THE DUKE AND HIS RELUCTANT BRIDE

Helen It was a sunny afternoon on New Bond Street, the kind that made London and its people warm. Sunlight flashed generously across the roofs, and scents of perfume wafted in the breeze, hinting that summer was fast approaching. Dwellers strolled at leisure, enjoying the atmosphere, their conversations light, their laughter as if unencumbered by worldly affairs. I strolled gently with the people. I am tall and slender, my posture composed, my steps intentional. My eyes were enchanting, like the ones carved by the goddess of beauty herself. My skin shone like sunlight on metal. A beauty so profound that it could make the strongest of men melt in my presence. The Carvers were known for their nobility of character and inheritance. My attire showed who we are: modest yet worthy, tasteful, suitable for a woman of my standing, who neither chased attention nor required it. My maid followed closely behind me as I entered a seamstress’s shop just off the main street. The moment I stepped into the shop, I paused. The room was unusually crowded. Women filled every corner, and their excitement filled the room. Some were tightening their corsets, while others waited for their measurements to be taken. Pins glinted in the light, fabrics displayed on their shoulders, and the urgency in every whisper and countenance could not go unnoticed. I stood by the door, my brows raised in confusion, and my face laced with irritation. “What is happening?” I asked quietly. “Why is every seamstress in the city busy today?” “I am as surprised as you are, miss,” my maid replied. I looked through the room, wondering what the people could be making a fuss about. I saw my friend Elizabeth, looking all bright and cheerful. Our eyes met, and we smiled gracefully at each other. Elizabeth left at once and walked towards me. “Who would have believed even Helen Carver would also be excited over a ball?” Elizabeth teased as she walked closer to me. “What ball?” I asked. With a squeezed face, I loosened up my countenance as I leaned forward to kiss Elizabeth on her left and right cheeks, even as Elizabeth did the same. I whispered as my curiosity heightened, “What ball are you speaking of?” “The Bramwells’ ball,” Elizabeth said. “I assumed everyone got an invitation. Did you not?” “I did,” I admitted. “But I fail to understand why it is being treated as though London has not seen a ball in a century.” My lips tightened slightly. “All the seamstresses are booked,” I went on. “This is the third shop I’ve entered today, and all are equally overwhelmed.” Elizabeth lowered her voice. “It is because of the Duke.” My expression sharpened. “The Duke?” “The Duke of Greystone,” Elizabeth said, almost reverently. “Rumor has it he will grace the ball with his rare presence.” I stared at her. “So all this,” I stretched out my hand toward the crowd, “is because one man has decided to grace a ballroom with his presence?” “Absolutely,” Elizabeth said. “Which mother would not want her daughter to attract the attention of the most eligible bachelor in London?” “The Duke does not attend balls,” Elizabeth continued. “He avoids society, rarely appears at gatherings. This may be the only opportunity.” “All this effort,” I interrupted as I could no longer hide my disdain, “for a man who is said to possess only nobility of birth and not of character.” Elizabeth sighed, unfazed. “Deficient of character or not, he is handsome, wealthy, and powerful. With that, most are contented.” I turned away, already done with the conversation. “I shall return when this madness has passed.” Outside, the street felt no less crowded, but the air seemed heavier. I walked on, my face still covered in irritation and shame. The society’s admiration for the Duke of Greystone never ceased to amaze me. That a man known as an inconsiderate moneylender, one who profited from desperation and enforced his debts without mercy, could still be held in such high esteem spoke volumes about the values London chose to uphold. Power seems to settle everything. I exhaled sharply, unaware that not far behind me, a carriage bearing the Greystone crest had slowed. A deep blue conveyance trimmed in silver, its wheels polished, its horses disciplined to a flawless halt. The occupant had already heard the sound of my voice. My voice was sharp, carried by the open air, and I did not bother to restrain myself from the rant. The driver wore a coat with a Greystone Crest on its arm. I did not recognize it, but others clearly did. A man halted as he saw the crested carriage. Another held her daughter back from the road. Somewhere behind me, someone whispered a name. I paid no attention to it. “He oppresses people with his money,” I went on, turning my frustration toward the street itself. “If he truly had honor, he wouldn’t need fear to collect his debts.” The carriage window was open. Inside, a man sat in shadow, his posture unyielding, one gloved hand resting against the frame as his gaze settled not on the street, but on me. He did not interrupt. He did not react. He merely listened, his expression unreadable. The driver shifted uncomfortably. A footman cast a glance toward the carriage window, then back at me, his face pale. “They call him wealthy,” I scoffed, shaking my head. “Wealth that came from generations of oppressing the needy and making them desolate.” The carriage moved on. Only when it disappeared down the street did the silence break. A woman grasped my arm, her eyes wide. “Have you lost your mind?” she hissed. “Do you know whose carriage just passed?” I frowned. “Some noble whom I do not care to know.” The woman swallowed. “That was the Duke of Greystone.” I laughed once, short and disbelieving. “The Duke of Greystone does not ride with his window open,” I said lightly as I withdrew my arm.