A Widow to Mend the Duke’s Heart (Preview)

Chapter One

The house was half empty, neatly divided between the rooms that Anna had been directed to clear, and those that remained untouched on her mother-in-law’s instructions. The London rain pattered lightly on the tall windows, and the gray filtered sun cast a pale, morose light throughout the halls.

Anna walked through the empty corridor, glancing hesitantly between the rooms. Her striking violet eyes lingered on the vacant wooden floorboards as a flicker of memory ran through her mind. Her son was laughing, his father chasing him around the drawing room, but it was merely an echo.

She reached the last door in the hall and pushed it open gently. “Timothy? Are you ready yet?”

Her son was lying on his stomach, kicking his heels together nonchalantly in the air. He was a good-natured child, surprisingly calm for a five-year-old, but he had a few streaks of independence that were beginning to show; he certainly hadn’t been packing as instructed.

“What are you doing in here?” Anna asked, putting on that brave smile she had come to rely upon. He was facing away from her, his hands out of sight.

“Just playing,” Timothy answered, bobbing his legs around in the air distractedly. He spoke with a dullness that had grown in his father’s absence, a vague disinterest in the world that broke Anna’s heart every time she heard it.

“Let’s have a look,” she said warmly, walking over to him and crouching down. As she knelt next to him, she faltered, seeing the toy soldiers he was arranging in formation. The little lead figurines stood at attention in their mock ranks, the way his father had taught him. It was another echo, another point of pain, one last twist of the knife in the veil of normalcy that she was clinging to for dear life.

“You’ve arranged them well,” she said, resting her hand on his back.

“Like Papa showed me,” Timothy answered, staring straight ahead at the toy soldiers.

“Yes,” Anna replied, fighting back a stray tear. “Just like that.”

She heard a slight commotion from the foyer, some general bustling of footsteps from the front door, and she steered her mind back to the task at hand.

“You remember when we visited Papa in Spain?” she asked, brushing a few strands of hair back from his forehead.

“I don’t know,” the boy said, nestling his nose into his elbow on the floor. “You said I was too little to remember.”

“Well, it’s just like that,” Anna said, flashing a quick smile. “It’s an adventure.”

“Where are we going?” Timothy turned his head and squinted one eye up at her.

“To Bath, dear,” Anna said. “Remember? Now, come, we must be going. Let’s get your soldiers packed away.”

Anna could see that Timothy didn’t fully understand what was happening. How could he? It was beyond his limited scope of the world, but he knew his mother was sad, and he knew they were leaving, even though he didn’t want to.

Anna picked up the figurines one by one and packed them into one of Timothy’s open trunks, carefully wrapping each one in small squares of cloth. She had made those motions countless times, carefully arranging trunk space as she followed her husband across the Spanish countryside.

Each of her movements, however minute, was intently deliberate. She held a stalwart grace, and wore it better than most. Though it was trained into every lady like her from a young age, she had perfected it. The years without her husband had made it essential; it was one of the few things that she had complete control over.

This trip was different. There was no empty villa waiting for her, no commandeered French supplies to pick through with the other military wives, and no husband to embrace her at the end of the journey. She shuddered a bit as she closed the trunk lid, the latches clicking closed with almost sinister snaps.

A sharp knock on the door caused both their heads to turn, and Anna felt the light go out of the room like a storm cloud had suddenly appeared over them.

“It’s time.” Richard’s nasally voice hounded them from the corridor. Her late husband’s brother was a poor imitation of the man she had loved. He was thin and gaunt with shadows beneath his eyes, looking altogether poorly. He hadn’t even removed his overcoat upon entering, the raindrops still visible on his shoulders.

“Very well,” Anna said curtly, not bothering to meet his gaze. “Come along, Timothy. We’re leaving now.”

The boy got up dutifully. He likely knew that nothing he did could forestall their departure any longer, and so he shuffled past his uncle in the hallway.

“Be strong then, boy,” Richard remarked passively, as if he had only just remembered to say something to his nephew. “Look after your mother.”

“I’m sure he shall,” Anna said, her temper flaring just a little as she marched past Richard.

They stepped out into the street as the footmen bustled about behind them with their trunks, and Anna looked up and down the block aghast. There was no coach waiting, just a small stack of their things sitting out in the light rain.

“Where is the carriage?” Anna balked, trying her utmost to retain her composure in the open foyer, the rain splashing down just a foot from her.

“It will be along,” Richard answered gruffly from behind her. Anna held her tongue further, her eyes resting on their trunks sitting on the curb.

A carriage finally came around the corner, lightly bouncing on the bricks of the street as it rolled up to the door. Almost immediately, Anna saw her mother-in-law clambering down from the coach. Amelia was a short, dignified woman. She took great lengths to always remain presentable, to appear noble, but her bubbling rage could not help from spilling out as she planted her feet on the ground.

“What is the meaning of this?” she barked up the steps, the drizzle gracing the brim of her hat as her eyes fixed upon her surviving son. “Richard!”

“Good morning, Mother,” Richard answered plainly, hunkering down and preparing to receive her battery.

“You could not even wait for the coach!” Amelia pressed. “Are you so eager to cast off your responsibilities that you must pile a lady’s luggage in the street? As if we were a common lodging house? Shame on you!”

“They are not my responsibility, Mother,” Richard shot back from the shelter of the foyer. 

Anna squirmed, standing between them with Timothy at her side. She did not like being caught between them; she never had, but it had only intensified in the time leading up to their eviction.

Of course, she was perturbed by Richard’s callousness. It was offensive at every level, but she could not fault him for wanting as much distance from his brother’s memory as possible. The scandal had yet to settle; her own parents had turned their backs on her and her son.

“My brother cut all ties with his treason,” Richard went on. “I’ll not hear more of it.”

“He thought you would protect them!” Amelia chastised, planting her hands on her hips, undisturbed by the rain. “He said as much, plainly! You are disgracing his memory.”

“That has already been done,” Richard said, folding his arms. Then he turned to the remaining footmen behind him. “Go on, load it up.”

“Come, dear,” Anna said, guiding Timothy down the steps, trying to remove herself from the middle of the tense exchange. She did not enjoy being the center of attention in the first place, and being caught between a family divide exacerbated her discomfort. “It’s not a worry, Amelia,” she said. “We are ready to go.”

Amelia looked at her sympathetically, then cast another darting look up at Richard. She weighed a few more words but decided against them. Anna’s discomfort was evident to her, to anyone watching, for that matter.

“Climb on up,” Anna pushed Timothy toward the coach, and he paused beside Amelia.

“Hello, Grandmother,” he said quietly, remembering his manners despite the confusion of the day.

“Hello, dear,” she said, smiling warmly down at him. “Do as your mother says, go on up.”

The pair watched Timothy clamber up into the coach. Richard was already gone, back into the bowels of the house, and a footman gently shut the front door as the others loaded the luggage onto the carriage roof.

“I’m sorry, dear,” Amelia said as they loaded the last trunk. “I tried everything.”

“It is our lot,” Anna said, keeping the strength in her voice. “We are adapted to it.”

Amelia gave her another soft smile, her gentle eyes offering an elusive embrace. “You’re a brave one,” she said.

“I’m not, truly,” Anna said, her eyes flashing down to the cobblestones. “I do not fault him.”

“Well, I do,” Amelia said. “It’s all improper, entirely.”

“My own father will not have us,” Anna said. “I can hardly take issue with my brother-in-law.”

“As you say,” Amelia huffed. “Let us be away then.”

“Where are we going?” Timothy asked as the pair entered the coach. He was perched in the corner, looking out the window at the rain.

“To Bath,” Anna answered once again.

“Where’s that?”

“Not too far, child,” Amelia answered. “If you fall asleep, we’ll be there when you wake.” Anna smirked a bit at her answer. If it were true, the journey would be far easier.

They settled in for the ride as the carriage pulled away from the curb. Anna took one last look at their old home, the doors now shut. It had once been a place of such joy. Now, it was a dull monument to a life no longer available to them.

The ache in her heart had cooled in the past two years since her husband died. The tumult of grief and disbelief that wracked her for months had hardened into a harmless void, an empty space where love used to live that served no purpose to her, other than to remind her of what they had lost.

Her husband had been the center of their lives. His career had driven their movements, his friends had been their social circles, and his money had provided for them. Now there was nothing, no schedules, no friends, no houses, no money. Well, she had a little money saved away from his military salary, at least before the court martial had put a stop to that. It wasn’t much, but it would be enough for two months, maybe three if she was extra careful. Of course, Timothy would need a new pair of boots before winter.

She wondered briefly if she would ever feel the warmth of love again as they bounced down the city streets, if she could fill the void in her chest. It didn’t hurt anymore, but she felt its emptiness every single day.

She looked to her son, watching the people through the window as they rolled past. She would have to be strong for him, stronger than she had been the past two years. They were passing into a new frontier, leaving London behind them. High society, whatever taste she had gotten for it, was now closed to her forever.

“Do you know that man, Lord Blackthorne?” Amelia asked, drawing Anna out of her own thoughts.

“What’s that?” Anna asked, blinking.

“Blackthorne,” Amelia said. “Do you know him?”

“I cannot say I do,” Anna said with a slight tilt of her chin. “Who is he?”

“Some lord or another, nobody of too much stature,” Amelia answered, peering closely out the window as they passed another group of pedestrians. Frowning, she drew the curtain closed. “I had heard he was asking about your intentions.”

“My intentions?” Anna said, raising an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Amelia grumbled, averting her eyes. “It was just some chatter I heard.”

“Well, I should think most people would be bored of chatting about me by now,” Anna said, narrowing her brow a bit. “What do they have left to say?”

“Oh, who knows with all of them?” Amelia said dismissively, trying to shut down the subject despite having just brought it up. Anna saw her sudden evasiveness and agreed to play along.

“I cannot thank you enough for what you’re giving us,” Anna said. “Really, it’s unfounded.”

“Nonsense,” Amelia scoffed playfully. “You know James wrote to me, before he passed, telling me that I should take care of you. I suppose he knew his brother wouldn’t, the oaf.”

“Yes, you’ve said,” Anna remarked. Amelia had always been so cagey about it all, as if there was a layer of mystery that had yet to be revealed. Anna assumed she was still just as distraught, trying to keep James alive in any way that she could.

“The bookshop will be a fine fit for you,” Amelia said, hurrying on as they left the city behind and rolled out into the English countryside. “It attracts a quiet type, not the wide assortment of busybodies you might see in any other shop, and the flat is fine enough, you’ll see.”

“I’m sure everything will be suitable,” Anna replied, drawing her hands together in her lap. “I am just grateful for the care you are taking with us. Lord knows where we would be without it.” She did not like accepting charity, especially within the confines of this tense family dynamic, but she was not a fool. Without the support of her mother-in-law, they would be penniless, homeless, even. A bookshop clerk in sleepy Bath was a perfectly fine alternative, as far as Anna was concerned.

As the city disappeared behind them, Anna felt a strange weight lifting from her shoulders. Society and its gossip remained there, behind her, as they drove toward something new.

It was not joyous, nor exciting, but it was fresh. It was a future that was a further step removed from her late husband’s disgrace, just a bit less blemished by all that had transpired. She still held questions, she still had doubts, she still did not understand why James had supposedly done the things he did, but in a way, none of it mattered.

What was important was her son. She would continue to protect him from the pervasive shame and slander, that was all she knew.

“Where are we going?” Timothy asked yet again, poking his nose up to the window to watch the green fields pass them by.

“To Bath, love,” Anna answered again with a soft smile. “We’re going to Bath.”

 

Chapter Two

Lysander opened his eyes that morning with a foul inclination already set upon him. It was a dreaded day on his calendar, and his anticipation of the impending pain and discomfort he was set to suffer that afternoon had ruined any chance of a pleasant morning.

His leg thumped with pain as he swung it out over the side of the bed, and he gave off an unceremonious grunt while moving to stand. He could hear his servants on the other side of the door, waiting for him to rise, trying to determine if the day would be a dark one or not.

He splashed his face in the basin beneath the window and called out for his valet.

“Hartwell!” he bellowed.

“Yes, Your Grace?” Hartwell entered reluctantly, yet with purpose. He brought the duke’s morning jacket and draped it over Lysander’s shoulders while the man stared broodingly out the window at the small rooftops around them.

“We’ll have our—” He bit his lip. He hadn’t slipped up like that in a while, and the acknowledgement of it was a crushing blow to his heart. Today, of all days, no less. “I’ll have my tea here.”

“Right away, Your Grace,” Hartwell nodded curtly, and snapped to the waiting servants to prepare his table. “Did you sleep well?”

“You know I didn’t,” he growled back, and Hartwell shrank a bit further. “When was the last time I slept well?”

“Perhaps last month, Your Grace, after your hunting trip,” Hartwell replied, shooing the servants away after they hurriedly set his breakfast place on the small lodging table.

“Careful, Hartwell,” Lysander said, studying the birds that flew over the rooftops around them. “I am not in the mood for your jests.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.”

Lysander sat down at the little table with a thud, kicking his leg out in front of him. He picked up the teacup and took a slow sip, letting the hot water linger on his lips. From his seat, he could still see the streets below through the window, watching young families go about their mornings, and his heart gave a throb.

“You have some letters, Your Grace,” Hartwell said, retrieving a tray from the nearby desk.

“Regarding?”

“The upcoming Season, I believe,” Hartwell began sifting through the handful of envelopes. “Invitations, looks like.”

“I would rather host Bonepart for dinner,” Lysander spat. “You know better.”

“I only thought—”

“Don’t think, Hartwell. Christ!” Lysander spat. “Just leave me my reports.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Hartwell said, bowing his head. He replaced the letters and handed the duke a few sheets of paper instead.

Lysander looked over the reports with intense disinterest. There was a time he enjoyed a comprehensive understanding of his rents, his lands, his commodities, and their markets, when he took his duties seriously. That time had passed.

“The last one there is from the surgeon in Denmark that you had written to, Your Grace,” Hartwell said, standing dutifully by his broken duke. “He has included his opinions on your condition and offered some thoughts on a procedure.”

“A procedure,” Lysander lamented. “Is coded language for cutting my leg off.”

“As you say, Your Grace.” Hartwell had done his utmost for the duke at all times, but there were moments when even he, the dutiful servant he was, began to lose his patience, and Lysander was not blind to it. “It was you who inquired.”

“And where exactly am I supposed to visit?” Lysander asked, some grit in his voice. “If they could fix me up, and I could walk for miles, where would I go?”

“Wherever you liked, Your Grace.”

“Always quick, aren’t you?” Lysander snapped back. “When will the doctor be here?”

“In an hour, Your Grace, or thereabouts.”

Lysander gritted his teeth together as he looked out the window from his chair. The treatment for his leg was necessary for him to walk at all, but his morose malaise hung over him so intensely that sometimes he wondered what would happen if he ceased all treatment and let his leg slowly kill him. How painful would it be? How fast? Was his wife truly waiting there, on the other side? Church told him that she was, but the battlefields of his past were a gnawing doubt in his mind. What god could have created all that suffering? No god of his, that he had decided long ago.

“If I may, Your Grace,” Hartwell asked tentatively, and Lysander raised an eyebrow.

“What is it?”

“Have you decided when you will return to the estate? If your intention is to stay here longer, perhaps it would be prudent to enlist some larger lodgings?”

“I have not decided,” Lysander said, turning back to the window. The question felt laborious. “Do what you feel is best.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“Now, help me dress.”

***

The doctor came, and Lysander endured the pain with a grim face as he always did. The old war wound would forever be his curse; he had made his peace with that long ago, but Cathrine had made it bearable, and his son had given him something to live for. Without them, he was a husk, carrying around a leg that would never properly heal and not caring for the world one way or another.

After the doctor had done his work and gone, Lysander stood hesitantly, anxiously awaiting the weight on his leg. His face flushed with relief as he brought the weight down on his heel, even letting out the slightest of chuckles. Hartwell smiled, standing off by the door.

“You find it much improved, Your Grace?” he asked.

Lysander seemed to catch his own joy, firmly bottling it before it further escaped his lips, as if he remembered that he was supposed to appear more sullen. In truth, there was an immense improvement, as there always was after a treatment, and it was a shred of relief in his sorrowful life.

“I think I shall take a walk,” Lysander said, “while I still can.”

“Very good, Your Grace. Which coat would you prefer?”

“The green one, I think,” Lysander answered. He did prefer the green one. “The doctor recommended the local bookshop, did he not?”

“He did, Your Grace,” Hartwell nodded along.

“We shall see if they have any Caesar,” Lysander said. Truthfully, he already owned all the Roman texts that he could get his hands on, but it never hurt to take another look.

He stepped out of the lodging house with an unusually bright face. It was a reliable cycle; the pain would accumulate for weeks, gradually worsening his gait and his already dour mood, until his monthly treatment.

Then came the breath of fresh air—the first step without crippling pain in days. For that moment, his years of crippling grief briefly fell away, and he savored the smell of the air. Life seemed worth living once again, if only for a short time.

The town of Bath was a work in progress. It had been a humble place until recently, but the wealth of the continent flowing into England after the wars had transformed it into a miniature hub of London’s high society.

Newly built gardens and footbridges, a handful of luxurious social clubs, and a sweeping royal estate punctuated the largely idyllic cityscape, and away from the chimneys of London, one could actually breathe the fresh air. Lysander walked slowly, savoring each step. The weather had only just begun to admit the turn of the season into spring, and the breeze was touched by the faintest hint of overnight rain.

The bookshop recommended to him was a few more streets over, and he took his time in getting there. Books were one of his great joys; ultimately, they were his only true joy left in the whole world, the only thing that lifted his soul without first having a drink.

As he went along, he passed a few scattered gentlemen that he didn’t recognize. The newest generation was beginning to spread their wings and go out into the world. It was just too bad they missed all the battles, he thought.

He reached a corner bench near one of the newest gardens and took a moment of rest, listening to the birds. A young family walked past him, the man and woman all smiles while their child walked between them.

The young boy pointed to the birds, his eyes wide with wonder at the colors of their wings. The family laughed, caught up in their small bubble of communal cheer, and Lysander felt his mood begin to swing in dramatic fashion.

Suddenly, the small fraction of good cheer he had built over his short walk evaporated. All that was left in its place was a deep despair, a hollowness that haunted him every day of his life.

It was harder and harder to remember his wife’s face or his son’s laugh. That void defined him; it consumed his every waking moment, and it drove him to intense self-hatred.

The family moved on, and Lysander hardened his jaw. He wondered if there was even any point in finishing his walk to the bookshop.

“What the devil else am I doing?” he grumbled to himself, and after a further moment of reluctance, he rose and continued on his way.

The mid-morning sun finally flooded the streets properly as he came around the corner, lighting up the brickwork with a luminary glitter. The bookshop stood out in the center of the block, its large front windows offering a glimpse of the leather-bound volumes within.

As he reached the edge of the window, moving toward the door, he was struck by what he saw. The light fell through the pane, casting a glow upon the people within. There was a woman there with a child, a young boy, and he followed the graceful woman around on her heels.

She was slender but poised like he rarely saw; an epitome of grace and careful posture, each of her movements, even just the small motions as she placed a book back on the shelf, seemed planned out far in advance.

As the boy moved past her into the back of the store, she let a finger trace across his brow and gave him a soft smile, sending him on his way. The scene was beyond perfect for a reason Lysander couldn’t place, and it grabbed hold of his entire being.

Perhaps it was because it was the encapsulation of what he remembered of a life long past, what he had lost. As opposed to the family near the gardens a moment ago—the image of what he remembered being—this was the entirety of what he had lost, and he felt a sudden fire within his chest, raging against his apathetic grief, craving that domestic bliss that he romanticized.

In that moment, he felt something he hadn’t in a long while, an extension of the relief in his leg that filled his whole being while he stood transfixed by the woman in the window with the violet eyes. It was the desire to live, and to feel alive, and he felt himself blush.

Quickly, he looked down, his breathing a bit more rapid, trying to compose himself before he entered the shop.