Page 51 of The Duke Who Claimed Her

“You look nervous, Arabella,” her father said with a friendly smile as he walked toward her. “Upset to see me? I thought you might be pleased. It has been far too long.”

She said nothing.

For several weeks now, Arabella had grown into her role as duchess, blossoming into the woman she knew she was capable of becoming. She was striving to become her own person. She was no longer one to cower or ask permission for anything. She was powerful, in control, a woman reborn!

At least that was what she believed.

Alas, in her father’s presence, Arabella felt those feelings fade like a flower lacking water and sunlight. As he approached her, she was transported back to her childhood, to a life spent as a prisoner, with no agency, no control over her own life, utterly at the mercy of a man who wielded such power that she could barely breathe in his presence.

I am a fraud, and I was a fool to think otherwise.

Worse still, her father knew it. He smiled as he approached her, but it was mocking, and his eyes shone with malicious pride and a sense of knowing. That beak-like nose, those hollow cheeks, his receding hairline… A bird of prey was how she always thought of him, and Arabella found herself trapped in his sights.

“Wha… what are you doing here?” Arabella stammered pathetically. She tried to meet her father’s gaze, but she could not summon the strength.

“I see that our time apart has not seen your respect for me develop,” he said as if it upset him. “A shame, Arabella. As your father, you ought to be thrilled that I have come to visit my only daughter. And as a duchess, you should encourage such relationships. What will people say when they hear how you treat me?”

Arabella snapped her head up and glared at him. Her body trembled as she did, as if she instinctively knew that the result would end poorly for her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked again, that time with more authority.

Her father dropped the veneer of kindness. His eyes turned cold, and his thin lips turned into a sneer. “Ah, so perhaps marriage has provided you with a backbone. Or rather, the appearance of one.”

“Is it money?” she said. “If it is, you have wasted your time as well as mine.”

He scoffed. “Is that what you think of me? That I would come here and demand money from you?”

“You do not want to know what I think of you.”

She glared ruefully at him, determined that he see her as more than just his daughter. She was a duchess, and Arabella imagined how the Dowager might act if she were in this position.

“Oh yes,” he chuckled. “A backbone indeed. Had I not known you so well, I might have believed it to be real.” His expression turned flat. “Stop this at once, Arabella. I am your father, and if you think that you can stand up to me…” He widened his eyes in warning. “In my eyes, you are still a silly little girl, and that will never change.”

“I am not a girl. I am a duchess, married to⁠—”

“Do not embarrass yourself by evoking your marriage to me,” he cut her off. “I know more than anyone what your marriage is, just as I know that His Grace cares nothing for you.”

Arabella winced at the cruel accuracy of his words.

Things might have been different had Caspian spoken to Arabella once in these last few days. As she had expected from him, he avoided her as if she were poison, confirming without having to say it that he wanted nothing to do with her.

Arabella was alone, without allies, and certainly not as powerful and as changed as she wanted to believe. And, as her father knew her so well, he saw this clearly. Just as he relished it.

“I do not want money,” her father said with a sneer. “What I want from you is a favor. Whether you know it or not, your husband spends an inordinate amount of time at Boodle’s Club in London. Mostly, he drinks, and rarely does he gamble with intent. But that is about to change.”

“What…” Arabella blinked through her confusion. “What are you⁠—”

“In a few days, His Grace will be receiving a slew of invitations from fellow members of the ton. Some friends of his, other associates. All, however, will request that he join them at their table. Cards, mostly, are an easy way to find oneself in over one’s head. More so when the player has an ego as big as His Grace does.”

Arabella started with bewilderment, struggling to understand what her father was saying.

“You will convince him to accept these invitations,” her father continued. “How you will do this, I care not. But it is imperative that he does so. Within the week, I expect to see His Grace at Boodle’s Club, gambling as if his life depended on it. Do I make myself clear?”

“He will not…” She shook her head. “Why would he listen to me?”

Her father’s smile was a sickly thing. “As his wife, I am sure you can persuade him somehow. You have little power, Arabella, and do not think otherwise. But as a woman, persuasion is a skill you can surely employ.”

It took her a moment to understand what he meant.