Chapter 4
GRACE
Grace chuckled nervously as she stared at the man in disbelief.
“I apologize for not introducing myself,” he said so casually it enraged her. He stepped closer and offered his hand. “Drasko Mawr.”
She looked at his big, gloved hand—she would not shake it—then raised her eyes at him, trying to pin all her anger into her stare.
She wasn’t striking some ridiculous deal. She wasn’t selling herself like Charles had just done, or whatever had just happened.
This was nonsense, some sick joke. Grace wanted to fight. Or scream. Yet it wouldn’t change a thing, she knew.
This was supposed to be her perfect day.
She was supposed to be perfect. She was a piano prodigy, famous in London.
She had been groomed by her guardians to be the epitome of perfection.
She always followed the strict set of rules enforced by them.
Even Charles—oh, her perfect Charles—had been introduced to her by her guardians.
As if chosen. He was supposed to be her ticket to freedom.
Yet, her guardians hadn’t said a word when he walked out on her.
For the first time, Grace was witnessing her uncle and aunt comply with someone else’s orders.
His.
It scared her, kept her frozen in place. But she wanted an explanation.
Lifting her chin in defiance, Grace shook her head at the stranger. “Is this some sort of joke?”
Keeping his intense eyes on her, he slowly withdrew his hand.
“I have funds,” she said as confidently as she could, then slowly tugged her bridal veil off and carelessly dropped it on the floor. “I don’t need to marry some diamond thug who barges in?—”
“You do not,” Uncle’s voice cut in, “have funds,” he added quieter.
Her mouth fell open in shock.
“I am afraid you don’t have funds, dear,” he said coldly.
“Impossible,” she whispered, perplexed.
A lump in her throat made it hard to breathe. Tears stung her eyes. Any other time, be it a concert, a ball, or anywhere else in public, where her aunt and uncle watched her like hawks, she would put on her best face and smile.
Not today. Her marriage to Charles had been her only chance at freedom, and she had just lost it.
“If you do not agree to this deal,” the stranger said, making her turn toward him, “you might end up on the street, Miss Grace.”
The words twisted in her stomach.
How dare he?
“The truth is, you simply don’t have a choice.” The chill in his voice made shivers run down her spine. He took a step toward her as if approaching his prey. “If it is any consolation, neither do I. But this marriage has to happen.”
A tiny sob shook her chest. Tears blurred her vision. She needed a sip of opium to calm down, fall asleep, wake up, and find this was all a bad dream. She contemplated pulling out the vial, tucked under her corset, and downing it all.
She tried to count in her mind—a trick she often used to calm herself in stressful moments.
She tried humming—her remedy for clearing her mind.
It usually helped. But there was no remedy for betrayal and defeat.
“This is a farce,” Grace snapped, not realizing that tears had started rolling down her cheeks. “I cannot marry a stranger, not you, not anyone.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
The room was spinning around her, the whole world was, and so was her life. An eerie silence fell around her.
They all stared at her. He —coldly, without interest. His men—bored. Her guardians—indifferently.
“Traitors,” she whispered, for the first time daring to speak her mind.
They were handing her off to a stranger. Oh, the joke! Grace didn’t have relatives, nor did she have friends besides Rivka. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to run.
No funds.
Clutching the folds of her dress, she stood in a stupor, wanting to run to the London bridge and jump off.
He was the first one to move.
Slowly, the man bent down to pick up her veil from the floor. Grace flinched as he fixed the veil to her head as if she were a doll. He smoothed the translucent fabric, and when he muttered, “Perfect,” she finally raised her teary eyes at him and met his gaze, so calm, unlike her.
A silent beat passed between them, and she thought she saw something else in those cold greens—a hesitation?
Beautiful eyes, she had to admit, his face above her so close that she could see his scars, his clean-shaven jaw, his full lips, pressed tightly, too tightly for a man who seemingly didn’t care. That cold stare was back again.
He was intimidating. No, no, petrifying! Larger than life! Taking charge of hers!
Just then, his lips curled into a smirk. “I detest this no less than you do, Miss Grace,” he said. “Shall we?”
He didn’t move, didn’t point at the door and the hallway behind it, the hall full of guests waiting and the priest ready to seal this holy union.
Grace didn’t ask what would happen afterward, where she would go, where they would go, her and her soon-to-be husband.
She was being sold, traded off for something more valuable, perhaps.
Wiping her wet cheeks with the back of her hand, she blinked and blinked, but the tears were still coming. She bravely lifted her chin and walked through the door.
After all, she had always been alone. She’d always known that happiness wasn’t in her cards.
This? She would figure it out. She would talk sense into her guardians. She would hire a lawyer. She would make this disappear. She would find her goddamn funds.
But for now, she would play along. The priest might refuse the service. The guests would certainly raise hell. You just wait!
Grace stomped toward the main hall, not waiting for her uncle to lead her. If they wanted a spectacle, she would give them one and show everyone that this was simply?—
She halted in shock when she stepped into the church hall.
The guests were gone…
The footsteps following her echoed through the desolate space, decorated with garlands and hundreds of lit candles. But the only ones in the hall were several dozen men in dark suits, watching her slowly step down the aisle. His men, she realized.
Her gaze frantically scanned the otherwise empty hall and stopped on the lone person at the back corner of the church.
Rivka…
The young woman stood in the shadows, like she was supposed to, hiding from Grace’s guardians. She had snuck in to witness Grace’s happiest moment. Except now, her best friend was witnessing Grace’s defeat.
Oh, Rivka…
Did Rivka know? She must have. Her “sight of the devil” was rumored about in many parts of London. Yet, she hadn’t warned Grace of this disaster.
Tears burned Grace’s eyes. She looked over her shoulder and saw him . Like a devil himself, his tall broad figure crowded the doorway, his cold gaze on her.
On shaky legs, Grace continued toward the altar.
Come what may be.
The old priest only nodded with an apologetic smile.
So, he is in on it.
“Are you all right, my child?” he asked.
No.
She felt a shift of air behind her. He stood next to her, like a monstrous shadow.
Drasko Mawr—the name she already despised, the man she already hated.
The priest read the official speech as Grace stood in stupor. Prompted, she faced the man she was about to marry. Her heart boomed as she met his icy green eyes.
He said the vows, his voice chillingly cold.
Her head dizzy, Grace repeated hers, not looking away from him.
He took her hand, took off her glove. Blinking down, Grace found a simple gold band around her finger. No diamond, though he was a diamond miner.
Would he want consummation? Not a chance! Children? She would not be used!
“You may now kiss your wife,” the priest said.
Wife . Grace was a wife . To whom? To the stranger who stared at her with indifference, his much larger muscular body too close for her liking as he leaned over, his lips barely brushing her cheek in a kiss.
The brief touch made her chest tighten. A foreign scent hit her nostrils. Her lungs took it in, igniting a flood of familiar images in her mind. She liked the scent, but her mind screamed in rebellion. She was his, as per the law, and not a single person in this world could do anything about it.
“Welcome to your new life,” he said coldly, adding, “wife.”
Wife…
Absently, Grace brushed her trembling fingers over the wedding ring, the feeling so anticipated and now hateful. Her hand slid to the hem of her corset where the vial of opium was hidden.
The thought of spending a night with this stranger petrified her. She was Grace Sommerville, the prodigy pianist, one of the most celebrated musicians in London.
No, no, she would not give up this easily.
She thought of drinking the tincture herself. But no, she wasn’t a coward. She’d agreed to this marriage, but that was it.
If this was some sick game, she would play along by her rules.
Tonight, she would rebel.
Tonight, she would drug this man and fake the consummation.