Page 2 of To Steal a Duchess

As he spoke, he tilted his head in anticipation. “Lord Sarling’s child. And I believe such a conception followed her employment in his countryside estate last Season. What else to do with an unwanted offspring to a maid than send her off to the countryside with a reasonable amount of money to hush her? For that is what he did, and his secrets were covered up, leaving him to deceive such an upstanding family…” The duke gestured at Eloise’s father. “Such as yourselves.”

There was something to his tone that Eloise couldn’t place, something that sounded as though he was giving a thinly veiled insult, or that he did not care for her parents’ societal position.

She bit her lip to suppress a smile. It seemed the Duke of Oldcliff knew how to play a good social game as well.

Before Eloise, the pews filled with onlookers who had come to celebrate her sham of a marriage; whispers picked up, accompanied by gasps and heads bent in debate. They’d wonder if Eloise herself knew; they’d wonder why the Marquess had done such a thing.

But mostly, Eloise assumed, they’d wonder how the Duke of Oldcliff, of all men, would know such information and why he had chosen to reveal it now, so publicly.

Eloise crushed another petal, fighting back a satisfied smile.

“This—this is not true!” Lord Sarling protested. He looked to Eloise’s father. “My lord, you cannot believe such drivel!”

Eloise snuck a look at her father, who only looked sternly impassive, before her eyes slid to her mother. When their eyes met, Lady Wittby looked away, turning her face downward, as though ashamed that they, as a family, that she, as a mother, had to deal with such a scandal.

And Eloise could duck her head, used to the shame and ignorance she had been trained to notice in her life.

“Oh, but he can,” the duke chuckled, the sound dry and not at all humorous. It was the laugh of a man who had the upper hand, and Eloise was eager to know what, exactly, was planned. “And, Lord Wittby, I can provide evidence.”

At the offer, the chapel erupted into further whispers—fevered, hushed questions and doubts, gasps filling the air, echoing off the old, high ceiling. Eloise’s chest tightened.

Evidence?

“Miss Dutton, if you will.” The duke’s voice rose, his arm outstretched toward the doors at the end of the aisle, the doors Eloise herself ached to fly through, and to leave.

If you will.

She finally realized what the duke had said, and she froze as those doors creaked open once more. The silhouette of a woman holding a small child in her arms was visible enough. Black curls tumbled wildly around her face, disappearing past her shoulders. She moved slowly, uncertain, but her gaze was strong.

“Miss Dutton, you are safe to speak freely,” the duke invited, still beckoning her closer.

Once the woman—Erica, the maid who had borne Lord Sarling’s offspring—came close enough, the duke offered her a hand.

The marquess’ face dropped, his pallor turning a terrible gray, as he beheld her. For those who saw it, there was no mistaking why he was so stunned. He composed himself easily enough, but there was still that tug to his brows.

Eloise was rather pleased to see it.

She had no qualms over his actions, only sympathy for the woman who had been taken advantage of and then sent away. Eloise could only hope this former maid had a better life with the silence money.

“I—I am safe, Your Grace?” Erica whispered, her eyes darting from him, to Lord Sarling, to Eloise, and then down to her son. “I… I am⁠—”

“Do not be frightened,” the Duke of Oldcliff assured her. “And all I ask is that you speak up about who is responsible for your current condition of becoming a mother. Did you wish to be, Miss Dutton? Surely, you only sought employment, not this.”

At his questioning, at his pushing, Erica paled a little and shook her head. “I only wanted to be a maid, to fade into the background as expected, and earn a little something to send to my younger sister and old father. Yet now…” She looked down, almost forlornly, at the bundle she carried in her arms. “Now I am a mother, and I have no hope of employment for a very long time.” Her eyes lifted to Eloise’s intended. “And I blame Lord Sarling, for he is the father who takes no responsibility for my boy, yet, before he was conceived, His Lordship feigned love for me. He poured declarations into me of being in love with me.”

Her mouth curled, and the former maid tightened her lips to fight against whatever emotion threatened to rise. “I wanted to believe that I could rise above my station, that I had been noticed. So, I gave in to that promise of love—only to tell him several months later that I was expecting. Suddenly, I was shoved into a carriage and arrived in a tiny cottage where I now live, forced to raise my son alone.”

“Heavens,” one lady whispered, her fan whipping back and forth before her face.

“Goodness, I do not feel at all well…” Another lady swooned against the back of her pew, her eyes closing heavily.

Several ladies swarmed her, crying out for their friend to regain consciousness. They tugged her back up within moments.

Despite the scandalized atmosphere, Eloise could see the excitement glistening in the eyes of those who could stand to look at the altar. At her, waiting for her own response, her next move.

So, she made one.

She stood closer to Erica Dutton, reaching out to take her free hand. The woman took hers, jostling her son to her other arm securely, as she let her hand be held.