The Duke Was Forced to Marry the “Ugliest” Somerset Sister, a Woman Hidden Behind Black Crepe for Ten Years — But When He Removed Her Veil Before the Entire Court, Everyone Finally Learned Why She Had Been Hidden

PART 6

The journey to York bore no resemblance to their journey north. Fresh furs lined the carriage. The axle held true. But the silence between them was thick with nerves rather than cold indifference, and Henrietta had retreated to her heaviest armor — the suffocating black crepe of her wedding day, pinned tight beneath a severe gown of dark plum velvet, high at the throat, devoid of ornament. She looked, she thought, like mourning made flesh.

Arthur sat across from her in the formal regimentals he hadn’t worn since the war — dark red and gold braid, terrifyingly regal against his usual austere black.

Cumberland’s estate blazed with light, hundreds of carriages lining the drive. As Arthur handed her down, the noise hit her like a physical blow — music, laughter, the clink of crystal. Her bad leg throbbed violently in the freezing air.

“Hold my arm.” He stepped close, voice low. “Eyes forward. You look at no one but me, or Cumberland. They are ghosts, Henrietta. They cannot touch you.”

They stepped into the gilded ballroom, and the effect was instantaneous — as if someone had thrown a heavy blanket over the crowd. Music continued. Laughter died. Hundreds of heads turned. Henrietta felt the weight of every stare piercing straight through her veil, heard the harsh, immediate whisper of fans rising to hide sneering mouths.

Arthur did not slow his pace. He walked with measured, predatory grace, cutting straight down the center of the room, parting the glittering crowd like a warship through ice.

“Good God — is she draped in mourning?”

“They say she’s missing an eye. Or a nose.”

“The Somerset girl. The broken one.”

Henrietta’s bad leg caught the edge of a Persian rug, a spike of pain shooting up her spine. She pitched forward. Arthur’s hand shot out, catching her by the waist, hauling her upright without a word, without slowing.

At the far end of the room, on a raised dais between marble pillars, sat the Duke of Cumberland — bloated, ruddy, wearing the arrogant slump of a man who had never once been told no. He watched their approach with a cruel, satisfied smirk, a wine glass balanced on his stomach. A small mahogany table held the deed and a silver inkwell.

Arthur halted before the dais. He did not bow.

“Cumberland.”

“Westford. You’re late.” A slow sip of wine. “We were beginning to think the journey from your quaint little ruins was too much for you.”

“Let us dispense with the theater. I’m here for my signature. The crown has verified the marriage. The entailment is fulfilled.”

Cumberland smiled — an ugly, hungry thing.

“The crown has verified a piece of paper. I am the king’s proxy here, and I am charged with ensuring the transfer of such significant lands is beyond reproach.” His eyes drifted lazily past Arthur’s shoulder, to the shape swallowed entirely in black crepe. “The documents state you married Henrietta Somerset. Yet you bring a shadow into my hall. A woman with no face. How am I to know you did not simply pull a scullery maid from the gutter and drape her in silk to steal a dukedom?”

The ballroom’s silence became absolute. Henrietta stopped breathing. The air beneath her veil turned to hot ash. Three hundred people, peeling the fabric away with their collective imagination.

This was the exact nightmare she had hidden from for ten years.

“Her identity is sworn by the archbishop who married us,” Arthur said, voice dropping, lethal and calm.

“Are you calling the church a liar?” Cumberland waved a dismissive hand. “I am merely adhering to the law. Visual identification of the signatories — a standard formality. Have your wife lift her veil, Westford. If it’s indeed the Somerset girl beneath that shroud, I’ll sign the deed.” A shrug. “If she refuses — the marriage is suspect. The lands revert to the crown.”

A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. A trap, executed publicly, executed perfectly.

Henrietta’s hands shook violently. The room tilted. She would rather freeze on the moors. She would rather let Westford rot. She took a panicked step back, her dragging foot catching loud on the polished wood.

Arthur turned, blocking her view of Cumberland entirely, catching her trembling hands in his own.

“Arthur, no,” she whispered, the words lost beneath the fabric. “Please. Let the land go. We can leave.”

“If we leave now, they will hunt you forever,” he said, so low only she could hear it. “They will whisper about you until you’re nothing but a ghost in your own home. They feed on shame, Henrietta.”

“I am shameful.”

“You are the strongest person I have ever known.” His grip tightened, fierce. “You saved my house. My people. You saved me from going mad in the dark. Do not let this bloated pig tell you what you’re worth.”

“I cannot let them see.”

“Then let me.”

The ballroom held its breath. Cumberland leaned forward on his velvet chair, greedy anticipation lighting his dull eyes. He expected rage. He expected the bride to flee in tears.

Instead, Arthur released her hands, stepped closer, and reached — with steady, white-gloved fingers — for the silver pins securing the black crepe to her bonnet.