Bride Behind the Mask

Chapter 1: The Wicked Bride

Chapter 1: The Wicked Bride

Amelia glared across the desk at the stubborn old cow who refused to budge.

"I am not going, Papa." She even added a stomp of her foot for emphasis, in case he did not get the point.

"You are," said the cow—also known as Amelia's father, the Duke of Marlborough.

"But why?"

"We agreed."

"You agreed. I did not!"

"I am your father."

"But papa—"

"No but's."

"But—"

"No."

"Will you at least come with me?"

"No."

"I am your daughter!"

"I know."

Amelia looked at her father, aghast. 'I know'? How should one even respond to that? All this time his head had been down, reading his papers, writing his letters, anything but sparing her a glance.

But she was Amelia Alexandria Weston, the only daughter of Nicholas Edgar Weston, Duke of Marlborough. This Amelia did not give up so easily.

She took a deep breath, ready to argue again.

"Go pack. Now."

She exhaled into a long, defeated sigh. How did she forget? The Duke of Marlborough was notorious for being a stubborn old cow. Once he decides to sway one way, no one can make him sway the other. Not even her.

She glared at him and pouted. Not like he was going to see anyway.

"Amelia, you look hideous when you pout," he commented without even lifting his head.

Argh.

With a 'hmph', she stomped out of her father's study.

Only when he heard the angry slam of his door did the Duke remove his spectacles and raise his eyes. He stared at the door, as if he could see his daughter there if only he looked hard enough.

It was his turn to sigh.

King Theodore was a wise king for forty years, but he was getting old. Too old to see or accept that his bastard sons were conspiring to bring down the Crown Prince. The court of Lyons had been calm for months. The eerie calmness before a storm. As a duke and adviser to the king, there was no doubt he would be drawn into the whirlpools and eddies of politics and schemes—the only question was 'when'.

He was getting old, too. Too old and too far detached from the rising families at court to ensure his daughter's safety.

He could not thank the Gods enough for Emir Rohan's timely proposal. The young Emir was well-known for his wealth and influence in the Northern Lands. She would be safe there, as his wife, hundreds of leagues away from court.

His Amelia was only sixteen, still a restless and hotheaded child, and he would have her company for a few more years—if only it was up to him. If only.

* * *

Amelia sat before her mirror of polished silver, pulling long faces at herself. Behind her, Marge brushed through her mistress' long auburn hair, braiding it loosely, and admiring the way the strands reflected red and gold in the bright midday light.