Page 4 of Christmas with the Earl (To All The Earls I’ve Loved Before #1)

The Unexpected Heir

T homas Greystowe stood before the mirror in what had once been his cousin's dressing room, methodically removing the travel stains from his appearance while his mind worked through the unexpected complications that had greeted his arrival at Greystowe Hall.

He had come here with a simple purpose: to assess the estate's condition, settle its affairs, and determine whether sentiment or practicality should guide his decisions about its future.

What he had not anticipated was finding his aunt entertaining a houseguest, particularly one who looked at him with such clear, intelligent eyes and spoke with such pointed politeness.

Lady Eleanor Winthrop. Isabella's sister.

Thomas paused, his hands stilling on the fresh cravat.

He had met Isabella only once, at her wedding to his cousin, but the resemblance was unmistakable in the elegant line of Lady Eleanor's neck, the graceful way she held herself, even the stubborn tilt of her chin when challenged.

Yet where Isabella had been all golden warmth and gentle charm, this sister possessed something altogether more formidable.

The way she had looked at him when he'd questioned her presence—as though he were an intruder in his own inherited home—had been both infuriating and oddly impressive.

Most young ladies of his acquaintance would have stammered apologies or dissolved into tears under such scrutiny.

Lady Eleanor had simply smiled that frost-edged smile and made it clear she found his manners wanting.

Which, if he were being honest, they probably were.

It stirred something he rarely acknowledged—an echo of the old ache he had buried beneath orders and battle reports.

In quieter moments, when duty didn't press at his heels, he could still feel the hollow where simpler things used to live: affection, ease, the luxury of being understood without explanation.

He had trained himself not to want those things.

But looking at Lady Eleanor, with her sharp eyes and steady spine, he felt the ghost of wanting stir.

Thomas finished adjusting his cravat with more force than necessary.

He had grown accustomed to military directness, to speaking plainly and expecting immediate comprehension.

The subtle dance of social niceties had never been his strength, even before eight years of army life had further eroded his patience for drawing-room diplomacy.

But still. He might have been more civil.

The problem was that Lady Eleanor's presence complicated everything.

He had hoped to spend these few days in quiet assessment, perhaps walking the estate boundaries, reviewing the account books, and having frank discussions with his aunt about the property's viability.

Instead, he would be forced to make polite conversation and pretend an interest in whatever seasonal festivities his aunt had no doubt planned for her guest's entertainment.

He had not come here to indulge in sentiment, least of all directed toward his aunt's guest. And yet something about Lady Eleanor's defensive pride had stirred an unwelcome flicker of curiosity.

A sharp knock interrupted his brooding. "Come," he called, expecting his valet or perhaps Mrs. Hartwell with some domestic inquiry.

Instead, his aunt entered, having clearly taken time to compose herself since their earlier encounter. She wore the expression he remembered from childhood—the one that suggested he was about to receive instruction whether he wished it or not.

"Thomas," she began without preamble, "we must speak."

"Indeed, we must." Thomas turned from the mirror, gesturing to the chairs arranged near the window. "Please, sit. I apologize for arriving without notice, but I thought it best to see the estate's true condition rather than its holiday presentation."

Lady Greystowe settled herself with the regal bearing that came naturally to women of her generation. "And what, precisely, do you expect to find? Evidence that I've been running the place into the ground in your absence?"

The sharpness in her tone surprised him. His aunt had always been formidable, but this edge was new—or perhaps he simply hadn't been old enough to notice it before.

"Not at all," Thomas replied carefully. "But I needed to understand what I've inherited before making any decisions about its future."

"Ah." Lady Greystowe's expression grew thoughtful. "So you have not yet decided whether to keep Greystowe Hall."

It wasn't a question, and Thomas found himself oddly reluctant to confirm her suspicions. "I am... considering all options."

"I see. And Lady Eleanor's presence interferes with this consideration?"

"Her presence was unexpected," Thomas said, choosing his words with military precision. "I had hoped for privacy during my assessment."

"Privacy." Lady Greystowe repeated the word as though it left a bad taste.

"Thomas, you have been absent from this family for eight years.

You inherited an earldom, an estate, and responsibilities you never sought, and your response has been to conduct yourself like a property assessor rather than the head of a family. "

The criticism stung because it held more than a grain of truth. "I am a soldier, Aunt Margaret. I understand duty and responsibility. But I also understand the difference between sentiment and practicality."

"Do you indeed?" Lady Greystowe rose and moved to the window, gazing out at the snow-covered grounds. "Tell me, Thomas, what do you see when you look at Greystowe Hall?"

Thomas joined her at the window, following her gaze across the winter landscape.

"I see a large estate requiring significant investment to maintain properly.

I see a house too grand for its current circumstances, a reduced staff, and agricultural lands that may or may not provide adequate income to support the whole. "

"And that is all?"

The question hung between them, weighted with expectation. Thomas looked again, trying to see beyond the practical concerns that had dominated his thoughts since inheriting the title.

The snow had transformed the gardens into something almost magical.

Ancient trees stood draped in white, their bare branches creating intricate patterns against the pale sky.

In the distance, smoke rose from the village chimneys, and he could just make out figures moving along what must be the main street.

It was beautiful, certainly, but beauty was a luxury he had learned not to trust.

"What would you have me see?" he asked finally.

"Three hundred years of family history. Generations of Greystowes who built something lasting, something meaningful.

Your cousin's improvements, your great-grandfather's folly that became the most admired conservatory in the county.

" Lady Greystowe's voice softened. "The place where Isabella found happiness, however briefly. "

At the mention of Isabella, Thomas felt an unexpected tightness in his chest. He had barely known his cousin's wife, but her death had affected him more than he'd anticipated. Perhaps because it had driven home the fragility of the happiness he'd never allowed himself to seek.

"I do not discount the history," he said quietly. "But history does not pay for roof repairs or servants' wages."

"No," Lady Greystowe agreed. "But it provides something money cannot buy—a sense of belonging, of purpose beyond mere survival." She turned to face him directly. "Tell me, Thomas, when did you last feel truly at home anywhere?"

The question caught him off guard. When had he last felt at home? In his tent on the Peninsula, surrounded by his men and united by common purpose? In his London lodgings, sparse and functional? The answer, he realized with some discomfort, was nowhere.

"That is neither here nor there," he said, deflecting. "My personal comfort is hardly the issue."

"Isn't it?" Lady Greystowe's smile held a hint of the mischief he remembered from his youth. "You know, Eleanor asked much the same question about belonging when we spoke this morning."

Thomas found himself unexpectedly curious about what else Lady Eleanor might have said, but he refused to give his aunt the satisfaction of asking.

"I should dress for luncheon," he said instead, moving toward his wardrobe. "I trust the meal will provide an opportunity to become better acquainted with your guest."

"Oh, I believe it will indeed," Lady Greystowe replied, and there was something in her tone that made Thomas pause in his selection of waistcoats.

"Aunt Margaret, you are not planning some sort of matchmaking scheme, are you?"

Lady Greystowe's expression was the picture of innocence. "My dear boy, Lady Eleanor is in mourning for her beloved sister. She has come here seeking peace and quiet companionship. The furthest thing from her mind would be an unsuitable attachment to a stranger."

The way she emphasized 'stranger' suggested Thomas's behavior had not escaped her notice or approval.

"Good," he said, though he wasn't entirely sure why the confirmation should provide such mixed feelings. "Because I have neither the time nor the inclination for drawing-room flirtations."

"Of course not," Lady Greystowe agreed placidly. "Though you might consider that even soldiers require allies, and Lady Eleanor has already proven herself capable of defending her position when challenged."

With that cryptic comment, she departed, leaving Thomas to contemplate the implications of her words while he finished dressing.

When he finally made his way downstairs, he found the two ladies in the morning room, engaged in what appeared to be a spirited discussion about the proper way to preserve evergreen boughs for holiday decorations.

Lady Eleanor was laughing at something his aunt had said, and the sound was unexpectedly musical—nothing like the cool, controlled voice she had used when speaking to him.

"Thomas," Lady Greystowe said as he appeared in the doorway, "perfect timing. Lady Eleanor has been telling me about the Christmas traditions at her family's estate. Apparently, they have quite elaborate celebrations."

"Indeed?" Thomas took the chair opposite Lady Eleanor, noting how her expression grew more guarded as he settled himself. "I'm afraid military Christmases tend toward the functional rather than the festive."

"How disappointing for you," Lady Eleanor replied, though her tone suggested she found his military Christmases entirely predictable rather than pitiable. "Though I suppose celebrating the season requires a certain appreciation for joy and tradition."

The subtle barb hit its mark, but Thomas found himself almost admiring her technique. "Quite so. I've found that survival tends to take precedence over sentiment in most circumstances."

"How fortunate, then, that you find yourself in circumstances where survival is assured and sentiment might be permitted."

Mrs. Hartwell's arrival with the luncheon service prevented Thomas from formulating a response to that particular thrust. As they settled into their meal—an excellent soup, fresh bread, and what appeared to be the last of the autumn vegetables from the estate gardens—Lady Greystowe smoothly guided the conversation toward safer topics.

Try as he might to focus on his aunt's commentary about estate matters and village news, Thomas found his gaze returning to Lady Eleanor.

Her poised manner as she navigated the conversation, the way her eyes lit with genuine interest when Lady Greystowe spoke of the tenants' Christmas traditions, the graceful movement of her hands as she gestured—all of it suggested a refinement born of genuine breeding rather than mere social training.

He was observing the delicate way she handled her spoon when she suddenly looked up, catching him in his study of her.

For a moment, their gazes held, and Thomas felt an odd jolt of awareness pass between them.

Lady Eleanor's cheeks colored faintly, but she didn't look away immediately.

Instead, she tilted her head slightly, as if trying to puzzle out what she had seen in his expression.

Thomas cleared his throat and reached for his water glass, annoyed at himself for being caught staring like a green boy.

What was it about her unguarded moments that made observation seem so effortless?

When her defensive walls were lowered, as they were now in his aunt's gentle company, Lady Eleanor possessed a warmth that was entirely too appealing for his peace of mind.

"I was just telling Eleanor about the Boxing Day tradition in the village," Lady Greystowe said, and Thomas realized he had missed part of the conversation entirely. "Perhaps you might escort us when we deliver the gifts to the tenants?"

"If the weather permits," Thomas replied, though he was already calculating whether such an excursion would interfere with his planned inspection of the estate accounts.

“Oh, it will be tolerable enough by then,” Lady Eleanor said with the confidence of someone accustomed to getting her way. "I'm told Yorkshire snow is far more cooperative than its reputation suggests."

"Told by whom?" Thomas asked, genuinely curious. "Have you visited the region before?"

"No, this is my first time so far north. But I have it on good authority from several sources." Lady Eleanor's smile held a hint of mischief that reminded him suddenly of his aunt. "Including Mrs. Hartwell, who assures me the roads will be clear enough for local travel within a day or two."

Thomas found himself wondering if Lady Eleanor was as eager to escape Greystowe Hall as he was to see her gone, or if she simply enjoyed being right about practical matters.

Either way, the prospect of traveling through the countryside with both ladies in tow was beginning to seem less onerous than it had initially.

More troubling: he was beginning to look forward to it.

"Then we shall certainly consider it," he said, surprised by his own words.

Lady Greystowe's satisfied smile suggested she had orchestrated this entire exchange, though Thomas couldn't quite see how.

As the meal concluded and they prepared to retire to the drawing room, he realized that his careful plans for a solitary assessment of his inheritance had been thoroughly disrupted.

The question was whether Lady Eleanor Winthrop represented an unwelcome complication, or an unexpected opportunity to see Greystowe Hall through different eyes entirely.

Either way, he suspected the next few days would prove far more interesting than he had anticipated.

And far more dangerous to the reserve he had cultivated so diligently over years of command.