Chapter 3
“ What is the meaning of this?” Anthony waded into the Finch family drama.
Edgerton’s hand dropped to his side as if it had been scorched. His face went from putrid red to porridge pale as he turned to face the Duke of Wilds. The young woman—presumably one of the Earl’s daughters—remained still, her back straight and her chin lifted in defiance as he swept his gaze around the room.
He handed his coat and hat to a breathless servant who materialized beside him. She scurried off as he entered the study. The floorboards creaked beneath his feet. Despite the fire in the grate, the quiet air of neglect was more pronounced here than in the rest of the house. Motion from across the room caught his eye.
The Countess of Edgerton hovered in the corner, looking for all the world like she was trying to disappear. She trembled as she sketched a wobbly curtsey but didn’t meet his gaze.
The poor woman is terrified.
“Countess,” he said, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgment. His tone was measured but not unkind. “You seem unwell. May I help you to a chair or perhaps call for some water?”
Before Lady Edgerton could respond, the Earl moved with surprising speed, half-guiding, half-shoving his wife toward the nearest couch. “Nonsense, Your Grace. She’s perfectly fine,” he insisted, his voice slipping into the honeyed obsequiousness of a man trying to salvage a situation already lost. “A touch of nerves, that’s all. These women, you know. Such delicate constitutions.”
Lady Edgerton sat stiffly on the edge of the couch. Her hands clutched the folds of her gown, and her gaze remained fixed on her lap. The Earl’s hand lingered on her shoulder—whether to steady her or as a warning, Anthony couldn’t tell.
Edgerton turned back to him, a wide, ingratiating smile plastered across his face. “There must have been some misunderstanding. We were just preparing for the ceremony—so much to do, you see. We didn’t want to trouble you with the details?—”
Anthony studied Edgerton. The transformation was almost laughable. From bellowing tyrant to groveling sycophant in the space of a heartbeat.
He clasped his hands behind his back. “Trouble me? It seems I arrived just in time to prevent a disaster.”
The Earl cringed, and the young woman’s lips quirked in what might have been amusement. Anthony’s gaze lingered on her for a moment.
His curiosity was piqued despite himself. Not the daughter I am to marry, surely. This one has too much backbone to cry off being indisposed. Too bad.
He turned his attention back to Edgerton. “Where is my bride?” Anthony’s tone was deceptively calm, but the tension ratcheted higher with each word.
The Earl hesitated. A flicker of panic crossed his features before he schooled them into a mask of false confidence. “Why, she’s upstairs of course. Preparing for the ceremony. Women take an age with such things.” He gave the young woman an empty smile. “Why don’t you run upstairs and see what is keeping your sister?”
Her expression shifted to one of barely veiled disgust. She made no move to comply with her father’s command. It confirmed what he had already suspected: the Earl was lying—and badly.
Anthony let the man squirm before speaking again. “I find men who strike women beneath contempt,” he said. “But liars? They’re even lower than that.”
The room grew deathly quiet. The Earl’s face had gone from pale to ashen, and his fingers nervously played with the buttons on his waistcoat.
“Your Grace, I assure you?—“
“Don’t,” Anthony snapped. “I am well aware that Lady Abigail claims to be indisposed.”
Edgerton waved his words away. “Your Grace, it’s nothing serious. These things happen with young ladies, you know. Faint hearts and frayed nerves. She’ll be ready soon enough.”
Anthony arched a brow. “Will she?” He let the silence stretch, savoring the Earl’s visible discomfort. Then, with deliberate care, he added, “I am considering withdrawing from the contract altogether.”
That struck the Earl like a thunderclap. His composure deserted him, and he lurched forward as though he was about to throw himself on Anthony’s mercy. “No! No, Your Grace, there’s no need for such drastic measures,” he stammered. “You misunderstand—there’s been no breach, no betrayal?—”
Anthony’s eyes narrowed. Interesting choice of words. He tilted his head slightly, regarding Edgerton with cool disdain. “Betrayal? An odd word to use when speaking of a minor delay due to a young lady’s nerves.”
The Earl’s face twisted in a rictus of panic. “Did I say betrayal? Foolish me. I’m just in such a dither over all this. We’re all so excited about this match.” The words tumbled out of his mouth.
“All except my bride, it seems,” Anthony drawled as Edgerton twisted on the line.
I should walk away from all of this. The whole thing has been unseemly from the start.
Before he could act on his impulse, the young woman stepped forward.
“Your Grace,” she said. Her unwavering voice cut cleanly through her father’s frantic blather. “Please accept our sincerest apologies. There will be no wedding today.”
Anthony’s attention shifted fully to the young woman before him. At first glance, she seemed composed—her back straight, her chin held high, her gaze unwavering. Defiance. Or fear? The tension in her shoulders, the faint rise and fall of her chest, spoke of someone barely holding herself together.
She’s scared. Anthony dismissed her composure as bravado. But then her lips pressed into a thin, deliberate line, and her chin tilted just slightly higher.
No. Not fear. Ice cold resolve.
Most women would have swooned under the weight of the moment. Instead, she stood there, a quiet challenge written in every line of her posture. She was beautiful, yes, but it was her unyielding strength that intrigued him.
“And why would there not be a wedding? Surely, we can get the bride over her bout of nerves,” Anthony said though he couldn’t quite fathom why. He should call Edgerton out on breach of contract and have done with the entire mess.
The woman didn’t look away as she said, “Abigail is not indisposed. She has left. She ran away early this morning.”
Anthony paused, momentarily nonplussed. A tangle of emotions surged within him—frustration, disgust, and, beneath it all, a bitter twinge of self-recrimination.
Of course, she ran. Ran rather than face a life with me.
The realization settled uneasily, but he forced the thought aside. It was irrelevant. This marriage wasn’t about emotion or compatibility. It was about securing his legacy, nothing more. He would salvage the situation.
Edgerton’s composure crumbled entirely. He stammered, making excuses and promises in equal measure. “We have every available man searching for her, Your Grace. She’s a dull-witted thing. She couldn’t have gotten far. We’ll find her, I swear it. The wedding will proceed as planned; you have my word.”
Anthony recovered and waved the Earl into silence. “Your word means nothing, but you are absolutely correct. There will be a wedding today.”
She blinked. “But there is no one here to marry. Your bride has run off.”
Anthony raked his gaze over her, assessing, calculating. “You look of age,” he said. “What about you?”
She stiffened. Heat flooded her cheeks. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “We haven’t even met.”
Anthony’s mouth tipped into a sardonic grin. “I don’t believe that is actually a prerequisite.” She colored further, and he felt a stir of desire as she kept her chin raised at that haughty angle. “Besides, it is remedied easily enough. I am the Duke of Wilds, and you are?”
“Lady Bridget Finch,” she replied in a cool tone that told Anthony just what she thought of him.
“You’re absolutely right, Your Grace. One daughter is just as good as the other,” Edgerton interjected, giving Bridget a little nudge toward the Duke.
The man has all the subtlety of a butcher at the market. But his attention was quickly drawn back to Lady Bridget as she rounded on her father.
Anthony studied her with cool deliberation. She wasn’t what he’d expected from a Finch, but there was a fire in her that might serve him well. He had no time to mollycoddle a woman. A strong wife might be an asset—as long as she knew her place.
“This is a farce!” she exclaimed, her composure cracking as her frustration spilled over. “You’re so desperate for this wedding. If I’m to be forced before the altar, I deserve to know why.”
Edgerton’s face darkened. “You deserve nothing,” he barked. “You’ll do your duty as I command.”
Lady Bridget laughed—a brittle, bitter sound. “Duty? Oh, yes, it’s always about duty, isn’t it? Convenient how that word is wielded to control women while men like you shirk it entirely.”
The Earl’s hand curled into a fist. Had Anthony not been there, he knew Bridget would have felt the sting of her father’s wrath.
She turned sharply to Anthony, her gaze blazing with defiance. “And you, Your Grace? Do you find some perverse satisfaction in this insanity, or is it simply a matter of duty?”
Anthony arched a brow, momentarily surprised.
A woman willing to mock me to my face—and with such fire. Intriguing, but she walks a fine line.
The faintest smirk played on his lips. “Duty, Lady Bridget, is rarely a matter of satisfaction,” he said, his tone even but edged with steel. “I do what needs to be done.”
The fire did not diminish in her eyes, though her lips pressed tightly together, holding back what he suspected would have been a sharp retort. Anthony held her gaze, allowing a beat of silence to hang between them—a challenge of his own.
He shifted his attention to Edgerton, and his tone shifted from cool to glacial. “I would agree with your daughter, My Lord. You are a man unfamiliar with the concept of duty.” He let the words settle before continuing, “I have acquainted myself with your affairs.”
The Earl flushed an angry red though his gaze darted nervously to the door as though seeking escape. “How dare you?—”
“I dare,” Anthony cut him off, stepping forward, “because I needed to know how bad it was before I offered to bail you out of your sinking ship.”
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” Edgerton stammered.
Anthony leaned in. “Your debts are astronomical. You’ve even put your home up as collateral.”
From her place on the chaise, Lady Edgerton let out a soft, strangled cry. “There’s no need for this,” she said, wringing her hands. “Haven’t we suffered enough? Must this humiliation be dragged out?”
Anthony spared her a sympathetic glance before turning back to her husband. Pity had no place here. “If your debtors are not paid today, there would be no house, no estate, and your family would be in the workhouse by the week’s end.”
The Earl’s mouth worked soundlessly as his wife wept softly into her hands and his daughter stared at him in horror.
“Am I wrong?” he pressed, unrelenting.
Edgerton deflated. “No, Your Grace,” he muttered, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his disgrace. “I had no choice.”
Anthony’s lip curled. “We all have choices. I suggest you learn to make better ones. You only have so many daughters to save your sorry skin.”
Anthony turned his gaze to Lady Bridget and found her staring at her father, her expression a storm of fury and heartbreak. Something about the raw emotion in her eyes struck him— a truth she never thought she’d witness, a strength she clearly wished she didn’t have to summon. For a fleeting moment, he considered softening his approach, but no, that would do neither of them any good.
“I am doing your family a favor by accepting this medieval proposal,” he said, driving his point home, closing the deal. “You may not like it, Lady Bridget, but the world is rarely fair. Do not expect it to grant you exceptions.”
The fire in her eyes burned brighter, but she said nothing as her jaw tightened. He quelled the stirring of interest, of desire, as he looked at her. This was business, and there was no room for desire in business.
Anthony glanced between father and daughter. “You have two hours,” he said. His gaze settled on Lady Bridget and those blazing green eyes. “I will see your sister—or you—at the altar. Do not be late.”