Page 7 of A Cursed Bride for the Duke
“A wedding dress?” she gasped.
Inside, nestled amongst layers of tissue paper, lay a pristine ivory wedding dress, its delicate lace shimmering in the soft light. The gown was exquisite, a masterpiece of intricate needlework and luxurious fabric.
Genevieve’s fingers gently traced the delicate patterns of the lace. The gown was breathtakingly magnificent, its beauty both captivating and unsettling.
Who would send me such a thing? And why?
Just as she reached out to touch the embroidered sleeves, a folded white card slipped from beneath the tissue paper.
It was from the Duke of Ravenshire.
Lady Mirfield,
I write to inform you that I intend to make you my wife. Our match promises success, and I have arranged our wedding accordingly.
Enclosed is your dress. I trust that you like it. We will meet at St. George’s at noon, in two days.
Wilhelm Addington, Duke of Ravenshire.
Chapter Two
“Lord Beaumont,” Wilhelm called, his deep voice reverberating through the spacious room.
Each measured syllable seemed to chill the air.
His eyes darkened as they sought out the tall, pretentious man among his gaggle of companions, and watched as he laughed loudly and adjusted his spectacles.
Wilhelm crossed the room with steady, deliberate steps. His eyes never wavered from his target.
A hush fell over the assembled guests, and the pianist’s hands froze above the keys as everyone turned towards his voice. Wilhelm felt the stares of one thousand eyes on him as he walked.
He held back his amusement. They had forgotten him entirely.
He surveyed the scene with a sardonic smile on his lips. It had been years since he had last graced these hallowed halls.
He noticed the apprehension of those he passed. He was fully aware of the spectacle his presence was creating, and it was precisely what he had intended. He wanted each of them to witness his return to high society and spread the word of his resurgence.
Lord Beaumont turned, his face pale with recognition and his mouth open slightly in surprise. For a brief moment, he looked as though he had come face to face with a ghost. And, in truth, he had.
“Your Grace, I…” he stammered, quickly drawing himself up. “I was not informed that you had returned from your, uh, travels.”
“Nor were many.” Wilhelm’s lips curled into a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I have a penchant for surprises.”
“Indeed.” Beaumont coughed, glancing to the side, his spectacles twitching. “To what do we owe the… uh…pleasure?”
“I have come.” Wilhelm drew out each word, his voice dangerously soft. “For you.”
Beaumont froze with apprehension.
Wilhelm paused to let his words sink in, before continuing. “To speak with you, that is.”
Beaumont paled further, the faint humor in his eyes now completely extinguished. He forced out a laugh and adjusted his collar. “Speak with me? About what, precisely?”
Wilhelm stepped closer, his gaze hard. “I have come to reclaim what is mine.”
Beaumont gulped before replying, “How would I have anything to do with that?”
“You have everything to do with it.”
