Chapter 1 #3
“Duke Howard has asked me for your hand, and I’m inclined to accept on your behalf.”
“No.”
“Pardon?”
“Father, what? You must be joking.”
“Elizabeth Beatrice Ashcroft.” His voice carried a warning. “You insisted on choosing your own husband, and I have let you. It’s been years, and at this rate, you’ll reach thirty before deigning to choose someone. I want to see you taken care of. You would have a good life with him.”
“Yes, a good life, until an early grave, for being the wife of such a man would kill me. He is old and cruel, Father. You cannot be serious.”
“He is a fine match for you,” her father said, dismissing her protest with a wave. “And a valuable alliance for our family. Howard House is very powerful. He has hundreds of armed guards, and his estate is second in wealth only to the queen herself.”
Elizabeth stared. “I beg your pardon?”
“You are nearly twenty-seven! We care for you but it will not do. We even tried to suggest arranging you with that one gentleman from House Augustus—”
“Lady Lorine’s brother? He’s a bore and was incapable of holding a stimulating conversation. And he’s younger than me!”
Her father gestured impatiently. “See! You are not being practical.”
“Why must I marry someone who doesn’t interest me whatsoever?” she pleaded.
“Because you are an Ashcroft! And you will act like one. You will be wed before you are thirty, or mark my words.”
“Why, Father? He is awful.”
“Elizabeth Beatrice Ashcroft,” her father gritted out. “You must wed. And soon. He is wealthy beyond your wildest dreams. You would be happy with him.”
“Wealth means nothing if I cannot stomach the idea of even talking to him, Father.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Find me someone else.”
Her father sighed heavily, put his hand on his daughter's shoulder, and looked at her with a frustratingly kind expression. “Dearest child, I want to see you happily married and see my grandchildren before I leave this world.”
“But Father, I…” she trailed off as the man in question ambled over to them, and she recoiled. Duke Howard smiled at her with thin, aged lips, his face lined with time. Thin strands of hair draped over his head, doing little to hide the fact that he was balding.
To her embarrassment, Duke Howard’s eyes raked over her figure, his eyes resting momentarily on her cleavage. There was not a doubt in Elizabeth’s mind that he heard her father’s ludicrous suggestion.
Duke Howard said in an oily voice, “Lady Ashcroft, may I have this dance?”
He offered her a hand.
Her father nudged her encouragingly towards Duke Howard.
“I—I suppose so…” she stammered, unable to think of a polite way to decline. Reluctantly, she placed her smooth, youthful hand in his gnarled one. She grudgingly followed the duke onto the dance floor.
He dragged her about the floor amidst swirling ballgowns and laughing partygoers. Elizabeth tried to think of anything besides Duke Howard’s hand that was now possessively gripping her waist. If we married—she repressed a shudder at the thought.
He brought his face far too close to hers just as the song ended.
Not a moment too soon.
Duke Howard placed a hand on her lower back, leading her back to her father with an elegant bow. Elizabeth fidgeted with the sleeves of her gown, itching to wash her hands.
“I accept our arrangement, Lord Ashcroft. Nothing would please me more,” Duke Howard said before turning and drifting off into the crowd, oblivious to Elizabeth’s look of horror.
“Father! You’ve already accepted?” Elizabeth demanded, aghast. She whispered venomously, “Do I not get any say? Would you really be so cruel?” Upon seeing her father’s dismissive expression, she hissed, “I am your daughter. If you care for me at all, you will release me from this at once.”
Her father looked affronted. Before he could open his mouth to retort, however, a clink sounded around the room. The other partygoers followed suit, filling the hall with knives tapping on crystal goblets. Elizabeth and her father turned towards the noise, wondering who was about to make a speech.
It was Duke Howard.
No.
“I am pleased to announce my engagement to Lady Elizabeth Ashcroft. To many happy years together!” Duke Howard cried, taking a large swig of wine. Around him, his friends whooped and clapped him on the shoulder, offering their congratulations.
Elizabeth’s chest constricted.
“No,” she whispered.
Her corset was suddenly too tight, the room suddenly too small.
She glimpsed Charlotte’s shocked expression across the room before people started flocking over to congratulate her. Duchess Prescott, trailed by her two children, approached and smiled warmly. “Oh! A strong match. And such a tie to House Howard. Marvellous. Your parents must be so pleased.”
Her father smiled, moving in front of her to answer on her behalf. “Yes, we’re very pleased.”
Duchess Prescott looked at her in concern, and her mother swooped in before she could open her mouth. “Yes, we are thrilled to have Lizzy engaged! This all happened so suddenly too! Isn’t that right, Lizzy?”
Elizabeth had nothing nice to say, so instead she said, “Mother, I wish to be excused.”
Her mother smiled warmly as another couple approached, swiftly becoming engaged in another bout of congratulations. Taking her leave, Elizabeth ducked her head, and fled to the gardens.
How could her parents marry her off without even consulting her? And to him no less! She wrinkled her nose in disgust.
The gardens looked unusually somber tonight, mirroring her mood.
Twilight had settled over the grounds, dulling the usually bright, cheerful colours of the gardens into shadowed hues.
Lanterns hung around the walkways of the garden, illuminating everything with soft light.
The fresh air was cool on her face, and she breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of roses, feeling relieved to have escaped the party.
She found a secluded bench in the gardens and sat down heavily, between the rose and vine-covered trellises. A trimmed hedge obscured her hideout from the main pathway, making her almost invisible to passersby.
Her noble birth and her family name had condemned her. Older bachelors were still sought after, while older maids were the shame of any wealthy family. The double standard had never made her angrier than in this very moment. She clenched her hands in her lap, white-knuckled.
Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly cold. Goosebumps rippled across her arms.
There was a faint rustling in the bushes. She hoped it was Charlotte, coming to see where she had gone.
It wasn't.
It was the man cloaked in black.
Elizabeth blinked in surprise.
He swept a flowering vine to the side and entered her sanctuary.
The moonlight highlighted his olive skin and glinted off his dark hair—he must hail from somewhere else in Asteria, Rhodean men had lighter features.
He had broad shoulders like the queen’s guards and a dark beard that covered most of his jaw.
His large and slightly curved nose was a touch too large for traditional good looks, but it fit his face well.
His gaze was directed above her right shoulder, as if he didn’t want to meet her eyes. “Hello, Lady Elizabeth. I’ve been looking for you.”
Her eyes widened. “Whatever for? Do I know you?”
He sat down next to her with a frown, crossed his arms over his chest, and fixed his attention on the wall ahead. “I hear you’re having a bad day.”
She considered trying to explain an ounce of what she was feeling to this stranger, and against her will, she felt her eyes start to burn. She blinked the tears away, refusing to let them fall.
“Ah, it’s not that bad,” he said, handing her his handkerchief.
Accepting the handkerchief, she dabbed at her eyes. Elizabeth sniffled and felt rather pathetic. She hated appearing weak. Clearing her throat, she straightened, primly folded his handkerchief, and tried to hand it back to him.
“You can keep it,” he said, still looking resolutely ahead.
Elizabeth stiffened and insisted, offering it back once more. She would not keep this stranger's handkerchief. The man didn’t move a muscle or even have the decency to look at her.
“It could always be worse, you know,” the man said, amusement clear in his voice.
“Look at me,” she ordered. “Look at me and tell me exactly how it can be worse.”
His eyes lifted to hers, and true fear rose in her chest.
His eyes flickered like silver fire. They were the absence of colour entirely. The grays and whites danced like a circle of barely contained flame. No human had eyes like that.
She felt their pull and instantly felt like she was drowning. And to her horror, she couldn’t move an inch.
It dawned on Elizabeth how exposed she was in her low-cut gown and was without a chaperone. He leaned ever closer to her, and every instinct screamed at her to run.
Her fingers curled at her sides, digging into her palms, and the sharp pain gave her enough awareness to wrench herself from his gaze and jolt herself to her feet.
“Going somewhere?” he asked casually.
“No, I just … I need to get back to the party,” she said, backing away.
As she lifted her dress to curtsey her farewell, she gasped. He was suddenly standing in front of her, only a hair’s breadth away. She looked up at him in fear, and he took hold of her wrist.
“Really, Lady Elizabeth, we were just discussing your predicament.” He affixed those frightening eyes on her again.
She tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip almost to the point of pain.
“Unhand me! Who even are you?” she spluttered. She was a noble. No man had a right to accost her in the dark.
“I think you mean ‘What are you?’ And to answer your question, I’m a demon,” he said, looking away.
As soon as he broke their eye contact, she sagged with relief.
Her heart thundered against her ribs, and her lungs relearned how to breathe.
Without the pull of his strange eyes, he looked like a normal man.
A demon.