Chaperoned by Her Enemy Duke (Preview)

Prologue

At only seventeen years of age, Lord George Ellsworth, the Earl of Ellsworth, ought to have been looking favourably upon his future. After all, he was set to be the Duke of Cumberland one day, as his mother so often reminded him – his father forever threatening that it would never come about if he did not step up and commit to the duties he had set before him. 

But in the gardens at Fernworth Manor, the residence of his oldest and truest friends, he found himself mulling over another future set to befall him. 

Perched on the fountain wall at the very centre of the gardens, he kicked his legs, deep in thought, unable to admire the beauty surrounding him as he had once done. 

No longer did the birds seem to sing, nor did the butterflies shine so brilliantly in the early afternoon sunshine. 

Even if they had, he would not have noticed for his mind was entirely set upon the war. Napoleon had been causing trouble for several years, and up to now, he had been safe in the knowledge that he was too young to join in the fray. But the years had passed, and the time had come for his decision to be made. 

Or rather, king and country had made it for him. 

Soon he would be shipped off to France to join his comrades, whether he liked it or not. 

And the thought of it, of leaving all of this behind, terrified him. 

“George?” 

At first, he barely heard her for he was too deep in his mind. 

But there had never been any chance of ignoring Lady Cecelia Flannery. At only fifteen years of age, she was already blooming into a lovely young lady, at least on the outside. Though the thought of her ever being the prim and proper young lady her mother hoped her to be was laughable. 

As she stood before him, her raven-black hair all-atumble as if she had been playing in the nearby hedgerows, George couldn’t help taking note of her. 

Drawn from his inner melancholy by her striking green gaze, George couldn’t help offering a smile. It felt weak upon his lips, and he fought against the lump in his throat. 

It was her he would miss the most. 

“George, whatever is the matter?” 

The concern was raw in her voice and just like that she dropped down onto the wall beside him, laying a hand upon his in a most unladylike manner. 

He ought to have removed his hand, he ought to have reminded her that they ought to keep their distance now as she drew closer to coming of age, as he was seventeen and considered an eligible bachelor for all the ton to croon over. 

Yet, at that moment, he desired her touch, her comforting gaze, and the way she brushed her shoulder against his. 

“Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. His light brown locks – that had grown too long for his mother’s liking – fell forward to frame his face before he brushed them back behind his ears with his free hand. 

“Come on, Georgie, you know you can’t hide anything from me,” she said, cocking her head in a way that reminded him of one of his father’s spaniels. 

He might have laughed at that had he not been so down. 

With a half-smile, he squeezed Cecelia’s hand. 

“I’m glad you’re here, Cece,” he said, and it was the truth. There was nobody he would rather be sitting there with at that moment than her. 

And as if she sensed he required further comfort, she leaned in closer, her fingers gripping his tighter. 

“Wherever else should I be than my own gardens?” she pointed out, her voice thrumming with amusement. Cece could always be counted upon to lighten the mood no matter what was occurring. 

“I suppose that is true,” George responded, dropping his gaze to his now stilled feet. 

“George, what is it?” Cece pressed. “Whatever it is, you can talk to me. I have never seen you so quiet and studious.” 

George bit the inside of his lip. He ought not to whisper a word of how he was feeling. He ought to follow his father’s rules to keep everyone and anyone from knowing his business, his inner turmoil, his struggles. A duke was to comport himself respectfully, in a businesslike manner, always. 

And yet, he was no duke, yet, and this was Cece. How could he not admit to her how he was feeling? 

“I …” He stammered, struggling to find the words. “I’m frightened, Cece.” 

The second the words left his mouth, George started regretting them. 

Had she been anyone else, she would have got up and laughed at him, mocking him for his sincerity. 

Yet, Cece was not that kind of lady. She would not hurt him in such a manner. 

Instead, she turned on the wall to look directly at him as she asked, “Frightened of what?” 

“Of leaving, of going to France,” he admitted unable to utter the words, of going to war, and yet, thinking them all the same. Of leaving you. 

“Oh, George,” Cece whispered, her gaze softening. 

And there it was, the reason that George found himself falling for this beautiful young lady repeatedly. 

Rambunctious, rebellious, messy. Those were all words to describe the girl sitting beside him. Those were the characteristics that everyone knew of her, but there was another side to Cece. A side so rarely seen by the world, a side that George liked to think was only reserved for those she loved. 

“You need not worry,” she insisted, taking his hand in both of hers. “I am quite certain they shall not put you on the frontlines. You’re your father’s heir, the heir to Cumberland. I am certain all will be done to ensure you come home safely. And you will do all you can to come home safely, won’t you?” 

The concern in her gaze deepened and tugged on George’s heartstrings until he felt the urge to pull her into his embrace. Fighting it with all his might, he instead laid his free hand upon top of hers, squeezing her fingers between both his hands. 

“I shall always come back to you, Cece,” he promised her, his lip trembling a little as he attempted to find the words to tell her the truth, to tell her that when he returned home, he wished to see her secured, to see her happy. 

He closed his eyes, able to imagine a future beyond the war, beyond all the fear he felt, a future with her. 

And when he opened his eyes once more, he was prepared to tell her so, to see if perhaps she felt the same. After all, how could he leave without knowing how she truly felt? 

Yet, before he could utter a single word, the sound of laughter came rushing towards them. 

“Cece! George! Come and play with us!” 

It was Mary, Cece’s younger sister, almost as rambunctious as Cece herself, yet not nearly so charming. 

She was followed quickly by Catherine, their other sister, and Walter and Elizabeth, the children of one of the other lords whose residences were close by. 

All young and innocent, George felt his heart clench at the thought of leaving them all. Their faces – so happy and carefree – only made him more terrified of the future that was soon to befall him. He gripped Cece’s hand all the tighter but as if she had suddenly remembered her mother’s important lessons, she snatched her hands away and rose to her feet. 

“What game are you playing?” she asked as the group stopped before them, Catherine gazing between them as if she had noticed the moment they had been having upon their arrival. 

“I do hope we are not interrupting anything,” the second sister said, but neither Cece nor George had the chance to respond. 

“We’re going to play blind man’s bluff,” Mary explained, lifting the pale blue scarf in her hand. 

“Hey, that’s my scarf,” Cece protested, reaching for the garment, yet Mary was quicker, swiftly snatching it out of her reach. 

“Then you had better play with us if you wish for it back,” Mary insisted, her smile beaming. She turned to Elizabeth and added, “I think she is frightened of losing, don’t you?” 

“I am not,” Cece protested, and this time, when she reached for the scarf, she managed to pluck it from her sister’s hand. “Though I do believe that George should be ‘it’ first. He is, after all, the oldest amongst us.” 

“I thought the youngest always went first,” George blurted, his cheeks reddening as he saw the amusement on his friends’ faces. 

“What’s the matter, George? Are you worried you might lose?” Cece goaded, wafting the scarf in his face. 

Rising to his full height, towering over the younger children, George glowered at her. 

“Everyone is always worried they will lose against you, Cece,” he pointed out, and she looked at him playfully. 

“It isn’t my fault I’m too clever for you,” she said, and George couldn’t help laughing. Were her mother there she would have scolded her for disrespecting his intelligence. But that was another thing George loved about Cece, her desire to challenge him at every turn. 

And so, he folded the scarf and prepared to tie it around his head.

“We shall see about that, won’t we?” 

The looks that passed between the others suggested that perhaps they too felt the tension between the pair, though if they did, they made no mention of it. 

“Here, let me help you,” Cece said, once more showing him that softer side of her as she slipped around to his back and helped him to tie the scarf. 

Though the world around him went dark, there was no mistaking the light he felt shining at his back as Cece’s fingertips brushed the back of his neck. 

He shivered involuntarily, praying that nobody else had noticed. 

“How many fingers am I holding up?” Mary asked, and everyone started to laugh. 

“Even if he could see, he wouldn’t tell you,” Walter pointed out, and the corner of George’s lips twitched upwards with amusement. 

“I promise, I can’t see,” he assured them. 

“Well, in that case, spin,” Cece ordered, and just like that, she gripped his shoulders, spinning him until he felt quite dizzy. 

Then just like that, their group scattered with a wave of laughter and taunting, running off into the gardens to hide. 

It was a game they had played a hundred times before, one that George had grown to love for the simple fact that he could chase Cece around the garden without worrying what anyone might think. After all, of late, he had felt a pull towards her like nothing he had ever felt before. 

And as he set off in his blind search, it was she he intended to find first. 

 

As ever, Cece turned out to be the most slippery of players. Laughter and joy filled the garden as one by one, George caught everyone save for her. 

Yet, he was utterly determined not to give up. If this were to be his last time playing blind man’s bluff, he would not have it said that he had lost against her. 

And so, he continued through the gardens, certain she was nearby. Having walked the paths so often before, he was easily able to navigate about, only misstepping once or twice when he heard a noise close by and found himself grabbing hold of one of the hedgerows or even one of the statues that dotted the garden. There was even once where he found himself hugging a tree to which the others laughed as if their stomachs might split. 

With every noise, he felt himself growing closer, and soon, Cece could not hide her laboured breathing from him. 

It had to have been at least fifteen minutes of him chasing her about, the last one to be caught, and yet, he would not give in. 

Then, just when he felt his hands brush silk, just as he smelled the floral scent of her lavender perfume, he was shocked by the hands that jammed into his chest. 

Forced backwards by the impact, George stumbled, his heel meeting something hard that made him squeal out in pain. 

Too late, he realized what he had done as the stone-built flowerbed wall hit him in the back of the knee, forcing him down onto his rear. 

The scent of flowers surrounded him, and he might have laughed if not for the pain that lanced up his left leg. 

Stunned by the sudden turn of events, George grabbed the scarf around his eyes and plucked it from his head. 

“Cheater!” Cece crowed, but George was much too concerned about the sensation of warm liquid seeping down his trouser leg. “You aren’t supposed to remove the scarf until the game is finished!” 

“I am not cheating,” George protested. He dropped the scarf into the flowerbed and proceeded to try to pluck himself out of it to look at his leg. 

“You did; you cheated!” Cece protested, her mischievous tone telling him she was attempting to goad him into one of her playful arguments. 

“Cece, stop!” Catherine ordered as she and the others came running at the sound of the commotion. “Can’t you see, he’s hurt?” 

Cece crossed her arms over her chest and huffed loudly. “He would do anything to get out of losing!” 

George scowled at her but instead of attempting to defend himself, he bent to check his leg. Sure enough, there was blood leaking through the cream material of his britches. 

“Are you alright?” Mary asked, crouched beside him, her gentle brown eyes huge with concern. 

“I’m fine,” George assured her. Hers was not the concern he wished to receive. He half-turned his attention back to Cece, hoping that she might have realized the seriousness of the situation. 

“See, he’s fine!” she insisted, throwing her arms wide. “He had to have been cheating, or he never would have been able to lay a hand on me. Nobody ever manages to catch me.” 

“I was not cheating,” George insisted. The sting of her accusation once more caught him sharply in the chest. 

“Yes, you were! You are a cheat,” Cece snapped, glaring at him with anger brimming in her brilliant green eyes. George would have given anything to grab her then, to take her into his embrace and force her to calm down so that he could assure her he was not anything of the sort. Yet, before he could do so, she added, “You’re a cheat and a coward!” 

To be called a cheat was one thing, but a coward? 

The pain in his leg suddenly forgotten, George jumped to his feet and towered over her once more. 

“How dare you? I’m no coward!” 

“Yes, you are,” she snapped back at him, and for a second, he thought she might push him again. He braced himself, prepared for it. Cece had always been a terribly sore loser. This was nothing new on her end, and things always worked themselves out. They always had tiffs like this, and yet, there was something about that word – coward.

“Go on, Georgie, admit it!” Cece insisted. “You are a cheat and a coward. You told me so by the fountain. You’re a coward.”

“You had to have been cheating,” Walter insisted. “Cece is right. Nobody ever catches her. We all give up in the end.” 

George didn’t respond. He was still stuck on that word. 

“Yeah, go on, George, admit it!” Elizabeth added, brushing back a loose strand of pale blonde hair. 

George’s stomach clenched, yet he did not snap back at his best friend’s little sister. Instead, he found himself staring at Cece, his entire world feeling as if it were falling apart as he saw the angry intent within that beautiful green gaze. 

“Go on, George, tell them what you told me,” Cece insisted, placing her hands upon her hips, hips that in recent months had started to grow rounder. 

The urge to reach out, grab her hand, and drag her somewhere more private to talk was almost uncontrollable. He even took a half-step forward, but Cece’s next words stopped him dead in his tracks. 

“Georgie here is frightened! He’s a coward and a cheat, and he would run from a rabbit, let alone the French!” 

The lump in his throat grew so thick then that he couldn’t utter a word past his trembling lips. 

The laughter of those all around him made his eyes sting, but it was the look on Cece’s face that had a single tear rolling down his cheek. 

“Look, there it is!” Mary said, clearly following her sister’s lead as she so often did. “He’s crying.” 

“I am not,” George protested, angrily swiping his sleeve across his face. 

Again, his friends laughed, and his chest tightened until he could barely breathe. 

Unable to stand there a moment longer, he glanced around the group, pausing on Cece’s angry face before he turned on his heels and started to hobble away. 

Silence fell then as though they realized the nerve they had hit. 

“George! Come back!” Catherine called after him. “She didn’t mean it, did you, Cece?” 

But George did not wait to hear the answer. He fled, barely able to hold back the tears that stung his eyes even more than the burning he felt in his wounded leg. 

 

Chapter Two

Lady Cecelia Flannery never believed she would find herself here at just eighteen years old. Dressed all in black, her head bowed low just as her mother had instructed her. 

As her father’s body was committed to the ground, she held back the tears that she had been fighting for the last several days. 

On either side of her, her mother and sisters wept openly, her mother sliding her handkerchief beneath her thick black veil now and then to wipe away a tear. 

All around her were sombre faces, hundreds of faces, and she couldn’t help wondering how many had actually known her father. How many had turned up simply to pay their respects because he was an earl? 

It didn’t matter really. No matter what she thought, she would remember her comportment lessons and remain respectful. On this day of all days, she did not wish for anything to go wrong. 

Elegant, graceful, composed. That was what she allowed all to see. There was little left of the ‘feral’ child she had been several years ago thanks to all the tutors her parents had paid to instruct her how to be the perfect lady. 

And today, she felt it utterly important to be that, for her father. 

It was as the coffin made it into the grave that all those around her started to whisper. 

At first, the whispers were inaudible, but soon they grew louder, loud enough for her to hear snippets. 

“He’s back,” one mourner gasped. 

“He looks well considering,” another said. 

“I wonder if he plans to remain a while.”

“Can it really be him?” 

That final question was what made Cecelia look up. 

Her gaze travelled over the turned heads on the opposite side of her father’s grave, and her heart stopped. 

There, standing atop a small hillock, beneath a blossom tree, was her oldest friend. 

Or: the friend she had once had. 

It had been years. In fact, she hadn’t seen him since that fateful day in the gardens at her family home. 

A stinging sensation jabbed her chest as she realized he was staring right at her. 

The others might have been disbelieving of his presence, they might even believe they were mistaken in believing his identity, but Cecelia knew without doubt. It was him.

Even at this distance, she recognized him. Tall and imposing, breathtakingly handsome, his brown hair just long enough to give his mother cause for concern. 

But it was those eyes she recognized, piercing blue eyes that pinned her where she stood, making it impossible even to blink. 

They were still the same eyes she knew, the same cornflower blue eyes she had looked into a hundred times or more. Yet, there was coldness in them, a sadness that stung her heart and made her wish to look away. 

It’s a funeral, she reminded herself. He had every right to look that way. After all, he was the closest thing her father had ever had to a son. Their fathers had been friends for even longer than either of them had been born. 

And yet, in that singular moment, Cecelia would have given anything to see a beam of happiness in his gaze. 

It was the hand that landed on her forearm that finally made her blink. 

“Cece?” 

Catherine’s voice caused her to jump, and she looked around to realize that the funeral was over. 

Mourners had begun to slip away from the graveside, back to the churchyard, to wait to pay their respects to the earl’s grieving widow and children. 

Cecelia gulped. Why must she be one of them? 

“Are you coming?” Catherine asked, her mother and Mary had already headed towards the yard. 

“Go ahead,” Cecelia said, “I’ll follow on in a moment.”

Catherine did not question her. Instead, she dipped her head and followed on. 

Cecelia turned back to her father’s grave with every intention of saying one final, private farewell. 

Yet, she could not help glancing at the blossom tree once more. 

Her heart sank. 

He was gone. 

Had he even been there in the first place? 

She started to question it. After all, why would he have shown his face after all this time? She hadn’t seen or heard from him in several years. Nobody had. 

The disappointment was there all the same. It crushed in on her chest and made her feel quite nauseous. 

No, she told herself firmly. Today is about Daddy. 

Lowering her gaze to his grave, she closed her eyes and whispered, “Goodbye, Daddy. I’ll do my best to take care of everybody in your absence.” 

Just the thought of doing so brought yet more tears to her eyes. She forced them back with a deep gulp and headed off to join her mother and sisters. 

Already, people were paying their respects, a huge line of people that seemed to stretch on forever. 

They would be here a while, and yet, all she wanted to do was go home and hide in her bedroom. She wished to let out her tears in private, never wishing for anyone else to see them. 

Standing silently beside her sisters, she dipped her head in thanks to those who offered their condolences, uttering words only when absolutely required. And for the most part, everyone seemed to have their attention upon her mother, offering their well wishes to the woman who had tragically lost her husband. 

Just as the crowd started to thin out, Cecelia’s heart stopped all over again. 

There he was, coming to the front of the line, his blue gaze utterly unreadable. 

And this time she could not deny it. There was no mistaking his being there, for he towered over her mother and sisters like a giant in one of the fairy tales Mary so loved to read. 

He approached with a low and respectful bow before taking hold of her mother’s hand. 

“I am so sorry for your loss, My Lady,” he said, his head still bowed even as he held the countess’ hand in both of his. He glanced at her and her sisters, offering only a bow of his head before he turned his full attention back to their mother. 

Cecelia’s heart ached.

It had been so long. Just hearing his voice made her wish it was her he was talking to. 

Maybe once he had finished speaking with her mother, she might be able to catch him alone. Maybe they might discuss why he had never written her, though she had written several letters addressed to him over the years, in moments when she had been missing their close friendship and that of Walter, his best friend. 

Had he ever received them? She had known it would be a long shot during the war. After all, there were so many men away overseas. It was possible her letters had never found him. 

“Please, let me know if there is anything you need,” George insisted, his voice sincere. 

Cecelia could not help noticing the darkness in his gaze, the lack of emotion where once there had been only a happy, carefree glint. 

What must he have seen during his years away? 

She had heard enough rumours from the other returning soldiers to know that it couldn’t possibly have been anything good. 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” her mother responded, removing her hand from his. She clasped her hands together and added, “I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing.”

Of course, his own father had passed, leaving him the duke. No wonder there were so many whispers going about the churchyard. 

One glance told Cecelia that there were already eager and ambitious mamas sizing him up for their daughters. 

It sickened her to think their thoughts would go to such a place on a day like today. The rebellious side of her wished to remind them all what day this was, that their father’s coffin had barely been lowered into the earth, yet she remained silently supporting her mother and sisters, forcing herself to take the condolences of those who stepped up to meet her. 

Still, she had one eye on the duke, hoping and praying that he would even glance in her direction again.  

He didn’t, and as she watched him say his farewells to her mother and take his leave, her stomach twisted so painfully that she believed she might vomit. 

It took all her strength to hold it together, not to go rushing after him and demand to know why he had failed to talk to her. 

It isn’t personal, she tried to tell herself. He never spoke with Catherine or Mary either. 

But it felt utterly personal. And the snub was almost too much for her to bear. 

A hand slipped into hers, and she blinked, finally turning her gaze from where George had disappeared out of the churchyard. 

“Are you well?” 

Mary looked up at her with her big blue eyes, and Cecelia forced a smile. 

“Yes, of course.” 

She would not let her sister see her cry – not for her father – not for the childhood friend it seemed she had lost. 

She forced herself through the motions, deciding it was best to take things one step at a time. 

George was home. And that both scared her and made her hopeful in equal measure. 

He was safe. He looked well, save for the dullness in his gaze. Perhaps one day she might finally be able to speak with him. And that was what really mattered to her. 

She longed to ask him how he had been, how was Walter? Was France truly so terrible? 

There were so many questions, some she dared not even admit to herself. 

But today was not the day she would get her answers. And so, she resigned herself to being the perfect daughter and not to think of him. Though that was almost impossible now that she had laid eyes upon his face, and now that she had seen the pain behind his gaze. 

What had he been through? What could she do to fix it? 

Deep down, she knew the answer. Nothing. 

She had lost the right to anything like that a long time ago.