Page 1 of Christmas with the Earl (To All The Earls I’ve Loved Before #1)

A Proposal of Comfort

" L ord Ashford has inquired after you specifically.

" Lady Eleanor Winthrop read the words aloud from her aunt's letter, her voice dripping with the same disdain she might reserve for a particularly unappetizing dish.

"Such a distinguished gentleman, and his estate in Derbyshire is said to be magnificent. "

She set the cream-colored paper down with deliberate care, though her fingers itched to crumple it into oblivion. The morning light through the tall windows struck her as offensively cheerful, illuminating the stark reality of her aunt's latest matrimonial scheming.

"Magnificent estate," Nell muttered, rising from her writing desk to pace the length of the morning room. "As if the size of a man's holdings could fill the void in one's heart."

The miniature portrait at her throat caught the light as she moved—Isabella's face, forever young and radiant, forever frozen at nineteen with her whole life stretching ahead of her.

Nell's fingers found the locket instinctively, a gesture that had become as natural as breathing in the eight months since her sister's death.

Eight months since Isabella had died, bringing the heir into the world—an heir who had followed his mother into eternal silence within hours of his birth.

Eight months since Nell had worn anything but the deepest mourning, had danced, had laughed, had cared about any gentleman's prospects, magnificent or otherwise.

The truth that lurked beneath her grief was far more troubling than mere sorrow.

It was the growing certainty that she would never measure up to Isabella's memory—not in beauty, not in charm, and certainly not in the effortless way her sister had captured hearts and brightened rooms simply by existing.

How could Nell possibly meet Society's expectations when she felt like a pale shadow of the sister everyone had adored?

"Still refusing to be reasonable, I see."

Nell turned to find her mother in the doorway, elegant as always in dove-gray silk, her expression that familiar mixture of maternal concern and aristocratic exasperation.

"Good morning, Mama." Nell attempted a smile, smoothing her black silk skirts. "I was merely considering Aunt Margaret's latest correspondence."

Lady Fairfield glided into the room with the practiced grace of a woman who had successfully navigated three daughters through their Seasons. Two triumphantly, one with increasing frustration.

"Darling girl," she began, settling into the rose-colored chair near the fireplace, "surely you cannot mean to remain in mourning indefinitely. Society has begun to whisper, and your father grows concerned about your prospects."

The word 'prospects' hung in the air like smoke. Nell moved to the window, watching the first lazy snowflakes of winter drift past the glass.

"What prospects could I possibly have that would honor Isabella's memory?" The question escaped before Nell could contain it, revealing more of her inner turmoil than she'd intended. "She was everything beautiful and gracious about our family. I am merely..."

"You are merely allowing grief to cloud your judgment," Lady Fairfield said firmly, rising to join her daughter at the window. "Isabella was indeed a treasure, but she would be horrified to know you're burying yourself alongside her memory."

Nell's laugh held no humor. "Would she? Sometimes I think the kindest thing I could do is withdraw entirely, spare Society the disappointment of comparing us."

"Eleanor Winthrop." Her mother's voice carried the authority of generations of well-bred women who had weathered their own storms. "I will not permit such morbid nonsense. You are not your sister, nor should you attempt to be. You have your own gifts, your own worth."

Before Nell could respond, inspiration struck with the sudden clarity of winter lightning.

"Lady Greystowe," she said, turning from the window with the first genuine animation she'd felt in weeks. "She wrote last month, didn't she? Mentioned how quiet Greystowe Hall has become since... well, since the tragedy."

Lady Fairfield's brow furrowed. "Yes, the poor dear.

Losing both her son and daughter-in-law within hours of each other, and now with all the uncertainty about the estate's future.

I believe she mentioned some correspondence with distant relations—something about the new heir finally taking an interest in his inheritance. "

"She invited me to visit whenever I wished." Nell's words came faster now, the plan crystallizing in her mind. "To spend time with someone who loved Isabella as I did, who understands the weight of such loss."

"Yorkshire? In December?" Her mother's tone suggested Nell had proposed a journey to the Arctic. "My dear, it will be frightfully cold, and the roads treacherous. Besides, you'll know no one save the Dowager Countess herself."

"Precisely." Nell returned to her writing desk, already mentally composing her letter of acceptance. "No balls requiring my attendance, no suitors to deflect, no well-meaning relatives attempting to thrust eligible gentlemen into my path every time I venture from the house."

She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, her movements decisive for the first time in months. "Just quiet companionship with someone who won't expect me to sparkle or charm or pretend that Isabella's absence hasn't carved a hole in the very fabric of existence."

Lady Fairfield was quiet for a long moment, studying her daughter's profile as Nell began to write. "You truly believe this will provide the solace you seek?"

"I believe," Nell said carefully, pausing in her writing, "that I need time away from London's expectations.

Time to remember who I am when I'm not being constantly reminded of who I'm not.

" She looked up, meeting her mother's concerned gaze.

"Lady Greystowe understands grief in a way that Lord Ashford's magnificent estate simply cannot address. "

The silence stretched between them, filled only with the soft scratch of Nell's pen across the paper and the gentle patter of snow against the windows.

"Very well," Lady Fairfield said finally, her voice gentler than before. "But you must give me your word on something."

Nell set down her pen. "Anything."

"Promise me you'll attempt to heal while you're there, not merely hide.

Isabella would want you to find your way back to joy, not entomb yourself in perpetual mourning.

" Her mother's eyes misted slightly. "She loved you dearly, you know.

Often spoke of how much she admired your spirit, your independence of thought. "

The words hit Nell like a physical blow, so unexpected were they. Isabella had admired her? It seemed impossible, yet her mother's sincerity was unmistakable.

"I promise to try, Mama," Nell managed, her voice thick with emotion. "I cannot guarantee success, but I promise to make the attempt."

Lady Fairfield smiled, the first genuine expression of hope Nell had seen from her in months. "Then write your letter, my dear. Perhaps the Yorkshire air will indeed prove beneficial."

Three days later, despite her father's concerns about the weather and her maid's dire predictions about the state of northern roads in winter, Nell found herself seated in the family carriage as it wound through the gates of Greystowe Hall.

Snow had begun falling in earnest during the final miles of their journey, transforming the ancient landscape into something from a fairy tale.

The estate stretched before her in winter splendor—rolling hills dusted white, venerable oaks standing sentinel along the drive, and finally, the great house itself rising from the snowy landscape with quiet authority.

Greystowe Hall commanded its surroundings through sheer presence rather than ostentation, its weathered stone walls speaking of centuries of Christmases past, its windows glowing against the gathering dusk.

As the carriage rolled to a stop before the massive oak doors, they opened as if by magic, revealing a figure that made Nell's heart clench with bittersweet recognition.

Lady Greystowe emerged, her silver hair perfectly arranged beneath a black lace cap, her mourning dress elegant in its simplicity.

But it was her smile—warm, genuine, and touched with the same melancholy Nell carried—that brought tears to her eyes.

"My dearest girl," Lady Greystowe called as Nell descended from the carriage, her voice carrying both the crisp authority of nobility and genuine maternal affection. "How very good of you to make such a journey in this weather."

"Thank you for receiving me," Nell replied, accepting the older woman's embrace.

The familiar scent of lavender and rosewater that had always surrounded Isabella's mother-in-law brought a fresh wave of memories—not painful ones, surprisingly, but warm recollections of family gatherings and shared laughter.

"Nonsense. You've done me the favor." Lady Greystowe linked their arms with practiced ease, guiding Nell toward the entrance.

"This old house has been far too quiet these past months.

I find I've grown quite weary of my own company and Mrs. Hartwell's well-meaning but repetitive observations about the weather. "

As they crossed the threshold into the great hall, Nell felt some invisible weight begin to lift from her shoulders.

The space was vast without being intimidating, warmed by an enormous fire crackling in the stone hearth and decorated with fresh evergreen boughs that filled the air with the crisp scent of winter holidays.

Candles flickered in iron sconces along the walls, casting dancing shadows that seemed to welcome rather than threaten.

"It's beautiful," Nell said, meaning every word. The hall managed to be both grand and inviting—no small feat in a space that could easily have felt cold and forbidding.

"Isabella always said Christmas here felt like stepping into a storybook," Lady Greystowe replied, her voice catching slightly.

"She had such elaborate plans for last year's celebration.

.." The older woman straightened her shoulders with visible effort.

"But we mustn't dwell overmuch on what cannot be changed. Come, let's see you settled properly."

As they climbed the grand staircase, their footsteps echoing softly, Lady Greystowe continued her gentle chatter.

"I've had Cook prepare a light supper for this evening, nothing too elaborate.

The staff has been somewhat reduced since the changes, but Mrs. Hartwell runs the household with admirable efficiency. "

"I'm hardly accustomed to grand ceremony," Nell assured her. "Simple comfort suits me perfectly."

They paused before a door painted the soft blue of a summer sky.

"I hoped you might feel that way," Lady Greystowe said, opening the door to reveal a charming chamber with rose-pink hangings and a cheerful fire already dancing in the grate.

"Isabella always said you possessed a refreshing lack of pretension. "

As Nell stepped into the room, the scent of burning applewood and the sight of fresh linens turned down invitingly struck her with unexpected force.

For the first time in eight months, she felt truly welcomed, not merely tolerated or pitied, but genuinely wanted.

The sensation was so foreign she had to steady herself against the doorframe.

"Are you quite well, my dear?" Lady Greystowe asked with concern.

"Yes," Nell managed, her voice thick with gratitude. "Just... overwhelmed by your kindness."

As her hostess smiled and left her to settle, Nell moved to the window where snow continued to fall, blanketing Greystowe Hall in pristine silence and gradually sealing them away from the rest of the world.

For the first time since Isabella's death, she thought that perhaps isolation might be exactly what her wounded heart required.

She had no way of knowing that her peaceful retreat was about to be thoroughly disrupted by the unexpected arrival of a man who desired solitude just as desperately as she did—and would prove far less willing to share it gracefully.