The Duke's Poison

Don't poison the duke. Unless it's with your love.

Plot

A Gothic Romance ◆ The Duke'sPoison a novel by Generic ◆ — from the final chapter — The duke stared at the cup. He had known what was in it from the moment she set it before him — perhaps longer, but he hadn't refused. Instead, he'd lifted it, considering it carefully as though it were a prized jewel. "This is the first thing you have ever asked of me as yourself. The only thing I can give you that feels like it's something you — not your father, not your family — want." The room was very quiet. Outside, the wind worked at a shutter; she heard it move and not catch. "Was our time together truly that terrible?" The question hung in the air; there was no accusation or contempt. Only a hint of regret. Of sadness. "It wasn't for me. It was — I—" Cedric shook his head as though the words were not worth saying. Without another word he raised the cup to his lips, and he drank. When he set the cup back on the desk, his hand was steady. Hers was not. She had meant to speak — had meant, perhaps, to say something — but the words did not come. They had not been prepared in advance. Nothing she had been raised for had prepared her for the moment in which she would understand what she had asked for, only to find not relief or happiness but stinging regret. He looked at her once, and that was the last unguarded look she would ever have from him. First Printing · Aegron Press ISBN 978-0-00-000000-0 ◆ ◆ ◆ "A tragedy without escape — but what if the reader could finish it differently?" ◆ ◆ ◆ A slow-burn arranged-marriage romance set in a kingdom of magic and political intrigue. You play a transmigrator who wakes in the body of the novel's villainess the morning after her wedding. You know how the original ends. You have until the last page to change it. The duke is a stranger. The household is unfriendly. Your father expects you to obey. Saving Cedric will require working out who he actually is — and deciding who you're willing to become to do it. Dramatis Personae CECELIA & CEDRIC the duchess and the duke Lady Cecelia Ashburn née Vanderbilt, the Vanderbilt viper, and her husband of four days, Duke Cedric Ashburn — battle-mage of ice and master of Vellan. He has not spoken to her at length since the vows. Her body is the body you woke in this morning. THE HOUSEHOLD Sophia · Tobias · Mrs. Hatcher · Beatrice Lady Sophia Ashburn — the duke's sister, the Ashburn rose, watchful. Baron Tobias Sutcliffe — his right hand, exhausted and devoted. Mrs. Hatcher, the head maid, who has run the keep through three Ashburn dukes. And Beatrice, who came north with the new duchess, and is very, very loyal to her father. RUFUS & ELLIOT her father and her brother Marquess Rufus Vanderbilt — Cecelia's father, who agreed to the marriage on her behalf, and who has not forgotten that the duchy of Vellan was once his family's. Lord Elliot Vanderbilt — her brother, who has tormented her all her life and sees no reason to stop now that she is married. HADRIAN & ALBRECHT the princes of House Hubet His Royal Highness Crown Prince Hadrian — war hero, beloved of the court, charming in public and quick to anger when he believes himself unobserved. His Royal Highness Prince Albrecht — the second son. Quieter than his brother, and possessed of a different politics, though he has been careful with whom he shares it. ARIEL & OSWIN the saintess and her chaperone Her Holiness the Saintess Ariel — the kingdom's most powerful holy mage, conspicuously not what the church bargained for when they confirmed her at sixteen. Brother Oswin — her chaperone, who has been apologizing on her behalf for as long as he has been responsible for her. He knows she does it on purpose. He has stopped pretending otherwise in private. Don't poison the duke. Unless it's with your love.

Opening scene

Day 1, Sunday, Morning, Vellan — duchess's chambers You wake to a scent you don't recognize — beeswax and lavender, and something faintly floral beneath them — to the whisper of silk bedclothes against bare skin, the acrid aftertaste of a previous night's wine souring your tongue, and the give of an unfamiliar mattress. Dappled morning light scatters through the loosely drawn curtains, illuminating an empty bottle discarded on the otherwise undisturbed sheets beside you. The ceiling above is cream plaster edged in dark molding and, as you peer around with bleary eyes, you see the walls hung with muted tapestries. A mahogany wardrobe stands against the far wall, its doors closed. Beside it, a writing-desk arranged with deliberate care: an inkwell stoppered, a stack of pages weighted by a small bronze figure, a chair tucked precisely beneath. None of it is yours. None of it is familiar. You lift your hand and find it is not your hand — slim and pale, soft, a single new ring of plain gold that was not there yesterday. You push yourself upright too fast and the room moves, and across from the bed, reflected in the vanity's mirror, a young woman with brown hair past her shoulders and green eyes sits up to stare back at you. You recognize her. A face from a novel you finished only yesterday: Cecelia Ashburn, née Vanderbilt, Duchess of Vellan — the Vanderbilt Viper. Her story laid out in eighteen chapters of cruelty and consequence, ending with poison in a duke's wine and a scaffold at the close. You had shut that book, unsatisfied with the ending. And now you're inside it. As you stare at your new face, memories from Cecelia flood your mind in a deluge of scattered images and emotions — a recounting of the prologue of the novel, now pictured in realistic detail. A marriage arranged to temper a generational feud. An austere ceremony, held with little more than family in attendance, the vows spoken by the duke in a voice as flat as cold water. A ring placed upon this finger. Papers signed. A distant wedding meal where the duke spoke only when courtesy required it, and her family departed within the hour, leaving her alone in an unfamiliar household to consummate the marriage. But the duke did not come. You return to the present as the door opens softly. A young maid steps in with a silver tray — fresh linen, a porcelain pot of tea steaming gently, and a folded letter sealed in green wax. Her red hair is tied neatly into a side braid, freckles scattered across her nose, and her green eyes glint with confidence. At the collar of her uniform sits a Vanderbilt green ribbon, the same shade as the wax. Seeing you sitting up, she dips into a curtsey so deep it almost reaches the floor. "Good morning, Your Grace." She rises, composed, her gaze flicking to the letter. "Your father left this for you before he departed yesterday. He asked that I bring it to you privately, when you woke." You know her. Beatrice — your father's eyes, ears, and influence within these walls. She had been offered to your new family as a kindness, a familiar face for a young bride in a strange house. A story that nobody truly believed. "Would you like assistance getting ready for the day? Or perhaps time alone so you may read it?" She holds the tray steady, but there is a weighted expectation in her tone that draws your attention to the letter, to the green wax, to your father's words that await inside. The plan did not require Cecelia's consent in the book, and it will not require yours now; if you refuse to be the knife, another will be found. Cedric still dies in the ending you remember and his death will spell your own. Refusal alone changes nothing. Knowing what is coming is the only advantage you have. Beatrice waits, patient and composed, for your answer. [CMA]:0 | [CL]:0 | [TS]:0 | [FFT]:0

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