A Wallflower for the Widowed Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

London, England, Summer, 1817.

“It’s no wonder we used to call her the ugly duckling. Look how she’s sitting, Mother – all frumpy,” Cassandra Rivers’ sister, Charlotte, said, looking across the carriage at Cassandra contemptuously.

Their mother tutted.

“Oh, Cassandra – sit up, won’t you? Why do you have to slouch like that? You’ve got a lovely new dress to wear, and now you’re creasing it. What’s it going to look like when you step out of the carriage?” she exclaimed, shaking her head, as Cassandra shuffled up the seat, glaring at Charlotte, who smirked at her.

“You see – Mother agrees with me. You’ll never find a husband by sitting like that,” she said, folding her arms with a satisfied expression.

Charlotte always liked to belittle her older sister. It was a game to her, though Cassandra did not think the way she sat had any bearing on whether she would find a husband. They were on their way to a ball hosted by Cassandra’s uncle, and Charlotte had talked of nothing but the suitors she would dance with and the friends she would see. The two sisters were like chalk and cheese, and while Charlotte would delight in the evening to come, Cassandra was dreading it.

“I don’t want to find a husband,” Cassandra retorted, and her mother drew a sharp intake of breath.

“Oh, Cassandra. You know how I hate to hear you say such things. Why must you insist on vexing my nerves so?” she said, glaring at Cassandra, who folded her arms and turned to look out the window.

“She doesn’t have any concern for you, Mother. She delights in upsetting you. But I’ll dance with enough men for the both of us,” Charlote said.

Cassandra ignored her, still looking out the window as the streets of London passed by in a blur. Cassandra was short-sighted, but her mother, pandering to her own vanities, refused to allow Cassandra to wear her spectacles and had snatched them away from her as they had left the house.

“You don’t need to make yourself any more unattractive, Cassandra,” she had said, stowing Cassandra’s spectacles in her purse.

As a result, Cassandra could not see clearly much further than the hand in front of her face. Even her mother and sister were somewhat blurred, seated across the carriage from her.

“I wonder if I’ll get my quintet? I did last time,” Charlotte said, and their mother laughed.
“Oh, Charlotte – you and your games. A baron, a viscount, an earl, a marquess, and a duke – a dance with each of them. I’m not sure your uncle’s as well connected as Lord Falconer. But we’ll see,” she said, and Charlotte clapped her hands together in delight.

“Oh, I’m so excited. I’m sure we’re going to have the most wonderful evening. I just hope she doesn’t spoil it,” she said, and Cassandra sighed.

She was already tired of her sister, and they had not even arrived at their uncle’s home. The ball was to be a grand affair, and her mother had been at pains to stress the importance of Cassandra finding someone to dance with.

“I’ve made some arrangements,” she had said, though Cassandra was not yet privy to those arrangements.

As their carriage drew up outside their uncle’s imposing townhouse, Charlotte pulled down the window and leaned out. It was a beautiful evening, the golden sunlight reflecting off the marble walls and a stream of fashionably dressed men and women making their way inside.

“There’s the Duke of Clarence, and there’s Lord Ramsbottom – he’s the Marquess of Tallentire – that’s two, and there’s bound to be any number of lesser peerages,” Charlotte said as a footman now hurried to open the carriage door.

Cassandra’s mother looked at her with a pointed expression on her face.

“Don’t look so miserable, Cassandra. It’s a ball – it’s to be enjoyed,” she said, shaking her head.

But Cassandra had already determined not to enjoy herself. A ball was not her idea of enjoying herself. She preferred her own company and would be far more delighted at home sitting at the pianoforte or in her father’s library. She had a deep love of music and languages and enjoyed painting and long walks by the river near their home in Greenwich. A ball, with all its societal expectations, was the very antithesis of her usual enjoyments, an occasion to be endured rather than delighted in.

“Yes, Mother,” she said, climbing down from the carriage.

Charlotte had already gone ahead, joining several of her friends, and Cassandra walked with her mother, the mass of men and women a blur in front of her.

“Lord Keynes will be here,” her mother said as they entered the ballroom.

Percy Rodgers, the Baron Keynes, was a friend of Cassandra’s uncle – an old friend, far too old …

“Mother, we’ve talked about this before,” Cassandra replied, but her mother only tutted.

“He’s a good man, and he’s shown considerable interest in you, Cassandra. He has fortune and prospects,” she said.

Cassandra groaned.

“His only prospect is the gout stool and an early grave,” she hissed just as her uncle came to greet them.

“Marvellous evening, don’t you think? Is that a new dress, Cassandra?” he asked.

Cassandra’s uncle was a military man. He had risen to the rank of colonel, serving in almost every conflict of the past twenty years. Every year, he held a ball, inviting the many young and not-so-young acquaintances of his military days. Given most aristocratic gentlemen served time in the army or navy, his associations were extensive, and Cassandra’s parents had urged him to assist them in finding a match for their middle daughter.

“A new dress, in expectation of a new match, Thomas,” Cassandra’s mother said, raising her eyebrows.

Cassandra’s uncle smiled, glancing across the ballroom to where the elderly Lord Keynes was helping himself to punch at the refreshment table. The ballroom was not the grandest in London, but it had its merits – an excellent acoustic being one, and now the musicians were readying their instruments for the first dance at the far end. Cassandra’s uncle had inherited the house from his mother and set about refurbishing it to his taste. The walls were frescoed, as was the ceiling, and a series of pink-marbled columns supported a gallery above, where Charlotte and her friends were observing the comings and goings below.

“Ah, yes – Lord Keynes. He’s expecting the first dance,” he said, and Cassandra sighed.

She did not want to dance with Lord Keynes, but now he was approaching, and as he came into focus – for the mass of people around her were merely a blur – she saw he was already slightly drunk. He had a red face, wispy white hair, and an overly large mouth with most of his teeth missing. He smiled at Cassandra, and she recoiled somewhat as he held out his hand to her.

“Ah, here she is, the belle I’ve been waiting for,” he said.

“Lord Keynes, how nice to see you again. We were just saying how much Cassandra has been looking forward to dancing with you this evening,” Cassandra’s mother said.

Cassandra shuddered, and Lord Keynes now gulped down his glass of punch as the music struck up for the first dance. He handed his glass to a passing footman, taking Cassandra’s hand in his and leading her away from her mother and uncle. There was no choice for her but to dance with him, even as she found him entirely odious.

“Tell me, my dear – what have you been doing since last I set eyes on your beautiful countenance?” Lord Keynes said as they joined the throng of other dancers in the waltz.

“Oh … well, nothing of great interest, I suppose. I’ve been painting a river scene – a watercolour,” Cassandra said.

“Ah, enchanting,” Lord Keynes replied.

Cassandra felt despairing. Her parents were becoming insistent on her making a match. Her older sister, Beatrice, had been married for five years, and at twenty-four, Cassandra was lagging far behind expectations. Her younger sister had any number of suitors to choose from, but Cassandra had no one – save for Lord Keynes. But marriage was not something she had pursued with any enthusiasm. In fact, it was the life of a spinster she found most appealing – as much as her mother would baulk at the suggestion.

“You’ll end up just like your Aunt Matilda,” her mother had said, but that was Cassandra’s dream.

Her Aunt Matilda – on her father’s side – lived in a small cottage deep in the countryside. She spent her days painting, tending to her garden, and reading. It was the sort of life Cassandra dreamed of, though she knew her parents would never allow it.

“I shall ask your mother if I may call on you in the coming days, Cassandra. We must … get to know one another better,” Lord Keynes said as the music came to an end.

Cassandra nodded, curtseying to Lord Keynes, before turning to find her mother standing behind her.

“There’s someone else,” she hissed, seizing Cassandra by the hand.

Cassandra looked at her mother in astonishment.

“But I’ve just danced with Lord Keynes,” she exclaimed.

Cassandra had hoped to slip quietly away for the remainder of the evening. Her uncle had a library upstairs, and Cassandra intended to spend the rest of the ball hidden there, returning only for the final dance.

“And you’ll dance again – there’s the man over there,” her mother said, pointing through the throng.

Given Cassandra’s shortsightedness, her mother could have pointed to anyone in the room – man or woman. They were all a blur, even as it seemed she would have no choice but to dance with whoever her mother had chosen.

“But …” she began as her mother pushed her forward.

“They’ll start again in a moment – be ready,” she said, and Cassandra found herself standing in the middle of the dance floor as the musicians struck up their tune.

She did not know who it was her mother had pointed to, though she thought she could discern a group of several men standing on the periphery of the dance floor. Now, Cassandra was surrounded by other couples, the women’s skirts swishing at her ankles as she was caught up in the throng. No one came towards her, and instead, wanting only to get the dance over with, she stepped forward, seizing the man’s hand – the man she thought she was to dance with – and pulling him into the throng. He was a little older than her, tall and handsomely built, with wavy auburn hair and deep hazel eyes. He was attractive, strikingly so – now she could see him up close. She did not know him, and she did not know why her mother had chosen him – a remarkable contrast to Lord Keynes.

“Come along, the music’s started,” Cassandra said, seizing the man by his hand.

He turned to her in surprise as she pulled him forward.

“Ah … has there been a mistake?” he exclaimed, but Cassandra was in no mood to debate the matter.

“We’re to dance,” she said, taking his hand in hers and feeling as though she was nothing but a pawn in her mother’s games.

 

Chapter Two

“It’s all a matter of duty, I suppose,” George Hall said, shaking his head.

Lucius Spencer nodded, though he was not really listening. His friend was describing an incident that had occurred to a mutual acquaintance of theirs, but Lucius had lost track of the conversation as his attention turned to the dancing going on around them. He and George had come to the ball at the invitation of its host, Colonel Rivers. George had spent time in the army, and Lucius, as the Duke of Richmond, had connections to the local regiment. But Lucius’ heart was not in it, and he was finding the evening boring.

“Yes, certainly,” he replied, and his friend looked at him in surprise.

“No, his duty, not hers,” he said, and Lucius blushed.

“Ah, yes … I’m sorry, George. My heart’s not in it this evening,” he said.

His friend looked at him sympathetically.

“It’s the anniversary, isn’t it?” he said.

“Eleven years this coming Friday, yes. You’d think it would get easier with the passing of time. But somehow … it seems harder,” Lucius replied.

His friend placed his hand on Lucius’ shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Lucius. I didn’t think … well, when the colonel issued the invitation,” he said, but Lucius shook his head.

“It’s not your fault, George. I just … well, I’ve been thinking about her a great deal these past few days,” Lucius replied.

Eleven years ago, Lucius had lost his wife, Francesca. They had been married for only a year, and she had died in childbirth, along with their son. It was a tragedy from which Lucius had never recovered, and one he lived with every waking moment of the day and in the dreams he was haunted by. He blamed himself for their deaths, even though he knew there was nothing more he could have done.

“I understand … no man should have to bury his wife. She was … a shining star,” George said, and Lucius nodded, smiling at the thought of his wife – the woman he had loved more than anything else in all the world.

“But after eleven years … sometimes, I wonder if this sorrow will ever end,” he said.

Since the death of his wife, Lucius had become something of a recluse, though his ducal duties prevented him from entirely cutting himself off from the outside world. He preferred books to people and would often shut himself away for days in his library, where he studied the texts of ancient Rome and Greece. Latin was his forte, and he was currently engaged in writing a history of the Roman Empire. It was not that he did not like people – indeed, he found intellectual conversation a balm to his painful memories, an escape from the sadness in which he lived – but after the death of his wife, he had struggled to find anyone with whom he could attain such intimate depth. In short, he was lonely, and books were his solace.

“It may not do, but that’s proof of your love for Francesca,” George replied.

“But sometimes … well, I think of the line. I think of my duty. I have to marry again – I have to have an heir,” Lucius replied.

The thought had been playing on his mind lately. He was thirty-two years old, and since the death of Francesca, Lucius had done nothing to further the necessity of his marrying again and producing an heir. His heart was simply not in it, for he knew he could never love anyone as he had his first wife.

“Don’t think about it too much, Lucius. If it’s to happen, it’ll happen,” George said.

Lucius nodded. He did not want to spoil the evening for his friend, and now he looked around, watching the dancing couples in the waltz. One couple, in particular, caught his eyes – a much older man, whom he vaguely recognized as Lord Keynes, dancing with a younger woman who looked decidedly miserable. She was short – perhaps only a little over five feet tall – with long, waist-length black hair – and had she not looked so miserable, Lucius would have thought her rather pretty, in an unconventional sort of way. She was wearing a purple dress and a diamond tiara, with purple slippers and a matching shawl around her shoulders. 

“What a strange couple,” he remarked, wondering why the woman looked so miserable – though by the state of the man she was dancing with, perhaps it was obvious.

“Lord Keynes – goodness, he’s looking old, isn’t he? But who’s he dancing with? I don’t recognize her,” George said.

“Neither do I. I don’t recall ever seeing her before, though I suppose I’m hardly prominent in society myself, am I?” Lucius said, turning back to George, who smiled at him.

“Don’t worry, Lucius – these things take time. You’ll be ready when you’re ready,” he said.

Their talk now turned to other matters, and Lucius tried to concentrate on what his friend was saying, though his mind was on other matters. He missed Francesca terribly, although he knew she would never have wanted him to live in the sorry state of affairs he now existed in. But even looking at another woman – as he had done just now – brought a sense of guilt on him. To find pleasure in something felt like a betrayal, and Lucius could not imagine himself ever feeling different.

“Come along, the music’s started,” a voice behind him said, and Lucius turned in surprise to see the young woman in the purple dress standing before him, squinting.

He looked at her in surprise as she pulled him forward into the throng.

“Ah … has there been a mistake?” he exclaimed, thinking she must have mistaken him for someone else, but the woman seemed in no mood to debate the matter.

“We’re to dance,” she said with a firm and resolute tone.

Lucius now knew there had been a mistake. He had asked no one to dance with him, nor had he been offered the opportunity to do so. But something about the woman intrigued him. Why had she been dancing with Lord Keynes? And why was a woman of her age – for she was clearly a little older than the giggling groups of women standing here and thereabouts – not yet married?

“I see,” he said, not wishing to be openly rude to her.

“Yes, I know … my mother arranged it. I don’t know why,” the woman replied.

“I’m Lucius,” he said, and she looked up at him, still squinting, as though she was short-sighted.

“I’m Cassandra,” she replied.

“A beautiful name,” Lucius replied.

It had been a long time since he had danced with anyone, and he had not intended to dance at all that evening. But to his surprise – and guilt – he found himself struck by a spark of attraction. She was pretty, though looks alone were not enough, of course.

“And yours is quite unusual – Lucius, from the Latin for light,” she said, as now they danced together amid the throng.

Lucius was impressed. Women of a certain rank and class could usually be assumed to know French, but as for Latin …

“Do you … read Latin?” he asked, for he had never encountered any young woman who was proficient in the ancient languages.

“And Greek,” Cassandra replied.

“Really?” he said, and his tone must have sounded overly questioning, for her expression turned suddenly to annoyance.

“Yes … I’m translating a work of Cicero at the moment,” she replied.

Lucius was impressed, and his initial attraction now turned to genuine interest. 

“A garden and a library, what more does one want?” he said, quoting the first saying of Cicero that came to mind.

“Beauty – that’s what he means. If one has a life filled with beauty – the natural world and the inquisitive mind – what more does one want?” Cassandra replied.

“What more, indeed,” Lucius replied.

He was struck by the remarkableness of her speech – by the obviousness of her learning. So many other women – and men – were incapable of civilized conversation, and yet here, entirely unexpectedly, was a woman who was proving entirely his equal.

“Which of Cicero’s works are you translating?” he asked, curious to know more about her.

“De Fato – though only a portion remains. I find his philosophical works very interesting. Fate – I don’t know if I believe in it or not. I intend to translate it, then extrapolate the missing parts,” Cassandra replied.

“How fascinating … I’m writing a history of the Roman Empire myself. I’m fascinated by the ancient world,” he said, and for the first time in their encounter, Cassandra smiled.

She had a beautiful smile. It lit up her face, and she looked up at him, their gaze meeting in one of mutual understanding.

“So am I,” she replied.

Lucius’ heart skipped a beat – he had found a kindred spirit – and a hundred questions now crowded his mind.

“I’d be delighted to share some of my thoughts – Cicero was one of the great orators, of course. His speeches tell us a great deal about the history of the empire at his time,” he said.

Lucius was currently writing a volume on the transition of the republic to the empire and had been reading a great deal of Cicero in the course of his research.

“Yes, absolutely – and so much remains untranslated,” she said.

Lucius was about to reply, but the music came to an abrupt end, and Cassandra stepped back, dropping into a curtesy, as Lucius gave the appropriate bow.

“Will you remain at the ball for long?” he asked as Cassandra glanced over her shoulder.

“I’m not sure … I promised my mother … well, thank you,” she said, and before Lucius could stop her, Cassandra had hurried away.

He watched her retreating figure in amazement – had he been dreaming? 

“What was all that about?” George asked as Lucius turned to find him standing at the edge of the dance floor.

“I … I’m not sure. I’ve just met a most remarkable young woman … Cassandra was her name, but … she’s gone,” he said, wondering why Cassandra had been so quick to hurry away and feeling entirely amazed at the conversation they had just shared.

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“A Wallflower for the Widowed Duke” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

The sophisticated Cassandra Rivers has always been an outcast in her family, finding herself at odds with the demands of the ton. Uninterested in balls and superficial conversations, she seeks solace in her books rather than the pursuit of a suitor. However, her unbearable mother’s pressure to marry and a fateful mistake bring Cassandra dancing by the side of a surprisingly interesting Lord. If only her sister would not suddenly become interested in him as well…

Can Cassandra finally take a stand for her true desires and bravely pursue romance?

Lucius Spencer, Duke of Richmond, a man of striking charm and noble bearing, remains haunted by his wife’s tragic passing that transformed him into a recluse. With literature and his passion for ancient civilizations as his peaceful shelter, he harbors guilt that stifles any inclination towards romance. His world turns upside down though during a ball where a dance with a dashing wallflower makes his carefully constructed world fall into pieces.

Can this peculiar lady be the one to heal his wounds?

Drawn together by chance, Cassandra and Lucius discover a connection that defies convention in a swirling of wit and tenderness. Torn between their growing feelings and familial expectations, they must confront the barriers and schemes that threaten to keep them apart. Can their budding love withstand the scrutiny of society and the weight of their own pasts? Or will their heartfelt emotion collapse against their will?

“A Wallflower for the Widowed Duke” is a historical romance novel of approximately 60,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

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