A Widowed Duke’s Chance at Love (Preview)

Chapter One

The Longbourn Statute Fair hummed with life under the warm late-summer sun, its bustling vibrancy spilling across the green like spilled paint—bright and chaotic, a feast for the senses. Lady Eleanor Pembroke, honey-haired and bookish, moved between stalls with the measured grace of a woman accustomed to enduring what must be endured. Today, her cross to bear was the cloying presence of Lord Philip Mallory.

“Surely, Lady Eleanor,” he drawled now, hands tucked idly behind his back as he matched her step for step, “there are things more suited to your tastes here than books and trinkets?” He offered her a smirk, practiced too well, as if pleased with himself for steering the conversation toward critique.

Eleanor did not bother to glance at him. Instead, she stopped at a stall cluttered with embroidered handkerchiefs and lace fans, brushing her fingertips over the delicate offerings. Her lady’s maid Nightingale, steadfast as ever, hovered close by.

“My lord,” Eleanor replied at last, turning her head just enough to satisfy conversational etiquette. “What greater treasure might there be than that which entertains one’s mind? A book, for instance, requires no polish to gleam, nor empty compliments to charm.”

Lord Mallory arched a brow, his expression betraying the slow churn of irritation beneath his powdered manners. “An admirably romantic sentiment, my lady. But you’ll forgive me for pointing out that such notions are likely why the world revolves without consideration for spinsters.”

Eleanor merely gave a low, velvet laugh, unbothered by the sting. “Well said, my lord. I shall endeavor to catch it before it stops revolving entirely.”

Lord Philip blinked, her wit sailing over his carefully groomed head.

“Be careful with that tone,” Nightingale murmured as Eleanor strolled on. “It’s a long day yet, my lady, and Lord Mallory seems determined to see it through.”

“Not as determined as I am to enjoy it, Nightingale.” Eleanor’s gaze drifted to a nearby sweets stall, its display of candied fruits glistening under the sunlight. A chestnut vendor beside it turned his brazier with the practiced motions of an artisan, clouds of nutty sweetness mingling with the lavender soap wafting down from the perfumer’s cart.

Children darted past her, bright as butterflies, while the chatter of cheerful merchants swirled in the air. Eleanor smiled. Here, she was free—free to be, and free to savor the world as it was, without artifice.

Lord Mallory, however, seemed determined to dull her joy. “I must say, Lady Eleanor,” he remarked, pausing at her side once more, “you seem to find more companionship with the common rabble than your own kind. A peculiar trait for a woman of your station.”

“Their company, I find, is refreshingly unencumbered, my lord,” Eleanor replied, calm as a cloud. “No pretense. No politicking. And no penchant for presuming to know one’s preferences.”

Lord Mallory’s lip curled almost imperceptibly, but before he could fire back with another polished slight, a confectioner’s booming call broke through: “Hot sugar twists, fresh this morn! Bring sweetness to the sweet!”

Eleanor, as if called to sanctuary, approached the vendor with the anticipation of a child. “Two, if you please,” she said warmly as she passed over the coin.

The baker grinned, his ruddy cheeks nearly as round as the pastries he offered. “A generous lady, as ever,” he said with a leggy bow. “I have a weakness for fine craftsmanship,” Eleanor replied, earning a chuckle from him, and a smile from Nightingale.

But before she could reach for her purchase, a deep, resonant voice cut through the crowd. “One for me as well, if you please.”

The sound was velvet and iron—a timbre that momentarily stilled the fair around Eleanor. She froze. Recognition tickled the edge of her memory, but surely—

She turned.

Standing at her side, dressed in dark, impeccable tailoring and exuding the gravitas of someone accustomed to being noticed, was His Grace Benedict Ashford, the Duke of Hawthorne. A man whose scholarly works Eleanor had read for years with breathless admiration and whose lectures in London last year had held her rapt attention.

He was taller than she remembered, his shoulders broad beneath his coat, his presence unmistakably magnetic. His dark hair caught the sun’s edge in glints of brown and gold, but it was his eyes—striking, calm, and so very blue—that caught her attention. The sort of blue one would imagine of oceans never sailed.

“Y-Your Grace,” she stammered before she could check herself, mortification blooming across her cheeks.

The duke’s gaze met hers with a slow, measured curiosity, as though he were inspecting a newly discovered species of flower. “Forgive me,” he said with the faintest smile. “Have we met?”

“Lady—Lady Eleanor Pembroke, Your Grace. I… I attended your lecture last year in London,” Eleanor replied, feeling rather foolish. “On atmospheric sciences and their applications.”

“Did you?” His tone held genuine interest, not a trace of the boredom one might expect from a man surely long since inundated with admirers.

“Yes. It was”—Magnificent, her heart supplied—“very informative.”

Lord Mallory’s  interruption was timed with all the grace of a juggler dropping his pins. “Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head with stiff formality. “What a surprise to see you here, of all places.”

The duke glanced at him, and though his nod was polite, there was something reserved… distant. “Mallory.”

Eleanor instinctively took a small step back. She had no wish to find herself a pawn in whatever social chessboard lay between these two men. Still, her eyes flitted to the duke, who turned his gaze back to her with quiet, unnerving focus.

“And what brings you to the fair, my lady?” he asked.

Her pulse skipped like a stone on water. “I… was enjoying the stalls, Your Grace.”

“A simple pleasure,” he murmured approvingly, as though simplicity was a virtue he considered prized.

Lord Mallory made a sound halfway between a cough and a scoff, but before he could inject himself further, the confectioner, his hands dusted with sugar and pride, set another sugar twist upon the parchment for the Duke of Hawthorne. “Your Grace!”

The duke accepted it with a nod of thanks. Just then, another lord, whom Eleanor vaguely recognized as an associate of Lord Mallory’s, appeared at the stall next to them.

“Ah!” Lord Mallory’s face brightened considerably. “Lady Eleanor, I crave your indulgence for a few moments; I must congratulate Lord Avon on the success of his recent hunt.”

His tone cooled considerably as he turned to the duke. “If Your Grace would be so kind as to excuse me…”

The duke said nothing, merely inclined his head, and Lord Mallory turned on his heel and strode away.

Eleanor watched him go, but as she turned back to the duke, she was astonished to find that his attention remained tethered to her. She lingered awkwardly, shifting slightly under the weight of his steady gaze, keenly aware of Nightingale’s silent presence a few paces behind.

“I must confess,” she began, the words tumbling out before she could restrain them, “I did not expect to meet you here, Your Grace.”

The duke’s brow lifted with restrained amusement. “Nor did I expect to be recognized.”

“Oh, Your Grace!” Eleanor smiled happily—bright, breathless, unguarded. “How could anyone fail to do so, in the presence of such an extraordinary academic?”

“Extraordinary?” His voice tilted slightly, like a man unused to praise he could not dismiss.

“Yes,” Eleanor replied earnestly, looking up at him. “I remember when Your Grace explained how certain air currents travel vast distances—carrying storms, or seeds, or even the scent of lavender fields, across entire countries.” She gestured vaguely with a hand, as if she might illustrate the movement herself. “The notion of it—of unseen forces binding the world together—well, it stayed with me. It was not merely science. It was beautiful.”

The duke blinked. A muscle in his jaw shifted, but he said nothing.

Sensing that she had wandered beyond propriety’s bounds, Eleanor clasped her hands tightly before her. “I do apologize, Your Grace,” she stammered, color blooming across her cheeks. “I have a tendency to chatter. My aunt often reminds me that such enthusiasm is unbecoming.”

A faint crease marked the corner of the duke’s mouth—not quite a smile, but not far from it, either. “I would disagree.”

Eleanor looked up at him, startled, and found his sharp blue gaze fixed upon her. There was a quiet intensity in his face, as if he were seeing her anew.

“You possess a rare gift, Lady Eleanor,” he said at last, his tone even and measured. “The ability to speak of science not as cold fact, but as something alive. To my recollection, few men—let alone women—have managed to discuss my work with such understanding.”

Eleanor opened her mouth to respond, only to realize that her throat had turned inexplicably dry.

The Duke of Hawthorne was complimenting her. She had read his essays and journals with fervor for years, admired his intellect from afar, and now here he stood, in the flesh, speaking as though she were worth his attention.

“I—I am glad, Your Grace, that I’ve not wasted your time,” she managed finally, her voice softer.

“Hardly.”

The single word, so direct and assured, robbed her momentarily of thought. She felt her embarrassment creeping back—hot, mortifying, and wholly unavoidable—and stepped backward, nearly colliding with Nightingale. “I fear I’ve kept you from enjoying the fair, Your Grace,” she said quickly. “I should—”

“Stay, if you please, my lady,” the duke said.

His voice, filled with such quiet authority, made Eleanor falter.

His expression betrayed a flicker of some emotion—hesitation, perhaps, or surprise at himself for having spoken so quickly. Still, he pressed on. “Surely you can spare another moment. I would hear more of your thoughts, Lady Eleanor.”

Eleanor, though flustered, found her voice. “My… my thoughts?”

“On science,” the duke clarified. “Or whichever subject next claims your interest.”

Encouraged, she gave a flustered laugh—an honest sound that cut through the bustling clamor of the fair. “Well, then, Your Grace, I shall not disappoint. Have you read Sir Humphry Davy’s latest essay on galvanic currents? I should very much like your opinion.”

The duke’s brows lifted, as though he was startled once again, and a blush rose to Eleanor’s cheeks.

Humphry Davy? It was, she supposed, rather uncouth. After all, no lady should be expected to discuss galvanism at a sweet stall. Surely that was what the duke must think.

But before she could run off, as her instincts strongly inclined her to, he spoke.

“I have read it, yes,” he replied, and there was a note of curiosity threading his voice. “Though I suspect your opinion may prove more illuminating than mine.”

Eleanor flushed and gave a bashful laugh. “Hardly, Your Grace. But I do think Davy errs in neglecting the practical application of his theory. What use is a discovery if it does not reach beyond ink and paper?”

The duke regarded her carefully for a long moment, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting his lips. Before he could reply, however, a voice punctured the moment like a stone through glass.

“Ah. You are still here!”

Lord Mallory strode toward them once more, his expression carefully arranged into one of casual disdain. His gaze darted briefly to the duke—who turned to regard him with cool, imperious calm—before settling on Eleanor. “I see you are still speaking with… His Grace.” “Indeed,” answered the duke, his tone evenly measured.

Eleanor, her good humor evaporating, stepped forward with practiced poise. “Lord Mallory, is there something with which I might assist you?”

Lord Mallory’s attention flicked between them, suspicion narrowing his eyes. “It grows late, Lady Eleanor. Your aunt will be expecting us.”

“Perhaps,” Eleanor replied, unflustered. “But I’ve yet to thank His Grace properly.” She turned to the duke with a smile, softer now, more formal. “Thank you, Your Grace, for your conversation. It has been… a pleasure.”

The duke smiled and inclined his head. “The pleasure, Lady Eleanor, has been mine.”

Eleanor smiled up at him, attempting to ignore the fervent beating of her heart as their eyes met. “Good day to you, Your Grace.”

“And to you, Lady Eleanor.”

With that, she turned, Nightingale following swiftly in her wake, and allowed Lord Mallory to escort her away.

***

Benedict stood motionless for a beat too long, his sharp blue eyes still fixed on the spot where she had stood. Her bright spirit, her wit, her unpretentious confidence… all of it lingered like a scent he could not name. The glimmer of those whiskey-colored eyes would not soon be forgotten.

“Well,” he murmured at last, almost to himself, “that was unexpected.”

He glanced down at his hand, where the sugar from the confection had left a faint trace of white on his glove. Slowly, the ghost of a smile found his lips—a rare thing, almost forgotten.

The Duke of Hawthorne, long a man of solitude, turned back to the fair, his next thought striking him with the force of a long-forgotten memory.

He would like to see Lady Eleanor Pembroke again.

Chapter Two

The carriage rattled and swayed over the uneven road, its wheels grumbling against loose gravel. Inside, Lord Mallory lounged as though the small space were a drawing room at a gentleman’s club, his legs stretched out and one gloved hand gesturing animatedly as he recounted yet another “amusing” tale of London’s past season, while Eleanor and Nightingale sat in silence across from him.

“And there I was—imagine it, Lady Eleanor—caught between Lady Somersby and the dowager countess, both vying for my attention, as though I were some rare prize! One moment they were cooing, the next, at each other’s throats over a misheard compliment. Our poor hostess didn’t know whether to faint or fetch smelling salts.”

Eleanor offered a polite hum of acknowledgment, but her gaze remained fixed on the landscape as it slipped by outside the carriage window. Golden fields of ripening grain stretched out like endless tapestries, and beyond them, familiar wooded glades and cottages rose and fell in soft relief against the pale summer sky.

Familiar. Predictable.

What lies beyond all this?

Lord Mallory’s voice ebbed into the background as Eleanor’s thoughts wandered to the Duke of Hawthorne. His Grace… Benedict Ashford.

She had always admired his mind from a distance, reading his essays by candlelight with a scholar’s delight, but meeting him—speaking with him—had been something else entirely. Where Lord Mallory’s conversation was riddled with vanity and half-truths, the duke’s words had been thoughtful, measured.

Each sentence had landed with a weight that she could feel, as though the act of speaking with her had been worth his time. As though she had been worth his time.

How strange, to feel so alive merely because another had looked at her as though she was more than ornamental. The duke had seen her as a woman with thoughts, questions, and the audacity to voice them.

“…and that’s when Lady Weatherly declared me ’an incorrigible rogue,’” Lord Mallory continued, and Eleanor glanced over her shoulder to see a self-satisfied grin plastered across his face. “Of course, I could hardly deny it.”

Eleanor’s lips curved faintly at the irony, and she exchanged a brief, knowing look with Nightingale. Lord Mallory wielded the word ’incorrigible’ like a badge of honor when, to her mind, it was anything but. Still, she knew better than to voice such opinions aloud. Better to let him prattle on.

As the carriage dipped into a shallow rut, jolting them all, Eleanor’s focus returned to the window. A row of neatly hedged fields blurred past, followed by the sweeping stretch of a low meadow. Sunlight danced across its tall grasses, interrupted only by a lonely sycamore, its branches stretching skyward—unyielding, yet somehow yearning.

Much like myself. Eleanor’s mouth twisted wryly.

For years, her world had felt precisely like this carriage ride: stifling yet familiar, a slow trudge along well-trodden paths. She did as she was expected—attended teas, smiled at the right people, feigned interest in suitors like Lord Mallory whose charms were as brittle as spun sugar. She had accepted it, this small life.

Until today.

Benedict Ashford’s unexpected presence had been like a crack in a sealed window. Fresh air had stolen in, sweeping through her with bracing clarity, and suddenly her small life—her narrow view—seemed unbearably suffocating.

“Eleanor?” Lord Mallory’s voice broke through her reverie, sharper this time.

She blinked and turned her head, offering him a practiced smile. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

His expression soured, as though her distraction were an affront. “I asked whether you had the pleasure of attending last spring’s opera in London. The performance was universally praised, though I hear Lady Devereux nearly fainted over the baritone’s rendition of—”

“No,” Eleanor interrupted softly. “I did not attend the season last year.”

Lord Mallory’s brow furrowed faintly, but he rallied quickly, offering her one of his more princely smiles. “Ah, what a pity, Lady Eleanor. I do hope you’ll make a better showing next year.”

Eleanor turned back to the window, suppressing a sigh. A better showing.

She wondered briefly what Lord Mallory would say if she replied that she cared more for the hum of lively conversation and the scent of books than the performances at Covent Garden or the shades of blue silk worn by this or that lady.

No doubt he would look at her as if she’d confessed to liking the commoners at the fair.

The road curled, revealing the familiar approach to Pembroke House, its gray stone façade rising up among tidy hedgerows.

As the carriage rocked to a halt, Eleanor let out a deep breath and forced a smile to her lips. Before Lord Mallory could leap out and offer his hand, Nightingale opened the door and stepped out first, offering her mistress a steadying arm.

“Here we are,” Lord Mallory declared unnecessarily, following them down to the gravel drive. He sounded far too pleased, as though he was convinced he had performed admirably. “Lady Agatha will be most eager to hear of our day. I dare say I’ve made it memorable for you, Lady Eleanor.”

Memorable. Eleanor smiled faintly to herself. If only you knew.

The front door opened before they reached it to reveal Lady Agatha Pembroke, her expression sharp as flint beneath the carefully arranged coiffe of her hair. She looked from Eleanor to Lord Mallory with calculated interest, her mouth tilting into a smile just shy of too bright.

“Lord Mallory,” she said, her voice threaded with false warmth. “What a delight to see you again.”

Lord Mallory bowed, his smile equally practiced. “The pleasure, dear lady, is mine.”

“And Eleanor?” Aunt Agatha’s dark eyes flickered over her niece, narrowing almost imperceptibly. “I trust your day was pleasant?”

“Very,” Eleanor replied mildly, removing her bonnet as she stepped into the shade of the house.

Lord Mallory, ever eager to ingratiate himself, puffed up slightly and added, “Your niece was the very picture of grace today, Lady Agatha. Though, I must confess, she has something of a wandering eye.”

Eleanor’s head whipped around. “I beg your pardon?” she asked in breathless astonishment.

Lord Mallory smirked, dismissing her protest with a wave of his hand. “I only jest, Lady Eleanor.” He turned to Aunt Agatha and added, almost conspiratorially, “She was merely seen conversing with an unexpected acquaintance—a certain Duke of Hawthorne.”

At the mention of the duke’s name, the faintest tremor passed through Lady Agatha’s carefully composed features. It was subtle—a stiffening of her spine, a brief flicker of something too sharp to be mere surprise.

Eleanor’s curiosity sharpened, but she said nothing. What on earth is the meaning of that?

“His Grace… Benedict Ashford?” Aunt Agatha’s voice, though steady, held a faint edge. “What business had he at the fair?”

Eleanor stepped in quickly. “I believe he was enjoying the day, Aunt. Like anyone else.”

Aunt Agatha turned to her, lips flattening into a thin line. “And you spoke to His Grace?”

“I did,” Eleanor replied simply, meeting her aunt’s gaze without flinching. “Briefly.”

Lord Mallory, sensing tension, chuckled nervously. “The duke seemed rather taken with Lady Eleanor’s spirited conversation.”

Aunt Agatha’s attention snapped back to Lord Mallory. “Did he?”

Eleanor resisted the urge to shift under her aunt’s stare. There was something unsettling in the way her expression shifted, her lips pressing tighter. “You would do well to avoid such acquaintances in the future, Eleanor,” she said finally, her tone curt.

Eleanor frowned. “But why, Aunt? His Grace—”

“His Grace,” Agatha interrupted, “has no interest in small-town pleasantries. Whatever he said to you was mere politeness.”

Eleanor’s jaw tightened. “His Grace seemed sincere.”

Aunt Agatha let out a small, mirthless laugh. “My dear, sincerity is a luxury men like His Grace can ill afford.”

Eleanor said nothing, but her mind swirled. Aunt Agatha’s reaction had been too visceral to be explained by mere propriety. There was something more—something personal.

Fortunately, Lord Mallory seemed to have enough common sense to know that it was time for a courteous departure. The front door clicked shut behind him, his voice still ringing faintly through the front hall as he departed with a flourish of self-satisfied farewells. Silence settled in his wake—heavy and expectant.

He was barely gone when Aunt Agatha turned towards Eleanor. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she said scathingly, her voice a hiss of brittle restraint.

Eleanor blinked, startled by the venom in her tone. “I beg your pardon?”

“Speaking to the Duke of Hawthorne, Eleanor. At a fair, no less. And while in the company of Lord Mallory, who was there with express intentions toward you! Have you no sense of propriety? No consideration for what people will say?”

Eleanor frowned, clasping her hands before her as she summoned all the poise she could muster. “We merely spoke of books, Aunt. Nothing more.”

“Books?” Aunt Agatha repeated the word as though it were something vulgar. “You think a man like His Grace has time to fritter away discussing books with the likes of you? Don’t be a fool, Eleanor.”

“I fail to see what harm it could possibly have done,” Eleanor replied, a thread of steel lacing through her otherwise even tone. “His Grace was perfectly polite.”

“Polite!” Aunt Agatha’s laugh was sharp and humorless, cutting through the air like the crack of a whip. “Politeness means nothing, girl. Do you think a man such as him would look twice at you? You, with your endless prattle and your books, embarrassing yourself in front of a man so far beyond your reach? It is laughable.”

Eleanor flinched, but she quickly masked it with an indignant lift of her chin. “I did nothing wrong, Aunt. I do not see why a harmless conversation with a man of intellect should elicit such fury.”

“Fury?” Aunt Agatha snapped, rising to her feet with a rustle of skirts. “Do not mistake my concern for fury, Eleanor. I seek to spare you from further humiliation. You parade about that fair as though you are… like them, all smiles and chatter. You’ve made yourself the talk of every vendor and servant in Longbourn.”

“Perhaps because they are kind,” Eleanor replied, unable to keep her voice from trembling. “Perhaps because they judge me less harshly than you do.”

Aunt Agatha froze mid-step, her face stiffening with something unreadable. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, almost tremulous. “You do not understand, Eleanor. Men like Benedict Ashford—dukes—they do not associate with women like you. If His Grace spoke to you, it was out of pity, or amusement, or some idle whim to pass the time.”

“That is not true,” Eleanor said, softly but firmly. “His Grace listened to me.”

“And you are naïve enough to think that means something?” Aunt Agatha’s words struck like flint against stone, her face coloring with emotion Eleanor could not name. “You are no grand beauty, Eleanor. You have no fortune, no title. What can you offer a man like His Grace, beyond the fleeting novelty of your chatter?”

Eleanor’s cheeks flushed with humiliation, but this time she did not look away. “Is that truly what you think of me, Aunt?”

“I think,” Aunt Agatha replied coldly, “that you would do well to remember your place.”

The silence that followed felt like a wall between them—thick, impenetrable, irrevocable.

“I shall take my leave,” Eleanor said quietly. She dipped into a shallow curtsy that felt as brittle as the moment itself and turned on her heel before her aunt could say another word.

Upon reaching her bedchamber, Eleanor collapsed into the chair before her desk, pressing her hands to her cheeks as though she could rub away the lingering sting of her aunt’s words.

Naïve. Humiliating. The accusations burned, even as she fought to dismiss them.

“I did nothing wrong,” she whispered to the room, as if it might agree.

Her gaze fell to the stack of books, her fingers reaching instinctively for the slim, leather-bound volume perched on top. Benedict Ashford was stamped onto the spine in faded gold lettering. Eleanor’s hands lingered on the cover for a moment before she opened it, the familiar pages falling open with a soft, papery sigh.

When one observes the movement of unseen forces—currents of air, tides of the sea—one begins to understand that the natural world is not chaos, but order, waiting to be known.

Eleanor traced the words with the tips of her fingers, as though she might feel the weight of their meaning. The Duke of Hawthorne had written those lines many years before, yet they hummed through her even now—more alive than ever. It was the same feeling she’d had earlier that day when His Grace had looked at her, listened to her. Order, waiting to be known.

What was it about him? She had read his work for years, admired the precision of his mind… but meeting him—speaking with him—had been a different revelation altogether. He was a man of undeniable intellect, yes, but also something more.

A stillness. A gravity. She could not put words to it, not yet, but the memory of his calm blue eyes lingered in her mind like an impression left on wet clay.

And her aunt’s words? They do not associate with women like you.

Eleanor shut the book with a decisive thud and exhaled sharply, as though dispelling the thought. “Rubbish,” she muttered aloud. “Utter rubbish.”

Perhaps Benedict Ashford was a duke. Perhaps his world was far removed from hers. But he had spoken to her not as a man looking down from a great height, but as an equal. As someone worth listening to. That was not pity. Nor was it amusement.

The candle on her desk flickered in its brass holder, casting soft shadows that danced along the walls. Eleanor leaned back, letting the sounds of the night settle around her—the creak of the house, the faint rustle of wind against the windowpane. Somewhere in the distance, a barn owl called, low and haunting, its cry swallowed by the stillness.

She turned the book over in her hands once more, staring at the duke’s name. It was foolish, perhaps, to think so much of a single encounter, to dwell on a man she would likely never see again. Yet, she could not help but marvel at it.

For the first time in years, she felt seen. Truly seen.

She glanced toward the window, where the horizon stretched dark and unknowable beyond the fields of Longbourn. How small this room was. How small her life had felt until now.

She blew out the candle, and the room fell into darkness, save for the faint glow of the moon, and she settled into her bed, the book still pressed to her chest. Sleep tugged at her, but her last waking thought was not of her aunt’s scorn, nor of Lord Mallory’s prattle, but of a pair of blue eyes—sharp, steady, and unexpectedly kind.