A Bookish Lady for the Widowed Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

The breakfast table in Gregory House was a tense affair. As quietly as she could, Annalise Jameson picked her butter knife and spread butter across her piece of toast. She cringed at the crackling sound of toast beneath the knife when she felt cold stares cut to her.

“Lis,” her brother said sharply. “Must you be so noisy?”

She glanced up at her brother, Hamish Jameson, and swallowed. “Sorry, Hamish.”

He made a bothered noise before returning to his plate of eggs.

“This is what I have told you, Hamish.” The hiss came from Lady Jameson, Annalise’s 

aunt. “She is as loud as anything in this house! These walls echo, do you not know?”

“I know, of course,” Hamish answered coolly, looking at his aunt over the rim of his glass with a bored expression. “But so does Oxford House. And she is your ward.”

“She is too old to be my ward,” Bernadette tutted. “She should be married! You should have secured a match for her many years ago.” Annalise’s aunt shook her head, sneering down her nose at her. “For Heaven’s sake, twenty-four with no husband. You’re a disgrace, my dear.”

Annalise only bowed her head and slowly chewed her toast, so she made no sound.

I have tried, she protested in her head, helplessly. I have attended seasons.

But every man she danced or conversed with were utterly boring! Nobody was interesting. Nobody held a spark that she yearned for. All the men wished to do was boast about their money or connections or land. She was not interested in any of that.

No, Annalise wished to read, to discuss the world, to see various sights. Her hands had held books while her mind soared across the oceans and deserts, imagining far-off places she would never get to see. No, because she was stuck in Gregory House, her only hope of leaving being a husband whom would bore her to death.

“This is your fault, need I remind you,” Hamish gently snipped back, masking the berating as a coax, as if he could make their aunt see the error of her ways. “You should be preparing her to act as a lady should.” Hamish looked at Annalise, every displeasure evident in the downward curl of his mouth and the furrow in his brows. “I do not see a lady.”

What do you see? Annalise almost whispered, but she was afraid of the answer. They already confirmed their disappointment of her enough.

“I shall do better at the next Ton affair, brother,” Annalise murmured.

“See to it that you do,” he snapped. “I shall not have you embarrass me further.”

Thoroughly humiliated and berated, she nodded and returned to her breakfast.

“You never should have come here,” Aunt Bernadette said, much to Annalise’s embarrassment and upset. It should have been aimed at her brother—you should have taken care of your sister, Hamish—but it was Annalise who endured the verbal burden of her family’s disappointment.

“I am sorry,” she mumbled, as if she could have helped being shipped across the city following the death of her parents.

“Then again, what man will take you for his bride?” Aunt Bernadette laughed. “You see, Hamish? This is why she is still bothersome to me. Tell me, what man would?”

“Certainly no well-to-do one,” her brother muttered, and Annalise’s heart gave a painful clench, but she smiled politely, ignoring the cracking pain in her chest. “Oh, come off that dour expression, Lis! We are merely teasing.”

“Of course,” she said, laughing softly, as if she understood the joke.

“It does no good for a woman to be so sensitive,” Hamish told her. “Your husband shall tease you all the time. You must not take every criticism harshly or you shall make him feel bad, as though he will not know how to talk to you!”

Again, she nodded, and pretended to understand. It was not compliance but politeness. She did not have it in her to snap back at her brother.

I could have thrown you into much worse places than our aunt’s house, Lissie, he had told her when she had gone crying to him the week after he had deposited her at Gregory House like a package to be rid of, mailed away, out of sight. Do you think I enjoy being alone in Oxford House with all my new responsibilities? No, I do not. But we must endure.

Annalise thought that she might prefer being alone in their childhood home than to be with Aunt Bernadette and her ruthlessness. It seemed like all her anger at Hamish placing Annalise in her care came spiraling towards Annalise instead of Hamish himself.

Before her, the two older adults continue to bicker, blaming one another for Annalise’s downfall in marriage prospects. She tuned it out, munching on her toast. It no longer bothered her as much as it once did. Instead, she pulled out the book she had brought to the dining table and began to read. It took her guardians several minutes to even realize she wasn’t listening.

“This is what I am talking about!” Bernadette insisted. “She would not be able to read at her husband’s table!”

“Of course not,” Hamish argued. “But this is your doing. You are letting her read these books unchecked. It is doing her no good. She has her head in the clouds.”

Annalise continued to ignore them, lost in a collection of old architecture in the Romanesque genre. She was learning of its origins, the archways that had solidified buildings since very early years. It was awfully fascinating.

“Annalise.”

It was said with the sharp tone that made her realize it was not the first time her name had been called. She looked up like a snared rabbit in a trap. Her brother’s eyes were on her. Their aunt had left the dining room.

“You cannot keep acting this way,” he says. He held out a hand for her book. “Give your book to me. I shall put it back in Aunt Bernadette’s library for you. How does that sound, sister?”

She was twenty-four, an adult, not some simpering fool who did not know how to act or behave. Knowing they thought that only made a subtle annoyance flare in her, but she kept her mouth closed.

“I shall take my own book back, brother,” she answered, smiling a tight but polite smile. “Thank you for your advice.”

“I know you shall not take it,” he sighed.

“I shall,” she said politely. “I am finished with it, anyway.”

She hurried away from him, her nerves fraying, more retorts rising to her tongue that she bit back against. Annalise had always been good—polite, conceding. But that day… She wasn’t sure why, but today she was irked more so. Hamish didn’t always visit them. Perhaps his drop-in today for breakfast was why she felt so on-edge. Aunt Bernadette was awful on her own; alongside Hamish she was positively dreadful.

In the library, Catherine Hardwell sat curled up in an armchair by the window, a book of poems open in her lap. Dark, curly hair spilled around her shoulders. Catherine’s blue eyes met Annalise’s when she looked up, smiling.

“How was breakfast with Lord Oxford?” she asked.

Annalise sighed and collapsed into the chair beside her friend. “Terrible,” she muttered.

“How so this time?”

“The same as ever. They wish for me to find a husband to relieve them of the burden that I am.”

“Oh, Annalise,” her friend said in sympathy, reaching over to pat her hand. “You do not need a husband. You shall stay here and board with me forever until we take over Gregory House ourselves!”

It was a fool’s dream, but one they had joked about often over the years. Yet today, Annalise couldn’t quite muster a smile at the sentiment. She tried, though.

“I just wish they would understand,” she mutters. “I do not have a husband because everybody in Thimbly is dull. There are men with coins for brains. How am I to ever get along with a husband?”

Catherine giggled. “I do say that they are right. A husband could be good, and it would be a sure way of escaping this place.”

“And leave behind my best friend?” Annalise gasped. “Never! Who else will discuss the better philosopher? Who else will tease me when I recite poetry incorrectly? Who else will chart out the stars with me?”

“You never know,” Catherine smiled. “You might meet a man who shows his intelligence more than his wealth. They are all clever, Annalise. They simply just… Likely think you wish to see their worth.”

More like they wish to know my worth to them, Annalise thought glumly.

“If a man can prove he can speak intelligently with me, then I would consider it,” she said. “But until then, you must read this book.” She pushed the book in her hand towards Catherine. “It details so much! It talks about architecture in Europe! How wonderful would it be to visit Europe one day, Catherine?”

“Very grand,” she agreed. “But we are not to dream of those things.”

“I suppose not,” she muttered solemnly. “But one can still dream.”

“Indeed.”

Catherine gave her that shared smile of kindred spirits who had struggled to make the 

best of what life had given them. Annalise, orphaned both by her parents ten years before, and her brother through abandonment, had lived like she didn’t know where she was supposed to belong. Catherine Delaney was an heiress thanks to the death of her own parents, too, but had no rights yet to her fortune without a husband. Together, they found comfort in books, one another’s conversation, and the wonder of where their places were—and where they might end up in life.

“I shall be married one day to a prince,” Catherine sighed. “A prince of a European country. A small island, maybe.”

“A prince,” Annalise laughed. “You will come into your fortune one day and be better than a princess.”

Catherine grinned and balanced a book atop the crown of her head as if it was a tiara. “Bow down to your queen then, Lady Jameson.”

Annalise pretended to bow her head. For a minute, they were childish and silly—sparing a moment for dreams before reality snatched them away again.

“I should think Lady Jameson will be arranging my marriage.” Catherine took the book from her head and her eyes were downcast. “And I shall consider myself fortunate if I am wed to a grey-haired, aging man who has enjoyed life’s delicacies a little too much. A man who shall see only what heir I can give him. A man who shall not see the wonders of my mind.”

In the back of her mind, Annalise shared this worry. Her brother and aunt did not care for her, so why would they care whom she would end up saddled with for her life? Maybe if she was lucky, she would live and die as a spinster.

But that would not be a free life, she thought. It would be a life forever in the confines of Gregory House, enduring my brother’s hatred and my aunt’s displeasure.

“One day,” Annalise said. “We shall not be burdens upon anybody. We will be loved, Catherine.”

It was a beautiful thought, and one she made herself believe. After all, she needed to show her brother and aunt one day that she was very entitled to hold herself as a lady and find a husband befitting of her desires, too. She would not marry for convenience, but for love.

Annalise would write her own fairytale ending one day, she was sure of it.

“Lis,” Catherine whispered, beckoning her close. “Lis, look here.”

She pointed out the window, covering her mouth with one hand, stifling a giggle. Outside, in the front courtyard of the manor, her brother was attempting to mount his horse who kept wandering off-course.

“You foolish beast!” he yelled, and tried again, only for the horse to quickly turn around, as if toying with Hamish. After a while, he finally got up on the horse, but it was enough entertainment to lift Annalise’s spirits.

“Well,” she whispered, “That makes two beings that did not want Lord Jameson to bother them today. I have decided I quite like that horse.”

The two of them giggled as they turned back to their books, finding solace from the world’s questions that they did not yet know the answers to.

 

Chapter Two

Mason Montgomery, Duke of Spaldwick, sat at his writing desk in his study, overlooking the grand expanse of land he owned. The scratch of his quill against the parchment was a comforting sound. It was familiar—something that quelled the turmoil in him. There was always some sort of turmoil within him. Usually, it was trying to untangle his latest academic puzzle, but today it was something of an emotional matter.

That morning, on a stroll on the outskirts of town, he had bypassed a family: a father, mother, and their son. Over the years, he had seen many families, but today his heart ached just that little more.

So, he turned back to his studies, chasing away dark thoughts of grief, of ignoring all that he had lost in the past.

“That is the past, Mason,” he muttered to himself. “It has been ten years. It is time to try again.”

And yet the thought sat uncomfortably with him.

He wrote that discomfort away, chased it with ink smudges and lines of words, of tangled thoughts unraveling neatly onto a page, so by the time he read them back, they made more sense.

As a scholar, he knew many things about the world: geography, cartography, the language of the night sky as knowledge of it grew. His own study displayed many of his own written books.

Mason glanced up at them, smiling. I wonder what sort of fellows read my books, he thought.

He then returned to his correspondence.

He was writing to one of his friends who lived on quite a dangerous northern coast, a widower himself, like Mason. Frederick Henry had been a Lord when Mason first met him in Eton, but had since denounced his family’s name and title and moved up north, following the death of his wife. Now he lived in a lighthouse, where he charted the stars and learned the mechanics of a boat.

Steel was starting to be used in lieu of iron, Frederick reported, and Mason was fascinated.

My dearest fellow Frederick, 

Your letter of revelation about the stars has impressed me, I must say! Who knew what we could find in this vast world of ours? Your findings on the star will be imperative to my research and lectures when I am next invited to speak at Oxford. What would you say about working on a collaborative report, my dear friend? We combined our minds together at Eton. How about once more?

Do you ever think about religion, Frederick? I know we used to attend Sunday services together, and I understand your relationship with God might be tenuous, as mine is, following the deaths of both of our wives. But sometimes I do consider religion a little heavier than I used to. I do not know in what way, but I do feel as though something rather inspiring is approaching my life.

Perhaps a break-through is coming. I have been trying to write a report on an island that was discovered off the main coast of France and it is causing me some bother. I am attaching some details. You might wish to glance over them and share your thoughts? I rather look forward to hearing them.

Respond about the collaboration, good friend, and best wishes on your nautical lifestyle, as always.

Most honorably,

Mason Montgomery, Duke of Spaldwick.

He folded his letter before sealing it with hot wax and his own stamp, and placed it on his desk to be posted out to his friend. Then there was the matter of tea…

Just as he was about to call for it, the door to his study opened and in walked his butler and close friend Arthur. The two had grown close ever since Mason had lost his wife, and resigned to the life of a recluse, appearing only in public for his lectures. The public was not always kind to older widowers. Society women thought themselves audacious enough to throw themselves at him with no prior warning.

“Mason,” Arthur greeted, inclining his head. “Is all well today?”

Mason turned in his chair at his writing desk. “I do not know, Arthur…if I’m being honest.”

“What plagues you, Your Grace?”

“Oh, come now, Arthur. I require a friend rather than a butler at this moment.”

Arthur gave a short laugh. “Of course.” That was how they had always been: Arthur pretended, at times, to hold him in the regard of a butler to a Duke, as normal, and Mason would feign offense but always remind him that they were friends.

After all, he needed a friend. His thoughts were heavy and his residence was empty. If Arthur hadn’t become his friend, he may have gone mad from loneliness for the past ten years. He was considering getting a neighboring lighthouse to Frederick’s if nothing worked out.

But he had no heir to pass his estate onto. At least Frederick had three other brothers who fought over what Frederick gave up.

“I fear it is time for me to reemerge into society,” he said, glancing at his butler. “Properly. Prospectively.”

“Ah,” Arthur said, smiling. “Well, that sounds good, doesn’t it? Heartache and grief have cast a shadow over your heart, which I understand takes time, Mason, but it is a good idea. You have too much to offer a lady to be holed up in here!”

“I know,” he sighed. “It is only that I cannot help wondering about whom would want an older widower who spends more time writing and reading than anything. Women want power and wealth, and while I have those, I do not always enjoy flaunting it the way other lords and dukes are known to do.”

Arthur laughed, throwing back his head. His thinning blonde hair caught the light coming into Mason’s study. “Mason! You speak as though you are a wizened old fool. You are not, you hear me? You are only forty and have plenty to offer. Your life still sprawls in front of you.” He came to sit beside Mason, taking up the cushioned chair by the window. “I know it is terrifying, friend, but think of your future. You need an heir, at the very least.”

“I do but… Well, I will need a wife young enough to bear me one, and I fear no young woman will be attracted to me unless they wish to only see my title and wealth. I wish for more than that. Is that foolish, Arthur?”

“Not at all,” he answered. “But you are not giving yourself a chance to see what happens. You are renowned across Britain. Your lectures and books are widely attended and read. All you must do is show your face in society and the women will flock.”

“But will they flock for me or the notoriety I have?”

“Does it matter?” Arthur shrugged. “After all, love can arrive at any time. But first you must open a door to an opportunity.”

Mason sighed, nodding. Arthur was right, he knew that. However, everything had been perfect with his late wife. She had been beautiful, honorable, and her love for the vast universes in his mind was endless. He had often spoken to her of his late-night rambles, speaking of journeys into far-away countries, of money and the tides of fortune in years to come, of poetry and the ways some people thought and others didn’t. Although she had never read a single book of his, not one for staying still long enough to read a full chapter, Rosaria had listened intently to every word Mason poured out.

Perhaps he was still hoping for that.

Heartache was a comforting thing his heart had nestled into in the past decade. But now it was time to make a new place alongside that grief.

It was his duty, he knew, to continue his legacy and pass on his fortune. He had no other brothers or sisters, nobody else to take over Spaldwick Castle when he was gone. Still, the thought of having a woman on his arm who was not Rosaria unsettling him.

“Honestly, Arthur, the women of the ton terrify me,” he muttered, pinching his brow. “They are… flamboyant, all of them pretty mama’s girls, parading themselves to win favor.” He laughed shortly. “Who am I to belong there? I do not go as it is! When I see myself with another lady, I see her as kind and not at all like the other women out there. But I fear my only chance of that woman parted from me ten years ago.”

Arthur’s eyes turned sad, his mouth tightening. “My advice is to not give up before you have given yourself a chance.” He went about strolling around the study, then. Mason knew he was taking mental notes of where needed dusting and what hadn’t been done. He rarely noticed. He blew into his study, worked, wrote, thought, and blew back out of it for sleeping. Sometimes, he fell asleep at his desk. The staff still worked around him.

“I apologize for the dust and lack of full sweeping. I shall have Melissa come back in here, Your Grace,” Arthur muttered, reverting back to being his butler for a moment. “In the meantime, you should venture back into society for good.”

Mason nodded, returning to his next correspondence. “I shall mingle after my next lecture.”

“I have another suggestion,” Arthur said slowly. Mason turned back around to find his friend smiling smugly at him. “It is almost November thirtieth.”

The date did not bring up anything familiar in his mind. “Yes?”

“Well, it is the Statues Fair,” Arthur gently reminded him. “Every eligible lady shall be going. It is one of the ‘Ton’s highlights. You might decide to woo a lady with a gift or a gesture. Many of your peers are known to visit the fair, so why not? You always loved going there some years ago! Why not give it another chance?”

Grief welled up in Mason for a brief moment. The fair was where he had taken Rosaria on one of their first courting outings. But if he was going to attend the Statty Fair this year, then he needed to be willing to put the past behind him.

“Okay,” he announced. “I shall plan to attend the Statty Fair. But do expect me to want to back out of it over the next week. I am very good at talking to people, Arthur, but conversing with a lady? It has been quite some time. I might be rather rusty.”

“You shall do just fine,” Arthur assured him. “Be your natural self.”

“My natural self is to ramble almost uncontrollably about the findings I have made and the discoveries my friends have reported on.” He pulled a face. “I am quite sure no young lady will be interested.”

“Okay,” Arthur said, considering. “How about you be yourself with a pinch of extra dashing? Think of yourself as the eligible bachelor you are! Enhance what you can provide a lady of the Ton, perhaps a debutante, and let her see you as a valuable option.”

The whole ordeal made Mason want to roll his eyes. Certainly, no debutante would go for a man his age. If only he could write to a prospective lover instead. That way, he could win her heart, he was sure.

“Your brilliant mind is involved in what you provide,” his friend reminded him. “But your wealth, of course, helps.”

“Of course,” Mason muttered. “It is decided, then. Next week, I shall attend the Statty Fair.”