Page 1 of The Duke’s Rejected Mate

Chapter 1

Cynthia

Saturday

Engaged.

Betrothed.

An understanding.

Only, as I sit there, hands in my lap, prim and proper as I can be, I find I understand nothing.

Engaged.

To a man I know nothing about.

To a Viscount who just seems satisfied with a wife. Any wife. Whoever will marry him.

Not the Duke whom I’ve pined after these few years. Not the man whose punishing hand can make my soul sing and my body quake. Not the deviant who turns my head with a mere word.

No. Not him.

At this point now, never him.

I blink up at the gray-blue eyes peering at me, no true expression in their depths. David Richardson, Viscount of Henhaven. A man I’ve never met. A man I’m certainly fine never getting to know.

With a deep breath, I look over at my mother. She sits there all haughty, with her back ramrod, as if she’s done something miraculous. Father, on the other hand, looks tired and haggard.

“The banns are set to be read this coming Sunday,” he grumbles, rubbing a hand over his weathered face. “From there, you will have two more Sundays to get to know each other. I suggest you use them wisely.”

Sunday. Tomorrow. I will have to sit in the church with friends and family alike and hear the announcement cried out for all to hear. There will be no hiding it then, no undoing it. Married in such a short time to a stranger.

My insides cramp as I grip my dress, unable to fully process everything. It’s overwhelming. It’s a maelstrom of emotions I’m not sure I can fully keep at bay. Unfortunately, the one man I’d go to in such a time is now off limits to me.

Closing my eyes, I resist the mournful groan that threatens to flit from my lips. How I would beg for his hand against my backside as I spill my transgressions to him. Why not him? Why could he not be the one to ask?

My mother clears her throat next to me and digs her fingers into my arm. “Say something to your betrothed, dear. Or else he might think you to be a mute.”

“Unseasonably cold weather we’re having,” I manage to mumble. “Do you suppose London will see snow well before Martinmas?”

His throaty laugh grates on what little nerves I retain as he leans forward, gracing me with a tight smile that never fully reaches his eyes. “Why, I do believe that is a possibility. It’s certainly not unheard of. In fact, my home in Henhaven certainly sees its fair share.”

The weather. That’s what our conversation is reduced to. But then, it’s not as if I can ask him questions like, how does your member compare to the mighty staff I once saw betwixt Norhaven’s thighs. Does your knot swell with such magnificent girth that to ponder it might make me swoon?

No. We speak of snow like polite members of the Ton, and nothing more. Turning to the side, I drum my fingers onto my thigh, doing my best to come up with something else to say.

“Might I inquire,” he slides in, filling the awkward gap. “Are you fond of the pianoforte?”

“Not particularly,” I reply, keeping my tone as neutral as possible.

“Why, Cynthia,” my mother cries out, a false laugh on her lips. “Do not tell such a fib. Regale your guest with how beautifully you play.”

“How can I, Mother, when you have instructed me from birth not to tell a lie?” The air grows still, stifling, and quite uncomfortable as we sit there in the uneasy silence.

“But don’t you wish to impress your intended with your other numerous talents?” she insists, digging her nails into me even harder until I’m sure blood might well up.

“I fear there is no need to impress him. Is that right, my lord? I am already bound to you. So there is no need to put on such theatrics or airs.”