Melting the Duke’s Frozen Heart (Preview)

Chapter One

Evelyn Carrington knew something was wrong before her mother spoke.

Mrs. Carrington stood in the middle of the drawing room with a letter crushed in one hand and a handkerchief in the other. On the table before the older woman were bills and household accounts scattered across the surface.

What solidified the distress for Evelyn was her mother looking up too quickly when Evelyn paused in the doorway.

Evelyn narrowed her eyes, her heart already drumming up the worst possible scenarios. “What has happened?”

Mrs. Carrington cleared her throat and folded the letter. “Nothing that needs to concern you. It is only a tiresome matter of accounts, no more.”

Evelyn shut the door behind her. The latch clicked softly into place as she stepped closer, inhaling the fresh smell of beeswax and polish that laced the drawing room. “You look far too pale to be only concerned about ordinary accounts, Mama. You look as though someone has died.”

A tiny breath left Mrs. Carrington, thin and strained.“It is only a temporary inconvenience.”

“Then let me see it.”

Her mother hesitated. That alone told Evelyn even more than necessary. At last she held the paper out.

Evelyn took it and crossed to the window, where the light was strongest. The language in the letter was civil but the meaning was the furthest from it.

Mr. Carrington.

We have repeatedly tried to inform you about the debts owed to the Queen’s bank and you have refused to take any steps. In this light, your townhouse will be foreclosed in the coming few weeks. 

Delay is no longer tolerable and proceedings will follow unless you fulfill your part of the agreement and make your payment. 

She read it once, then again, more slowly before turning to her mother. “How long has it been this bad?”

Mrs. Carrington sank into a chair as if the question had taken the strength from her legs. “It has been difficult for some time.”

“That is not an answer, Mama.”

“No.” Her mother pressed the handkerchief to her lips, then lowered it. “No, it is not. The mortgage is worse than I allowed. I had hoped matters might mend before you needed to know the full extent of it.”

Evelyn swallowed. Her mother had always been a warrior. A fighter who believed in dealing with problems in private. Her father, while kind, was far less courageous. He hid from difficulties, leaving his wife to set any troubling matters to rights.

“And if they do not mend?” she asked after a wave of silence had passed. 

Her mother did not meet her eyes. “Then we may lose the house.”

For a moment Evelyn heard nothing but the dry crackle of the paper in her own hand. It all felt unreal. Like she was still dreaming for some reason. 

“How much is owed?”

At that, Mrs. Carrington closed her eyes.

“A lot. Much more than we can afford. We have to think of your siblings.”

The words struck cleanly and Evelyn turned to the closed door. She could almost hear Oliver bent over his books in the schoolroom and Beatrice trailing ribbons and toys through every room in the house. The thought of either child made uncertain, uprooted and dependent on nothing but the pity of others, locked Evelyn’s chest.

She set the letter on the desk with care. “What do you intend to do?”

Mrs. Carrington opened her eyes and gathered herself, though the effort showed. “We must look to the one good thing we have in our corner.”

Evelyn cocked her head. “What?’ 

“Lady Sutherland’s ball is this evening. There will be excellent families there. Several gentlemen of fortune. In our present circumstances, it may prove an opportune occasion.”

Evelyn looked at her and the unsaid words settled in place in the middle of her mind. “I see. You wish to send me there to be inspected.”

“I wish you to attend where you are already invited.”

“For what purpose?”

A wave of red rose in her mother’s face. “For the same purpose young ladies attend every season.”

“But this is different. We have creditors at the door.”

Mrs. Carrington stood at once. “You speak as though I take pleasure in this. I do not. I speak of prudence and of securing your future while there is still one to secure.”

“I understand you perfectly,” Evelyn said. “You intend to use me to bargain. It is fine.”

“This is much more than just bargaining, Evelyn. This is marriage.”

“One that involves being placed in a room full of men who will look a woman over and calculate. You know I do not do well with crowds, Mother.”

Her mother flinched, but only slightly. “Many respectable marriages begin with practical considerations.”

“And love is expected to follow obediently behind?”

“Believe me, Evelyn, the last thing I wanted to do was even consider this.” Her mother’s voice weakened at the last word. “You have always known how to conduct yourself well. Better than the rest of us. That is why I know you will thrive.”

That was meant kindly but for some reason, it did not feel kind. It felt like her good sense and ability to smile and endure even the most strenuous situations was being exploited.  

It was now an asset. 

One her mother wanted her to spend. One she had to spend. 

A soft sound grew from the hallway outside, interrupting her thoughts. It was followed by quick footsteps. It was Beatrice, almost certainly, still hauling a toy by its string. Both women fell silent as the noise brought Evelyn to a slow realization.

She had no choice. 

When Mrs. Carrington spoke again, her voice had changed. “I do not ask this lightly. I lay awake all night thinking where we should go if this house were taken from us. What would become of Oliver’s studies? What such uncertainty would do to Beatrice. I cannot bear the thought of telling them their home is gone.”

Evelyn looked toward the closed door.

She saw a dreadful future immediately. She could almost picture trunks half-packed in haste and her mother receiving sympathy she did not want. 

No. 

No, she wouldn’t allow that. 

When Evelyn spoke again, her voice was steady. “I will go.”

Mrs. Carrington shut her eyes for one brief moment, the relief obvious in her speech.“My dear girl.”

“I said only that I will go. I shall attend, I shall behave properly, and I shall not disgrace the family. Do not expect me to go any further than that.”

Gratitude flooded her mother’s face, and somehow that made the agreement worse.

Her older sister, Charlotte, appeared almost at once, her jet black hair framing her face in a rather delicate way. Whether she was summoned or she just stepped in because she had heard enough already, Evelyn could not tell. 

However, within the half hour, Evelyn stood in her chamber while gowns were lifted from trunks, examined, and dismissed. One was faded at the hem. One had sleeves so far behind the arms that no candlelight in London could flatter them. Another had already been altered once and would not endure being remade again.

Charlotte grew more distressed with each failure.

“This one will never do. And this is impossible. Oh, Evelyn, I am so sorry. Lady Sutherland’s rooms will be full of women in new silk and you will not be able to—” Her voice trailed off. 

Evelyn gently tapped her older sister’s shoulder. “Why don’t we keep looking?” 

Charlotte nodded and resumed digging through the trunks. At last she drew out a pale blue gown. The silk was still fine and the line was graceful. Its age, however, could not be mistaken.

Charlotte’s face fell. “It is badly behind the fashion. I ought to have contrived something better. You should not be sent out in this only to suffer comparison.”

Evelyn took the gown from her and let the folds fall open between them. “No. It is lovely.”

Charlotte looked at her with bright, wounded eyes and soon, Evelyn was getting dressed.  Charlotte arranged Evelyn’s hair with patience, her fingers gentler than they had been all week. Mrs. Carrington hovered nearby and offered anxious instructions about smiling, about dancing when proper, and about remembering names.

All things Evelyn knew very well. And her mother knew that as well. 

Charlotte bent close while their mother fussed with a glove. “Do not let any of them make you feel small.”

Evelyn met her eyes in the mirror, a smile teasing her face. “I shall try. I doubt they would be able to look at me for long in his gown anyway,” 

Charlotte laughed despite herself, and for a moment the air around the room softened.

Eventually, the carriage was announced and Evelyn drew on her gloves. She took up her wrap and went downstairs with her back straight. Outside, the evening air was colder than she had expected. She entered the carriage without looking back at the house.

If she looked, she might lose her backbone and decide not to go after all. Her chaperone, Mrs. Andrews, who had lived next door for as long as Evelyn could remember, stepped into the carriage after her.

Her children had long since left her home, and because Evelyn’s mother was constantly busy with her four children and keeping their house in working order, Mrs. Andrews often offered a helping hand. 

By the time they arrived, the front of Lady Sutherland’s house blazed with light. The footmen moved briskly beneath the archway, carrying trays with glasses filled to the brim. She had barely gathered her skirts and crossed the threshold before the heat met her.

“Good God,” she whispered to herself, exhaling as loud as she could. “Such lovely evening, do you not think, Mrs. Andrews?

The older woman only nodded in response. While she appreciated her neighbor’s assistance that evening, Evelyn would have preferred a slightly more engaging chaperone. 

The ballroom beyond was crowded already. The candles burned high in the chandeliers, striking fire from jewels, and satin and bright hair dressed for admiration crowded the room. Music rolled through the house in a steady, cheerful tide and everywhere she looked, people stood in shining little groups, talking in hushed voices.

Evelyn swallowed and went where she must at first. She made her curtsy to Lady Sutherland, and received in return the gracious smile of a woman long practiced in making every guest feel briefly distinguished.

“My dear Miss Carrington, how very pleased I am to see you. Such a lovely shade of blue.”

“You are very kind, ma’am.” Evelyn responded but something told her Lady Sutherland only spoke to be polite. The dress was anything but lovely, especially in this sea of new silk and daring gown styles. 

Lady Sutherland’s gaze had already moved before she could confirm her assumption as other guests pressed forward. Evelyn withdrew with the rest and found herself carried almost at once to the edge of a conversational knot where two matrons were speaking of a recent engagement.

“A sensible match,” one said. “The girl’s portion is not large, but the estate is sound.”

“And his expectations are improving by the year.”

The other lady smiled behind her fan. “Expectation is often better than affection in the first year.”

A soft laugh answered her.

Evelyn moved away before she heard more. The air felt close already. She became acutely conscious of her gown, of the older line of the sleeves, of the silk that she had declared beautiful with such determined loyalty. She told herself nobody was studying it half so much as she imagined. Still, each passing look felt like some kind of judgment.

She had barely settled near a side table when a gentleman approached with pleasant confidence and bowed.

“Miss Carrington, I believe. Mr. Felton. We were named to one another at Mrs. Henshaw’s musicale last winter, though I fear the room was too full for proper acquaintance.”

She did not remember him, though that proved nothing. “How do you do, Mr. Felton?”

“I am very well now, thank you.” He smiled as though the answer were clever. “May I hope for the next dance?”

“I thank you, but I shall not dance just now.”

“Then I am fortunate enough to have caught you at leisure. Do you spend much time in town?”

“Very little.”

“Ah. Then you prefer the country.”

“I live there.”

He laughed, as if she had offered comedy on purpose. “A happy arrangement, where home is agreeable. Your family has been long settled, I think?”

“For some time.”

“I see,” he responded, his voice calm. Before he could go any further, another man, older and graver, joined them. 

“Miss Carrington. You, my dear, are a sight for sore eyes.” 

“Mr. Gresham,” Evelyn greeted, the scent of sandalwood hitting her the moment she set her eyes on the man. 

Mr. Gresham was well acquainted with her  father, or said he had. He inquired after her mother’s health, her brother’s education, whether they expected to remain always in the same neighborhood. When she answered shortly, his interest sharpened instead of cooling.

“You must find the country quiet after a season such as this.”

“I am rarely at a loss for occupation.”

“Oh, well you know what they say. Domestic taste is to be greatly valued. Once you lose it, it is hard to get it back. ”

She responded only with silence.

He bowed himself away at last, and another man took his place soon enough. He introduced himself as Lord Thomas. He then praised her composure and asked whether she liked music. For a brief second, Evelyn thought this one was different and the conversation would be normal. The belief was quashed the minute he asked whether she thought affection was a necessary beginning to marriage. 

The question was put with such polished innocence that she might have doubted herself, had the evening not already worn her out already.

“You must forgive me,” Evelyn said, “but I cannot imagine why a gentleman like yourself would  ask my opinion on such a matter when we are scarcely acquainted.”

He coughed, his cheeks growing red. “My apologies, Miss Carrington. I only mean to serve some conversation.”

“Well, I prefer more ordinary subjects, if you do not mind.”

He persisted. “You may think me blunt, but I have always believed that esteem was a sounder foundation. Romance is much admired, of course, though security is much more important.”

Evelyn let a beat of silence fall between them, finding the last shred of goodwill left in her and holding it tight. “I value sincerity, sir. And I do not discuss marriage theories with gentlemen I do not know.”

The smile left him then. He bowed, stiffer than before, and withdrew.

Two more attempts followed, though shorter now and just as exhausting. The backhanded compliments she received on her gown did not go unnoticed either. By that time of the night, the room had grown oppressive. The candlelight seemed harsher than before and the music pressed against her temples. Everything started to look too haughty, too still for her to stay in one place. The heat, of course, did not help. 

She escaped at last to the refreshment table and took a glass of water. The coolness helped for a moment as she drank slowly. Her throat had gone dry without her noticing. A footman standing discreetly nearby glanced at her face and moved closer, his voice low. “Would you prefer a little wine, miss?”

“No, thank you. Water is enough.”

The footman nodded and moved back.

Evelyn remained where she was for a moment longer, the glass cool against her fingers. Across the room a mother steered her daughter toward a heavy young man with an income all over his face. Near the mantel, she could hear two gentlemen discussing something about a settlement and at her left, a woman laughed too brightly at something plainly unamusing.

She drew one breath, then another, and gathered what remained of her composure before she moved toward the terrace doors. It took longer than it ought, thanks to the dancers crossing before her the entire time. She murmured apologies and kept going.

The moment she slipped outside, the night air struck her face with a satisfying chill. The music dulled behind her. She stopped just beyond the doors and put one hand lightly against the stone sculpture. 

“Why am I even doing this?” She whispered to herself, drawing in more air. 

Chapter Two

The carriage rolled on through the lamplight, the wheels striking the dirt path with a steady, wearisome rhythm. For some reason, this, to Thomas Spencer, felt like the exact energy of the evening. Across from him, his best friend, Lord Preston Pembroke appeared determined to treat the journey as a prelude to pleasure. He sat at ease in the shifting glow, one arm braced against the cushion.

“Lady Sutherland has gathered half London beneath her roof,” Preston said. “Ministers, dowagers, ambitious mamas, and, I am told, a very respectable number of marriageable beauties. You may at last be forced to admit the world has not exhausted itself.”

Thomas kept his gaze on the glass, where light slid over darkness and vanished. “I do not attend in search of delight.”

“Tell me something I do not know.”

“I am only here because continued absence feeds talk. A man may refuse invitations for only so long before his refusal becomes more remarked upon than his presence would have been.”

Pembroke smiled. “And here I thought you had simply yielded to persuasion.”

“I yielded to fatigue. There is a difference.”

“Is there?”

Thomas turned then, though only enough to give his friend a look. “You may spare me the encouragement, Preston. I am not going to be paraded before marriage-minded hostesses for the improvement of my spirits.”

Pembroke laughed softly. “My dear Duke of Ravensford, if you enter as though bound for a funeral, every mother in London will smell blood.”

“They smell inheritance, not blood, and they rarely require encouragement.”

The carriage lantern caught the edge of Preston’s grin, then lost it again. Outside, the streets of London slid behind the window. Thomas rested one gloved hand over the other and fixed his attention there. He had already decided the evening would be an ordeal. He knew what to expect in events like this and he knew he had to endure them.

Preston let silence sit for a moment before shifting, as Thomas knew he would, from mockery to the argument beneath it.

“You may despise the machinery,” he said, “but the matter remains. Ravensford needs continuity. A dukedom is not a bachelor lodging. There must be an heir, and some future beyond your personal dislike of the marriage mart.”

Thomas’s jaw tightened. “The estate is well managed. The tenants are not neglected. The line will survive one more season without immediate collapse.”

“That is not the point.”

“It is very well the whole point.”

Pembroke leaned forward. “Management is merely stewardship. The real joy is in succession. You need to select a wife.”

Thomas looked back to the window. He disliked facing this subject, even with a friend. “Too many people speak of wives as though selecting horses at the farm.”

Pembroke was quiet at that, though not rebuked. “The world will not stop asking.”

“The world may ask what it likes. It simply will not decide for me.”

“If I did not know better, Thomas, I would assume you thought every interest in your marriage is vulgar interference.”

“Much of it is.”

“And some of it is just simple truth, no matter how hard you do not want to hear this.”

Thomas did not answer. Instead, he watched the light from outside shine briefly across his hands and pass on. Eventually, the carriage slowed and Lady Sutherland’s house blazed ahead of them. 

Footmen came down at once. By the time he crossed the threshold, Thomas had set his expression in order. He gave his hostess the civility due her, bore the weight of greetings, and moved with Preston into the ballroom. 

“Three heiresses to your left,” Preston murmured right as entered.

Thomas barely heard him because his eyes had closed on something else. Across the room, just beyond the brightest cluster of conversation, a woman stood with a glass of water in hand.

Her gown was blue, tasteful, and distinctly behind the current fashion. Under other circumstances he might scarcely have marked it. What caught him was the look she was wearing. There was strain at her mouth, and a look on her face that seemed to almost say she was enjoying this event just as much as he was, which was saying a lot. 

Then Lady Sutherland laid a hand on his sleeve, and the moment was gone.

From there, the assault he had come to expect began in earnest. One matron introduced her daughter, discussing how virtuous she was.

Another one made Thomas know that some heiress at the edge of the ballroom had been staring at him all night and how courteous it would be of him to ask her for a dance. Preston on the other hand, hovered nearby with an expression on his face that seemed to say he was enjoying this.  

Thomas continued to entertain these conversations to the best of his ability, declining where he must and making promises to the foreseeable future whenever he was able to. 

Eventually, the minute he had the opportunity, he extracted himself and moved toward the cooler part of the room. Pembroke reappeared behind him a brief moment later. 

“You see,” he said lightly, tapping Thomas’ shoulder. “You have people swooning for you left and right. You cannot tell me not even one of these people drew your attention at the very slightest.”

Thomas’s eyes flicked once toward the doors at the end of the ballroom and exhaled. “I have seen little tonight to inspire confidence.”

“Then your standards are impossible.”

“My standards are weary.”

Preston’s mouth twitched. “You may yet be surprised.”

“Oh well, surprise is rarely an improvement.”

He did not wait for another answer. Before he could be hunted into another attempt at matchmaking, he turned and walked to the doors. The terrace was behind them and right now, he knew the stone sculptures would make far better company than anyone else in the heated ballroom.  

A wave of cool air moved across Thomas’ face as he stepped out, and almost at once, he saw her. 

The woman in blue. 

She stood near the edge of the terrace with one hand resting on the stone, drawing her breaths as if she had set herself the task of appearing composed and meant to see it through.

He stopped just beyond the doors.

“This terrace does make for greater escape, does it not?” he said, his voice curt.

She turned at once. Whatever relief the night had given her, his tone stripped it away. “I suppose it does.”

Thomas nodded and advanced even closer. “And here I thought I would be the only one here tonight.”

“If you came out in search of solitude, sir, you have no title to claim the air from anyone else,” she responded, her voice low and clear, and edged enough to make him advance a pace before he had decided to do so.

“I make no claim upon the air. Only an observation.”

“Then your observations are impertinent.”

He studied her more closely. The blue gown was the same he had noticed inside, elegant though behind. In the moonlight her face looked paler than it had beneath the chandeliers, yet her eyes were very steady.

“You must forgive me if I crossed the line. It is just that in my experience, women do not find themselves in a secluded area without the reason being gossip or some kind of purpose.”

Her head tilted towards him. “How fortunate that gentlemen are always at hand to assign one to them.”

A slow smile spread on Thomas’ face. This was the most interesting part of his night so far. If he could indulge in a little conversation with this intriguing woman, perhaps his trip to the ballroom would not be a complete waste of time. “You speak very freely to a stranger, are you aware of that?”

She glared at him. “A stranger who begins with an insult has no claim to gentleness.”

She held his gaze through the last word, and in the middle of that proud stillness he saw it, only for an instant. Her focus shifted, almost as if the terrace itself had moved beneath her feet. She corrected it so quickly he might have doubted himself, had he not already seen the pressure of her hand against the rail. He narrowed his eyes and studied her even more. 

She saw that he had seen and her fingers slackened from the stone at once, as though she would rather risk the loss of balance than allow him proof of weakness.

Thomas nodded, “I only mean to know why you are out here.”

“Do you?” Her mouth curved without warmth. “Because it sounded like you were judgemental, not curious. It is not a surprising trait in men that come to places like this but I would at least like some sincerity… sir,”

That made him laugh once under his breath. “You have formed a rather severe opinion of men, have you not?” 

She shrugged. “Have I said anything severe? I have only repeated what they show.”

He moved another step onto the terrace. He kept a respectable distance, yet the space between them had narrowed enough that he could hear the slight unevenness in her breathing whenever she paused between sentences.

“You include me in that generous assessment, I presume.”

“You placed yourself there.”

He ought to have been annoyed. Instead he found himself watching the quick intelligence in her face, the way weariness had done nothing to blunt it. “You do not have to rise up to anything, miss. I have not come here to challenge you.”

“Have you not?” she asked, her voice clear. 

The music swelled behind them and faded again. For a moment neither spoke. The cool air should have restored her by now. Instead Thomas saw her shift her weight with great care, as if even that small movement required calculation.

He coughed, more dryly than he intended, “At least we may agree on one point. The room within is full of ambitions dressed as pleasure.”

Something altered in her expression then. The sharpness remained, though feeling entered with it. “Yes.”

It was the first unguarded answer she had given him and for some reason, he wanted to relish that exact moment. “It does feel like every conversation in there seems to conceal an account book, does it not?

“Trust me, some do not take the trouble to conceal it.”

Thomas looked at her again. She had turned a little toward him without seeming to know it. “You speak from observation?”

“They do say it is the best form of assessment.”

He nodded, his lips pressed together. “So you found the evening instructive, then.”

“I found it tiresome.”

“That is a mild word.”

“It is the only polite one.”

A low wave  of wind stirred the edge of her gown. She steadied herself with stillness alone now, refusing the support of the rail though it stood within reach. Thomas knew pride when he saw it. He knew, too, the effort it could conceal.

“Mothers bargain as if arranging leases,” he said, before thinking whether he ought.

Her eyes flicked to his. “And daughters are expected to smile while the terms are considered over their heads.”

The quiet force of the reply checked him. Whatever grievance he had carried onto the terrace had belonged to a man irritated by pursuit. Hers had been earned more dearly.

He swallowed, after a moment and cleared his throat. “I may have judged you too quickly.”

“You certainly judged me without evidence.”

“That is true.”

It ought to have ended there. Instead the conversation seemed to settle into another shape, the hostility between them no longer simple. Thomas became aware of her as a woman rather than a type, a mind rather than a position in the room he had wished to escape.

“Thomas Spencer.” 

She looked at him as though weighing whether the introduction was too late to matter. “It makes no improvement in your manners, Mr. Spencer.”

He almost smiled. Most women, once given a name, paused to measure the weight of what they have said before. She did nothing of the kind.

“You never concern yourself with who a man is before deciding what you think of him?”

“Does rank alter behavior?”

“It alters many people’s treatment of it.”

“Then those people are foolish. Bad manners remain bad manners, whatever name accompanies them.”

The answer landed more sharply than her earlier ones. He was unused to being met without calculation. He was even less prepared for how much he liked it.

The wave of moonlight touched her cheek slightly. She was growing paler with each passing second. Something was definitely wrong. She drew one careful breath, then another and her fingers returned to the stone beside her. 

He stepped closer without meaning to.

She noticed that too. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face, though it held less anger than before. “You stare a great deal, Mr. Spencer.”

“I was considering whether the ballroom offended you so deeply, or whether you fled it for some other reason.”

“For air,” she said. Her honesty came out bare and brief. “And for silence.”

“Then we are agreed at last.”

Something in his voice changed on the words. He heard it himself. So did she. Their eyes met and held as the argument between them slowly turned into something much more comfortable. He could see very clearly the fatigue she had fought to keep hidden and wondered whether it would be too much to ask if she needed to sit down for a minute. 

Then she swayed.

It was slight, more a loss of alignment than a stumble, but Thomas moved at once. She corrected herself before his hand reached her.

“I am perfectly well,” she said, and the effort of saying it contradicted her words.

He did not believe her. “You look far from it.”

Her pride flashed up again. “I did not ask for your concern.”

“No,” he said quietly. “You did not.”

The answer seemed to unsettle her more than another challenge would have done. For one charged second she remained very still, as if held upright by will alone.

Then whatever strength had sustained her failed. 

He saw the moment it went. Her gaze lost focus and her knees weakened. She reached for nothing, perhaps from pride, perhaps because she had no time. Thomas crossed the last of the distance and caught her before she could fall, one arm around her waist, the other bracing her as her weight gave way against him.

She was lighter than he expected, and far less steady. He had only just gathered her securely when the terrace doors flew open behind them.

The warm light from inside spilled across the stone and several voices stopped at once.

Thomas froze. 

No. 

No, no, no, no. 

The young lady was still in his arms when he turned. Lady Sutherland stood in the doorway with three matrons at her back, all arrested by the same sight, a gentleman alone on the terrace with a pale young woman held close in his arms.

“Miss Carrington,” Lady Sutherland exclaimed, her gloved hands flying to her mouth. 

“Good God, what has happened?”