A Jilted Bride for the Icy Duke (Duchess Wanted #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Here I am once more, awaiting my fate. No control over my own destiny.

“You are making a spectacle of yourself,” Lady Shirley said through clenched teeth as she tugged Amelia forward. “The Duke of Mansfield is expecting us.” She tightened her grip, refusing to slow. “You shall marry him, and that is the end of the matter.”

Amelia stumbled before catching her balance. “No, Mother,” she said, pulling back. “I do not wish to go.” Her voice trembled despite her efforts. “I cannot keep doing this.”

Amelia dug her heels into the gravel as Lady Shirley gripped her arm and pulled her towards the waiting carriage.

The morning air felt sharp against her skin, but it was nothing compared to the frustration burning inside her chest. For years, she had endured introductions, courtships, and arranged matches that never came to pass. She was four-and-twenty and exhausted.

The grand facade of Shirley House loomed behind her while her father and sisters waited beside the carriage. Every step towards it felt like a step closer to a prison.

Lady Shirley stopped and faced her sharply. “Doing what?” she demanded. “Being offered excellent matches?” Her eyes narrowed with impatience.

Amelia felt tears threaten. “Being treated like a prize to be handed away,” she replied. “Being told whom I must marry before I have even spoken to the gentleman.” The words escaped before she could stop them. Her heart pounded painfully. “I only wish for a little choice in my own life.”

For a moment Amelia stared at her mother and felt something inside her crack.

She could not remember a time when her future belonged to her.

Every season brought another arrangement, another expectation, another command.

She was tired of smiling politely while others planned her life.

More than anything, she wanted freedom. She wanted the chance to love someone because she chose him, not because his title pleased her family.

“Please,” Amelia whispered, yanking her arm free. “Give me time.” She clasped her hands together desperately. “Just a little time to find someone I care for.”

Lady Shirley’s expression did not soften. “Love is a childish fancy,” she said firmly. “Affection comes after marriage.” She stepped closer. “The Duke of Mansfield is wealthy, respectable, and powerful. This match is for your own good.”

Amelia shook her head. “You always say that.” Her voice broke as she fought tears. “Every arrangement is supposedly for my own good.”

Lady Shirley replied, “Because it is.”

Amelia took a shaky breath. “Then why am I so miserable?”

Her mother stiffened. “You are being dramatic.”

“No,” Amelia said quietly. “I am begging you.” The plea hung between them, unanswered.

“You will attend this visit,” Lady Shirley said at last. “And you will behave appropriately.”

The finality in her tone crushed the last of Amelia’s hope.

Her shoulders sagged. There would be no mercy, no compromise, no understanding.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she allowed her mother to guide her towards the carriage.

As she climbed inside, her eyes met Bethany’s.

Her sister’s jaw was tight with restrained fury, and silent sympathy filled her gaze.

Amelia looked away before the tears could fall.

Amelia walked slowly through the grand corridor of Mansfield House.

Portraits of stern ancestors watched from gilded frames, their expressions as severe as the atmosphere that seemed to cling to the estate.

She folded her hands tightly before her.

Everything about this place felt cold and orderly.

It suited the Duke of Mansfield perfectly from what little she had seen.

The thought made her stomach twist with unease.

“Miss Shirley.”

The deep voice stopped her instantly. Amelia turned to find the Duke approaching from the opposite end of the corridor. He was undeniably handsome with sharp features and a commanding presence. Yet there was no warmth in his eyes. They were distant, unreadable.

He halted before her and inclined his head slightly. “I trust you are grateful,” he said evenly, “that I rescued you from the unfortunate debacle of being abandoned at the altar.”

Amelia stiffened. The humiliation of that day still lingered like a bruise.

She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I daresay I might feel more grateful,” she replied quietly, “had I been granted more time between being left at the altar and becoming engaged once more.” Her fingers tightened around each other.

The words escaped before caution could stop them.

She was too tired to pretend enthusiasm any longer.

One of his brows lifted slightly. “You are not happy with this engagement?” he asked. His tone remained perfectly calm, as though discussing the weather.

Amelia let out a small, humorless laugh.

“I do not believe I know what happiness is anymore, Your Grace.” The admission surprised even her.

Yet once spoken, it felt painfully true.

She had spent so long living according to the wishes of others that she scarcely remembered what she wanted for herself.

The Duke regarded her for a moment. “You need not concern yourself with happiness,” he said at last. “I have no expectation of affection.” He clasped his hands behind his back.

“This marriage shall exist in name only. Once you are the Duchess of Mansfield, you will fulfill your duties. You will follow my rules, obey my instructions, and conduct yourself appropriately.” His expression did not change.

“Beyond that, there will be no emotional attachment between us.”

Amelia stared at him. A hollow feeling settled inside her chest. “You make marriage sound less like a partnership and more like a prison.”

He seemed entirely unoffended by the remark. “I have no interest in love.”

Amelia searched his face for some trace of feeling and found none. It was as though he were discussing a business arrangement rather than a life together.

“I do not know what love is,” he continued coolly, “nor do I care to discover it. I require a wife because duty demands one. I expect nothing else from you.”

The finality in his voice struck harder than any insult. Before Amelia could respond, he inclined his head once more and turned away.

“Now come, your family is expecting us, and I do not condone tardiness,” he said.

She watched him disappear down the corridor, his footsteps fading into silence. Left alone, she felt colder than before. For the first time, she wondered if being left at the altar had truly been the worst fate that could have befallen her.

Amelia Shirley sat in the blue sitting room at Mansfield Manor, awaiting her future to be dictated to her as it had been since she came of age.

Her sister, Bethany, stood at the window, watching the rain outside. Amelia stood up and paced the room; her nerves forced her to walk, then sit, then walk again.

“He is not so terrible,” her sister said.

“No,” Amelia said. “He is not terrible. He is something considerably more difficult than terrible.”

Bethany turned to her. “What do you mean?”

“A terrible man you can argue with,” Amelia said.

“You can point to what he has done and say, there, that is wrong, that is cruel, that is not acceptable. But he has not done anything wrong. He has been perfectly honest and perfectly fair, and he looked at me as though I were a chair he was deciding whether to keep. And there is nothing I can say about it because he has not been unkind.”

She looked at her hands. “He has simply made it very clear that I do not matter. Not as a person. Only as a function.”

The Duke of Mansfield is simply another betrothal forced upon me by my parents. Nothing more.

Amelia has already endured many engagements.

One was called off because her sister Marina made a scandal of herself, and another was left at the altar after Bethany interrupted the ceremony to declare her objections.

Amelia had been thankful for every single one that was called off.

She did not want marriage, not like this.

“He said he would be fair,” Bethany said.

“Yes,” Amelia said. “He did.”

Amelia wrapped her arms around herself, which was not something she usually did.

Amelia stood straight. She kept her hands folded, her chin level, and her expression arranged. She did not stand in the middle of rooms holding herself together with her own arms like something that might otherwise come apart.

Her breathing was shallow and too quick, the kind that did not reach the bottom of the lungs, the kind that preceded something.

“Amelia,” Bethany said.

“I am perfectly well,” she said immediately, which meant she was not.

“You are not perfectly well. Look at me,” Bethany said.

Amelia looked at her, feeling panic rise up inside her.

“I need a moment,” she said. “Just a moment. I simply need …”

She stopped. Pressed her lips together. Breathed in through her nose very carefully, the way a person breathed when they were trying to keep something down.

Bethany crossed to her and put both hands on her shoulders. “Sit down.”

“I do not want to sit down.” Amelia shook her head.

“Amelia. Sit down.” Bethany put her hands on her shoulders.

Amelia sat. Bethany crouched in front of her and watched her sister breathe.

Watched her fight for it, watched her press one hand flat against her sternum as though she could slow her own heart by force, and she did not say anything because there was nothing useful to say, and Amelia did not need words right now.

I need air and stillness and someone who will not pretend this is not happening.

After a long moment, the breathing began to even out. After another, Amelia lowered her hand from her chest.

“I cannot do it,” she stated.

“Amelia,” Bethany said.