An Earl’s Spirited Damsel (Preview)

Chapter One

“I cannot fathom how we have come to this,” Mrs Margaret Whitaker said, her hands clenched around her embroidery hoop, though she had long abandoned her stitching. “Two daughters and not a single suitor. Do tell me now, is that fair?” 

Truth be told, her older daughter Eleanor had a very different idea of what was fair in the world, but she knew better than to argue with her mother, who only had the best intentions at heart for both her daughters. 

The season was ending, and with it, the steady hum of London’s social whirl began to fade. Eleanor should have felt relieved. For months, she had managed to slip away from the ballrooms and drawing rooms, finding solace in the quiet corners of her world, which consisted of her books, her paints, and the delicate hush of the garden in the early morning light. Yet now, standing by the window of her Aunt Augusta’s sitting room, she felt a different kind of weight settling upon her.

Eleanor’s mother pressed her lips together, then placed her embroidery hoop aside. “You do understand why this is important, don’t you, Eleanor?” she asked, her tone softer now, almost coaxing.

Her younger sister Charlotte, seated stiffly on the settee, cast Eleanor a sidelong glance. It was impossible not to see the pleading look in her eyes. Eleanor understood. She was the reason for this distress, for this shadow over her sister’s prospects. 

Her mother exhaled sharply and rose from her chair, smoothing the folds of her gown. “It is not just for show, Eleanor. People are beginning to talk. When the eldest daughter lingers unwed, it raises questions. Unpleasant ones.” She turned to the window, her fingers tightening on the sill. “Some might wonder if something is wrong with you, seeing that you’ve had your first season two years ago and are still without a suitor.”

Eleanor arched a brow but held her tongue.

Her mother continued, eyes fixed on the street below. “And if they begin to doubt you, they will doubt Charlotte as well. People will whisper. Suitors will hesitate. A gentleman considering your sister may think, If the elder Miss Whitaker is still unwed, perhaps there is something amiss with the family. Do you see?”

Eleanor’s stomach tightened. She did see. It was unfair. Charlotte was young, lovely, and so full of life. She should not be burdened by Eleanor’s reluctance.

Her mother turned back. “You must marry, Eleanor. Not merely for yourself but for Charlotte’s future. It is the way of things.”

Eleanor’s fingers curled into her skirts. The way of things. How easily people accepted it, as though marriage were not an intimate binding but a piece to be placed upon a chessboard. A move to be made for the family’s fortune, for the family’s reputation.

And yet, despite the resentment curling in her chest, she could not dispute it.

“I understand,” Eleanor said, her voice carefully measured not to cause an argument. 

Her mother sighed in relief. “Good. And if you make an effort, that is, if you truly apply yourself, you might find it is not such a terrible thing after all.”

Eleanor offered a small, wry smile. “I will.”

She had known for some time that her future was not her own to shape. Not truly. If her marriage must be a transaction, if love was an indulgence she was not meant to have, then so be it. For Charlotte’s sake, at least, she would see it through.

The conversation was still settling in Eleanor’s mind when the sitting room door swung open, and in swept Eleanor’s aunt, Lady Augusta Middleton, trailed by her ever-composed niece, Henrietta.

“Ah, how delightful to see you all gathered,” Aunt Augusta declared, her voice rich with satisfaction. She removed her gloves with a practiced ease, her eyes flitting over each of them before landing on Eleanor with unmistakable purpose. “It seems I have caught you all at just the right moment.”

Eleanor straightened slightly, already wary. Aunt Augusta’s good cheer often preceded some grand declaration and today proved no exception.

“I have the most wonderful news,” her aunt went on, clasping her hands together. “I have found the perfect match for you, Eleanor. Mr Geoffrey Somerville.”

Eleanor felt her mother’s gaze dart towards her, but she kept her expression composed.

Aunt Augusta’s smile deepened as she continued, clearly pleased with herself and her announcement, “He is an exceedingly handsome gentleman, well-mannered and eloquent. A most promising suitor, indeed.”

There it was. The first of what would likely be a long line of eligible men thrust before her. And yet, Eleanor knew she could not hesitate. She had just agreed to this path and assured her mother she would make an effort.

She turned to Aunt Augusta and, with a small, practiced smile, offered her agreement. “That sounds lovely.”

Her aunt beamed. “Wonderful! He will be calling on us this afternoon. I thought tea in the garden would be best. It shall allow you both some privacy while remaining properly chaperoned.”

Eleanor inclined her head, though she could already feel the quiet weight of the hours ahead pressing upon her. The idea of entertaining a stranger, of playing the role expected of her, made her long for the peace of her grandmother’s home. That was where she had spent the previous two years, after which she had been called back by her mother to fulfil her daughterly duty. And there was no turning back now.

“Oh, how fortunate,” Henrietta murmured, her voice soft as ever. “Mr Somerville sounds most agreeable.” She folded her hands in her lap as her eyes lowered demurely. “I do hope I might find a match as promising.”

“Of course, my dear,” Aunt Augusta said without the slightest hesitation. 

“I do wonder,” Charlotte said, leaning forward, “what do you suppose he looks like?”

“Oh, I imagine he is very handsome indeed,” Henrietta replied. “Aunt Augusta would not settle for less.”

Aunt Augusta let out a delighted laugh. “My dear girls, you shall see soon enough! But I assure you, Mr Somerville is a most striking gentleman, with dark hair, fine features, and a smile that could charm even the most reserved of ladies.” She gave Eleanor a knowing look. “I daresay you shall like him very much.”

Eleanor only smiled, keeping her thoughts to herself. She supposed it would be easier if she did like him, though she had long since stopped hoping for such fortune. It was not her own happiness she sought but rather Charlotte’s security and her mother’s peace of mind.

***

That afternoon, Eleanor walked alongside Mr Somerville, keeping a measured pace as they strolled down the garden path. He was, as promised, a striking dark-haired man with fine features and an easy, self-assured smile. His voice carried smoothly over the gentle breeze,  the voice of a man accustomed to speaking and being heard. 

“I must say, Miss Whitaker, I find myself quite fortunate to make your acquaintance,” he said, offering her a sidelong glance that held a touch of flirtation, which she did not return. “It is not often one meets a young lady who appreciates an afternoon in the garden over the stuffy interiors of a drawing room.”

Still, she smiled. “You are very kind, Mr Somerville, but it was actually my aunt’s idea.” 

He paused only for a moment, then landed on his feet quickly. “And you agreed. Two ladies who think alike. How wonderful.” 

She had to admit that his mind was quick, and she also had to admit that she liked that about him. So, she gave him another polite smile. “I find nature far more agreeable than the crush of a ballroom.” 

“Ah, a kindred spirit!” he declared, though his tone suggested mild amusement rather than true understanding. “But I suspect you have not had the pleasure of seeing gardens beyond England’s borders. A shame, truly. The world is vast, Miss Whitaker, and I have been fortunate enough to see it.”

Eleanor’s interest sharpened. Travel had always fascinated her, though she had never thought it would be possible for herself. “You have travelled, then?”

“Oh, extensively,” he said, his chest lifting slightly with pride. “Italy, France, Austria, even the Ottoman Empire.”

Her gaze flickered to his, intrigued despite herself. “And what did you think of them?”

Mr Somerville chuckled as if delighted by her question. “Where to begin? The canals of Venice are a marvel, though the stench can be quite something in the summer months. Florence is a dream. Art at every turn, sculptures that seem almost alive. And then there is Vienna, full of music, full of grandeur. Of course, Paris has its own charms, though I dare say it is not as refined as some would claim.”

Eleanor listened, absorbing his words even as she noticed the touch of pomposity in his tone. He spoke not as a man in awe of the world’s wonders but as one who expected admiration for having seen them. Still, she could not deny that his descriptions stirred something in her. It was that slumbering longing for places beyond her reach, for art beyond what she could find in the pages of her books.

“I imagine such experiences must change a person,” she mused. 

Mr Somerville’s smile widened. “Indeed. There is nothing so broadening as travel, Miss Whitaker. One learns to discern true culture from mere imitation, to appreciate beauty in its highest forms.” He cast her a knowing look. “I suspect you, too, have a keen eye for such things.”

Eleanor gave a small nod, though she could not say whether he was complimenting her or himself. 

He was handsome. He spoke well. He had seen the world. If he was a touch too proud, a touch too eager to impress, was that such a terrible flaw?

From the start, she knew that love was not part of her future. She only needed a husband she could tolerate, one who would give her space to exist as she pleased.

But then, in a single moment, the illusion crumbled.

A young footman, likely no more than sixteen, was hurrying past with a tray of fresh tea when his foot caught on the uneven stones of the garden path. He stumbled, much to his own distress, not enough to send the tray crashing down, but just enough that his shoulder brushed against Mr Somerville’s arm.

Eleanor barely had time to notice before Mr Somerville recoiled, his expression twisting with indignation.

“Watch where you’re going, boy,” he snapped, brushing his sleeve as though the mere contact had dirtied him somehow. “Honestly, are you blind or just slow?”

The poor footman’s face went pale. “I—I beg your pardon, sir,” he stammered, bowing his head.

Eleanor felt a sharp, sudden anger flare in her chest. The poor boy had barely touched him, yet Mr Somerville’s voice carried the unmistakable bite of cruelty as if the footman were not a person at all but merely an inconvenience.

She turned her gaze to Mr Somerville, studying him anew. The easy charm, the polished manners … how easily they crumbled into something unkind. And in that instant, she knew. She could not marry this man.

Still, she schooled her features into a mask of composure. The last thing she wanted was to let her disapproval show too plainly. “It was only a slight misstep,” she said evenly, glancing at the footman. “No harm done.”

The boy shot her a grateful look before hurrying away while Mr Somerville merely scoffed. “You are too forgiving, Miss Whitaker. A servant who cannot manage his own feet is of little use.”

Eleanor said nothing. What was there to say to a man so lacking in kindness?

She maintained her politeness as they finished their walk, nodding in all the right places and offering faint smiles when required. When they returned to the tea table, Mr Somerville took his leave, bowing with that same self-assured air before sauntering back towards the house.

Only when he had disappeared from view did Eleanor finally exhale. She didn’t need to pretend any longer. 

Aunt Augusta beamed at her as she took a seat. “Well? He is quite the gentleman, is he not?”

“I will not marry him,” she said simply, reaching for a teacup off the table. 

Aunt Augusta’s smile faltered. “Whatever do you mean, dear?”

“Well, you’ve seen how Mr Somerville reacted to the poor boy stumbling, berating him as if he were nothing at all.” Eleanor was surprised that she even had to explain this. 

Aunt Augusta waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, Eleanor, that is hardly a reason to cast aside a perfectly good match.”

Eleanor’s jaw tightened. “He spoke to that boy as though he were beneath him, as though a minor accident were some great insult. If that is how he treats those in his service, what does that say about his character?”

Aunt Augusta scoffed. “It says he has standards. A man of his position must command respect.”

Eleanor’s mother merely nodded, but Eleanor knew that she was merely coming up with the right replies. 

“You are being ridiculous, Eleanor,” Aunt Augusta continued, shaking her head. “Geoffrey Somerville is handsome, well-spoken, and comes from an excellent family. You cannot afford to be so sensitive.”

Eleanor bristled but kept her voice even. “I do not believe kindness is too much to expect in a husband.”

Aunt Augusta exhaled in exasperation. “Kindness will not secure your future. A man’s good name, wealth, and place in society are what matter.”

Her mother pressed her own fingers to her temple. “Eleanor, you’re being too quick to judge him. Perhaps he has had a bad day and let the negative emotions get the best of him. After all, no one is perfect.” 

Eleanor swallowed down her frustration. “And if I overlook this, what else must I overlook? A man who does not show kindness to those beneath him is not a man I can respect.”

“You are impossibly headstrong,” Aunt Augusta sighed. “That is not a good marrying quality.” 

That was when Eleanor’s mother reached out for her hand. “Just … give him another chance. You promised, Eleanor.”

She did promise. A second chance. Would it change anything? She doubted it. But she also knew that outright refusal would only lead to more conflict.

At last, she lifted her gaze. “Very well,” she said, the words heavy on her tongue. “I will give him another chance.”

Aunt Augusta sat back with satisfaction. “Good. I knew you would come to your senses.”

She had conceded for now. But she already knew no second meeting could change what she had seen in Mr Somerville’s character. 

 

Chapter Two

The journey had been long, but James Ashbourne, the Duke of Chesterford, was glad to be home. He stood in his home’s grand yet comfortable foyer, rolling the tension from his shoulders as a footman took his coat. The familiar scent of lavender and old books filled the air, and he let out a slow breath. It felt good to be back. 

Just as he was settling in his study, grateful that his mother and aunt, who had been living with them since the death of his uncle several years prior, had decided to go for a stroll without forcing him along, a knock on the door interrupted him. 

“Yes?” he called out, hoping his mother and aunt hadn’t changed their minds. 

The door opened, and the apologetic face of his butler, Finnley, appeared in the doorway. “I do beg your pardon, Your Grace; I know you said you didn’t wish to be disturbed, but a young lady is here, asking to see you.” 

“Who is it?” he asked, without the least bit of curiosity regarding the identity of the unexpected intruder. 

“Lady Beatrice Montford,” Finnley revealed. 

“Oh.” He couldn’t stifle the disappointed exclamation. He raked his fingers through his hair, glancing about. “Well … I do suppose we cannot keep her waiting. Do show her in, Finnley.” 

“Of course,  Your Grace.” Finnley bowed respectfully, and several moments later, the door opened again, only to welcome Lady Beatrice. 

“Your Grace.” She beamed at the sight of him, after which Finnley retired, leaving the door slightly ajar. 

“Lady Beatrice …” James stood up and approached her to greet her as customs demanded a lady ought to be greeted. 

Lady Beatrice was the epitome of a perfect lady. Her tall, slender frame moved with an effortless grace as though every step was choreographed to perfection. She had delicate features: high cheekbones, a small nose, and lips always painted in the softest shade of pink. 

Beatrice was everything the ton prized in a woman: beautiful, graceful, and cultured. She spoke with a refined accent, her words always considered, careful never to give offence. She possessed an effortless charm that made her a favourite at any gathering, and whether hosting a luncheon or managing a ball, she excelled in the role expected of her. 

“I came to visit your mother, and I had no idea you would be here so soon,” she admitted right after he had placed a reverent kiss on her gloved hand. 

“Yes, I only returned hours ago,” he explained. 

“Oh, what serendipity it is then!” She clapped her hands delightedly. 

“It is?” he asked, glancing at the door. He was aware that being unchaperoned with her in such a manner was highly inappropriate, and he wondered why she had approached him. 

“Yes, I’m here visiting relatives and remembered that I promised your mother I would come for a visit.” 

“I was not aware you had relatives in the area,” he said politely. 

“Distant,” she clarified. 

Beatrice was well known to his family, having made herself a frequent guest over the years. His mother was fond of her, and she had always been polite, if a little too predictably so. He knew her interest in him was more than friendly, but despite their long acquaintance, he could not say he truly knew her. She was the sort of woman the ton prized. Everything about her was graceful, accomplished, and always proper. And that was precisely why he found himself unmoved by her presence.

Still, he was not a man to be unkind. “I trust your journey was pleasant?”

She offered a small, composed smile. “Quite. And yours?”

“Uneventful.”

A pause stretched between them, polite but distant.

At last, Beatrice spoke again. “I do hope we shall have the opportunity to see more of each other while we are both here. I know your mother would enjoy it.”

He had hoped that Beatrice’s visit would be a brief, polite exchange, something easily navigated out of. But instead, it had turned into an exercise in patience, dripping with veiled intent. 

“I am certain we shall cross paths again,” he said, smiling. 

She was speaking again, her voice soft and melodic, as if to keep him listening. “It’s such a lovely little town, isn’t it?” she asked, chirping her question. “I’m certain your friends would enjoy it as much as you do.”

James barely held back a sigh. “I imagine they would. Walter, especially,” he said, his tone casual but deliberate. “He’s always had a fondness for the countryside.”

At the mention of his good friend, the Viscount of Harrogate, Beatrice’s expression shifted slightly. It was just a flicker, but it was enough for James to notice. She leaned forward slightly, her lips curving into that practiced, graceful smile.

“Oh, I remember him,” she replied. “He is quite the charming man, isn’t he?”

James bit back a smirk. “He is indeed.” He had hoped the subject of his friend would direct her attention elsewhere, but Beatrice’s gaze never wavered from him. If she had any genuine interest in Walter, perhaps that would ease his own discomfort with her attention.

But Beatrice did not shift her focus, not in the slightest. Instead, her smile grew, and she continued along the same lines. “I do believe there is someone else, though, who captures my attention more fully.”

James raised a brow, doing his best to maintain his calm composure, although he was growing increasingly tired and not just from the journey home. “Perhaps you simply need more time in Walter’s company, and you might change your mind,” he urged. 

“Only if—” she started, but a knock on the door interrupted her. 

“Oh, you are here, my dear,” Victoria Ashbourne, the Dowager Duchess of Chesterford appeared in the doorway, much to James’ relief. “You both are.” 

“I was just leaving.” Beatrice sweetly explained why she was in James’ study alone. “I simply wished to greet his grace on his arrival, but I’m afraid I must be off now.” 

“Do come back and see us again, my dear,” James’ mother said on goodbye. 

“I promise,” Beatrice’s eyes beamed at this endless invitation. She greeted both of them, curtseying politely, after which she closed the door behind her, her departure as smooth and carefully measured as her arrival. 

His mother gave him a concerned look. “Why do I have to extend the invitation for her to visit us instead of you?” 

“Because you know I am not interested in her?” he said with an amused grin as he walked over to his mother. 

“But why?” she asked confusedly. “She is a perfect match for you.” 

“I’ve told you before, Mother … she is simply not what I’m looking for.” He had given her this explanation countless times, and she still couldn’t understand. 

His mother raised an eyebrow, clearly not satisfied with his response. “But she has everything you could want. Beauty, grace, a good family, and, above all, a willingness to settle into the life you lead.” She crossed the room and seated herself, her hands folding neatly in her lap. “She’s precisely the kind of woman you should marry, James. Why are you making things so difficult for yourself?”

James ran a hand through his hair, a small flash of frustration crossing his face before he quickly masked it. “I don’t doubt she’s a fine woman, but she doesn’t interest me.”

His mother looked at him with exasperation and concern. “What more could you possibly want? She’s the ideal match for a duke. You won’t find anyone better.”

James kept his tone steady, though his patience was thinning with the conversation he had already had too many times. “Mother, I’m not looking for the ideal match. I’m looking for someone who … someone who challenges me. Someone who isn’t just playing the part of the perfect lady.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I believe Walter is quite taken with her if you must know. So, out of respect for our friendship, I would never pursue her.”

His mother’s eyes widened slightly. “Walter? But Walter is—”

James raised a hand, cutting her off. “I’m aware of what you think of Walter. But I can see it, Mother. I know Walter better than anyone. I have no doubt he is in love with Beatrice.” His voice grew firmer as he continued, the subject no longer up for discussion. “And I’m not going to get in the way of that.”

His mother opened her mouth to argue, but James shook his head, already starting to move towards the door. “I’ve made up my mind. And I’m not going to debate it any further if you don’t mind.”

She watched him, a moment of silence stretching between them. She could tell he wasn’t going to change his mind. His decision was final, and no amount of persuasion would sway him. Finally, with a soft sigh, she nodded, though her expression remained troubled.

“Very well, James,” she said quietly. “But you must understand, there are few women like Beatrice. You’re closing doors before you’ve even opened them.”

James paused in the doorway, glancing back at her with a look of quiet resolve. “I know, Mother. But some doors were never meant to be opened.”

With that, he left his study, the conversation at an end. His mind, however, was far from settled. He needed a moment to himself, which he evidently wasn’t able to get. He entered the library with a sense of relief, savouring the familiar, comforting scent of aged paper and endless knowledge. The grand room was quiet except for a faint rustle of pages.

He looked up to see his cousin Michael seated by the window, a book in hand but clearly not absorbed in it. Michael’s sharp eyes caught sight of James almost immediately, and a grin spread across his face.

“Came here to escape?” he teased, leaning back in his chair with a smirk. “I noticed Lady Beatrice coming upstairs.” 

James shook his head, stepping towards the nearby chair with a sigh of relief. “I have no idea why she and Mother are so insistent. I mean, I don’t mind Mother’s enthusiasm about finding me a bride, but …” he trailed off, dropping his shoulders as if under the heavy weight of some invisible burden. “I don’t want Beatrice, and that seems to be all she has in mind. I want … someone else. I don’t even know who, but I know that someone isn’t Beatrice.”

Michael laughed, tossing his book aside and leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “Ah, Beatrice,” he said with a small shake of his head. “I’m sure she’s a fine match for someone, but I’m not certain it’s for you.”

James raised an eyebrow. “I take it you agree with me, then?”

Michael gave a quick nod, his grin widening as he felt understood. “Of course. She’s polished, poised, perfect on paper. But I can’t see you with her. She’s like a statue, cold and too careful.” He leaned back in his chair and looked at James thoughtfully. “You need someone who isn’t so … controlled. Someone who can make you feel something beyond the surface.”

“Exactly!” James exclaimed joyfully. “I think you’re the only one who understands. But enough about me … have you stumbled upon a lady who has captured your fancy in my absence?”

“As a matter of fact …” Michal started, purposely allowing his thought to trail off.  

James looked up, intrigued. “Oh? Who?”

Michael cleared his throat, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of his chair. “Her name’s Henrietta Fairfax. She lives at the neighbouring estate.” He paused as if unsure how to continue. “I’ve seen her walking around the grounds during the afternoons. She’s quiet, shy even. She hardly ever looks at me when I pass her, as though she’s avoiding it, or perhaps … simply too shy to notice.” 

James leaned forward slightly, intrigued by the way Michael spoke. “And you’re interested in her?”

Michael hesitated for a moment before giving a firm nod. “Yes. There’s something about her, James. She’s different. Not like all the others I’ve met. She’s not trying to be noticed, not putting on airs, or trying to impress anyone. She’s just … real. Quiet, but there’s something in her that draws me in. But …” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I haven’t had the courage to speak to her yet. Every time I pass her during her walk, she barely looks up. It’s like she’s too preoccupied with her thoughts or too shy to engage.”

“Have you spoken with her?” James enquired curiously. 

“No, no.” Michael shook his head. “I haven’t even introduced myself to her.” 

James had to laugh, but it was not out of any judgement. “I cannot imagine you being ever so head over heels for some lady to be this patient.” 

“I just don’t want to make a mistake and ruin a first impression,” Michael admitted. “You only get one, after all. She is so different from all the other ladies of the ton; she doesn’t seem to care for attention at all.”

James leaned back, carefully selecting his words. “Perhaps that’s the very reason you should speak to her. She doesn’t sound like someone who will come running after you, but maybe that’s exactly the type of woman you need. Someone who won’t be caught up in the frenzy of the season, who won’t be swayed by status or wealth, but who has her own mind and heart.” 

He realized only then that he was speaking from his own heart. 

Michael mulled over his words in silence for a moment before finally nodding. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll have to find the right moment. I don’t want to rush it.” He stood up from the chair, stretching his long limbs. “Maybe I’ll start by simply walking with her one of these days, not to speak of anything too grand, but just to get a sense of who she is.”

James gave him a nod of approval. “That sounds like a good plan. Take it slow. No need to force it.” He paused, looking over at his cousin with a smile. “You might just find that the quietest ones are the most intriguing.”

Michael laughed in agreement, and already, the day didn’t seem half as bad as it had started.