Chapter 2 The Proxy Bride
The grandfather clock's pendulum swung like a guillotine blade as Edward dragged Elizabeth through corridors lined with portraits of dead Blackthorns. Her bare feet left damp footprints on Persian carpets older than her tuberculosis-ridden village.
"Where are you—"
"Silence." He kicked open double doors to a gallery frozen in time. Dust motes danced around a velvet-draped portrait revealing Elizabeth's doppelgänger in Edward's arms - same chestnut waves, same rosebud scar peeking above lace collars.
"Christabel." Edward's knuckles whitened on the frame. "My fiancée who drowned on our wedding eve."
Elizabeth stared at the date plaque: July 12, 2015. Exactly three years ago. "I'm not her ghost."
"Her ghost wouldn't smell of poverty." He ripped Christabel's pearl necklace from the painting, beads scattering like teeth. "You'll wear these when we dine."
"I won't play dress-up for your grief!"
Edward backed her against a marble fireplace. "Your mother's ventilator costs £2,368 daily." He produced her mother's hospital bill from his waistcoat. "Sign the contract, or I'll have her discharged tonight."
The document unfurled across the mantelpiece. Contractual Intimacy Agreement glared in Gothic font. Clause 7 burned her retinas: The Party of Second Part shall replicate First Love's mannerisms, including but not limited to...
Anne's laughter slithered through the door crack. "Darling, the reporters want wedding anecdotes!"
Elizabeth's trembling finger hovered over the signature line. "What exactly does 'intimacy replication' entail?"
Edward's smile chilled the room. "Let's demonstrate Clause 12."
10:47 PM | Blackthorn Manor West Wing
Elizabeth clutched Christabel's restrung pearls like a noose. The crimson satin gown Edward forced her into clung like second skin, slit revealing the scar he kept tracing during measurements.
"Breathe," ordered the Duke, adjusting her corset laces in the dressing room's trifold mirror. His reflection overlapped hers - predator and prey framed by mahogany panels.
"I can't breathe when you're—"
"Precisely the point." He snapped a diamond choker around her throat. "Christabel always gasped when aroused."
Before she could retort, Edward spun her to face the mirrors. His hands slid down her ribcage, pausing at the corset's heart-shaped opening. "Clause 12.3: Physical responsiveness training."
"Training?!" She elbowed backward, connecting with his solar plexus.
Edward trapped her against the vanity, crystal perfume bottles rattling. "You've twenty-four hours to perfect Christabel's French kiss technique." His thumb pried her lips open. "Shall we begin?"
The door burst open as his tongue breached her mouth.
"Edward! How could you?" Anne's stage whisper accompanied camera shutters. Reporters swarmed like vultures, capturing:
Edward's belt unbuckled against Elizabeth's thigh
Her torn stocking snagged on his signet ring
The contract protruding from his breast pocket
Elizabeth froze mid-struggle, Christabel's pearls scattering. Edward deepened the kiss for the cameras, biting her lip until blood smeared his chin.
Anne swooned artfully against the doorframe. "You promised our engagement announcement tonight!"
"Plans changed." Edward licked Elizabeth's blood off his teeth. "Meet my new live-in etiquette tutor."
Reporters exploded with questions: "Is she Christabel's secret daughter?" "Will this affect the Worthington merger?"
Elizabeth made her move. Snatching the contract, she smashed a perfume bottle over Edward's head. "I'd rather scrub toilets than be your doll!"
Citrus and bergamot drenched the air as Edward caught her wrist. "Clause 19.2: Damages incurred during training sessions shall be repaid via corporal—"
Anne's slap left Elizabeth's cheek stinging. "You gutter rat! That perfume was Christabel's!"
The reporters gasped in unison. Elizabeth touched her burning face, smearing Edward's blood with Anne's diamond rings.
"Enough." Edward hauled Elizabeth over his shoulder. "We're finalizing our agreement in the cellar."
Elizabeth shivered in the candlelit dungeon. Edward swirled merlot in a Venetian goblet, the contract spread across a coffin-shaped table.
"Last chance." He dipped a raven quill in ink. "Sign, or the hospital gets shut down in..." He checked his Patek Philippe. "Nine minutes."
Her tears splattered Clause 24: *Prohibited from cutting hair above collarbone length (see Appendix A: Christabel's 22-inch curls).*
The quill scratched like rats' claws. Edward smiled, splashing wine across the parchment. "Needs notarization."
"W-what are you—"
He upended the goblet down her spine. Elizabeth gasped as ice-cold merlot soaked through satin. Edward pressed her bare back against the contract, red wine bleeding through to create bloody fingerprints.
"Perfect." He peeled her off the parchment, revealing a body-shaped wine stain with legible text. "Now you're literally in the contract."
Footsteps echoed above. Anne's voice carried through floorboards: "...find that little slut's room..."
Edward trapped Elizabeth against wine racks, his knee parting her thighs. "Clause 8: Nightly vocal exercises." His teeth found her earlobe. "Let's practice Christabel's wedding night aria."
As Elizabeth's scream melded with cellar rats' squeaks, three truths became clear:
1. The "accidental" reporters got paid £500 each
2. Anne pocketed Christabel's locket from the crime scene
3. Edward's migraine medicine now contained Elizabeth's rose elixir
Somewhere between contractual obligation and perverse obsession, the game of substitute bride began spinning toward real madness.
