To Tame a Baron

Dear Brother,

I am bored. I cannot believe you have abandoned me for Eton. We had so much more mischief to do! It is all well and good, I should say, because a learned man you must be, but please, do write often. I suppose I shall have to make a friend. We’ve a new vicar moving on the land, since the old totter passed on. He has a daughter, and if she is of the bribing kind, I shall have a new friend long before the holidays. You will most assuredly be forgotten by then.

Your miserable sister,

Eleanor

1801

If there was one truth Eleanor knew, it was that there was nothing in the world she could not get when she smiled.

If only she didn’t always have to smile to make her face look pleasant.

As Eleanor was an honest girl, to herself mostly, she would retract her initial One truth and state—once again to herself—there were several truths she knew. The second truth was she had an awful face. Being a daughter to a duke could make her forget that sometimes, all she had to do to get her way was smile brightly and ask kindly.

Her father said she was almost pretty when she smiled. If it hadn’t been truthful, she might have hidden away and cried, but she was made of stronger stuff. After all, she was a duke’s daughter.

She had her aces in play in that regard at least. Of course, she still didn’t think it fair that when she stood next to a painting or a statue of an ancient Roman soldier, it was almost impossible not to draw similarities.

Her nose was large, with an angular bridge, her eyes dark and bright; unsettling some have said. Hair as coarse and as brown as any good Roman charger. Although she wasn’t entirely sure the Romans had horses. They must have, mustn’t they?

The similarities didn’t stop there. She was somewhat tall for a girl her age, long-limbed and angular in all the wrong spots. Masculine, some would say. Her brows were thick and brooding, and she always had to remind herself to press down the furrow between them. She thought too much, her father liked to tease, always pressing his long forefinger against the crease.

She wasn’t vain, but sometimes standing next to her new stepmother it was hard not to notice her imperfections.

The Lady Charlotte Greir, now the Duchess of Warrick, was small and petite, dainty like a sparrow. Locks as fair and as gold as the wheat growing in the tenants’ farms. She was as beautiful as an English rose.

She was also nine and ten, only four years Eleanor’s elder.

The veritable spring to her father’s winter. Her father was a handsome man, and as she was in the habit of admitting truths, she resembled him most of all. He was tall and angular. But where his nose on her face looked out of place, his was distinguished and forbidding. As were his brows and sharp, discerning eyes. A handsome man; and not yet in his fortieth decade. As a duke—well—this made him quite the catch.

It was sickeningly obvious it was a love match.

Charlotte had been engaged to a young marquess before breaking it off to be with the duke. As she was the daughter of an earl, she had no reason to chase after Eleanor’s father. The earl and his family were wealthy, his son had just married an American, a widowed woman with a sizable dowry. It was said she gifted her sister-in-law an annual stipend of two hundred pounds. Pin money, if one could believe it. How very American and modern it seemed. This was on top of the inheritance Charlotte had received when the earl’s dear mamma had passed.

Charlotte was rich and she was beautiful.

And Eleanor was jealous.

The looks they gave one another were looks she doubted she would ever be on the end of, they were full of soft sighs and sleepy eyelids.

When they thought she wasn’t around, they held hands and kissed. The manor was becoming a difficult place to be in.

Dinners were becoming torturous affairs.

What was worse, Charlotte made it very hard to dislike her.

“Why Eleanor, I passed the drawing room on the way to dinner and peaked in. The watercolor you’re working on is remarkable. I daresay it passes many of the oils you see in the Royal Gallery.”

Charlotte beamed, her pretty gray eyes twinkled over her pea soup. Eleanor felt her cheeks flush, both pleased and annoyed at the same time.

“Thank you, I spent most of the morning on it.” Eleanor smiled, knowing her smile could hide any blush or feeling she couldn’t conceal. Charlotte smiled back. Her father looked at both of them and Eleanor saw a slight smile curve his lips before he hid it with his spoon.

Eleanor spoke to her father, giving Charlotte another smile before changing the subject. “Have you gone down to meet the new vicar?”

Edgar Darwood, the Duke of Warrick, her venerable father and least curious person in the world, gave her a shrug. “I’ll meet him during service, most likely, see no reason to rush down. I’ve heard good things.”

Eleanor wasn’t sure what good things that could be. He had been appointed by the last vicar while on his death bed—she wasn’t sure that boded well. But she supposed the living must be passed on, and she knew the bishop himself had high regard for the last vicar’s choice, so said the farmer’s wife, Mrs Murray.

“Perhaps in the morning, I’ll bring them a basket.” Eleanor said.

“Wonderful idea, dear.”

They continued their dinner in silence.

*

When the sun rose, Eleanor saw no reason to postpone her visit to the new curate. She was rather anxious to meet him and his daughter. Her maid, Rebecca, had told her on good authority the daughter was of the same age as Eleanor.

Eleanor wouldn’t mind making a friend today.

She had a basket made and as soon as a footman brought it up, she was on her way out the door. The vicarage wasn’t a far walk from the manor and the day was perfect for a stroll.

Eleanor hummed a dirty little ditty she heard the stable boys singing the other day. It occupied her thoughts as she skipped down the road.

As she wasn’t entirely without vanity, there was a small hope that the curate’s daughter was an ugly duckling in need of a friend too. They would be a pair, the vicar and duke’s daughters. Bound to be mischief-makers if there ever were such a two. Eleanor just hoped she wasn’t stuffy and pious. Although this hope was unlikely—of course she would be pious, she was a vicar’s daughter after all.

But as she thought of rebelling against everything the dukedom stood for, daydreaming of running away as a milkmaid and meeting a handsome farmer, she wondered if the vicar’s daughter dreamed of rebelling against the teachings of the church. To swear and drink and gamble as any unholy man.

Eleanor was a curious girl, and her mind was prone to such wanderings and daydreams.

She approached the vicarage faster than she realized at first. Eleanor took a moment to straighten up.

Nerves caused her belly to turn over as she knocked on the door. It was answered by a peach of a girl probably no older than Eleanor.

She was—disappointingly—quite pretty, but in an entirely unassuming way. Eleanor immediately knew she was shy.

So she smiled and the girl smiled back.

“Hullo,” she said.

“Good day, my name’s Eleanor, and I’ve just come ’round to bring you and your father a welcoming basket.” She thrust the basket into the girls hands. “You must be the vicar’s daughter?”

“M-my name is Mary,” Mary said, stuttering. “Come in.”

Eleanor stepped inside. She whirled back around to face Mary and once the girl had placed the basket on a side table, she grabbed her hands and gave them a quick squeeze. “What a pleasure it is to meet you.”

A pretty pink blush crept up the sides of Mary’s face and cheeks. “And you, miss.”

“I know this is quite familiar of me, but please, just Eleanor.”

Eleanor took a quick look around at the meager little house with its sparse furnishings.

“Me da and I haven’t unloaded the wagon yet.” Mary said. Eleanor laughed, pleased with Mary’s sweet country accent.

“Well, then, I must invite you up for tea. You’ll join me at the manor?”

“M-manor?”

“Yes, the Warrick Manor.”

“You are the duke’s daughter? Lady Eleanor Darwood?” Mary asked.

“I am.”

Mary blanched and gave a bow. Eleanor chuckled. “My lady.”

Eleanor curtsied. “Please, just Eleanor.”

Mary looked up from her bow and went red in the face. She quickly dropped into a curtsy. Eleanor smiled again and gave a bow herself.

Mary giggled.

Eleanor grabbed Mary’s hands again and gave her a winning smile. “I can tell we’re going to be friends.”