To Win a Brooding Lord’s Heart (Preview)

Chapter One

“My dear girl, you simply must hear about the extraordinary fox hunt in which I participated last Thursday with none other than Lord Sheffield. The most remarkable day it was! I have been hunting these grounds for nigh on fifty years, you see, and never have I witnessed such a clever fox. Reminded me of a hunt in seventy-eight… or was it seventy-nine?” The elderly general paused to ponder the details of his tale while taking a generous pinch of snuff. 

Lady Eleanor Fairchild smiled politely, the muscles in her cheeks burning from the relentless strain. It was the third ball of the season, and though she had begun  the season fervently hoping to secure a match since it was her second year, this particular conversation did not bode well. 

She shifted her weight, her gloved fingers lightly grazing the honey-blonde curls cascading down her left shoulder as he continued, “The hounds had picked up the scent near Hollythorn Chase – a magnificent pack of beagles. I should know; I bred them myself! They are descended from my prized hunting dog Wellington. So named after the duke himself, you know!” 

“Of course.” Eleanor let out a faint huff, blowing the breath out of her nose in an attempt to stifle a yawn while keeping her polite smile firmly in place. “I had the pleasure of dining in Wellington once… but that’s another story entirely,” he continued, completely missing her indifference. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes of course, the fox! The cunning creature led us through farmer Hodgson’s turnip field – utterly destroyed his crop, I’m afraid, but such is the price of sport!” he chuckled, causing him to wheeze. 

Eleanor’s eyes widened. The rattling sound in his chest worried her. Will he keel over here and now? She nodded politely, wishing fervently that someone, anyone, would save her from the old man’s ranting as he rambled on and on, oblivious to her disinterest. 

“Three hours we pursued that beast, dear girl,” he wheezed. “Three hours! My mount, Hyperion – so named for the Greek sun god, though I suppose a young lady like yourself would not be familiar with such classical references – showed remarkable stamina. But that is hardly surprising, considering his fascinating pedigree…” He began counting off generations of horses on his fingers, peering over his rounded spectacles.

Glancing desperately across the room, Eleanor noticed her younger sister Lydia enthralled in conversation with a handsome young man. Eleanor’s heart leapt. Lydia’s face was alight with happiness.

Perhaps he is the man for her. Eleanor believed in love, but thought it remarkably rare. Certainly not all, and perhaps not even most couples, truly loved one another. Her eldest sister Beatrice had married  Douglas, a Scottish Marquess, and while they were a good match, they were most certainly not in love. 

Douglas had become ever closer with his father-in-law, the Earl of Haverford, since the marriage with Beatrice, and Eleanor thought it highly likely that he would inevitably take over the family estate. And if that happens, how will he then treat his wife? He’d grown increasingly indifferent to Beatrice as time went on. That was how she knew it wasn’t truly love.

Although Eleanor fostered an incredible love and adoration for both her sisters, it was an obvious fact that she herself was rather dull in comparison to them. As the elderly general chattered blithely on about bloodlines and equine composition, she groaned inwardly. Is this man truly the only one willing to spare me a second glance?

 The ton had been abuzz with gossip for months, painting Eleanor in a rather unkind light compared to the adoring compliments aimed at her two sisters. Beatrice was already married, and Lydia had received much attention from several eligible young men – and she was only in her first season.

I, on the other hand… Eleanor stifled a sigh. Ever since the start of the second season, she’d felt a deep-seated sense of panic, terrified to be the only sister to be unsuccessful in securing a match and then ending up a spinster. 

If she was truly honest with herself, she’d have to acknowledge that spinsterhood was likely her greatest fear – the second-greatest fear being a loveless marriage. Her aunt in Wythenshawe was a spinster, and had no other option but to beg Papa for funds yearly, her survival sorely dependent on his charity. The thought of sharing the same fate filled her with dread, sending her heart racing.

“My lady, are you listening?”

The insulted tone in the general’s voice snapped Eleanor back to the present. “Of course, my lord,” she assured him, a polite smile still stretching across her lips as she slowly nodded to him. His hand was outstretched – he’d asked her for a dance, no doubt.

She spoke in a soft, well-bred voice. “Forgive me, my lord. You are most kind in your request, but I fear I must decline.” She delicately touched the tips of her fingers to her lips. “You see, I had quite the mishap during my morning stroll in Hyde Park – a most unfortunate encounter with an uneven paving stone.” She shot him an apologetic smile. “My physician has strictly forbidden any dancing this evening, though it pains me greatly to do so.” 

She shifted her weight, feigning a painful wince for added authenticity. “Rest assured, under any other circumstances, I should be delighted to.” She executed a perfect curtsey, despite her supposed injury, and softly bit the inside of her lip. Hopefully he would not see through her façade. 

The older general smirked and bid her a curt “Good night,” a stark contrast to his demeanor for the better part of the last hour. Eleanor let out a sigh of relief as he left. Praise Heaven. No matter how greatly she feared spinsterhood, she could not persuade herself that the general was a marital godsend, either. 

She eyed the room carefully and chose a quiet spot behind one of the large pillars that lined the outer perimeter of the dance hall. A vase filled with flowers was precariously perched in front of it. Tonight, the crystal vase housed an artful arrangement of white roses and delicate blue delphiniums, their perfume a gentle respite from the overwhelming ballroom. 

Eleanor immediately gravitated toward it. She’d always felt calmer when contemplating flowers, and at that particular moment, she needed a breath or two of peace to handle the anxiety of the social season. She reached the vase and was about to adjust a drooping bloom when a deep, sonorous voice from behind the large marble pillar caught her attention.

“Come now, Sterling. Surely, you must have observed it for yourself. These creatures who flutter about – you can see it in their eyes… without fail, darting to a gentleman’s coat to ascertain the quality thereof, or ogling his cravat pin.”

“To what end, Ashford?” the second man  – Sterling – replied, a touch of amusement in his voice. Sterling… Eleanor wondered if this was Maxwell Sterling, the youngest son of a well-regarded Baron.

 “Why, calculating annual income, of course.”

“Bold of you to assume that most, if any of these young ladies excel in calculus.”

The first man chuckled. “Women are quite simply put, incapable of love. They are cultivated from the cradle to seek and secure the most advantageous match, nothing more. Their hearts beat to the rhythm of status and fortune, not romance. Love is merely a pretty fiction they employ to disguise their true ambitions.”

Eleanor’s hand froze. She ought to move away – eavesdropping was terribly improper – but something in that cynical voice held her in place.

“Good God, Ashford, you can not truly believe that.” The second voice was lighter, warmer. “Love exists. Granted it is rare, perhaps, but real enough.”

“Your optimism would be rather charming if it weren’t so naïve, Maxwell,” replied the second man – Ashford.

Eleanor leaned forward, straining to hear more – and her hip struck the vase. The delicate crystal wobbled precariously, the flowers swaying in a delicate dance with gravity before the entire arrangement tilted forward, toppling through the air in a graceful arc. On instinct, Eleanor lunged forward, fingers outstretched, and managed to grasp the neck of the vase just before it met the floor. She let out a heavy sigh of relief and carefully sat the vase upright once again. The delicate crystal chimed like a soft bell.

“Well, well.”

Eleanor spun around. 

It was the man with the warmer voice – Sterling. He and his companion had stepped around the pillar into her line of view.

Eleanor flushed, hot with embarrassment. They saw the vase. And, worse, they surely knew she’d been eavesdropping.

But Sterling looked rather pleased than otherwise. “What a fortunate turn of events! A lady to settle our debate. What do you think, Ashford?”

Eleanor dipped into an awkward curtsey and dared to glance from Sterling’s face to that of his cynical companion – Ashford. Her breath caught. 

He was broad-shouldered and quite tall. He wore his evening blacks perfectly, as though they had been molded to his sturdy frame. His hair was dark, almost black, with a slight curl to it. His features were all sharp, masculine angles as if carved from marble – with a slight air of aristocracy. 

But his eyes… his dark brown eyes were burning into her with an intensity that made her skin prickle with awareness. Intimidated, she averted her gaze.

Intimidated, she averted her gaze. “I – I do apologize for intruding,” she managed, painfully aware of her momentary lapse in etiquette. “I was… merely admiring the flowers.”

Still, Ashford’s eyes bored into her, and she was suddenly self-conscious about her plain, yellow gown and the outdated curl of her hair. 

Why would it matter to them? She was well aware that her reasonably attractive looks were considered rather plain compared to the other ladies in the ballroom.

“Nonsense!” The cheerful gentleman – Sterling – beamed at her. “We were discussing the nature of love. My friend here believes it to be a myth, while I maintain it exists, if rarely. Might you enlighten us on the female perspective?”

Eleanor still felt that scorching gaze fixed upon her face. Her cheeks burned, now more from embarrassment than from a forced smile. “I… I believe love exists,” she said softly, the tips of her gloved fingers gently, absentmindedly grazing the edge of her bottom lip. 

The dark stranger’s eyes followed her hand, and she quickly jerked it away, delicately clutching both hands in front of her waist. If I keep talking, perhaps he’ll look away. She took a determined breath. “Gentlemen, if I may be so bold,” she chirped. “I find you are both rather like fishermen describing a rare catch, one claiming it doesn’t exist because he has never witnessed one, the other insisting that if he ventures far enough out to sea, he will certainly catch it for supper.” 

With an elegant precision, she smoothed her skirts. “True love, I believe, is like the Hope Diamond – precious precisely because it is so rare. Although, my lord”—and she nodded to Ashford, heart in her throat—“you are correct to say that most marriages are indeed transactions, but not simply because women are incapable of love.”

“Oh?” He quirked one dark eyebrow, eyes still fixed on her.

Eleanor smiled sweetly, refusing to tremble under the handsome stranger’s full-undivided attention. He was still listening, and that emboldened her to keep going. “Society has made it rather impossible for us to risk everything on such a rare possibility,” she began.

Both men leaned forward as though intrigued. However, before either could respond, a distinctly familiar laugh drew their attention. Eleanor turned around to see the crowd parting, and Frederick Beaufort, the third son of a reputable Viscount, coming into view, holding a champagne dinner flute in one hand and a knife in the other. A young lady stood by his side… Lydia. 

Eleanor’s heart clenched. Lydia’s hand was laced into the crook of Frederick’s elbow, a gesture both trusting and intimate. Frederick looked dashing in his expertly tailored evening coat. Beside him, Lydia’s cheeks glowed, a lovely contrast with her pale blue gown. The sparkle of the diamonds dangling from her neck were hardly comparable to the joyful glimmer in her eyes.

Frederick tapped his silver dinner knife against the champagne flute and the crystal chimed delicately, the sound carrying across the candlelit ballroom. The rustle of silk gowns and murmur of conversation gradually quieted down as the assembled guests turned their attention to the couple. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” Frederick began, his voice a mix of dignity and barely contained joy. “I hope you will forgive this interruption to your evening’s festivities.” He glanced down at Lydia, who let out a content sigh as he continued.

“It is my great pleasure – if not the greatest honor of my life – to announce that Miss Fairchild has agreed to be my wife.”

A collective intake of breath echoed across the room. “I trust,” Frederick continued, “that you all will join us in celebration this evening.” He raised his glass. “To my beloved Lydia.”

“To the happy couple!” Cheers of well wishes erupted from the crowd, followed by the crystalline song of clinking glasses. Frederick’s fingers found Lydia’s, squeezing gently. In that uncomplicated touch lay all the words they could not yet say in public. 

Eleanor was frozen in place, watching them, as joy battled with fear. I’m the last one. A cold laugh from Ashford broke through her whirling thoughts. “Observe now, Sterling. Your perfect rose reveals its thorns.”

Prickling with annoyance, Eleanor turned slowly to face him. He continued talking smoothly, a cynical smile on his lips. “Watching Miss Fairchild’s performance is akin to watching a rather well-rehearsed play, is it not? Impeccable timing she has, blushing oh-so-perfectly at the precise minute of announcement. Miss Fairchild has secured herself a wealthy husband, and young Beaufort has purchased himself a pretty ornament for his arm.”

“James.” A gravelly interrupted Sterling’s reply. Eleanor looked up, startled, to see an elderly gentleman approach them from behind. “I see you’re relentlessly spreading your particular brand of cheer.” He faintly motioned towards the newly engaged couple. “Damn shame. It seems I have missed my chance.”

Eleanor winced at the curse, as did Sterling. The gentleman came to stand beside Ashford, and she realized that they sported the same hawk-like nose. 

Perhaps they’re related? She watched them intently, but then Sterling addressed her. “My apologies, miss. I am Lord Maxwell Sterling,” and he bowed, introducing himself. “Allow me to present; His Grace, the Duke of Ashford, and his son, Lord Ashford,” and he motioned to his companions. “Gentlemen, this is…” He paused and gave Eleanor an embarrassed look. “Forgive me, my lady. I fear the excitement of the evening has addled my wits entirely, and I find myself unable to recall your name. Might we begin again with a proper introduction?”

“Lady Eleanor Fairchild,” she replied in a demure voice, carefully hiding her annoyance at Lord Ashford’s sharp remarks towards her sister.

The duke’s head snapped up, his cold eyes suddenly sharp with interest. Beside him, lord Ashford had gone very still, his intense gaze taking on a different quality altogether. 

“Fairchild,” the old duke repeated, rolling the name on his tongue like a fine brandy. “Any relation to Sir Harry Fairchild?”

Nervous fingers trailed down Eleanor’s spine. The weight of their combined scrutiny was quite unpleasant. “He is my father, Your Grace. If you’ll excuse me, I should offer my congratulations to my sister.” She dipped into a curtsey and retreated, intently aware of lord Ashford’s dark eyes following her every step. She laced her way through the crowd, reaching Lydia’s side, and was  immediately met with a tight hand-squeeze and an excited look.

“Was that the Duke of Ashford?” Lydia whispered, her gleeful smile never faltering. “He has been trying to arrange a meeting with Papa for weeks! Thank heavens Frederick proposed first.” She giggled softly. “It seems I’ve escaped a fate worse than spinsterhood.”

Eleanor nodded absentmindedly, but something cold and heavy was settling in her stomach. Perhaps that explains it… She glanced back across the ballroom, and saw that Lord Ashford was still watching her, his expression unreadable in the dim candlelight.

She turned away quickly, but the sensation of his gaze lingered like a physical touch, pricking her skin with goosebumps. Something told her that the chance encounter by the vase was just the beginning of a much more complicated dance.

Chapter Two 

Lord James Ashford found his gaze inexorably drawn towards Lady Eleanor Fairchild’s retreating form. Somehow, the simple grace of her movements seemed to make a mockery of his earlier cynicism, as though her bearing alone was a personal rebuke. Upon reaching her sister’s side, her features transformed into a radiant smile.

His chest tightened unexpectedly.

“Pretty enough, I suppose,” drawled Father beside him. “However, she clearly lacks the brightness and polish of her sisters. Still… needs must when the devil drives, eh?” His laugh held no warmth at all. “If I cannot secure the younger sister, perhaps the elder might do. After all, a duke can hardly be expected to go begging for a bride.”

James gripped his glass tightly as he mustered all his strength, willing his voice to remain steady. “Surely you cannot be serious, Father.”

“I assure you, I am. The Fairchilds are a well-established family, if somewhat diminished. Lady Eleanor Fairchild is of acceptable lineage, even if she lacks beauty. When the nightingale eludes the cage, one might as well settle for the common sparrow. After all, both sing well enough.”

James flinched. But before he could gather his thoughts to form a suitably diplomatic answer to Father’s aristocratic cruelty, Sterling intervened with his customary, tactful timing. “My deepest apologies, Your Grace, but I am afraid we’re expected at Whites within the hour. Father was most insistent about discussing the new legislation regarding tobacco tariffs.” Father’s rheumy eyes narrowed in displeasure, but James knew that even he would not risk offending the influential Baron Sterling. “Very well. James, see that you are home tomorrow no later than noon. I mean to call on Sir Harry Fairchild in the morning, and I shall expect your presence afterwards.”

“As you wish.” James bowed artfully, keeping his face expressionless. But his stomach was still churning. Somewhere in his head, a little nagging whisper suggested that young Eleanor Fairchild should be warned. She was naïve, of course… yet that was all the more reason she oughtn’t to be sacrificed to Father’s ambitions. Feeling protective, are we, James? He pushed the thought away. There’s nothing to be done. He’d learned that by now.

But as they exited the ballroom, he cast one final glance toward Eleanor. She was listening intently to something her sister was saying, and her green eyes were grim. Her lower lip caught slightly between her teeth, making her appear surprisingly vulnerable. 

James turned away. Something twisted in his chest – an emotion he refused to acknowledge or name.

ˠˠˠ

The following day dawned grey and humid. It was a perfect companion to James’s mood as he wandered about London in an attempt to complete his business for the day. The streets were crowded with a mix of carriages and pedestrians, the noise, and bustle aggravating the persistent ache behind his eyes. He’d always had a distaste for any sort of societal engagement, today even more so as he has had to take on more and more of Father’s duties out of necessity.

Such as today. Father had sent him to ensure that the church was prepared for the wedding ceremony by the day’s end. James couldn’t keep a scowl off his face. Is he so certain that she’ll accept his proposal? 

As far as he knew, Father hadn’t even discussed the matter with Lord Fairchild yet. And the banns must still be cried for three weeks… 

“The last stop is the solicitor’s, my lord,” said Fraser, his footman, interrupting his thoughts as they emerged from the trade building and walked to the carriage waiting outside. “Perhaps we might pause for refreshment? You seem—”

“I am perfectly well,” James snapped, though he belied the words almost at once as a spasm of pain passed through his skull and he pressed his fingers against his temple. Too many nights had been spent poring over estate documents by candlelight as Father pursued ever-younger brides.

They passed Madame Harrington’s Artisan Patisserie, and James deliberately averted his gaze from the cheerful window display. But he couldn’t shake the memory that it brought.

Mother had loved their almond cakes. She’d often bring them home after her charity visits to Saint Giles Chapel. And, inevitably, her final illness rose to mind unbidden – her gentle features fever-ridden, her breath a mere rattle in her final whisper. Promise me you’ll keep your heart open, dearest…

“Please sir!” The tiny voice jarred James out of his memory. Standing before him, hand outstretched, was a child, thin and dirty faced, with tattered clothing. “Could you spare just a penny for bread?”

“Move away!” James snarled, his grief transforming instantly to unreasonable rage before he could stop himself. “Before I summon the Bow Street Runner.”

The child fled, sobbing fearfully. Fraser pressed his mouth tightly shut, averting his gaze. At once, shame coiled in James’s gut. He pushed it aside angrily. Just another sign of weakness. Sentiment was a luxury he was unable to afford at present.

“Lord Ashford! What advantageous timing!”

James suppressed a groan as lord Nottingham approached, his podgy form draped in layers of garish lime-green silks. Fraser stepped tactfully away and took up his station by the carriage as the uncouth lord approached James. 

“I just had a most intriguing conversation with your father at the club,” he chortled. “Tell me, has he finally settled on a new duchess yet? A crying shame about young lady Bethany – I’m sure you know you have my condolences. Though it pains me to say, one could hardly expect a girl of fourteen to manage such a grand establishment as Ashford Hall.” It hardly pains you to say. James glowered at the man, incensed by his near-callous reference to Father’s late second wife, Bethany. He could still recall the haunted look in her sapphire eyes, the hand pressed protectively against her swollen belly… the way she looked at him with such desperate hope, as though a stepson near ten years her senior was her only stable support.

God above knew how hard James had tried to obtain care for her in her final month of pregnancy… but Father proved a more cold-hearted devil than even James had realized. With one imperious word, he made his indifference clear, sealing the fate of his young wife and unborn child. A fortnight later, the bells of Ashford Hall had tolled mournfully. Lady Bethany had slipped away in the grey hours before dawn, her tiny son clasped still and silent in her protective embrace. Even her family was not informed of the danger until mother and child had already been laid to rest beneath the weeping willows of the Ashford estate.

“My father intends to call on Sir Harry Fairchild today,” James said in a somewhat cool voice. “I believe it is with regard to his middle daughter.”

“Lady Eleanor? Well, well!” Lord Nottingham chortled. “She does not quite compare to the beauty of her sisters, but I suppose she will do. No doubt she will be ecstatic at the prospect of becoming a duchess. The impoverished gentry can hardly afford to be particular,” he added almost conspiratorially.

Eleanor’s sharp green gaze sprang to mind, and James’s words tasted bitter in his mouth. “Indeed, my lord.” You suppose she will do, do you? It was hardly a fair analysis of her… at least, in his own estimate.

He’d seen her quiet dignity the night before as she stood by the flowers, a rare intelligence dancing in her eyes when she spoke. There had been nothing calculating in her demeanor, nothing like the attitude of the melodramatic debutantes with which he had become so familiar. She had seemed almost uncomfortable with the evening’s social display – much like him.

Perhaps we have more in common than I first thought. “Miss Fairchild struck me as rather unique – I dare say… different from the usual young ladies of the ton.” The words tumbled from his lips before he could stop them. Nottingham laughed, and there was a cruel note hidden in his voice. “Different? Come now, Ashford.” He stepped forward and lowered his voice. “Surely, you must know that not one of them is different from the next. Show them a shiny title and watch them gleefully dance to whatever tune you wish to play.” He clapped James on the shoulder. “But let me not keep you. I wish you a pleasant day, sir.”

James nodded curtly and spun on his heel, striding toward the carriage. Nottingham’s departure should have been welcome relief, but the impression he’d left behind him was troublesome. The idea of Eleanor Fairchild facing Father across the breakfast table made James’s blood curdle. Her quiet dignity would soon wither under the duke’s casual cruelty. 

He could hardly keep from imagining her aimlessly wandering the icy corridors of Ashford Hall, another ghost-in-waiting, on her way to join poor Bethany. A rebellious anger sprang up into his chest.

“Fraser,” he called sharply, “I wish to return to Ashford Hall immediately.”

“But my lord, the solicitor-”

“Can wait until we return. Now, make haste!” James barely disguised his disdain. It matters not. The estate books must be attended as soon as possible. Father ought not make any more significant decisions until they were put in order. That would be occupation enough for him. There was no time to waste on silly thoughts of Father’s intended future bride.

I have no concern for Eleanor Fairchild.

None at all.

The sigh of relief didn’t come until London disappeared behind them, and James was staring out the carriage window, eyes darting across the passing countryside. The headache that had been pestering him all morning had begun to fade away, but the turmoil in his chest persisted. 

Mother’s death, and then Bethany’s, had taught him all he needed to know about the value of sentiment in a life like his. He had spent every year since building an impenetrable fortress around his heart, determined to never be as vulnerable as Mother, or as naïve as Bethany. Love was simply another weakness, one he could not afford. Not with the weight of Ashford’s legacy on his shoulders. 

And yet…

The memory of Eleanor’s innocent flush blazed through his head. There had been no cold calculation in her eyes… merely genuine discomfort. She had spoken of love as something precious and rare. He wouldn’t have prompted her to keep talking, only… there  had been something in her manner had pricked his curiosity. He’d caught a flicker of a sharp, discerning mind behind her proper façade.

“Impossible,” he muttered, and a deep frown settled on his already broody brow. Sentiment. That’s all. He was allowing sentiment to cloud his judgment, something he had sworn never to do. You’ll be far wiser to attend to what truly matters in life. The estate, his responsibilities, the legacy he ought by duty to preserve.

Still, as Ashford Hall’s impressive silhouette appeared on the horizon, James could not silence the little nagging doubts, try as he might. Now they whispered what Eleanor Fairchild might think of his ancestral home, whether a mind like hers might see past the grandeur, into the shadows that lurked in all its corners. Would she grow to dread it in time? Might she be strong enough to face them? …Or wise enough to run…?