They Called Her the Family’s “Invisible Failure”—Until the Duke Said, “Pretend to Be My Fiancée at the Christmas Ball,” With One Impossible Rule: No Real Feelings. But Days Before the Ball Began, He Was the First to Break It.
PART 3
She should not have agreed to this.
Meline had turned the invitation over in her mind through the entire night — a duke, a stable, seven o’clock — until she could no longer tell whether she dreaded it or wanted it far too much. A duke did not ask a plain, overlooked daughter to ride with him at dawn without reason. She told herself it was curiosity on his part. Nothing more. She would not allow herself to hope for anything more.
And yet at 6:45 she stood at her mirror in the dark green riding habit — several years out of fashion, but serviceable — and caught herself hoping he would not come, which was not the same as hoping he would.
She crept through the silent house like a thief, careful to avoid the servants beginning their morning routines. The last thing she needed was for word to spread that she had gone riding with the Duke before breakfast.
The stables were warm compared to the bitter cold outside — heated by the body warmth of the horses, sweet with hay and leather. Meline had always loved this place. It was one of the few corners of her life where she felt truly at peace.
“You came.”
She spun. Adrien Redwyne was emerging from a stall leading a magnificent black stallion — tall boots, buckskin breeches, a dark coat that made him look even more imposing than he had in evening dress.
“I said I would.” She lifted her chin. “Did you doubt me?”
“Most ladies of my acquaintance say many things they do not mean.” He studied her with those penetrating dark eyes. “I am pleased to discover you are not among them.”
“This is Midnight,” he added, patting the stallion’s neck. “And I have taken the liberty of having Shadow prepared for you. Your father’s groom assures me she is gentle — but spirited.”
A gray mare stood in the adjacent stall, already saddled. Meline approached her carefully, letting the horse become accustomed to her scent.
“She’s beautiful.”
“As are you.”
Meline froze, certain she had misheard. But when she turned, he was still watching her with that same intense focus.
“Your grace, I—”
“No one is here to overhear us, Lady Meline. We may dispense with the formalities, if you wish. My name is Adrien.”
“That would be highly improper.”
“So would meeting a gentleman at dawn for a clandestine ride.” He moved closer, close enough that she could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the faint scar along his jaw. “I think we have already ventured beyond the bounds of propriety. Do you not agree?”
Her heart was thundering now, a wild drum beat in her chest.
“Why did you ask me here?”
“Because I have a proposition for you.” He gestured toward the stable doors. “But first — let us ride. I find I think more clearly in motion.”
They rode across the frost-covered fields of Winterborn Manor in silence, the horses’ breath clouding the icy air. The sun was rising, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold so beautiful they seemed almost impossible.
Meline had forgotten how much she loved this. The freedom of movement. The wind in her face. The feeling of being untethered from all the expectations and disappointments waiting for her back at the manor.
Adrien rode with the easy confidence of a man born to the saddle. He pushed Midnight into a gallop, and Meline urged Shadow to follow, her blood singing with exhilaration as they raced across the frozen landscape.
When they finally slowed, her cheeks were flushed and her breathing rapid.
“You ride well,” Adrien observed, bringing Midnight alongside Shadow. “Better than most ladies I have encountered.”
“My father taught me when I was a girl.”
“Before—?”
“Before I became unmarriageable.”
The bluntness should have offended her. Instead, Meline found herself laughing — a sound that felt rusty from disuse.
“Is that what they say about me in London?”
“Among other things.” He studied her profile. “But I find I care very little for London gossip. It is usually wrong.”
They had reached the edge of a small wood, bare trees stretching toward the winter sky. Adrien dismounted and offered his hand to help her down. His grip was warm and strong, and Meline was acutely aware of how close they stood when her feet touched the ground.
“You mentioned a proposition,” she said, stepping back to put a respectable distance between them.
“I did.”
He led both horses to a fallen log and looped their reins around it. Then he turned to face her fully, his expression serious.
“I find myself in a predicament, Lady Meline. As you may be aware, I am two-and-thirty and unwed. This has begun to cause complications.”
“Complications?”
“Rumors. Questions about my preferences, my character, my ability to perform my duties as a duke. The gossips have become vicious in their speculation. My mother writes to me weekly, begging me to secure a wife. My peers look at me with suspicion. And the fortune hunters have become unbearable in their pursuit.”
Meline frowned.
“I fail to see how this concerns me.”
“I attended your family’s dinner last night and observed how they treat you — with pity, with condescension, as though you are somehow less worthy of respect because you have not secured a husband.”
His dark eyes held hers.
“We are both victims of societal expectations, you and I. Both judged and found wanting because we do not conform to what is expected of us.”
“That may be true, but—”
“I propose an arrangement,” he interrupted. “A temporary one. Your father mentioned that Winterborn Manor will host a grand Christmas ball in two weeks — one of the social events of the season. Half of London society will be in attendance.”
Meline’s stomach tightened with dread. The Christmas ball was an annual torture — an evening where she stood against the wall while her cousins danced and flirted and secured admirers.
“Yes. The ball. What of it?”
“I propose that you pretend to be my fiancée for the evening.”
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Meline stared at him, certain she had misunderstood.
“I beg your pardon.”
“Think about it.” His voice was low, persuasive. “One evening where we present ourselves to society as an engaged couple. I gain respectability and silence the gossips. You gain the satisfaction of watching every person who has ever pitied or mocked you realize they were wrong about you. Your cousins. Your family. Everyone who has ever dismissed you as unmarriageable. They will all see you on the arm of one of England’s most eligible dukes.”
It was madness. Absolute madness.
“And after the ball?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“We quietly end the engagement. Mutual agreement. No scandal. You return to your life. I return to mine. But we will have accomplished our goals.”
Meline turned away, her mind racing. It was manipulation, pure and simple. A deception that could backfire spectacularly.
And yet — the thought of Levvenia’s face. Harriet’s shock. The stunned silence as she entered the ballroom on his arm.
“There will be conditions,” she said slowly.
“Of course. Name them.”
“First — we must be convincing. If anyone suspects this is false, the scandal would destroy us both.”
“Agreed. We shall spend time together, learn about one another, practice the behaviors expected of an engaged couple.”
“Second,” Meline continued, turning to face him, “after the ball, the separation must be handled delicately. I will not be painted as the jilted party.”
“We shall craft a story of mutual respect and understanding. No one will question it.”
Meline took a deep breath.
“And third — there can be no genuine sentiment involved. This is a business arrangement, nothing more. We pretend for the benefit of society. But we must not allow ourselves to be deceived by our own fiction.”
Something flickered across Adrien’s face — too quick for her to identify.
“You propose a rule, then. No real feelings.”
“Precisely. Do you agree?”
He extended his hand.
“I agree to your terms, Lady Meline. We shall be the most convincing false engagement in the history of English society. And when it ends, we part as friendly conspirators. Nothing more.”
Meline looked at his outstretched hand — strong, elegant, offering her something she had never dared hope for. A chance to matter, even if only for one evening.
Slowly, she placed her hand in his.
“We have an accord, Your Grace.”
“Adrien.” His fingers closed around hers. “If we are to be engaged, you must call me Adrien.”
“Very well. Adrien.”
His name felt strange on her lips, intimate in a way that made her pulse quicken.
“And you must call me Meline.”
“Meline.” The way he said it — low and soft — sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the December cold.
“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”
“You need not practice flattery when we are alone,” she said, pulling her hand away. “Save it for the ball.”
But as they walked back to their horses, Meline could still feel the warmth of his touch on her skin.
And she wondered if she had just made the wisest decision of her life — or the most foolish.