The Beast and the Accidental Duchess (Brides of Disaster #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

“Beg your pardon?” Ariadne Hargrave snapped her fan closed. She turned to her sister, Marigold, with narrowed eyes. “You said he did what?”

The family carriage trundled through the still crowded streets of London while heading west. The whole family of four was heading to the opening ball of the Season.

While adjusting her spectacles, Marigold Hargrave repeated herself. “They say the Duke of Holloway killed his wife because she couldn’t give him a son.”

Ariadne was not surprised that her bookish sister knew this. At nineteen years and with a love for books rather than company, the third-born sister was more of a bluestocking than the belle of the ball. That title went to Celestine, the second-born, after Ariadne.

“Are you saying that he confessed to the thing?” Ariadne’s eyes were as round as saucers.

“Not to my knowledge,” Marigold shook her head. “He did not confess, but most of the ton thinks he did it.”

“Where did you hear this from?” Celestine asked, frowning.

“My friend Lilian, when we were discussing Aristotle’s Rhetoric last week at Hatchards over tea and crumpets,” Marigold said, then added. .

“Then again, there is another rumor that she died from a lung sickness, so I would take the untimely death rumor with a grain of salt. They also say he had a child, but very few have seen her.”

Puffing out a breath, Ariadne fanned herself, “Then I am confused. Either her death was a tragic natural death, or it was murder; there is no middle ground. Either he killed her, or he did not.”

“What is true is that his scars are so macabre that they call him the Beast,” Marigold added. “He’s also reclusive.”

“That does not bode well, seeing as it is his house that is hosting the ball and his rooms that we’re to stay in for the night,” Ariadne muttered.

“Girls,” their mother, Ophelia, the Viscountess of Fairbook cut it sternly. “This is not a time for hypotheticals or gossip. It is the first night of the season, and your mind should be on positioning yourself to find good matches.”

Even though she did not see it, Ariadne felt her mother’s eyes on her. Her mother wanted her to set an example for her siblings; that was nothing new or unexpected. Half her life, she had mentored the other three when her mother was not able to; now, though, she had another duty.

Marriage.

As the first daughter of a Viscount, it was her duty to marry and marry well enough to give her sisters a step forward to find their own matches.

You must find an accomplished lord, with a good reputation, a good family, and a stable income that can help launch your sisters into higher society, her mother had told her earlier that evening.

As materialistic and shallow as those words were, Ariadne knew it was the way of the world, the way of the ton, and the inevitable future for the gentle-born ladies like her.

“I hear Lord Cumberland is attending,” Marigold whispered to Celestine, but not quietly enough for their mother not to overhear them. “Maybe we can dance with him.”

“Absolutely not,” Ophelia scolded the two. “The two of you are to stay as far as from that reprehensible rakehell as is physically possible, do you hear me?”

“I know they say he is as handsome as the angel Lucifer was in heaven, but he is certainly the devil now. His escapades have been splashed across every paper from here to kingdom come, and the number of ladies he has ruined is beyond count.” Celestine whispered.

“May I remind you that a lady’s currency in the ton is your accomplishments and your spotless reputation. Both of which will vanish if you tangle with the likes of him,” Ophelia warned.

While the two murmured their promise to avoid the well-known rake, Ariadne looked over to the silent one in the group, Isolde. At eight-and-ten and just debuting, the girl looked uncomfortable in her stark while gown, as Ariadne had four years ago.

Of all her sisters, Ariadne worried for Isolde the most. She was rough around the edges, very bold and forthright, unlike Marigold, who was much more demure and shyer, or Celestine, who had mastered the art of tact and subtle flirtation.

Isolde was much more comfortable in breeches and shirts, fencing and horseback riding than in dresses and corsets, comportment and French lessons. She was prone to speaking her mind at the worst possible times and prized independence fiercely.

I do love her, but what lord would cater to those characteristics? Then again, who am I to talk? Most days, I have my hands in the dirt of the herbs and flowers I grow.

“Look sharp, girls,” their mother said. “I believe we’re arriving.”

Peeking out the window, Ariadne spotted a long line of drive, lit by gas lamps, heading to a massive countryside manor of the duke they had just been discussing. As dark as it was, she could not discern the color of the brick, but the multipaned windows gleamed with the light from within.

It had the makings of an old Georgian, three-story manor with square wings offset to the back. The manor did not have any outlandish frills and embellishments like other houses did. Ariadne wondered if the stern face of the house was a reflection of the owner.

Celestine gazed out, her mouth slipping open in awe. “Gadz, that is an enormous house.”

There were two liveried footmen standing at the foot of the marble steps, and a man in all black, she assumed he was the butler, stood at the doorway, taking the invitations.

The line of carriage inched forward, and when their time came, the footmen helped her mother down first, then she followed. As soon as her feet landed on the ground, she nervously ran a gloved hand down her dress.

She knew she did not fit in the typecast lady most lords looked for; she was dark-haired, curvy with a nipped-in middle and rounded backside and hips.

It had been a trial to get modistes to find a dress style best for her shape, and even with the best dress for her, lords looked over her in favor of willowy blondes

Ophelia handed over the invitations, and after the butler looked them over—a rather young man to hold such a position, Ariadne thought—they were let in.

“Welcome to Holloway Estate, my lady and misses,” the butler bowed. “My name is Allan Hunt. Please follow this footman inside to the ballroom.”

“Thank you, Hunt,” Ophelia smiled as she lifted her skirts and stepped inside, and Ariadne followed.

The foyer matched the outside in austerity, but it was impossible to ignore the luxurious furnishings inside; walnut furniture with brass inlays, the Aubusson runner under their feet, and a gilded coat of arms overhead.

Two tall, slender oriental vases stood at the doorway to the other room, decorated in a pattern she knew had been created by Napoleon himself. Large white lilies sat in the vases, a breed Ariadne knew had to be grown in a hothouse with special soil.

If only I had a moment to see that hothouse, I’d be in heaven. But not tonight. This evening is for other purposes.

They entered the ballroom in the middle of a reel, and while the patrons swirled and whirled around, they found seats across from the dance floor.

Looking around, Ariadne admired the luxuriously decorated room, from the bronze-on-brown pattern of the wallpaper to the three-tiered brass chandelier covered in hundreds of beeswax candles.

There was gold filigree around the paintings and the fanciful gilt edging and button tufting on the armchairs and settee.

“This is tip-top,” Celestine smiled widely, and the golden light glimmered in her light brown hair. As she spun around, the strands of blond in her hair glimmered with the golden light.

Ariadne had no fear that Celestine would marry well, but she knew her mother would die of mortification that her younger daughter married before the elder.

Nervously, she brushed down her gown, the pristine cream silk, trimmed at the neck and sleeves with expensive handmade lace and adorned with an endless row of pearl buttons that ran from the high neckline to the waist, where the skirt flared and fell in simple, elegant layers.

A loud laugh from the other end of the exclusive ballroom drew her eyes; his dark hair curled naturally around his handsome square face.

He was very handsome in his dark evening clothes and white cravat; tall, trim, and strong-looking. Surrounded by three other men, a blond, a redhead, and a dark-haired one, she wondered what kind of sway he held in the group.

“Gadz,” Marigold adjusted her spectacles. “Who is that?’

“I have no idea,” Ariadne replied. “But he seems to be a popular one, doesn’t he?”

“Remember girls,” Ophelia said, “His Grace has kindly allowed us to stay the night in the guest rooms because of the long journey, so please, if you be on your best behavior—” she shifted, “—and Marigold, please do not squirrel off to find a library to hide in.”

Pouting, Marigold replied, “I promise, mother.”

Her nerves never seemed to ease, either, no matter how much time passed by and how many balls she had attended. Every single time, it was the same; as though her heart would explode, if not from the excitement, then from being cooled with how lords would overlook her.

“Be mindful, Ariadne,” her mother said. “I hope to see your dance card filled this time, and Isolde, you should stay close to me.”

Sadly, that is not up to me.

“Remember the rules, girls,” Ophelia added.

Rule number one: never approach a Lord first.

Rule number two: always follow the lord’s lead in conversation.

Rule number three: never find yourself alone with a lord.

“We don’t know a soul here,” Celestine sighed, as they looked around the room. However, Ariadne did see a few darting, curious glances coming from nearby groups. “Oh, how I wish my friends were here.”

I agree, I wish my friends were here too.

“I see Lady Julia over by the seating area,” Ariadne said while feeling a little off balance, “We’ve spoken cordially when we cross paths at Almack’s, but I can hardly call it an acquaintance.”

“Which makes it the prime opportunity to make more,” Celestine smiled. “I think I see a few girls from my finishing year. I think I’ll go speak to them for a while.”

As Celestine swanned off, her white skirts swaying with every dainty step, and while she went, Ariadne turned to Marigold, “Shall we get a drink?”

“Yes, please,” Marigold replied. “But no punch for me.”

“I know,” Ariadne nodded. As they went off to the refreshment room.

As they neared the room, the group of men she had seen before was headed in the same direction. She eyed the dark-haired lord briefly, his vibrant green eyes lit with not-a-care-in-the world levity.

As she stepped into the room, two ladies were already inside, one of them pink-cheeked and sipping a glass of punch.

The lady’s gown was scarlet red with a vulgarly low square neckline, baring most of her breasts.

Ariadne was sure that with one jolt, the lady’s modesty would be something of the past.

“Lady Porter, you might need to pace yourself,” the other lady said.

“And why is that?” Lady Porter huffed. “I came here under the impression that he wanted to extend our liaison, but apparently, I was wrong. He had not looked at me all night. I wore the most scandalous dress in my wardrobe, and I could have worn wallpaper for all it earned me.”

Ariadne shared a look with Marigold and mouthed, “Gadz.”

“Lemonade?” Marigold asked, while shaking her head.

“I—”

A smattering of chatter behind her and a lord’s voice had Lady Porter spinning on her heel—and wobbling with her drunkenness—Lady Porter called out, “Leander, you cad!”

In seconds, Ariadne could not figure out how a lady who was drunk walked so fast in her heels—the lady was pushing past her to get to the lord behind her. Unfortunately, Lady Porter slammed into Ariadne instead of leaping into the arms of the lord behind her, which sent Ariadne tipping backward.

She gasped in horror, clenching her eyes tightly while preparing to hit the floor.