The Duke's Reluctant Bride

Chapter 17: A Curse or A Blessing?

Four years ago in Branwen's Estate, Clara had heard the laughter through the crack of the grand dining room doors. Her heart fluttered with an unfamiliar warmth. It was rare to hear joy in her Grandparents estate, rare to hear anything other than whispers behind her back from the maids or from her cousins who always belittling her. She wasn't sure what had inspired her to approach, maybe it was the smell of roasted meat and honeyed bread, or maybe it was the fact that they seemed happy.

She pressed her small hands against the heavy door and peeked inside. Her uncles and aunts were seated at the long table, plates piled high with food, the candelabras casting warm golden light over their smiling faces. For once, the tension seemed to have lifted from the room. Even her grandmother, Cassandra Branwen, sat at the head of the table with a faint smile, her sharp features softened by the glow of the fire.

Clara's stomach growled, and she clutched her green dress tighter around her body. She hadn't had a proper meal all day, surviving only on plain food and occasionally some chicken soup in her room. She knew she wasn't welcome at family meals, but tonight, for some reason, a hope bubbled up in her chest. Maybe... maybe tonight would be different.

She took a breath, pushing the door open just a little wider, enough for the old wood to groan and catch the attention of the room. The laughter died instantly, replaced by a cold silence that seeped into Clara's bones.

Lady Branwen's eyes snapped to the door, her smile vanishing like a mist under the sunrise. The old woman's gaze was piercing, her eyes narrowing as if Clara's mere presence had spoiled the evening.

"What are you doing here?" Lady Branwen's voice was thick as ice.

"I—" Clara's voice wavered. She swallowed and stepped into the room fully, her sandals silent on the stone floor. "I just thought... maybe I could join tonight." She hesitated, eyes flickering over the faces of her aunts and uncles. None of them spoke and even looked at her, as if they were too disgusted by her appearance to acknowledge her.

Her eyes lingered on her grandmother's face, silently pleading. "Please?" she whispered.

The silence stretched painfully, until finally Lady Branwen rose from her seat. "Join us?" she hissed, taking a step toward Clara. "You? You think you belong at this table, among decent folk?"

Clara flinched, her hope withering under the weight of her grandmother's glare. She had never been invited to sit with them, but she had hoped, for once, that they might show her a shred of kindness.

"Look at you," Lady Branwen spat. "Those cursed eyes. You're a disgrace to your mother's memory."

Clara's throat tightened, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I just thought—"

"Thought? You shouldn't think at all, Clara!" Lady Branwen's hand lashed out before Clara could react, the sharp sting of a slap blooming on her cheek and then her fingers curling tightly into Clara's hair. Pain exploded across Clara's scalp as her grandmother yanked her head back, dragging her toward the door.

Unbeknownst to Lady Branwen, a shadow lingered just beyond the corner of the hallway, concealed in the dim light. Lucien's informant watched in silence, their fists clenched as they bore witness to the cruelty.

"No! Please, I'm sorry— Please let me go!" Clara cried out, her hands scrambling to loosen her grandmother's grip, but it was no use. Lady Branwen's fingers were like iron, merciless as she dragged Clara across the cold stone floor. Her feet kicked uselessly, her sobs echoing off the walls, but no one at the table moved.

No one came to help—not even the informant who stayed hidden, silently enduring the sight as they focused on gathering the evidence needed to end this cruelty. For now, it was all they could do.