Chapter One

London

May 1816

“Miss Turner.”

Bridget’s shoulders tensed at the sound of her name being called, and her fingers tightened on the stem of her champagne glass. Willing herself to appear unperturbed, she made a slow turn to face Magnus Jackson, Viscount Lore, the man who had murdered her reputation.

“Lovely to see you this evening, Miss Turner,” he said, his gaze slowly drifting from her crown to the hem of her dress. “I thought you would be dancing rather than keeping to the walls.”

She was tempted to ignore him, which was the rational thing to do for a woman who found several pairs of eyes turning in her direction, but Bridget was too willful to remain silent. “And I thought you would be in the gaming room betting away your fortune,” she returned, a stiff smile painted on her lips. 

Magnus’ brown eyes narrowed very slightly, then he tilted his head, a lock of black hair falling over his brow, as he guided his eyes to her hand. “Is your dance card full? Perhaps I should take pity on you and ask you to dance.” 

“I do not want your pity,” she said through clenched teeth as her eyes sought refuge in all directions. 

“Oh, but I believe I should dance with you, Miss Turner, for no other gentleman in this room is inclined to do so.” He leaned forward and whispered, “No gentleman wants a fallen woman.”

A giggle came from someone beside him, and Bridget’s attention was drawn for the first time to the woman on his arm; she was very fair, slender, and her blonde hair appeared gold in the candlelight. Bridget was about to address her when Magnus spoke again. 

“I do not suppose you are acquainted with my fair betrothed, Miss Turner.” Every time he said her name, he did so with his voice raised, as though to bring to the attention of every guest in the ballroom with whom he was conversing. “Meet Lady Annabelle Langston, daughter of the Duke of Westonshire.”

Bridget curtsied, as propriety demanded it, and she could hear a cold chuckle from him as she rose. Meeting his eyes, she said, “Please, excuse me.” Then turned to take her leave. 

“Leaving before our dance?” Magnus raised his brows. “If I do not dance with you, no one will. I am trying to help you.”

Help her? Bridget’s ire was growing. He had ruined her life and was now ridiculing her in public under the pretext of helping her. Her eyes stung, and she blinked, swallowing the bile rising in her throat. It was important that she removed herself from the ballroom before further ignominy befell her. 

Several guests had gathered around them with those at the fore whispering amongst themselves, while those behind craned their necks to witness her humiliation. It was all gravely reminiscent of the night he had broken off their engagement. And without a moment’s thought, she pushed past them and fled.

It took her a while to wade through the guests to reach the exit, and she rather thought they were determined to prevent her escape. At last, she emerged in a hallway, her chest tight, and spirit crushed.

“Bridget!” 

She gathered her skirts and prepared to run, but then she recognized the voice and paused, turning. 

“Goodness, Bridget!” Her brother, Andrew, stopped before her and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Are you well? I saw what Lore did, I’m sorry I could not reach you in time.”

“I am not well, Andrew.” Her voice broke. “I should not have come here. I-I thought…”

He wrapped an arm about her shoulders. “I will take you home. Everything shall be well again.”

Bridget shook her head, unable to say more. After what had happened in that ballroom, she was sure that she would never find a husband. They stepped out of the house and onto the busy streets that were lined with carriages. Some guests seemed to be arriving at that hour. It did not take long for them to find their carriage.

“I should never have insisted you come out tonight,” Andrew lamented once they were in the carriage and on their way home. 

“I do not blame you, Brother,” she whispered as she stared out the window.

“I was told that Lore would not be in attendance,” Andrew continued. “I must demand from him atonement for the dishonor he—”

“Please, Andrew,” she interrupted him with a hand on his, “do not duel him. Violence will not restore my reputation.”

Andrew regarded her with incredulity. “You would spare a man that harmed you?”

She looked down at her hands that now lay on her lap. “I do not care for Magnus. You are my brother, and I wish for you to live a long and full life. Think of the consequences if you duel him and he strikes you.”

“…I suppose you are right. You have always been smarter than I am,” he said and Bridget smiled.

They rode the rest of the way in silence, and when they arrived, Andrew led her to the drawing room.

“Would you like to drink something?” he asked as she lowered herself onto a sofa near the fireplace.

“Yes, some sherry, please.”

“Would you not want something better? Stronger, perhaps?” He raised a brow as he asked.

“I suppose I would rather have some whiskey then,” she replied, realizing she would need it after what she had faced tonight. As he moved to a table that held a tray with several decanters and glasses, Bridget gazed into the fire, wondering how her life had turned out this way.

Three weeks ago, she had been preparing to marry Magnus. Now, she was doomed to live the rest of her life as a spinster after the same man, who had once written her sonnets, spread word of how he had ruined her. Introducing her to the woman he had replaced her with had caused her more pain than she wished to admit.

“Bridget?” Her brother’s voice tore into her unpleasant thoughts, and she started. With a commiserating countenance, he handed her a glass of whiskey. “I should apprise Father of what occurred tonight.”

“Must you tell him this instant?”

“Yes, I must. We cannot allow Lore to continue to dishonor us.”

The only response Bridget could give was a nod as she raised her whiskey glass to her lips for a sip. The liquor was warm and burned a trail down her throat, but it did little to make her feel better.

After Andrew had left the drawing room to find their father, she stood and walked to a window, staring out and endeavoring not to think of her unfortunate circumstances. There was no knowing how long she stood there, but her attention was drawn back sometime later when someone walked into the room. She turned to find her lady’s maid and dearest friend, Sarah Mills.

“Did something happen?” she asked, coming to stand beside Bridget, her blue eyes full of concern. “I saw Mr. Turner in a foul disposition.”

Bridget swallowed. “I met Magnus at the ball, and he was most unkind.” She proceeded to recall the events to Sarah. “I am certain that no one will marry me after this.”

“Oh, do not say that, Miss!” Sarah’s cap slid back a little as she shook her head, revealing her brown hair. “I am sure the ton will find another scandal with which to divert themselves.”    

Bridget shook her head. “What Magnus did…” She did not know why she still thought of him by his Christian name, and it annoyed her.

Sarah placed a hand on her shoulder. “Everything will be all right, Miss.”

“It is very hopeful and kind of you to say that, Sarah, but I know the truth of my situation and the hidden cruelty of our society. No one will marry me.”

“No one?” came her father’s deep voice. Mortimer Turner, the Viscount of Malmore’s brows were drawn together, but his eyes were kind and gentle. “Are you certain, my dear?”

Sarah immediately curtsied and excused herself, while her father came to stand where she had been.

“Did Andrew tell you what happened?” she asked, setting her now empty glass down on a nearby end table.

“Yes, he did.” He took both of her hands. “Do not despair, Bridget, for you shall marry. Very soon.”

“How can you be certain, Papa?”

“Because you have an offer.” Mortimer smiled. “And should you accept, you shall become the Duchess of Alderham.”

Bridget’s eyes widened. “The offer is from the Duke of Alderham? The Beast of Grayfield?” She took a step back, her stomach knotting. The back of her legs touched the edge of a chair, and she sank into it, despairing more than before.

Everyone who had heard of him knew he was not a man that any sensible woman would wish to marry.

“Now, Bridget, we must not refer to him as such. He is a good man, and not at all what people have made of him,” her father said.

She had never met the duke but had heard many tales about him. And she did not know if marrying an old, ill-tempered recluse was better than becoming a spinster.

“She is right to be afraid,” Andrew said, stepping into the drawing room. “I cannot understand why you asked him to marry Bridget.”

“You offered me to him?” she heard her shocked voice. “I thought he…”

“Well…” Mortimer threw her brother a disapproving look before continuing, “He is a duke, and in need of a wife. I thought an alliance with a duke could strengthen our family’s influence after…”

The scandal, she thought, feeling her chin begin to quiver, and catching her lower lip between her teeth. An alliance with a duke might be good for her family, but not Alderham. There was a reason he was reclusive and unmarried, and she was reluctant to discover it.

“Must I marry him, Papa?” She looked up at her father, hoping he could see the plea in her eyes.

“No, my dear.” He sighed. “I could never make you do anything against your wish. You do not have to marry the Duke of Alderham, but I hoped that you would give the matter some thought.”

“I shall try.” There was a slight tremor in her voice, and she winced when she heard it. “May I be excused?”

“Of course, my dear,” Mortimer replied, concern clouding his gaze.

Bridget left the room and hurried up to her bedchamber, where she leaned against the door after closing it, her eyes stinging with tears. A soft knock sounded just then.

“Who is it?” she called.

“It is Sarah, Miss,” came a reply.

She opened the door and, as soon as Sarah was inside, said, “Father asked the Duke of Alderham to marry me.”

“Oh, dear!” Sarah took her hand and guided her to sit on a sofa, settling beside her. “Did he accept?”

“He must have because my consent is needed.”

“Do you wish to marry him?”

“I do not believe the hearsay, but…” Her throat tightened. “I cannot decide to marry a man that I do not know.”

Sarah squeezed her hand comfortingly. “You have a choice, Bridget. But you need not make your decision now.” She addressed her by her Christian name in private. Bridget’s family had been through a difficult time after her mother’s death six years ago, and Sarah had given her both friendship and support throughout.

“I suppose,” was all Bridget could muster.

“Come, let me help you dress for bed.” Sarah stood and walked to the dressing room.

Her friend distracted her with the latest gossip she had heard from the servants, and for a moment, Bridget forgot her woes. But once she was alone and under her covers, her thoughts began to swirl wildly, and guilt slowly engulfed her.

Her scandal had cost her father his influence in the House of Lords, and Andrew was regarded with disapprobation amongst his fellow gentlemen. So far, all she had managed to do was drag the ones she loved to the lowest of lows. Well, she loved and trusted her father, and believed he would never approach Alderham for marriage if the man were truly a beast. At least that was what she tried to convince herself.

But in her heart of hearts, Bridget knew, this was not a time to be bargaining; beggars cannot be choosers.

She got out of bed and found a deep green velvet robe that Sarah had left out for her, then exited her bedchamber to find her father. It was near midnight, and the household had retired, but she knew Mortimer would be awake and in his study, toiling away. Thus, it was her first destination.

He called for her to enter after a brief knock, and when he saw her, he set down the quill in his hand and stood from his chair behind a large mahogany desk, motioning for her to sit near the hearth.

“What is the duke like?” she asked after sitting.

“He is a good man,” Mortimer began, taking the chair opposite hers. “He was wounded in the Battle of Salamanca four years ago, leading to his reclusiveness.”

Bridget frowned. She had heard that the man was deformed, but never knew that he had suffered a battle wound. She was, once more, reminded of how unfair society was.

“I consent to the marriage, Papa,” she said.

Surprise passed over Mortimer’s features. “Are you certain?”

“I trust your opinion of him, so yes, I am certain.”

“Very well. I shall write and inform him.” He stood and returned to his desk, where he drew a parchment and began to write.

Bridget’s life was changing, but this time, it was a change that she was in control of.

Chapter Two

Sussex

May 1816

“It appears I am to be wed in a sennight.” Harry Westwood, the fourth Duke of Alderham, folded the missive he had just read and regarded his friend, Mr. Gerard Belmont, whose gray eyes were wide with surprise.

“I beg your pardon?” Gerard blinked, and his pale brows that matched his blonde hair creased.

“This is from Viscount Malmore.” Harry shook the letter in his hand. “He visited a fortnight ago while you were in Gloucestershire, offering his daughter’s hand.”

His friend wore a deep frown now. “Miss Turner?”

“Correct.”

“Harry, I know you do not make decisions on a whim, but this is rather sudden. Do you know anything about her?”

“Are you referring to what the gossip sheets wrote?” One of Harry’s brows rose with his question.

“Yes, precisely that. Scandal follows her.”

“I have courted scandal since Salamanca.” His shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I am merely doing the honorable by marrying her now.”

“What brought on this change? You did not wish to marry before.”

“Look around you, Gerard.” Harry made an expansive gesture. “My home is crumbling, and my tenants detest me. This alliance will bring me fifteen thousand pounds, and four thousand a year.” He watched Gerard’s brows rise at this announcement and smiled. “Only the veriest of fools would decline such an offer.”

“I see,” was all Gerard responded with, and Harry knew he was not pleased.

“You wish to save me from this woman, dear friend?”

“Indeed, I do. Your good name should not be tarnished with scandal.” Gerard’s response was emphatic, which drew a chuckle from Harry.

“I am the Beast of Grayfield, Gerard. I have no good name.” He sounded unconcerned as he said that, but Harry was less than happy about the tales that had been spread about him. Miss Turner must truly be desperate to agree to marry him, a man that only had half of his face to show. Without intending to, his fingers moved up to the right side of his face to lightly touch the scar that ran from his forehead to his jaw.

Gerard pulled out a watch from his waistcoat pocket and examined it before declaring, “I must leave now if I am to reach Cambridgeshire by nightfall.”

“Perhaps I will be married by the time you return,” Harry quipped.

“Never!” Gerard grinned as he stood. “You need me there, and I promise to save you if she is anything less than pleasing on the eye.”

Harry shrugged, unconcerned about Miss Turner’s appearance. He was not marrying her for her beauty. Still, a part of him wondered what she was like, and whether she would be a chore to bed. His battle wounds had swiftly put an end to his rakish ways, and it had been very long since he last touched a woman.

“Farewell, my friend,” Gerard said, gaining his feet.

“Have a good trip,” Harry replied with a slight smile.

An hour after Gerard’s departure, Harry left his study to meet his steward, Mr. Meyer. As he walked past one of the drawing rooms, he caught sight of his aunt, Belinda Thornfield, and poked his head into the room.

“I am getting married, Aunty.”

“I beg your pardon?” Belinda’s eyes were like saucers.

Harry rolled his eyes. Why was everyone surprised he was taking a wife? “I am getting married to Miss Bridget Turner, daughter of the Viscount of Malmore.”

A crash followed his announcement, and his aunt stood abruptly. She had dropped her teacup onto the floor. “Miss Turner?”

“You disapprove,” he observed, stepping into the room and pulling the bell near the door to summon a servant to clean the spilled tea and broken cup.

“N-no!” Belinda was quick to say. “It is simply that we do not know if what was said about her is true.”

“I will judge her for myself.”

His aunt stood. “Why her?”

“She has a good fortune,” he said, feeling the corner of his mouth slant with displeasure. He sounded like a fortune hunter and wished he did not have to marry to provide for those that depended upon him and save his ancestral home from falling.

“Surely, there are other heiresses you could consider. I do not judge her, but enough has been said about our family. I want peace, Harry.”

Something turned within him. He wanted peace, too, and marrying appeared to be a good path to follow to obtain it, despite Miss Turner’s reputation. “None who will marry me,” he responded, a bitter note in his voice. “They will arrive in a week. Please, see that the castle is prepared for them.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. He had already made his mind up, and there would be no changing it.

***

Bridget looked out the carriage window to behold the imposing castle they were approaching, and her stomach churned. Their journey from London to Suffolk had been long and exhausting, but that was not the reason she was nervous. She would be wedding a man she had never met to save her family’s good name.

This was not the way she had imagined she would marry, and although she was still disappointed, she knew she had to be brave and find comfort in the thought that her groom will be kind to her.

“Do you want us to turn back?” Andrew asked, and Mortimer groaned.

“For heaven’s sake, Andrew, stop asking her such questions.”

“Look at the castle, Father.” Her brother was looking out the same window. “The place belongs in the gothic novels that genteel women should never read, and you are sending your daughter to dwell in one.”

“I made the decision to come here, Andrew,” Bridget said firmly. “Please respect it.”

He sighed but nodded. The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the structure, and Mortimer was the first to alight before helping her down. She looked up when she stepped down, her stomach knotting more than it had before.

Her brother was right; the castle was dark with cracks and vines covering the walls. Four towers stood sentinel at every corner, tall and imposing. The windows were fogged as though to conceal a secret, and some of them had cracks while some were broken. The overgrown lawn was a reflection of the dire straits that had fallen upon the castle owner, and a cold shiver slithered through her. If she was not mistaken, she would say a groundskeeper had never been there.

The great front entrance opened, and a slight woman with graying chestnut hair stepped out, a soft smile on her features, which Bridget thought greatly contrasted the castle’s atmosphere. Her eyes were carefully drawn to the cracked marble on the steps she was descending, and the stone balusters looked no better.

“Welcome to Grayfield Castle,” the woman said. “I am Lady Belinda Thornfield, the duke’s aunt.”

Andrew and Mortimer bowed, while Bridget curtsied, thinking that the duke must be younger than she thought if this woman was his aunt. She was very curious to see him.

“You must be Miss Turner,” Lady Belinda continued pleasantly, coming to take her hand. “We are pleased to have you here.”

“My apologies for our late arrival,” her father said. Their journey had not been without event, for they had first broken a wheel, which had delayed them for a day, then a storm arrived.

“Oh, you mustn’t apologize for it, Lord Mortimer. The weather is seldom cooperative. Please, come in.”

Bridget smiled, feeling less intimidated. They were led to a drawing room with its brocade curtains drawn shut. The red and cream hues must have once been vibrant, and the gilded frames that hung on the walls were all but dull and tarnished. Age had hardened the carpet, and the parquet floor sorely missed its polish.

It was late afternoon, but one would think it nightfall if they had not been outside, and Bridget endeavored to resist the urge to ask why the room was so. Her brother and father appeared to be as curious as she was when she glanced at them.

“Please do be seated. I shall find the duke now,” Lady Belinda said.

“Thank you, my lady,” Mortimer said. “I am eager for my daughter to make his acquaintance.”

Bridget’s heart began to race at her father’s utterance. She sat and folded her hands on her lap, fighting the urge to flee out of the castle and cry off. Now that she was truly here, fear began to seep into her bones.

Chapter Three

“The duke is out handling some estate matters, I am afraid,” Lady Belinda announced on her return. “Perhaps you will meet him at dinner, which is in an hour.”

Mortimer smiled. “I am sure the duke is a very busy man. Thank you, my lady.”

Bridget felt her shoulders relax. She ought to be surprised at his absence or even a touch displeased, but the relief that coursed through her prevented her from feeling anything as such.

“Would you like me to show you to your…chambers to prepare for dinner, Miss Turner?” Lady Belinda asked.

“Yes, please,” she replied, rising. She glanced at her father, and he gave her an encouraging nod. With a slow breath, she followed Lady Belinda out of the room.

She was led to a large bedchamber where her lady’s maid was already unpacking her baggage. Bridget proceeded to formally introduce herself to Lady Belinda, her eyes assessing the room. A four-poster bed occupied the center with deep purple drapes that matched the ones that covered the windows, drawn, as well. The lavender wallpaper was starting to peel, and the carpet, although not as hard as the one in the drawing room, was a little frayed on the edges.

“I am glad you brought your lady’s maid. I could not find anyone suitable for such a task,” Lady Belinda commented. “I hope you do not mind the state of the castle,” she added with an apologetic smile.

The castle hid its elegance beneath worn furnishings, and Bridget wished she had seen it in its prime. Nevertheless, she intended to improve it once she was married. After all, this was her home now.

“I do not, my lady. Do you live here?”

“Yes. I have lived with Har…the duke for almost four years.”

“Then I will be honored if you will help me bring it back to life,” Bridget said, appreciating the woman’s efforts to make her feel welcome and comfortable.

Lady Belinda’s blue eyes lit up. “That would be splendid!” She clapped her hands together. “You may call me Belinda. We are, after all, going to be family tomorrow.”

The reminder that she was getting married the following day gave Bridget a nervous flutter. She forced herself to smile, however. “Then you must call me Bridget.”

“I am sure we will be good friends, Bridget. I should go and prepare for dinner.” With that, she left the room.

Bridget flopped onto the mattress and stared at the cherubs on the ceiling of her four-poster bed, anxious about meeting the duke at dinner.

***

She was saved again when the duke sent word that he had been delayed and would not be joining them for dinner. Andrew was displeased, while her father seemed unperturbed. Belinda was a good hostess and ensured they had as pleasant an evening as possible.

“Did you meet him?” Sarah asked when she entered her bedchamber to help her undress.

Bridget shook her head. “He was unable to attend. I am quite relieved we did not meet,” she admitted.

“Why? Do you think he looks as horrible as they say?”

“His appearance matters not to me.” She sat before a vanity table and Sarah began to remove the pins holding up her coiffure. “But I do feel very nervous about meeting the owner of such a large and dark place.”

“Yes, I noticed every curtain is drawn.” Sarah supplied with a slight frown.

A few hours later, Bridget found herself twisting and turning, unable to slumber. Thunder clapped, and rain pelted her windows, but that was not the reason she was unable to sleep. There was a shadow in this castle that disquieted her. She might have been relieved at not meeting the duke, but the mystery about him was the very reason for her discomposure.

She rose from her bed and donned her robe, then lit a candle. Belinda had told her about the library, and she thought her time would be better spent reading than trying to sleep tonight. Slowly, she wandered through the castle, committing every turn she took to memory lest she got lost.

At the bottom of the stairs that led to the front hall, she thought she saw a hooded figure. Lightning flashed at that instant, confirming what she had seen, the dark and foreboding frame of a man that froze her blood. When thunder roared, she turned and ran back to her room, the wind of her movement blowing out her candle.

***

Breathe, Bridget, she repeated to herself for, at least, the twentieth time that morning.

“Shall we?” came Mortimer’s gentle question as he offered his arm to her in the front hall. The duke and the others were waiting in the drawing room for her.

She nodded, not trusting her voice, and allowed him to walk her into the room to the sight of a powerfully built man. He stood before a shorter stature man that appeared to be the vicar, and his back was to the door. Bridget was certain he was the same man she had seen the night before.

He must think me very foolish for running away as I did, the thought, wincing inwardly.

The duke did not turn when her father handed her to the vicar, nor give a smile to appease her, and yet, his mere presence made her tremble more. At the vicar’s request, he finally turned to face her, and she could not prevent a gasp from escaping her lips.

One of his eyes was covered with a black eyepatch, while the other was so blue it would make one stare in wonder. His lips were perfectly formed, and she thought a lady might swoon if he smiled at her. The corners of the mouth that had her entranced immediately turned down, and she realized that she had been staring. Looking away, she curtsied.

He bowed, his demeanor unwelcoming. “I am Harry Westwood, the Duke of Alderham,” he introduced, and she noticed that his hair was long and a lustrous shade of chestnut, which was tied at his nape.

“And I am Bridget Turner.” She did not have a title with which to introduce herself but she was proud of her simple names.

The duke did not say anything after that. He simply turned to the vicar and said, “You may begin.”

His deep voice sent a shiver through her, despite her unease about his disinclination to talk, and she caught her lip between her teeth. As the vicar recited a sermon, Bridget found her eyes stealing glances at her groom, wondering why people thought him a deformed beast? Surely, he bore a great scar from his wound and only used one of his eyes, but he was…handsome.

“Bridget Annabelle Turner, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband…” the vicar interrupted her thoughts, and she raised her eyes to the duke’s, once more losing herself until she heard, “so long as ye both shall live?”

“I will,” she responded.

The ceremony continued with her attention completely taken by the duke, and when he took her hand to place a ring upon it, she swallowed.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” he said, “with my body I thee worship,” she blushed, “and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.” He slid the ring onto her finger slowly.

They knelt, and the rest of the ceremony passed in a blur as she imagined what her new life would be. When Bridget scrawled her signature on the register, she released a breath that she had been holding. She was his before God and country. She had once dreamed of possessing the heart of the man she married, but such a dream was far beyond her reach now.

Their family gathered around to congratulate them, and Belinda had tears in her eyes. “I have not been this happy in a very long time,” she said, squeezing Bridget’s hand.

A young man came forward and bowed. The duke introduced him, “Mr. Gerard Belmont, a good friend of the family.”

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace, and my felicitations.”

“Thank you, Mr. Belmont,” Bridget replied before looking up at her husband. His expression was inscrutable.

His eye met hers for a moment but quickly turned away, and he said, “My aunt will show you to the dining room for the wedding breakfast. I will not be joining you. Please excuse me.” Without explaining his reason for leaving, he turned on his heel and walked out of the drawing room.