The Duke’s Bargain Bride (The Wicked Dukes Society #1)

Chapter 1

One

"Are you certain it must be now?” Lady Clara Tremayne asked Mr. Jefferies nervously as she hurried to follow him down the twisted halls of her home.

“He was insistent,” Mr. Jefferies responded. “Better that it was ten minutes ago, your lord father said.”

She clicked her tongue with understanding as she glanced at the front of her dress.

It was covered in dirt and grime, as were her fingers and the palms of her hands, for that matter.

And none of that was to mention the surly state of her hair, and what was likely more dirt stains to be found on her cheeks. He is not going to be happy with me…

“Perhaps if I adjourn to my rooms quickly and –”

“Please, Lady Tremayne.” Mr. Jefferies spun about, forcing Clara to stop lest she run right into him. “I must insist it be now. I do not wish to have to make excuses for you.”

Mr. Jefferis was the head of staff at Tremayne Manor, a kindly man whom Clara had known her entire life. If such a world existed, she might have even said that they were friends. Only that was not this world, and she knew well enough where his loyalties lay.

Still, she could deny him, as she was technically his master. But she knew he was not pressing his insistence because he wished to see her in trouble. Rather, it was because if she denied his request, there would be hell to pay for both him and her.

“You are right,” she sighed meekly. “I am sorry, Mr. Jefferies. This…” She indicated her dirty dress. “Will have to do.”

The relief was clear on Mr. Jefferies’ face, but he did not voice it. Instead, he turned about and started back down the hall. And with no choice, despite knowing the trouble she was sure to be in, Clara followed him. I will be in even more trouble if I do not answer my father’s call.

Clara cursed herself for being so careless.

She had been outside in the gardens, tending to a freshly planted bed of roses, when Mr. Jefferies had found her, demanding that she follow him to her father’s study at once.

Ordinarily, Clara would be more careful not to dirty herself – her father hated it when she was disheveled – but she had become distracted in the process, forgetting herself, figuring it would not matter as she made sure to have enough time to change before supper. Or so she had assumed.

As to why her father had requested her with such urgency? She had no idea. The one thing she was certain of, the only truth she knew, was that the news would not bode well for her. Where her father was concerned, it almost never did.

They reached her father’s study; the door stood half-open, through which the dim flicker of the hearth’s light could be seen inside. Mr. Jefferies hurried forward and knocked once, waiting for her father’s command, and then entered.

She stayed outside, as she knew to do, her nerves growing as she tried to clean the front of her dress the best she could. No good, as the dirt was well-stained and Mr. Jefferies reappeared within seconds.

“He will see you now…” Mr. Jefferies bowed his head and bade her toward the door.

Clara took a deep breath, an attempt to find bravery, and walked through the open doorway and into her father’s office.

It was a cramped room, stuffed with bookshelves that were themselves laden with heavy tomes and stacks of parchment.

It was far too cold in the room, despite the roaring hearth, but that was normal for all rooms her father occupied.

He did not look up when she entered. His head was bent over the table as he scribbled away frantically. A balding scalp. Severe features. Lean but by no means frail. Lord Tremayne was a man whose very presence inspired fear… at least in Clara, it always had.

“Where were you?” he asked without looking up.

She made sure to be standing tall, her hands folded before her. “I was outside, Father. In the gardens.”

He scoffed. “Two estates away, for how long it took you to see me.” He scribbled further, grumbling under his breath. “Your dress,” he then said, still not looking. “What have I told you about playing in the muck?”

“Father, I was not playing –”

“A figure of speech,” he grumbled. “I do not like you, dirty, Clara. You ought to know better than to present yourself to me like this.”

She held her tongue, as that was always for the best. What she might have liked to have told him was that if he was not so insistent on seeing her immediately, she could have found time to change.

There was no point, however, and that would only anger him further.

In this instance, Clara always found silence to be for the best.

He remained with his head bent for a few more moments, still working away.

She stood there watching, waiting, mind racing with questions.

Her father was not a kind man. He was not a caring man.

He was a cruel, self-serving tyrant who only ever spoke to Clara to either chastise her for a mistake made or because he needed something of her.

In this instance, she had no idea which to expect.

Finally, he stopped what he was doing. He groaned and sat up, curling his lip when he saw her finally. “You are filthy.”

“I am sorry, Father. It will not happen again.”

He scoffed. “Doubtful. And you wonder why we can’t find a lord to so much as look at you.” A shake of the head. “Should I blame myself? I might, had I not been presented with such a hopeless case of a daughter.”

It was an age-old complaint, and one her father loved to remind her of.

That was when she was eighteen, a debutant in the ton, and she had failed dramatically to catch the eye of a suitor.

So resounding was this failure that her father had panicked and torn her from society’s bosom, refusing to give her another chance as he claimed his honor could not bear the shame.

The reality was far different. Clara had been nervous.

She had been hesitant about what to do. Her father had not prepared her properly and had frightened her enough that on her debut, she had stayed in the corners, head bowed, worried that she might do or say something that would offend him.

The effect was to go unnoticed entirely, labelled a wallflower of a woman, easily forgotten and thus not worth the effort of pursuit.

It might be easy to convince myself that had I been given another chance, then things would have gone differently. A lie told because it makes the reality of who I am and the life I have been born into that little bit easier to carry.

“I have some news,” her father said. “Some news which I am rather pleased to give…” A faint hint of a smile crossed his thin lips, a rare sight.

Such was the man and his ever-present coldness that this struck fear into Clara.

“It needs no saying that you have been a disappointment, Clara. If your mother were still alive…” He gave a shake of his head. “But that is neither here nor there.”

Still, Clara said nothing. Her mother had died eight years ago, when she was just fourteen. And like Clara, her mother had lived in a state of fear for her husband, as he had treated her with no more warmth or kindness than he showed his daughter.

“The point is, I am pleased to say that we can put all of this behind us.” That smile again, and a glimmer in his dark eyes. “For I have found you a husband.”

“Wh – what?” Clara stammered before she could stop herself. Her father narrowed his eyes, and she was quick to recover. “Oh, that is…” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Wonderful news.”

He nodded his agreement. “It was no easy thing to do. Truly, the pains I have been through this past month to see the deal made. But it is done, and tomorrow it will be announced at the Ashworth Ball.”

“I am to go to the ball?”

“Of course,” he said. “And I expect you not embarrass me.” A stern look. “You need this, Clara. I need this. Lord, for a time there, I had worried that you would never find a husband. But I suppose that miracles have been known to happen.”

Clara hesitated.

She knew her father well enough to know that he did not like questions, as they suggested a rebuke of his iron law. But the situation was such that she felt she had no choice. I am to be married? How? To whom? And why do I sense that I will not like the answer…

Clara had always dreamed of marrying. What young lady had not?

But her fear had always been that it would be to a man who did not want her, did not love her.

Who would see her as little more than a prize to use for his own gain.

If he sees me at all. And that, inevitably, as was her life here, she would be forgotten and become a shadow of the woman she knew that she could be.

If only I was given a chance to show it.

“Father…” Her chin trembled with fear. “May I ask, to whom have I been promised?”

He scoffed. “I suppose so. Lord Ayles is who I have found for –”

“No!” She cried before she could stop herself. Her father stiffened, and his expression darkened. “I did not mean it, Father,” she hurried desperately. “I was simply taken by surprise.”

“No doubt.”

“Lord Ayles…” She grimaced, forcing calm and bravery both. “He is rather old, no?”

“Forty-five, I believe. A good man. Recently widowed. Wealthy, also. He is not one to waste time or worry with nonsense. He knows what this is…” A firm nod of his head. “What is more, an older groom will be more likely to show his gratitude.” To my father, not to me.

Clara knew a little about Lord Ayles. Beyond his age and his wealth, she had heard that he was a cold, dispassionate man, much like her father.

A man who was liked by a few, and who prided himself on his title and name above everything else.

But beyond that, what Clara knew most of all was that not only did she not love him, but that she likely never would. Nor would he love her, for that matter.

She knew better than to argue with her father. Oh, how it had been trained into her. After a lifetime of being told no, most people saw Clara as a weakling without a voice, good for little more than wearing a dress and taking up space.

She had a soul. She had a voice. She had self-worth as any woman should! All that was missing was someone who cared to see it. And where she knew that no matter what she said, it would make no difference, now was the time to show her father exactly who she could be. Not who he saw her as.

“Father, I do not think this will be a very good match.”

His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

She hesitated before striding across the room toward the desk. “Lord Ayles. Although I am sure he is a kind enough man, he is not one whom I ever imagined I would marry.”

“I do not care what you imagined.”

“He is… I do not know him, Father,” she pleaded, at his desk, thinking to drop to her knees if she had to. “I have never met him.”

“And you will. Tomorrow night.”

“It will make no difference!” she cried, to which her father growled his fury. “I know enough to know the truth.” She met her father’s eyes, desperate for him to see the pained look in her own. The desperation. “I will never love him, nor will he ever love me.”

“Love?” Her father scoffed as if he did not understand the word. “I thought I raised you better than –”

“You raised me as I am. And I am telling you –”

“Do not interrupt me,” he snarled. “I raised you to do as you are told. No more. No less. I raised you to know that love is not the aim of marriage – it is for fools, girl. And above all else, you were raised as no fool.”

Clara opened her mouth to push a final argument, but closed it just as quickly. Her father’s warning glare was as cold as ice and as dangerous as a storm. She had some fight in her, this was true, but only so much. Besides, what is the point in fighting when I know I will lose?

Her father’s head went back down, his hand returned to scribbling on whatever it had been that he was working on before she arrived, and this Clara knew to be the end of the discussion.

Still, she lingered for a moment longer, hoping that he might sense how crestfallen she was.

How sad. How utterly bereft she was of hope.

For all the little good it did. He ignored her, and soon she had no choice but to skulk from the office, her tail between her legs, her future set for her. And it looked to be a very depressing future indeed.

She did not sup that night. She did not speak to anyone – there was nobody in the manor to whom she might voice her complaints. She was alone in this world, a state of being that was likely to remain a constant, despite her pending marriage.

What she did do was lie in her bed, staring blankly at the open window, wondering if she should run and never look back.

To escape from here, to live a life she could barely dream, one of hardships and toil, because she was not made for a world beyond these walls.

No… this is my life, my prison, and there is nothing I can do about it.

A cage, it felt like. One made of silk and glass, stuffed with pillows, a dream it might look to most. But she knew the truth of it. A cage of sadness and despair, for what else could it be?