Chapter 2: The Duke’s Bride for Sale
1163 Words
The cold iron dug into Eleanor’s wrists, the heavy chains pulling at her delicate skin as she was shoved forward, the force nearly sending her to her knees. She barely caught herself before she stumbled, her breath quickening at the sound of the massive wooden doors creaking open.
The scent of cigar smoke, sweat, and damp wood filled the air, thick with the tension of a crowded room. The sound of low murmurs, drunken laughter, and the occasional clinking of coins echoed through the vast underground chamber.
She knew where she was.
She had heard the rumors.
This was no ordinary auction house.
This was a place where men with too much money and too little conscience gathered to purchase things that were never meant to be sold.
And tonight, she was the prize.
Her stomach churned, nausea rising in her throat as she was led through the darkened corridor, the shadows stretching long against the flickering torchlight. Her stepmother walked a few paces behind her, the familiar clicking of her jeweled heels ringing sharply against the stone.
"Do behave yourself, Eleanor," Lady Beatrice murmured, her voice cold and composed. "A nobleman will surely find you useful."
Eleanor said nothing.
She knew better than to waste her breath.
Lady Beatrice had made her intentions clear. She had known about Eleanor’s secret meeting with the Duke. Had punished her for it.
And now, she was disposing of her before Alexander Collinwood could intervene.
They reached the edge of the platform, where the auctioneer—a tall, heavyset man with a deep voice and greedy eyes—stood waiting.
He barely spared her a glance before turning his attention to Lady Beatrice.
"Is this the girl?"
"Yes," her stepmother answered smoothly, pulling a rolled parchment from her sleeve. "You’ll find everything in order. She is unwed, untouched, and of noble blood. A rarity, wouldn’t you say?"
Eleanor swallowed back the bile rising in her throat.
The auctioneer unrolled the parchment, scanning its contents before nodding.
"A fine offering indeed," he mused. "The veil is a nice touch—adds mystery. The men will pay more for what they cannot see."
Lady Beatrice smiled, her lips curving into something sharp. "Make sure she fetches a high price."
With that, she turned, disappearing into the shadows of the crowd without so much as a backward glance.
Eleanor’s pulse pounded in her ears.
She was alone now.
Alone and completely at their mercy.
The auctioneer gestured toward the guards. "Bring her up."
Before she could protest, the chains around her wrists were yanked forward, and she was hauled onto the raised platform. The heat from the torches cast a golden glow across the chamber, illuminating the sea of waiting men.
Lords, barons, merchants—each dressed in fine attire, their eyes gleaming with anticipation.
A sharp chill raced down her spine.
She clenched her hands into fists beneath the folds of her gown.
She would not cry.
She would not give them the satisfaction.
The auctioneer stepped forward, spreading his arms wide as he addressed the room.
"Gentlemen," he called, his voice carrying through the air, "tonight, we present something truly rare. A noblewoman, veiled to preserve her modesty, untouched by any man’s hand. An offering of the highest quality."
A ripple of interest swept through the crowd.
Coins were already clinking against wooden tables, murmured discussions taking place between eager bidders.
The auctioneer’s lips curled.
"Shall we begin?"
Eleanor’s breath caught.
This was happening.
Her fate was about to be sealed in the highest bid.
She tried to steady herself, to force her trembling legs to hold firm—
But then—
A single voice rang out.
"Stop."
The room went silent.
The auctioneer froze mid-sentence, his eyes widening slightly as all heads turned toward the back of the hall.
Eleanor’s pulse skipped.
She knew that voice.
The sound of boots striking stone echoed through the chamber, steady, unhurried. A presence so powerful, so absolute that the very air shifted around him.
A figure emerged from the shadows, his black coat flowing behind him, his golden cufflinks gleaming under the torchlight. His sharp, chiseled features remained unreadable, his eyes dark and cutting.
Alexander Collinwood.
The Duke of Collinwood.
A nobleman no one dared to cross.
A man who had not come to bid.
He had come to take.
The auctioneer swallowed thickly. "M-My Lord Duke, we were just about to begin the bidding—"
"There will be no bidding," Alexander said, his voice low and precise.
Murmurs rippled through the room, hushed whispers of uncertainty.
The auctioneer hesitated, his gaze flickering toward Eleanor before returning to the Duke. "With all due respect, my lord, this is an established—"
"How much?"
The auctioneer faltered. "I—"
Alexander’s fingers rested against the hilt of his sword.
"Name your price."
A tense silence followed.
Then—
"One hundred gold pieces," the auctioneer said, his voice a touch nervous.
Alexander reached into his coat, pulling out a heavy velvet pouch.
He tossed it onto the table without another word.
The room remained deathly quiet.
The auctioneer hesitated, glancing toward the other noblemen, as if seeking permission.
But no one spoke.
No one challenged him.
No one dared.
Finally, the auctioneer nodded, motioning toward the guards. "Release her."
The chains around Eleanor’s wrists fell away, clattering to the ground.
For a brief moment, she stood frozen.
Then—
Warm fingers curled around her wrist.
Not rough. Not forceful.
But firm. Unyielding.
Alexander did not look at her.
He simply turned, guiding her from the stage as if she had never belonged there in the first place.
And no one—not even her stepmother, watching from the crowd—dared to stop him.
---
Outside the Auction House
The cold night air hit her the moment they stepped beyond the threshold.
Eleanor barely had a chance to catch her breath before Alexander came to a stop.
His fingers released her wrist, only to tilt her chin upward, forcing her gaze to meet his.
His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes were sharper than before.
She swallowed.
"You came for me," she whispered.
A muscle in his jaw tensed.
"You asked for three days," he murmured. "I came in two."
She exhaled softly.
Relief.
Not fear.
Never fear.
He stepped back slightly, his sharp gaze trailing over her, as if assessing for injuries.
"Did they hurt you?"
She hesitated, then shook her head.
Something in his gaze shifted.
Something dangerous.
She knew then—if she had said yes, someone would be dead before sunrise.
Without another word, he turned, motioning toward the waiting carriage.
"Come," he said.
She did not hesitate.
She did not look back.
She simply followed.
And as the carriage doors closed behind them, sealing her fate—
Eleanor realized something.
She was no longer a prisoner.
She was a wife.
And soon, she would be the Duchess of Collinwood.
---
End of Chapter 2
- Writer
