Accidentally Married to an Icy Duke (Preview)

Chapter One

The Hartwell estate, once noble and proud, had somewhat fallen into disrepair. Not through a lack of trying, but through, to Amelia Hartwell at least, sheer mismanagement. Her father was, although kind and polite, somewhat lacking in foresight. His father, once a war hero, had used his fame to gather a suitable amount of funds for the family. Amelia’s father had thought that money would be enough to live off of and pass down to his children. He was incorrect. His frivolous spending over the years had once attracted Amelia’s mother, Mrs. Elizabeth Hartwell, to his side, as she believed he was affluent. Now she was constantly sending her eldest daughters to balls to find suitors so they would not all be destitute. 

Currently, Amelia was trying desperately not to meet her mother, sitting in the parlor with her book. She knew there was a ball tonight and that her mother had received the invitations, but Amelia did not want to go. She did not wish to exhaust and embarrass herself all night, only to leave with a disappointed mother.

“Amelia!” Peggy giggled as she ran into the parlor.

Amelia looked up from her book. 

“Peggy. What is all the fuss? Why have you run in here so brashly?”

“I simply must tell you something!”

The child scrambled up onto Amelia’s lap before she could protest. At ten years old, Peggy was all elbows and energy. Amelia settled the book aside and lifted her properly into her arms.

“Whatever has made you so excited?”

Peggy shuffled closer, rising to her knees so she could whisper directly into Amelia’s ear. 

“Mr. Jupp said I’m good enough to get taught by a master one day!”

Amelia’s smile softened. Dear Mr. Jupp. So encouraging. So utterly oblivious to what their family could afford. 

“Did he now?”

Peggy nodded, her whole body bouncing with enthusiasm. 

“He said if I practiced hard enough, I could do it before my next birthday …”

“But right now your hands are still small.” Amelia caught one of those small hands in her own, spreading the little fingers. “If you wait to see whether you develop long, elegant piano-playing fingers, then you can play all sorts of exciting pieces they cannot teach you yet.”

Peggy’s face fell, but she nodded. Amelia’s heart clenched. She knew she indulged her siblings far too much, but how could she not when they had her heart in their hands? She pulled Peggy into a tight embrace.

“No matter what, you’ll always be the best pianist to me,” Amelia whispered. That earned a smile from the little girl.

“Can I play for your birthday?” Peggy asked.

“We shall see,” Amelia said, chuckling.

“Oh!” Peggy said, seemingly remembering something. “Daniel and Elijah will finish their lessons soon, won’t they?”

“They will.” Amelia nodded. “Should we see if they want to listen to your piano playing?”

Peggy beamed. She scrambled off Amelia’s dress, already racing toward the door. Amelia followed, guiding her through the house toward the schoolroom where the boys studied with their governess.

Amelia glanced around at the house. While once it had clearly been a grand and stately home, it was now … lacking.

The walls were starting to peel at the edges, the paper sun-bleached and faded. Darker squares marked where paintings had once hung. They’d been sold, presumably. No one spoke of it. The floors were not much better. The carpets had worn through in places, the floorboards scratched and dull. Her mother complained of it often. They’d never had the money to replace any of them. It was a wonder, truly, that they retained their standing at all. If it weren’t for her grandfather, perhaps they wouldn’t.

Amelia and Peggy arrived outside the schoolroom. She heard them both struggling through their Latin. She couldn’t help smiling. Elijah, as ever, was pushing through, even when he stumbled, not wanting to end a sentence he had started, even if it was incorrect. Daniel, however, kept restarting the sentence until he got it right. She glanced down at Peggy, who was starting to fidget. She couldn’t help wondering how Peggy would grow up.

Finally, the lesson ended, and Daniel and Elijah emerged.

Daniel beamed as he saw Peggy and Amelia and quickly wrapped Amelia’s waist in a hug, his twelve-year-old frame unable to reach much higher. Elijah, the elder of the two by three years, shook his head and chuckled.

“You are both progressing admirably with your pronunciation,” Amelia said, patting Daniel’s hair.

“I believe you are being much too kind again,” Elijah said.

“We aren’t perfect yet …” Daniel said, pouting.

“You do not need perfection, unless you are planning to enter the clergy.” Amelia chuckled.

“I have not decided against that fully yet,” Elijah said with a shrug as they all started to walk toward the drawing room.

“Amelia!” a voice called out. Amelia grimaced and turned to look at their mother. Mrs. Hartwell was now an older lady, her hair graying in streaks and a dignified posture that didn’t align with the state of the house.

“About tonight’s ball…” she said softly.

“Mother.” Amelia’s voice emerged tight, controlled. “I have already said I do not wish to go.”

Peggy and Daniel went still beside her. They’d witnessed too many of these battles of late.

Amelia met her mother’s gaze, then looked pointedly toward the drawing room. The children needed no further instruction. Daniel took Peggy’s hand, and they slipped away, their footsteps quick and quiet on the threadbare carpet.

Only when the door clicked shut did Amelia turn back. 

“I have made my position very clear.”

“You don’t know who you might meet.” Mrs. Hartwell’s hands twisted together. “You cannot know–”

“I am well aware of this, mother, but I am tired. Not just physically, but of your constant nagging about betrothment,” Amelia said with a sigh.

“I do not wish to nag,” Mrs. Hartwell said, almost pleadingly. “But it is important for a woman of your age to find a husband.”

“I understand that,” Amelia replied. “But I am not likely to find a match when I am frustrated and irritable.”

“You are less likely to find a match if you become a hermit!” Mrs. Hartwell cried out, sounding like she might burst into tears.

“Mother,” Amelia said, holding up a hand to stop her mother’s outburst. “I am a woman grown. I can make my own decisions. We shall not be discussing this further.”

“Amelia, please–” Mrs. Hartwell called out as Amelia strode toward her chambers. She didn’t look back, not intending to continue the discussion further. Mrs. Hartwell sped after her, reaching out to grab Amelia’s arm.

“Please, I know you want a love match, but the house–”

“Mother, this cannot continue,” Amelia said, spinning to face her aging mother. “It is not that I do not care about this family, but you cannot think that I will simply marry a man because he is rich!”

“You should listen to our mother.”

Amelia whirled. Emma stood in her doorway, arms folded across her chest. The eldest Hartwell daughter. The one who’d sacrificed everything for a love match that never came. Emma had a streak of gray in her hair she was much too young for, and fatigue in her expression that spoke of the years of effort she had put into finding a suitable match. Years wasted.

“Emma, do not–” Amelia started.

“I wanted to marry for love, and now look at us! We’re all bickering in the hallway, I have no match at all, and the house is on the brink of foreclosure!” Emma shouted, exasperated. 

Amelia froze. The hallway seemed to tilt. 

Foreclosure. 

The word settled over her like ice water.

“The … house …?” Amelia started. Emma nodded. There was no satisfaction in being right, only exhaustion.

“Father did not tell you?” Emma asked.

“Do you think Father tells me anything at all?” Amelia spat back. Emma let out an annoyed sigh and an exasperated nod. They all knew how their father was. Mr. George Hartwell hardly left the library. If he did leave, it was to look at the gardens, look in the fish pond, or visit his friends. His study was dusty. It was hard to say the last time anyone had set foot in there, let alone worked in there.

“He is rather an expert at ignoring his responsibilities,” Amelia said, wiping a hand down her face.

“Or communicating with any of us,” Emma added with a sigh.

“Please do not speak ill of your father,” Mrs. Hartwell offered weakly. Both daughters looked at her with a deeply unimpressed expression, causing her to shrink back. Amelia looked back at Emma. The eldest Hartwell child looked more fatigued than usual. Her fingers had small black ink stains on them from writing letters to gentlemen. Emma was a proud young woman, as anyone as intelligent and proficient in languages should be. Yet, here she was, reduced to practically begging for a marriage. It was not a look that suited Emma. Amelia swallowed hard.

“So … We could lose the house? Be on the streets?” Amelia asked nervously. Emma nodded.

“It would seem so,” Emma sighed. “Father has said he will look into which horses to sell first or if he can find more inexpensive tutors for the others, but …” Emma swallowed hard. “These were steps that should have been taken years ago.”

“I see,” Amelia said, her voice trembling.

She took a steadying breath, but her mind filled with images of Peggy, Daniel, and Elijah on the streets, of Peggy’s hands that should be used for playing piano reaching out to beg for coins, of Daniel and Elijah being forced into tedious, menial jobs with cruel masters.

She didn’t want that, for any of them.

“… I’ll go to the ball tonight,” Amelia whispered. “But I make no promises …”

Her mother pulled her into a tight hug and burst into tears on her shoulder. She gently rubbed her mother’s shoulder. Emma had reached out and held Amelia’s hand, a quiet understanding of the burden the second-oldest child was taking on.

***

The women had set about preparing Amelia for that night. They had put her in the best dress they could find, had pulled her hair into a tight updo that displayed her delicate features, and had prepared her for the arduous night. 

But Amelia Hartwell wasn’t here for love.

Love was not a luxury she or her family could afford.

No. She was here for a match. A wealthy one.

That would be easier said than done, though. As other ladies twirled gracefully around with their partners in smart, fashionable dresses that made them look like Roman statues, Amelia was not. Her family could not afford new dresses. In fact, most of Amelia’s dresses were handed down from her mother or older sister. While other ladies wore light dresses in charming colors, Amelia wore a large dress that required many layers to look flattering. Although “flattering” was maybe not the word. She was unsure how anyone could look flattering in a dress that was once gold but was now brown. What had once been gold silk had faded to a dispiriting brown, and the silhouette – curved, wide-skirted – belonged to another era entirely. She had nearly knocked a gentleman over with the wretched thing. She only found out when others reacted; she hadn’t even been aware of the poor man. When, predictably, she hadn’t been asked to dance, she had settled at the side of the room where the mamas were gossiping.

“Oh, Lady Pemberton does throw such wonderful balls.” An older mama with graying hair sighed, her gaze drifting across the dancers.

“That she does.” Her companion nodded, then lowered her voice. “Though I confess, this ballroom is rather warm.”

“A trade-off, to be sure.”

Amelia shifted on the uncomfortable chair, half-listening. Trade-offs. Everything in life seemed to be a trade-off.

“Trade-off?” the second woman asked.

The first laughed, the sound bright with satisfaction. “I trade some comfort in exchange for watching the most charming ball I’ve ever seen. And I dare say my daughter would agree.”

She indicated a young woman in lilac, currently turning gracefully in the arms of a tall gentleman. His clothing marked him as either a prosperous lord or a modest duke.

The second woman gasped, a delicate sound of approval. 

“They do make a handsome pair. And he will be able to keep her comfortable, I trust?”

“I dare say he could keep the entire family in comfort!”

Both women laughed, the sound of a successful match practically secured.

Amelia’s fan stilled in her hand. That. That was what she needed to find. A gentleman who could keep them all comfortable.

If only she weren’t wearing a dress the color of mud. 

She took a soft breath, fanning herself gently. It was fair to say that women of her mother’s generation were better suited to such trials. The layers, the heat, the endless propriety of it all. The ballroom pressed in on Amelia from every direction. Music. Chatter. The suffocating warmth. She was beginning to feel a touch overwhelmed.

No. That was an understatement. 

A touch overwhelmed would be a delicate lady fanning herself. Amelia was getting the urge to run, screaming from the whole event!

“Are you quite all right, Amelia?” one of the mamas asked.

Amelia forced her lips into something approximating a smile. The woman was being kind, but kindness required a response she wasn’t certain she could muster. “I am. I think I simply need some air. Do excuse me.”

“Of course, of course, the ball shall be here upon your return,” the mama said, waving her hand.

Amelia stepped out of the ballroom and onto a balcony. The night air was cool, a welcome relief. The music was less grating here, and the chatter faded to a background murmur. She took a deep breath, and the night air filled her lungs.

“I should go back inside,” she whispered to herself.

But she didn’t make a move to go. She blinked hard, tears filling her green eyes. She felt dizzy and nauseous, barely standing up.

“Don’t be such a silly girl,” she whispered, her hands clinging to the railing. “You need to go back in there. You need to find a match. For them.”

Now, standing on Lady Pemberton’s balcony, in that ridiculous dress, Amelia felt the weight of it all pressing into her. She looked at the stars.

“Please,” she whispered. “I need to save my family.”

Chapter Two

“I said I’m not interested in balls,” Alexander said, putting his book down to look at his friend, Lord Adam Ravenscroft. The other man was holding the invitation as if it were the key to solving all of Alexander’s ills. Alexander observed his friend with detached curiosity. Lord Ravenscroft’s jaw had tightened in that particular way it did when his patience wore thin. It was a familiar expression. Adam had been attempting to coax Alexander into society for weeks now.

No. Not weeks. Months.

“Well, what if I tell you my good friend Isaac is supplying the wine?” Adam said with a grin. “I know you enjoyed the vintage he provided last time!”

“A good vintage could not make up for the many ways in which this ball would inconvenience me.” Alexander sighed. While he had the title of duke, he seemingly had no inclination to act as one. He was much more interested in being surrounded by his books.

“Incon–” Adam gasped dramatically. “Come now, man, I’ve never known a good Englishman to be so annoyed by the thought of a party!”

“You know few good Englishmen,” Alexander said, looking back down at his book. Adam hesitated and then burst out laughing at his friend’s turn of phrase.

“Oh, dear. You really are something of a recluse.” Adam laughed.

“You know I prefer it that way,” Alexander said, his voice its usual monotone cadence.

“I am aware,” Adam said, slowly becoming more serious. “But you need to think of your obligations, beyond your comfort.”

“Why?” Alexander asked, raising an eyebrow and looking at Adam again. His friend frowned. It was as if the answer should be obvious. Of course, the correct answer, whatever that was, had entirely escaped Alexander.

“Well … It is not as if there are many who can now carry on the Blackwood name,” Adam said, slowly. It was like he was talking to an unintelligent man, not a duke.

“I’m sure one of my cousins could,” Alexander said. Adam’s shoulders dropped in that way they did when he had said something obvious to everyone but his friend.

“Your cousins are … lovely …” Adam said, making a circular gesture with his hand. “But I was thinking more of your offspring.”

“I don’t have any,” Alexander said.

Silence filled the library. Alexander didn’t notice at first, too absorbed in his book. Then Adam threw the invitation to the floor, and the movement caught Alexander’s attention.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, must I spell this out for you?” Adam asked, exasperated. “You should be thinking of betrothal! Heirs! Not resigning yourself to your library. Truly, you are becoming almost as reclusive as your mother.”

Alexander frowned. The dowager rarely left her chambers. It wasn’t without reason. Especially since Catherine …

He sighed. Now wasn’t the time to think about such things. 

For a moment, the only sound between the two men was the crackling of the fire. Alexander opened his mouth and then closed it again. What should he say? Anything he said only seemed to make his friend lose his patience.

“Forgive me,” Adam relented, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I should not have said that, it was cruel–”

“I understand,” Alexander replied. “I … You know I have little interest in the prattle most women bring. I am hardly interested in marriage when–”

“When she wouldn’t be marrying you for love, but for your money,” Adam finished the sentence for him. Adam had, evidently, heard Alexander say these things enough times.

“Then you understand,” Alexander said.

“I understand the principle. I do not understand the desire to be alone for the rest of your life.” Adam sighed and then added, “Most men deeply desire a wife and children. Deeply. And yet, the very idea seems to repulse you.”

“I did not say that–”

“Then what did you imply?”

“I just do not wish to go to a ball.”

“But you desire a wife?”

“In principle.”

“And you understand you are more likely to find a wife at a ball than in your library.”

“Yes.”

“Then it is decided,” Adam announced with a grin. “You shall be coming with me to Lady Pemberton’s ball, and we shall find you a wife,” Adam declared. He quickly turned away and ran to the library door.

“Now, hold on–” Alexander complained, standing up. His book fell from his hands, landing with a thud on the plush carpet.

“I will collect you on the day!” Adam called behind him. Alexander heard the gasps of servants and maids as his friend quickly escaped Ashford Hall.

Alexander slumped down in his seat.

“The man is insufferably skilled at turning my own words against me,” he grumbled, running a hand down his face. Ashamedly, this was not the first time Adam had used Alexander’s own words against him. Not even the second. No. This was rather a hallmark of their friendship.

Was Adam often correct?

More often than not.

But the times his friend was incorrect were the times Alexander most wanted to avoid. Especially with a delicate situation such as a betrothal. It was not that Alexander did not want a wife; he just required it to be on his terms. His very specific terms. No fortune hunters. No women of poor character. No woman who would nag him into an early grave. Was that too much for a duke to ask? Perhaps if he were still a younger man, people wouldn’t think so. But in his thirties?

All Alexander could do now was wait to see what trouble his friend would get him into. He had a feeling that, however this ball went, he would leave displeased.

That feeling only intensified as he stood inside the ballroom. It was much too close in here. How was a room so hot and humid after sundown, in early June?

He swirled his wine around his glass. Condensation dripped down the side and onto his fingers. He wiped the excess moisture away, but it did not stop the unpleasant feeling. 

Watching others on the dance floor did not improve his mood. He had the awareness that he should be dancing with somebody, anybody, but did he want to? No. A few times, a mama had sent her daughter toward him to strike up a conversation. Surely, they had hoped he would dance with them. The daughters had done their best. He couldn’t deny that. However, one-by-one, they all soon retreated from his presence without his name on their dance card. He disliked causing them such discomfort. He had to acknowledge their bravery in attempting to speak with him, and he did not mean to appear so intimidating. It was just how he was. If this whole situation were not so frustrating, then perhaps he could appear more at ease.

He checked his pocket watch. He had been at the ball for, perhaps, an hour. As much as he wanted to take a horse and leave, he was aware that it would not be socially acceptable to do so. Yet.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another mama pointing at him. In the candlelight, he caught the young woman’s eyes gleaming in a way that told him she was doing the arithmetic on how comfortable he could make her family.

Absolutely not. If another fortune hunter were pointed in his direction, he would fail to act accordingly and would surely lose his temper.

Glancing around, he spotted a set of doors that seemed to lead out onto a balcony.

Excellent.

He could be in solitude for a moment, regather his thoughts, and return as a proper gentleman.

Stepping outside, he quickly closed the door behind him. He leaned against the wood. Somehow, it was still radiating warmth from inside. How horrid.

Outside was fresh. Truly, the cold air was a balm to his soul and his frayed nerves. He took some long, indulgent breaths of the evening air, letting it freeze his lungs. Opening his eyes, he looked at the night sky. 

That was when he noticed her.

A young woman, in a gown that had to have been almost ten years out of fashion, with dark brown wavy hair pinned up. Her lower lip was between her teeth, and she seemed deep in thought. Without a chaperone. He looked her up and down. She was younger than him. In outdated fashion. In distress at a ball … He did not doubt that she was another fortune hunter. If he were seen out here with her, the impropriety would bloom into a scandal with which he had no patience to deal.

He slowly reached behind himself for the door handle. With any luck, he would have been able to sneak back inside without her seeing him.

Lady Luck, however, had other ideas.

“Ah, forgive me,” she said gently as she met his gaze. “I needed some air. I can go back inside–”

For a split second, in the dim light and with her soft expression, his mind convinced him that this wasn’t a woman he had not met, but Catherine.

“Why did you apologize?” he asked, not thinking. It was a phrase he used to ask Catherine when she was erroneously apologizing. Of course, this woman did not know that. She frowned.

“Pardon?”

“We have never met, and the first words I’ve heard you say are an apology, seemingly for your own existence,” he said, trying to salvage the situation.

She blinked at him in surprise, not an unusual response to his brusque wording. What was, though, was the woman’s immediate frown.

“I do beg your pardon?” she asked. “I was being polite because you seemed also to be suffering from the effects of the heated ballroom. I never expected a gentleman to be so rude about a lady attempting to be considerate.”

“You’re a lady?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. Her eyes widened, and she put a hand to her chest.

“I am a member of the Hartwell family,” she replied.

“That didn’t answer my question,” he said coldly. “A lady would indicate a woman to be of some status or from a family with resources,” he added, looking down at her dress and then back up at her horrified expression.

“Are you saying I am not supposed to be at this event?” she asked. 

He opened and closed his mouth. Would a woman really speak to him this way, knowing he was a duke?

“I never said that–”

“We both know Lady Pemberton is rather particular about the families and women she invites,” she replied, before putting a hand on the railing. Looking at her again, now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he could see she did not look well.

“Madame, are you–”

“And we both know I would not be here if it were not at her behest, so please, good sir,” she trailed off and then swallowed hard. “Please do not admonish me when I have done nothing to deserve it.”

“I am doing no such thing,” he scoffed slightly. Yet, he didn’t feel anger toward her. Quite the opposite. For the first time tonight, he was not finding his actions fueled by frustration. He couldn’t understand why he was enjoying this situation. Perhaps he had been starved of good conversation for some time.

“Well, you act as if you are,” she replied curtly.

“And you do not hold yourself to the same standards other ladies here seem to,” he said. He watched as her hands balled into the brown skirt of her dress.

“Not all of us are blessed with equal resources, even if we all have some,” she replied.

“Then I do not think you can truly be a lady if you are not–”

She suddenly grabbed the railing, making him hesitate. Had he gone too far? He swallowed hard.

“I think we may have been reacting badly to the heat,” he said, walking toward her. Her forehead was damp with sweat, her pupils dilated, and her eyes slightly red. Had he interrupted her crying?

“Do not come closer,” she said, stepping back from him. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.

“Here, you can–”

For a moment, their eyes met, and as they both fell silent, the air shifted. She really did not know who she was talking to, or she would not look at him so. She was not clamoring for his fortune, not angling for an introduction, not performing the careful dance every other woman at the ball had attempted. She had genuinely been verbally sparring with him because she found him rude, nothing more.

The realization struck him with unexpected force. When was the last time someone had spoken to him so directly? So honestly?

He swallowed hard. He was so used to being defensive that he may have been unthinking. One of the many things he would come to regret about this night.

“I did not mean to startle you,” he said, trying to modulate his voice to be softer. “I’m simply trying to hand you a handkerchief. You appear to have been crying.”

“I don’t need–” Her voice wavered, and she pressed her free hand to her temple. Her face had gone pale. A sheen of perspiration on her brow caught the moonlight. “I’m perfectly well, I just need a moment to …”

Her knees buckled.

Without thinking, he caught her, one arm around her waist, the other supporting her shoulders. For a heartbeat, panic overrode every social convention he’d ever learned. She was alarmingly light in his arms, and far too warm.

“I–” she started.

His heart lurched in a way that was entirely unfamiliar and deeply inconvenient. This was not how the evening was supposed to unfold. None of this was.

“Don’t apologize,” he said softly, forcing his voice to remain calm even as his mind raced. “I will get a physician,” he added, unsure if he should prop her against the railing, the floor, or–

“Oh my!”

His head whipped around, and there stood Lady Pemberton, eyes wide, a hand over her mouth as she looked at the pair of them. Around her were several of the mamas who had been gossiping all night. He looked at them, and then at the woman in his arms.

Ah.

This would not look good.

Alexander’s mind, typically so quick to catalog facts and probabilities, went utterly blank. He became acutely aware of several things at once: the weight of the young woman in his arms, the gasps rippling through the small crowd gathering behind Lady Pemberton, the way the moonlight illuminated them both like actors on a stage, and, most damningly, the absence of any chaperone who could vouch for the innocence of this encounter.

The gossips would greatly enjoy this. By morning, it would be all over London. The reclusive Duke of Ashford caught in a compromising position with an unknown young lady. His mother would be mortified. Serena would never let him hear the end of it.

The woman in his arms stirred, her eyes focusing on the gathered crowd. He watched as comprehension slowly dawned across her features. First confusion, then recognition of their predicament, then something that looked remarkably like despair.

“Oh no,” she whispered. It was so quiet he almost didn’t hear it. Her fingers clutched his jacket sleeve, whether for support or in horror, he couldn’t tell.

Lady Pemberton’s expression had shifted from shock to something far more calculating. He recognized that look. She was already composing the story she would tell.

“Lady Pemberton, the situation is not how it appears–” Alexander started.

“That is what most young people who are compromised say.” The Lady giggled, and Alexander tensed.

“We need a physician,” he said.

“And a priest!” someone from behind Lady Pemberton cackled. Alexander gritted his teeth. The woman in his arms looked up at him and tried to stand up again.

“I do not need assistance,” she said, trying to salvage the situation.

Alexander sighed and looked behind the women. He could see Adam in the back, noticing the commotion … and then laughing.

Alexander now deeply wished he had fought more ardently to avoid attending tonight.