CHAPTER ONE
Chatham Village, Kent
Helena Sinfell tightened her folded hands on her lap. As she listened to the bald solicitor who stood behind the desk before her, reading from his papers, she struggled not to laugh at the absurdity of this meeting.
Her narrowed gaze flicked to the man sitting silently beside her.
Or scream in outrage.
Gabriel Cavanaugh, Duke of Thurston, stared straight ahead at the solicitor, his carefully held face not showing one whit of what he was thinking.
But then, he didn’t have to. After all, he was the one who had decided on the terms for their marriage, which the solicitor was now reading.
He hadn’t been caught by surprise by them the way she had when she arrived in the village and been ushered straightaway into the solicitor’s office to meet the man who had agreed to marry her.
The same man who had once jilted her.
“His Grace’s aunt, Lady Verity Cavanaugh, will act as chaperone and companion during the four weeks prior to the wedding ceremony.” Mr. Putnam pushed his spectacles into place on the bridge of his nose. “No other companions will be allowed at Grangely Park.”
Helena tightened her jaw. Clearly, he meant her sisters. Gabe most likely thought she would arrive with all three of them in tow, like petticoated protectors.
“The reading of the banns will commence this Sunday and be read for three weeks—”
“I know how marriage banns work,” she interrupted. “After all, I’ve been through them before.”
She felt the sharp flick of Gabe’s gaze land on her, but she refused to meet it.
“Ah…umm…” From his flummoxed expression, Mr. Putnam had noted the tension between the two, but he would never be able to fathom why.
Unless Gabe had told him, and Helena doubted he had.
The Duke of Thurston wouldn’t be put into good light in his home village if he admitted that he’d jilted her the first time they had planned to wed, and right before the wedding, too.
On the very morning of the wedding, in fact.
“Well.” The solicitor stuck his long nose back into his pages and continued, “Miss Sinfell will attend church for each of those three readings in the company of His Grace, sitting in the family pew next to him.”
Her patience grew thinner, and she flashed a saccharine smile, unable to resist adding, “Like wool merchants who bring their sheepdogs to Sunday service and tie them to their pews?”
Mr. Putnam’s mouth fell open.
Good. This man—and everyone in the village—needed to know that the duke wasn’t marrying a weak wallflower. She was her own woman, and sometimes a woman had to take matters into her own hands. Their first engagement five years ago had certainly taught her that.
“Helena,” Gabe murmured in warning.
She pulled in a deep breath but didn’t apologize. She wouldn’t, not unless Gabe did so first and for far more than just this meeting. Apologies without actions were nothing but meaningless words. He’d taught her that lesson, too, just as he’d taught her to never again trust in love.
Mr. Putnam cleared his throat and continued, “The wedding will be held the following sennight after the last reading of the banns, in accordance with the month deadline specified in Sir Henry Sinfell’s letter.
Reverend Barlow, the local parish vicar, will preside, followed by a small and short wedding breakfast at Grangely Park to be overseen by Mrs. Brimley, the housekeeper. ”
“Am I to have no say in my wedding, then?” She clenched her hands so tightly in her skirts that she feared wrinkling the sprigged muslin. “Or in my marriage?”
“I…uh….” Mr. Putnam looked to the duke for help.
“Given circumstances,” Gabe said in a low and deep voice that still possessed the power to curl itself heatedly down her spine, “I think it best to have all expectations agreed upon in advance, don’t you?”
Ha! What choice did she have? If she refused, then her engagement ended right here, in a cramped and dusty solicitor’s office, before it had even begun.
So did all hope of providing for her family.
Circumstances were dire, and unless one of the Sinfell sisters married, her family would face inescapable poverty, most likely by year’s end.
It was marriage to Gabe or the poorhouse.
If it were only her future to consider, she’d gladly remain a spinster and take her chances at making a living as a teacher or governess.
But she had her father to worry about and all three younger sisters to protect, and she certainly couldn’t do that on the limited salary such a position would bring.
She had no choice but to put aside her feelings and accept Gabe’s offer, including these terrible stipulations on her marriage.
So she gave a long sigh of capitulation. “Please continue.”
Mr. Putnam hurried on with descriptions of the lady’s maid who would be employed for her, her accommodations, Gabe’s expectations for her as his duchess… Through it all, the duke himself sat as still as a statue, his attention fixed on the solicitor as if Helena wasn’t even in the room.
Why had he replied to her father’s letter and agreed to marry her?
True, he needed a male heir. His first marriage to Clarissa Wentworth had produced only one child, a daughter named Alice.
It was also true that such salacious gossip and scandal had surrounded his marriage that subjecting himself to the London marriage market was out of the question for such a proud man.
While Helena brought her own scandal with her like hand luggage, marrying a woman in her situation wasn’t enough to make him even blink given what he’d endured during his first marriage.
But he was still a duke, and there were lots of women in England who would have eagerly become his duchess regardless of his dark reputation, women who came with large dowries and impeccable family names ready to trade for a title.
He didn’t have to pick Helena. After all, if she wasn’t good enough before to be his duchess, then she most definitely wasn’t now.
So why had he agreed to marry her? Why offer to a woman he’d already jilted?
Of course, he’d given no explanation for his unexpected decision, just as he hadn’t five years ago when he’d left her standing in the church.
But when she’d stopped last night at the village inn and sent word to Grangely Park that she’d arrived and would meet him in the morning, she had hoped to finally be given answers.
Mr. Putnam shuffled his papers and smiled. “Now, let’s discuss the financial arrangements, shall we?”
This was not what she’d had in mind.
Helena turned stinging eyes toward the dirt-smudged window overlooking the village green, only half listening.
Two weeks ago, she couldn’t believe her ears when Papa told her his choice in husband for her—Gabriel Cavanaugh, the same man who’d jilted her the morning of their wedding, only to rapidly marry another before the ink on his special license was even dry.
When she had learned that Papa had written to Gabe, she’d expected him to send back a cutting reply that called her father mad for suggesting such a match, that laughed at the idea, or at the very least a single sentence in reply: Absolutely not.
Instead, he had agreed to all of her father’s terms. Helena had been so stunned by his reply that she could have been knocked over with a feather.
She should have suspected ulterior motives.
After all, what duke would ask his intended to meet him at the village green instead of his ancestral manor?
Yet Gabriel had always been a bit unconventional, so she had been willing to go along.
And God help her, a dark and self-punishing part of her had wanted to see him again, if only for one reason—to find out why he’d abandoned her.
She had wanted—no needed—to hear the truth from his own lips.
But this morning, there was still no apology, still no explanation. Only distrust and humiliation.
The moment she realized what was happening, she should have turned on her half-booted heel and left for home. According to the terms laid out by her father, she had every right to do just that.
Yet she couldn’t. Of all the matches her father had made for his daughters, this ridiculous one with Gabriel held the most promise for saving her family.
The handsome devil sitting beside her knew it, too, damn him.
“Monthly allowance during the marriage of one hundred pounds plus another one hundred for dresses and personal items,” Mr. Putnam droned on, squinting to make out the figures, “separate from the household funds…”
Helena cast a surreptitious glance at Gabriel.
He sat with his back ramrod straight, but then, he’d always exuded command and control.
He was the perfect specimen of a duke, with an imperial bearing, proud manner, and a full understanding of the importance of the dukedom and his role in it, even when they’d first met.
Only in private had he let down his guard and allowed her to glimpse the warm and caring man beneath.
In the end, though, the cold-hearted duke had won out.
“…with control over the household staff, but with the grounds, stables, and all land agent staff remaining under the control of His Grace, and all household bills to be paid by His Grace or his agent, not by the duchess.”
She bit down a frustrated sigh. Apparently, the cold-hearted duke was still winning.