To Wed A Beastly Duke
First Chapters – Preview
Chapter One
His Grace, Julian Thorne, the Duke of Thornedale, suppressed a shiver as he stood with his back to the modestly intimate congregation. Outside, on the rugged green cliffs, the sunshine was bright, and the blue sky buffeted fluffy clouds briskly along the coastline. The chapel stood sentinel; a stark grey monument incongruous on the grassy cliff. Inside, the air was cold and damp. There was very little light filtering in through the high-level stained-glass windows, so the pit of the altar and depths of the pews were dark and shadowy. A more celebrated wedding would be decorated with bright flowers and dotted with candles to enhance the festivity, but Julian had insisted upon minimal adornment.
It was certainly cold, he conceded, but he did not expect the ceremony to take long or at least, he hoped it would be rapidly concluded. From his vantage point, he looked up at the dark wooden panelling of the chapel and its intricate carvings. He pondered their origin. Surely ancestral members of the Thorne family would have commissioned artisans to craft these exquisite embellishments. Julian seldom visited the chapel, hence the musty, damp aroma that pervaded the air, and he paid even less attention to the architecture. In that moment of compelled reflection, it served as a welcome distraction. It prevented him from dwelling on the bride he was yet to meet and most significantly it kept him from recalling the last occasion on which he had spent any considerable time within these walls: the day he laid his sister to rest.
Frustrated at having to wait when he just wanted it to be done with, Julian turned to look down the short aisle toward the heavy oak double doors, through which he expected Lady Martha Fairchild. He had seen her at a debut ball, across a room, recalling she had long, chestnut hair and a fair complexion, but he knew little of her besides this.
Transaction. Julian reminded himself that Marrying Lady Martha was purely transactional. His Mother, the Dowager Duchess, Eloise Thorne, insisted he marry to secure his lineage. Julian hated how his Mother would worry about him, her only surviving child, and would concern herself greatly to ensure he would be comfortable and well looked after and that the family bloodline would continue. Should he stand his ground and refuse to marry, he knew that Eloise would only fret herself into a ball of anxiety, and he could not bear that burden his whole life.
Obligation. The word taunted him. He was obliged to engage in the expected behaviour in alignment with normality, as prescribed by society. He did not care for the opinion of others but was acutely aware of his mother’s sensitivities, and so he tried, for her sake, to employ conventional tendencies as far as his indifference would allow.
Heir. The sole son bearing the Thorne name, Julian was the only remaining chance for his estate and status to be continued into later generations. He had inherited the massive fortune, land, and associated properties upon his Father’s passing when Julian was in his early twenties. He had been an heir and now required an heir of his own to inherit the Thornedale estate as they moved into the future.
Transaction. Obligation. Heir. The words formed a torturous rhythm in his head as he clenched his fists, turning his knuckles bone white and tensing his jaw to synchronise with the words that ran on repeat: Transaction. Obligation. Heir.
Finding the delay tedious, Julian scanned his eyes across those present, and his browsing halted at Lord Henry and Lady Henrietta Caldwell in the second row. Julian couldn’t repress the roll of his eyes; he had distinctly instructed his mother not to invite any friends. If he were obliged to hold a wedding at all, he insisted he would apply for special license, which he had, foregoing the reading of the banns and authorising him to hold the ceremony on the Thornedale estate, and he would ensure it was as discreet and private as possible.
He could hear his mother’s inevitable response in his head: ‘The Caldwells are just next door, one estate along – it was no bother for them to attend; on the contrary, they are delighted to witness your happy day and make the acquaintance of a new friend in the form of Lady Martha.’ She would most certainly follow up with a well-intended comment such as ‘you should embrace friendship, Julian. I do so worry regarding your isolation…’
Julian concluded it wasn’t worth the effort of an argument. As his eyes continued along the line of attendees, he saw a lady about his mother’s age and a pretty young woman he assumed had to be Lady Martha’s mother and sister. Both sat with their heads bent low, sombre; their mood better suited his propensity and not the cheery babbling of his mother, who engaged buoyantly with the Caldwells.
A few rows back, Julian could see his only friend, Lord Alistair Harrington, sitting with his mother, aunt and uncle and something deep in the pit of Julian’s stomach suddenly hit him. The vision of the four of them sitting there in the pews plummeted him back three years to Charity’s funeral. Before he could get a grasp on his panic, a flashback tremored into view:
Julian and Charity had been riding their horses happily along the coastal cliff which was a favourite route of theirs, and the day had started cloudy but mild. Charity had been excitedly describing her dress to Julian that she intended to wear for her upcoming debut. Julian had cut her off mid-sentence to remark upon how quickly the dark clouds were rolling in across the sea. He had a distinct sense of foreboding and suggested they turn back toward the Thornedale estate. The weather had altered with a shocking suddenness and Julian felt a sensation of urgency that they needed to head for shelter immediately.
As they turned their faithful horses about, a cacophony of thunder cracked deafeningly directly above their heads and Thomasina, Charity’s loyal filly, instantly alarmed by the unexpected terror from the sky, reared up in shock. Charity was seated aside, as was customary, and she was instantaneously pelted from the saddle in the direction of the cliff edge. Julian lurched forward to grab at her hand, and though their fingers brushed, her trajectory was too powerful, so she plunged over the ledge. Julian could only watch as she disappeared down the dark abyss and was swallowed up by the tumultuous, churning ocean below.
The vision was as vivid as the day it had happened. Julian experienced the horror as brutally as he had in that very moment.
He was awakened back into the reality of the chapel as a hand landed comfortingly upon his arm.
‘Julian? Are you quite alright? I say, you almost look as though you’ve seen a ghost!’
Julian turned in consternation to see his younger cousin, Edward, whispering discreetly and peering at him in concern.
Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Julian responded with a curt nod. Edward narrowed his eyes, not quite believing his cousin, before stepping back to his position for the ceremony.
Julian looked to the elderly Vicar, who shuffled into position at the altar, signalling that the nuptials were about to commence.
Chapter Two
As the large oak doors were swung open by the attendants, Martha clutched fiercely onto her father’s arm. James dropped his head in response as he was not proud of the predicament, he had caused his family and would not have chosen this route for Martha had it not been an essential solution.
Martha took a deep breath as they began to pace in measured, rhythmic strides down the aisle toward the altar. She had steeled herself for this moment and any tears she wanted to cry could be held back for later. This was a necessary transaction; the Duke needed a wife, and the Fairchild family needed a wealthy benefactor. This union solved both problems, but Martha wished, oh, how she wished, that her father had not chosen the Beast of Thornedale as her husband.
She had heard the rumours as there was no way avoiding them. Their community attested that the Beast was cursed. He had apparently grown up as an amiable and well-liked chap, but when he turned eighteen, he had fallen quite badly from his horse upon a jagged rock and required urgent surgery on his jawline. There were rumours that the head injury altered his mental state. The wound upon his face instilled a reserve in him as he no longer liked to be around people, feeling self-conscious about his appearance.
Following this arc of unfortunate luck, in his early twenties, Julian’s father had died quite suddenly, and the entire Thorne family became closed-off and reclusive, fuelling rumours of something dark within their gothic castle.
Speculations were further reinforced when his younger sister, Charity, was killed in a tragic accident the year she was due to debut. It was said that only the Duke, Julian Thorne, was present when she died.
Following this calamitous incident, Julian was witnessed demonstrating his destructive nature, yelling aggressively at well-meaning friends and Martha had even heard rumour he once practically destroyed a public house with his rage when he lost his temper over people gossiping.
Martha was afraid to lay eyes upon this beast of a man. The scandalous talk warned her to be cautious around him. Firstly, as she entered the small, bleak chapel, she noted how small the congregation seemed. She recognised her family members but beyond that, did not know the few people there present.
Her eyes sought out the man standing in a black suit at the front of the chapel. His back was to her, and her initial impression was of his broad shoulders and strong, intimidating posture.
The Duke turned as she looked with his ash blonde hair framing an austere expression on his angular face. His lips pouted with the implication of impatience, his heavy brow met in a knot of trepidation, and his strong jaw pulsed as he clenched his muscle in an agitated manner. There was nothing in Martha’s initial assessment of this man that did anything to dispel the rumours. His imperturbable demeanour only served to reinforce her deepest fears. She was indeed marrying a beast.
She could not retain her gaze upon him and looked to her feet, which slowly approached her fate in a taunting rhythm, before remembering her mother’s kindly words: Belinda had rallied her daughter ahead of the big day, imploring her to be strong and proud and face what was to come with dignity and self-assurance. She had empathised with her daughter’s inner turmoil because she could relate, having experienced an arranged marriage herself to a man she did not know and never grew to love. She insisted, however, that no matter how desolate Martha felt, it was imperative she did not allow her body to betray her feelings; if she were to appear weak, the Beast would treat her as so. Recalling her mother’s advice, Martha lifted her head.
Martha bravely raised her eyes once again to look at the Duke’s face, and this time, closer, she could see the silvery scar that ran from his ear to his chin. She concluded this had to be the scar from his fall that was the catalyst for his run of cursed incidences. Martha quickly drew her eyes away from the scar as her mother had taught her it was rude to draw attention to people’s differences. Bringing her gaze up to his face she could see that his eyes were a pale, watery blue, and with surprise, she noted that they betrayed some vulnerability. His flinty glare was not entirely without feeling. Perhaps, she wondered for a moment, he was frightened just as she was? This was unchartered territory for them both.
As Martha reached the end of the aisle, she realised she had to release her father’s arm. Her father, James Fairchild, the Earl of Farenwood, reached across and squeezed her hand before letting go. That squeeze spoke of many emotions – the usual expected expressions belonging to a man giving away his daughter as a bride; nostalgia, pride, compassion. But the sentiment that resonated most fiercely was shame. For both Martha and James knew, along with everybody else assembled in the chapel, that Martha was a debt being paid. James did not meet her eye as he shuffled away to seat himself at a pew and Martha realised sadly that he was a weak man. She did love him, as a daughter instinctively does, but he had caused this disruption to their family.
Martha had enjoyed a privileged childhood with a meticulously refined education, indulging in a luxurious lifestyle. As she matured, though, she became painfully aware of her father’s chaos and her mother’s resulting stress. They were no longer taking family holidays to the seaside in the summer months; her clothes had to be worn until she had completely outgrown them; their portion sizes were reduced at mealtimes and ultimately, they had let the majority of their household staff go. She had watched, quietly but with fervent observation, as the imposing house fell into disrepair and nothing was fixed or maintained. Belinda and James’ interactions deteriorated from stormy to utter avoidance. Martha had been too young to change any of it and too obedient to question it, but her mother had once inadvertently muttered some accusation about James squandering their family fortune on gambling, so Martha concluded her father’s dishonourable habit was the cause of the downfall of Farenwood estate and the Fairchild dynasty.
Here was the Earl of Farenwood handing over his daughter to a beastly man to satisfy his debt, she realised, and dipped her eyes at the realisation this was surely the most wretched of predicaments. Her mother’s warm words revisited her, and Martha recalled how Belinda had embraced her.
‘You are the family’s saviour, Martha – the disgrace your father has cultivated can be remedied by your elegant salvation and dignity.’
Holding these words forefront in her mind, Martha stepped forward, indicating that the Vicar’s ceremony could begin. She did not hear the words his mundane, tedious voice conveyed. Once or twice, she stole a sideways glance at the Duke, who stood stoically, void of emotion, staring forward. He seemed almost oblivious to her presence. She gulped down a ball of disappointment that swelled in her throat and reminded herself that she could not be crestfallen, as love had never been promised, and it was now abundantly clear that love would not form any part of this business transaction.
As the joyless, formal ceremony drew to a close, Martha looked back at her family in the pews. James’ face was unnaturally flushed; a potent combination of relief, embarrassment, and lingering anxiety. Belinda’s complexion in contrast, was notably pale while her eyes looked down into her lap, where she fiddled with a lace handkerchief. Next to her mother sat Sarah, Martha’s supportive, happy sister. They were close in age, and Martha could only feel relief that it was she who had been selected to wed the beast and not her sweet, loyal sibling.
Sarah summoned an encouraging smile for her sister, beaming a bright grin at Martha, but it did not touch her eyes. It was brittle, forced and Martha knew it would dissipate as soon as she turned back to the front. All the same, she attempted a small, sad smile to her sister in response. She utilised her fierce protectiveness of Sarah to embolden her as she remembered she was protecting their family from certain ruin. If the Fairchild family deteriorated into poverty, Sarah would never be matched with an eligible husband, and her future was an unthinkable projection of workhouses and poor spinsterhood.
Then the Vicar was asking the Duke if he would take Martha as his wife.
‘I do,’ the Duke’s voice boomed and echoed throughout the cold, barren chapel. Martha shuddered as she noted that his intimidating voice matched his formidable demeanour.
The Vicar asked Martha if she would take Julian as her husband.
Martha paused to consider whether she had any choice but she sensed her father bristle at her hesitation. She felt such anger toward him for putting her in this situation – for an instant, she wondered at the repercussions of refusing the proposal and how her father would need to learn his lessons the hard way.
But Martha knew the people who would experience those consequences more keenly would be her mother and sister, and this incentivised her onward.
‘I do,’ Martha responded with no further reluctance. She thought for a moment that her father’s sigh of relief was audible but wasn’t sure if she imagined it.
The Vicar pronounced them man and wife, and the new couple turned to face one another for the first time.
Julian trained his face to remain stoic, but truly he had not anticipated Martha would be this pretty. If he had to endure a wife, he supposed, it was better she were pleasant to look upon. She appeared frightened, however and her eyes sparkled with what he considered might be unshed tears or, at the very least, doubt and apprehension.
She had bright blue eyes that were trying to search his face. He noticed how they skimmed rapidly past the scar on his jaw, as if she was conscious not to make an issue of it. She was kind then, he concluded. He noticed that her outward breath manifested as a shudder and realised that if he were cold in his stiff, formal wedding jacket, she had to be half-frozen in her dainty lace bridal gown. Her pale decolletage trembled slightly as she tilted her head back to look up at him and that made him feel an unexpected urge to wrap her in something warm. He had only ever felt that surge of protectiveness toward his sister, Charity, and the revisitation of this sentiment stung him with painful nostalgia. He battened it down though, determined not to feel that way about anybody. It seemed to Julian that whenever he cared for or invested emotionally in somebody, they died so he would not allow those feelings in. Transaction. Obligation. Heir. He repeated in his head.
As Martha turned to look into the eyes of this renowned beastly man for the first time, she admitted to herself that she felt quite acutely afraid. What she saw there though, did not warrant her fear. She had envisaged his eyes would be black and foreboding, but she saw that they were a pale blue.
She noticed a flicker of concern in his eyes as he looked down at her, and she became aware that she was shaking quite visibly. The chapel was frigid, and it would not be appropriate for her to cover her wedding gown with a shawl. However, she knew that even if it had been the hottest of summer days, her body would still quake with apprehension. It was her nerves more than her temperature that provoked her shivering.
After having looked upon her with an expression of care, Martha saw a definitive shift. Quite suddenly, the Duke’s eyes took on a steeliness, and he raised his chin in defiance.
She had seen a vulnerable side to him in that stolen moment; she was certain of it. Whatever that brief glimpse of geniality was, it inspired some semblance of hope in Martha. That deep, beyond the façade of a beast, this man may harbour some form of compassion.
The organ music swelled, echoing throughout the small chapel, and the congregation came to stand. Julian and Martha compliantly turned and walked together down the aisle, both of them avoiding the eyes of their watchers. Julian, to project formality and duty; Martha, to avoid a captured glance at her family that might cause her to cry. And just like that they exited the oak double doors of the chapel as man and wife.
Chapter Three
Having made the short stroll across the cliff from the chapel to the main entrance of Thornedale Castle, the small congregation grouped under the big stone-structured portico. The Dowager Duchess, Her Grace Eloise Thorne, emitted a playful “woop!” as she swept her hand through the air, scattering a handful of flower petals over Julian and Martha. Sarah laughed in delight, supporting Eloise’s spirited jest and merriment. The Caldwells responded with polite smiles, appreciating her lively gesture; Martha merely looked a touch surprised, adjusting her hair to dislodge some petals, while Julian regarded his mother with a flicker of disdain, scarcely concealing his disapproval of her frivolity. Noticing his scorn, Eloise clicked her tongue softly.
‘It’s a celebration, Julian! Do smile…’ she urged nervously.
Martha looked to the Duke to gauge whether he might laugh it off, but instead he stormed through the main doors, which were held open by two butlers, leaving the wedding party to follow sheepishly behind him.
Martha noticed Eloise bow her head sorrowfully, shaking it a little with her eyebrows raised. If not even his mother could rouse her son’s spirits, Martha had little hope she would be able to vivify this stranger.
As Martha stepped into the entrance hallway, she saw that the household staff had convened in two rows, creating a corridor for the guests to walk through. There were many of them, and all had painted on brilliant smiles for the arrival of their new mistress.
‘Oh-’ Eloise remembered as she saw them there. ‘Perhaps we might officially welcome the new Duchess later in proceedings…’ she discreetly instructed the Housekeeper.
Upon overhearing this, Martha concluded the staff must have gathered for some formal introduction, but that Julian’s bad mood had aborted this warm welcome. A few staff members smiled subtly at her as she passed by, nodding her head in greeting. Some of them looked concerned, and Martha understood that it might be intimidating to accommodate a new member of the household. However, all of them were curious, leaning forward to look at her, and Martha blushed, averting her eyes.
The Dowager Duchess led the small group through to the dining hall, where Julian had already headed. As Martha’s heels clicked pointedly on the flawless marble hall, she looked up and around her. Above their heads was a large chandelier, covering the tall void with draping loops of crystal and beyond that, an elaborately painted renaissance domed ceiling. The walls were adorned with tremendous paintings of regal looking figures, austere faces and dramatic costumes, and Martha took a sharp intake of breath at the sudden realisation this place was her new home. She gazed around in astonishment, wondering how one could ever feel comfortable and relaxed in such a formal environment.
If Martha had thought the dining room would be more modest, she was astoundingly wrong. Another chandelier hung extravagantly above the long rectangular table, which was highly polished dark wood and lined with velvet-upholstered chairs with backs so high they looked more like a line of thrones. The table was dressed beautifully with ornately displayed flowers and carefully folded napkins, sparkling cutlery and intricately designed crockery.
The carpet was thick and bouncy beneath Martha’s feet as she entered and served to highlight to her how far the Fairchild family had fallen in the years since her father’s gambling habit had become problematic. She recalled childhood years of their large rooms sparkling with opulence and luxury and realised how, in recent times, their carpets had become so threadbare they were practically exposed wooden floorboards.
Scanning her eyes around the imposing room, Martha caught sight of the Duke’s face as his mother caught up with him and appeared to chastise him for rushing ahead. She noticed how he gestured around at the decorations of ribbons tied upon candlesticks and posies of flowers dotted at each place setting. Eloise looked about at the pieces adoringly and seemed to ignore her son’s castigation, walking away from him to welcome their guests in, further inflaming the anger on his face.
Once seated and looking at the sumptuous wedding feast of hot buttered muffins, rolls, assorted breads and chocolate treats, Martha concentrated quite intensely on the food, acutely aware of the starchy, indomitable man beside her.
The kindly couple – who had been introduced to Martha as Henry and Henrietta Caldwell and the closest neighbours to the Thornedale estate – attempted fruitlessly to draw the Duke into conversation.
‘I say, Your Grace, has your groundsman reported any sightings of wild boar upon your land?’ Henry enquired.
‘He has not,’ Julian replied curtly.
‘They are quite a tyrant – distressing our livestock. You have not experienced any problems?’
‘No,’ Julian confirmed, looking away, disinterested.
Martha tensed, feeling quite sympathetic toward poor Henry, who seemed sincere in his efforts to engage.
‘We may require a cull,’ Henry continued on, smiling regardless. ‘Would you participate in a hunt, Your Grace?’
‘No,’ Julian shut the conversation down and Martha bristled next to him.
‘Perhaps His Grace is occupied practising the pianoforte?’ Henrietta suggested playfully. ‘I remember how beautifully you played when…’
‘I do not play anymore,’ Julian cut her comment short and turned his attention instead to the butler ‘Blanchard, would you bring more butter?’
As the Butler nodded and obediently hurried out to the kitchen, Martha thought how it would be torture to tolerate this level of rudeness on a daily basis. She was itching to correct the Duke or to make apologies for his poor conduct but she knew that it would be entirely inappropriate for her to do either, so sat there trying to eat and finding it increasingly difficult to swallow.
‘I visited Haysendale once…’ Henrietta addressed Martha with a warm smile. ‘I have an Uncle who resided nearby and we took a beautiful walk through woodland with an abundance of grazing deer.’
‘How nice,’ Martha smiled gratefully for Henrietta’s alliance. ‘It was a beautiful place in which to grow up.’
Henrietta threw Martha a knowing look of solidarity, glancing pointedly at Julian, who was absorbed in the contents of his plate. Martha so appreciated the warm offering, a hand of potential friendship in an otherwise hostile environment.
She risked a glance at the Duke and noticed how his gaze fixed out of the window opposite them, which headed toward the sea – as if he willed himself outside of this room and wished to be elsewhere.
From across the table, Martha’s younger sister, Sarah, watched the exchange with pity etched upon her face, but when she saw Martha looking at her, she offered her a sad smile. Martha’s eyes glistened with emotion as she tried to smile back at her sister but Sarah’s heart surged knowing that within a couple of hours, she would be forced to leave her beloved sister here in this gothic monstrosity among strangers.
‘His bark is worse than his bite,’ came a voice from next to Sarah. She turned, embarrassed at somebody having borne witness to her non-verbal exchange with her sister.
The voice belonged to a gentleman aged about five and twenty and with what her mother would call a ‘sensible haircut’ and boyish face, with sparkling eyes and a sweet nose.
Sarah realised she must have looked alarmed, as the man panicked slightly at her reaction and reached out his hand to introduce himself.
‘Lord Edward Thorne – His Grace Julian Thorne is my cousin…’
Perplexed by a proposed handshake in such close proximity, Sarah turned awkwardly in her chair and leaned back slightly to afford herself the space to extend her hand to shake his, laughing at the absurdity of it.
‘Lady Sarah Fairchild,’ she introduced herself. ‘Sister of the bride.’
‘Then we are family!’ Edward exclaimed.
‘I suppose we are!’
‘Although distantly related, of course…’ he was quick to remind her and looked thoughtful for a moment.
‘Indeed,’ Sarah smiled and turned to take a sip of champagne from a crystal flute.
‘The chapel was cold,’ Edward continued, seemingly keen to chat. ‘Have you warmed through?’
‘Certainly. This dining room is the height of comfort. It is a beautiful castle and enticing estate,’ Sarah assured him.
‘Indeed, it is. I must confess I am a regular visitor to the Thornedale estate…’
‘You are close with your cousin?’ Sarah found this both surprising and promising.
‘I am, although my frequent visitations are not based purely on our friendship,’ he considered.
Sarah narrowed her eyes, silently requesting he elaborate.
‘I am a keen botanist and have been cataloguing the varieties of gorse, flowers, hedgerow, heathers, and grasses found upon the estate. It is a vast area, and the diversity of species is abundant.’
Sarah noticed how his face came alive when he spoke of his passion.
‘That sounds wonderful, even though I confess I am a novice when it comes to horticulture. What do you plan on doing with your study?’
Edward became animated at her question. ‘I am compiling a book. Perhaps I will call it ‘Wildflowers of the Cornish Coastline.’’
‘An appealing title! I will certainly read your book!’
‘You will? Thank you, Lady Sarah. Does botany interest you despite your self-proclaimed lack of knowledge on the topic?’
‘Certainly, it does! In fact, I have quite the passion for geology and I am fascinated by the land, types of soil and rocks and the potential for particular species of fauna to thrive in specific areas…’
‘Why, flora and fauna go hand in hand!’ Edward seemed unable to believe his luck at having been sat next to such a like-minded soul.
‘So they do!’ laughed Sarah convivially.
‘As should we,’ Edward said but seemed to suddenly realise how his comment may have sounded inappropriate. ‘In our studies, I mean! We should compare notes to assist one another…’
Sarah blushed and laughed ‘Of course!’ She rearranged her napkin in her lap as cause to look away from his enthusiastic expression.
Julia Thorne
