Page 3 of Miss Ridley and the Duke

“I want to marry you. Your father will agree with me. The baron will not pass up the opportunity to be closely connected to an earl. It saddens me you saw what you did today, but the wedding will proceed. The matter is out of your hands.”

Annabel stared at him in wordless dismay. Tearing her arm out of his hand, she lifted her skirts and set off at a run to find her father.

Chapter One

“I am malicious because I am miserable. Am I not shunned and hated by all mankind?”

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein

* * *

Josiah Ridley scowled at his daughter. “He is an earl, you ungrateful girl!” he bellowed. Catching himself, Lord Filminster lowered his voice. “My heartfelt regrets on finding your betrothed in a compromising situation, but this marriage will elevate our entire family within society. It will improve the chances of your brother making a better match. The wedding will proceed, Annabel. I will not discuss it yet again. It is time for you to accept it!”

Annabel, much to her shame, stamped her foot in frustration. It was pointless, as she was wearing slippers and standing on a thick, blue and yellow Aubusson rug that absorbed any sound her futile gesture might have made. “This is important! I cannot marry a man who engages in—well, improper behavior—with our kitchen maid, no less, only weeks before our wedding!”

The baron bent his balding pate as he returned to his ledgers. “You chose him to be your husband, and I signed the contracts. I will not allow you to cancel the wedding with the earl. It has been set in place for months. He will advance our family’s social status, and I will not alter this course over a minor indiscretion. It is unfortunate that you had to witness his lack of judgment, and Lord Saunton should indeed learn better discretion. But that is no reason for this level of upheaval. Good day, Annabel.”

Annabel’s mouth fell open at her abrupt dismissal. Her father scribbled in one of his ledgers, clearly indicating the discussion was over and her presence was no longer of note. Was she wrong to think Richard’s behavior was unacceptable, or was her father so blinded by ambition that he felt no remorse about committing her to a miserable lifetime with a man of such low integrity?

She stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Her father’s muffled shout reached her as she fumed in the timbered corridor. “And change into proper attire, young lady! Breeches are for menfolk!”

Annabel swallowed a scream of frustration, her heart pounding so hard it felt as though it might burst right out of her ribs as she leaned back against the ancient marquetry to compose herself. After yet another argument with her father, she had to reconsider her options. Could she appeal to her brother? Brendan might have helped her out of this predicament, but he was off gallivanting in London with no expectations of his return. Even if she tracked him down, there was no guarantee he would take her side. Dearest brother Brendan had not visited her in four years, and because Richard was one of his closest friends, even he might refuse to intervene. Writing to him seemed utterly pointless.

Her aunt had been of no use either. Annabel had attempted a private discussion during her recent visit, but her aunt had scolded her for even broaching the topic and swiftly changed the subject to the trousseau. Clearly, the baron’s sister would not be a source of aid.

With every passing day, the wedding loomed closer, like a spectral figure waiting in the shadows to harvest her very soul. Annabel stared sightlessly at the colorful medieval tapestries hanging on the opposite wall, chewing on her bottom lip as anxiety swirled through her thoughts.

The past month had been a parade of emotional highs and lows since what she now called The Stable Incident. She grimaced at the memory. After her father had confirmed Richard’s prediction that the marriage would proceed, she had spent two days cloistered in her room, nursing her heartbreak. When her tears finally ran dry, an epiphany struck. Her heart could not truly be broken, for she had never known the real Richard—just the masquerade of a charming gentleman who had smiled and paid her attentions. Could she have truly loved someone she had never really known? Common sense told her no.

That realization became her impetus to rise from bed and plot to prevent the wedding.

She had started a campaign to wear down her father, pleading and debating, raging and reasoning with him week after week. Yet the baron, usually quick to yield when confronted with Annabel’s emotions, remained resolute. His ambitions for the family’s social standing had rooted him firmly in place, and he refused to be moved by the arguments she presented.

Her future hung in the balance. Marriage to Richard would condemn her to a lifetime of the same loneliness and neglect she had endured since her mother’s passing. How could she escape one cold, empty household, only to resign herself to another?

Oh Mama, if only you were still here!

The ache of loss struck Annabel afresh. Her mother’s wisdom and strength had always been her solace, but now there was no one to offer her guidance. Within months of her mother’s death, Richard had entered her life, and she had believed him to be her salvation. Now, that illusion was shattered, and she was left as alone as ever.

The irony was almost unbearable—once upon a time, Richard would have been the one helping her plot an escape. Now she stood, desperate to escape him.

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she squared her shoulders and blinked them back. There was no time to mourn her lost love with Richard. If she did not act soon, she would lose her entire future, and that would be far more devastating. What was a broken heart compared to a broken future? The first could heal, but the second would leave lasting scars.

Nay, she would find her path back to happiness—even if it killed her.

* * *

“Mrs. Harris, what can I do? There must be a way to stop this wedding!” Annabel pleaded.

Mrs. Harris’s expression was pensive, her brow furrowed, and her rosy cheeks had paled as she sat next to Annabel. It was against all propriety for a servant to be seated at the breakfast table, but Annabel had dismissed the footmen to speak privately with the only ally she had—her widowed housekeeper. Mrs. Harris agreed the wedding could not proceed, and she had been like a mother to Annabel since her own had passed eleven years prior. Annabel did not care to let societal expectations interfere with their close relationship while her entire future was unraveling.

“Child, I am not sure. You say Lord Filminster simply will not reconsider … perhaps you could convince Lord Saunton to call it off?” Mrs. Harris suggested.

“I tried. I begged and pleaded. I pointed out he could find someone more willing to abide by the sort of marriage he wishes to have. But he is so stubborn! He said it must be me. He complains he met dozens of debutantes over the past two Seasons, but not one whom he could mildly tolerate. He refuses to go searching for a new wife when he has already made his choice.”

The older woman appeared to muse on this absentmindedly as she picked up a flaky bun from Annabel’s plate and nibbled on it. “Is there someone that his lordship—Lord Saunton, that is—might listen to? Someone who could convince him to change his mind?”