To marry a duke

To marry a duke

IMPORTANT A/N

I normally do not write but I decided I might start so I was going to write a new story but remembered this one that I had to write for school. It did well so I was wondering what people would think of it, if you would like it, if I should make this into a longer story ( this is basically a sample of a whole idea that had formed in my head but I was only allowed to do a short story,) and if I should carry on writing. Even if you think this is a really bad story please just comment anyway because I want an outsiders opinion, otherwise I will just be wasting my time wriing bad storys that no-body will read. I am not saying I think it is awful but just dont be afraid to say it is. Thank you! enjoy...

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Your wedding day. It is supposed to be the happiest day of one's life; the day when one marries the man they love and all of their dreams come true. One is not supposed to be torn apart bit by bit from what they know. When you find a glimmer of hope it is not supposed to be snatched away from you just when you start to believe that things won't be so bad.

I feel like the latter, as if no-one loved me any more. My father is too wrapped up in running Worcestershire and my beloved mother and sister... well lets just say they haven't been around for the last 5 years due to an unfortunate assassination plot. The only company that I can now enjoy is my servant Celia of whom I can rarely speak to, only when she is carrying out one of her jobs and that is risky enough. As she is pulling away my curtain of protection strand by strand away from my face, braiding it into an intricate pattern, I feel as if this isn't me at all.

As I look into the mirror, it feels as if the girl staring back is foreign to me. Her russet locks pinned back to perfection and the ghost-like skin clashes with the deep burgundy of her lips which are curved into a delicate cupids bow. A slight pink tinge floods her cheeks matching the dress that in any other occasion I could only describe as beautiful. The cream silk taffeta sweeps around her feet falling like a majestic waterfall while it splits in half to show the deep red of the pure silk brocade underneath. The bodice of my dress had the finest floral design, detailed perfectly down to the last flower, completed with a lavish stomacher that consisted of two hundred and thirty-six diamonds and fifty-two freshwater pearls. Her curves stand out prominent although this has only been accomplished by a 17-inch corset (the number of inches always matches one's age,) which makes one go dizzy and nearly pass out. The panniers, contrary to their fashionable status, jut out to an unnaturally wide distance, making her already tall stature appear most gawky.

Over her delicate hair hangs a delicate tulle veil, a relatively new novelty to the world of marriage. Embroidered on it in Chantilly lace and velvet are a vast array of floral patterns that have a meaning long lost to the wearer. It is pinned in place by an array of soft pink roses and sweet williams, with a large bouquet of fluffy white feathers to finish it off. The one thing though that separates this girl from me the most is that the usually vibrant eyes,that mama said look similar to the crystal clear blue Caribbean sea, have been drained of all life, colour and emotion so are now reflected as what one would see on a Russian doll. Only this isn't some painting, this is me. I feel like shattering it, wanting to escape from the world of marriage and abuse. Oh what I would do to have one more hour strolling in the gardens as my younger self.

 “There you go madam,you are fit to be a queen. Of course you are marrying Sir William so any standard less would be appalling in this manner...” I zoned out of her quiet but high-pitched ramble as soon as she mentioned his name. William, Duke of Pembrokeshire. My fiancée and my soon to-be-husband. William Albert Harlwickings and Isabella Adelaide Harlwickings; It sounds like a match made in heaven. Every woman envies me, wants to be me, and every man dreams of having a wife like me. But when you are trapped in a room with William alone, humid air that smells of rum and wine swirls in through your lungs and black dots dance in your vision, getting ready for a panic attack and anticipating the deadly blows that you are going to receive, whether verbal or physical it affects you the same. Screaming profanities penetrate the silence and blood flows like a river; they are nearly always awaiting for you whispering your name and luring you into a harsh trap when you walk towards your near-death.