A Brilliant Defiance (Courting the Unconventional #6)

Chapter 1

Lady Jane Lyttelton counted the eight long, wiry silver hairs protruding out of the Duke of Brackenford’s nose. And the ones curling out from his ears were even worse. She resisted the urge to shudder. This was her wedding day, and all she felt was dread.

How had it come to this?

The vicar droned on in a smooth, monotonous cadence, completely at odds with the chaos in her chest. Her hands were trembling in their satin gloves as she struggled to breathe.

As the duke gave her a tight-lipped smile, he revealed two discolored teeth and a faint whiff of tobacco. He was ancient. Nearly eighty. And yet, he stood straight and radiated power, like a general surveying a battlefield. His battlefield, she realized.

Her gaze slid to the vicar again, who cleared his throat expectantly.

“My lady?”

She blinked. “Yes?”

“You will need to answer the question,” he replied in a coaxing tone.

Jane opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her heart thundered. “I… uh…” Her words trailed off, wishing the earth would swallow her up whole.

The duke turned to her, his eyes narrowing. “Just answer the question, my dear,” he said, the smile gone. His voice was low, impatient.

This was it.

If she agreed to this marriage, her life was over. She would be his and go from one gilded cage to another. She would be a duchess, but a prisoner, too.

She had heard the rumors about the duke. Everyone had. Four wives. All dead. All within a few years of marriage. His last one had fallen down the stairs, but many people suspected the duke had actually beaten her to death.

The duke reached out and gripped her arm. His fingers dug in, firm and bruising. Jane gasped, and she blinked hard to stop the sting behind her eyes. He’s hurting me. And they weren’t even wed yet.

If he did this now, in a chapel full of witnesses, what would he do when they were alone?

She looked out over the pews. Her father’s expression was thunderous, and his mouth set in that way she knew too well. Her brother looked just as grim. They had arranged this match. It was a brilliant connection, they’d said. “A gift.” A sentence, more like.

The duke’s fingers tightened. “You are embarrassing me,” he hissed, his voice steely and biting. “Do what you are told and answer the question.”

Pain shot up her arm.

She couldn’t do this.

She wouldn’t do this.

Something in her snapped like a dry twig. She yanked her arm free and stepped back, shaking. Her voice came from somewhere deep inside, somewhere that had never been allowed to speak.

“No.”

A collective gasp rolled through the chapel like a wave.

The duke’s face contorted in disbelief. “I beg your pardon?”

She squared her shoulders, even as her hands trembled. “I said no.”

He stared at her as if she’d just grown horns. Then, disturbingly, he smiled. “You think you have a choice in the matter?”

“I do,” she replied, the quiver in her voice barely concealed.

“The contract is signed,” he said, each word a dagger. “You are as good as mine.”

“I have the right to say no, and I signed nothing. Only my father did.”

Leaning in slightly, he replied, “That is true. But do you think I care?”

Her throat tightened. “Please,” she whispered, desperate now. “I don’t want to marry you.”

His expression shifted—amusement drained away, and something cruel took its place. “You’re playing coy, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“You think you can treat me like this and get away with it?” he demanded.

The slap came out of nowhere.

Her head snapped to the side. The sting was instant, followed by an awful, hot ache. She staggered back a step, stunned. She raised a hand to her cheek and stared at him in disbelief.

He struck me. In public. In front of God and everyone.

She turned towards her father, hoping he would intervene now. But he did not move. Nor did her brother. Their gazes were cold, their silence louder than any rebuke.

They won’t help me. She was alone.

The duke took a step towards her, fists clenched.

“Your Grace!” the vicar said sharply, stepping between them. “Need I remind you this is a holy place?”

The duke paused. His lip curled. “You’re right. This is a private matter between me and Jane.” He unclenched his fists and held out a hand. “Come now. Let us finish this wedding. We can... converse later.”

Jane stared at his liver-spotted hand, thick fingers curling like claws. If she took it, she would seal her fate. She would be lost. Forever.

Run.

Her mind screamed the word before her body caught up. She turned on her heel, lifted her skirts, and fled down the aisle. Gasps and shouts followed, her brother’s voice rising behind her, but she didn’t stop.

Out the chapel doors. Down the steps. Onto the London street.

She didn’t know how far she ran. Only that when her legs finally gave out, she collapsed onto an iron bench in a small square, heart pounding, breath heaving.

What had she done?

She had walked away from everything. From security. From the title. From her family’s expectations. She had no income. No future. Just a reticule with a few coins tucked inside. She was ruined. None of her family members would take her in now.

Tears burned in her eyes but she blinked them back. This was her first act of defiance and she had sure made a muck of things. She didn’t even know where she was and the sun was beating down on her.

Rising, she tried to muster all the courage she could find. She would find a way to survive. She had to.

A short man with greasy-looking black hair bumped into her, causing her to step back. He tipped his head. “My apologies, Miss.”

“No harm done,” she replied graciously.

The man ran off and that is when she realized he had taken her reticule from around her wrist. She ran after him but lost him in the crowd of people.

Drat.

Now she had nothing.

A thought occurred to her. Olivia. Lady Westmere. If anyone would help her, it would be Olivia. She would understand. She had to.

Jane lifted her chin and began walking. Her feet ached in her thin slippers, each cobblestone a fresh torment. If she’d known she’d be running from a wedding, she would have worn sensible shoes.

But she hadn’t. She was alone, aching, humiliated… and free.

And for now, that would have to be enough.

Jane’s feet throbbed with every step, but she pressed on, drawing strength from the rhythm of her pace. One step, then another. She would get to Olivia’s townhouse in Mayfair if it took her all day. What other choice did she have?

As she passed a narrow alleyway choked with shadows and refuse, a sudden thump caught her attention. Then a groan. Voices followed—low, angry, and violent.

She paused, heart stuttering.

Peering into the alley, her eyes adjusted just enough to make out a brutal scene: two large men were holding someone upright by his arms, while a third landed a vicious punch squarely into the man’s gut.

“Stop!” she cried without thinking, her voice echoing louder than she intended.

The attackers froze mid-motion, their heads snapping towards her. Three rough-looking men, all wiry and strong, their eyes hard and unforgiving.

And she was just one woman. What in heaven’s name am I doing?

One of the men, the one still poised to strike, sneered. “Go away!” he barked—and then drove another fist into the bound man’s ribs.

“No.” Her voice was quieter this time, but firmer. No more looking away. No more standing aside.

She scanned the ground and spotted a broken broomstick handle near a pile of old crates. Without hesitation, she rushed forward, snatched it up, and held it out in front of her like a sword, albeit a rather pathetic one.

“Leave that man alone,” she ordered.

The two brutes released their victim, letting him crumple to the ground like a discarded sack. Then all three turned towards her.

The tallest man took a step forward. “And what do you think you’re going to do with that, love?” His voice dripped contempt.

Jane’s legs trembled, but she kept her spine straight and her chin high. “Whatever I must do,” she said, proud of how steady her voice sounded, despite the fear coursing through her.

The man’s sneer deepened. “Perhaps we should have some fun with you first,” he said, eyes raking over her.

Jane’s breath caught. Oh, no. What have I done?

But before she could speak, another voice rang out.

“The constable!”

The word came from one of the other men, panic lacing his tone.

All three attackers bolted from the alley without a backward glance. Jane exhaled, shaky and slow, and tightened her grip on the stick. She would be forever grateful for the constable who happened to be walking past.

She stepped cautiously towards the fallen man, who lay in a heap, not moving.

“Sir?” she called out. “Are you all right?”

A low groan answered her.

Still wary, she prodded his shoulder with the tip of the stick. “You need to leave before those men return.”

He groaned again, but didn’t lift his head.

Concern overtook her fear and Jane crouched beside him, her skirts sweeping the dirt. As her eyes adjusted, she got a clearer look at his battered face—bloodied, bruised... but unmistakable.

She stared at him in disbelief, not sure if she believed her own eyes.

“Alistair?” she whispered, reaching out and pressing her hand to the sleeve of his coat. “Alistair, it’s me. Jane.”

His swollen eyelid twitched. “Jane?” he rasped, barely above a breath.

Relief swept through her, sharp and overwhelming. “Yes, it’s me. We need to get you to a doctor.”

She tugged at his arm, but he barely budged. He was dead weight. She wouldn’t be able to carry him herself. “Please,” she urged. “You must try.”

With a pained grunt, Alistair shifted and began to rise. Jane slipped her shoulder beneath his arm, bracing herself under his weight.

He leaned heavily into her. She stumbled slightly but found her footing.

“Why are you here?” he mumbled.

“That’s a very long story,” she responded, panting with the effort of supporting him. “And we don’t have time for it right now.”