Page 37 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke
He meant it.
For a heartbeat, she could not breathe.
“I wish to marry Lady Marianne,” he said again, slower this time. And he was still looking at her.
This time, his words seemed to have finally registered. Lord Grisham was no longer smiling. Elizabeth looked at her sister questioningly, but Marianne had no answer to that silent question. None at all.
She reached for Elizabeth’s wrist, this time not to steady her sister but to steady herself. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she thought everyone could hear it, and that her breaths were enough to shatter her ribs.
Still, through her blurred vision, she caught her father recovering from his initial shock and displeasure, forcing his expression into one of agreement.
“Well, this is certainly a pleasant surprise,” he said too lightly. “Certainly you don’t know my eldest daughter quite well yet. She is strong-willed and?—”
“I am stating an intention, Lord Grisham. I am not seeking your approval,” the Duke interjected firmly.
Marianne could only imagine what would happen to her or any of her sisters, or even their brother Daniel if they spoke like that to their father. The cane would not be enough.
But this was the Duke of Oakmere. And he could not be questioned.
Not by her father, anyway.
“No,” she said forcefully, surprising even herself.
All heads turned to her.
“No?” the Duke echoed, looking at her with a furrowed brow.
“I refuse to marry anyone,” she said, her voice low but steady. “Not like this.”
A stunned silence fell over the room.
Marianne could feel every eye on her—the Duke’s, Elizabeth’s, and worst of all, her father’s. Slowly, she turned and looked at each person gathered in the study.
Elizabeth’s expression flickered between shock and something almost like hope. Lord Grisham’s face, by contrast, had gonerigid, his smile replaced by something tighter, sharper. He moved toward her, his steps slow, almost leisurely—measured like those of a predator.
Her body tensed. She expected the worst.
A slap, right here in front of a duke. Or perhaps, more insidiously, a soft pat on the cheek paired with a patronizing smile, and some thinly veiled command to stand aside so her sister could marry the man instead.
But no blow came.
Instead, her father bent close, the scent of brandy still clinging faintly to his breath. His voice was a whisper that only she could hear—cold, knife-sharp, and coated with calm.
“If you throw this chance away,” he warned, his voice low and venomous, “your sisters will feel every lash of the consequences. And Serafina?” His eyes glinted with cruel amusement. “It would be a shame if the poor creature wandered out one night and never came back.”
Marianne’s heart slammed against her ribs. A slow chill spread through her limbs.
She had always known who her father was behind the mask. But something about his words—the soft cruelty in them, the promise of pain that was no longer just hers to bear—left herparalyzed. Not even the silk of her gown could hide the way her hands had begun to tremble.
Lord Grisham pulled away, the warmth in his tone now perfectly restored.
“Please respond appropriately to His Grace,” he commanded smoothly, as though he hadn’t just made a veiled threat against her younger siblings and cat.
She felt her throat close up, and her vision blurred, but she forced herself to breathe—once, twice, until she could speak without faltering.
“Very well then,” she relented, her voice flat but even. “I accept.”
A hush fell over them again.
