The Duke’s Last Chance at Love (Preview)

Chapter One

The night was, by all accounts, already a triumph. 

Charlotte Winfield, the daughter of the Earl of Windale, stood stiffly beside her sister Eleanor, her hands clasped so tightly they ached. The Fairfax ballroom glittered with flickering lights while the crystal chandeliers cast golden halos across the polished marble floors.

Eleanor, radiant in her debut gown of pale lavender, had been gliding through the throng of guests like a queen among her court, and only now approached Charlotte in a moment of respite. 

Eleanor turned to her, her cheeks flushed with excitement. “Isn’t it splendid, Charlotte? Everyone has been so kind.”

But Charlotte could hardly focus on Eleanor’s success. The warmth of the room pressed in, too stifling, too bright, and too full of memories she had tried desperately to forget.

Still, she forced a smile. “Indeed, Eleanor. You’ve made quite the impression.” 

Eleanor’s gaze flickered across the room. “And yet, you remain so aloof. Surely, one of these gentlemen would ask you to dance if only you would look their way.”

Charlotte’s protest died on her lips as a figure caught her eye. Her chest constricted as if the air was stolen from her lungs. A man approached, his dark hair and tall frame looked strikingly familiar.

It can’t be.

Her heart hammered as he drew closer. The set of his jaw, the piercing gaze that pinned her to the spot, he bore an uncanny resemblance to him. 

It felt like ages ago, and yet, a mere year separated her from that fateful day. 

The conservatory smelled of orange blossoms, the scent heavy and clinging. Charlotte stepped inside, seeking respite from the music and chatter that filled Julian’s house. But as her heels clicked softly against the tiled floor, voices reached her ears.

“…can’t…don’t know…mean it, Lavinia…” 

Charlotte froze, her hand tightening around the edge of the doorframe. Through the glass panes, she saw them. 

He stood motionless, his expression unreadable, but the woman opposite leaned into him, her hands resting lightly on his chest. Her face tilted up, and her voice, low and intimate, carried through the stillness.

“Admit it, Julian,” the woman whispered.

Charlotte’s breath hitched. She couldn’t see Julian’s face clearly, but he didn’t move away. He didn’t push the woman’s hands aside.

The image burned into her, and before either of them could notice her presence, Charlotte turned and fled.

The next morning, her resolve hardened into icy determination. She announced her illness, retiring from the Season with finality. Her heart remained broken, her trust shattered.

Now, it seemed that the ghosts of her past surged forward, threatening to drown her once more.

She blinked heavily, but a moment later, she realized, much to her relief, that he was not the man she thought him to be. Still, the resemblance was uncanny and she couldn’t help but think about it, as the man approached them directly, which was highly unusual. 

Tall, with chestnut hair, slightly unruly, and eyes that sparkled with a mischievous glint, the gentleman’s presence seemed to command the space around him. He stopped before their small group, his gaze settling immediately on Eleanor.

“Forgive my intrusion, ladies,” he said, bowing before Charlotte and Eleanor, and at that point, their mother had silently joined their group, curious regarding the newcomer. “I fear I’m about to breach every rule of proper introduction, but I simply cannot help myself.”

Eleanor blinked, startled but intrigued. Their mother, Lady Margaret Winfield, the Countess of Windale, raised a brow, but Charlotte noticed the corners of their mother’s lips twitch as though resisting a smile.

The gentleman cleared his throat, his smile both earnest and disarming. “Thomas Beaumont. At your service.” His eyes never strayed far from Eleanor’s face. “And I must beg pardon for my forwardness, but the moment I saw you, Miss—”

“Lady Eleanor Winfield,” their mother corrected, her tone smooth and approving, offering the man a chance to correct himself. 

“Lady Eleanor,” he repeated, as though savoring the name. “The moment I saw you, I knew I would regret it all my life if I did not ask for the honor of this dance.”

Eleanor’s cheeks flushed a becoming shade of pink. Charlotte arched a brow, but the soft look in her sister’s eyes told her that Eleanor was already enchanted.

Their mother inclined her head, clearly pleased. “You are quite bold, Mr. Beaumont, but perhaps my daughters and I could overlook it, just this once.” 

He grinned, unrepentant. “I would be most grateful, madam.” Then, turning back to Eleanor, he extended his hand. “Might I claim the next set, Lady Eleanor?”

Eleanor hesitated only a moment before placing her gloved hand in his. “I would be delighted.”

Charlotte watched as Mr. Beaumont’s expression brightened, his admiration for Eleanor plain to see. He led her toward the dance floor with a confidence that suggested he already considered himself fortunate.

Her mother sighed softly, watching them. “A fine young man, don’t you think, Charlotte?”

“Perhaps,” Charlotte murmured, though her gaze drifted past the dancing couples.

Once, she thought she belonged to that world. Once…but not any longer. 

Eleanor was already on the dance floor, her lavender gown catching the candlelight as she twirled in her partner’s capable arms. The sight brought a fleeting smile to Charlotte’s lips, though it was tinged with something heavier. She couldn’t tell if it was longing, perhaps, or regret.

But the moment shattered when she felt her mother stiffen beside her.

Charlotte turned just as their hosts, Lord Edward and Lady Beatrice Fairfax, approached, accompanied by a man she did not recognize. Her aunt Beatrice’s presence was warm and reassuring as always, and it should have eased Charlotte’s nerves. Instead, a strange tension crackled in the air.

“Ah, there you are, ladies,” Beatrice greeted, her smile steady but her eyes sharp as they flicked briefly toward Charlotte’s mother. “May I present Richard Pemberton, the Earl of Livingston? He has expressed great interest in making your acquaintance.”

Charlotte’s gaze flickered to the man who stood beside her aunt and uncle. He was tall and impeccably dressed, his dark hair neatly styled and his features sharp enough to cut. Yet there was something about the cold gleam in his eyes that set Charlotte’s nerves on edge.

Calm down, she reminded herself. Not everyone is a liar and a cheater. 

But that was a conviction she would not easily shake. 

Her mother dipped her head in greeting, but Charlotte noticed a slight tremor in her fingers as they curled the fabric of her skirt. It was such an uncharacteristic gesture that it left Charlotte momentarily disoriented. 

Lord Livingston’s gaze swept over their family with cool calculation before finally resting on Charlotte. The weight of it was unnerving, but she forced herself to meet his eyes without flinching.

“Lady Charlotte,” he said smoothly, bowing. “Might I have the honor of the next dance?”

Charlotte hesitated, but Aunt Beatrice’s expectant look and her mother’s tight-lipped smile left little room for refusal. She inclined her head. “Of course, my lord.”

His lips curved faintly as he extended his arm. “Shall we?”

Charlotte took his arm, the pressure of his hand guiding her onto the dance floor firm but not unkind. Still, her heart beat a little too quickly as they found their places, and the music began.

She caught a glimpse of Eleanor and her partner nearby—laughing softly as they moved effortlessly through the steps of the waltz. Their movements were fluid, their smiles open. It was impossible not to notice the ease between them, the spark of something fresh and unspoken already growing.

Charlotte swallowed against the ache that bloomed in her chest.

Lord Livingston drew her attention back with a measured step and a practiced turn. He was, without question, an accomplished dancer. His movements were confident and precise, his hand resting just firmly enough at her waist.

“You dance well, Lady Charlotte,” he said, his voice smooth but edged with something unreadable.

Charlotte forced herself to smile, though unease stirred beneath the surface. “You are kind, my lord.”

“You mistake courtesy for sincerity,” he murmured. “I find you quite…intriguing.”

There was no mistaking the deliberate way his eyes lingered on hers, or the way his tone brushed against impropriety. Yet his words were just measured enough to leave her uncertain whether to feel flattered or trapped.

She stepped through the next turn, her thoughts whirling. Eleanor and Thomas moved in tandem nearby, their connection effortless and bright. But Charlotte’s dance felt like a different sort of game altogether; one played not with warmth but with intent.

He turned her gracefully, his hand steady at her waist, yet the pressure of his touch felt heavier than it should have. It wasn’t improper. There was nothing about it that might spark gossip, and yet, there was an intimacy to it that made her pulse quicken for all the wrong reasons.

“Your family must be proud of you,” he continued, his tone light but probing. “Two such lovely daughters must surely be the envy of many.”

Charlotte’s smile faltered at the mention of her family. She thought of her mother’s earlier tension, the way Margaret’s fingers had clenched in her skirts at his approach, almost as if she knew him or knew of him. The memory sent a prickle of unease down her spine.

“We are fortunate to have my aunt’s generosity,” Charlotte replied carefully, choosing her words as delicately as the steps of the dance.

His eyes flickered with something sharp before the expression vanished, replaced by a more practiced charm. “Yes, Lady Fairfax is a gracious hostess. But I suspect it is not fortune that brings you admiration, Lady Charlotte. It is entirely your own merit.”

His flattery felt like silk covering a blade. Charlotte inclined her head politely, but she could not shake the tension winding through her limbs.

As they turned again, her gaze caught Eleanor and Thomas in the crowd. They moved effortlessly, their steps in perfect harmony as Eleanor’s laughter rang out softly above the music. Charlotte’s chest tightened at the sight, at the way Eleanor’s expression shone with quiet delight. She could see herself in her sister’s smile. 

Stop it, she snarled at herself silently. 

“I hope this will not be our only dance,” Lord Livingston said, drawing her attention back to him as the music slowed. 

Charlotte’s smile felt brittle. “You are very kind, my lord.”

The final notes of the waltz faded, and he released her hand slowly, as though reluctant to let go.

“I look forward to seeing more of you, Lady Charlotte.” His words carried a weight she could not quite name, but it sent a chill through her, nonetheless.

Charlotte curtsied, murmuring the expected pleasantries, but as she stepped back, she felt her breath ease just slightly.

And yet, as Lord Livingston bowed and turned away, she knew the momentary reprieve would not last.

 

Chapter Two

The flicker of candlelight danced along the polished silver and porcelain as Julian Ashbourne, the Duke of Blackmoor, endured yet another carefully orchestrated dinner. The dining room, with its high ceilings and gilded moldings, felt suffocating despite its grandeur, or perhaps, exactly because of it. 

Across the table, Lavinia Rutherford tilted her head just so, her delicate profile catching the light as she demurred over another compliment.

“It was nothing, truly,” Lavinia said, her voice a practiced melody of modesty. “I only followed Mama’s lead.”

“Nonsense,” said Lady Victoria Rutherford, beaming at her daughter. “You ensured the evening went off without a single flaw. Guests are still speaking of it.”

Julian’s mother, the Dowager Duchess of Blackmoor, leaned forward, her diamond earrings catching the light. “And rightly so. It is a rare gift to manage such affairs with both efficiency and elegance.”

Julian took a sip of wine, letting the rich flavor dull the edge of his irritation. He had long grown accustomed to these evenings, where his mother subtly steered conversations toward topics that highlighted Lady Lavinia’s virtues. Tonight was no different.

He watched as Lavinia lowered her gaze just long enough to convey humility, only to lift it again with practiced poise. Her smile, so very soft, restrained, was the same one she had wielded for years, and it was every bit as deliberate now as it had been when they were younger.

Julian’s eyes narrowed slightly. He had once admired her composure, perhaps even mistaking it for sincerity. But time had stripped away any illusions. Now, all he saw was calculation, as it was the case with many a young lady sentenced to a life among the ton. 

“And such talent for music,” his mother continued, her voice pulling him from the tangle of his own thoughts. “You truly have a gift, Lavinia. Julian, don’t you agree?”

He set his glass down, the faintest clink drawing Lady Lavinia’s attention. She met his gaze across the table, her expression perfectly pleasant, as though she had already anticipated his answer.

“I’m certain Lady Lavinia’s efforts were commendable,” Julian said, his tone even.

Lady Lavinia’s smile didn’t falter, but her eyes flashed with something sharper. She dipped her head. “You’re too kind, Your Grace.”

His mother beamed, clearly satisfied, while Lady Victoria Rutherford, the Countess of Mersham, reached out to squeeze her daughter’s hand. Her husband, Lord Henry Rutherford, the Earl of Mersham, silent for most of the meal, finally stirred.

“You’ll have to host a gathering of your own soon, Your Grace,” the man said, his voice gruff but good-natured. “It’s been too long since we’ve been treated to an evening at Blackmoor Hall.”

Julian inclined his head, though inwardly he bristled. These evenings were never about company or conversation. They were not even cleverly veiled performances, and he had no patience left for the spectacle.

Still, his mother’s expectant glance warned him against voicing such thoughts aloud.

“Perhaps,” Julian replied. “But I suspect I’d need Lady Lavinia’s expertise to ensure its success.”

The table erupted in polite laughter, but Julian felt Lady Lavinia’s gaze linger just a moment longer than it should have. Later, as the conversation turned to other topics, such as fashion, art, and the latest gossip from court, Julian let his thoughts drift. He had danced this waltz with Lady Lavinia before.

But it was her mother’s insistence on her playing the pianoforte that pulled him back to the present moment once more. 

About fifteen minutes later, Julian found himself standing near the hearth, his glass of brandy untouched as the first notes of music filled the room. Lavinia’s fingers skimmed the keys of the pianoforte with practiced ease, coaxing a melody that was both intricate and haunting.

The piece was familiar…too familiar.

He recognized it at once. It was his favorite, something he had idly mentioned during a long-forgotten conversation. The realization prickled beneath his skin, though he kept his expression composed.

Across the room, his mother sat poised, her hands folded in her lap and her face glowing with approval. 

“Such dedication, my dear Lavinia,” she murmured. “I cannot think of a greater joy than having you here every day to play for us.” 

Julian’s jaw tightened, though he took care to mask it behind a sip of brandy. His mother’s words were deliberate, each syllable calculated to reinforce the vision she had so meticulously constructed, a future in which Lavinia Rutherford occupied the duchess’s place at his side.

Lavinia glanced up briefly from the keys, her lashes fluttering just enough to appear demure, but her gaze lingered on Julian before returning to the music.

He studied her, taking in the graceful curve of her neck, the soft sweep of hair that framed her face. She was beautiful, and she knew it. Every movement, every note she played, was meant to captivate.

And yet, Julian felt nothing.

The music swelled, but it could not drown out the memory of another evening, of another set of eyes catching his across a crowded room. But it all ended somehow, too…abruptly. 

He exhaled slowly, forcing his thoughts back to the present. He barely even heard the fading chords of Lady Lavinia’s performance as his mother leaned in, her voice a soft murmur meant only for him.

“She possesses every quality required in a duchess,” she said, her gaze fixed admiringly on Lady Lavinia, who focused on the pianoforte, accepting quiet praise from the others. “Grace, poise, and a devotion to refinement. A woman who could command respect while managing the estate with elegance.”

Julian’s jaw tightened, though he masked it well.

“Indeed,” he replied, his voice even.

But his thoughts betrayed him.

He saw not the gilded room or Lavinia’s carefully practiced smiles but instead the sunlit conservatory at his country estate. Charlotte’s laughter echoed faintly in his mind, unrestrained and bright as she traced the delicate veins of a rare orchid with her fingertip.

“You see?” she’d said, her eyes alight with wonder. “They’re like maps. Tiny, perfect maps.”

He’d told her then that she could spend hours lost in her books on botany, and she’d grinned, teasing him about his own fondness for astronomy. They had spoken of constellations and flowers and futures…futures that had once seemed so certain.

Until the day it all unraveled.

His mother’s voice drew him back to the present, though her words blurred against the sharp memory of the letter Charlotte’s mother had sent. It had arrived without warning, brief and impersonal. 

Charlotte is unwell and has retired to the countryside. She will not be returning to London for the Season.

No explanation. No farewell.

He’d gone to her London abode, only to find it shuttered, their staff giving him polite but meaningless responses. And then silence.

The music around him shifted as Lavinia began another piece, lighter and more playful this time, yet Julian felt the weight in his chest deepen.

He had searched for answers, but none came. Only rumors of Charlotte’s sudden withdrawal, whispers of illness, and a silent insistence that he move on.

And so, he had tried. For what else could he do? 

He looked at Lavinia now. She was beautiful, talented, every inch the woman society expected him to marry, and yet, he felt nothing but a dull ache.

“You mustn’t let this opportunity slip away,” his mother continued to goad him softly, mistaking his silence for contemplation. “Lavinia’s qualities would complement yours perfectly.”

“She is certainly accomplished,” he said.

His mother beamed, but Julian’s gaze drifted once more—to the window, where moonlight cast long shadows against the drapes.

Charlotte had once called those shadows romantic, imagining them as silhouettes of dancers frozen in time.

Now, as Lady Lavinia’s music filled the room, all Julian could think of was how hollow it sounded.

***

The scent of freshly brewed tea mingled with the faint sweetness of marmalade as sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the breakfast room. Charlotte sat at the table, the scandal sheet trembling slightly in her hands as she read the glowing account of Eleanor’s debut.

Lady Eleanor Winfield, whose beauty and charm were the highlight of Lady Fairfax’s splendid ball, is already the subject of much admiration. It is rumored that a certain eligible gentleman was particularly captivated by her grace. 

Charlotte glanced up, watching Eleanor, who sat across from her, buttering a slice of toast with practiced ease. Her sister’s cheeks still held the faintest flush of excitement from the night before, and Charlotte found herself smiling despite the hollow ache lingering in her chest.

She didn’t want her own past experiences to steal this moment from Eleanor. This was her sister’s time to shine, and Charlotte silently vowed to ensure that nothing, not even her own bruised heart, would stand in the way of that. 

“You’ve made quite an impression,” Charlotte said lightly, setting the paper down. “It seems the whole of London is eager to sing your praises.”

Eleanor’s eyes sparkled as she looked up. “Do you truly think so?” 

Their mother chimed in. “The Fairfaxes thought Mr. Beaumont showed particular interest.”

“I think they’re right,” Charlotte replied, reaching for her teacup. “And I think you more than deserve it.”

For the first time in what felt like months, Charlotte found genuine satisfaction in focusing on her sister’s happiness. Eleanor’s triumph offered a welcome distraction from her own past disappointments, and for that, Charlotte was grateful.

That was when a soft knock interrupted their chatter. A moment later, the door opened and the butler entered, carrying a silver tray. Upon it rested an envelope sealed with an elegant crest. 

“A letter for you, Lady Windale,” the butler announced, presenting it with a bow. 

“Thank you, Weatherby,” their mother accepted the letter with her usual poise, though her eyes gleamed with curiosity as she broke the seal. Charlotte watched as her expression softened into a smile. 

“We have been invited to dine with the Beaumonts in two days’ time,” she announced, glancing up at the table.

Eleanor looked up, her eyes wide with disbelief. “The Beaumonts?” 

“Yes,” their mother confirmed, her tone carrying just the right measure of importance. “It would seem that the Beaumonts are hosting a small dinner party, and they have taken particular interest in making our acquaintance.”

Eleanor brightened instantly, her smile widening. “How wonderful!”

“It truly is a splendid opportunity,” their mother affirmed. “You, my dear, will shine. And this will ensure that Charlotte comes out of her shell a bit as well.”

Charlotte swallowed against the tightness in her throat.

There it was again—the expectation.

But this time, Charlotte found solace in Eleanor’s excitement, allowing herself to be swept up in it. Perhaps, for her sister’s sake, she could ignore the whispers of doubt and focus on the present.

“Yes,” Charlotte said, offering a smile she hoped appeared genuine. “It will be a lovely evening.”

And if she felt the weight of unspoken memories pressing down on her, she hid them as neatly as she folded the scandal sheet and set it aside.