Page 66 of The Wrong Duke

“I won’t do it.” On her knees, she stared daggers at him, defiance personified as if she meant to cower him with a single glare. “Nor will Bridget. You can’t make us.”

He laughed at that. Laughed as if she had told the funniest of jokes. “You really don’t get it, do you? You have no power here, Amelia. None whatsoever. And if you try and deny me. If you try anything at all...” He bared his teeth. “It is your sister you worry for? You ruin this for me tonight, and I promise that you will never see her again, regardless of who she marries. She will be as good as dead to you, and you will spend the rest of your life wondering if she is because if tonight doesn’t go the way I hope, then there really is no need to keep her around.”

Amelia gasped and held a hand to her mouth as the threat took hold.

“Four hours,” he growled as he reached the door. “Be ready. Oh, and Amelia, make sure you look your best will you...” He stepped through the door and turned back. “I expect you to fetch a high price.” Through the door, and it slammed behind him.

As to Amelia? She collapsed on the floor, like a vase being smashed into a million pieces. Tears pouring from her eyes. Breathing labored. Stomach twisted as if trying to escape through her mouth. She lay on the floor, weeping as she never had before. Hope gone. Dreams dashed. Any sense that this might not be the end, a distant fancy so out of reach it was as if it no longer existed.

Even the Duke... memories of him... that thin veil of hope that he might save her. She tried to picture how. She tried to force herself to believe. But it was no good. He wasn’t going to save her; maybe he never meant to. Maybe this was just Amelia’s lot in life, to live and die in misery because her father wished it so.

CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE

As a good Christian woman, Amelia had read the bible more times than she could count. She went to church often and even prayed occasionally. She had an idea in her head what heaven must look like, knowing it was different for everyone but acquainting it to a paradise of sorts where all manner of things were possible, and all dreams were turned into a reality.

But where there was a heaven, there was also a hell, and this too, she had pictured although she tried not to. Fire and brimstone was what came to mind. Lakes filled with lava, and ash raining from the sky. Demons and monsters and ghouls walking the plains, haunting her everywhere she dared look, a nightmare come to life that she would be forced to live for all of eternity. Hell was, she thought, the worst place a person could go, and she lived a life that she hoped meant she would never have to see such a thing. Sure, she strayed morally every now and then, but she was a good person, and hell was reserved for the worst of the worst.

To say all of that when she and Bridget were led into the dungeon that was the gaming hall where her father spent his free time — as shocking as that was to reckon with — she couldn’t help but wonder if she had died without realizing and despite all the good she had done with her life, had somehow found herself in the Devil’s playground.

It was unlike anything she might have imagined.

A dungeon, yes, located beneath a tavern somewhere in the center of London, but the curtains had been drawn on the way over, purposefully so, so that she and Bridget couldn’t see where they were being led. A cellar was her guess as they’d walked down several flights of stone steps, feeling the room grow hotter the deeper they descended beneath the earth. But as she cast her eyes about the room for the first time, logic telling her that she was mistaken in her assessment, again she could not help but consider the likelihood that her buyer tonight would be Satan himself.

Smoke filled the room. It was the size of a small ballroom, but smoke hung thick from the rafters to the floor — mostly cigar smoke, but it was mixed with that which came from the many torches lining the stone walls. The music that played was somber and melodic, and she spied the orchestra set up in the corner, all dressed in black cloaks, heads bowed, bodies stiff and expressionless. Booze flowed freely. Laughter and merriment, shouting and crying echoed from all over. And as to the men? She didn’t see a one.

Demons were what Amelia saw. Dozens of them. They were dressed in fine suits, some carried walking sticks, many wore hats, and a few were draped in cloaks. But this didn’t fool her. Each to the last wore a mask similar to what she had worn not so long ago at the masquerade ball, covering their demonic faces so they might appear human. But there was just no way...

“What are you doing, girl?” her father hissed in her ear.

She stood frozen on the final landing of the staircase as she took the gaming hall in, unable to move for the fear that took hold. “What is going in?” she breathed.

“You know what,” her father snapped. “And don’t you dare make a —”

“Why are they wearing masks?” she spun about. “Who are these men?”

Her father rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, girl. What we mean to do here tonight is... frowned upon in some corners of society. It would not do for identities to be revealed.”

“But... then how will you know who we are... who we are being sold to?” She could barely say the words.

He chortled. “Does it matter? I’m not picking them based on looks, Amelia. It’s their purses that matter most. And from the looks of it...” He cast his gaze over the sea of masked men. “There will be many a fat purse here tonight.”

Amelia looked desperately to her sister, wanting to meet her eyes and show her that she wasn’t alone. To instill some sense of support in the poor girl because as terrified as Amelia was, Bridget must have been feeling even worse. But her sister refused to look at her, staring down at her feet, as silent as a mouse, as she had been behaving all evening. It was so unlike her too — not the lively sister she knew and loved. Her father had broken her, and what was more, he didn’t care one little bit.

“Father,” Amelia began, “if I manage to fetch a high enough price, please reconsider selling Bridget. There is no need to —”

“Not this again,” he groaned. “I told you to behave!”

“And I will. But please, consider it. If you make enough from me, there is no need for the two of us. She is only seventeen!”

Her father rolled her eyes. “We will see.”

“Really?” she asked desperately.

“But only if youbehave!” he growled. “Now, down the stairs. And be quick about it. The auction starts soon, and I want to show you about first. Let the buyers see what they’re getting.” He raised both eyebrows at her and pointed down the stairs.

With no choice, Amelia tried to meet her sister’s gaze a final time, and then she turned about and descended the steps into hell.

There was no need to speak. No need to pretend that she was happy or having a good time. It was the complete opposite to a standard courting experience as she might imagine, more how a prized pony must feel before being purchased. Dressed in a simple sky-blue dress that was tighter than she would have liked but thankfully had long sleeves and a high neckline, hair worn in curls, make-up over-done to make her eyes pop, the looks the men gave her and her sister might have suggested she was wearing nothing at all. Hunger was what she saw behind those masks. Excitement too. A few spoke to her father as if they were old friends, jokes were made, backs were slapped, and ears were whispered into.

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