The Duke And His Mate

Chapter-1 Emelisse

"I cannot marry you," His voice was just as hard as the look in his eyes. It felt like the ground beneath her crumbled down into a billion pieces as she gazed back at him. This could not be happening. He cannot do this to her. He said he loved her. Didn't he? Doesn't he understand what love was supposed to mean?

"What?" She finally managed to get the words out as her body shook with the suffocating feeling of impending doom that was about to transpire in her life.

"Forgive me, if you can..." He said and, giving her a nod, he strode past her while she stood there and blankly stared at the empty space where he stood a moment ago. Was this how it was going to end?

As she stood there and watched her life crumble apart, she could bet everything she held dear to her and say that three months ago, this was definitely not how she imagined her life to turn out to be...

3 months ago...

"I think she looks perfect, my lady," Blue-eyes gazed sullenly at the full-length mirror as three pairs of hands worked steadfastly on perfecting her embellished full dress.

Emelisse had lost track of time as the modiste, her assistants, and her mother played around with her in their aim for perfection. And something told her, they were nowhere close to done. Her back ached with pain from standing for so long, but there was no way she would dare complain. Not after registering the sheer look of unshakable determination on her mother's face.

"Maybe we can tighten the corset a bit?" Her mother offered, her eyebrows furrowed together as she took in the supposedly final look for her elder daughter's first official ball, an event that commences the start of the London social season along with her quest to find the perfect husband for herself.

"I don't think we can, my lady. This is tight enough and she needs to breathe," Madame Gillet, the modiste, shook her head. She gave Emelisse a sympathetic look in the mirror, her fingers moving nimbly on finessing the gold trimmings on her dress. "As I said, this is perfect. Ms. Featherstone will be a sight to remember, I daresay. All we need is some ornaments to go with her dress, feathers maybe? And the gloves. I believe lace would suit perfectly with this,"

"We indeed need this to be perfect," her mother mumbled. "This is going to be her first appearance as a debutante. My daughter needs to stand out by every means. Men should be lining up to have a chance with her. All this hard work can't be for nothing,"

"Don't stress, my lady. She will be perfect tomorrow," Madame Gillet assured. " And anyhow, how hard could it be to find a perfect husband?"

What?

Emelisse wanted to reply with something exceptionally sarcastic about that, but her manners didn't allow her the liberty. The poor woman had no inkling of just how hard it was. She was twenty-one and, since the time she was old enough to walk, she had been training for this very day. Relentlessly.

"Alright, maybe walk a little, sweetheart?" Bridget Featherstone offered, ignoring Madame Gillet's comment efficiently. "The last thing we need is for you to topple over in a room full of prospective suitors. That would be the end of it."

Emelisse nodded and tried to walk about the room as gracefully as she could. By all means, she wasn't much when it comes to that. She was pathetically clumsy and the many fading bruises on her body attested to that. The idea of toppling headfirst in a crowded ballroom was her worst nightmare coming true.

"That's better," her mother prompted. "You are getting better at this," Emelisse had no idea, but she managed a smile regardless. Who was she to contradict Viscountess Bridget Featherstone after all?

"Is there any particular gentleman you have in mind, my lady?" Madame Gillet asked, undoubtedly curiously. Emelisse snorted inwardly at her question.

Particular? Her mother had an entire list of prospective husbands ready for her. From Viscounts to Barons, her repertoire included every eligible man in the city that stood up to her standards. And her mother's standards were her standards. Because frankly, she never got the time to think about what she wanted. Emelisse had not the slightest inkling about what she was looking for in a husband. All she knew was that she needed to grab the best match in the London marriage market. And with enough on her plate already, she decided to rely on her instincts for that instead.

"I have," Bridget smiled, looking pleased. "Quite a few actually."

"I believe there might be a great match," The modiste countered, her eyes shining wickedly for some reason. "Apparently, Lady Huntington's nephew, the duke of Marholm, will be joining her for the season,"

"The duke of Marholm is an old man, madame Gillet," Bridget prompted, rolling her eyes. "Stand straight, Emelisse. Stop slouching," Emelisse sighed and stood up straighter, her spine practically killing her. She was so frustrated that, at this point, she was ready to marry the first man who proposed to her, desperate as that sounded.

"Mother!" All eyes turned towards the door where her brother stood, all high and mighty and looking exhilarated somehow. He took the chaos that was going on in her room and gave Emelisse a commiserating look.

"Benedict," Bridget mumbled. "What are you doing here at this hour?"

"I have some news," Benedict answered. "I...my apologies, I had no idea of...I hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"We were just taking our leave," Madame Gillet smiled, gathering her things. "All the best for your ball tomorrow, Ms. Featherstone,"

"Thank you," Emelisse smiled and curtsied as the party walked out of her room. Thank lord, she could finally breathe. She sagged down on the chair and almost moaned at the respite her fragile spine felt.

"What is it, Benedict?" Bridget demanded. "And you are supposed to knock when you enter a lady's room."

"She is my sister," Benedict protested.

"A grown-up sister who will most probably be married in a few months," her mother pointed out. "Now, what is it?"

"We might be hosting the duke of Marholm this season," Benedict said, flaunting a letter on his mother's face. Emelisse frowned, having no idea of who that was and why her brother was so excited.

"Duke of Marholm?" Her mother blinked. "The old man?" Benedict shook his head.

"The old man is dead," he answered. "By duke of Marholm, I meant Maxwell," He smiled. "You remember Maxwell, right mother? You cannot forget my best friend," Bridget frowned and slowly shook her head.

"I am afraid, I don't," She said. "Have we met him before?"

"No," Benedict said. "But I told you about him. We met when I was traveling a few years ago. The youngest child of duke Arthur Durst?" Bridget frowned before her eyes widened in recognition and she nodded her head.

"Yes, yes...I recall now," She exclaimed. "What happened to the...old duke?"

"He passed away and left Maxwell as the heir," her brother smiled fondly. "He will be visiting London to sort out some affairs,"

"Ah, madame Gillet was right then," Bridget prompted, suddenly looking just as excited as her son. Whenever her mother gets excited about a man, it was usually not a good sign for her.

"Isn't he the man you cannot stop gushing about when you returned home last year?" Emelisse pointed out. Benedict nodded his head, looking pleased.

"He is one of the most enigmatic personalities I have encountered in my life, Em," he murmured. "Maybe a bit mysterious and odd in his ways, but a personality to reckon with nevertheless. Well-traveled, well-read, and well to do, undoubtedly. I am really looking forward to meeting him."

"Will he be staying the season?" Bridget asked, her blue eyes shining.

"I presume he will. At least that's what his letter sounded like," Benedict answered. "We have to host him, mother. It would be shameful for me if we didn't."

"Undoubtedly, that would be an honor," Bridget agreed wholeheartedly. "I hope we will get to meet him at the events?"

Emelisse knew precisely where her mother was going with this. Another name was added to her list of perfect suitors. She made a face. If the man was crowned a duke, he had to be really old. And given he was her brother's friend, also confirmed that. Benedict was around six or seven years older than her. She might have no idea what she wanted for a husband, but Emelisse was sure she was not going to be interested in a man her brother's age. No way. He was too old for her. And old men tend to be painstakingly boring most of the time.

"I don't think so," Benedict replied. "Maxwell likes to keep to himself. He isn't a very social person, I would say. More of a recluse,"

"Oh," Bridget muttered, definitely not pleased at the idea.

Good. A man who doesn't know how to have a decent conversation in a social setting was most definitely not going to be her choice. And anyway, he was her brother's best friend. It would do her mother good to tick him off her list. Otherwise, it could get very embarrassing for Benedict. And her too.

The next evening, as she stood in front of the mirror, perfectly poised and ready, Emelisse could feel the knots forming in her stomach. It was finally time. Her heart was pounding against her chest as her mother decorated her delicate bun with elaborate arrangements of beautiful white feathers that matched her exquisite white gown with gold trimmings. Her face was already so red with ever-growing anxiety that she was sure her mother would need to stow her specially made rouge for some other time.

"And that's all done there," Bridget smiled as she held out her silver cachou lip rouge box. "Just a little of this," Emelisse dipped her finger in the waxy thing and delicately applied it to her lips, completing her first ball look.

Satisfied, she stood back and twirled around a little. So far, everything except her nerves seemed just fine. If she could just keep her head straight and keep her eye on the prize, whoever that was going to be, she would be fine.

"Are you scared?" Her mother asked softly and Emelisse nodded. How could she not be? The sheer amount of eyes that awaited to judge her and her worth by the way she stands and walks was certainly something to be scared of, isn't it?

"You are the most charming young woman I have laid my eyes upon. Pretty as a picture, my darling. You will be the most handsome of the lot, I daresay you will. No need to be scared. You have worked exceptionally hard. Now it's time to reap the rewards," her mother assured her as she squeezed her gloved hand affectionately. It didn't help a wee bit, but Emelisse gave her a small smile nevertheless.

"I will try my best," She smiled. And so she will. She was going to find the most perfect husband for herself tonight. Someone who would fit like a glove with her. A match that everyone would talk about for years to come. She was ready and she could do that. All she needed to do was to get her wits together. And listen to her heart, just like her father says.

However, when she would look back at this night a few months later, a night that was about to change her life for good, she would definitely reconsider whether to listen to her heart...

Was even a good idea...

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Glossary for regency terms:

1. Modiste: A fashionable dressmaker.

2. Debutante: an upper-class young woman making her first appearance in fashionable society

3. Season: a time of year traditionally adopted by the English upper classes for a series of fashionable social events.