Page 3 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke
The skill of observation was important in a place like their home. Marianne had to sense all the brewing emotions, all the miniscule movements, for it could mean getting out of an intense argument, or worse.
“My lord,” the butler began nervously. “The estate manager wants to see you. The hounds for tomorrow’s hunt have arrived early.”
Lord Grisham exhaled audibly, then adjusted his coat.
Priorities, Marianne thought.
The estate was always a priority to him. Never his children.
He turned and gave his daughters one final look.
“I have arranged for a stag hunt this weekend,” he explained in a smooth voice that belied his earlier behavior. “And invited all the respectable lords in the county. Especially those seeking a wife.”
Marianne’s heart sank to her stomach. She exchanged uneasy glances with her sisters.
“The one who performs best will have Elizabeth as his prize,” he continued coldly, as if he was not talking about his second-eldest daughter, but a mare.
There was a pause as Marianne and her sisters tried to process their father’s words.
Could he be that cruel? Really?
For a moment, Marianne thought the air vibrated around her.
“She is not a prize to be won, Father,” she declared in a steely voice—one she had never heard before.
“Elizabeth is my daughter. She is mine,” Lord Grisham said coldly. “You are all myproperty, and I will do with you as I please.”
Marianne saw Elizabeth turn rigid, like a statue. Like a porcelain vase, placed on the edge of a shelf. Her eyes went vacant, her mouth sealed.
“You will comport yourself as dignified, marriageable ladies during the stag hunt and house party,” Lord Grisham commanded. “Do not embarrass me further.”
He finally turned on his heel, leaving the room with the door slamming behind him.
No relief came after his departure.
Perhaps there would not be any for a long time.
Chapter Two
“Ishould ask you,” Simon slurred, “do you always walk like you’re heading toward enemy territory?”
London’s rain felt like knives, sharp and capable of assault.
Dominic Carlyle, the Duke of Oakmere, felt its blades sting his skin and drip down his neck as if prepared to invade him even beneath his clothes. He tried to ignore how he always did anything that would hinder his movements toward his goal.
To his right, Simon Parker, the Earl of Darfield, stumbled slightly as he walked toward St. James’s.
Dominic did not answer, although a scathing remark had formed on his tongue, scratching to get out.
He heard it.
First came a sharp cry, then the thud of bodies colliding, followed by the rustle of fabric. Somewhere nearby, a commotion had broken out, anddamn it all, he suddenly needed to know exactly what was going on.
“There,” he muttered, stopping Simon mid-step.
In a dim corner of the alley, lit only by the flicker of a dying gaslight, a well-dressed man struggled against three others. Everything about him screamed money—from the gleam of his polished boots to the cut of his expensive coat. It also shoutedidiot, because who in their right mind would venture into this part of town dressed like that?
One of the thugs already had his hand in the dandy’s coat pocket. The sight sobered Simon—at least a little—or maybe he was simply too far gone to feel fear. Either way, the Earl was moments from hurling himself into the fray.
