Page 9 of Duke of Rath

She glanced at Anne, who offered her a supportive smile.

“The duke asked for the youngest,” Papa explained, “because he felt it would be less likely that you would be involved in any romantic entanglements or have suitors vying for your attention. The duke seemed quite taken with what he’s heard of your pleasant and amiable nature.”

Her father’s words hung in the air, the garden spinning slightly around her. She blinked rapidly, her hand reaching out to grip something for support and finding Anne’s arm, which felt solid and reassuring. Her voice faltered as she attempted to speak, and only a whisper came out. “A…a duke?”

“How is that fair?” exclaimed Beatrice, who was now twenty-seven. “Emily and I were both out! The oldest sisters should marry before the youngest!”

“I quite agree,” said Patience. “Perhaps the duke would like to see Emily paint…or hear Beatrice sing. He’d change his mind!”

Clarice, the third oldest, scoffed. “Is it not enough that we have suffered the loss of our brother?”

Patience flinched at the mention of her late brother, her heart aching with the familiar pain of his absence.

Frances, the fourth oldest, added, “And now we must endure the indignity of being passed over for marriage?”

“Dearest ones,” said Mama, “do not succumb to your dark emotions. Envy…this is not how we raised you. Remember the basket. Lock it all in.”

“Well said, darling,” said Papa. “Indeed, the duke was quite adamant. I was as surprised as you are. He did want the youngest… He’ll pay my debts right after the wedding so that I won’t go to debtor’s prison, we won’t have to sell our house, and we will not need to leave. But he also had conditions.”

Patience swallowed hard. She could see her roses drying here, the peas and the radishes wilting without her care. Her paper never being written. Her hybrid rose she still hadn’t named forever dead.

Like her dreams.

“Once you are married to the duke for a year, he will grant us an estate that will provide us with a steady income,” said Papa. “However, you must remain with him, or the arrangement will be nullified.”

A wave of despair washed over Patience as she realized the full extent of the sacrifice she was being asked to make. Her dreams of continuing her botanical research and completing her paper slipped through her fingers.

She didn’t want this. She never wanted to marry anyone, let alone a duke. What if he was old, lustful, and cruel, just looking for young flesh?

Her mama laid her hand on Patience’s shoulder and looked pleadingly at her with her big brown eyes. “This is what a woman does, darling,” she said. “This is why you were born a girl. To secure an advantageous match for your own sake and for the sake of your family. With John gone, there are very, very few things that can help us. This is it. Our only chance, darling.”

As the weight of her family’s expectations bore down on her, Patience knew she could not succumb to the sadness and darkness within her. She had always been an optimist, and now more than ever, she needed to hold on to that part of herself.

“Very well,” she said, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “I will marry the Duke of Rath.”

With a heavy heart, Patience succumbed to Mama’s squeals and Papa’s happy exclamations. Her sisters resumed a squabble, and Anne looked at her with concern.

Her life, as she knew it, had come to an end—and there was no turning back.

3

The day of the wedding… three days later.

Dorian’s gaze kept darting down the aisle between pews towards the great oak doors his bride would soon enter through.

He kept clenching and unclenching his wounded hand to relieve the pressure of the leather glove against his scars. The old dean of the St. Benedict’s Cathedral of Rathford cast side-eyes at it.

The cathedral was particularly pretty today, with candles lit all around, little bouquets of snowdrops, crocuses, and primroses decorating the intricately carved columns, the pews and the altar behind the dean, which was covered with a fine white linen cloth. Ornate tapestries adorned the walls.

The air was thick with the scents of beeswax, incense, and the perfumes of his esteemed guests. Yet, to Dorian, it smelled of a prison.

The wooden pews were filled with guests. There was his aunt sitting next to one of her best friends, the Dowager Duchess of Grandhampton, and to Chastity. His sister couldn’t believe her ears when she heard of his sudden engagement. Behind them sat Lord Spencer Seaton and his wife, Joanna, and Spencer’s brothers, Richard and Preston, with their spouses. Spencer’s sister, Calliope, who was a duchess now, sat with her husband, Nathaniel, the Duke of Kelford.

Their whispers filled the air, and Spencer kept throwing Dorian sympathetic but puzzled looks. Like everyone, he was shocked to get an invitation to the sudden wedding of his friend who had been a sworn bachelor.

Behind the Seatons, Pryde, Enveigh, Eccess, Irevrence, and Fortyne sat with different expressions on their faces. Pryde was scowling at Dorian. His lectures had not ended for the past week. What was he thinking, marrying the sister of his murder victim? Did he not think the truth would come out? What about honesty? They had sworn to stay silent, sworn to forget, sworn the deed was done, and he could now be putting himself in danger of criminal repercussions if she found out.

Lucien had been more focused on the idea that Dorian could release his dark energy every night in one woman’s arms.