Compelled to Wed the Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

The needle slipped, pricking Isabella’s fingertip with a sharp bite that made her wince. A tiny crimson droplet threatened to stain the pale blue silk of her mother’s former ball gown—the only gown fine enough for tonight’s affair, provided they could coax it into respectability.

“Careful!” Charlotte gasped, reaching for her sister’s hand. “We cannot afford to ruin it now.”

Isabella pressed her finger to her lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood. Around them, the afternoon light filtering through the threadbare curtains of their small parlour cast everything in muted gold, highlighting the desperate nature of their task. Scraps of fabric, loose threads, and their mother’s old sewing basket cluttered the worn wooden table between them.

“Perhaps we should have started this endeavour yesterday,” Iris murmured, her needle flying through a particularly stubborn seam at the waist. “Or better yet, last week.”

“And when would we have managed that?” Isabella resumed her careful stitching, her voice tinged with dry humour. “Between scrubbing the floors Mrs Henderson left behind or attempting to coax something palatable from our dwindling pantry?”

Charlotte’s laugh held no real mirth. “I do miss Mrs Henderson’s cooking, even if she did burn the porridge more often than not.”

“She burned everything more often than not,” Isabella corrected, smoothing the silk with practised fingers. The fabric felt impossibly delicate beneath her work-roughened hands—hands that had learned to manage a household far too young. “But at least she knew which end of a wooden spoon to hold.”

The three young women bent over their needlework in companionable silence, each lost in thought. The ball gown, which had once been the height of fashion during their mother’s debut season, now required considerable ingenuity to appear current. They had lowered the neckline slightly, adjusted the sleeves to match the prevailing style, and prayed that nobody would look too closely at the places where the fabric had worn thin.

“Do you suppose,” Charlotte began, her voice carrying that dreamy quality it always assumed when her imagination took flight, “that someday we shall have our own homes? With servants who stay longer than a fortnight, and pantries that never run bare?”

Iris glanced up from her work, a wistful smile playing at her lips. “I should like a garden. A proper one, with roses and lavender. And perhaps a small greenhouse for growing herbs.”

“I should like a husband who walks with me in the afternoons,” Charlotte continued, warming to her theme. “Someone kind, who doesn’t disappear into his study with a bottle of brandy and emerge hours later smelling of spirits and regret.”

Isabella’s needle paused mid-stitch. “Charlotte—”

“I know, I know.” Her sister waved a dismissive hand. “I shouldn’t speak of Father so. But surely you understand what I mean? A husband who shares his thoughts, who asks about your day, and actually listens to the answer?”

The longing in her sister’s voice made Isabella’s chest tighten. At nineteen, Charlotte deserved to dream of love matches and romantic walks. She deserved better than watching their father gamble away their security piece by piece, better than helping her elder sister patch old gowns and pretend their circumstances weren’t growing more desperate by the day.

“You’ll have that,” Isabella said firmly, surprising herself with the conviction in her voice. “Both of you will. Beautiful homes, devoted husbands, children who never want for anything.”

“And what of you?” Iris asked quietly. “What do you dream of, Isabella?”

Isabella considered the question, her needle resuming its steady rhythm. What did she dream of? Once, she had imagined herself as the mistress of a grand estate, surrounded by children and laughter, married to a man who valued her thoughts as much as her appearance. But those girlish fantasies felt increasingly remote with each passing year, each mounting debt, each worried glance from creditors who appeared at their door with increasing frequency.

“I dream of security,” she said finally. “Of never again having to choose between coal for the fire and meat for the table. Of Charlotte making her debut without wearing our mother’s altered gowns. Of—”

“Of Viscount Redburn finally declaring himself?” Charlotte interrupted with a teasing grin. “Because I’m quite certain he shall, before the Season ends. The way he looks at you, Isabella—”

“Nonsense.” Isabella’s response came quicker than intended, sharp enough to make both her companions look up in surprise. She forced her voice to soften. “His lordship is merely polite. A business associate of Father’s, nothing more.”

“Business associate or not, he’s handsome enough,” Charlotte persisted. “And wealthy. Think of what such a match could mean for our family.”

Isabella frowned, her needle pulling the thread perhaps more forcefully than necessary. “I’m not entirely convinced of his judgement in business associates.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than she had intended. Iris set down her sewing, her expression growing thoughtful.

“I must confess, there’s something about him that unsettles me,” Iris admitted, lowering her voice as though Redburn himself might overhear. “The way he watches people. As though he’s always calculating something.”

“Calculating what?” Charlotte asked, but her voice had lost its teasing quality.

“I’m not certain,” Iris replied. “But when he looks at you, Isabella, it’s not the way a gentleman admires a lady. It’s the way someone might appraise a … a valuable object they intend to acquire.”

A shiver ran down Isabella’s spine, though she couldn’t say why. Redburn had always been perfectly proper in his behaviour towards her. Perhaps too proper now that she considered it. His compliments felt rehearsed, his attentions calculated rather than spontaneous.

“Well,” she said, attempting to lighten the mood, “we needn’t worry about his intentions tonight. The Dowager Duchess of Wellington’s ball shall be far too grand for the likes of us to attract much notice from anyone.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Charlotte said, her eyes brightening with gossip. “Iris heard the most interesting news in the market yesterday. Tell her, Iris.”

Iris glanced towards the door, as though ensuring they wouldn’t be overheard. “Mrs Whitmore mentioned that his grace himself will be in attendance tonight. Apparently, he’s recently returned to London after months away.”

Isabella’s needle stilled. “The Duke of Wellington?”

“The very same.” Iris’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And Mrs Whitmore also mentioned—though she swore me to secrecy—that he’s rumoured to be deeply involved in certain … unsavoury gambling establishments. The sort that prey upon desperate men.”

The silk felt suddenly cold beneath Isabella’s fingers. Men who preyed upon the desperate. Men like her father, who had somehow convinced himself that the next hand of cards, the next roll of dice, would solve all their problems rather than create new ones.

“How despicable,” she said, her voice harder than intended. “To profit from others’ weaknesses, to encourage their ruin for one’s own gain. Such men are beneath contempt.”

“Isabella!” Charlotte looked shocked at her sister’s vehement tone.

“Well, they are,” Isabella insisted, setting down her needle with more force than necessary. “What manner of gentleman builds his fortune on the misery of others? What kind of man—”

The parlour door opened suddenly, causing all three women to jump. Baron Robert de Ross stepped into the room, his face flushed with what Isabella had learned to recognize as either alcohol or excitement—or both. Behind him, as though summoned by their very conversation, appeared Viscount Redburn.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Redburn said smoothly, his pale blue eyes sweeping over their little sewing circle with barely concealed amusement. “I do hope I’m not interrupting anything of importance.”

Isabella felt heat rise in her cheeks. How much of their conversation had he overheard? His expression gave nothing away, but something in his smile made her distinctly uncomfortable.

“Not at all, My Lord,” she managed, rising quickly to curtsy. Charlotte and Iris followed suit, their hastily concealed needlework creating a rustling symphony of silk and embarrassment.

“Redburn has come to discuss tonight’s arrangements,” her father announced, settling himself heavily into his favourite chair. The scent of brandy followed him like an unwelcome cloud. “Most generous of him, considering our … current staffing difficulties.”

Isabella winced. Must he always air their troubles so openly?

“It’s quite understandable,” Redburn said, his tone carrying just the right note of sympathy to avoid being condescending. “These are challenging times for many families. I was just telling your father that I would be honoured to escort you ladies to the ball this evening, given that you’re temporarily without a proper driver.”

The offer was perfectly reasonable, perfectly kind. So why did it make Isabella’s skin crawl?

“That’s very thoughtful of you, My Lord,” she said carefully. “But surely we couldn’t impose—”

“Nonsense!” her father interrupted. “It’s no imposition at all. Is it, Redburn?”

“None whatsoever.” Redburn’s smile widened slightly, and Isabella caught something calculating in his expression—the same quality Iris had noticed. “In fact, I find myself quite looking forward to the evening. Though I must confess, I’m not particularly eager to encounter certain other guests who will be in attendance.”

“Oh?” Charlotte asked, her natural curiosity overcoming her shyness.

Redburn’s expression darkened almost imperceptibly. “I’m afraid the Duke of Wellington and I have … philosophical differences regarding certain business practices. I find his methods rather distasteful.”

Isabella blinked in surprise. Just moments ago, she had been condemning the Duke for his alleged involvement in gambling establishments. Now, hearing Redburn voice similar sentiments, she felt an unexpected twist of unease. There was something too convenient about his comment, too perfectly timed.

“I wasn’t aware you were acquainted with his grace,” she said slowly.

“We move in similar circles,” Redburn replied, his tone carefully neutral. “Unfortunately, proximity doesn’t always breed admiration. But enough of such unpleasant topics. We have a delightful evening ahead of us, and I’m certain you ladies will be the most beautiful attendees at the ball.”

His gaze lingered on Isabella as he spoke, and she felt that familiar discomfort settle over her like a heavy cloak. When he looked at her like that, she felt less like a woman being admired and more like a prize being evaluated.

“You’re very kind, My Lord,” she murmured, dropping her gaze to her hands.

“Well then,” her father said, clapping his hands with forced joviality, “shall we prepare for departure? The evening promises to be most … interesting.”

As they made their way towards the door, Isabella caught Iris’s eye. Her friend’s expression mirrored her own unease—a mixture of anticipation and dread that had little to do with the prospect of dancing and everything to do with the secrets that seemed to swirl around them like autumn leaves in a windstorm.

Tonight, she sensed, would bring answers to questions she wasn’t certain she wanted to ask. And as she followed the others towards the waiting carriage, Isabella couldn’t shake the feeling that she was walking towards a precipice, beyond which lay a future she could neither predict nor control.

The carriage door closed behind them with a finality that echoed in her chest like the tolling of a bell.

 

Chapter Two

The Dowager Duchess of Wellington’s ballroom glittered like a jewel box beneath the light of a thousand candles, yet Nathaniel felt as though he were observing the scene through glass—present but separate, watching rather than participating. Crystal chandeliers cast dancing shadows across the polished marble floor, where couples moved through the intricate steps of a country dance with practised ease. The air hummed with conversation, laughter, and the subtle rustle of silk against silk.

He had forgotten how suffocating these events could be.

“Nathaniel, you cannot continue to lurk in corners like some Gothic villain,” his aunt murmured, her voice carrying the particular brand of exasperation reserved for nephews who failed to meet her exacting standards. “Lady Pemberton’s daughter has been glancing in your direction all evening, and Miss Whitmore practically swooned when I mentioned you might ask her to dance.”

Nathaniel adjusted his white gloves with deliberate precision, his gaze never leaving the swirling mass of humanity before them. “I’m afraid I’m not particularly disposed towards swooning misses this evening, Aunt Samantha.”

“Don’t be obtuse.” The dowager duchess tapped his arm sharply with her fan, the ivory handle clicking against the fine wool of his evening coat. “You’re eight-and-twenty, Nathaniel. The ton expects certain things from a duke, particularly one who has been absent from society for the better part of two years.”

“The ton’s expectations are of little concern to me,” he replied, though not unkindly. His aunt meant well, even if her methods occasionally resembled those of a military general planning a siege.

Lord Theodore Ashworth stepped closer, his familiar presence a welcome buffer against his aunt’s determined matchmaking. “Perhaps we might allow his grace to acclimate himself to society gradually,” Theo suggested with diplomatic smoothness. “After all, it has been quite some time since he graced us with his presence at such gatherings.”

Nathaniel shot his friend a grateful look. Theo understood, as few others did, why he had withdrawn from the social whirl of London. While the ton assumed his absence stemmed from arrogance or eccentricity, the truth was far more complicated. One could hardly enjoy frivolous entertainments when one’s brother remained locked in a prison of guilt and melancholia, refusing to speak of the debts that had nearly destroyed them both.

“Acclimate,” his aunt repeated with a sniff. “He’s a duke, not a delicate flower requiring gradual exposure to sunlight. Really, Theodore, sometimes your consideration borders on the ridiculous.”

Despite everything, Nathaniel felt his lips twitch with suppressed amusement. His aunt possessed many admirable qualities, but subtlety had never numbered among them.

The music swelled, drawing his attention back to the dancers. The current set was ending, and couples were beginning to filter towards the refreshment tables or seek out new partners for the next dance. It was then, as the crowd shifted like pieces on a chessboard, that his gaze landed on a figure standing near the far wall.

She was laughing—not the affected trill he had grown accustomed to hearing in ballrooms, but something genuine and warm that seemed to illuminate her entire face. Her dark hair was arranged simply, without the elaborate curls and ornaments favoured by most young ladies of fashion, and her gown …

Nathaniel frowned slightly. Her gown, while undeniably elegant in its lines, showed subtle signs of age and careful alteration. The pale blue silk had been skillfully refreshed, but his practised eye could detect the places where it had been taken in, let out, and modified to suit current fashions. Yet somehow, the effect was not one of shabbiness but of quiet dignity—as though she wore her circumstances with grace rather than shame.

She was speaking with two other young women, her animated gestures suggesting she was recounting some amusing anecdote. One of her companions—a petite blonde who bore enough resemblance to suggest sisterhood—dissolved into delighted giggles, while the other, an auburn-haired young woman with intelligent eyes, smiled with warm affection.

Something about the scene drew him, though he couldn’t immediately identify what. Perhaps it was the genuine nature of their interaction in a room full of calculated charm, or the way the young woman in blue seemed entirely unconscious of her own appeal. She possessed none of the studied poise he had come to expect from ladies seeking advantageous marriages, none of the careful positioning designed to catch a gentleman’s eye.

Yet she had caught his eye, completely and without effort.

As though sensing his regard, she turned slightly, her gaze sweeping across the ballroom until it met his. For a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, the overwhelming press of the crowd seemed to fade. Her eyes were green—not the pale, watery green of spring leaves, but the deep, rich emerald of a forest in summer. They held his with a directness that was both startling and oddly refreshing, unmarred by the coy calculation he had grown to expect from young ladies in ballrooms.

Something flickered between them then—a recognition that had nothing to do with previous acquaintance and everything to do with the sudden, inexplicable sense that he had been waiting his entire life to see those particular eyes look at him in precisely that way.

“Really, Nathaniel,” his aunt’s sharp voice cut through the moment like a blade through silk, “your staring is becoming quite obvious. And at such an inappropriate target.”

The spell broken, Nathaniel forced himself to look away, though not before he caught the slight flush that coloured the young woman’s cheeks. She, too, had turned back to her companions, though he noticed her posture had grown somewhat more rigid.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, his voice carefully neutral.

“That creature in the ancient gown,” his aunt continued, her tone carrying the particular disdain she reserved for those she deemed beneath notice. “I observed you watching her most intently. Really, nephew, if you must survey the room’s occupants, surely you could direct your attention toward more … suitable candidates.”

Nathaniel felt something cold settle in his chest. “I was merely observing the assembly, as one does at such gatherings.”

“Observing,” his aunt repeated with a dismissive laugh. “How very diplomatic of you. But I know that look, Nathaniel. It’s the same expression your uncle wore when he first saw me across a ballroom thirty years ago—which resulted in a most satisfactory marriage, I might add. However, in this instance, your attention is decidedly misplaced.”

“And why is that?” The question emerged more sharply than he had intended, drawing a surprised look from Theodore.

“Because the chit is from the de Ross family,” his aunt replied, her fan snapping open with an authoritative flutter. “Baron de Ross, if one can dignify him with the title. A man who has quite thoroughly squandered his inheritance at the gaming tables. They’re barely keeping up appearances, from what I understand. Hardly suitable company for a duke.”

The de Ross family. The name stirred something in his memory, though he couldn’t immediately place it. Had he encountered the baron at one of the establishments he’d been investigating? The thought made his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly.

“I see,” he said quietly. “And you’re certain of this information?”

“Quite certain. Lady Pemberton mentioned it just this afternoon. Apparently, they’ve been forced to dismiss most of their servants. The girl probably altered that gown herself—one can tell by the stitching if one knows what to look for.” His aunt’s voice carried the satisfaction of someone delivering particularly choice gossip. “Really, it’s rather pathetic. One almost feels sorry for them.”

Almost, but not quite. Nathaniel knew his aunt well enough to recognize the distinction.

“The young lady appeared to arrive with an escort,” Theodore observed, his tone casual. “Perhaps her circumstances aren’t quite as dire as rumoured.”

“Oh, she did indeed,” his aunt confirmed. “Viscount Redburn was kind enough to offer his carriage, though heaven knows why he would involve himself with such a family. Perhaps he feels some misguided sense of charity.”

At the mention of Redburn’s name, every muscle in Nathaniel’s body went rigid. Of all the men in London, it had to be him. The charming, respected peer who hid a heart of pure corruption beneath his polished exterior. The man whose gambling establishment had nearly destroyed his brother, whose debts had driven Anthony to the brink of despair and beyond.

“Redburn,” he repeated, his voice carefully devoid of inflection.

“Yes, though I can’t imagine what he sees in the association,” his aunt continued, oblivious to the change in her nephew’s demeanour. “Unless, of course, he’s simply being kind to an old friend of her father’s. You know how gentlemen sometimes feel obligated to assist families that have fallen on difficult times.”

Nathaniel seriously doubted that kindness motivated any of Redburn’s actions. The man calculated every social interaction with the precision of a chess master, and he never made a move without expecting something in return. If he was involved with the de Ross family, it was because he saw some advantage in the connection.

The thought of that innocent-eyed young woman falling under Redburn’s influence made something dark and protective stir in Nathaniel’s chest. She had no idea what manner of man she was dealing with, how skillfully he could manipulate circumstances to his advantage, and how thoroughly he could destroy lives while maintaining the facade of a perfect gentleman.

“Nathaniel?” Theodore’s voice held a note of concern. “You’ve gone rather pale.”

He forced his expression back to neutrality, though his hands remained clenched at his sides. “I’m quite well, thank you.”

But he wasn’t well. Not when he thought of those green eyes, that genuine laugh, that air of quiet dignity in the face of obvious financial hardship. Not when he thought of Redburn’s calculating gaze fixed on her, whatever scheme he was undoubtedly hatching.

The young woman—Miss de Ross, presumably—had returned to her conversation with her companions, but Nathaniel found his gaze drawn back to her repeatedly. There was something about her that called to him, something that made him want to cross the ballroom and warn her away from Redburn’s influence, consequences be damned.

But he remained where he was, trapped by the conventions of society and the weight of his own complicated history. For now, he could only watch and wonder what game Redburn was playing—and whether Miss de Ross would emerge from it unscathed.

The orchestra struck up a new melody, and couples began forming for the next set. Across the ballroom, he saw Redburn approach the de Ross party, his smile perfectly calibrated to charm. Miss de Ross looked up at him with what appeared to be polite attention, though Nathaniel thought he detected a hint of reservation in her posture.

Good. At least she possessed some instinct for self-preservation.

“Come,” his aunt said, linking her arm through his with determined cheerfulness. “Lady Pemberton’s daughter is looking quite forlorn. Surely you can spare her one dance.”

Nathaniel allowed himself to be led away, but his thoughts remained with the young woman in the carefully altered gown, and the dangerous man who had appointed himself her protector.

The evening, he suspected, was about to become far more complicated than he had anticipated.