Page 1 of The Scarred Duke's Bride
ChapterOne
“Oh, but this one is even more delicious. Listen, Freya,” Isabella said as she read the latest gossip sheet from London, “A prominentmarriedlord has been caughtin flagranteat a molly house.”
She looked up at Freya, her brow furrowed with confusion, “What’s a molly house, Freya?”
Freya cleared her throat, giving her sister a sidelong glance as she continued to remove the weeds sprouting between her roses. “Nothing you need to know about. I don’t know why you insist on reading that drivel when there are perfectly good books in the library. Your governess will have my head.”
Isabella laughed, “And who do you think I steal them from?”
Freya sighed in mock resignation, shaking her head. “Stealing now? WhatwouldFather say?”
Isabella’s mouth turned down, derisively, “Father would say nothing. No, no, he’d probably say, 'Eh wot? Who’s that you mean? Isabella? Never heard of her'.”
Freya snorted, almost cutting off a rose’s head in her amusement. “You mustn’t say things like that. Someone might hear you.” She looked around the garden for good measure, ascertaining that there was nobody within earshot. A few of the gardeners were hard at work, keeping the grass at the right length, trimming the hedges, and watering the plants, but none were close by.
The rose garden belonged to Freya, and she loved to tend to her plants herself. It gave her peace to nurture them and watch as they bloomed every year.
“Oh!” Isabella cried out loud, her head buried in the newsprint, and Freya straightened up.
“What now?”
“Papa is mentioned.”
Freya’s eyebrow rose. “And what has the Duke been up to? One might have thought he’d be too sick to be mentioned in the on dits.”
“Heissick. It says he’s taken a turn for the worse.”
Freya frowned. “Read it to me.”
“On a sadder note, we have news that Victor Stark, Duke of Riverhead has taken a turn for the worse. His physicians seem to be preparing for the end and it has been rumored that his heir, Alexander Campbell, is making his way to the city as we speak in order to be on hand should the inevitable happen. The Duke is survived by two daughters and no sons, and so the title will pass to the son of a distant cousin.”
Freya sat back with a sigh, her shoulders hunched. Isabella looked at her. “Will you have to marry him now?”
Freya looked up and pinned a smile on her face, covering her trepidation. “Well, he cannot possibly be worse than Papa, now, can he?”
Isabella snorted, “Not unless he likes to bellow like a bull and swing his whip about in a temper. Not to mention ignoring us as if we hardly existed and making us live in the attic in the dead of winter even though there’s no fireplace up there.”
Freya shuffled over to put her hand around her sister’s shoulders. “Well, we did survive it, did we not? Huddling together for warmth…” She pulled Isabella closer, tickling her as they both giggled.
“Yes, and Mrs. Beecham bringing us hot water bottles and hot stones for our feet.”
“Yes, those were very helpful.”
“And all the blankets she could find.”
Freya chuckled as she nodded. “That too.”
“You think that was bad? Ha! Before I came to you, I used to work for the Viscount Haversham.” They both turned to see Mrs. Beecham approaching, holding a tray. “That man was the very definition of cruel. Why there were some days his family did not eat because he would not allow it.”
Freya stood up and took the tray from the old lady. “Thank you. What is this?”
“Well, there’s a chill in the air and a bit of a drizzle, so I thought I would bring you some hot chocolate.”
“That’s so kind of you, Mrs. Beecham. And unnecessary. We are well covered. After all, since Father left, we haven’t been terrorized by the shouting that made us dare not defy him or dress only the way he deemed appropriate,” Isabella said. “We have the woolen shawls that Aunt Helen brought us from Scotland. They don’t let the rain in.” She illustrated that by tucking the tartan stole more firmly around her, the newspaper she’d been reading placed on the stone she was sitting on.
“Indeed, and lovely warm things they are, much as your father would disapprove, but the chocolate will warm you from the inside.”
Freya took a sip of her chocolate, relishing the relative peace of late morning at Stark Manor. Ever since their father had decamped to the city where he had access to the best physicians for his tuberculosis, the manor had taken on a tranquil air never before seen within its halls. Life had taken on a simplicity not disturbed by rigid imperatives such as dressing for dinner or eating in the dining room.
