An Unruly Heiress for the Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

Westbridge Estate

Hampshire, England—1818

The world slowed as the handkerchief floated to the floor. 

Julian watched it fall, landing just on the road. 

It was still early, the cool morning mist clinging to the rolling hills of Hampshire. He could see the Westbridge estate in the distance, an image as blurred as his thoughts. He had no idea why they had been called to this strange place, a place he had barely even heard of until a few weeks previous. 

There were distant, vague memories from when he was a child, stories his father had told him of some long-lost relatives. But nothing tangible. Nothing he could grasp onto. He certainly hadn’t expected to be approaching it at the age of six-and-twenty, his heart filled with trepidation. 

The countryside was quiet, save for the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the gentle rumble of carriage wheels. It felt as if the estate had found a quiet corner and hidden itself from the world. The bright embroidery of the handkerchief stood out against the gray weather. It was that which drew his attention first. Then the falling. 

Julian Durant was a tall, broad-shouldered man with black hair that curled at the base of his neck, as if providing a bed for his top hat. His eyes were the blue of sapphires with a steely gaze that he fixed upon the world with a cool determination. 

He guided his horse with the ease of someone who had spent years in the saddle, but today, there was a tension in his posture, a weight that seemed to press on his chest. He was, by nature, a hardworking man, the son of a wealthy merchant determined to prove to his father that he, too, could be a great success. Little did he know that his visit to the Westbridge estate would change his life forever. 

Beside him, his younger brother, Matthew, and his mother, Polly Durant, sat in the carriage, a more comfortable though less exhilarating method of travel. They, too, had no idea why they had been summoned, though each of them had their suspicions. 

Julian glanced through the window to see his mother clutching one of her gloves, now removed so that her fingers could twist it absently. Her softly lined face was etched with concern, her eyes darting between the countryside outside and her own hands. She was a good mother, Julian thought. Kind and loving. She only ever wanted the best for her two sons. 

Matthew was equally light-hearted and always full of cheer. He sat quietly opposite his mother, his brow furrowed, mirroring the unease that Julian felt. He was quick-witted and clever, but he lacked Julian’s stubbornness, and that left him somewhat less successful in the business world. He was a good man, though, and always loyal to his brother.

It had been less than a fortnight since they’d received the letter from one Mr. Howard, family solicitor, summoning them all to the grand and gothic-looking estate they now approached. It had belonged, so the letter said, to a distant cousin, one Julian had barely known, and the unexpected summons had thrown their lives into uncertainty. 

It was as they passed a narrow bend in the road that Julian’s attention was caught by a carriage moving slowly in the opposite direction. It was then that he saw the handkerchief for the first time. The windows of the carriage were curtained, but a gloved hand dangled out, as if for air, the bright handkerchief hanging perilously from delicate fingers. 

As the carriage turned, it jolted, and the hand holding the handkerchief opened with an accompanying cry from inside. The fabric floated to the road like a feather, slow and ponderous, reluctant to leave its owner but resigned to its new place next to the muddy puddle. 

Without thinking, Julian urged his horse forward, bending down to scoop up the fabric. The embroidery that had first caught his eye was even more impressive up close. It was intricate and elegant, and he was struck by the care that must have gone into its creation.

Riding up to the slow-moving carriage, Julian positioned himself alongside its window, hoping to catch the attention of its passenger. The curtains shifted, and for a moment, he was met with a pair of bright, curious eyes. 

Her skin was pale, her eyes an astonishing green, and her pink mouth open in a delicate “o” of surprise. Julian was taken aback by her beauty in a way he never had been before. He’d seen beautiful women, certainly, but this…her…something about the vision of her struck him dumb. 

She glanced at the handkerchief in his hand, then back at him, and when she smiled, it was as if the world lit up around her. 

“Thank you, sir,” she said, her voice light and warm.

Julian hesitated for just a fraction of a second, struck by the way her eyes met his, unwavering and calm. A quiet confidence that was so rare. 

“It’s my pleasure,” he replied, tipping his head in a polite gesture. He held the handkerchief out and she took it from him, her gloved fingers brushing against his in a delicate manner. 

For a brief, fleeting moment, it felt as though time had stopped, a new and unusual feeling coursing through Julian, a temporary calming of the storm that had been raging within him. But then the carriage lurched forward, and she was gone, her face vanishing behind the curtain.

Julian slowed his horse, watching the carriage disappear around the bend, and then turned to catch up with his own party. As he rode, his mind drifted back to those eyes—clear, bright, and unguarded. 

Who was she? 

Shaking his head of the spell he was under, he drove his horse faster to catch up with his mother and brother. There was no time for idle musings. They had to get to the estate and discover what on earth this summons was about. 

Julian could see the outline of Westbridge Court rising in the distance. It looked as though it had once been a grand affair, but now, it was nothing but a weary figure, tired and old and in need of care. The manor was imposing, its dark and weathered stone walls stretching toward the sky in tall, pointed turrets, intricate carvings everywhere he looked. Yet it was clear enough that it had not been cared for in years. Ivy crept up its facade, and the windows—those that were not cracked and broken—were dark and unpolished.

The whole place had a foreboding feel to it, and Julian wasn’t sure he even wanted to hear what Mr. Howard had to say. Could it be true? Had his cousin really died without leaving an heir? Was there really no one else? If this was to be his inheritance, it was a legacy he had not sought. 

They drew up to the front entrance, where Mr. Howard, a tall, thin man with graying hair and a sharp nose, waited to greet them. He bowed politely as they dismounted and stepped down from the carriage. 

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “We have a lot to discuss, Your Grace.”

“Your Grace?” Julian asked, surprised to hear the title. 

Mr. Howard merely cocked his head. “That is one of the things we need to discuss.”

Julian gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable. “Shall we go inside?” he asked. Already, his natural leadership came to the fore. 

Mr. Howard led them into the grand foyer, where the air was thick with dust, and the silence seemed to echo off the marble floors. As they followed him through the long, dimly lit halls, the anxiety in Julian’s chest tightened into a thick knot. 

This is not what I want, he thought again. 

In the drawing room, they found seats that had been hastily dusted down by Mr. Howard’s assistant. The solicitor took his place behind a large, ornate desk. He hesitated for a moment, shuffling a stack of documents, before looking up to meet Julian’s apprehensive gaze. 

“I shall be direct,” Mr. Howard began. “The previous duke, your cousin, one—” he looked down at his paper “—Trevor Durant, has passed, and as the closest male heir, the title and the estate have now been passed to you.”

Julian’s heart skipped a beat. He had suspected as much, but to hear it spoken aloud was still jarring. He clenched his jaw. Swallowed. He could feel the intense stares of his mother and brother, their eyes burning him, but he didn’t look at either of them. He maintained eye contact with Mr. Howard, needing to know everything so that he could work out how to deal with it. 

“Title?” A silly question, he already knew the answer. 

“The Duke of Westbridge, Your Grace. Your next title.”

“And what if I don’t want it?” he asked, though he already knew he would never refuse it. He was a man dedicated to his responsibilities, even those that fell into his lap without his wanting them to.

“It is yours, Your Grace,” Mr. Howard replied plainly. “It is a duty and a privilege to hold such an honorable title.”

“Of course,” he said, his voice steady, though his mind was reeling. 

The Duke of Westbridge! 

In all his wildest dreams and ambitions, becoming a duke never factored in. He didn’t even like the nobility, preferring instead the world of business and industry. 

“And what is the state of the estate?” he asked. 

Mr. Howard’s expression grew grim, and he looked about him as if the answer were obvious. “I will not sugarcoat it, Your Grace. Westbridge is in considerable debt. The estate has been neglected for years, and it will take significant resources to restore it. You can see plainly enough that the house itself is in some state of disrepair.”

Significant resources. 

Julian had wealth enough, but to restore an estate? It felt a task beyond even his capabilities. For a moment, the room was silent. Julian felt the weight of those words settle over him. This was so much more than he had ever prepared for. He was a merchant, not a duke. A businessman, not a nobleman. 

He glanced at his mother. She smiled softly, a sympathetic glint in her eye, and offered him a look of quiet support. Next, he looked at Matthew. His brother seemed to share his consternation, though there was a glimmer of relief in his eyes—relief, for the first time, that he wasn’t the eldest son after so many years of wishing he was. 

Julian took a slow breath, forcing himself to remain composed. He nodded, allowing it all to settle in his mind. 

“Thank you, Mr. Howard. I appreciate your honesty,” he said. “I will do whatever is necessary to restore Westbridge to its former glory.”

Chapter Two

Emma dipped the tip of her brush into a vivid shade of blue, then spread long, languid strokes across the canvas. But today, it didn’t come as easily to her as it did on other days. She was distracted. Indeed, she had been ever since they traveled home yesterday. 

With a sigh, she looked up, admiring the landscape that was her usual source of inspiration: Kay Manor, her home for her entire twenty years, and she hoped for many years to come. Emma, daughter of Baron Reginald Kay, was a talented and independent young lady with a fierce passion for art. Painting was her solace and her joy, and it was rare that she struggled to let it flow. 

Focus, she told herself as she looked around the beauty of nature again.

The garden was a sanctuary of color and fragrance, with blooming roses cascading over trellises and the gentle hum of bees flitting between lavender bushes. Emma sat in a secluded corner, nestled under the shade of a sprawling oak tree—her favorite place to paint in the entire estate. 

Her eyes fell on the handkerchief again, her mind wandering to the tall stranger upon the horse, the shock she had felt at the brush of his fingers. He wouldn’t leave her mind, though she had no idea why. He was handsome, certainly, but there were many handsome men in the world, and none of those had left her so distracted. 

“You’ve barely touched that canvas, Emma,” Isabelle teased, breaking the silence. “And that is not like you. I’d say your mind is elsewhere.”

Emma blushed. Her friend knew her so very well. Lady Isabella Woodward had been her friend and confidante since they were children, their fathers associates in business and life. Emma liked her so much because she was wise and intelligent, but with it, she had a kind heart. So different to many of the ladies of the ton. She arranged herself on the cushioned bench next to Emma, a book open on her lap though it garnered no attention. 

Emma dipped her brush into a pale green, her palette a riot of colors, and she carefully dabbed it onto the leaves of her painted garden. “I’m just distracted, I suppose,” she replied, her tone casual but her gaze lingering on the handkerchief.

“By a certain handsome stranger, perhaps?” Isabelle’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You’ve looked at that handkerchief at least a dozen times since we sat down and the only reason I can think of is that it was returned to you yesterday on the road.”

Emma’s cheeks warmed, and she tried to hide a small smile. “Don’t be ridiculous, Isabelle. He was simply returning something I dropped. It was a polite gesture, nothing more. And a fleeting moment in our journey. I’m surprised you even remember it.”

“Oh, I’m sure it was merely a polite gesture,” Isabelle said, her voice teasing. “But how could I forget it? You don’t often speak of handsome strangers, and yet you have mentioned him more than once today. I take it he made an impression?”

Emma sighed, setting down her brush and picking up the handkerchief. She ran her fingers over the delicate embroidery, remembering the brief but intense way the stranger’s eyes had met hers. 

“I have never seen him before, and yet I felt as if I had. Does that sound odd?”

“A little,” Isabelle said with a tilt of her head. “But you are creative by nature, dear Emma.”

“It was strange,” Emma continued. “He was…well, he was quite handsome, if you must know.”

Isabelle’s smile widened. “Now we’re getting somewhere. You did mention he was handsome. Handsome and mysterious, isn’t he?” She sat back and tapped her lip, looking out over the grounds. “I wonder who he could be. Certainly not a member of the ton, or we’d have encountered him before.”

“Not everyone in the ton attends balls, Isabelle.” 

“True enough, but those who don’t are not worth knowing.”

Emma chuckled, folding the handkerchief and setting it aside. “Perhaps not. I doubt it matters, anyhow. As you well know, I am not in the habit of dwelling on men, especially not ones I have only met for a moment and am, quite frankly, unlikely to meet again.”

She picked up her brush, eyeing the palette as she considered what color would best suit the rose bush. 

“True, but it’s good to see you even consider the possibility,” Isabelle remarked. “Lately, it seems you’ve given up on the idea of love entirely. You spend all your time here, painting or reading, and I can’t help but worry.”

Emma’s expression stiffened, and she resumed painting, her strokes a little harsher now. “Not all of us are eager to throw ourselves into the arms of a man, Isabelle. Some of us have other priorities. Honestly, sometimes I think that’s all you care about.”

Isabelle’s voice softened, losing its teasing edge. “Emma, you know that’s not what I meant. I have plenty of hobbies, thank you very much. I just think it’s a shame that you’ve closed your heart. Not all men are like Robert.”

Emma’s hand froze, and she turned sharply to face Isabelle, her eyes flashing. “Do not mention his name. Ever.” Any mention of Robert set a flame of fury alight in her chest. 

Isabelle held her gaze, unflinching. “It’s been nearly two years. You’ve built a wall around yourself ever since, and I understand why. But you can’t live your whole life in fear of being hurt again.”

“I am not afraid, Isabelle!” Emma snapped. “I am sensible. I know what it feels like to be betrayed, to be made a fool of. I will not let that happen again.”

Isabelle sighed, setting her book aside and leaning forward. “No, you are afraid. And you’re letting that fear keep you from something wonderful. You once told me that love was worth any risk—do you remember that?”

“That was before Robert,” Emma said, her voice quieter now, but still defiant. “Before I realized how easily words can be twisted, how quickly promises can be broken. I am done with love, Isabelle. I am done being vulnerable.”

“You’re not done,” Isabelle insisted. “You’re just protecting yourself. But, Emma, do you really want to be alone forever? Without love, without companionship?”

Emma’s jaw tightened, and she focused on her painting, refusing to meet Isabelle’s eyes. “I am not alone. I have my art, my friends, and my father.”

“And your father ages by the day,” Isabelle said, her exasperation sounding.

Emma inhaled deeply, clutching the paintbrush as though it might steady her. “True enough, but I am an heiress, Isabelle. I do not need a man’s support. Marriage, as a pragmatic notion, is not something I need to consider. I am quite capable of standing on my own.”

Isabelle’s expression softened with sympathy. “I didn’t say you needed support, Emma. I said love. Though they often go hand in hand, pragmatism and companionship are different things. Not everything in life is about money.”

Emma didn’t respond. She continued to paint, but her brush strokes were uneven, her frustration evident in the way the colors bled into one another. Isabelle watched her for a moment, then rose from the bench and moved to stand beside her, gently placing a hand on her arm.

“I know Robert hurt you,” Isabelle said softly. “And I know it’s difficult to even think about trusting someone again. But you are not the same person you were then. You are stronger, wiser. You deserve to be happy, Emma. And I believe that you can find someone who will make you feel safe, cherished, and understood.”

Emma’s shoulders tensed, and she set her brush down again, her hands trembling slightly. “I do not want to be a fool again,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I cannot bear it.”

Isabelle gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “You are no fool. But don’t let one man’s betrayal dictate the rest of your life, please. I miss the way we used to talk of love and romance, our daydreams of raising our children together as if we were one big family.”

Emma felt a pinch in her chest. That was, indeed, something she had craved and longed for. Such happy memories of a life that had never come about. Nor would it, now, if Emma had any say about it. Isabelle still lived in a world of dreams, while Emma had experienced the cold harshness of the real world. 

“I don’t want to need anyone,” Emma said finally, her voice tight with emotion. “I want to be enough on my own.”

“You are enough, Emma,” Isabelle said, her tone firm but kind. “You have always been enough. But needing someone, wanting someone to share your life with, doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”

Emma didn’t answer. She picked up the handkerchief again, her thumb running over the delicate stitching. She thought of the stranger on the road, the way he had looked at her, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to wonder. But then she pushed the thought away, tucking the handkerchief into the pocket of her gown, the incident all but forgotten. 

She would not allow a handsome face and a kind gesture to disrupt her ideals. 

“Perhaps,” she said finally. “But I have my art, and that is more than enough for me.”