Page 12

One

T he morning mist lingered over the grounds of Whitmore Hall as the carriage wheels crunched along the gravel path, heralding the arrival of the Duke of Haverleigh. Ten years had passed since he had last set foot on this estate—ten years since he had been here with his dear friend, James Hartwell, then Viscount Landowne. But with the death of James’ father, the Earl of Whitmore, a loss that had shaken their family to the core, James was now the Earl of Whitmore, and no one understood how difficult assuming a title could be more than Christopher. His friend had to be hurting, and badly.

Christopher had returned to Whitmore to be at his friend’s side and aid him in any way he could. He had received a summons a few days earlier, explaining that his father had died suddenly in his sleep. His death had been unexpected and swift leaving James any number of countless responsibilities to handle. So, Christopher had come to offer his condolences and to be the friend James needed in his time of grief.

Stepping from the carriage, Christopher surveyed the sprawling estate with a mixture of nostalgia and sorrow. The grand stone walls of Whitmore Hall loomed before him, their timeless elegance hiding the sorrow within. He had often visited the estate as a during his Eton years. Before his father’s death he had been full of life and expectations. Now as he returned to Whitmore it was with the heavy knowledge that the past, no matter how cherished, could not be recaptured, and in some ways he did not wish to.

The heavy wooden doors of the manor opened as he approached, and the butler ushered him inside with little fanfare. The house was quiet and still, as though mourning the loss of its master. The echoes of past laughter seemed distant now, drowned beneath the weight of the present. He went in search of his friend immediately to ensure that how he was faring.

He found James seated at his father’s old desk in the study, a room that had seen countless decisions made and letters written, and yet, it was now the room of a man burdened with an impossible task. He sat hunched over the accounts, his brow furrowed with concentration, though his posture spoke of exhaustion. The papers in front of him were likely a blur of numbers and figures, all foreign to the new earl. Responsibilities he had never expected to handle so soon and a family estate that could not be left unattended.

Christopher knocked softly on the door frame, his voice low but firm. “James?”

James glanced up; his eyes tired but brightened slightly when his gaze landed on him. “Christopher,” he said hoarsely, setting aside the accounts. “Thank you for coming.”

Christopher stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. He could see the weight on his friend’s shoulders, the grief that had already sunk deep into his soul. “You’re doing the best you can,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “I know it feels impossible now, but you’ll find your footing.”

James rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I don’t know how to do this. I wasn’t prepared for this yet. I’ve always been beside him, helping with the land and the tenants, but never like this. Never with all these damn accounts. I feel so… alone.” His voice faltered, as though the emotions he had been holding back were threatening to spill over.

Christopher placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “You’re not alone, James. You have me, and you’ll have everyone in this household. You’ve done so much already. You don’t have to handle it all at once.”

James nodded, but the deep exhaustion in his eyes remained. “Thank you. I just… I don’t know how to fill his shoes. I never expected him to leave us so soon.”

Christopher sat in the chair opposite him, his gaze sympathetic. “I know,” he murmured. “I lost my father when I was young, if you’ll recall. I watched him die in front of me. It was… devastating. But we learn to carry on, little by little. You’ll find your way.”

Though Christopher had yet to return to Haverleigh… He remained in London at the townhouse there all year long. He left the running of his country estate to his steward and made decisions by way of missives and messengers. He could not go there still. In his mind, that was his father’s home, not his, and it was there that his father had taken his last breath.

There was a long silence, both men lost in the gravity of their own thoughts. It wasn’t easy, this transition from the world of carefree youth to the heavy mantle of responsibility. Christopher, despite his stoic demeanor, could not help but empathize with James. He had been through it himself, though it had been a different kind of loss. No loss was ever easy.

James cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “I’ll manage. I just wish I had more time to… adjust.”

Christopher gave him a wry smile. “Time is something none of us can afford, I’m afraid.”

James chuckled weakly, his gaze returning to the papers on his desk. “No, I suppose not.”

He would remain at Whitmore as long as he was needed. Christopher had only one true friend, and he remained loyal to him. If James needed him there was no question about it. He would be there for him. Even if it was just sitting in a room filled with silent grief and frustration. Which is what they did for another hour until James gave up and said he needed to go for a walk—by himself. Leaving Christopher alone with his own thoughts and nothing to do with them.

After James left, Christopher decided he needed some air as well. The confines of the study had seemed too small, too heavy, and he could not sit in that room any longer. Especially as a good majority of the time he had spent in the room consisted of watching as his friend crumbled under the weight of his new title. He exited the study and started to wander through the halls of Whitmore Hall, the place that had once been so familiar, yet now seemed foreign. The estate had an almost eerie quietness about it, as if the walls held the grief of the family within them. He passed a few servants who nodded respectfully but said nothing, and he eventually found himself outside, in the courtyard, where he could take in the cool afternoon air.

That’s when he saw her. Lady Phillipa—Pippa—Hartwell. Her golden hair had fallen loose from a chignon and tumbled around her angelic face. He was suddenly struck a little stupid as he stared at her from the edge of the courtyard. She was standing near the garden, her back to him as she surveyed the sprawling grounds of the estate. Those golden curls were enticing and gorgeous as sunlight streamed over them. Pippa stared up at the sky, her face set in a scowl of concentration. She had grown into a beautiful young woman and there was no mistaking the fire remained in her blue eyes. It had always been there when she was a young girl. Some things never changed… The same fiery spirit that had gotten under his skin all those years ago had not disappeared, and he found he was glad for that.

As if sensing him, she turned her gaze to meet his, her lips parted in surprise. But then those blue eyes turned to a flame that suggested trouble and he braced himself for her biting tongue. “You,” she said, the word dripping with disdain.

Christopher’s lips twisted into a wry grin. It may be perverse of him, but he had missed this. “Good to see you as well, Lady Phillipa.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure it is.” Pippa rolled her eyes. “It’s always a pleasure to cross paths with you, Your Grace,” she added, the mockery clear in her tone.

“I do apologize for not offering the usual pleasantries,” Christopher replied smoothly, stepping closer, “as I didn’t realize you had such a fondness for me. Allow me to rectify that now.”

Her eyes flashed with irritation. “Fondness is far too kind a word for someone who has only ever treated me with the utmost arrogance,” she said, her voice sharp. “You’re as insufferable now as you were then.”

He leaned closer, enjoying the way she bristled at his mere presence. “Then I shall consider it a compliment, Lady Phillipa. After all, I can’t be too insufferable if you’re still so willing to use that deliciously barbed tongue against me.”

“You’ll never truly know how delicious my tongue can be,” she snapped, taking a step back. Her cheeks pinkened into a delightful blush as if she realized what she had just said. He couldn’t help thinking about those words and wondering something a man should never consider about his best friend’s little sister. He inwardly cursed as he imagined holding her in his arms and tasting that tongue of hers. “I have far better things to do than bicker with you,” she said dragging him out of his own fantasies.

Her words startled him, and he shook his head to dislodge the imagery that had seemed to stay firmly in his mind—what the blazes was that? Fortunately, he knew how to distract her—sharing barbs always worked. Besides she clearly still bristled with resentment toward him—and perhaps something else, something deeper that he wasn’t quite ready to admit. Did she feel this sudden, unshakeable passion that seemed to spring out of nowhere as well? He would examine whatever it was later when she was not near clouding his thoughts. “Then perhaps you should return to your ‘better things,’” he said, voice low but laced with something unspoken, something that hovered in the air between them like a dangerous promise.

Pippa hesitated, her eyes narrowing as if she were debating whether to say something cutting. Finally, she muttered under her breath, “You may be a duke, but you’re still a pompous arse.”

Christopher’s smile was slow to spread across his face. “And yet,” he said quietly, “you’re still speaking to me.”

Pippa’s cheeks flushed even brighter, and then she turned sharply, leaving him standing there in the courtyard, feeling as if something had shifted in the very air between them. He wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew one thing for certain—this was far from over. Christopher stood there, watching Pippa walk away, her golden curls bouncing with each step as if to mock him. Her sharp words still lingered in the air, but beneath that thinly veiled irritation, something else simmered. He had always known that there was fire in her, but he hadn’t realized how dangerously close that fire was to igniting something in him. The thought unsettled him more than it should.

For years, he had seen Pippa as nothing more than James’ younger sister—a playful child with a sharp tongue and a knack for getting under his skin. But now, standing in the courtyard, watching her leave with that defiant swing in her step, he couldn’t deny the undeniable pull that thrummed between them. It wasn’t just the physical attraction—though that was certainly there—it was something deeper, something he had never imagined before.

He cursed under his breath and rubbed a hand over his face. What was he doing? He was a duke, after all, and she was James' sister. This was absurd, and yet... he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted. He was no longer the same young boy who had first met Pippa all those years ago and she was no little girl. She had grown into a woman of striking beauty, sharp wit, and a mind of her own, though the latter she had always shown him. Gone was the little girl he had thought of as nothing more than an annoyance. A part of him wondered if she had noticed it too. The way their words had tangled, and their gazes had held for just a moment longer than was appropriate. Was that why she had fled?

With a deep breath, Christopher turned and walked toward the manor, his mind still swirling with the aftermath of his encounter with Pippa. He had to put it aside for now. He had come to Whitmore Hall for a reason, and that reason was James. But he couldn’t deny that, as the minutes passed by, thoughts of Lady Pippa Hartwell persisted, lingering like a stubborn ember in the back of his mind, burning images in his mind that kept him enraptured.