Page 7 of The Scarred Duke's Bride
“And you are agreeable?”
“I have no reason not to be. They tell me a good wife is a blessing. I look forward to finding out if it’s true.”
The Duke laughed. “We shall see.” He reached out for the bell and rang it. The butler was quick to respond.
“Send my first-born daughter to me at once," the Duke said.
The butler bowed low. “Right away, Your Grace,” he replied.
* * *
Freya bumped into the butler at the bottom of the stairs. He seemed nonplussed at the unexpected contact and hastily moved away from her, murmuring apologies. “My lady, your father wishes to see you at once in his office.”
Freya nodded, “I suppose he does. Would you guide me there? It has been a while since I was in this house. I do not know it as well as I should.”
The butler bowed, “Of course, my lady, right this way.”
Freya followed him timidly, her heart hammering in her chest, wondering what awaited her. She knew it had something to do with her marriage to the mysterious Alexander Campbell. She just hoped that she would not be expected to carry it out right away, even knowing that it would be better to secure both her future and Isabella’s before her father’s death.
The butler announced her, and she walked into the office and stopped short, staring at the man sitting across from her father, looking a little bit too smug. Had he come to tell on her?
“Pray tell me what are you doing here?” she demanded.
He lifted an eyebrow arrogantly, the scar on his cheeks standing out even more now that he was bare headed. “Just my luck.” Both he and her father got to their feet. “You must be my future wife. Pardon me, but you did not introduce yourself.”
“Have you met?” The Duke looked unsteady on his feet, and Freya hastened to take a seat so that he could do the same. She was surprised at his words. If the man had not come to complain about her, then what was he doing here?
“Yes,” he said, “your daughter and I met just this afternoon as she was picking flowers by the roadside and causing quite the traffic jam. It is ironic that she is the reason that I was late to meet with you.”
Her father looked from her to the man. “Well, then shall we call it serendipity?” He pushed a piece of paper towards the man. “If you will sign this and undertake to give me an heir, then the Dukedom is yours.”
The man took the paper and signed it as Freya looked, and her brow furrowed. “What is happening?”
The man turned to her, “I suppose I should introduce myself. I am Lieutenant Commander Eric Campbell, your husband-to-be.”
Freya’s eyes widened. “No,” she whispered aghast.
“I’m afraid it’s true," her father chimed in, “and if you know what is good for you, you will produce an heir as fast as possible.”
“No,” she said again louder, shaking her head as she stood up and began backing towards the door, “you cannot make me marry this… this… thisbarbarian!”
The Duke frowned. “What kind of language is that, and who taught you to speak that way? I am your father, and I have decided this. There is no more to be said.”
Freya looked from Eric to her father, wondering what kind of cruel trap this was. “Fa-father please do-don’t make me marry him. I don’t want to!”
“You have known about this marriage for quite some time now. I do not see why you’re having kittens about it all of a sudden," her father snapped. “Cease these hysterics forthwith. There is no one here who is interested in your games.”
He held up a document. “In any case, your future husband has already signed the marriage license, and so have I. The wedding will take place this weekend. I do not wish to hear any more about this.”
With a sob, Freya whirled around and ran out of the room. She stumbled down the corridor weeping until she came to the other end where the French doors led out into a small garden. With a sigh of relief, she pushed them open, running into the garden, and falling on the grass as she wept with despair.
How can he do this to me?
She wailed, hitting the ground with her fists and bouncing a little with anger. She grasped at her dress, wanting to rent it in two, so angry was she. Nobody came after her, and that made her feel both relieved and extremely alone.
She cried herself into silence and then curled up in a ball, hands holding onto the grass for dear life as she hiccupped, staring in despair at nothing. She heard footsteps approaching but didn’t bother to raise her head or turn around to see who it might be. Very likely it was the butler, who came to tell her that her father wished for her to pull herself together and stop making a spectacle of herself.
She was far beyond caring about any of it.
