“My dear—if you don’t mind me asking—how old are you…?”

The question was posed so directly by Ainsley to his wife that the room felt an immediate shift in his demeanor.

An inebriated rakehell was one thing. A sobered duke, on the other hand, may not be such an easily manipulated idiot after all.

Mirai’s voice trembled slightly as she responded in a small voice, “Come spring, I will be eighteen years old, Your Grace.”

An immediate eyebrow arched inquisitively on the Duke’s handsome face. Those present would bear witness to a throbbing vein on the side of his smooth forehead.

Ainsley carefully repeated the words, “Will be eighteen years old, you said…?”

His voice contained no signs of the easy-going drunk from a moment before. In its place was now a sharp edge, cold enough to bring the temperature in the room down a few degrees. Such was the sudden chill in the atmosphere.

Mirai flinched slightly from his tone, and Ainsley instantly regretted the discomfort he was about to cram down the throats of these elders present. Yet the words must be said!

The silence that enveloped was thick and suffocating. The elders shifted uncomfortably where they stood, glancing here and there, but few dared to meet the Duke’s piercing gaze.

It was a rather long moment before anyone would speak again.

And when Aunt Chelsea did speak, it was with some measure of indignancy. “She is a year shy of the norm, but it isn’t unheard of to wed a seventeen-year-old. Society would not frown upon this—”

“My God! She is a child! There is nothing natural about this!” Ainsley's biting tone did nothing to hide his seething anger.

It was much worse than what he had initially imagined.

“She is a child!” he repeated angrily, his fingers pointing at his wife in emphasis. “If I had stumbled into her room by accident, walked out, and apologized, no one would’ve thought more than what it really was! An accident! Yet a room full of adults has forced a marriage upon her! To a complete stranger at that!”

The expletives that escaped his mouth after were as colorful as the dreadful wallpaper that covered this forsaken parlor. Unlike how it was previously, not one person dared to slap his cheeks for being foul.

Frustration drove Ainsley to rake a hand through his hair as he spoke, his low voice dripping with undisguised antagonism towards every adult in the room.

"You have the audacity to portray me as a beast, when it is patently obvious that your own motives are far more… sinister. Wouldn’t you say?"

His statement prompted an immediate reaction from those present as one man stood shouting with a finger wagging in the Duke’s face. “That is out of line, Ainsley! How dare you speak so insolently to—!”

“To whom?! A room full of con artists?!”

The accusations that flew across the parlor after were as ugly as the puce-colored rug they were standing upon. There was little respect shown to their titles, as each character was desperate to defend their own honor.

Poor Ainsley. What good is a dukedom when they keep referring to him as a “stupid boy” or “spineless idiot”? Though their pointed words did not pierce his armor, his face was growing red in his determination to defend what was right!

In a room crowded with morally ambiguous strangers, the gray areas were as shady as the insults they threw. And as the ferocity of their argument grew even louder, the youngest person in question was afraid they would come to blows!

Lady Mirai slipped between figures and bodies to reach her newly wedded husband, in hopes that she might save them from a fight.

Yet, as she was finally close enough to approach the duke, it was all in vain as a slap, as sharp as any sword, descended upon her face so violently that her neck nearly snapped from its force!

The ground rose to meet her quickly, as she fell off her feet and landed painfully by Ainsley’s ankles.

The numerous voices in the room instantly stopped—each person shocked at the display of force exercised by none other than the young girl’s grandfather!

Mirai whimpered as the elderly Earl of Northridge towered over her. The man was nearly shaking from his rage as he bellowed at her crumpled form, “You…! This is your doing! The chaos—! You created this! Wretched girl, if I don’t end you today—!”

His threats were left unspoken as Ainsley seized the man by his lapels and threw him a good distance across the room. The Duke cared not for the force that he used, but for what scum would beat upon a girl that was half his size!

Ainsley could not have believed the barbarism displayed here! Nor could he recognize his own voice when he savagely warned, “If you dare touch a hair on my wife again, I will break every finger off that hand of yours! Mark my words, it will be the end of you!”

He was nearly shaking from his rage. Never in his twenty-two years had he thought someone was capable of exercising such violence upon a helpless scrap of a girl!

Though the intensity of pure anger flowed through his body, it was quickly replaced by concern as he knelt down to help the lady to her feet again.

Her frame was as petite as she was delicate, and for a moment—glancing at her face that was quickly swelling—he was worried the earl had broken his wife.

“Are you alright…?” he asked, desperately attempting not to shout. Gaining control of his emotions was imperative now, he realized, especially while he was still standing here in this ugly room, filled with even uglier people

Little did Ainsley know that, given the span of this very long and arduous night, he was the only person who bothered asking her if she was well.

Despite the pain it caused her swollen cheeks, she managed a small smile for him. Tenderly whispering, “I am well now… Thank you, Your Grace…”