Healing the Brooding Duke’s Heart (Preview)

Chapter One

“Well… looks like it’s just you and me again, old girl,” Amelia Nichols whispered to Bess, a sleek chestnut mare, as she caressed the animal’s flowing mane. “To tell you honestly, that’s how I like it the best,” she added, then she mounted the mare and headed straight toward a nearby woods.

The sun was warm, but not oppressive, as the wind nipped at her cheeks. She stopped before long, at the edge of a shaded copse that bordered a sprawling meadow. It had become a habit, these solitary excursions, ever since her uncle had moved the family to Kent. The grand manor was impressive, certainly, but its grandeur only magnified the coldness she often felt within its walls.

Her uncle, Robert Gardner, had made it clear from the beginning that she was a burden—another orphaned niece, another girl to marry off when the time came. Her parents had left her an inheritance, but it was out of his reach, and she could sense his simmering resentment.

At least Aunt Cecily showed kindness, even if her hands were tied by her husband’s temper. Her cousins, Priscilla and Drew, had been her companions, but with Drew away at school and Priscilla bedridden, Amelia found herself exploring more and more of the countryside on her own. It suited her; there was a kind of peace in solitude that she had come to cherish.

Dismounting, she tied Bess to a low branch and stretched her legs, enjoying the gentle rustling of leaves overhead. She had packed herself a modest lunch for the outing—a simple sandwich tucked into a cloth napkin—and reached for her book, a biography on Plato she was keen to finish. The weight of the book felt solid in her hands, a reminder that there were other worlds beyond the one she now inhabited, worlds of philosophy and thought, far removed from the concerns of inheritance and marriage.

As she settled on the soft grass, the stillness of the countryside enveloped her. The quiet was punctuated only by the occasional chirping of birds and the distant hum of bees flitting from flower to flower. The peacefulness of the scene was a balm to her troubled mind, and she allowed herself a rare moment of contentment, if such a thing was even possible in the wake of the terrible tragedy that had befallen her parents.

“You know, Bess… things used to be so different,” Amelia murmured partly to herself and partly to the horse, whose dark eyes watched her with an almost human attentiveness. “Before Uncle Robert, before all of this. We lived near the coast… my parents, they—” Her voice caught, and she hesitated.

Although the truth of what happened had burrowed a hole deep inside of her, sometimes, she still couldn’t say the words aloud. It was as if, for one blissful moment, she could live in a world where her parents were still alive and she was merely visiting her cousins for the Season.

Bess’ ears flicked back as if the mare were actually listening, her head dipping as she chewed a mouthful of grass. Amelia sighed, her fingers idly tracing patterns in the dirt beside her.

“It all happened so suddenly. One moment they were here, and the next… just… gone. I used to think they’d walk through the door one day and tell me it was all a terrible mistake.”

The mare snorted softly, her head turning slightly to Amelia in an offer of silent companionship. Amelia smiled, her sadness softening by the familiar comfort of the horse’s presence.

“I suppose you’re the only one I can talk to about these things,” Amelia said, her tone lighter now. “Everyone else tiptoes around it like it might break me. But you… you just listen, don’t you?”

Bess bobbed her head in response, a lazy movement that somehow seemed perfectly timed, and Amelia laughed. “I knew you’d understand,” she said. The tightness in her chest eased, just a little. The grief was still there, always lingering, but out here in the open air, with Bess by her side, it felt a little lighter.

Amelia took another bite of her sandwich and glanced up at the sky. “It’s strange, isn’t it? How life goes on, even when everything changes.”

Bess exhaled heavily, as if in agreement, and Amelia reached out to pat the mare’s neck.

A few moments later, Amelia became absorbed in her reading, and the world around her had faded into obscurity such that she scarcely noticed the lengthening shadows or the chill that crept through the air as the day wore on.

It wasn’t until the sharp crunch of boots on gravel reached her ears, followed by a sudden cough of surprise, that she was torn from her reverie. Startled, Amelia looked up, her heart skipping a beat as her eyes fell upon a tall figure standing but a few paces away.

The man before her, dressed in a well-tailored riding coat and breeches, regarded her with a cool, disapproving gaze. His brown eyes, though stern and guarded, held an intensity that momentarily rendered her speechless. The firm set of his jaw gave him an unmistakable look of annoyance that clouded his otherwise striking features.

He broke the silence first, his voice low and cold. “What, may I ask, are you doing on my land?”

Amelia blinked in surprise, suddenly aware of her surroundings—and her trespass. She scrambled to her feet, the book slipping from her lap as her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“I-I beg your pardon, sir. I did not realize—”

The man cut her off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Explanations are of little consequence. You would do well to hurry along before it grows any later.”

His tone, condescending and devoid of any trace of politeness, struck a chord within her. Only moments ago, she had been ready to offer her sincerest apologies, but his rudeness was insufferable. Straightening her posture, Amelia met his gaze with newfound determination.

“An honest mistake, sir,” she said coolly. “I assure you, there was no intention of trespassing. I see no reason why such a minor misstep should warrant such rudeness.”

The man’s expression shifted, though subtly. His eyes, which had moments before been filled with irritation, flickered with surprise at her boldness. For a long moment, he simply stared at her, as if reevaluating her entirely.

Finally, after what seemed like an entire eternity, he inclined his head slightly. “All right then,” he said in a slightly softer tone, though still guarded. “How would you deal with a trespasser, then?”

Amelia was taken aback by his question, and for a brief moment, an awkward silence lingered in the air between them.

“Well, for one, I would allow them to explain their presence here,” she said—less confidently than she wanted to sound, but something in his eyes was making her knees feel unsteady.

“And would you offer them tea, so that they’re more comfortable while explaining?” he retorted in a slightly mocking manner.

“Well, no,” she replied, clearing her throat, not wanting to show him that she was affected by his tone. “Because I start from myself, you see.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I do not see.”

A flicker of victory sparked inside her. “Would you like me to explain?”

She was teasing him back, and they both knew it, but they both refused to acknowledge it.

“As long as I do not have to make you tea,” he replied curtly, but she could almost see a glimmer of a smile in the corners of his stern lips.

“Heaven forbid,” she said with a shake of her head as she approached Bess and took the reins. “You see, I start from myself that I am not infallible. Honest mistakes are something we all make. So, I try not to accuse someone of a trespass unless I am absolutely certain they have committed it willingly.” She paused for a moment, then added, “But perhaps you deem yourself infallible, in which case you have every right to accuse me of an intentional trespass.”

She almost burst into a chuckle at her own words, but she maintained the grave expression on her face. She wondered if he was as amused as her, but wisely decided to keep that question to herself.

That was when his eyes fell on the book she had dropped in her haste to stand. His brow furrowed ever so slightly, and to her surprise, he bent down to pick it up.

“And what is it that so consumed your attention, miss, that you failed to notice that you were trespassing?” he asked in a tone much less biting now, though still possessed of that air of authority.

Curiously, he glanced at the book in his hands, and without even waiting for her to say anything, answered his own question. “A biography of Plato?”

His brow lifted in surprise, and a flicker of intrigue passed through his dark eyes. Somehow, he managed to become even more handsome, his tanned cheeks almost straightening into a smile, but not quite. However, it was his eyes that drew her even more into the mystery that he exuded.

“I must admit, that is not the typical choice of reading material for a young lady,” he said as a note of disbelief creeped into his voice.

“Why?” she replied, her earlier irritation finding its way back. “Is it so strange that one would find interest in the life of one of the greatest philosophers of all time?”

“Not strange,” he said slowly, a smile blooming on his face, “but certainly… uncommon. Plato’s works are not known for their lightness of spirit.”

“Nor should they be,” she replied. “His ideas about justice, the nature of the soul, and the pursuit of truth are hardly trivial matters.”

“Exactly.” He nodded, as if in search of the right words. “I was under the impression that women prefer something… lighter.”

The moment he said it, she could see that he realized it was the wrong choice of not only words but sentiment as well.

“Should such questions be reserved only for men, then?” she inquired, tilting her head a little as she spoke.

The man’s smile remained. “No… I just meant that ladies prefer frivolous romances and poetry. However, with that said, it is rare to encounter someone, man or woman, who cares to engage with such weighty subjects outside of an academic setting.”

Once again, he hadn’t said the right thing. However, she found it more amusing than irritating to point out these blunders of his.

“Frivolous romances and poetry?” she echoed, arching a brow. “Do you mean to suggest that the arts are beneath the pursuit of truth?”

“Not at all,” he replied, his voice softening. “But there is a difference between true art and mere sentimentalism. Plato himself would argue that much of what passes for art today appeals to emotion rather than reason.”

“And yet,” she countered, “Plato himself wrote in dialogues—hardly a dispassionate form. Surely you wouldn’t accuse him of sentimentalism?”

His smile deepened, though there was a glint of something sharper in his eyes now. “Touché, miss. Perhaps I should tread more carefully when debating Plato with someone who has clearly given him much thought.”

Amelia couldn’t help but feel a rush of satisfaction. “It is not merely Plato’s philosophy that fascinates me,” she continued, “but the way his ideas have shaped so much of our modern thinking—about justice, governance, the role of the individual in society. His Republic, for instance, raises questions that are still relevant today.”

“Indeed it does,” the man said, his voice now carrying an undertone of admiration. “Though I find it somewhat rigid in its idealism. Plato’s vision of a perfect society, ruled by philosopher-kings… Do you truly believe such a world could ever exist?”

Amelia tilted her head, considering. “No,” she admitted. “But that does not mean it is not worth striving for, or at the very least, worth understanding. His work provides a model against which we can measure ourselves, flawed as we are.”

The man studied her for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly, as though reassessing her entirely. “You speak with conviction, miss. I am not accustomed to encountering such views outside of academic circles—or, for that matter, from someone of your… disposition.”

“Then, my lord, I suppose you are not accustomed to speaking with women who share your interest in philosophy.” A faint smile tugged at her lips as she spoke. Curiosity gripped her. She wanted to know more about this well-read stranger on whose land she was trespassing.

“Indeed, I am not,” he replied with a wry smile. “But I find it… refreshing.”

Their retorts grew more animated as time passed, until Amelia abruptly realized that the sun was sinking lower. How long had she been lost in this conversation with the handsome stranger before her?

“Oh, heavens, it is getting late,” she said, feeling a twinge of panic at the thought of being caught out alone after dark. Her aunt would worry if she wasn’t home soon. And her Uncle Robert… he would make an entire scene of it.

Amelia hesitated for a moment, thinking of asking for his name, though she was uncertain whether it would be proper. Something about him intrigued her more than she cared to admit, and she wanted to know who he was.

Her lips parted, the question on the tip of her tongue, but before she could speak, the man gave a slight shake of his head, as if sensing her thoughts.

“Indeed, miss,” he acknowledged. “It would be wise not to linger.”

Again, Amelia opened her mouth, but he turned and began to walk away. As he did, she noticed something she hadn’t before—his stride was uneven, a slight limp in his step. He moved with a deliberate grace, but there was no mistaking the way he favored his right leg.

She watched him until he disappeared down the path, her mind racing with thoughts of the curious encounter. Why hadn’t he told her his name? And why, for that matter, hadn’t she not pressed him for it?

Shaking her head at her own confusion, she hurried back to her waiting horse, the lingering questions following her all the way home.

Chapter Two

It would be wise not to linger. 

Simon Campbell, the Duke of Barrington, kept hearing his own words inside his mind as he limped along the narrow path back to his estate. There was more truth to the words than he was willing to admit.

The girl had certainly been a mystery, certainly not the type he’d grown accustomed to meeting in society. She had a sharpness to her, a genuine intellect that made her words far more meaningful than the usual polite nothings he heard at balls and social gatherings.

And how boldly she had spoken her mind! He’d never met anyone, let alone a young woman, so unafraid to challenge him—particularly on matters of philosophy. The lady was obviously no delicate rose, fluttering her eyelashes and offering bland compliments. Instead, she’d defended her thoughts on Plato with a confidence he would not soon forget.

He frowned slightly, adjusting his pace as the familiar throb returned in his right leg. She must be a local village girl. His mother was forever introducing him to young ladies, each dressed in finery and preoccupied with matters of fashion or eligible suitors. But this lady had been dressed plainly, her manner unguarded, her wit sharper than any he had ever encountered.

By the time he reached the edge of his estate, the dull ache in his leg had grown into a persistent, stabbing pain. He knew he should be cautious about walking too far. The wound, though healed, had left a lasting discomfort, a reminder of the accident that had nearly taken his mobility entirely. But it was not in his nature to stay idle; if he allowed his leg’s limitations to dictate his actions, he feared he might resign himself to a life of inaction altogether.

Once inside, he made his way to his chambers, where he stripped off his coat and boots, sighing in relief as he eased into the bath that had been prepared for him. The tension in his muscles softened as the warm water enveloped him. He leaned back, closing his eyes, and again found himself picturing her face—the way her eyes had glinted with amusement and challenge, her expression unyielding and thoughtful.

After bathing, he applied an ointment to his leg, gently massaging it into the scarred skin. It hadn’t been long since the doctors had declared the wound “fully healed,” though he often wondered if his leg would ever feel truly whole again. The ointment’s cooling effect brought some relief, but as he lay back on his bed, he could still feel the dull pulse of pain that reminded him of his limits.

And yet, thoughts of the mysterious young lady quickly returned to the forefront of his mind, a welcome distraction from his discomfort. He hadn’t given her his name, nor had he learned much about her beyond her preference for Plato and an unexpected wit. Yet he found himself wondering when—if—they might meet again.

Those were the thoughts he had gotten utterly lost in, even with the clinking of silverware filling the dining hall. He failed to notice how his mother, Wilhelmina Campbell, the Dowager Duchess of Barrington, kept glancing at him from across the table with a mixture of hesitance and concern, fingers fiddling with the delicate lace of her napkin.

Finally, she cleared her throat. “Simon, I have some news. I thought you should hear it from me, as it might be a bit… delicate.”

Her words pulled him out of his reverie and he looked up, meeting her anxious gaze with mild curiosity. “What is it, Mother?”

The dowager duchess inhaled deeply, as if in search of the right words. “It would seem that… Charlotte will likely be engaged soon. Her family has been discussing an arrangement with a gentleman from Somerset.”

Simon blinked, expecting a twinge of… something, but it never came. Instead, he reached for his glass of wine, swirling it thoughtfully before taking a sip. “I see.”

His mother’s eyes studied him carefully. “I thought it only fair to tell you, though I realize it has been some time. I did wonder if… if it might trouble you.”

But Simon only gave a slight shake of his head, forcing a faint smile. “There’s no need for concern, Mother. I hope she finds happiness. I truly do.”

The dowager duchess’ relief was palpable, though her watchful, motherly gaze remained on him. He met her eyes with yet another look of reassurance, and she seemed satisfied, eventually moving onto another topic of conversation.

Yet long after the dinner had ended and the house had grown quiet, Simon found himself in his study, pacing restlessly in the dim light of the single candle on his desk. Charlotte’s name echoed through his thoughts, memories he hadn’t touched in ages tugging at his mind.

They had known each other for years—her family was connected to his, and he had been fond of her, convinced they would make a good match. Charlotte had been the kind of woman everyone had assumed he would marry—beautiful, poised, the image of a lady fit to be the wife of a future duke.

But then, everything had changed. The injury had been brutal, the result of an accident on duty, and the doctors’ words haunted him even now. They’d warned him he might never walk again. The mere memory of those bleak days spent confined to his bed, fighting the pain and the crushing doubt, sent a chill through him.

And then her note had arrived.

It had been worded delicately in an effort to spare his feelings, but he’d understood all too well. Charlotte had been unable to face the reality of his injury, unwilling to commit to a life with a man who might never fully recover. The words she had written were polite, but the message had been clear: he would no longer suit her as he was, and it would be best for both of them to end the engagement.

The hurt had run deep, cutting through his resolve at the time, but eventually, the wound had healed. And as he had begun to regain his strength, he had pushed himself harder than ever, determined to prove both the doctors and Charlotte wrong. He had limped through every agonizing step, working tirelessly to strengthen his leg and refusing to surrender to the life they had imagined for him.

Tonight, though, with the news of her impending engagement, a pang of old bitterness resurfaced. He wondered, briefly, about the man she would marry, feeling an unexpected pity for him. She would expect perfection, and anything less would simply not do. He knew that now.

Simon poured himself a measure of brandy, staring into the amber liquid as he reflected on how different his life had become. The injury had changed him, deepened the divide between what he’d once thought he wanted and what he now knew he needed. Charlotte had been part of that old life, but he had long since left it behind.

He took a slow sip, letting the warmth of the brandy ease him as he gazed out the window into the darkened countryside. And as his mind drifted, unexpectedly, his thoughts returned not to Charlotte but to another pair of eyes—bright and challenging, with a spark of intellect he had seldom seen.

The peculiar young woman he’d met earlier that day. An unlikely stranger who had, against all reason, lingered in his thoughts since he’d left her on the path.

He shook his head, a faint smile curving his lips. Strange, he mused. Very strange indeed.

***

That evening, as the remainder of her family gathered around the dinner table, Amelia could still feel the mysterious man’s presence at the edges of her thoughts. She glanced at her Aunt Cecily, seated across from her in the small, tastefully furnished dining room.

Her uncle, Robert Gardner, sat at the head of the table, his expression fixed and rather distant, as if he were elsewhere altogether. While polite, his manner was often distant, even curt, as though he regarded her presence as more an obligation than a welcome addition. His gaze often held a faint hint of displeasure, something Amelia had grown accustomed to but still found unsettling.

Amelia turned to her aunt, her curiosity finally too great to keep to herself. “Aunt Cecily,” she began, hesitating slightly, “I was wondering—have we met many of the neighbors yet?”

Her aunt looked up, a curious expression crossing her face. “Oh, not many, dear. We are somewhat new here ourselves, and the families in these parts tend to keep to themselves.” She thought about it for a moment, then she mused cheerfully. “Now that you’ve mentioned it, we really must call on a few neighbors soon.”

Her husband’s reply was terse. “There’s no rush, Cecily. I think it’s best to keep to ourselves for now.”

“Oh, but I’m sure Amelia would enjoy meeting some new faces,” she urged tenderly, a suggestion that was met with equal disapproval.

“It’s best not to impose upon others,” he pointed out.

Aunt Cecily gave a small sigh but didn’t press further, a subtle disappointment in her expression as she glanced at Amelia with an apologetic smile.

Trying to ease the tension, Amelia quickly spoke up. “I’m quite content here, truly. The countryside is beautiful, and the peace is welcome after the busyness of the city.”

Her uncle’s brow furrowed slightly, though he made no comment. Though she was family, Amelia’s presence at his table was merely tolerated rather than warmly embraced.

As Uncle Robert rose from the table, murmuring something about an early morning and a stack of letters that needed answering, Amelia felt herself relax slightly. She watched him leave, his expression as unreadable as ever, before turning back to her aunt, who remained across from her, smiling gently as she reached for her glass of sherry.

The room seemed to grow warmer in his absence, and Aunt Cecily’s gaze softened as she looked at Amelia. “Well,” she said with a light laugh, “at least now we can talk properly.” She settled back with a fond, affectionate smile as she took a sip.

Amelia returned the smile, grateful for her aunt’s kindness. It was Aunt Cecily who had welcomed her so warmly, making her feel more like a cherished daughter than an orphaned niece.

“I hope you know, dear,” Aunt Cecily said, her tone tender, “that you’re always welcome here. Robert… he may seem stern, but I won’t have him make you feel otherwise.”

“Oh, Aunt Cecily, thank you,” Amelia replied softly, touched by the words. “It means a great deal to me.”

Aunt Cecily reached across the table, placing her hand over Amelia’s. “You remind me so much of your mother. The same spark in your eyes, the same strength.” Her gaze grew a little distant, as though lost in memories, and then she gave Amelia’s hand a light squeeze. “I miss my dear sister so much.”

Amelia felt a lump rise in her throat. Her parents’ death was so sudden and unexpected that it had taken them all by surprise. It was difficult to come to terms with the fact that she would never see them again.

“I’m so grateful to be here with you.”

Aunt Cecily smiled, brushing a loose strand of Amelia’s hair back affectionately. “And I’m grateful to have you here with me, dear. It can be a lonely household sometimes, with Robert so absorbed in his affairs. I had forgotten what it was like to have someone here who notices a pretty bloom in my garden or who reads more than just ledgers and business correspondence.”

They shared a smile, and Amelia felt herself relax further. It was in moments like these that she felt truly at home, and she realized just how much her aunt’s love had come to mean to her.

With a conspiratorial wink, Aunt Cecily leaned in even more. “Now, tell me what you’ve been reading lately! I know you’ve likely been lost in one book or another—you’re a true bookworm, just like your mother was.”

Amelia laughed, feeling lighter and more at ease as they spoke. Still, later that night, as she lay in bed, Amelia’s thoughts returned to the stranger in the woods.

The sense of mystery surrounding him, his guarded manner, and the way he’d kept her engaged so effortlessly—all of it had left an impression that now felt like a small rebellion against the restrictions around her. There was something invigorating in it, a reminder of life beyond the polite limits of family dinners and her uncle’s disapproving gaze.

With a quiet, almost mischievous smile, she allowed herself to relive the memory of their conversation. Perhaps I’ll see him again, she mused. And perhaps, when she did, she’d finally learn who he was.

Chapter Three

“Ah, that must be him now!” Uncle Robert exclaimed the moment they heard the sound of a carriage halting in front of the house.

The man in question was William Hutchinson, the Earl of Bowden. Amelia had seen him in the village, just as she had seen many of the town’s residents, and she’d thought nothing more of him than another friendly face her aunt and uncle had invited to dinner in an effort to make new acquaintances.

However, it hadn’t escaped her attention that mere weeks ago, her uncle had insisted that it was too soon to be inviting people over for dinner and introducing themselves. Now, they had a dinner guest and Uncle Robert seemed particularly pleased regarding that development. Still, Aunt Cecily didn’t share his enthusiasm. Her lips were pressed into a thin, almost disapproving line as they all waited for their guest to be ushered in.

“My lord!” Uncle Robert exclaimed upon seeing the man in the doorway of their drawing room. “We are grateful to you for accepting our invitation to dinner.”

“It is I who am grateful for the invitation, Mr. Gardner,” the earl replied with a slight, respectful bow. His eyes immediately flickered to Amelia.

He offered her a warm smile, which she returned politely, thinking no more of it than she would of any well-mannered acquaintance. Her aunt regarded him with a cautious gaze, her own smile tightly held. She moved a step closer to Amelia, as though to shield her from something only she could perceive.

“Ladies.” The earl bowed his head at them. “It is a pleasure to be in the company of such beauties.”

“You flatter us, my lord,” Aunt Cecily said politely, but Amelia could hear the note of withdrawal, which was evident only to those who knew her.

Dinner began soon after, the servants arranging the dishes with careful attention. Amelia took her seat across from the earl, her thoughts pleasantly light as she tasted the first bite of the roast duck, savoring the rich seasoning. She kept her focus entirely on the plate before her.

“Lady Amelia,” the earl began, after a brief pause, “I must commend your family’s table. Such refinement in the selection of dishes—it’s a rare pleasure.”

Amelia looked up, surprised to find his attention directed toward her. She began to reply, but her aunt interrupted smoothly.

“Yes, we pride ourselves on modest elegance,” Aunt Cecily interjected, steering the earl toward a more general topic. “Though I daresay you have encountered far grander tables in your travels.”

He smiled without being discouraged. “Grander? Perhaps. But more delectable, more detail-oriented? I think not.”

Amelia paid close attention to the conversation, feeling slightly awkward about it. It seemed that Aunt Cecily timed her interruptions smoothly, but with undeniable intention and precision. Every time the earl’s gaze drifted toward Amelia or he began a question meant solely for her ears, her aunt interceded as if by instinct, diverting him with an ease born from years of managing family affairs.

“A lady of your refined taste must enjoy reading,” he said, refusing to give up. “There was a poetry reading at the assembly rooms last month. I daresay there shall be more the upcoming month. Perhaps—”

Aunt Cecily quickly leaned forward, interrupting. “Oh, my lord, you must have found that assembly rather tedious. I have heard tales of your literacy and book knowledge… perhaps poetry is too simple for a man of your literary taste?”

The earl glanced briefly at Aunt Cecily, a flicker of reluctance in his eyes, yet he responded with politeness. “It was not without charm, Mrs. Gardner. Though I imagine Lady Amelia has a more delicate appreciation for the subtleties in such work.”

Amelia looked up, about to speak, but once again Aunt Cecily steered the topic away deftly. “Ah, but Amelia hardly needs my instruction on such matters!”

That was when Uncle Robert cut in. He cleared his throat and, with a hearty smile, addressed the earl. “You know, my lord, our Amelia has a fine eye for detail, especially in literature. Why, she was just reading a book the other day that I imagine would interest you greatly. Isn’t that right, Amelia?”

Amelia looked up, brightening at the invitation to speak. But Aunt Cecily interjected again before Amelia could respond.

“Oh, Robert, you must mean that charming little novel she mentioned, hardly the sort of grand literature to trouble Lord Bowden with.” She smiled disarmingly at the earl, continuing, “I believe you’d prefer something with a bit more… intellectual substance, would you not, my lord? Amelia has a fondness for simpler reads, you see. Hardly anything to recommend!”

The earl’s brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face, but he nodded politely.

Then, Aunt Cecily continued. “Now, Lord Bowden, I wonder if you’ve visited the gardens at Everleigh Manor recently. They say Lord Everleigh has cultivated roses from the South of France. You must know all about such things, given your travels.”

Reluctantly, the earl indulged her question, though his glances continued to stray toward Amelia. But Aunt Cecily had clearly anticipated this. As Amelia reached for her water glass, the earl remarked, “Lady Amelia, you have a remarkable grace. It reminds me of an evening in Paris—”

Aunt Cecily was quick to jump in, her eyes twinkling as though sharing a private joke. “Ah, my lord, I do believe we’ve yet to hear about your latest ventures abroad. Was it Italy or Spain this year? Amelia has such an interest in faraway places—don’t you, my dear?”

She smiled sweetly at Amelia, whose nod was automatic, her curiosity piqued but left unanswered as the earl shifted his attention back to Aunt Cecily’s leading inquiry.

Amelia couldn’t understand her aunt’s behavior, but she knew better than to question it. The evening continued in such a manner, until it was concluded with polite farewells as Uncle Robert escorted the earl to the door. Amelia offered a soft, courteous nod, barely noticing the lingering glance the earl cast her way. When the door closed behind him, she felt a strange, unsettled sensation, as though she’d missed something.

Hours later, as the household settled into silence, Amelia lay in bed, her thoughts refusing to quiet. Each polite interruption from her aunt, each barely concealed nudge to turn the earl’s attention elsewhere, played in her mind with a nagging persistence. At last, unable to find rest, she rose from bed, her footsteps silent as she made her way down the dim corridor to her aunt’s chamber.

She knocked lightly and pushed the door open, finding Aunt Cecily seated at her writing desk, her pen poised over a half-folded piece of parchment. Her aunt’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly, but Amelia noticed the quick motion of her hand as she set the paper aside, fingers pressing over it with a slight, guarded smile.

“Amelia, dear,” Aunt Cecily said, her tone smooth, though Amelia sensed a faint surprise in her eyes. “Is something troubling you?”

Amelia stepped into the room, glancing at the neatly folded paper on the desk. “I hope I didn’t disturb you, Aunt,” she said, pausing just inside the door. “You seem busy.”

“Oh, nothing at all,” Aunt Cecily replied, quickly closing the writing box with a faint click. “Just a few letters to attend to. Now, tell me, is everything quite all right?”

Amelia hesitated, uncertainty tugging at her. She could hardly articulate it—an instinctive feeling that something had been amiss at dinner, something her aunt had kept carefully hidden behind a practiced smile. She wanted to ask, but the words hovered at the edge of her mind, too elusive to catch.

Instead, she forced a gentle smile. “I thought… well, I wondered if everything was all right with you, Aunt. You seemed… distracted tonight.”

Aunt Cecily’s eyes softened, a touch of amusement in her gaze. “Of course, my dear. It was a perfectly ordinary dinner. Why do you ask?”

Amelia opened her mouth to continue, but the question felt too strange, too uncertain to voice. Perhaps she was imagining things, letting her mind create mysteries where none existed. After all, what reason would her aunt have for behaving strangely?

With a small sigh, Amelia closed the distance between them and placed a light hand on her aunt’s shoulder. “I suppose it was nothing,” she said. “Forgive me. I think the late hour is making me foolish.”

Aunt Cecily patted Amelia’s hand with a reassuring smile. “Nothing foolish about it, my dear. Now, off to bed. You needn’t worry about a thing.”

Amelia nodded, lingering a moment longer before bidding her aunt a quiet good night. As she made her way back to her room, she glanced over her shoulder just once, catching a glimpse of her aunt’s hand settling back on the folded letter, her eyes fixed on the words she had so carefully hidden.

Finally in bed, Amelia took her aunt’s advice. She didn’t worry about the dinner or the earl. She did, however, allow her mind to drift once more to the stranger she had encountered two weeks prior. It was a chance meeting that replayed in her mind far more than she cared to admit.

At first, she’d dismissed it, assuming it to be a fleeting fancy or perhaps a symptom of the quiet rhythm of her days, with only books and needlework to fill her hours. But as the night pressed on, Amelia found herself remembering that brief encounter once again, tracing the memory as though it held some hidden meaning. Who could he be, this man with the piercing gaze and the calm, almost knowing smile? She had seen him only once, but that moment had left a strange restlessness in her heart.

Despite herself, she hoped for another chance encounter, imagining him appearing unexpectedly at the market or along the village lane. The thought made her smile, though she quickly pressed her lips together, reminding herself how foolish it was to wish for such a thing. And yet, the wish persisted, filling her thoughts until she finally drifted into a light, fitful sleep.