A Runaway Bride For The Widowed Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

“Why, Miss Fitzwilliam,” murmured Cornelius Comerford, bowing with the easy elegance of a man too accustomed to admiration. “I begin to suspect that every gentleman here envies me.”

Juliet smiled politely, though her heart fluttered with a curious mix of pride and discomfort. “I should think they envy only your skill upon the floor, My Lord.”

He laughed; a sound that was as smooth as polished glass. “Come now, you wound me. Surely my partner deserves half the credit.”

Their waltz began. Conversation faltered around them as they took the center of the room, the picture of perfection: the Viscount of Westmere and the genteel Miss Fitzwilliam, daughter of the ever-ambitious Mr. Fitzwilliam of Larchmere. Juliet’s gown of pale green moved like water around her ankles, while Cornelius’ hand rested firmly at her waist, a little too firm and a little too sure.

“You are admired this evening,” he said softly, bending closer. “Do you enjoy it?”

“I prefer to think they admire the music,” she replied.

He smiled. “You are far too modest. You must learn to enjoy your power, Miss Fitzwilliam.”

“Power?” She tilted her head in amusement. “You speak as if admiration were a weapon.”

“For some,” he pointed out, “it is.”

The orchestra’s strings swelled. Juliet looked up at him, uncertain whether to laugh or shiver. He was undeniably handsome with his dark hair and confident air that matched the poets’ imaginings of a hero. Even now, her mother’s voice echoed in her mind: He is the match of the Season, Juliet. You will secure our future.

As the dance ended, Cornelius bowed low. “I am already impatient for the next.”

Juliet curtsied. “You flatter me, My Lord.”

He took her hand, brushing it lightly with his lips. “Not nearly enough.”

As he walked away, she found herself watching him longer than was proper. 

“Why, Juliet,” came her brother Thomas’s voice behind her, “you look rather enchanted.”

“Do I? Oh, perhaps I am merely light-headed.”

Thomas handed her a glass of punch with a skeptical look. “Father’s grinning like a cat that’s found cream. You should be careful; he’ll have you engaged by supper.”

She laughed, though softly. “Do you dislike him so much?”

“I dislike how easy he is to like.”

“Thomas.” She lowered her voice. “He is kind and attentive. He listens when I speak. Do you know how rare that is?”

“I do,” he said grimly, “and that’s why I’m wary of it.”

Before she could reply, their mother appeared in a cloud of lavender silk. “Juliet, you were perfection! Lord Westmere is quite besotted, everyone saw it. You must not refuse him the next dance.”

“I had no intention of doing so, Mama,” Juliet said, blushing.

Mrs. Fitzwilliam clasped her hands. “Excellent. Keep your composure, my dear. Men like confidence, not nerves.”

When she swept off again, Thomas muttered, “Men like a great many things that aren’t good for anyone.”

Juliet chuckled. Her gaze had already found Cornelius again, standing beneath a marble column, laughing easily with Lord Ravensholme. Her heart fluttered. He was everything a young lady might wish for: handsome, attentive, and well spoken.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed, she turned to Thomas. “Do you mind if we step out onto to the terrace for a moment? Some fresh air would do me good.” 

Thomas immediately nodded, offering her his arm. Together, they slipped through the open doors and onto the terrace. 

“Oh, thank heavens,” she murmured, placing a hand over her heart. “I thought I should drown in perfume and admiration.”

Thomas followed with an indulgent smile. “The perils of being the Season’s favorite, I suppose.”

“Do not mock me,” she said lightly. “I am quite undone by it all. It feels… too much.”

Jemima, her lady’s maid, lingered just behind them. “If you wish, My Lady, I’ll fetch you a glass of water.”

Juliet turned to her with genuine warmth. “No, Jemima, thank you. Stay and breathe a little yourself. You must tell me if you are tired, though. It has been a long evening for us both.”

“I am quite content, miss,” Jemima replied politely.

Thomas leaned against the balustrade, glancing toward the ballroom where the lights shimmered like a sea of gold.

“I should think the air here belongs to angels,” he said lightly. “No one else would dare breathe it so freely.”

Juliet smiled. “You are far too poetic for your own good, Thomas.”

He laughed softly. “And you are far too serious for yours.”

They remained like that for a few moments, just enjoying the peace and the chill of the night. Then, Thomas pushed away from the railing. 

“Well, I should return to Father. Try not to shock anyone while I’m gone.”

“Only the dull ones,” Juliet promised with a smile.

He shook his head fondly and disappeared through the terrace doors, leaving the night still and the air sweet with rain-damp roses.

For a moment, Juliet closed her eyes, letting the cool air soothe the heat of the ballroom from her skin. She felt Jemima move quietly beside her and was about to speak when the faint sound of footsteps reached her ears. She turned.

A tall gentleman had stepped out from the shadows at the far end of the terrace. The moonlight, softened by a drifting cloud, revealed him gradually: dark hair, striking eyes, a bearing that spoke of command without effort.

He paused when he saw her. “Forgive me,” he said. “I did not mean to intrude.”

“You do not intrude, sir,” Juliet replied, recovering her composure. “The terrace belongs to all who escape the crush within.”

He tipped his head slightly. “Then I am in good company.”

Juliet smiled faintly. “A fellow sufferer of society’s excess?”

“One of its most reluctant, I’m afraid,” he replied. His tone was courteous, yet carried a dry humor that drew her in. “You have the look of someone equally unconvinced by the charms of the ballroom.”

“Entirely unconvinced,” she admitted. “It is difficult to enjoy oneself when one is being inspected like a painting up for auction.”

The corner of his mouth curved. “A painting could at least feign indifference.”

Juliet laughed softly, the sound surprising her. “You speak from experience, sir.”

“From observation,” he replied.

“Ah. Then we are alike. I have often found watching people far more diverting than being one of them.”

He regarded her for a moment, as though assessing not her appearance, but the thought behind her words. “That is a rare admission, Miss. You speak with uncommon poise for a young lady of the ballroom.”

Juliet laughed softly. “You have not heard me speak long enough to make such a claim.”

“True,” he said, “but I have heard enough to be curious.”

She hesitated, then added with a spark of mischief. “Curiosity can be a dangerous thing. It leads to ideas.”

He smiled faintly. “And do you often have ideas, Miss?”

“Far too often for my father’s comfort,” she confessed. “I have a most improper fondness for books. Oh, and opinions, too.”

“Books and opinions?” he echoed, as though tasting the words. “A perilous combination.”

“Only to those who believe women are better suited for embroidery than thought.”

His expression shifted, not with offense but with careful interest. “You believe the two cannot coexist?”

“Oh, they may coexist,” Juliet said quickly, and her tone warmed with animation. “But only if a woman is permitted to choose which she prefers at any given hour. The mind does not cease to exist simply because it is female.”

There was a pause. The man studied her, and she could feel that his gaze was not condescending, but rather genuinely contemplative.

“I see you argue your cause with conviction. Yet I cannot agree entirely. The distinction between men and women exists for a reason, each fitted for their own strengths.”

Juliet tilted her head. “Strengths or limitations?”

She expected him to at least bristle, as gentlemen usually did when questioned. He, surprisingly, did not. “Responsibilities, perhaps. Society functions because each fulfills a role. Were all to compete for the same ground, we would lose balance.”

She met his gaze evenly. “Or discover equality.” He was silent for a moment, then pointed out. “You truly are bold, Miss.”

“Forgive me,” she said, though there was laughter in her voice. “I forget myself when a subject is dear to me.”

“No forgiveness is necessary,” he replied, and to her surprise, there was a note of admiration in his tone. “It is rare to meet someone who speaks from conviction rather than convention. You speak as though you’ve made a study of human nature.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Or perhaps I’ve simply watched too long.”

“Then you must be very wise,” he replied, a hint of teasing in his tone. “Or very tired.”     

She looked at him and suddenly felt something familiar about his presence. 

“You do not seem entirely of this place,” she said softly.

“Neither do you.”

The words were simple, but something in the way he said them sent a strange flutter through her chest.

Before she could ask his name or even decide whether she ought to, he glanced toward the open doors, where the music swelled again. “I shall leave you to enjoy the loveliness of the evening undisturbed, Miss.”

Juliet found herself oddly reluctant to let him go. “You will miss the fresh air.”

He smiled faintly. “I have had my share of it tonight.”

Then, with a small bow, he turned and disappeared into the golden light of the ballroom.

Juliet stood very still. The terrace felt emptier for his absence, though she could not have said why.

Jemima broke the silence gently. “You know him, Miss?”

Juliet shook her head. “No. I don’t believe so.”

The reply felt strange on her tongue, as though untrue in some way she couldn’t explain.

Before she could think further, the sound of another voice cut through the night.

“Miss Fitzwilliam,” Cornelius said, stepping forward with a smile that managed to look both delighted and entirely in control. “You vanish more skillfully than any debutante I’ve ever met. Half the room believes I’ve frightened you off.”

Juliet laughed lightly, masking her brief startle. “And have you?”

“I live in hope that I haven’t,” he replied, offering his arm. “You force me to chase you through ballrooms and moonlight like a desperate poet. It is very cruel.”

“I assure you, My Lord, I am only seeking air, not drama,” she said, but she placed her hand upon his arm, nonetheless.

 “Ah, but what is life without a touch of drama?” he countered smoothly. “It suits you. The moonlight rather conspires with your complexion. It’s quite unfair to the other ladies.”

“You give too much credit to the moon, My Lord,” she teased.

“I give it only enough to envy me,” he returned, still smiling.

Juliet could not help but laugh again, though the sound came more from habit than delight.

“I see you have not tired of compliments.”

“I should perish without them,” Cornelius said. “You must not deny me such small pleasures, Miss Fitzwilliam.”

He guided her gently back toward the open doors, while the hum of the ballroom was swelling as they approached. “You’ve caused quite a stir tonight, you know. Lady Harbury told me your gown has set a new fashion trend, and Lord Sedgeley swore you looked like Botticelli’s Venus, which I resented terribly, since she was Italian.”

Juliet shook her head, smiling despite herself. “I am afraid I shall disappoint everyone once they realize I am merely English.”

“Merely English,” he repeated, amused. “You really have no idea of your own effect, do you?”

“None at all,” she said truthfully.

Cornelius looked at her for a moment, and though his tone remained playful, his gaze sharpened with something more deliberate. “That innocence is dangerous, Miss Fitzwilliam. Men might mistake it for invitation.”

 Juliet felt a flicker of unease at such a direct comment, but before she could answer, he smiled again, and all his charm was magically restored. “Forgive me. I forget myself when I’m near perfection. Come,” he took her by the hand, leading her to the dance floor. “The next dance is ours.”

Juliet blinked, half amused, half resigned. “Was it ever in question?”

“Never,” he said, tugging at her to hasten her step.

As the waltz began, a faint thought lingered at the edge of her consciousness. For reasons she could not explain, the stranger’s words unsettled her more than all of Cornelius’ compliments combined.

Chapter Two

The rain had been falling since dawn, softly yet persistently, veiling the gardens of Riverside Manor in silver mist. Duncan Lymington stood by the tall windows of his study, with a glass of brandy untouched beside him. Beyond the pane, the hothouses glimmered faintly. They were his quiet refuge, where something still grew, even when everything else had long withered.

Behind him, the door opened without ceremony.

“Still communing with your plants, I see,” said a familiar voice. “Tell me, Riverside, do they ever answer back?”

Duncan turned, allowing a faint smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. His friend had been announced not a minute ago by his butler, and his usual, familiar style of entrance followed suit.

“Not yet, Comerford. But I find them more honest than most men.”

Cornelius entered the room with his usual ease, shrugging off a damp greatcoat and handing it to the waiting footman. “Honest plants. A dangerous notion. Next, you’ll tell me you prefer their company to mine.”

“That depends on the day,” Duncan replied mildly, motioning toward the decanter. “Will you drink?”

“With pleasure.” Cornelius poured generously, then sank into one of the leather chairs near the hearth. “Ah, it’s good to escape the city. London grows tedious in February, nothing but fog and gossip.”

“I imagine you provide both,” Duncan said, taking the seat opposite him.

Cornelius laughed. “I’ve been far too well behaved of late. Or so my sister insists.”

“I doubt that,” Duncan murmured.

Cornelius grinned. “True enough. But tell me, how fares the great estate? Still running itself under your watchful eye?”

“As much as it ever has. There’s work to be done before spring. I’m expanding the greenhouse this year. New irrigation, perhaps a second glass dome.”

Cornelius arched a brow. “You speak of it as if it were a cathedral.”

“In some respects, it is,” Duncan replied, glancing again toward the misty outlines of the glasshouses. “Growth has its own sanctity.”

Cornelius made a dismissive sound. “You always were a poet when it came to soil and roots. I should think you’d have tired of such solitude by now. Five years is a long time to mourn.”

Duncan’s hand tightened slightly on his glass, but his voice remained calm. “I do not mourn as I once did. Margaret is gone. I’ve accepted that.”

“Accepted?” the viscount leaned forward. “You sound like a man resigning himself to bad weather.”

Duncan’s gaze flicked toward the fire. “Grief changes shape, Comerford. It becomes quieter, more deliberate. I once believed love must blaze. Passion, fire, the rest of it. But I’ve come to value the kind that endures, the kind that tends, rather than consumes.”

Cornelius’ expression softened, though only for a moment. “You mean your greenhouse.”

Duncan smiled faintly. “In part. Growing things requires patience. So does living. My daughters and the estate, these are the loves that remain. The kind that gives back what one tends.”

Cornelius lifted his glass, studying him with amusement. “A gardener’s heart in a duke’s chest. Who would have thought it?”

“I make no apology for it.”

“You never do,” Cornelius said with a laugh. “But forgive me, I can’t share your sentiment. I have little patience for love that grows in silence. I prefer something one can see.”

“Such as?”

“Beauty, my friend. The kind that turns heads the moment one enters a room. A woman who commands admiration, not with intellect or moral virtue, Heaven forbid, but with elegance. Presence. The perfect jewel to crown a gentleman’s life.”

Duncan’s expression cooled slightly. “And this is what you wish of marriage?”

“Marriage,” Cornelius said easily, “is a partnership of advantage. I seek the finest woman to complement my standing, as one chooses the right horse or coat. Love complicates what should be simple.”

“You speak as though affection were a weakness.”

“It is, when it blinds a man to his purpose.” Cornelius leaned back, smiling. “Do not look so scandalized. You’ve had your romantic tragedy, Riverside. Surely you see that pragmatism is safer.”

“I see,” Duncan said quietly, “that safety and meaning are seldom found in the same place.”

Cornelius chuckled, unbothered. “Meaning and safety are both luxuries, and neither lasts long. Better to have beauty while one can. And I have just the right lady in mind.”

Duncan looked up from his writing table. “Indeed? And what poor soul has consented to your reform?”

Cornelius laughed. “Poor? Hardly. Miss Juliet Fitzwilliam. You’ve heard the name, surely. She is the daughter of Meshach Fitzwilliam of Larchmere.”

“I know the family by reputation,” Duncan replied. “Solid lineage. The father sits on the county board, does he not?”

“Precisely,” Cornelius said, visibly pleased. “A fine connection, respectable, not ostentatious. And the daughter… well.” He paused, smiling to himself. “She is quite exquisite. Beauty of the first order. Hair like gold, eyes that promise everything without saying a word. When she enters a room, conversation stops. It is,” he gestured with his glass, “an effect one cannot manufacture.”

Duncan’s expression did not change. “You admire her, then.”

“I admire perfection,” Cornelius said lightly. “And Miss Fitzwilliam has every quality a man of my position might wish for: youth, elegance, breeding. She would look magnificent beside me.”

Duncan leaned back in his chair, watching his friend. “You speak as though you were commissioning a portrait.”

Cornelius laughed. “Oh, come now. You cannot deny that a man’s choice of wife reflects upon him. Beauty, my dear duke, is a social currency. And Miss Fitzwilliam will raise my credit handsomely.”

“I see,” Duncan said quietly. “And does she return your affection?”

“Affection?” Cornelius repeated, as though the word amused him. “She is flattered, naturally. Her family is eager. The father can hardly believe his fortune. I intend to make my offer soon.”

“Marriage built on admiration and ambition,” Duncan murmured. “A sturdy foundation indeed.”

Cornelius grinned. “Better than one built on sentiment. You, of all men, should appreciate that lesson.”

A flicker of pain crossed Duncan’s face, but he hastily masked it. “Perhaps.”

Cornelius, oblivious or indifferent, continued with enthusiasm. “She is clever, too. Though I confess, she takes it rather seriously. Always reading, speaking of women’s education as though it were a crusade. A charming eccentricity now, though one I shall have to correct in time.”

“Correct?” Duncan repeated, his tone mild but with an edge that did not escape even Cornelius’ vanity.

“Well, yes,” Cornelius said, waving a hand. “A wife with too many opinions can make a man ridiculous. There is a fine line between spirited and troublesome. Miss Fitzwilliam’s notions are harmless enough. She believes women should be educated as thoroughly as men. But marriage has a way of tempering such… idealism.”

Duncan’s gaze sharpened. “Idealism, or intelligence?”

Cornelius smiled indulgently. “You are romantic in your abstractions, Riverside. Intelligence is well enough when it knows its place. A clever woman is useful, provided she never forgets who commands the household.”

Duncan’s hand rested still upon the arm of his chair. “You have a curious definition of command,” he said at last. “I’ve always thought it better earned than assumed.”

Cornelius laughed, unoffended. “You’ve been too long among your roses and moral principles. Society runs on simpler rules than those in your hothouses.”

“Perhaps,” Duncan said. “But even a gardener knows the value of cultivation. A thing forced to grow beneath a heavy hand rarely flourishes.”

Cornelius raised his glass in mock salute. “Ever the philosopher. You’ll frighten the next debutante you meet.”

“I doubt any will suffer my company long enough for that.”

Cornelius laughed again, though something in Duncan’s tone made him glance at his friend more closely. “You needn’t look so grave, old man. Miss Fitzwilliam is delightful, truly. You’ll like her once you meet her. Sweet, agreeable, and far too kind-hearted to argue for long.”

The conversation might have ended there, for Duncan had no wish to quarrel further. However, before he could reply, the sound of quick footsteps echoed from the corridor. A moment later, the door burst open, and two small voices rang through the study.

“Papa!”

Emma and Grace, his twin daughters, tumbled into the room like sunlight breaking through a storm. Their governess, Miss Hartwell, followed in mild dismay, half-scolding and half-smiling.

“Girls, please! His Grace is occupied—”

But Duncan was already on his feet, his stern composure dissolved into unguarded joy. He bent down, catching the twins as they flung themselves into his arms.

“There now,” he said, forgetting all about Cornelius and his ridiculous notions. “What brings this invasion?”

Emma, the bolder of the two, lifted her face to look at him. “We were learning our French, but Grace said the rain made her sad.”

Grace nestled closer, whispering, “We wanted to see you instead.”

“Well,” Duncan said gravely, pretending to consider the suggestion, “that seems a most excellent reason. I am certain Monsieur Duval would agree entirely.”

Both girls giggled, knowing full well he had dismissed their tutor for the morning. He kissed the top of each golden head, his arms tightening around them as though they anchored him to something steady and good.

Across the room, Cornelius watched, his smile polite, but his fingers tapping lightly on the arm of his chair.

“How charming,” he said, when Duncan finally looked up. “You make fatherhood look positively fashionable.”

Duncan set the girls down gently. “There are fashions worth keeping, Comerford. This one, I believe, improves with age.”

Emma turned toward Cornelius with wide-eyed curiosity. “Who is that, Papa?”

“Lord Westmere,” Duncan said. “An old friend.”

Cornelius rose and executed a small, courtly bow. “At your service, ladies.”

The twins stared for a moment, unimpressed by the grandeur of his title, before Grace whispered loudly. “He looks cross.”

“Grace,” Miss Hartwell admonished softly, but Cornelius only laughed, though the sound was tight around the edges.

“Out of the mouths of babes,” he said. “I see your household is well-trained in honesty, Riverside.”

Duncan’s eyes softened. “I encourage it. It saves time.”

Emma tugged at her father’s hand. “Papa, will you take us to the greenhouse when the rain stops?”

“The greenhouse?” Duncan asked, smiling down at her. “You wish to see the seedlings again so soon?”

Grace nodded eagerly. “We want to see if the little ferns have grown. Miss Hartwell says they’re shy.”

“Shy, are they?” Duncan chuckled. “Then we must visit quietly, lest we frighten them.”

Emma looked up, bright-eyed. “You’ll come, truly?”

“I give you my word,” he said, kneeling so they were level with him. “As soon as the sun returns, we shall inspect every sprout and stem. Agreed?”

“Agreed!” both girls chorused, throwing their arms around his neck. When the governess led the girls away, the room felt larger and colder in their absence.

At last, Duncan turned. “You looked almost offended by their interruption.”

Cornelius gave a short laugh. “Not offended, my dear Riverside, merely startled. I forget how noisy children can be.”

“They are not noise,” Duncan said mildly. “They are life.”

Cornelius shrugged, moving toward the window. “If you say so. I suppose I have never been afflicted by paternal sentiment.”

“Afflicted,” Duncan repeated. “An interesting choice of words.”

Cornelius turned back to him, smiling faintly. “You must forgive me. I am not made for domestic tranquility. A house filled with chatter and mud-stained shoes would drive me to despair.”

“Then you would do poorly as a husband,” Duncan pointed out.

Cornelius raised a brow. “Oh, I assure you, I intend to excel at that role. My wife shall have every comfort. Silks, jewels, a carriage of her own. What more could she want?”

“Respect,” Duncan said simply.

Cornelius’ smile wavered. “Respect? She will have my name. That should suffice.”

Duncan frowned. He didn’t remember his friend being this outspoken regarding such notions. Or perhaps he himself never paid much attention to him. “You speak of women as if they were objects to be placed on display, Westmere. Beautiful, polished, and silent.”

Cornelius’ eyes narrowed slightly. “And you speak of them as philosophers. You forget, old friend, not every woman wishes to be taken seriously.”

“That may be,” Duncan replied, feeling his tone tightening, “but I doubt any woman enjoys being dismissed.”

Cornelius gave a low, humorless chuckle. “You sound like a pamphleteer. Next, you’ll tell me they should vote.”

Duncan ignored the barb. “It troubles me that you see them as trophies rather than companions.”

“I see them clearly,” Cornelius replied coolly. “The clever ones pretend at intellect until they secure a ring, while the rest make no pretense at all. Either way, a man’s purpose is to choose, not to be chosen.”

“Then you mistake dominance for worth,” Duncan said quietly.

Cornelius smiled faintly, though it did not reach his eyes. “You bury yourself in plants and daughters. I chase fortune and beauty. Each of us cultivates what we value most. Each to his own delight, eh?”

Duncan’s lips curved faintly. “It seems our delights differ greatly.”

“As they always have,” Cornelius said cheerfully, setting down his empty glass. “Still, it warms my heart to find you as steady as ever. You and your plants, both impossible to uproot.”

He reached for his gloves, shaking his head with a fond smile. “You must come to London soon. Society misses your disapproving gaze. You might even meet my Miss Fitzwilliam. She will charm you, though she’ll never tempt you to dance. You were hopeless at that.”

A quiet laugh escaped Duncan. “Some skills fade even with practice.”

Cornelius’ hand lingered on the doorknob. “You see, Lymington, not all men are made to tend gardens. Some of us must bloom in society.”

Duncan tipped his head. “Then may your Season be long and prosperous.”

“It shall be,” Cornelius retorted with his tone utterly untroubled. “Good evening, old friend.”

And with that, he departed. Nothing in Cornelius’ manner had changed; he was as charming, composed, and self-assured as ever. And yet, Duncan felt as though he had seen him clearly for the first time.

The friendship remained, but something within Duncan had quietly shifted, like the first movement of earth before a storm, and he wondered when the man who had once been his closest friend hardened into something so shallow.