face sparked visions of her ancient Greek stories, making her think of Perseus or Heracles or even the strapping young hero, Bellerophon, who rode the winged horse, Pegasus.

The duke certainly had the strong jaw and sharp cheekbones of a warrior hero, with a Grecian nose that had the slightest notch in it, as if it had once been broken. His lips were full, with a deep bow, making her consider mythical archers instead of sword-wielding heroes. Yet, his mouth was set in a grim, stern line that seemed wasted on such fine lips. The same was true of his beautiful, dark blue eyes, which might have sparkled if he had laughed or smiled, but, at present, they were assessing the three Swinton ladies with a cold aloofness that Joanna did not favor one bit. Indeed, there seemed to be no warmth in him whatsoever—even his smooth, unblemished skin possessed a jarring paleness as if all the heat had been drawn out of it. Not even the chestnut brown of his hair could temper his icy demeanor, for that had been cropped into an unfashionably short style, rendering the warm tones of russet and dark blond powerless against the rest of his innate frost.

Not beastly to behold, Joanna considered, but, nevertheless, beastly in nature. His eyes, when they met hers for a fleeting instant, burned with such intensity that she immediately looked away: a chill prickling down the curve of her spine making her shudder as if she had been scolded by her childhood governess.

“I am grateful for your warm welcome,” the duke said, at last, though he sounded anything but grateful and certainly did not seem charmed by the reception he had received. “Lord Tillington, I trust you have gone to no effort regarding dinner. I am not here to dine with you.”

Joanna frowned. “If you are not here to dine, why would you accept an invitation to dinner?”

To her right, she heard her mother suck in a sharp breath, and watched as angry blotches of red colored her father’s cheeks. Nancy, on the other hand, stared down at her lap and did not seem inclined to raise her gaze.

“Is it not a fair question?” Joanna asked, somewhat appalled by the mollifying behavior of her parents. If her father was half the man he thought he was, why was he not marching the duke out of the house for daring to suggest that he had gone to “no effort” for dinner? Indeed, for wasting their time entirely?

The duke narrowed his flinty eyes at her. “I shall dine,” he said, “but I am not here to dine.”

“Then, why are you here?” Joanna replied, her heart beating frantically in her chest as she forced herself to hold his gaze. In the span of a few anxious seconds, refusing to look away, she began to believe that every rumor spoken about this man was true. No one could chill her to the bone like that and not be the beast he was alleged to be.

The duke’s lip curled as if she had cursed at him, but before she could lower her gaze and admit defeat, his eyes turned toward Nancy, like a ravenous wolf hearing the cries of helpless offspring in a nearby burrow. “I am here to find a wife,” he said. “After some investigation, I have concluded that Lady Nancy would be the ideal candidate. That is why I have come.”

The girls’ mother made a strange noise, half-choke, half-gasp. Nancy’s head shot up, her eyes wide and terrified, her mouth opening and closing as if to protest or cry out or say something, but no sound emerged. Even the Marquess looked astonished, blinking slowly at the duke. Meanwhile, a numbing nip, like spending too long in a snowfall, pinched through Joanna’s veins, leaving her cheeks hot and her body frozen.

She stared at her father, willing him to denounce the man as a scoundrel, willing him to at least laugh at the absurdity of the suggestion. The trouble was, the manner in which the duke had spoken of marrying Nancy had not sounded like a suggestion at all, but a demand. And Joanna feared that he would not leave the manor until he had what he came for.

“Papa…” Nancy whispered, trembling from head to toe upon the settee. And she did not even know the rumors about this duke.

“Darling,” the Marchioness echoed, her eyes imploring her husband to do something.

Joanna cleared her throat. “Your Grace, you do not know my sister. You cannot simply—”

“Enough, Joanna,” her father snapped, furrowing his brow as if he were actually contemplating the offer. The prospect made Joanna sick to her stomach, her gaze flitting back to Nancy, who had drained of color: all the roses vanishing from her cheeks, her lips bloodless.

Since girlhood, Nancy had dreamed of romance. She had devoured fairytales, despite their father’s insistence that they would rot her mind. In the summertime, she had laid out upon the grass, staring up at blue skies, telling Joanna of her hopes for the future—how she longed to, one day, stare up at such beautiful skies with her husband at her side, safe in his arms, knowing she was loved and loved as much in return. In the winter, Nancy had wrapped herself in blankets and lamented that she did not have a beloved who could keep her warm instead, her eyes shining with excitement as she wondered aloud what traditions and joyful occasions she would share with her husband in their own home, with love brimming in her heart.

As Nancy had grown into womanhood, she had replaced the fairytales with novels and plays and operas and poetry, so enamored with the very idea of love that Joanna had prayed her sister would, one day, find the love she longed for.

“I will not settle,” Nancy had always declared. “I will have the kind of love that poets and playwrights and authors write about, or I shall have none of it.”

To think that this duke had marched in here to make a demand that would snatch that hope away from Nancy was more than Joanna could bear. There was no possible way that the duke could be a secret knight in shining armor, come to sweep Nancy off her feet with the promise of a love that would last a lifetime and beyond. For love to happen, there had to be warmth, and the duke was an ice sculpture.

“Papa, I—” Nancy began to whisper, but her father cut her off.

“I said ‘enough.’ I must be allowed to think.”

Joanna watched in horror as a tear escaped Nancy’s eye, trickling down toward her trembling lips, but the poor girl was too stunned to even lift her finger to wipe it away. The duke did not seem to care that he had made her cry as he folded his arms across his broad chest, waiting impatiently for the Marquess to finish thinking.

Father, you cannot be seriously considering this! Joanna fumed in silence, desperate for him to come to the defense of his youngest daughter. But as the minutes ticked on and the creases in her father’s brow smoothed out, his expression easing as if he had come to his decision, Joanna understood that her father was on the brink of ruining Nancy’s life. He was about to accept; Joanna could see it in the small sigh that nudged her father’s shoulders up and brought them back down. Resigned, but not displeased.

No, I will not allow it, Joanna decided. Nancy will have her happily ever after, no matter the cost.

“Why not marry me instead?” she blurted out, just as her father was opening his mouth to speak.

Everyone stared at her; her father’s mouth stuck halfway open. Even the Duke seemed surprised, subtly raising an eyebrow.

“If you are not seeking a love match,” Joanna continued at a breakneck pace, fearful she might change her mind if she did not speak quickly enough, “then you may marry me instead. I am the eldest daughter, I understand the nature of this kind of marriage, and I am better prepared for the demands of being a duchess. Moreover, I would do it willingly. You will hear no protest or weeping or wailing from me.”

The duke glanced at Nancy, wrinkling his nose at the sight of the tears now flowing freely down her face. Perhaps, that was what altered his resolve, or perhaps it was merely the prospect of choosing the path of least resistance that made his decision for him. Either way, he turned to Joanna’s father and stuck out his hand.

“Lady Joanna will suffice,” he said curtly. “I came here for a wife, so I cannot argue if one has been offered.”

Joanna rather felt like a cow at the cattle market, being sold without anyone so much as batting an eyelid. And as her father took the duke’s hand and shook it, the realization of what she had done began to dawn on her, gripping her heart in a vise, suffocating her throat until she could not breathe.

“I will return in due course once I have acquired the special license,” the duke announced, flashing a cold stare at Joanna that spoke of countless horrors to come. “We will be married as soon as possible.”

Joanna’s mother managed to squeak out a quiet, “You will not stay for dinner?”

“No,” the duke replied. “This cannot wait. Adieu.”

With that, he left, and Joanna’s world—small and simple though it was—came tumbling down. She had not been sold; she had sold herself to save her sister, and she had no real notion of what the true cost might be. After all, if the rumors were to be believed, the duke was violent and cruel, with a taste for murdering anyone who got in his way.