A Remedy for the Brooding Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

Sunlight poured in through the tall sash windows in the morning room of Hartmoor House, settling in a golden square upon the Aubusson carpet. Lady Eliza Westleigh stood precisely within it, hands folded, chin tilted just enough to catch the light upon her dark hair. The elaborate arrangement of curls and pins had taken her maid nearly an hour to complete. It was only fitting that such artistry be wasted on this occasion.

She heard her father’s voice in the corridor before she saw him.

“Miss Westleigh is eager to receive you, Mr. Bastable,” he declared in a tone that suggested eagerness had been drilled into her by paternal decree.

Mr. Bastable, my seventh suitor, she reminded herself with a sly smirk growing on her lips. Reginald could do much better than to find himself in this morning room…but it will be fun at least, and it will pass the time until I leave to visit Aunt Octavia.

Eliza adjusted her features to form a polite but placid expression as her father entered first. She clocked the narrowed eyes he shot at her, sharp with warning, and she inclined her head ever so slightly.

Best he does not know what is about to happen…poor Papa…

Her father, James Westleigh, held the barony of Hartmoor and all of the expectations that accompanied it…and more. He was a tall, dignified gentleman in his early fifties, and he wore his authority as carefully as his snowy-white cravat. 

Behind him followed the perfectly ordinary and utterly unprepared Mr. Reginald Bastable.

He was perhaps eight and twenty, stout, with cheeks too pink and boots too new. His coat was fashionable but cut in a shade too ambitious for his station. The son of a prosperous wool merchant from Leeds, he had purchased proximity to gentility but had not yet mastered its language.

“Miss Westleigh,” he said, bowing with careful deliberation. “What a pleasant morning.”

Eliza clasped her hands tighter. “Indeed, sir. So very pleasant.”

“It looks like rain, though,” he continued, glancing toward the window. “One can almost smell it in the air.”

“Oh yes?” Eliza replied brightly. “I adore the scent of rain.”

Mr. Bastable squinted slightly, his gaze lazily sliding from the window to her collarbone, and she gritted her teeth as he finally graced her with his thought. “Though upon further observation, I daresay the sun will prevail. Quite bright now, is it not?”

“I was just admiring the sun,” she exclaimed, and screwed up her face. “How I detest it when clouds hide it away.”

Her father’s jaw tightened. The baron was a kind man, with yards and yards of patience, that was quite obviously wearing thin because of her cheekiness just now. And all Eliza could do was smile and feign ignorance.

Mr. Bastable blinked. “Yes…Quite.”

There followed a pause in which one might have inserted wit, curiosity, or personality. Eliza inserted none.

“And how do you pass your mornings, Miss Westleigh?” Mr. Bastable asked.

“Oh, I do not pass them at all,” she answered cheerfully. “They pass me.”

He frowned faintly. “I beg your pardon?”

She leaned forward confidentially. “Time confuses me dreadfully.”

Lord Hartmoor cleared his throat. “Eliza is accomplished at the pianoforte,” he said, his eyes growing wide with impatience and expectation.

Am I? How alarming…she thought, her body cringing inwardly at the horrid sounds the instrument would undoubtedly let loose in no less than two minutes.

“How delightful,” Mr. Bastable said, relief brightening his expression. “I admire music greatly.”

“Do you?” she asked with exaggerated awe. “So do I…” Her eyes followed her father’s almost violent gestures for her to take a seat at the instrument behind Mr. Bastable’s back. “It is quite melodic.”

She drifted toward the pianoforte, lifting the lid with reverence befitting a cathedral altar. Seating herself gracefully, she placed her fingers upon the keys…and began a simple country air.

The first phrase was correct.

The second collapsed spectacularly.

A single sour note rang out, followed by two more in rapid succession. Eliza smiled beatifically as though she had performed Mozart.

Mr. Bastable shifted in his chair.

“How…spirited,” he offered. “That melody…I thought I knew it, but alas, I am unfamiliar with it.”

“Is it?” she replied without turning. “It is a favorite of mine. I strive for spirited pieces.”

She resumed, this time striking a chord entirely foreign to the piece. Her tempo wavered between languid and frantic. She swayed with earnest concentration, as though wrestling invisible muses.

Midway through the melody, Mr. Bastable attempted a rescue.

“I once heard an Italian opera singer in Bath,” he began.

Eliza stopped at once. “How extraordinary,” she breathed. “You know, I have always said how very much I adore Italy.”

“You do?” he asked, brightening.

“Fervently. Especially Barcelona.”

A faint twitch disturbed her father’s temple as his features continued to darken on the other side of the room.

Mr. Bastable laughed uncertainly. “Yes. Quite nice weather for both locations.”

“Would you favor us with another song, my dear? Perhaps an Italian or Spanish piece,” her father prompted tightly.

“With pleasure, Papa.”

She stood again, dutifully, and launched into a ballad.

If the piano had suffered, the air suffered more. Her pitch wandered with adventurous enthusiasm. On the third verse, she abandoned the melody altogether, pausing to beam at Mr. Bastable.

“You mentioned Bath, sir?”

“Yes,” he said, and the trepidation in his tone was music to her ears.

“I find baths to be most invigorating. The Roman baths, I have heard, are some of the most serene in the world.”

He stared at her.

She resumed singing in a key no composer had intended.

By the final note, even the footman stationed discreetly by the door appeared to be questioning his life’s decisions.

Mr. Bastable dabbed at his brow. “A most…unique rendition, Miss Westleigh.”

“Thank you,” Eliza said with radiant gratitude. “I like to put my own spin on things…no one likes a follower.”

Lord Hartmoor rose abruptly. “Perhaps conversation would be more suitable.”

“Yes,” Mr. Bastable agreed eagerly. “Miss Westleigh, do you take an interest in literature?”

“Oh, passionately,” she replied. “I recently read Shakespeare’s charming tale of a wandering pauper who found love in one of three cottages that he happened upon. Though I must say I imagined the inhabitants to be more piggish than beautiful, based on the descriptions. Shakespeare and his words, of course, you understand me.”

Her father inhaled sharply.

Mr. Bastable blinked several times. “Yes, though I do not recall that story.”

“It is lesser known,” she assured him gravely. “Very tragic. They are all hunted by a terrible wolf, but the soliloquies are most beautiful.”

“Fascinating.”

“Indeed. I was so engulfed in the tale that I wept upon the ending.” Eliza folded her hands in her lap, her expression one of profound sincerity.

Her father’s gaze bore into her. She felt it and again smiled sweeter still.

“I find politics diverting,” Mr. Bastable ventured. “Reading the parliamentary updates and the newest news.

Eliza gasped softly. “Oh no. Thinking gives me headaches.”

Her father’s chair scraped audibly against the floor.

Mr. Bastable coughed. “And household management?”

“How terribly complicated,” she murmured. “I imagine after marriage, we might hire someone to manage it all for us. Numbers bewilder me.”

Silence descended.

Mr. Bastable shifted in his chair as though the cushion had grown thorns.

Her father’s fingers tapped once upon the arm of his chair, the movement precise and restrained. “Well, Mr. Bastable mentioned he had a long ride before him.”

Mr. Bastable stood at once. “Yes. Quite. I would not wish to impose further.” He bowed, less steadily than before. “Miss Westleigh.”

Eliza dipped into a flawless curtsey, her expression radiant and guileless.

“It has been the most stimulating morning,” she declared. “Thank you for your visit, sir.”

He hesitated, then nodded awkwardly and made for the door with palpable relief.

As soon as the door closed, the air shifted.

“Eliza.”

Her name carried none of the indulgence it had held in childhood.

“Yes, Papa?” she asked sweetly. Her vacant smile remained fixed in place, though she felt the temperature of the room drop several degrees.

He faced her fully now. The dignified calm that had governed his demeanor in society dissolved, revealing the stern authority beneath. “Must you persist with such foolishness?”

“Foolishness?” she repeated, widening her eyes in artful confusion.

“You know precisely what I mean. Mr. Bastable is a respectable gentleman. Prosperous. Ambitious. He seeks advancement, and in so doing, offers you stability.”

“Does he truly?” she asked softly.

“You have dismissed six suitors before him with equal absurdity. Do you imagine this endless parade will continue forever?”

She lowered herself into a chair with careful grace. “I answered all of his baseless questions.”

“With nonsense!” her father snapped.

She tilted her head slightly. “Was it, though?”

He stepped closer. “You are three and twenty. Three and twenty, Eliza.” His emphasis was partnered with an aggressive brow massage before he continued. “Society does not indulge eccentricity indefinitely. Your brother, Edward, will inherit Hartmoor. Henry is up and coming here in society and will surely marry well. You must consider your future.”

My future, she thought. As though it were a parcel to be handed to the highest bidder.

“I am considering it,” she replied evenly.

“In what manner?” he demanded.

“A thorough one.”

His gaze sharpened. “If you continue to sabotage every respectable offer, I shall be compelled to intervene more decisively.”

She felt the faintest tremor beneath her ribs but did not allow it to surface. “What form would such intervention take?” she asked lightly.

“You would not enjoy discovering.”

There it was. The steel beneath the civility.

She held his gaze without flinching.

“I desire only what is best for you, Eliza,” he continued, though his tone carried more frustration than tenderness. “A husband of means, a household of your own, security, safety…”

“And what about happiness? Contentment?” she asked.

“Contentment follows prudence.”

Does it?

A soft knock interrupted the charged silence.

The door opened a fraction, and Henry, Eliza’s younger brother, appeared around the edge. At fifteen, he stood at the threshold between boyhood and manhood, his limbs too long for his current tailoring, his expression perpetually caught between mischief and concern.

“Umm…Liza,” he ventured.

She rose at once.

“Henry,” she said brightly, as though nothing of consequence had transpired. “We must make haste to Aunt Octavia.”

Lord Hartmoor frowned. “What is this? An appointment with my sister?”

“The market, Papa,” she replied. “Aunt Octavia insisted.”

His brows drew together, suspicion flickering across his features. “You will return directly.”

“Of course.”

She crossed the room, seizing Henry’s hand the instant they reached the corridor. Only when the morning room door closed behind them did she allow her posture to relax.

Henry stared at her in awe. “You said that Shakespeare wrote the three little pigs?”

She laughed, the sound bubbling out before she could restrain it. “Did you see his face?”

“You are merciless.”

“I am strategic.”

They descended the stairs together, suppressing their laughter until they reached the gravel path beyond the front steps. The spring air felt cool against her cheeks, carrying the faint scent of budding lilacs.

“Well?” Henry asked. “Was he routed?”

“Entirely,” she declared. “Candidate number seven has fallen.” She bowed deeply as if making a curtain call.

Henry groaned softly. “Seven. Oh my days, Liza.”

“Yes,” she said triumphantly. “Though Papa has just issued an order for me to stop thwarting them and to start taking my future seriously.”

“We can all tell that Papa grows less patient…the staff even have a wager out on which number your final suitor might be.”

She waved a hand dismissively, though the gesture lacked its usual conviction. “He blusters.”

“He does more than bluster.”

They crossed into the garden, sunlight filtering through young leaves overhead. The house loomed behind them, solid and ancestral.

Henry slowed. “What happens when Papa ceases presenting hopeful merchants and instead selects someone himself?”

Her laughter faltered.

“He would not,” she said, though the certainty in her voice rang hollow.

“He might,” Henry replied quietly. “He spoke with Edward last evening about alliances and propriety.” He studied her face. “Better yet, what if the next man does not retreat?”

“And what did our older brother say to that? Did he stand up for me? Did he challenge our dearest papa about his only daughter’s happiness?”

“No, Liza. You know that Edwards loves us, but it is in his own way. He is bound by society to the barony…bound in such a way as you are. As all women of the peerage are.”

Her smile returned, though softer now. “Well then,” she said carefully, “I shall require a different tactic.”

“And if tactics fail?”

She looked back at the house, at the tall windows of the morning room where her father likely still stood.

For a fleeting moment, uncertainty crept into her thoughts.

What if one day he does not ask? What if he commands?

“You know, Henry…you are quite more astute than I gave you credit for.”

Her younger brother smiled widely. “Thank you, Sister. Coming from you, it means more than you know.”

Eliza smiled. “So tell me, dearest brother,” she began quickly, changing the subject so as not to dampen the mood, a smirk curving her mouth as they approached the iron gate.

Henry kept his gaze trained upon the gravel before them, stepping neatly over a rut in the path. “Anything, Liza.”

She leaned sideways to catch his expression. “You did place a wager, did you not?”

He did not answer at once. Then, without warning, his head tipped back, and laughter burst from him, unrestrained and bright. The sound echoed against the clipped hedges and startled a pair of sparrows from the shrubbery.

Eliza joined him, her earlier tension dissolving into the rhythm of his amusement.

When he finally caught his breath, he scrubbed a hand over his eyes and looked down at her with exaggerated solemnity.

“Oh, Liza,” he said.

Before she could step away, he hooked his arm around her shoulders and drew her firmly against his side. The movement was swift and familiar, more boyish than courtly. 

“I would never wager against you,” he declared.

She studied him through narrowed eyes. “Surely you must have named a number.”

“I did,” he admitted at last.

Her brows rose. “And?”

“I wagered that you would outlive them all.”

She laughed again, but something in her chest tightened unexpectedly.

He swung open the gate and gestured for her to precede him. “Come. Aunt Octavia will wonder whether you have finally frightened away society entirely.”

Seven suitors dismissed with flawless intention. Triumph swirled in her veins, light and intoxicating. She lifted her chin and stepped onto the road beyond the gate, the gravel crunching beneath her slippers.

Because the moment she became a wife, the life she had built in quiet defiance would vanish. No more remedies, no more work that mattered, no more independence carefully carved from expectation. She would be managed, directed, diminished. And she refused, utterly, to become something smaller than she already was.

As they walked toward the market and the freedom of Aunt Octavia’s domain, Henry’s question returned to her mind like a shadow stretching long behind them.

What if one day he does not ask? What if he commands?

She forced the thought aside and squared her shoulders.

For now, she was undefeated.

And she intended to remain so.