His Heart’s Dowager Duchess (Preview)

Chapter One

Evelyn Colborne had always disliked her father’s study, though she had never said so.

She sat opposite her father’s desk, exactly where she had been directed. Her hands rested in her lap, the faintest tremor in her right hand stilled only by the weight of her left. She wore pale blue, chosen for her, the color intended to soften her sharp hazel eyes and render her agreeable before she had even spoken. The fabric lay smoothly across her frame, and her long brown hair had been pulled away from her face immaculately. She had to be perfect that day.

She had no choice.

Her father, Baron Lambert, stood near the desk, one hand braced lightly against its polished surface. He was a tall man, though age had begun to draw his shoulders forward, and his hair had thinned and silvered at the temples. His attention was fixed not on his daughter but on their guest, as though Evelyn’s presence required no further consideration.

“I trust that preparations for tomorrow are in hand,” their guest said in a thick and gravelly voice.

“Indeed, Your Grace. You need not concern yourself at all.”

The Duke of Dunmere sat upright, his posture exact. He was not a young man, either, and there was a hardness to him that Evelyn did not like. His features were sharply cut, his gaze cool and appraising beneath dark brows. He wore black, and when he spoke, his voice carried easily through the room.

Evelyn kept her eyes lowered. There was a faint scratch in the desk’s surface, and she traced it with her gaze.

“My daughter has been raised to be accommodating,” Baron Lambert continued. “She is not inclined toward excess or impropriety. You will find her pleasant.”

Pleasant was all that she had ever been. The word seemed to linger in the air, heavier than the rest.

“That is to be expected,” the duke replied. “A household such as mine requires it. I will not stand for a wife who is determined to be wilful.”

Evelyn drew a slow breath, careful that it did not rise too visibly in her chest.

“There is also the matter of heirs,” the duke continued, “it is, after all, the reason why I chose her in the first place.”

Evelyn lifted her head then, the movement small, but her gaze met his. It was the first time she had done so since he had entered, and for a moment, she wondered whether he would look past her again.

But he did not look away, though his expression did not alter either. There was no curiosity in the way he looked at her, no attempt to read beyond what was immediately visible.

“I would ask—” she began, her voice quieter than she intended, though it did not falter.

“You will find,” the duke interrupted, “that these matters are none of your concern.”

Evelyn rather thought they did concern her, heavily so, but she was already going to be in trouble for speaking. She did not want to make it worse.

“There are expectations,” he went on, looking once again at her father, “and they must be understood.”

Baron Lambert gave a brief nod, his fingers tapping once against the desk as though to mark agreement.

“She has been instructed accordingly. I do not anticipate any difficulty.”

Evelyn lowered her gaze once more, though the scratch in the wood no longer held her attention as it had before. The Duke of Dunmere looked at her again, and she wondered if he thought his expression had softened, as he seemed to be attempting as much.

“You will not be required to concern yourself with decisions of consequence,” he said. “Your comfort will be ensured, and your position will be secured. In return, I expect obedience. These are not unreasonable terms.”

Across the desk, her father’s expression remained composed, as though nothing in the exchange had deviated from expectation.

“A most satisfactory arrangement,” he said. “One that my daughter is grateful for. We all are.”

“Indeed,” she said dutifully.

Satisfied, the duke took his leave. The door closed behind him with a soft, decisive click, the sound scarcely audible, yet it seemed to alter the room more completely than his presence had done.

Evelyn did not move at once. She remained seated, her hands still folded in her lap as though the conversation had not yet concluded. The silence stretched, and in it, she became aware of the faint ache in her fingers and the stiffness in her shoulders from the effort it had taken to remain so very still.

“It is settled, then,” Baron Lambert said at last. “Come tomorrow, you shall be the Duchess of Dunmere.”

Something in Evelyn shifted. She rose too quickly, and for a moment, the room seemed to tilt around her. The words came before she could shape them into something more acceptable.

“Father, you must end it.”

He looked up with a slow, deliberate lift of his gaze. There was a pause in which it became clear that she had already gone too far.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

Evelyn took a step forward, her hands no longer composed but clasped tightly together before her, as though she could contain what pressed against her ribs by force alone.

“The engagement. You must end it. I cannot–”

She faltered, knowing that no good would come from it, but that she had to try all the same.

“I will not marry him.”

For a heartbeat, her father did not move. Then, with a swiftness, he reached for her. His hand closed around her wrist, firm enough to startle, tighter than it had ever been before. The pressure was immediate, his fingers digging in just enough to ensure she felt the full weight of his grasp. Evelyn’s breath caught, more in shock than pain.

“You will lower your voice,” Baron Lambert said, his own scarcely raised. “And you will not speak in such a manner again.”

Evelyn stared at him, her pulse suddenly loud in her ears.

“But you heard him,” she said. “You heard what he expects. Would you honestly send me into that and call it a marriage?”

“You will conduct yourself with sense. The duke is not a man to be trifled with. He is known for his temper, and I will not have you provoke it through childish defiance.”

“I am not afraid of his temper,” Evelyn replied. “I am ashamed that you are.”

She did not know why she said it. She knew better than to speak to her father in such a way. The mild composure that her father had been holding seemed to disappear at that moment, and Evelyn felt every bit of the fear that he was trying to instill in her.

“You will remember yourself,” he said.

Evelyn did not look away.

“I remember perfectly well,” she answered. “I remember that you are my father. I remember that you are meant to protect me, yet you are sending me to a man that you do not dare speak against yourself.”

“Enough,” he said.

The ache in her wrist had become distant, secondary to the heat rising in her chest.

“You should be ashamed,” she repeated.

It was then that she became aware of the doorway.

Her sister Arabella stood there, half within the room, as though she had not yet decided whether she was permitted to enter. She was slight where Evelyn was not, her fair hair falling loosely about her shoulders. Her features were softer, more open, as though the world had not yet taught them to close. Now, they were drawn tight with something like fear, her complexion pale and her eyes fixed upon them both.

In that instant, the pressure on her wrist seemed to sharpen. She pulled her hand free, the movement sudden, and broke away.

“Arabella,” Evelyn said, her voice softening at once, “you should not have come in.”

She reached out to embrace her sister, and Arabella did not resist. She clung to her, her fingers tightening in the fabric of Evelyn’s gown, her breath uneven against her shoulder. She was trembling, only slightly, but enough that Evelyn felt it.

“It is nothing,” Evelyn said quietly, though they both knew it was not. “You need not be afraid. No one will force you into such a fate, not while I have any say in it.”

They left their father standing there and returned to their bedchambers to be out of his way. Evelyn did not look back.

Morning came too quickly.

Evelyn stood before the mirror while her maid worked in silence behind her, fastening, pinning, and adjusting with haste. The gown lay heavy upon her shoulders, its pale fabric arranged to perfection.

She watched her reflection without quite recognising it. The face that looked back at her was colorless beneath the soft powder, her dark hair smoothed and drawn into place with meticulous precision.

“You look very fine, Miss,” the maid murmured, stepping back at last.

Evelyn, not knowing what else to do, nodded. She did not trust her voice.

When she was left alone, the silence did not comfort her. She rested her hands against the edge of the dressing table, and for a moment, she allowed her eyes to close. This was what had been chosen. Not by her, never by her.

But that had never mattered.

The church was already full when she arrived. Faces turned as she entered, but Evelyn did not look at them. Her father stood beside her for only a moment before the ceremony began, his expression composed, his posture as exact as ever. He did not meet her eyes. There was nothing left to be said between them that had not already been settled.

At the altar, the Duke of Dunmere waited. He was dressed in black, as he had been in the study. The sunlight did nothing to soften him. His gaze, when it fell upon her, was no warmer than it had been before. It assessed, acknowledged, and then moved on.

Evelyn took her place beside him, and the ceremony commenced. She heard her name, felt the brief pressure of the ring as it was placed upon her finger. The responses left her lips at the appropriate moments, but she did not feel a word of what she said.

When it was done, there was a murmur of approval, as though something lovely had happened.

The hours that followed passed in a blur.

She smiled when required, allowed herself to be guided through each stage of the day with quiet compliance. Food was placed before her, then removed again. At some point, she became aware that she was expected to laugh, and she did so, though the sound felt unfamiliar.

And the duke drank.

Not excessively, not at first, at least. A glass, then another, and then as the evening wore on, his restraint loosened. There was a flush to his cheeks, a heaviness to his movements that had not been present before.

Her chamber was quiet. The fire had been lit, the bed prepared, the heavy curtains drawn against the night. Everything was as it ought to be.

Her gown had been changed, the elaborate layers removed, replaced with something lighter, softer, but it did not ease the weight she carried.

The door opened without warning.

The duke entered without knocking on the door, closing it behind him with a firm, decisive motion. The scent of wine followed him into the room, and up close, the flush in his face was more pronounced, his eyes brighter, though not with warmth.

He looked at her, properly, this time, as one considers something already possessed. Evelyn felt it before she understood it, the way her body responded, the instinctive recoil that drew her back a step. The movement was small, but it was enough.

His expression changed. Not entirely, not at once, but there was a tightening at the corners of his mouth, a flicker of something sharper beneath the surface composure.

“You will not make a spectacle of yourself,” he said.

“I do not intend to,” Evelyn replied, though her voice did not carry as steadily as she might have wished.

He crossed the room toward her, each step deliberate, unhurried. There was no doubt in his movement, no hesitation. The distance between them was less than she wanted.

“Come here,” he said.

Evelyn did not move.

“I–”

She drew a breath, forcing the words into shape.

“I would ask– I need only a little time. This day has been overwhelming, that is all.”

For a moment, it seemed as though he might consider it. Then the moment passed.

“You have had time,” he said. “More than enough.”

His hand reached for her. Evelyn stepped back again, more sharply this time, the movement less controlled, less easily disguised.

“Please,” she said, the word escaping before she could temper it. “Only a few days. I will not refuse, only–”

His hand closed around her arm, the grip sudden, hard.

“I will not be refused in my own house,” he said, his white-hot anger clear. “You will learn that at once.”

Pain flared where his fingers pressed into her skin.

“You are hurting me,” she said, though even as she spoke, she knew it would make no difference.

“Then do not resist,” he replied.

“Please,” she said again, and this time the word fractured, something raw breaking through. “I am afraid.”

“Enough,” he snapped.

He pulled her toward him, the movement abrupt, unbalanced. Evelyn’s foot caught against the edge of the rug. The world shifted, her balance faltering, and she felt herself slipping, the floor tilting away beneath her. She cried out, the sound unguarded, and in that instant, something in his grip changed.

He staggered. The movement was slight, but enough. He let go of her as he went. His shoulder struck the small table beside them, sending the vase that stood upon it crashing to the floor. It shattered on impact, the sound sharp, jarring, fragments scattering across the polished wood. One flew toward Evelyn, and she raised her arms in front of her face to block it.

For a moment, everything stilled.

Then he swore, the word cut short. His hand moved to his chest, fingers clutching the fabric as though he might grasp whatever had seized him from within.

“What–”

The word failed.

He staggered again, more violently this time, his breath coming short, uneven. The flush in his face deepened, then drained, leaving him suddenly, unnaturally pale.

Evelyn did not move.

He looked at her with something that might have been confusion, or fear, or both. His mouth opened, as though he might speak, might call for assistance, but no sound came.

He collapsed. The impact of his body against the floor was heavy, final. For a moment, there was a terrible stillness, broken only by the uneven rasp of his breath as it struggled, faltered, and then …

Stopped.

Evelyn remained where she was, her hand still raised slightly where she had tried to pull away, her breath shallow, uneven. The room seemed distant, unreal, as though she had stepped outside of it and could only observe what remained.

He did not move.

She waited. Seconds passed, then more. Something in her chest loosened. She looked down at him, at the man who had stood before her only moments before.

When she rang for the servants, they came quickly, their concern immediate, their questions rising all at once as they took in the scene: the shattered porcelain, the fallen body, the pale stillness that could not be mistaken for sleep.

In the days that followed, the house filled with whispers. They moved through the corridors, through the drawing rooms. Sudden death, a weakness of the heart. Too much wine, then too much temper. The stories shifted with each retelling, and eventually, the most fascinating one prevailed.

The story of the black widow, the bride who had buried her husband before the wedding flowers had died.

Evelyn heard them, but she did not respond. She walked through the house as she had been taught, composed, self-possessed, her mourning attire as precise and unremarkable as everything else she wore. Condolences were offered, accepted. Observations were made and acknowledged. Nothing in her manner invited further question.

She stood once more before a mirror, the room quiet around her, the weight of black silk resting against her skin. The woman who looked back at her was unchanged in feature, but something had shifted.

She drew a breath, and it came easily. Evelyn, Dowager Duchess of Dunmere, lifted her gaze to meet her own reflection. She was alive. She was free.

And she felt nothing at all.

Chapter Two

The churchyard lay hushed beneath a low, colorless sky.

Elias Harrington stood before the grave with a stillness that surprised even himself. He was tall, his frame broad without excess, his posture precise. His dark hair, kept neatly trimmed, stirred faintly in the breeze, and his features might have seemed severe at a distance if one did not know him. He wore black, and that was not entirely due to the circumstance.

Margaret Harrington. His mother.

The name was newly carved, the stone still sharp-edged. The final line, chosen with care, was stark beneath the dates. Beloved.

Elias did not move. His gaze remained fixed upon the inscription, as though the act of looking might anchor something that had already been lost.

It had been a year, though the thought did not strike him with force as he expected. He reached out, his fingers brushing the cold surface of the stone.

“I thought it might be you.”

The voice carried softly across the quiet churchyard, warm despite the chill in the air. Elias turned. Lady Catherine Ashford, Dowager Duchess and the woman who had been a mother to him for so long, stood a short distance behind him. She was a woman of middle years, her figure slight. Her hair, once dark, had softened to silver at the temples, drawn back neatly beneath her bonnet, though the breeze had loosened a few strands that framed her face. There was kindness in her features, which was precisely what he needed.

“You rose early,” she continued.

“So did you,” Elias replied.

She stood beside him.

“She would have liked this place,” Lady Ashford said after a moment, her eyes resting on the stone. “It is quiet.”

“She preferred such things.”

He did not elaborate. He did not need to. For a time, they stood in silence, the kind that did not demand to be filled. The wind moved faintly through the branches of the yew tree above them, stirring the air.

“Do you miss her?” Lady Ashford asked at last.

Elias drew a slow breath, his gaze remaining on the grave. His hand lifted, almost without thought, brushing briefly beneath his eye. It had not been invited.

“Yes,” he said. “Even now, after a full year, it remains.”

Lady Ashford turned her head slightly, studying him, her expression unchanged.

“It will,” she said. “Grief does not pass simply because time has done so. It does not leave us in the manner we might expect, nor does it shrink. We learn to carry it in a way that does not consume us entirely.”

Elias listened, his gaze lowering slightly, though he did not look away.

“It becomes something we live beside,” she continued, “rather than something that overtakes us. There is pain in it still, but also something else, if we allow it. Gratitude, perhaps, for what we were given, however briefly.”

She reached for him without hesitation, her hand resting briefly against his arm before she drew him into an embrace.

For a moment, he remained still. Then it gave, and he returned the gesture, his arms settling around her with a care that spoke less of uncertainty than of reverence. She was smaller than him, but there was no fragility in her hold. After a moment, he drew back, though not abruptly. The space between them returned, but it did not feel as it had before.

“There is so much about her I never knew,” he said. “We need to speak of it. It is time.”

Lady Ashford nodded slightly.

“Yes,” she replied. “It is.”

The drawing room at Ashford House was warm. The curtains had been drawn back to allow the faint sunlight in, and it illuminated the pale walls.

Lewis Ashford, the son of Lady Ashford, sat opposite Elias, one leg crossed carelessly over the other. His hair, a shade lighter than Elias’s, fell just short of neatness, and there was warmth in him that was rare to see in a man.

He had been raised in the same house, had shared lessons, meals, long afternoons and longer winters. He was his brother in all but blood. Now, he watched Elias with quiet attention, the usual lightness in his manner subdued, though not entirely absent.

The tea had been poured, but it had not yet been touched. Elias sat forward slightly.

“There is something I must share,” he said.

Neither of them interrupted. He let the words settle before continuing, his gaze shifting briefly to the fire before returning to them.

“It concerns my mother. There is something she told me shortly before she died. She did not speak of it before, but it seems she had carried it for a very long time.”

“What was it?” he asked.

Elias did not answer him at once. Instead, he turned his gaze to Lady Ashford.

“Did you know?” he asked.

Lady Ashford met his gaze without hesitation. For a moment, she said nothing, though the faintest smile touched her lips.

“Yes,” she said. “For a great many years.”

“And you said nothing,” Elias said.

“It was not my story to tell,” she replied. “It was Margaret’s. She entrusted it to me, and I honored that trust. Until the end, it remained hers.”

She rose then, crossing the room toward a small writing desk set against the far wall. It was not a grand piece, but it was well-kept. She opened one of the drawers, and when she returned, she carried a small, leather-bound book.

“This belonged to your mother,” she said.

He reached out, taking it from her with a care that mirrored her own, his fingers brushing against the worn leather.

Her diary.

“There are things in it,” Lady Ashford continued, her voice restrained, “that she never spoke aloud, not even to me. She wrote what she could not say. She wanted you to have it when the time came.”

Elias lifted his gaze to hers.

“And this is that time?”

She held his gaze steadily.

“Yes,” she said.

Elias looked down at the diary again, his grip tightening just slightly.

That night, in the comfort of his cottage, the diary lay open in his hands. He had not meant to begin at once. He had thought to set it aside, to wait until morning when he could approach it with a clearer mind, but he had not been able to help himself.

He turned to the first entry.

I have done something reckless. We are married.

I write the words and can scarcely believe them. It feels impossible that something so momentous should exist so quietly, contained within a single line, witnessed only by those who were required and no more. No announcement, no celebration, no acknowledgment beyond the moment itself, and yet it is real. It must be.

He has promised me that this is only the beginning, that there will be a time, soon enough, when I will stand beside him openly, when there will be no need for secrecy, no reason to conceal what we have done. He speaks of it with such certainty that I cannot help but believe him.

For now, he says, it is better this way. He has brought me here, to a small cottage at the far edge of his estate. It is quiet, removed from the house itself, though close enough that I might see the candlelight in the distance if I stand at the window long enough. He says it is only temporary. That it is safer for me here until everything may be set right.

I have chosen to believe him.

Elias could not help smiling softly at the youth that was evident in her words. She had been so full of hope. He turned the page to continue.

It has been some weeks now.

He visits when he is able. He says his duties keep him occupied, that there are eyes upon him that would question any prolonged absence. I understand this. I do. And yet …

And yet I find myself listening for him all the same.

I have begun to mark the days, though I am not certain why. There is little to distinguish one from another. He has not come in three days.

Elias’s grip tightened slightly on the page. The ink was pressed deeper into the paper, the strokes less even. Further entries clarified that she had asked him when their marriage would become known, which had led to his leaving her again.

Then he came to the page he had been waiting for.

I have not written in some time. There has been little to say that I have not already said to myself a hundred times over.

I am with child. I had thought—foolishly, it seems—that this might change something, that it might soften him, or hasten the day when he must acknowledge what we are. I told him.

I have never seen him so angry.

He said the child would change nothing, that it would not be acknowledged. I am better off anywhere other than here.

He wants me gone. So be it.

Elias’s breath slowed, his attention fixed entirely upon the page. He read on as he pieced it together. His mother had escaped into the night, terrified for the child she was carrying.

She had loved him so much.

It was a widow who answered.

A lady, though she did not carry herself as one might expect. She did not ask who I was. She did not ask where I had come from.

She saw only that I stood in the rain, that I could scarcely remain upright, that I was alone, and she let me in.

We made a story between us. A husband lost to war, a young widow with nowhere left to go.

She has given me sanctuary. I do not know what will become of me. I do not know what will become of this child, but I am no longer there, and that must be enough.

Elias did not turn the page.

The fire had burned lower without his noticing, the room dimmer now. He closed the diary slowly, his hand lingering against the worn leather cover.

There was no doubt left. He knew, now, exactly what his mother had fled.

For a long moment, he simply sat there, the weight of what he had read settling into him in a way that felt both immediate and impossibly vast.

A knock came on the door, but Elias did not answer. The knock came again, followed by the quiet creak of the door opening before he could speak.

Lewis stepped inside, pausing just beyond the threshold as his gaze settled on Elias. Whatever he had intended to say faltered. His usual ease was absent, his posture straightening slightly as he took in the scene before him.

“You look,” Lewis began, then stopped, as though reconsidering his phrasing, “as though you have seen something you would rather not have.”

Elias let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh, though there was no humor in it.

“That is one way of putting it.”

Lewis stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him.

“Come. The air will do you good.”

Elias hesitated. Every instinct urged him to remain where he was, to sit with what he had learned, to turn it over and over until it yielded something more than the stark truth it had already given him, but there was something in Lewis’s tone that made refusal impossible.

At last, Elias rose.

The woods lay just beyond the edge of the property. It was quieter there, though not silent; the rustle of branches and the distant call of birds prevented that.

They walked without speaking at first. Lewis did not press him, did not fill the space with idle conversation as he might have done on another day.

It was Elias who broke it.

“I do not know what to do,” he said. “I believed that whatever I learned of my mother would not alter what I already knew of her, and it does not, but it has made me reconsider something else.”

Lewis’s brow furrowed faintly.

“What?”

“Myself. If what she wrote is true, and I have no reason to doubt it, then I know exactly the sort of man my father was. They say such traits are passed down, you know.”

Lewis stared at him for a moment. Then, quite suddenly, he let out a short, incredulous breath.

“If blood determined character,” he said dryly, “I would be insufferably virtuous.”

Elias blinked, the tension in his expression faltering just slightly.

“That is hardly comparable.”

“Is it not?” Lewis countered, one brow lifting. “My mother is kindness itself. By your reasoning, I ought to be the very model of restraint, and yet here I stand.”

Lewis’s expression softened, the humor fading into something more earnest.

“You are not your father,” he said. “You have never been him.”

Elias did not answer.

A sudden movement to their left broke the moment. A deer burst from the undergrowth, startled by their presence, its motion swift and sharp as it crossed the path ahead of them. Elias reacted before thought could intervene, his arm coming up instinctively, stepping slightly in front of Lewis as though to shield him from …

The deer, which vanished as quickly as it had appeared, the woods settling once more into stillness.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then Lewis looked at him, and a slow smile touched his lips.

“There,” he said. “That is precisely what I meant.”

Elias frowned slightly, lowering his arm.

“It was a deer.”

“Yes,” Lewis agreed. “A truly fearsome creature. I tremble even now.”

Elias exhaled sharply, some of the tension breaking despite himself.

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Lewis said. “You did not think. You acted on impulse, and that impulse was to protect me.”

The words settled into the space between them, quiet but immovable.

“You are your mother’s son,” Lewis added. “Not your father’s. Though I must say, the dukedom–”

“I will not claim it,” he said. “Not yet. I do not know enough about it all, and I will not step into something I do not understand, but I will not leave it unanswered either. If there are records, if there are those who knew … anything that might tell me more, I will find it.”

“Then we make inquiries,” Lewis nodded. “Discreetly, if you prefer. Though I confess, I would like to be indiscreet far more.”

They turned back toward the path that would lead them out of the woods, the light beginning to fade as evening drew closer.

Elias did not look back. There was nothing behind him now that he had not already faced, and ahead there was, at last, something he intended to find.