Condemned to Marry the Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

The only solace Isabella could manage to get in this moment was from the way her shoes sounded against the floor, and that alone wasn’t enough. Her heart was beating rather furiously in her chest, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it would escape her ribcage. Only one question continued to press hard against her as she paced back and forth.

Why in God’s name did I agree to this?

Her sweaty palms pressed together, but then she let them fall by her sides again. She could just run. In fact, every instinct seemed to tell her to run.

To turn around, head outside, and find the first carriage that would take her back to the Beaumont House. Or at the very least, halfway there.

The hinges creaked, interrupting her thoughts.

Isabella startled, halting mid-step as the door swung outward. Her cousin, Catherine, slipped into the corridor. Candlelight from the hallway spilled over her hair, turning it into a bright crown that framed bright blue eyes.

“You are still here?” Catherine’s brows lifted in disbelief. “They will call upon you at any moment. What is going on?”

Isabella exhaled hard, her shoulders falling. “I do not think I can do this.”

Catherine stared at her as if she had lost all reason. “What?”

“I am not certain this is something I can bear.” Isabella pressed a hand to her temple. “Perhaps I ought—”

Her words broke off as the sound of silk skirts swept down the corridor. Lady Pemberton herself appeared, a small, stately woman with a sharp nose and the air of one accustomed to obedience.

“Miss Isabella,” she said briskly, her gaze sweeping over Isabella with polite scrutiny. “I trust you are prepared? You are on in ten minutes.”

The ability to smile deserted Isabella. Her lips would not move. Her throat closed.

Lady Pemberton narrowed her eyes. “Is everything quite well?”

Before Isabella could attempt an answer, Catherine stepped smoothly between them. “She is perfectly well, my lady. It is only nerves. She always becomes like this before she performs.”

Lady Pemberton’s expression softened by a fraction. “Understandable. The crowd can be daunting, but you must remember, it is only a few people out there.”

“A few people?” Isabella whispered, though Lady Pemberton had already turned her head.

Catherine dipped into a graceful curtsy. “Might we trouble you for a spare room, Lady Pemberton? Silence would do wonders for her preparation.”

“Of course.” Lady Pemberton snapped her fingers, and a maid appeared from the other end of the hallway. “Take Miss Isabella and—” She looked expectantly at Catherine.

“Miss Catherine,” her cousin supplied with ease.

“Take Miss Isabella and Miss Catherine to the spare room down in the east wing. Would you require anything else? Water? Biscuits, perhaps?”

“Water will be just fine,” Catherine replied with practiced warmth. “You have been most helpful, Lady Pemberton. Your kindness will not go unnoticed.”

Lady Pemberton waved the sentiment aside and returned to the drawing room, leaving the maid to guide the two young women down the east passage. They all walked in silence, nothing but the sound of their slippers pressing down on the shiny floors before they got to the door.

“Here, miss.” The maid gestured, opening the door for them.

“Thank you very much,” Isabella replied.

Once the maid left them behind, the silence in the empty room pressed down on Isabella. She crossed to the window at once, pulling at her gloves as she pressed her forehead to the glass. The serene beauty of the courtyard below her did very little to relax her mind.

The night air had turned the world into something tranquil. The trees were bending gently beneath the slow wind, and for a moment, she drew calm from the quiet scene.

Then she saw movement, and her lips parted. A darting shadow moved across the hedges near the stables. She didn’t know when a gasp escaped her lips.

“What is it?” Catherine asked, hurrying forward.

“There is someone there.” Isabella pointed down to the dark shrubs.

Catherine leaned close, peering through the glass. “I see nothing.”

“They were there. I swear it.”

“No one should be outside while dinner is being served.”

Isabella turned, her voice sharp with urgency. “Should we not inform Lady Pemberton that someone is lurking in the courtyard?”

Catherine placed her hands firmly on Isabella’s arms. “Do you want to know what I think? I think your nerves are overtaking you.”

Isabella’s eyes widened. “You are saying I imagined it?”

“Perhaps you did. Perhaps you did not.” Catherine shrugged, but her tone softened. “Either way, tonight is not about shadows. Tonight is about you.” She guided Isabella toward the mirror that stood in the corner of the chamber.

Isabella resisted, then gave way, staring at the reflection of a young woman with brown hair pinned in flowing curls around her face and eyes the shade of polished amber. She almost didn’t recognize the strained face that stared back.

Catherine’s voice lowered. “Your stepmother and stepsister are out there. You know they would delight in seeing you falter. Do not give them that satisfaction.”

Isabella closed her eyes, a small ache rising in her chest.

“Beyond them, there are distinguished guests who came especially to hear you play,” Catherine continued. “The Earl of Wixby. Three barons from Winchester. And the Duke of Thornwoode.”

The name struck Isabella like a note struck too sharply on the pianoforte. Her eyes opened. “Who is the Duke of Thornwoode?”

Catherine’s lips curved, a secretive smile in her eyes. “Someone you do not wish to miss in the crowd. A man whose presence is rarely overlooked.”

Before Isabella could press for more, a knock sounded from the door. The maid reappeared, curtsying quickly.

“It is time for you to play, miss.”

The words sank into Isabella’s chest like a stone, and her hands trembled against the skirts of her dress. Catherine gave her a gentle push.

“They are going to love you, Cousin. I just know it.”

Isabella nodded, and together, they made their way back to the entrance hall. Catherine stepped in first, throwing Isabella one more reassuring look.

“Oh Lord, please give me strength,” she whispered, her hand on the doorknob.

One last attempt at sanity. One last exhale, and without giving herself anything past a minute to falter, she pushed the door open.

The drawing room stretched before her, filled with faces she had no intention of looking at. Yet her eyes betrayed her and went first to the corner where Lady Margaret stood tall, lips pursed in her usual manner. Isabella’s stepmother was scanning the company with the keenness of a hawk, no doubt measuring which gentleman might be worthy of her daughter, Penelope.

Isabella’s gaze slipped from her at once. She did not wish to think of Margaret, or of Penelope, or of the expectations that pressed against her shoulders. But then, across the crowd, her eyes settled on a figure.

A gentleman stood in the very heart of the gathering, his eyes on hers. He did not look away when her eyes met his, nor did he smile or show any expression of mockery. His steel gray eyes were still instead, and for some reason, he looked like he was ready to cut glass. His slicked-back brown hair shone in the candlelight when he threw her a subtle nod.

Isabella swallowed and turned once more to the piano. Her eyes settled on the candles that were placed there, and she tried as much as possible to find solace in the flames while she moved.

Her hands trembled as she placed the sheets before her. She bowed her head once and began.

The first notes stumbled beneath her fingers, and her heart went still.

No.

The drawing room seemed to shrink, and she could feel every breath of the audience press down upon her shoulders. She slammed her eyes shut and took a huge breath. At that moment, the sonata took hold. Mozart’s patterns unfolded, and she followed them like a path through the dark.

Her hands grew steady, and she played the piano with all the efficiency in the world. It was like everything suddenly clicked, and she knew where the keys were.

When the final chord rang out, Isabella rose with a flush of heat in her cheeks. Applause broke, swift and swelling, and she allowed herself a smile.

“Thank you,” she managed to say, the fear beginning to escape her chest. “Thank you all very much.”

She gathered her sheet music with shaking hands and turned to leave the pianoforte. As she crossed to touch the steps, her slipper caught against the edge of the carpet. She stumbled, and the sheets flew from her grasp in a flurry that drifted to the floor.

“Oh!” She dropped to her knees at once, reaching for the scattered pages.

Really Isabella? You do this now?

“Please, allow me,” a voice called from above her.

Isabella looked up. It was the same man she had seen in the crowd. The same unblinking stare was still present on his face.

“Um…” she tried to say, but the words wouldn’t come out.

“I will take that as a yes,” he responded instead and bent down, his long fingers gathering the fallen sheets. He was close now…too close…and the sweep of his gaze struck her as hard as the silence had when she first saw him.

“My name is Gabriel. Gabriel Thorne,” he said, holding out the last two sheets.

Her hand hesitated before taking one of them. “The Duke of Thornwoode.”

His grey eyes narrowed. “You have heard of me already?”

She shook her head lightly. “I only guessed.”

“You guessed?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And what about me made you guess such a thing?”

She shrugged, though the heat in her cheeks betrayed her. “You stood out in the crowd.”

“Really?”

She felt the heat rush to her cheeks and prayed desperately that he couldn’t notice. “Yes, Your Grace.”

The duke shuffled his legs. “In a good way, I hope?”

“That, I am yet to determine.”

The smallest crease touched the edge of his mouth, but it vanished as swiftly as it came. He straightened to his full height, handing her the last page.

“For what it is worth, you were exemplary upon the pianoforte.”

She rose beside him, dipping her head in gratitude. “Forgive me. Where are my manners? I am Miss Isabella Beaumont.”

“The pleasure is mine,” the duke replied, his voice low yet measured.

Before Isabella could attempt another word, a sound cut sharp through the murmurs of the drawing room. A whimper she was all too familiar with. A subtle groan escaped her lips as she turned.

Penelope stood only a few paces away, pale and distressed, her gloved hands trembling.

“Excuse me, Your Grace,” Isabella murmured quickly. “This is a family matter.”

The duke nodded at once. “Of course.” He stepped back, the crowd shifting between them as he disappeared into it.

Isabella hurried to her stepsister. “What is it?”

“Grandmother’s pearls,” Penelope choked out. “They must have fallen while I was in the garden. Mother will throw a fit, I know she will.” Tears streaked her face.

“Calm yourself,” Isabella said gently. “We shall look. It will not be difficult to find them.”

Together they slipped from the drawing room into the cool air of the garden. Torches burned low along the paths, casting more shadow than light. Isabella searched beneath benches, among the rose beds, calling over her shoulder.

“Where did you see it last?”

“I…I cannot remember,” Penelope muttered.

Isabella’s eyes caught movement behind the shrubs. It took all she had to stop herself from shrieking in fear. A man stood there, half-shielded by the dark leaves. When she glanced up, he smiled.

She offered a polite smile in return. “Good evening.”

“Good evening, miss,” he said, stepping forward. His tone was smooth, but there was something in it that made her skin prickle. He was taller than she was and had a scar on the left side of his face. A soft stubble of red or light brown settled across his chin. Even in the dark, with hardly any of his features visible, he still managed to look imposing.

“I do not suppose you have seen a string of pearls? My sister misplaced them.”

He shook his head slowly. “No pearls. But I saw you.”

Her breath caught. “Saw me?”

“Yes.” He responded.

Isabella’s eyes darted to the other side of the garden, where her stepsister had been just a few seconds earlier.

She was nowhere to be found.

The man moved closer to her. “You, my dear, are far lovelier than any jewel.”

She stiffened, clutching her dress. “That is…just a little unkind, sir.”

“Unkind?” His smile widened. “It is the truth. And the truth excites me.”

When his hand darted forward to catch hers, she stepped back at once. “This is not appropriate.”

“I know,” he whispered. “That is what makes it so.”

Her heart hammered. “Penelope!” she called sharply over her shoulder.

No answer.

He narrowed his eyes. “Trying to see if anyone is near?”

He reached again, and she jerked back one more, raising her voice louder. “Penelope!”

Silence.

It was like the garden seemed to swallow her cries.

He lunged for her hand once more, and that was enough. She turned on her heel and fled, her slippers striking the gravel path. Her chest burned, and her breath tore through her throat.

She dared a glance behind. The shrubs shifted as if he followed, and fear clawed at her until she thought she would choke on it.

Then…impact.

She collided against something solid, stumbling back. Her gaze snapped upward, and all she saw were storm-grey eyes filled with startled confusion.

The duke.

Before she could speak, her knees gave way, and the world spun all around her in shock. He felt his arms reach for her right before falling to the ground.

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

“Excuse me, Your Grace, this is a family matter,” Miss Beaumont said. Gabriel watched her gather the crying young woman close as they headed to the end of the hall.

He stood for a few more seconds, watching. Something about his encounter with Miss Beaumont had triggered a feeling in him. Was it perhaps the way she had handled the younger lady who had interrupted their meeting? Or was he still feeling the effects of hearing her skill at the pianoforte? He turned and made his way back to his seat in the middle of the drawing room.

Gabriel’s friend, Colin, remained seated where Gabriel had left him, his lanky form sprawled lazily in the middle of the crowd. He raised his brows as Gabriel approached.

“Now, do not look,” Colin muttered, “but Lady Violet over there has been trying to get your attention for the better part of an hour.”

Against his better judgment, Gabriel spun his head, and there she was. A young woman with flaming hair, standing with her friends. Her gaze rested solely on him, her lips curved into a smile as she dipped her chin in a soft nod.

Colin groaned. “What did I just say about not looking?”

Gabriel suppressed a laugh, though his mouth tugged up at the corners despite himself. He turned back, groaning low. “Does this ever end?”

Colin scoffed. “You, managing to attract women wherever you go? I am afraid it does not end. Not for the next ten years at least.”

Gabriel tipped his head back, staring at the gilded ceiling. “This is torture.”

Colin barked out a laugh. “I cannot imagine what a burden it must be to be a handsome young man, suffering the endless woes of admiration. Truly, my heart bleeds for you.”

The sarcasm in Colin’s tone was as sharp as a blade, but Gabriel only sighed.

“Do you want to wager?” Colin asked, his grin mischievous. “Fifteen minutes. She will come to you if you do not make the first move.”

“No. I am not interested.”

Colin shrugged. “Your loss.”

But Lady Violet was no longer alone in her attentions. Gabriel turned again and found not one but three women watching him with varying degrees of boldness. A flush of irritation heated his chest.

“I am going to the garden,” Gabriel said. “I need air. Will you come?”

Colin blinked as if Gabriel had lost all sense. “Why would I do that?”

“Why not?”

“Because when you leave the room, you manage to give the rest of us a chance. You know, those of us who do not turn heads with every step.”

Gabriel gave him a thin smile. “Well, torment has its limits, and I cannot bear it any longer.”

He rose to his feet and walked out of the hall. The garden was much quieter. The calm and cold of the night air was all he needed to calm his already frayed nerves. He thought of staying out just a bit longer and then returning to the hall when he was calmer. Then he heard a sound.

It was a sharp cry, like a yelp swallowed by the wind. An uneasy feeling settled in him. Was someone in danger?

A second sound followed, the desperate rhythm of feet running over gravel. He stepped forward, narrowing his gaze.

Miss Beaumont appeared from the shadows, a wave of urgency on her face as she ran toward him. Her hair streamed loose around her face, and her dress caught the moonlight as she fled blindly forward, her eyes wide with terror.

“Miss Beaumont—” Gabriel began, but the word had no chance.

She collided with him full force.

A groan escaped his lips as his arms caught her by instinct, steadying the trembling form that crashed against his chest. She gasped, choking back sobs, her face streaked with tears.

Her hands clutched his coat as though she would drown without it. The moonlight caught the chestnut waves of her hair, turning them to gold. For one foolish instant, Gabriel forgot his name, his title, everything but the warmth of her pressed against him.

Then her body shook violently, and the sound of her sobs dragged him back to his senses.

“What has frightened you so?” His voice came out rougher than he intended.

She tried to speak, but the words broke apart, incoherent fragments about danger, about a man in the garden.

Her knees gave way suddenly. Gabriel’s hands tightened at her waist, pulling her closer to steady her. He murmured quiet words, words meant only to soothe, though they felt strange in his throat. He was not accustomed to comforting anyone. Yet the sight of her distress tore something open in him.

“There is a man—” she started to say, but her voice broke again.

“Breathe, Miss Beaumont,” he said quietly. “You are safe now. Do you hear me? You are safe.”

The doors to the garden burst open, and gasps filled the air.

Gabriel turned sharply. A group of ladies spilled onto the path, their fans pressed to painted lips, eyes wide with scandal. Lady Pemberton led them, her face pale with shock. At her side stood the young girl he had seen with Miss Beaumont earlier, her expression stricken.

And behind them, one face more formidable than the rest.

“My God,” Miss Beaumont cried out.

“Who is she?” Gabriel asked under his breath.

“Lady Margaret. My stepmother,” Miss Beaumont whispered, horror in her eyes.

Lady Margaret swept forward like an actress upon a stage, her voice loud enough to reach the ears still lingering in the hall.

“What is the meaning of this? My innocent stepdaughter in the arms of the Duke of Thornwoode? Compromised before half of London? This is beyond disgraceful!”

“Lady Margaret—” Gabriel tried to say, but she drowned him out.

“Her reputation is ruined! Do you hear me? Ruined! And what of our family? All that remains for us is shame, utter shame!” Margaret raised her hands as if she mourned a tragedy, her voice pitched to catch every listener within range. “She is undone! Unless His Grace acts as the gentleman he claims to be!”

A murmur rolled through the gathering crowd. More guests pressed onto the terrace, eager to witness the unfolding spectacle.

Gabriel stiffened. He knew full well what this looked like. A young woman trembling in his arms. A stepmother crying ruin and disgrace. An audience eager for scandal.

It was, without a doubt, the single most compromising situation he could have found himself in. And from the sly smile he caught across her face for half a second, Lady Margaret knew it.

What in God’s name did I get myself into?

He kept his arms firmly about Miss Beaumont’s trembling form until she steadied herself, then stepped back. His eyes locked on hers, steel against amber.

“Is this a joke?” He finally voiced, looking straight at her.

A frown creased her brow. “What?”

“Are you and your merry family band trying to humiliate me? Is that what this is?”

Her lips parted in shock. “Your Grace, I assure you, I am just as confused as you are. I was—I was running from—”

She turned, arm lifting to point behind her. The words faltered. The garden was empty. Whoever had been there a moment ago had vanished.

Gabriel’s frown deepened. “From who? Who were you running from?”

She turned back to him, desperation plain in her face. “Your Grace, you must believe me. Someone was chasing after me. I am sure of it.”

“When exactly did I become a target?” His voice rose with cold anger. “The moment I helped you in there with your sheet music? Was that when you decided to play this horrid game?”

“There is no game,” she pleaded, her voice shaking.

“Oh, spare me.” His hand cut the air as though striking down her words. “I have met women like you before. I know the tricks you play.”

Her eyes widened, stricken, but Gabriel did not wait for her to answer. He turned on his heel, ignoring the gasps of the crowd.

Behind him, the older woman’s voice soared like a player on a stage, wringing her hands with excessive grief. “You all saw what happened tonight. You all witnessed it with your own eyes. The only way this disaster can be salvaged is if the duke takes responsibility.”

The words trailed behind him like his footsteps, haunting and terrifying.

If the duke takes responsibility.

The performance was too perfect and the timing just a bit too precise. Gabriel clenched his teeth, but not once did he stop moving.

By the time his carriage took him away from Lady Pemberton’s estate, the heat of his anger had not cooled. He stared through the glass at the streets slipping past. How had he let himself fall into a trap like this? All he did was help a woman in need.

And yet…the memory intruded unbidden. The way Miss Beaumont had clutched at his coat as though it were her only lifeline. The sheer terror in her eyes when she looked up at him.

She was either a world-renowned actress or the fear on her face had been genuine. With the stunt pulled tonight, how could he ever decide which was which?

He closed his eyes and pressed a hand against his forehead.

No. I will not be fooled. Not again. I will not be taken in by a woman’s tears.

The anger in him never died down. Not even later in the night, when he eventually stepped into his chambers to attempt to sleep.

The next morning, as he stepped toward the dining room for breakfast, his cousin, Roger, was already waiting in the drawing room, his expression the very image of brotherly outrage.

“Gabriel! I came as soon as I heard,” Roger declared, striding forward. “What devilry was that last night? To spring such a trap upon you, and before half of London? I could scarcely believe my ears when the news reached me.”

Gabriel dropped into a chair, his limbs heavy. “It was a spectacle,” he admitted grimly. “And perfectly timed.”

“Precisely,” Roger said, his dark eyes flashing. “This feels all too good to be true. That woman, the piano player. She is probably the best con woman of our time.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened, and he looked up at Roger. “You think she was complicit in this?”

“Of course. How else could it have unfolded so neatly?” Roger leaned closer, lowering his voice as though confiding a painful truth. “This is what women like them do, Gabriel. They prey upon men of rank, arrange compromising encounters, and then force marriage. They see a title, and they weave their nets. We have to do something.”

Gabriel’s fist closed around the arm of his chair. “I really never thought something like this could ever happen to me. Not again.”

Roger laid a hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me. We can fight this. We can turn the whispers to our favor.”

Gabriel looked up sharply. “Fight it? You know full well what honor demands. My name is already entangled in this, and so is hers.”

Roger’s brows drew together, his tone sharpening. “You cannot sacrifice yourself like this for duty, Gabriel. You owe the woman nothing.”

Gabriel pushed his hand away. “I owe myself the preservation of honor. Whatever her intentions were, no one would bat an eye.”

“You are only saying that because you do not want to fight this,” Roger stated, drawing his hand from Gabriel’s shoulders.

“You still do not understand, do you?” Gabriel asked, getting up from the chair, ignoring the smell of fresh toast and tea that seeped into his nostrils. “They saw her in my arms. They heard her stepmother’s cries. Her reputation is ruined, and mine is blackened beside it.”

Roger said nothing. Instead, he swallowed and kept his eyes fixed on Gabriel.

“There is only one thing left to do, cousin,” Gabriel continued, his voice deep. “And if I do not want to go down this spiral even more than I already have, I have to do it.”

Roger’s mouth opened, then slammed shut again. For a moment, something unreadable flickered across his face. At last, he nodded slowly, though reluctance lingered in his voice. “If that is your choice, then I will support you. The family will support you.”

“See that they do,” Gabriel said curtly.

“Just know you are about to land yourself in a hole no gentleman can climb from without bloodied hands.”

Gabriel sighed. “Marriage?”

Roger nodded. “Marriage.”

Gabriel pressed his palm against his forehead. “It does not look like I have a choice, Roger.”

“It truly doesn’t,” Roger replied.