Page 16 of Wedded to the Forbidden Duke
When Cecilia walked into the library with her mother, brought there by a servant, her heart was still pounding. She ran to Zachary. “Brother. I can explain everything?—”
“There is no need to explain,” he said stiffly. Cecilia pulled back, hurt. Never before had she been addressed so coldly by anyone in her family, particularly not her smiling, jovial brother. “The Duke and I have come to a decision.”
Cecilia felt her heart drop to her stomach as, for the first time, she noticed the Duke of Harwick, standing further back in the room by the windows.
Their eyes locked. His dark blue gaze, always piercing, was hard as stone now, and filled with dread. Cecilia felt cold certainty spread over her, chilling her skin, and she took a step backward, shaking her head. “No,” she whispered. “No.”
“My lady.” The duke bowed to her mother, not even bothering to address Cecilia. “I will go obtain a special license first thing in the morning. Your daughter and I will be wed as soon as possible. I apologize for the haste, and for the events of the evening. Rest assured that nothing at all untoward happened between your daughter and I, but that I will do everything in my power to keep your family’s reputation unharmed.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” her mother said, acquitting herself with surprising ease and grace considering the situation. “It is much appreciated. Though I wish it were under different circumstances, I welcome you to the family.”
“No.” Cecilia looked back between them, rage bubbling up in her throat. “Have I no say in this? You cannot marry me off like chattel. Nothing happened between the Duke and I.”
“Can you convince Lady Winthorpe of that?” her brother asked, a hint of anger re-entering his otherwise cold and steady tone. “Can you convince the entire ton? The damage is done, Cecilia.”
“And what if I refuse to marry him?”
“Then I hope you are prepared to resign your life to that of a spinster. Worse than a spinster, a woman of ill repute.”
“Zachary,” their mother admonished him.
“Do you disagree?” he demanded.
Lady Lindbury hesitated. Then she turned to Cecilia, taking her daughter’s hands in hers. “I do not wish to know any of what may or may not have occurred in that garden,” she began tactfully, her voice low. “But the fact of the matter is, people have drawn their own conclusions. It is unfair, but it is the way things are. If you do not marry the Duke then you will never marry at all.”
Cecilia looked from her mother to her brother, steadfastly refusing to meet the eyes of the duke. “You really mean to bind me to the worst rake in London?”
Zachary’s voice remained firm. “It is the only option.”
Her mother squeezed her hands.
There was a long moment of silence. Finally, she let herself look at the duke.
He met her gaze coldly, unflinching. He was willing to marry her, but the deadness in his expression told her everything she needed to know about his true feelings for her. Worse, even, than the hatred she would have once expected from him: there was no passion in his gaze at all. Duty, yes; obligation, yes. Surely Zachary had challenged him to a duel, she knew—her brother was exactly the type to fly into such a rash fit of honorable pique, no matter his own rakish reputation—and would refuse to let the matter settle unless they were wed.
And, horribly, she knew them all to be correct. Even if she didn’t want to believe it. If she refused to marry the duke, no other gentleman would ever come near her again. It would be a fate worse than regular spinsterhood. She would be enduring the same whispers and titters and disapproving glares for the rest of her life.
Not for the first time, Cecilia cursed herself for ever having any hopes of finding a match. Not only would she fail to keep her promise to her father, but she had to watch her dreams of a lovematch die, sputtering out as though they were a fire she had tossed water on.
And yet, there was nothing else to be done.
“Fine,” she said quietly, letting go of her mother’s hands. She glared at the duke for a second longer, holding that cold, dispassionate gaze, before tearing her eyes away. “Fine,” she spit out again, before storming out of the room before anyone could stop her.
The door slamming behind her made a satisfyingly loud bang. Storming down the hallway, Cecilia ducked into the nearest empty room she could find.
She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to calm her breathing. She was engaged. Engaged to a man she hated. The worst kind of man, a rake among rakes.
And, worst of all, a man who felt nothing for her at all.
Chapter Seven
The sound of the ringing church bells came faintly through the windows as Cecilia tried on her wedding dress.
It was beautiful, no doubt, all sumptuous fabrics and delicate embroidery. How her mother had managed to get the modiste to create such a lovely piece, let alone the rest of Cecilia’s trousseau, in so scandalously short a time, was nothing short of a wonder. Any other bride would have been thrilled to wear a dress such as this down the aisle.
Looking at herself in the looking glass, Cecilia thought she might weep.
She didn’t, though. She had done far too much weeping in the past two days, always when she was able to secure a moment alone—which, given the scale and timeline of the wedding preparations they had to make, was not very often. She had, at last, reached a place where she felt as though she had cried outmost of the tears, and primarily walked around replacing the sadness with cold, unfeeling anger. Much like what she’d seen in the duke the night he proposed.
