Page 1 of The Duke's Auctioned Virgin
CHAPTER 1
The candle had burned to a stub by the time the knock sounded.
Valeria was reading. Or pretending to. She had been stuck on the same page for the last hour. The book was from the library, one of the few rooms Gordon had not thought to lock. Dust covered the old pages. She was not reading it. She was holding it so her hands had something to do.
The room was quiet. It was always quiet. Gordon was in his study. The servants were downstairs. Just the clock on the mantelpiece, ticking.
She was thinner. She had caught a glimpse of herself that morning. She tried not to look in mirrors anymore. Her cheekbones were sharp enough to cut, and her collarbones poked through her nightshift. Her father used to call her his bright girl. She did not look bright. She looked used up.
Gordon had cut her meals again the week before. Broth and bread for two days because she laughed at something Mary said. He heard it from the hall. She was not allowed to laugh.
She was tired. Not the kind of tired sleep fixed, but bone-tired. Her hands ached. Her neck ached. There was a bruise on her wrist from where she had caught herself on the doorframe that morning, and she had pressed on it three times since sitting down just to feelsomething.
The book was a novel. It was about a girl and a sea captain and a chest of stolen gold. Valeria did not care about any of them. She turned the page anyway. The paper was soft and yellow at the edges.
“Come in,” she called, setting the book down.
She expected Mary. Mary came every night. Warm milk, a few minutes of talk. Gordon did not know about these visits. He never paid attention to the household schedule.
But these footsteps were too quick. Too light. Wrong breathing. Ragged. Not Mary.
Valeria sat up straighter. Earlier that evening, a maid had knocked to ask if she wished to visit the Duke before retiring. Valeria had sent her away with the same answer she gave every night: tell His Grace that a wife who cannot give him children has no reason to visit his chambers. The maid had curtsied and left.
It was routine by now. Three years of the same exchange, the same refusal, the same lie keeping the door shut between them. Gordon had stopped coming to her room after the first year. The lie had worked. It was the one victory she allowed herself.
So when the knock came again, she assumed it was Mary with the milk.
But these footsteps were wrong.
Agnes, one of the younger maids, stepped through the door white as a sheet.
“Your Grace.” Her voice broke. “You must come. Please. Now.”
“What has happened?” Valeria asked.
Agnes could not get the words out. She tried twice. Her mouth moved, but nothing came out.
Valeria rose from the bed and put both hands on the girl’s shoulders. “Agnes, look at me. Tell me what happened.”
“It is the Duke, Your Grace. He… he has collapsed in his study. He is not breathing.”
The words did not land right away. Agnes was shaking. Valeria could see it in her hands, the apron twisting between her fingers. The girl wasterrified.
So the words were true.
“Send for a physician,” she ordered. Her voice came out wrong. Too calm. “Has anyone moved him?”
“No, Your Grace. Mr. Barrett found him and came straight down.”
“Nobody touches him. Not until the physician gets here.”
Agnes nodded and fled.
Valeria stood alone in her room. Counted to five. One for the shock. Two for the disbelief. Three for the flicker of something she would not name. Four to swallow it. Five.
She reached for her dressing gown. Then she went downstairs.
The corridor was cold. It was always cold here. Three years, and she had never gotten used to it. The stone floor bit at her bare feet.
