The Duke’s Pretend Bride (Preview)

Chapter One

Winslow Manor, Sussex County

Eleanor Winslow, daughter of the second son of an earl—and therefore nothing special—had long ago decided that marriage was not for her. But Thomas Radcliffe seemed determined to test her resolve, and the party at her father’s house that evening was just one more example.

The drawing room of Winslow Manor was alive with soft laughter and the low hum of conversation, a dozen or so guests gathered in the drawing room for drinks after a lavish feast of guinea fowl and trifle. Lamplight gleamed on the polished surfaces of the furniture, and the fire crackling in the hearth emitted both warmth and light, painting the faces of the gathered guests in hues of gold and amber. 

Their voices blended into a tapestry of idle chatter and occasional bursts of laughter; the kind of convivial noise Eleanor had grown used to in her family’s home over her twenty-three years. She sat near the window, the rich damask curtains framing her striking silhouette. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders; her hazel eyes fixed on the man seated beside her.

Thomas Radcliffe, a longtime family friend, leaned toward her, his expression earnest and tinged with impatience. His light brown hair, always just slightly disheveled, caught the glow of the firelight, lending him an almost boyish charm that belied his frustration.

She liked him. He was sweet enough, but he was a friend and nothing more. That was all she wanted from any man, though none seemed to take much notice of her desires at all. All the more reason to stay away from them. 

“Eleanor,” he said in a low whisper, “will you at least agree to go riding with me tomorrow? One final ride before I leave for France?”

She hesitated, sensing the undertone of his request. It was not merely a farewell ride; it was one last attempt to sway her. “I would enjoy the ride,” she said carefully, “but only as friends, Thomas. I must remind you of that.”

His lips tightened, though he quickly hid it with a smile. “As friends.” He repeated the words as though they were an insult. “Must you always draw such rigid lines between us? Eleanor, I… I cannot help what I feel for you. Surely you must see that.”

“I do,” she said softly, her tone firm but kind. “And that is why I must be clear. I have no desire to marry, Thomas—not now, not ever. It is not in my nature to pretend otherwise. You know this.”

“But cannot friendship be enough?” he asked. He twiddled nervously with the stem of his wine glass, and Eleanor watched as the sparkling liquid sloshed close to the rim. 

“Friendship is most definitely enough,” she said pointedly, looking at him from her brow as if explaining something simple to a child. “For a friendship. It should never be the basis of something more, Thomas. Especially when one of the parties has no interest in anything more.”

“You cannot mean that,” he said, shaking his head, and she could see he truly didn’t believe her. 

So many didn’t. She couldn’t count the times she had been told she would change her mind when the right man came along, but Eleanor simply couldn’t believe it. She had far more important things she wanted to do in life than become wife and homemaker. She had her music for one. Her independence for another. 

“You speak as though marriage were some dreadful fate,” Thomas continued. “Do you truly believe that no man could offer you a life of joy and companionship?”

“It is not a question of what men can offer,” Eleanor replied, her voice steady. “It is about what I wish for my own life. My ambitions lie elsewhere.”

His frustration bubbled to the surface, and she almost felt pity for him. He was not a bad man, after all. Merely misguided. “You mean your music,” he said, his tone almost dismissive. “Do you think the world will allow you to live as a concert pianist? Eleanor, you are brilliant, but society—”

“Society may disapprove,” she interjected, her dark brows arching, “but I will not let it dictate my choices. I would rather face its judgment than surrender my dreams.”

Thomas exhaled sharply, running a hand through his already ruffled hair. “You are maddening, do you know that? I worry that one day you will look back on your choices and regret them. That you will find yourself alone and wishing you had chosen differently.”

“Perhaps,” Eleanor said evenly. “But if I do, the regret will be mine and mine alone.”

For a moment, he stared at her, his blue eyes searching hers as though willing her to change her mind. Finally, he shook his head with a wry chuckle. “You are incorrigible.”

“And you,” she said, a small smile playing at her lips, “are leaving for France tomorrow. Think of your sister and her new child. Let us part as friends, Thomas.”

He sighed but nodded. “As you wish. But Eleanor, I fear one day you will feel otherwise. And then—I must warn you—it will be too late. I will have found another.”

Before Eleanor could respond, a voice called out from across the room.

“Miss Winslow!” cried a cheerful gentleman near the pianoforte. “You cannot sit there all evening, depriving us of your talents. We are in desperate need of a musical number!”

A ripple of agreement swept through the room, and several pairs of eyes turned toward Eleanor. She glanced back at Thomas, shrugging her apology though in truth, she was glad to get away from him.

“It seems my audience awaits,” she said, rising gracefully to her feet. “Will you excuse me?”

Thomas nodded. “Of course. Go charm them as you always do.”

Eleanor moved toward the pianoforte with effortless poise, her golden skin glowing in the soft light. As she settled onto the bench and her fingers hovered above the keys, the room fell silent in anticipation. 

Then she paused and looked over at her younger sister. At nineteen years of age, Lydia had the voice of an angel and was the perfect accompaniment to Eleanor’s playing. Though, unlike her sister, Lydia was keen to marry. Eleanor needed to enjoy their union while she still could. 

“Lydia, won’t you sing while I play?” she called. 

“Oh yes, please do,” their mother said, clutching her wine glass in both hands. “It’s so beautiful when you make music together.”

Though Lydia’s pale cheeks flushed at being the center of attention, she skipped happily to the piano. With a nod, Eleanor smiled and then began to play. 

Eleanor’s fingers danced across the piano keys, her posture as flawless as her technique. The melody she conjured swelled and softened, drawing every ear in the room, but it was when Lydia’s voice joined in that the performance became truly transcendent. Her sister’s soprano was light and airy, effortlessly weaving through the notes Eleanor played. Together, they created a harmony that seemed to suspend time itself.

The guests sat spellbound, some leaning forward as though unwilling to miss even a whisper of the music. Eleanor allowed herself a fleeting glance at Lydia, who stood poised at her side, her face serene, though her fingers nervously twisted the fabric of her skirt. Lydia always feigned confidence, but Eleanor could tell when her sister’s heart raced.

As the final note hovered in the air like a fragile thing, a hush fell over the room. Then came the applause, polite at first, but swelling into an enthusiastic praise that seemed far too grand for an audience of ten.

“Truly, a masterful performance!” one guest exclaimed.

“Miss Winslow, you are wasted on Sussex,” said another. “London audiences would adore you both!”

Lydia’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink as she dipped into a modest curtsy. Eleanor rose from the bench, her movements graceful and unhurried, offering the crowd a composed nod. She was accustomed to such praise but no less determined to avoid letting it alter her course.

“Exceptional as always, my dear,” their father declared from his chair by the fire, lifting his glass in a toast. The smile on his face was genuine, though Eleanor knew his thoughts were less on her music and more on the prospect of suitors it might attract.

As the evening wound down, Eleanor felt a mixture of relief and fatigue settle over her. The guests took their leave, each offering parting compliments and promises to return. The hum of conversation faded as Winslow Manor grew quieter, the servants moving through the hallways extinguishing lamps and tidying after the revelry.

Eleanor and Lydia ascended the grand staircase together, their footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. The flickering candle Eleanor carried cast shifting shadows on the walls, and the cool air of the upper floors was a welcome contrast to the warmth of the drawing room.

When they reached Lydia’s door, Eleanor paused, her gaze lingering on her sister’s face. “You were wonderful tonight,” she said gently. “But you’ve been quieter than usual. Are you all right?”

Lydia hesitated, then sighed. “I’m fine. It’s just… I was hoping Arthur might come. He said he’d try.”

Arthur Hollis. Lydia was totally and utterly in love with him—and thankfully he with her. But his work as a successful barrister often kept him away, and Eleanor saw the pain in her sister’s face every time he missed an event. She hoped, for her sister’s sake, that he would find a way to be with her more often once they were married. 

Eleanor’s expression softened. “He’s in London, isn’t he? Business with his uncle, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Lydia said with a nod. “He wrote last week saying he’d do his best to return in time. I suppose I should have known it was unlikely.” She gave a small, wistful smile, her blue eyes downcast. “I feel foolish for being so disappointed.”

“It isn’t foolish,” Eleanor said firmly. She reached out and tucked a stray curl behind Lydia’s ear. “It’s perfectly natural to miss someone you care for. Arthur will be back before you know it.”

Lydia smiled more brightly at that, but the glint of mischief in her eyes was unmistakable. “You’re kind, Eleanor, but I think you’re deflecting. Let’s talk about Thomas, shall we?”

Eleanor groaned, rolling her eyes. “Must we? Haven’t I had enough for one evening?”

“Oh, no,” Lydia said, her grin widening. “Thomas adores you. He’s not even subtle about it. Everyone can see it.”

“And that,” Eleanor said with a weary sigh, “is precisely the problem. I wish everyone—including you—would stop pressuring me to marry. It’s exhausting.”

Lydia giggled, leaning against the doorframe. “One day, sister, you may change your mind.”

“So everyone keeps telling me!” She stepped back as Lydia disappeared into her room, the door clicking softly behind her.

Eleanor made her way down the hall to her own chamber. She set the candlestick on the bedside table and paused by the window, her gaze drifting over the shadowed landscape outside.

The music of the evening lingered in her mind, intertwined with Thomas’s insistence and Lydia’s teasing. Somewhere in the darkened countryside, her dreams felt as distant as the stars.

“Perhaps,” she murmured to herself. “But not today.”

The following morning, Eleanor took her seat at the breakfast table beside Lydia, who was spreading marmalade over a slice of toast, her movements languid. The air smelled of freshly brewed tea and warm bread, a comforting start to the day.

Her father, The Honorable Charles Winslow, seated at the head of the table with his newspaper folded neatly beside his plate, cleared his throat. “Eleanor,” he began, his tone casual but carrying the weight of paternal authority, “have you and Thomas decided when you’ll make the announcement?”

Eleanor paused, her fork hovering over her plate. “The announcement?” she echoed, feigning ignorance though she knew exactly what he meant. Wasn’t it the same conversation they so often had? Part of her couldn’t wait to be an old spinster for she suspected nobody asked those such questions. 

“Of your engagement, of course,” he replied, looking at her expectantly. “The boy is clearly smitten with you, and I see no reason for delay.”

“It’s not like that between us,” Eleanor said firmly, setting her fork down. “Thomas is a dear friend, but I have no intention of marrying him—or anyone else, for that matter. I’m certain I’ve told you this before?”

Her father frowned, leaning back in his chair. “You cannot go through life avoiding the matter, Eleanor. Lydia will be starting her first season soon, and it is high time you considered your own future. You cannot expect her to marry before you.” He scoffed as though it were the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard, but Eleanor saw no issue with it. 

She stiffened, her fingers tightening slightly around her teacup. “Lydia’s future is her own to decide,” she said, her voice cool. “As for me, I am perfectly content as I am.”

Mr. Winslow opened his mouth to respond, but his wife intervened, her voice calm and soothing. “Charles, please, let the girls enjoy their breakfast without undue pressure. We’ve much to prepare for our trip to London.”

At that, Lydia perked up. “Have you finalized our plans, Mama?”

Margaret smiled warmly. “Indeed. We leave in three days. I’ve already begun accepting invitations to a number of events. The Althorpes are hosting a ball, and Lady Beaumont has invited us to a small soirée at her home. There are luncheons, dinners, and, of course, the opera. It will be a busy season.”

Eleanor forced a smile, nodding politely. “It sounds delightful, Mama.”

But her thoughts were elsewhere. While she appreciated the cultural offerings of the season, her real anticipation lay in the art exhibit she had read about—a collection of works by an up-and-coming artist whose bold and unconventional style had sparked both admiration and scandal. The exhibit was being held in a small gallery on the outskirts of London, far from the refined drawing rooms and grand halls her mother would typically frequent.

Her mother’s gaze lingered on Eleanor. “And you, my dear? Is there anything you are particularly looking forward to in London?”

Eleanor hesitated, carefully crafting her response. “I am, of course, eager to see the opera and perhaps attend a recital or two. London always has so much to offer.”

Mrs. Winslow seemed satisfied, nodding approvingly as she returned her attention to Lydia, who was chattering excitedly about the gowns she planned to wear.

Eleanor kept her expression neutral as she mentally reviewed her plan for visiting the gallery. It would require a degree of discretion—slipping away during one of their outings, perhaps under the pretense of calling on an acquaintance. Her mother would never approve of her venturing to such a place, but Eleanor was determined. She would attend the exhibition as surely as she would never marry. 

Chapter Two

London

The clink of crystal glasses and the low murmur of conversation filled the air of White’s. Shadows danced across the paneled walls, illuminated by the dim glow of chandeliers. The acrid scent of tobacco smoke swirled through the room, mingling with the rich aroma of brandy and the faint tang of sweat from men who had been at the card tables far too long.

Henry Ashford sat among them, leaning back in his chair with an air of indifference that he had practiced every one of his thirty-one years. A tumbler of brandy dangled loosely from his fingers. His dark eyes scanned his cards with the barest flicker of interest, though his focus seemed elsewhere.

Across the table, Anthony Minor watched him with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. The night had begun pleasantly enough—a few friendly hands of cards, light-hearted conversation, and Henry in unusually high spirits. But as the hours wore on and the empty glasses piled up, Henry could feel Anthony’s judging eyes on him.

They were friends—the best of friends, in fact—and Henry knew that Anthony would look out for him. He only wanted the best for him. Henry took another gulp of his brandy, ignoring the silent warning Anthony offered across the table. 

“Your turn, Ashford,” one of the other men prompted, his tone tinged with impatience.

Henry blinked, as if dragged back from a distant place, and tossed his cards onto the table with an unsteady hand. The groans of his companions were immediate.

“Well, gentlemen,” said a man with a polished accent and a satisfied smirk, “it seems Mr. Ashford has once again proven himself a generous benefactor to our cause.”

Laughter rippled around the table, but Anthony was not amused. He had seen this too many times before.

“That’s it,” Anthony said sharply, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. “We’re done here.”

Henry frowned, looking up at him with bleary confusion. “Done? Don’t be ridiculous, Minor. We’ve only just begun. What’s a few hands between friends?”

“Let him stay,” another man said. “He’s funding my son’s school fees!”

Anthony shot him a look, but Henry merely rolled his eyes. 

“You’ve had enough,” Anthony said curtly, his attention returning to Henry. He reached into his coat and produced a handful of coins, tossing them onto the table with a briskness that silenced the group. “That should cover his losses.”

Henry’s face darkened, his pride stung. He may have been drunk, and he most certainly was a little foolish, but he did not need charity. He knew exactly what he was doing, thank you very much. “I don’t need you to pay my debts, Anthony.”

“Clearly, you do,” Anthony shot back, his eyes narrowing. “Three nights this week, Henry. Three. Do you intend to keep this up until you’ve thrown away your entire fortune? Or until you’ve made yourself a permanent fixture here?”

The other men exchanged uneasy glances, their earlier camaraderie quickly evaporating as Anthony leaned across the table, his expression thunderous. “Let’s go,” he said, grabbing Henry’s arm and pulling him to his feet. “What sort of friend would sit here and watch you bleed yourself dry?”

Henry staggered slightly, muttering something unintelligible, but Anthony ignored him, steering him toward the door.

The brisk night air hit them like a splash of cold water as they emerged onto the cobbled street. The gas lamps cast pools of light, and the sound of carriage wheels clattering in the distance punctuated the quiet. Anthony called to his footman with a sharp whistle, his grip on Henry’s arm unyielding as the carriage trundled to a stop in front of them.

“Let’s get him home—again,” he instructed the driver as he helped Henry into the carriage.

The ride passed in tense silence. Anthony sat rigidly upright, his jaw clenched as he stared out the window, while Henry slumped against the seat, his head lolling slightly with the movement of the carriage.

When they arrived at Henry’s townhouse, Anthony wasted no time hauling him up the steps and through the front door, though Henry slipped in and out of consciousness happily. The butler appeared, his expression carefully neutral, but Anthony waved him off with a curt “I’ve got him.”

In the bedroom, Anthony set to work stripping Henry of his coat and cravat, tossing the garments onto a nearby chair.

“You’re behaving like a fool,” Anthony said as he wrestled Henry out of his boots. “This isn’t like you, Henry. Or at least it wasn’t until recently.”

Half awake, Henry sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face with both hands. “And what would you know of it?” he muttered, his voice thick with drink.

“I know enough to see what you’re doing to yourself,” Anthony shot back. “You’re drowning in brandy and gambling away your nights because you can’t let go of Charlotte.”

At the mention of her name, Henry’s head snapped up, his eyes glassy but defiant. “Don’t,” he said sharply.

“No, I will,” Anthony said, crossing his arms. “You’re tearing yourself apart over a woman who isn’t worth it. She left you, Henry. She made her choice. And whether or not she regrets it now, that doesn’t change what she did.”

Henry’s shoulders sagged, and for a moment, he looked utterly defeated. “She’s the only one I ever felt anything for,” he said quietly. “How am I supposed to move on from that?”

“By realizing that what you felt for her wasn’t love,” Anthony said bluntly. “It was infatuation. An illusion. And what she felt for you is even less so, or otherwise she wouldn’t care that you are not titled.”

“Anthony,” Henry warned, then swallowed back the bile that rose to his mouth. He took a deep breath, focusing on a particular spot on the Turkish rug in an attempt to steady himself. 

“And by finding something—or someone—else to focus on,” Anthony continued, not listening. “Because if you don’t, you’ll drink yourself into an early grave.”

Henry let out a bitter laugh. “Easy for you to say.”

Anthony sighed, shaking his head. “It’s not easy. But it’s necessary. How will you manage your business affairs otherwise?”

His words hung heavy in the air. Anthony exhaled sharply and straightened his coat. “Get some rest. I’m not coming back to drag you home again.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and left, the door clicking softly behind him.

Henry stared at the empty space where Anthony had stood, the silence of the room pressing in on him. Slowly, he lay back on the bed, his limbs heavy with exhaustion and drink.

Charlotte’s name echoed in his mind, mingling with Anthony’s reprimands. The ache in his chest remained as sharp as ever, and he wondered if it would always be there, no matter what.

***

Henry awoke to the relentless pounding of his head, the dull ache made worse by the sunlight filtering through the heavy curtains of his bedroom. He groaned, rolling onto his back as fragmented memories of the previous night began to surface—Anthony’s exasperated tone, the clinking of coins on a card table, the biting chill of the night air.

Before he could piece the evening together, a sharp knock on his door shattered the fragile quiet.

“Henry!” came the unmistakable voice of his Uncle Robert, the Duke of Wrentham. Firm, commanding, and entirely devoid of sympathy. “Up. Now.”

Henry winced, his head pounding in time with his uncle’s words. His mouth tasted like sand, and something in his stomach roiled. 

“Go away,” he croaked, burying his face in the pillow.

The door opened without preamble, and heavy footsteps crossed the room. Henry groaned louder, clutching the blanket over his head like a shield.

“I said, get up,” his uncle barked, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You have five minutes to make yourself presentable and meet me in the breakfast room. If you’re not downstairs, I’ll send the butler up to pour a bucket of cold water over your head.”

Henry muttered a string of curses under his breath, but the sound of his uncle’s retreating footsteps told him the man was not bluffing. He rolled out of bed with a pained groan, clutching his throbbing head. The room tilted slightly as he stood, forcing him to grip the bedpost for balance.

“Damn it, Anthony,” he muttered, recalling his friend’s exasperated expression as he hauled him out of White’s. As if it were all Anthony’s fault.

With sluggish movements, he splashed cold water on his face and fumbled with his razor, managing a hasty and uneven shave. His reflection in the mirror was far from encouraging—his dark hair was disheveled, his skin pale, and his eyes rimmed red. He tugged on a cravat and tailcoat, half-heartedly straightening them before making his way downstairs.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted him as he entered the breakfast room, a scent that turned his already queasy stomach. His uncle sat at the head of the table, impeccably dressed and radiating an air of authority as if this were his own house. A steaming cup of coffee rested in his hand, and his sharp eyes followed Henry’s every move.

“Sit,” the duke commanded, gesturing to the chair opposite him. “And for God’s sake, drink some coffee. You look like death warmed over.”

“I don’t like coffee,” Henry whined. “I’d prefer tea.”

“No,” his uncle said firmly. “Coffee. It’ll do you good.”

Henry slumped into the chair, his movements heavy with fatigue. He eyed the coffee pot warily, but under his uncle’s stern gaze, he poured himself a cup. The bitter scent alone made his stomach churn, but he took a tentative sip, grimacing at the taste.

“Good,” the duke said, nodding in approval. “Now eat something. A man can’t function on brandy and shame alone.”

The corner of Henry’s mouth twitched at the remark. He reached for a piece of toast, nibbling at it more out of obligation than hunger.

“Can’t we close the drapes?” he asked, squinting. 

“One must suffer the consequences of one’s actions, Henry,” the duke said. “I heard about your antics last night. Stumbling out of White’s, reeking of drink, losing hand after hand at the card table. Is this the example you wish to set? A diplomat, squandering his reputation and good name in drunken foolishness?”

Henry flinched, setting the toast down as guilt washed over him. His uncle was right. As Anthony was. As was, it seemed, everyone but Henry himself. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” he said quietly. “I… I’ll do better.”

“You’d better,” his uncle replied, though his tone softened. “You’ve always made me proud, Henry. Your work has brought you respect and honor, but this… this behavior is beneath you. You are not some wastrel who can afford to waste his life in drink and cards.”

Henry nodded, the lump in his throat making it hard to respond. His uncle’s disappointment cut deeper than he cared to admit. He had been a steady presence in his life ever since his father’s death all those years ago, filling the void with unwavering guidance and affection. To disappoint him felt like a betrayal of the bond they shared.

The duke leaned back in his chair, studying Henry with a thoughtful expression. “You’re nearly thirty-two, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Henry replied cautiously.

“It’s time you thought about settling down,” his uncle continued. “Finding a wife, starting a family. Carrying on the Ashford name.”

Henry let out a bitter laugh, the sound as sharp and humorless as he felt. “Marriage? I doubt that’s in the cards for me now.”

The duke’s brows knit together in concern. “And what, pray tell, does that mean?”

Henry hesitated, Charlotte’s face flashing in his mind. Her laughter, her warmth, and the sting of her rejection still lingered. He pushed the memories aside, unwilling to bare his wounds even to his uncle.

“It means,” he said lightly, forcing a smile, “that we should focus on breakfast instead of my marital prospects.”

His uncle’s frown deepened, but he didn’t press further. “You’re a stubborn man, Henry,” he said with a sigh, shaking his head. “Just like your father.”

Henry took another sip of his coffee, ignoring the way it churned in his stomach. The silence between them was heavy, but he welcomed it. At least for now, the conversation was over. And at least for now, he didn’t have to think about Charlotte—or the future his uncle seemed so intent on planning for him.