Her Beast of a Duke (Brides of Scandal #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

“This is it,” Isabella muttered to herself as she stepped down from her family’s carriage.

Her delicate slippers met the soft grass, which was full, plush, and green in July.

Her stomach twisted as she looked up at St. Peter’s Church, scanning the stained-glass windows, wondering who had arrived. She pondered what Lord Stanton would look like, standing there at the altar.

“You must be excited, Isabella.”

Her head turned from the church to her father, the Earl of Wickleby, next to her.

Dutifully, she nodded. “Of course, Father. I have prepared for months for this.”

“Longer,” he pointed out. “As your mother has been saying.”

Isabella gave a tight smile that her father didn’t notice.

As they approached the open doors of St. Peter’s, she noted him more keenly—grayer at the temples, his mouth lined from frequent grimaces. His eyes, habitually squinting over his beloved antiques, were now filled with pride, for his daughter was about to be wed.

Soon, Isabella would marry the Earl of Stanton, leaving her mother’s scrutiny behind. Happiness might be secondary to security and social position, but she would have both, if only just.

On her way inside, she caught sight of her reflection.

She was good at assessing it in a hidden moment, undetected.

Her hair, not as golden as she wanted, but still a pretty, darker shade, was perfectly crowned atop her head.

Headwear that resembled a tiara was nestled at the front, catching the light, displaying the message everybody already knew.

Lady Isabella Wickleby was the diamond of her Season, and that diamond had been claimed.

On her father’s arm, Isabella entered the church.

Before her, the aisle stretched out, suddenly much longer than she remembered it being. Isabella’s gaze immediately sought the end, but before she could catch a glimpse of the Earl who was waiting for her, three figures rushed into her vision.

“Isabella.” The first breathless voice was her sister Hermia’s. Her blue eyes were wide and filled with…

With panic?

Isabella frowned. She looked between Hermia, their mother, and Charles. But why were they blocking her path to the aisle?

“What—” she began, but her mother quickly intercepted.

“Heavens—heavens, Isabella. Oh, what more can befall this family?” Her mother, Lady Wickleby, croaked.

She was a dramatic sort; she could throw a ‘why, me?’ tantrum over her preferred jam flavor being out of stock.

Isabella looked between the three of them, her own panic mounting, but she had gotten good at swallowing reactions to such calamities. She had gotten so good at not reacting so viscerally that her responses to any issues were noted.

“Will somebody please tell me what is going on?” she asked in her most polite, calm voice.

Everything is fine, she told herself.

But Hermia did not panic, nor did her husband, the Duke of Branmere. Even though the pair were rarely ruffled, and Hermia managed to maintain her composure, his expression was filled with something akin to concern.

“Now?” Isabella urged.

“Mama, do be calm,” Hermia pleaded. Behind them, guests began to turn at the not-so-hushed voices, their interests piqued. Isabella tried to force her notice away from them. “Focus on Isabella.”

“Yes, do so, so that we may know what has happened,” her father demanded. “Barbara?”

Isabella’s mother pressed a distressed hand to her forehead. “Oh, George—George.”

“Do not oh, George me,” he snipped. “Use your words to explain!”

“Father.” It was Hermia who brought them both down, as always.

Isabella could only stare at her sister as a terrible feeling grew in her stomach. Her eyes went over Hermia’s shoulder, and her stomach ultimately dropped to her feet.

For the Earl of Stanton, her husband-to-be, was not at the altar.

The church began to fade out around her, but she caught enough of Hermia’s low words. “Isabella, my dearest sister… I am so sorry. Lord Stanton… he has not arrived yet.”

“What do you mean he has not arrived yet?” she questioned sharply, but there was no need to echo the statement. Isabella could see the vacant space with her own eyes.

The altar was empty where it should not have been. Lord Stanton should have been there in his blonde-haired, easy-smiling glory, ready to take her as his wife.

He had promised.

He had made endless promises.

And yet—he was not there.

“Isabella.” Hermia’s voice was quiet, coaxing, as if she feared for an unraveling of Isabella’s composure.

She was sorely mistaken, for Isabella had long wrangled those urges and quelled them into fake smiles and clever turns of conversation or solutions.

“Isabella, do come over here with me.”

Without waiting for her say-so, Hermia led Isabella over to the side of the aisle where the confines of a small room could shield them from peering eyes. Once they were within, followed by their parents and the Duke of Branmere, Isabella whirled on Hermia.

“How do you know this is not some horrid mistake?” she asked harshly. “Perhaps he is late. A carriage accident… a… a bout of nerves! We are both young to wed, with him only five-and-twenty. I can wait.”

“Indeed,” Lord Wickleby insisted. “We will give him an hour. It is a stretch, but I have faith in Lord Stanton. He is a good man and has not always been known for his punctuality. We shall—”

“We shall not give him any grace.”

Isabella tried to restrain the glare she whipped around to give her brother-in-law, Charles, but she was shocked by the Duke’s intercession. “What do you mean?”

Dressed finely in his usual dark attire, his beard was neatly trimmed, and the eyes of dark blue that had never quite been readable to Isabella yet were to Hermia, fixed on her now. Beneath the Duke’s stare, Isabella’s composure threatened to crack.

“I already sent some of my footmen to Stanton’s townhouse,” he told her slowly, his eyes cutting to their mother, as if wondering whether Isabella would break out into hysterics like her. “Your betrothed is gone, Lady Isabella.”

“How do you—”

Her demanding question was cut off by Charles producing a piece of paper—a note, written not on expensive, thick parchment paper, the likes of which he used when quoting poetry and prose while wooing Isabella.

This was done hastily, as an afterthought, and her heart lagged horribly.

She snatched it right out of Charles’s hand upon recognizing Lord Stanton’s handwriting.

“Where was this found?” she asked.

“Stanton’s butler passed it to my footman. He said that the Earl handed it over himself,” Charles told her.

Isabella turned her back on them, her heart pounding. She didn’t want to see the worry and concern in their eyes, nor did she want any of them pressing her on what the note said, not until she had digested it herself.

My dearest Isabella,

Forgive my hasty note, but I am sorry. I cannot marry you. I will never love you, and this arrangement of ours must end before we cannot come back from such a grave mistake.

Perhaps you will forgive me one day.

Somehow both numb and enraged at once, Isabella loosened her grip on the note. Her body flooded with ice—no, both ice and fire, and she didn’t know which felt worse.

Her hands shook right as her father picked up the note that fluttered to the floor.

Stanton’s voice was too monotonous for the note, and it only infuriated Isabella further as she fought to tamp down every reaction.

Do not show it. This is not who you are. Fix your mask in place, smile, pretend all is well. Above all, present yourself as you wish to be seen.

And that was not as a lady who unraveled.

The noise her mother made finally had Isabella turning around.

She was right on time to see her mother faint. Charles quickly caught Lady Wickleby, grimacing at the theatrics, while Isabella and Hermia’s father let the infernal note fall to the floor again, before slapping at the air in a futile attempt to revive his wife.

“This cannot be right,” her father muttered, pacing the short length of the room. “He cannot do this.”

“He can.” Isabella didn’t recognize her own voice, not as she saw faces peering into the doorway of the room, eyes wide at finding Lady Wickleby unconscious in her son-in-law’s arms.

Quickly, their curiosity turned to Isabella.

And then the whispers began.

“I did wonder why there was no groom at the altar…”

“…such a pretty bride to be jilted…”

“We do not know she has been left—”

“Of course we do! There is no groom.”

“Do you think Lord Stanton found…”

Isabella turned her attention away as they speculated on the depths of Lord Stanton’s betrayal; he was clearly a guilty man fleeing the marriage he did not want.

Some guests rushed in under the guise of helping Isabella’s mother come back to consciousness, but she saw how they looked toward the note.

Discreetly, Hermia placed her slipper over it, blocking it from prying eyes. Isabella fought down the wave of sickness that tore through her as she felt the stares.

So many stares.

She had not realized she had walked out into the main church again until she felt the pinpricks of too many gazes fixed on her.

Such a pretty bride…

They all weighed on her, every nosy look from every guest.

“Lady Isabella, are you all right?”

Isabella’s smile was already pulling at her mouth, tugging into place, as she nodded.

It was all she knew how to do. A pretty smile was everything.

People believed that. But then another person came forward, another concerned pull of brows, another guest reaching for her as if she wished to be embraced.

“Lady Isabella, I am deeply…”

More voices faded in and out, spinning in a cacophony of noise, and it all crammed into Isabella’s head. She could barely breathe or think her own thoughts.

A pretty bride, a pretty bride.

I cannot love you.

A grave mistake…

“No,” she whispered harshly to herself. “No.”