His Wild Duchess (Fate & Circumstance #2)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

T ime stood frozen, trapping them all in this terrible instant. Silence was a constant companion in the Finch household. Like a persistent fog, it lingered in the background—uneasy and brittle. But this silence was different. It wasn’t passive or strained; it was commanding, pressing against Bridget’s eardrums and rooting everyone in place.

Her mother still gazed out the window, but her hands had tightened around the gloves in her lap until her knuckles turned white—the only sign she had even heard the words. Marjory looked at Bridget with big, wide eyes while her bottom lip quivered. Her shoulders hunched forward as if she was trying to shrink in on herself. Flushing to an alarming shade of red, her father’s expression hardened into cold fury, but his eyes held something close to panic.

Bridget’s mind went blank, the silence swallowing her thoughts as thoroughly as it had overtaken the room. For a fleeting moment, she welcomed the void and wished she could remain in this fragile stillness forever. But she knew better. This was the calm before the storm, and on the other side of it, something far worse was waiting.

The Earl’s composure shattered and with it, the suspended moment.

“What do you mean, gone?” he asked in a low, menacing tone before running to the door and bellowing, “Mrs. Jenkins!”

With a sigh, Bridget crossed to the bell cord. She gave it three short tugs, indicating that all the staff should report post haste. She knew better than to rely on the Earl’s shouts to summon anyone. The household had long since learned to tune out her father’s tirades, recognizing them as constant background noise rather than calls to action.

Moments later, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. Mrs. Jenkins appeared in the doorway, with Tom and Mary right behind her. They all wore guarded expressions as they glanced around the room.

Mrs. Jenkins inclined her head in a respectful bow. “You called, My Lord?”

“Find my wretched daughter. Search every corner of the house—the attic, the cellars, even the servants’ quarters! Now!”

The housekeeper straightened with a murmured, “Yes, My Lord.” Her usual unflappable poise remained intact but showed strain around the edges. She slid a glance at Bridget, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod.

“You,” the Earl barked, pointing at Tom as if he didn’t know the man’s name, even though Tom had been with them for almost a decade. “Check the grounds, the stables, the garden—every blade of grass if you must! And don’t dawdle!”

The footman’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. His eyes narrowed, and he looked like he was about to argue, but he offered a quick bow before turning and hurrying off. Bridget exhaled a sigh of relief. Challenging her father while he was in a temper only made it worse.

The Earl rounded on Mary, who still waited quietly at the door. “Go to the neighbors. Ask anyone you meet on the street. Someone has seen her!”

Mary bobbed a curtsey. Before she turned away, her gaze held Bridget’s for a moment, conveying the unspoken message—the note had been delivered. Bridget gave her a grateful smile as her father continued to rant.

“Ready my horse!” he roared. “I’ll scour the countryside myself if I must.”

Bridget pressed her lips together against hysterical laughter. A horse? Does he even remember we don’t keep one anymore?

The Earl’s tirade continued, issuing orders even though there was no one to carry them out.

Perhaps he expects me to saddle his imaginary horse.

The entire situation spiraled into an almost comical debacle. She pressed her hand against her bodice to steady herself lest the hysterical giggles that threatened to erupt be allowed to escape.

Bridget glanced into the hallway. Mrs. Jenkins whispered instructions to Tom and Mary, and they hurried in different directions. In the wake of their departure, another strained silence descended, broken only by Marjory’s quiet weeping.

The Earl turned his glare to his youngest daughter. “For God’s sake, stop that mewling!” he barked.

Marjory pressed her knuckles to her lips. Bridget’s chest tightened at the sight. She crossed the room and sat next to her sister.

“Shh, dearest,” Bridget whispered and pressed a kiss to her sister’s temple. “Remember, we stand, no matter the wind.”

She rubbed small circles on Marjory’s back, wondering if the familiar phrase they’d shared over the years during everything from thunder to their father’s rage could withstand the present tempest. A pang of sadness twisted in her heart.

Marjory didn’t remember the days before—before the Earl’s shouting became the language of their home. She was too young to recall the sound of their mother’s laughter echoing through the halls or the warmth of a family unbroken. All she had ever known was the sharp crack of their father’s voice, the lingering weight of his fury, and the suffocating tension that followed.

Marjory clung to her, trembling. Bridget pulled her closer. “Just breathe. All will be well.”

Even as she comforted her sister, Bridget’s mind raced. How had Abigail slipped away unnoticed? Where could she have gone? And most pressingly, what would happen when the Duke of Wilds read the note?

The absurdity of the moment gave way as the ugly consequences descended with a vengeance. Her stomach churned, and she fought against the urge to join Marjory in her tears.

The Earl slammed his palm down on the table. “Useless, the lot of you!” His face glistened with sweat despite the chill in the room. “How could you let this happen? She’s one girl—how difficult can it be to keep track of her?”

Bridget’s jaw tightened, but she bit back the retort that threatened to spill from her lips. Speaking now would only fan the flames. Instead, she continued to soothe Marjory, whose sobs had quieted to hiccupping whimpers.

He paced like a caged beast, clenching and unclenching his fists. He muttered curses under his breath as his fury curled and coiled but could find no outlet. Finally, he slowed. His wild gaze darted about as though searching for something—or someone—to punish.

He pointed at Bridget and her mother. “You two, with me. To the study. Now.”

Lady Edgerton flinched visibly at the command. She drew in a trembling breath and rose from her chair with slow, deliberate movements. Sharp wariness replaced the vacant look in her eyes as she moved to obey her husband.

Bridget gave Marjory’s shoulders a gentle squeeze before helping her to her feet. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her sister’s ear. “Go upstairs to our room,” she murmured. “Stay there until I come for you. It’s safer to be unseen at times like these.”

Marjory nodded, wiping her tears with the back of her hand before hurrying away. Bridget watched her go before following her parents with a heart full of dread.

I can’t bring back the laughter, but at least I can keep her safe.

The tension swelled to near unbearable during the interminable walk to the study. Bridget kept her steps measured despite the thrumming desire to turn and run and not look back.

The door banged open as her father flung it back. She hesitated at the threshold. She avoided this room—her father’s sanctuary, his stronghold. The smell of stale tobacco and aged paper greeted her and turned her stomach.

Stacks of correspondence littered the desk, spilling onto the floor in unruly piles. The shelves that had once been lined with heavy leather-bound volumes held only dust. The books had long since been sold for what little coin they could bring. Tarnish coated the brass sconces, and the mahogany furniture was sorely in need of a polish. From their dusty portraits, several of her ancestors seemed to glare down on the mess in frank disapproval.

Her father had forbidden the servants’ entry into his inner sanctum for months. He spent hours, sometimes days, cloistered in this room, brooding over matters he refused to share with anyone.

Bridget’s stomach churned at the disarray, but her temper boiled at the sight of the fire burning merrily in the grate. The rest of the house was a mausoleum of cold drafts and a damp chill, but her father sat snug and cozy in his study.

Her mother’s steps faltered at the doorway. Lady Edgerton’s hands fluttered at her sides as though seeking an anchor that wasn’t there. Bridget urged her over the threshold with a gentle but firm guiding hand. Her mother shrank into the shadows just inside the door.

Bridget looked away, biting back the frustration that always came with watching her mother fade into the background. She knew her mother had endured years of cruelty, but it didn’t stop the anger.

I won’t be like that.

The Earl slammed the door with such force that the windows rattled in their frames. He rounded on Bridget with his face flushed and hands balled into fists.

“You,” he spat through clenched teeth, jabbing a finger toward her. “You helped her escape, didn’t you?”

Surprised by the accusation, Bridget froze for a fraction of a second. She met his furious gaze and took a deep breath to steady her voice before responding.

“That’s absurd,” she countered and set her hands on her hips. “We didn’t even know this blessed event was to occur today until breakfast this morning. You’ve kept us all in the dark as usual.” She added the last bit before she could stop herself.

After his grand announcement of Abigail’s betrothal, the Earl had shut himself away in this room, responding to inquiries about the date and time of the ceremony with a single, maddening word—“soon.” Left to guess whether they had an hour or a week, they’d scrambled to prepare. Abigail’s best dress had been hastily mended and adorned with new lace, and they’d fashioned a hairpiece with what they could scrape together from their mother’s depleted jewelry collection—all while waiting on tenterhooks for their father’s inevitable command to make ready.

“I see now that I was well justified in my caution. You see what the silly chit has done despite it.” Edgerton turned away, shaking his head.

“She was terrified. You yoked her to the most notoriously ruthless duke in all the ton! What did you expect?” Bridget wanted to shake him.

“I expected her to do her duty.” Her father whirled back around. “It’s the only thing daughters are good for.”

Bridget rocked back on her heels.

Dear God. He despises us. His family. His own flesh and blood.

The Earl sneered down at her. “Do you think it’s easy to hold on to even a shred of dignity when the walls are crumbling around you? When every man you meet smells blood in the water and waits to see you drown?”

“And so, you seek to improve your fortunes by bartering your daughters to the highest bidders?” Her contempt for him laced every word.

Her mother reached for her. “Bridget?—”

“Ho, ho! So high and mighty!” He cut across Lady Edgerton’s words as if she wasn’t even there. “And what kind of match do you think there will be for you now? Your sister has doomed your prospects just assuredly as she has doomed mine.” He raked his hand through his hair, and the glimmer of fear in his eyes underscored his scathing words.

“What aren’t you saying, Father?” Bridget pressed. She had no interest in her so-called prospects. As the second daughter of a penniless earl, the notion of marriage had long been little more than a distant, hollow concept—something that happened to other girls with brighter futures.

“Bridget, please,” Lady Edgerton said in a whisper. She retreated to a corner of the study, looking small and fragile. “Stop talking.”

There was a note of desperation in her mother’s words, but Bridget refused to back down. Fueled by her realization of her father’s fear, she pushed harder. “No, I want to know what’s happening. This is more than money. Have you run afoul of someone?”

The Earl’s face paled at her words. Without a word, he strode to the sideboard, his movements abrupt and jerky. He splashed brandy into a glass and tossed it back in a single gulp before slamming it down and turning to Bridget with an imperious gaze.

“You know nothing about the affairs of gentlemen,” he snapped, but there was a tremor in his voice.

She thought back to the whispers she’d heard around the house and on their rare social excursions, snippets of conversation that she’d pieced together like a puzzle. Talk of debts, of shady dealings, of men who were less than gentlemen. She’d read enough novels to know that such things rarely ended well.

“What have you done?” Bridget demanded, unwilling to allow him to retreat. “Which of your ill-conceived schemes has you backed into a corner?”

Her father swept an arm across the desk, causing an avalanche of paper. “You do not know how hard I’ve worked.”

“How hard you’ve worked?” Bridget scoffed. Her temper was well and truly out of control. “How hard was it to ruin our good name? Did you strain yourself as you emptied our accounts?”

His face contorted with a fury beyond anything she’d ever seen. Her stomach dropped to her toes. She set her feet as he came around the desk.

“You insolent chit,” he hissed. His hand curled into a fist at his side as he stalked toward her.

Her surroundings faded into the background as a memory surged forward unbidden. She was a child again, crouched behind the heavy velvet curtains of this very study. Her mother’s cry echoed in her ears as her father, drunk and enraged, struck her across the face. Lady Edgerton had crumpled to the floor, sobbing, and something in her had broken that day. She had never recovered, becoming a shadow of herself—timid, fearful, and obedient to her husband’s every whim.

The memory dissipated, but the fear it conjured did not. Bridget’s heart pounded, yet she stood her ground as her father loomed closer. His eyes burned with unrestrained violence, but she refused to look away. Her chin lifted, her defiance as sharp as a blade.

“Please,” Lady Edgerton’s voice trembled from her corner. “Stop.”

Bridget barely registered her mother’s plea. She locked her focus on her father, ready to face his ire because it was high time someone pushed back against him. Her father closed the last step between them, drawing back his hand.

She braced herself. No time to worry. No time to reconsider. She would not let him win.

Her father paused for a heartbeat as he glared down at her. “Stupid girl.”

“Edgerton!” A voice, cold and commanding, came from behind her. “I suggest you reconsider your actions.”

The Earl’s hand froze in midair. Bridget’s breath came in ragged gasps as she gripped the back of a chair to steady herself. Her father had always been a storm—violent, unrelenting, and impossible to escape. She had long since resigned herself to being the breaker against which his tempests crashed, enduring his fury to shield others.

But until now, he had never crossed that invisible line. Deep down, she had convinced herself he never would. Yet here she stood, face-to-face with the moment when shouting and stomping threatened to become something far worse, and it shook her to her core.

“I will not repeat myself, Edgerton.” The words cut through the suspended moment.

Her father dropped his hand and snapped his attention to the door. Bridget bit the inside of her lip against the tide of rising tears. Clinging to the reprieve, she collected herself and turned toward the voice.

Framed in the doorway stood a striking man with dark hair and piercing eyes that seemed to see straight through to one’s soul. If the Earl was a thunderstorm, this man was a hurricane, quiet in its menace but infinitely more devastating. His presence filled the room, commanding attention and respect. The tension shifted from her father to this new, formidable force.

The Duke of Wilds had arrived.