Claiming the Duchess-I

Her eyes flicked upward to meet the sparkling green gaze of Lady Camilla Hestain. The Marquess's daughter stood before her, dressed in a soft pink gown that matched the garden roses. Her chestnut hair gleamed under the lantern light, styled in perfect waves that framed her face.

A small cluster of noblewomen stood behind Camilla. Their gloved hands clutching their fans as they exchanged gleeful, knowing glances.

Marcella's expression didn't shift. She clasped her hands in front of her, adopting a calm and polite demeanor. "Lady Camilla," she greeted evenly. "What a surprise."

"It's so wonderful you could join us tonight," Camilla beamed, her tone dripping with false warmth. She took a step closer, her green eyes glittering with amusement. "I imagine you've been terribly busy... sorting out your family matters."

Marcella's smile didn't falter, "How kind of you to notice, Lady Camilla," she replied smoothly. "I have been busy. Some of us have lives worth managing."

The sharpness of her retort earned a few stifled giggles from the ladies behind Camilla, though they quickly hid their laughter behind their fans.

Another noblewoman, Lady Vivienne, stepped forward, eager to stoke the flames. "It must be such a burden, dealing with so much scandal," she said sweetly. "I'm sure you're simply overwhelmed."

Marcella tilted her head, "Overwhelmed? Not at all," she brushed off. "But I'm sure you'd know all about burdens, Lady Vivienne. Isn't your family still struggling to pay off that little gambling debt of your father's?"

The sharp gasp from Vivienne was immensely satisfying. Her face flushed a deep crimson, and she stumbled over her words before falling silent, retreating behind her fan.

Camilla, however, was undeterred. If anything, Marcella's wit only seemed to fuel her determination. She stepped closer, her voice dropping slightly as she delivered her next blow. "It's truly admirable how you're handling everything," Her lips curling into a saccharine smile. "To steal your sister's betrothed and force a Duke into marriage—what a feat, Lady Marcella. You must tell us how you manage it."

Her words stung her but her face reflected none of the fury bubbling beneath the surface.

Stay calm, she told herself. You're not the same reckless girl you were before.

Raising a brow, Marcella returned Camilla's smile, "I'll take it as a compliment, knowing I occupy so much of your thoughts."

The tension between them crackled like fire, drawing the attention of more onlookers.

Camilla rolled her eyes, her grip on her own fan tightening. She took another step forward, "You think you're so clever, don't you? But everyone here sees you for what you really are—a desperate little girl clawing for attention."

"I'd rather be a desperate girl than a bitter one, Lady Camilla. Though I can see how you'd prefer the latter—it seems to suit you." Marcella scoffed.

Camilla bit the inside of her cheeks. Anger surged hot in her chest. With a sharp motion, she raised her hand, her fingers curling as though to strike Marcella across the face.

Time seemed to slow.

Marcella's reflexes kicked in. Her hand snapped up, catching Camilla's wrist mid-swing. Then, she twisted Camilla's wrist just enough to make her wince but not enough to harm her. She leaned in slightly, "You've been waiting for me to give you a reason to gloat. Well, here's some advice, Camilla: pick your battles carefully. You won't win this one."

Camilla struggled against Marcella's grip, "Unhand me!" she hissed.

But Marcella didn't let go immediately.

And when she released her, Camilla stumbled back, her footing faltering as the heel of her slipper caught the edge of the stone pathway. She let out a startled cry. Her arms flailing as she teetered dangerously close to the edge of the bridge.

Marcella's heart seized.

Not again.

In her first life, this moment had ended with Camilla falling into the river below, her humiliation had spiraled out of control. Marcella had done nothing to stop it then, and the consequences had been severe—Camilla's father had taken great offense, and the fallout had been disastrous for the Valemonts.

She grabbed Camilla's arm, yanking her back with a force that threw herself off balance instead. With a sharp gasp, Marcella felt the world tilt as her own feet slipped from beneath her. The last thing she saw was Camilla's wide-eyed expression before Marcella tumbled over the edge.

The cold shock of the river enveloped her like an icy slap, the water rushing into her ears and muffling the sounds above. She coughed, shivering as the cold seeped into her bones. But relief flickered through her as she looked up to see Camilla safe and dry, staring down at her.

The gathered crowd leaned over the edge.

"Did you see how she fell in? Truly, the Valemont girl lacks all grace," one whispered behind a gloved hand.

"Poor Lady Camilla. She must have been so startled," another chimed in, feigning sympathy.

But the chatter was cut short when a deep voice rang out.

"What is this commotion about?"

The crowd parted, the murmurs dying instantly as all eyes turned to the man approaching them. Even the breeze seemed to still in his presence.

Duke Berith stepped into view; dressed in fine dark cloak that swirled slightly around his boots. 

Ignoring Marcella, he turned his falcon's gaze on Camilla and other noble women. They hesitated. Even Lady Camilla who had been fuming only moments ago, suddenly seemed to shrink under his gaze. Her green eyes darting away like a guilty child.

Berith stopped a few steps away from Marcella. His dark eyes moved to hers, the faintest crease forming between his brows as he took in her bedraggled appearance. 

Without further ado, he unclasped his cloak. The heavy fabric slipped from his shoulders, and before Marcella could register what he was doing, he draped it gently over her, enveloping her like a shield against the cold stares of the gathered crowd.

The world seemed to freeze.

The cloak smelled faintly of cedar and smoke. It strangely felt comforting in her skin. Marcella blinked up at him in surprise. This wasn't the cold, indifferent Duke she remembered from her past life. This wasn't the man who barely cared whether she lived or died.

The noblewomen behind them gasped audibly, their whispers bubbling up like a pot about to boil over.

"Did he just—"

"He gave her his cloak?"

"Why would he defend her of all people?"

"Who," his gaze moved over the gathered women like a predator assessing his prey, "dared to push my betrothed into the water?"

Marcella's eyes popped out of their socket in horror. She clenched the edges of the cloak reflexively, her mind spinning. Betrothed? The word felt strange, foreign, almost absurd coming from his lips, yet it carried a possessive weight that left no room for doubt.

Camilla went pale. Her green eyes darted to the ground as if hoping it might swallow her whole.

"No one?" Berith asked, his tone suggesting a calm that Marcella didn't believe for a moment. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his presence suffocating. "I will not ask again."

The women exchanged nervous glances before they dropped into a hasty bow. "It was… an accident, Your Grace. Lady Camilla tripped, and… things simply got out of hand." Lady Vivienne stammered, mustering the courage to speak.

Marcella almost laughed out loud, rolling off her eyes. Things got out of hand? Convenient how they were twisting the narrative to protect themselves.

His dark eyes flicked to Camilla, who flinched under his scrutiny. Her lips parted in horror, but no words came out. For the first time, the ever-confident Lady Camilla was utterly silent.

"Let me make one thing very clear," Berith grunted, his gaze sweeping over the entire group. "Lady Marcella is mine. She is my betrothed, and anyone who dares to lay a finger on her or insult her will answer to me."

Marcella blinked; her cheeks flushed slightly. The word mine sent a strange shiver down her spine—one she couldn't entirely explain.

The noblewomen behind Camilla exchanged wide-eyed glances, their whispers turning venomous.

"Did you hear that?"

"Does he really like her?"

"She doesn't deserve him."

"She's intolerable…"

Berith ignored them entirely. He turned back to Marcella, his expression softening slightly. "Let's go," he held her hand, as he hauled her toward the exit.