Page 105 of How to Seduce a Duke this Autumn
Headline: The Rotheworth Affair Reaches Its Climax! Scandal, Betrayal, and a Duchess in the Making?
Dearest readers, what a whirlwind of intrigue has swept through our fair society like a tempest in a teacup! It is with quivering pen and a heavy heart that I, your faithful purveyor of truth, must relay the final chapter (or is it merely the beginning?) of the sordid tale of the Cross family. Gather close, for the scandal I must report beggars belief and reeks of betrayal most foul.
The Duke of Rotheworth, that once-proud beacon of dignity and propriety, has turned against his very blood! Yes, dear reader, word has reached this author of how His Grace leveled threats against his twin brother, David Cross, forcing him into ignoble exile under the heavy hand of blackmail.
By the close of the week, the spare to the heir was gone from England as if a brother could be dismissed from the duke’s family entirely. They had left him no choice, cutting his stipends and seeing him to the docks himself. Whispers claimed Miss Martin had lost her place in polite company by virtue of mere association with the exiled brother. To society, they were both footnotes in a scandal that never quite bloomed. To the duke they were a wound—family and betrayal bound up in one—but a wound he would not let fester in life.
And why, you may ask, would a noble duke take such drastic measures? Why, to make his daring escape with none other than Lady Charlene Fielding, the demure beauty who has proven herself, by all accounts, anything but demure.
Twas Lady Charlene, whose name drips from every tongue like honey laced with arsenic. We have it on unimpeachable authority that her dalliance with the Cross family was no accident, no twist of Cupid’s bow. No, my dear readers! Rumor has it the lady in question meant to play one twin against the other from the very start. Her supposed innocence? A well-crafted charade, designed to earn the Dowager Duchess’s misplaced sympathy and secure her slippery ascent up society’s glittering ladder. From the “spare,” as cruel society labels the younger son, to the heir apparent, Lady Charlene has allegedly charmed her way to the pinnacle of ambition.
But do not shed tears for the Cross men just yet. It appears folly runs thick in that family, for what man of principle would allow himself to be led so willingly astray? His Grace’s actions have left the family in tatters, the bonds of brotherhood irrevocably broken. He is now rarely seen apart from Lady Charlene, and tongues wag that he has abandoned his responsibility to the House of Rotheworth in favor of her coy smiles. A love story, some might say, but others see it as the treachery of a woman with no title, no fortune, and, it seems, no remorse.
And what of this very publication, your humble yet tenacious source of truth? Ah, dear readers, it pains me to say it, but Lady Charlene Fielding has delivered the final blow. Women like her, with their cunning ways andduplicitous hearts, have silenced this sheet’s noble pursuit of the truth. For more than a year, we have followed the trails of deceit, betrayal, and greed that cling to her like perfume. But now, we must close our pages, our quill stilled by the storm she has wrought.
And so, dear friends, I bid you farewell. The duke may have his duchess, but his soul? Ah, his soul is lost to scandal, and the whispered secrets of drawing rooms and banquet halls will forever taint his legacy. Rest assured, history will remember the names of Rotheworth and Fielding not for their love, but for their infamous fall.
Yours in scandal (if not silence),
The M-Press
“This is not just preposterous fabrication but also quite sad,” Ashley said, setting the teapot down with a soft clink.
“And it’s two weeks old news. Nobody cares anymore.”
The warm air of the greenhouse carried the faint scent of citrus, mingling with the delicate sweetness of tea. Charlene sat at the small wrought-iron table near the orange tree, her gloved fingers tracing the rim of her porcelain teacup. Across from her, Ashley poured herself another cup with an unhurried grace that belied the sharpness of her words.
“Indeed,” Maddie added, her sharp eyes drifting to the orange blossoms clustering among the glossy leaves overhead. “Will you be harvesting any of the blossoms this season?”
Charlene shook her head, brushing a loose strand of hair back into place. “No, you may use them for your potions.”
“Perfumes,” Maddie corrected, her tone light but pointed.
Charlene managed a faint smile, though her gaze flickered to the door once more. He ought to be back by now, she thought. Her stomach churned softly, the uncertainty nearly unbearable.
“Call it what you will,” Ashley interjected, stirring her tea idly, “but you won’t find a tonic for the emptiness left by betrayal. It’s the very antithesis of trust and love. I feel terribly for Adam.”
“I’m sure Adam applies himself more than adequately without your sympathy,” Charlene replied, adding yet another spoonful of sugar to her already sweetened tea. The room felt suddenly stifling, and she wasn’t certain if it was her friends’ probing words or her own unease that pressed against her chest.
“And now you’ve five spoons of sugar in that poor cup,” Maddie remarked, her quirked brow hovering between teasing and concern. “I’ve made many things over the years, but alas, I’ve yet to concoct a remedy for apathy.”
“She’s not apathetic nor pathetic,” Ashley said with a subtle smile, cresting the edge of playful. “She’s hoping for validation.”
Before Charlene could respond, the murmur of men’s voices reached them from the hallway. Her heart leapt, and she set her teacup down carefully, willing her hands not to tremble. She rose, smoothing her skirts in reflex, as both Ashley and Maddie followed suit.
The door opened to reveal her brother, Waylon, striding in with his usual air of determination. Behind him came Mr. Grafton. Both men offered polite nods to the ladies.
“Well, Ashley will soon be countess. Sera is a princess. And you’re the new duchess,” Maddie said. “And I have my flowers.”
“You’ll catch the wedding fever and find the right man, it won’t be long now,” Ashley said with a wink.
“Ladies,” Waylon greeted, straight-backed and formal.
“So,” Charlene said, unable to contain herself, “what did he say?”
“There won’t be a duel,” Waylon said, the tight line of his mouth softening slightly.
“I won’t be serving as second,” Henry added, a touch of humor lifting his otherwise serious demeanor.
