Page 1 of To Steal a Duchess

Chapter One

“Iobject to this wedding!”

The shout came from behind Lady Eloise Harrington, daughter of the Earl of Wittby, and she whirled around, her eyes widening. The few strands of her curly hair that had been elegantly left loose in her bridal style brushed her neck, making her shiver.

When she looked at the man who held the double wooden doors of St. George’s chapel open, his arms braced outward, his chest not even heaving, as though he was utterly calm despite his call, she shivered.

Eloise blinked, only able to stare down the aisle of the chapel in amazement, but tried to keep her expression more composed.

The Duke of Oldcliff released his grip on the doors, and they shut behind him with a heavy thud. His eyes were fixed on the man beside Eloise, and the way he walked—no, stalked—toward them was utterly predatory.

Quickly, Eloise turned away.

Around the chapel pews, filled with earls and countesses, barons and baronesses, everyone and everyone who had come to see the lady that the Marquess of Sarling had taken pity on to marry. That was the story surging through London’s gossip sheets, at least.

From the front row, Eloise’s father, the Earl of Wittby, rushed to his feet, his face twisted in outrage as he whipped his head around to look at the duke, who was almost halfway down that endless aisle.

“Sir, what is the meaning of this?! You cannot simply—!” Lord Sarling’s blubbering protests were cut off as the duke finally approached the altar.

He stood at a respectable distance, his body calm, but Eloise still kept her lashes lowered, afraid anything would give her away.

“The meaning of this,” the duke said, his voice dangerously low, “is that this wedding cannot go on, and to allow so would be a grave mistake for everyone here.”

The Marquess fought for words, never losing that arrogant lift to his chin, even as it was clear he had nothing to protest, that he was too much in disbelief at the public humiliation. Eloise stiffened. Her father was striding up the short stairs to the altar, his frame a heavy presence behind her that she wished to run from.

“You…” His eyes widened as he looked at the duke. “You… you are the Duke of Oldcliff.” His voice turned thin, his face paling even as anger coursed through his face, curling his mouth unpleasantly. “What are you doing here, Your Grace? What business do you have with my daughter’s wedding day, uninvited?”

The duke’s mouth pulled into a slow, almost sardonic smile. “Yes, uninvited,” he mused, and Eloise’s fingers clenched tighter on her bouquet.

Some petals had already shed, decorating her silk, white slippers. She discreetly crushed one beneath her feet just to destroy yet another perfect thing about the ceremony.

Perfect.

What a terrible word, yet it was true, for if she had truly wanted to marry the Marquess of Sarling, it would have been perfect.

Only she had been the odd thing out, the imperfect element to the day.

Though now, she was not alone in that imperfection anymore. Beneath her lashes, she looked at the duke, but he was sparing her no mind. Partially, she was grateful. Her heart already hammered sickly in her chest, her palms sweating. Her father’s breath was hot on her neck, and she flinched at his closeness.

“Lord Wittby, there is something you must allow me to share about Lord Sarling,” the duke implored, his voice short but firm.

He would not take a refusal as an answer.

Snickers came from behind Eloise, even as the priest glanced at her, as if questioning whether she had no objection herself to her wedding being sidetracked. She gave the most discreet nod of her head, and the priest turned back to the Duke of Oldcliff.

“Your Grace.” He gestured for him to say his peace, and the duke turned, half regarding Eloise’s father, and half regarding the congregation.

Ladies watched with wide eyes peeking over their fans, while the men hid smirks behind their gloved fists, covering them up as a cough.

No matter how much the gentry respected one another, it was always a terribly entertaining spectacle for such a thing like this to happen, and Eloise knew it. She found herself not minding it at all; her dread only resided in the fact that she would be the talk of the scandal sheets once more.

“I shall not pretend to be apologetic for interrupting such a… farce,” the duke spoke up, letting his voice ring through St. George’s chapel. “For that is what it is: a farce. Lord Sarling here has orchestrated a very lovely but audacious cover-up.”

The duke paused, that calculating, stoic expression lingering as he lifted his shoulders as though he was simply the messenger, and had no investment in this at all. “You see, Lord Sarling has a deep, deep secret, and I cannot allow Lady Eloise, nor Lord and Lady Wittby, to go on being deceived any longer.”

He turned on a heel, addressing Eloise’s father, merely glancing past Eloise as though she was not there. She crushed another petal beneath her slipper, as though, by the time the bouquet was thoroughly done with, the day would be mercifully over.

“There is a girl named Erica,” the duke finally announced, “and she resides in Aylesford, quite a carriage ride from London. Her full name is Erica Dutton, and she has a very sweet child. Which is not notable in itself, of course, until you consider whose child he is.”