A Duke’s Blind Love (Preview)

Chapter One

Sebastian Wilmington, the Duke of Albany, wasn’t of the opinion that his sister’s melancholia would be so easily cured. At least not by a simple change of scenery from the fog of London streets to the greenery of his lush estate. 

Still, he had welcomed her, Lady Arianne Pembley, who had arrived earlier that day with her ten-year-old son George in tow. The journey there had been long, much like the upcoming journey back to health, which his sister had been slowly losing since her husband’s death in the war. 

He had given them both some time to freshen up, deciding to wait for them in the library, upon which he would show them the house, which was to be their new home for the indefinite future. 

The library, once his sanctuary, now felt like a gilded cage. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes he had devoured in more vigorous days. A large desk, cluttered with correspondence and ledgers, stood as a testament to the responsibilities he could no longer shirk. The room’s rich mahogany furnishings and the faint scent of aged paper usually brought him comfort. Today, they seemed to mock his confinement. 

The once effortless grace with which he had navigated both the social and physical landscapes of his world was now a laborious endeavor. He clenched his jaw, recalling the days when he could mount a horse with ease when his body had been an instrument of strength, not a source of betrayal.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his reverie. Before he could respond, the door creaked open, and young George peeked inside.

“Uncle Sebastian, Mother and I…we’ve freshened up,” he said, as his gaze shifted to the walking cane propped against the writing table. 

“Of course,” Sebastian nodded, moving toward the door. “It’s been a while since you’ve both visited. Let me walk you through the grounds.” 

“And the stables?” 

The innocent question struck a nerve. Sebastian’s grip tightened around the armrest of his chair, the leather cool beneath his fingers. He looked into George’s expectant eyes and saw not only the boy’s eagerness but also his own reflection—a man diminished.

“I…” Sebastian hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “We should leave that for some other time when you and your mother are less tired.” 

The boy’s face fell, disappointment evident. “Oh. I understand.”

An uncomfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the distant chirping of birds outside. Sebastian cursed inwardly at his inability to fulfill such a simple request. His injury had not only robbed him of his physical prowess but also, it seemed, of his role as an uncle, a brother, a man.

“Come,” Sebastian broke the silence. “There is much to see.” 

As he led his sister and young George through the stately corridors of Albany House, they paused at the entrance of the music room. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, illuminating the polished wood of the pianoforte that dominated the space. The room, once a hub of social gatherings and musical evenings, now stood as a silent testament to a past that felt increasingly distant to Sebastian.

Without waiting for an invitation, George stepped across the threshold, his curiosity piqued. He approached the pianoforte with wide-eyed wonder, his fingers hovering above the ivory keys before gently pressing one, eliciting a soft, resonant note.

Sebastian’s chest tightened at the sight. The music room had been his refuge, a place where he could momentarily escape the burdens of his title and the constraints of society. Since his accident, he had avoided it, unable to face the memories it held. Seeing George at the instrument, touching the keys that had once been under his own hands, stirred a complex mix of emotions—nostalgia, loss, and an irrational surge of protectiveness.

“George!” Sebastian’s voice cracked through the air like a whip. “Get away from there at once!”

The boy froze, his fingers halting mid-air. His wide eyes darted to his uncle, who stood rigid in the doorway, his hand gripping the top of his cane with white-knuckled intensity. The duke’s face was a mask of sternness, his jaw set, and his dark eyes shadowed by an emotion too tangled to name.

“I-I didn’t mean to—” George stammered, scrambling off the bench.

“Do you think this is some toy for your amusement?” Sebastian snapped. “That pianoforte is not here for idle hands. This is my house, and you will ask permission before you so much as breathe on what is not yours.”

Arianne placed a calming hand on George’s shoulder, her frown visible even in her weary state. “George,” she said quietly, though her voice carried the firmness of a mother, “your uncle is right. This is not your instrument to touch. You must respect his wishes.”

The boy’s face crumpled, his enthusiasm crushed. He looked at the floor, his small hands clasped in front of him. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” he said, his voice trembling. “I won’t touch it again.”

Sebastian said nothing, his grip on the cane tightening as he tried to quell the turmoil roiling within him. Regret pricked at the edges of his conscience. He knew he had been too harsh, that his anger had little to do with George and everything to do with the memories this room stirred—the laughter of past soirées, the elegant hands that once danced over those keys, the man he had been before the accident.

But he did not soften. He couldn’t. Showing leniency now would mean acknowledging the vulnerability he worked so hard to conceal. Instead, he inclined his head stiffly. “See that you do not.”

He proceeded to pass by the music room, signaling for them all to move on. The tour of the house was done in haste. Sebastian had all but forgotten what it was like to have guests, even those who knew better than to remind him of the man he used to be, those who loved him even in moments when he didn’t love himself. 

Alone, he would remind himself as he always did as he lay awake that very night. That is for the best. 

And, as always, sleep had evaded him entirely that night. Only this time, more was added to his already existing burden. Each time he closed his eyes, George’s crestfallen face appeared in his mind, his apology reverberating in the silence. The boy had only been curious, eager to explore the world around him. And Sebastian had crushed that enthusiasm with the same ruthless efficiency he had once wielded in courtrooms and drawing rooms alike.

He got up from bed and readied himself, making his way to the library, his one remaining refuge. His footsteps echoed faintly in the darkened corridor as he made his way toward the music room. The quiet house felt like a weight pressing down on him, every shadow a reminder of his earlier outburst. His cane tapped softly against the wooden floor, a sound he had grown to resent—an incessant reminder of his limitations.

“Have I become that man?” he whispered to himself, gripping the cane tightly. 

A man ruled by bitterness, who let his injury dictate his every action? A flicker of shame burned in his chest. He had always prided himself on his control, his composure. Yet today, he had snapped, letting his frustration and self-loathing spill over onto the one person who had meant no harm.

As he passed the music room, a sound halted him mid-stride. Faint but unmistakable notes drifted through the heavy oak door. A melody—tentative, uneven, but undeniably music.

He froze, his heart thudding in his chest. The pianoforte. Who could possibly—?

Pushing the door open slightly, Sebastian peered inside. The room was bathed in silver moonlight, casting long shadows over the polished wood. There, perched on the bench, was George. His small hands moved carefully over the keys, picking out a tune with an endearing earnestness. His face was a picture of concentration; his brow furrowed as he corrected himself after each faltering note.

Sebastian stood in the doorway, a mix of emotions roiling within him. He should have been angry—furious, even. The boy had returned to the instrument without permission, defying his earlier reprimand. Yet, as he watched George struggle with the melody, the anger refused to come. Instead, a pang of something softer, more painful, settled in his chest.

The boy was not defiant in malice but in innocence. And here he was, trying to coax music from the pianoforte in the dead of night, perhaps seeking solace from the same uncle who had failed him so cruelly earlier.

Sebastian leaned heavily on his cane, the ache in his leg almost forgotten as the ache in his heart took precedence. He had once played with such joy, such abandon. And now, the very thing that had brought him peace felt like a battleground, too entwined with memories of what he had lost.

Then, he focused on the boy once again. George was utterly engrossed, his head tilted slightly, his expression one of pure concentration and joy. The sight pierced through Sebastian’s defenses, unraveling his earlier anger and leaving only a profound sense of wonder—and shame. This was no idle curiosity or childish defiance. This was talent. A gift.

As George struck the final chord, the melody lingered in the air like a whispered secret. He sat back with a small sigh of satisfaction, his head lifting, and froze. His eyes widened as he caught sight of Sebastian standing in the doorway, his uncle’s face softened by emotion, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Uncle…” George stammered, leaping to his feet. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—”

Sebastian raised a hand, halting the boy’s panicked apology. He stepped forward slowly, his cane tapping lightly on the floor as he approached the pianoforte.

“No, George,” he said, his voice low and thick with emotion. “It is I who owe you an apology.”

George blinked, confusion and fear warring on his face.

Sebastian sighed, resting a hand on the polished surface of the instrument. “My behavior earlier was…unjust. You did nothing wrong, and yet I lashed out at you. That was my failing, not yours.”

George looked down at the keys, his fingers brushing them absently. “I shouldn’t have come in here,” he murmured.

Sebastian shook his head. “You shouldn’t have needed to sneak in at all. This room should be a place for music, for joy—not a place where you feel you don’t belong.” He hesitated, then added, “What you just played was remarkable. Truly. You have a gift, George.”

The boy’s face lit up, though he tried to hide it. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” Sebastian said firmly. “And I vow to help you nurture it. Whatever you need—lessons, an instructor—I will see to it. You deserve the chance to let this talent flourish.”

George’s eyes sparkled with a mixture of relief and excitement. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Sebastian placed a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder, the weight of his earlier guilt lifting ever so slightly. “Thank you, George,” he said softly. “For reminding me of the sound of beauty.”

As the boy beamed up at him, Sebastian felt something he hadn’t in years: a sense of purpose, of hope. Perhaps he would never live the life he had imagined for himself, but George could. And he would make sure that he did. 

 

Chapter One

Clarissa Langley couldn’t see how beautifully the music room was bathed in warm afternoon light, as its golden hues played across the intricate carvings of the pianoforte and the dust motes danced in the air to the sound of the music. 

She couldn’t see it, but she could feel the warmth of the sun’s rays on her cheek, and she could press the keys with graceful precision. Though her vision was impaired, her other senses were acute, and her memory for music was unparalleled. Each note seemed etched into her very soul.

A soft knock on the door broke her concentration. She paused, listening intently. A familiar creak of the hinges followed, and then the measured steps of boots against the floor. 

Clarissa smiled. “Mr. Weston. Isabella.”

“Good afternoon, Miss Langley,” Ben Weston replied, his voice carrying its usual warmth and good humor. She heard the faint clink of his toolkit as he set it down.

“And good afternoon to you too, Clarissa!” Isabella’s lively tone filled the room as she crossed over to Clarissa’s side. The distinct scent of lavender soap and varnish told Clarissa her friend had been helping her father with instruments earlier.

“Isabella,” Clarissa said, her smile widening. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“You didn’t think I’d miss the chance to hear you play, did you?” Isabella teased. She slipped onto the bench beside Clarissa, her presence a comforting one.

“Papa’s here to tune the pianoforte, of course,” Isabella continued, “but I’m here to hear something marvelous. I hope you’ve been practicing.”

Clarissa laughed softly. “I have. There’s a piece I’ve been working on—would you tell me what you think?”

“Absolutely,” Isabella said, and Ben chimed in, “And I’ll make sure those strings are up to the challenge.”

Clarissa adjusted her position and began again. The music flowed from her fingers, every note a vivid picture in her mind. She could feel Isabella leaning in slightly as she played, the subtle rustle of her friend’s dress a reassuring presence. When she reached the end, she let the final chord linger before turning toward Isabella expectantly.

“Well?” she asked, her hands still hovering over the keys.

“Beautiful, as always,” Isabella said, her voice tinged with admiration. “But there are a few places where you could make it…extraordinary.”

Clarissa tilted her head, intrigued. “Tell me.”

“That middle section,” Isabella said thoughtfully, “the one where the melody seems to hesitate—it’s like the music is holding its breath. You play it wonderfully, but if you slowed it just a little more, let the notes linger, it would feel like a secret being shared.”

Clarissa nodded, imagining the passage as Isabella described it. “A secret…I think I understand.”

“And at the end,” Isabella continued, her excitement evident, “when the melody rises again, it feels like a declaration, a moment of triumph. Don’t be afraid to let it soar.”

Clarissa’s chest warmed at the insight in Isabella’s words. She turned her face toward her friend, wishing she could see the spark of enthusiasm she knew must be there. “You always know exactly what the music needs. Thank you, Isabella.”

“You’re the one bringing it to life,” Isabella replied. “I’m just here to help it shine.”

From across the room, Ben’s voice interrupted. “I’ve adjusted the tension on the strings—give it another go, Miss Langley. Let’s hear how she sounds now.”

Clarissa’s fingers found the keys again, her confidence bolstered by Isabella’s encouragement. She played with a newfound sense of purpose, allowing the notes to breathe in the reflective passage and letting the final melody rise like a triumphant wave. When she finished, Isabella clapped her hands together, the sound echoing in the room.

“That was it, Clarissa!” Isabella exclaimed. “You felt it, didn’t you?”

Clarissa turned toward the sound of her friend’s voice, a broad smile spreading across her face. “I did. And it’s all thanks to you.”

Her fingers brushed against Isabella’s hand, a silent acknowledgment of their shared bond. In Isabella, Clarissa had found not just a friend but someone who saw past her blindness to the heart of who she was—a musician, an artist, and a friend.

“You know, I haven’t really been honest with you,” Clarissa suddenly heard her friend admit. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well,” Isabella said through a smile that could have been felt through her words, “Papa and I have come bringing good news.” 

“Oh?” Clarissa raised a curious eyebrow. “Good news is always welcome. Do share.” 

Before Isabella could respond, her father cleared his throat, a subtle prelude to the good news he was about to share. “The Duke of Albany is seeking a music instructor for his visiting nephew. He has expressed a desire for you to assume the role.” 

“Me?” Clarissa’s fingers stilled in her lap, her brow furrowing in contemplation. 

“Why, yes, you!” Isabella chimed in. “Who better than you?” 

“I am honored by the offer,” she replied slowly, “but I must confess my reservations. Music is a lifelong journey, not a pursuit to be undertaken lightly or in haste. Can a visiting student truly make meaningful progress in such a limited time? And more importantly, will the child take our efforts seriously?”

Isabella placed a gentle hand on Clarissa’s arm, her touch warm and reassuring. “Think of it as an intriguing challenge,” she suggested softly. “You have never been one to shy away from challenges, Clarissa. This could be an opportunity to inspire a young mind, to ignite a passion for music that endures beyond his visit.”

Ben nodded in agreement, his voice thoughtful. “Indeed, and consider the duke’s discernment in choosing you, despite your…unique approach to teaching. He must hold your abilities in high regard.”

Clarissa’s mind whirled with questions. Why had the reclusive duke selected her, knowing of her blindness? It had to be the Westons. However, her career as a music tutor spoke for itself. She had worked with wonderful children, tutoring them in the language of music, much to the satisfaction of both parties. 

Her reputation must have been what prompted him to seek her out for his nephew’s instruction. The uncertainty still tugged at her, but so did the allure of the unknown, the prospect of a new endeavor.

After a moment’s reflection, she straightened her shoulders, a determined resolve settling within her. “Very well,” she said, her voice steady. “I accept the duke’s proposal. Let us see what this new chapter brings.”

Isabella squeezed her arm gently, her tone filled with encouragement. “You will be wonderful, Clarissa. I have no doubt.”

But that was the problem. Isabella was never the one with any doubts. 

Doubts laid claim solely to Clarissa’s mind. 

***

Two days later, Clarissa stood at the threshold of the Duke of Albany’s estate, her senses heightened in the absence of sight. The vastness of the mansion enveloped her as she stepped inside, the cool air tinged with the scent of polished wood and faint traces of floral arrangements. Each tap of her cane on the marble floor sent echoes cascading through the expansive foyer, amplifying the grandeur that surrounded her.

Her fingers brushed against the ornate handrail of the grand staircase, the intricate carvings telling tales of opulence and meticulous craftsmanship. The sheer scale of the estate became evident as she discerned the distant murmurs of household staff and the subtle rustle of activity in far-off rooms. The labyrinthine nature of the mansion, with its countless chambers and corridors, spoke of a wealth that was both imposing and ostentatious.

Inwardly, Clarissa couldn’t help but compare this palatial residence to her family’s more modest home. While the duke’s estate exuded grandeur, it lacked the intimate warmth and comfort she cherished in her own abode. Yet, she masked her awe, maintaining a composed demeanor as she approached the butler who awaited her.

“Good day,” she began, her voice steady, as she had rehearsed so many times before. “I am Miss Clarissa Langley. I believe the duke is expecting me.” 

She extended the letter of introduction with slightly trembling fingers, its crisp paper a tangible link between her and the enigmatic duke.

The butler took the letter from her with a murmured acknowledgment. “Welcome, Miss Langley. His Grace has indeed been anticipating your arrival. Please, allow me to escort you.”

She tried to rely on the sound of his footsteps, folding her cane but keeping it in her hand. As soon as she entered the chamber, she knew that it was a music room. It exuded an air of quiet elegance, with its scent of ancient fibers in the rich tapestries and the unmistakable fragrance of aged wood. 

“Miss Langley,” a deep, smooth voice greeted her, its warmth enveloping her like honey. The sound resonated within her, stirring an unexpected flutter in her chest. She had encountered many voices in her life, but none that had such an immediate and profound effect on her.

“Your Grace,” she replied, her voice steady despite the disconcerting stirrings within her. She extended her hand, guided by the duke’s voice, and he took it with a firm yet gentle grip.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” the duke continued, his tone warm and inviting. “I have heard much about your talents and am eager to see them firsthand.”

Clarissa felt a surge of optimism. The duke’s demeanor was far from the reclusive image she had imagined. His openness and genuine interest in her abilities were both refreshing and encouraging.

“Yes, I always said that music speaks louder than any words.” She smiled as her fingers gently danced by the side of her body, almost in an effort to ready themselves for the trial that she was evidently about to go through. 

“Please,” she heard him say, words which confused her. 

She could only imagine that he was gesturing at her to sit down at the pianoforte and play, but that was not something she could have done easily, especially not when she had no idea where the instrument itself was. 

Thinking that this was some odd jest on his part, she swallowed heavily, continuing to smile. “I would be very grateful if you could please show me where the pianoforte is located.” 

“Show you?” His words reverberated all around her. “It’s…right there, Miss Langley.” 

This time, she frowned. Was he making a fool of her? 

She could feel her cheeks reddening with each passing second, two flames licking outwardly, a testament to her feelings of awkwardness and inadequacy. Still, she refused to allow him to notice anything. 

“I am certain that it is, Your Grace, but you see, I…cannot see it,” she said simply. 

His gasp was louder than any fortissimo she could ever produce. It overwhelmed her every sense, vibrating inside of her very essence. 

“Oh, I’m…very sorry, Miss Langley,” she heard him say. “I wasn’t informed of your uhm…” 

“Condition?” Against all common sense, she decided to help him. 

“Yes,” he replied. “If I had known, I…would have arranged for your journey here instead of having you do it yourself.” 

She resisted the temptation to frown or to scoff. Perhaps it was really a matter of mistaken information. Or even information that was purposefully kept hidden from him. She couldn’t tell yet. 

“That is quite all right,” she said instead. “My journey here was rather pleasant, in fact.” 

“I am happy to hear that,” he said with a hint of detachment in his voice. 

She could recognize it immediately, that unmistakable sound of burst hopes, when one’s expectations refused to live up to one’s reality. She knew that condition well. 

“So…have the Westons told you much about the position and what is to be expected of you?” he asked after the dissolution of the awkward silence that seemed to nestle between them. 

She wondered why the Westons wouldn’t inform him of her condition when they knew it well. She decided to clarify it with them as soon as possible, for they had placed her in a rather uncomfortable position, and she did not appreciate it one bit. 

“Not much,” she admitted, torn between the desire to refuse the man’s offer immediately and to hear more about the position. Then, she surprised herself with the response. As always, curiosity had gotten the best of her. “I would like to find out more.” 

“Well,” she heard him move, then his fingers lightly tapped one of the pianoforte keys, “I have been told of your instrumental proficiency, but that is not all that is required. For instance, there is an understanding of musical theory, including sight-reading and—”

She could hear that silent gasp once again, where his own mind betrayed him in revealing that he truly didn’t know of her physical predicament beforehand. 

“Music is not read with the eyes, Your Grace,” she replied, stubborn to prove to him that she was more capable than any other music instructor he could get his hands on. “It is felt with the heart.” Before even allowing him to process her words, she simply continued. “I know that the role of a music instructor is complex, both artistic and social. It requires mastery of the craft, an understanding of the cultural importance of music in one’s life in a way that would encourage refinement without harshness.” 

Now, he was allowed to respond, but she knew that he didn’t know what to say to that. The silence between them stretched out, and she knew that the warmth she had first felt in his presence had waned, replaced by something colder. 

A small victory, she thought to herself as she gripped the end of her cane, as if her blindness were a secret, and now, it was somehow revealed to the world. The thought almost made her laugh. That was how ridiculous she felt. 

“All right then,” his voice tore through the silence and through her efforts to regain her composure. “I would like to hear how you play with your heart, Miss Langley.”