Chapter 2
Eileen's POV
Then I was thrown into the cellar.
How long had it been? Two days? Three?
The darkness made time meaningless. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, swollen and useless. When I tried to swallow, my throat clicked dry. The cold had seeped so deep into my bones that I'd stopped shivering—which terrified me more than the hunger gnawing at my stomach.
The scrape of the bolt made me flinch. Light stabbed down the stairs, and I squeezed my eyes shut against the pain of it.
"Goodness." A maid's voice, high and nervous. "She's barely conscious."
Hands fumbled at my bindings. When the rope fell away, I couldn't even cry out—just slumped forward as feeling rushed back into my arms in waves of agony.
"Get her upstairs," another voice commanded. "Lady Cecilia wants her presentable by evening."
They half-carried, half-dragged me up the stairs. My legs wouldn't hold me. In the side parlor, they propped me in a chair by the fire, and I sat there trembling while warmth slowly crept back into my limbs.
"Here." A bowl of soup appeared in my shaking hands. "Eat slowly, or you'll be sick."
I managed three spoonfuls before my stomach rebelled. But the warmth spreading through my chest felt like resurrection.
"Lady Cecilia apologizes for the oversight," the maid said, not meeting my eyes. "She's been terribly busy with the estate while His Grace is away."
Oversight.
The word should have been laughable. Instead, I just nodded, too exhausted to do anything else.
That evening, bathed and dressed in fresh clothes that hung loose on my frame, I made my way to Cecilia's private sitting room. My legs still felt unsteady, but I'd learned to hide weakness years ago.
She sat at her vanity, running a brush through her golden hair. In the mirror, her eyes found mine.
"Feeling better, my dear Eileen?"
The endearment dripped with poison. I curtsied, keeping my gaze lowered. "Thank you for your mercy, my lady."
"Sit." She gestured to the ottoman at her feet. "We need to discuss your future."
I sank down, my heart hammering. This couldn't be good.
"I've been thinking," she continued, setting down her brush. "Perhaps it's time you left Ashbury Manor. Surely you'd prefer your freedom?"
Hope flared in my chest—violent and unexpected. To leave this place, to never have to pretend to be her again, to escape the Duke's hands and her cruelty...
"Yes," I breathed. "Please. I could work somewhere, find a position—"
"Could you?" Her smile sharpened. "And what makes you think I'd simply let you walk away? You know far too many secrets, my dear."
The hope died as quickly as it had sparked.
"Besides," she went on, examining her nails, "if you left, I'd simply send for Rose. She has a similar voice, similar build. She could serve in your place."
My blood turned to ice. "No. Please. Rose is only thirteen—"
"Then I suggest you stay." Cecilia's eyes glittered in the lamplight. "Unless you'd like her to take your place in the Duke's bed?"
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. The room tilted around me.
"So hush now. Edmund will be home tonight, and you'll need your strength."
I knelt on the carpet, numb with shock, when Edmund returned. The sound of his boots in the hallway made my stomach clench, but I couldn't seem to move.
"Edmund, darling." Cecilia's voice dripped honey as she glided forward to kiss his cheek. "How was York?"
"Productive. The textile mills are exceeding projections." He shrugged out of his coat, and his eyes found me on the floor. "What did she do?"
"Broke a French vase this afternoon," Cecilia sighed. "I've had her kneeling to reflect on carelessness."
The lie rolled off her tongue so smoothly. Edmund just nodded, already distracted.
"Have you made progress on Lucien's arrangement?" he asked, settling into his chair.
I went very still. Lucien—his dying older brother.
"It's proving difficult," Cecilia admitted. "No respectable family wants their daughter to become a widow before she's even been a wife. The estate Lucien can offer isn't enough to overcome the stigma."
"Then we'll have to be more creative." Edmund's voice hardened. "What about leverage? Debt? Scandal?"
"I've been investigating, but—"
"Control the family, and you control the girl." He leaned back, fingers steepled. "Find someone desperate enough, and apply the right pressure. Under the proper duress, any woman can be convinced to accept the role."
My stomach turned. They were discussing forcing a woman into a deathbed marriage with casual efficiency.
"If you manage this," Edmund continued, "my mother will be in your debt. She's quite desperate to see Lucien married before he passes."
Cecilia's eyes lit with calculation. "I'll double my efforts."
I threw everything into it that night.
Every ounce of energy I could muster, every skill I'd learned in the past year—I used it all. I touched him first, initiating in ways I'd never dared before. When he entered me, I moved with him instead of merely enduring. I kissed his jaw, his throat, left marks on his collarbone that made him groan.
It felt like I was pouring out every bit of pain I’d swallowed these past days. As long as he wanted me, I mattered. But the moment he wasn’t here, I went back to being nothing—just a servant to be ordered around, a nobody with no worth of her own.
"Christ," he gasped, fingers digging into my waist hard enough to bruise. "Did you miss me?"
"Yes," I whispered, the lie tasting like ash. "Yes."
He lost control twice—rare for him—and when it was over, he pulled me against his chest instead of dismissing me immediately.
"Good girl," he murmured into my hair. "My good girl."
I lay there in the darkness, listening to his breathing even out, and felt nothing at all.
Dawn crept through the curtains. I was supposed to sneak out like I always did—but his arm tightened around me.
"Going somewhere?" he said, his breath warm against my temple. "I've already known about your little substitution scheme."
The world stopped.
"I have an exceptionally keen sense of smell," he continued conversationally. "You and Cecilia might look similar, but you don't smell the same. I knew that it wasn't my fiancée in my bed."
"That's why I could be less… restrained," he said. "It keeps my marriage intact, and still gives me an outlet. Convenient, isn’t it?"
My throat closed. I couldn't speak, couldn't breathe.
His hand tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. In the pale dawn light, they held a predatory gleam.
"So," I whispered, because what other choice did I have? "Please, Your Grace. Give me a title."
