Challenging the Brooding Earl, page 1
“You.”
Oh, no. Merryn’s heart sank to the soles of her buttoned boots because it was the man from the fair. Hearing the door close softly behind her, she realized the butler had retreated after doubtlessly taking in that short, damning greeting.
“My lord,” she said at last. She made a formal curtsy; Liam, following her lead, gave a little bow. “This is a surprise to me also.”
Her voice was calm and that amazed her, because inside she was so shaken that she felt sick. What kind of cruel joke had fate played on her this time?
“Please enlighten me,” he said. His voice—every bit as rich and deep as she remembered—was etched with incredulity. “Is this some kind of blackmail, perhaps? Are you here to ask for money?”
“Of course not!” She clamped down on her anger while thinking, Hateful, hateful man. “I’m actually here on legitimate business, my lord.”
“Really?” There was sheer disbelief in that one word.
“Yes! My name is Miss Merryn Hythe. This is my brother, Liam—and I’m here to claim Liam’s inheritance.”
You could have heard a pin drop. It was the earl who finally broke the silence. “Well.” He spoke exceedingly softly. “You’ve been plotting hard since last night, haven’t you?”
Lucy Ashford
Challenging the Brooding Earl
Lucy Ashford studied English and history at Nottingham University, and the Regency era is her favorite period. She lives with her husband in an old stone cottage in the Derbyshire Peak district, close to beautiful Chatsworth House, and she loves to walk in the surrounding hills while letting her imagination go to work on her latest story.
Books by Lucy Ashford
Harlequin Historical
The Major and the Pickpocket
The Return of Lord Conistone
The Captain’s Courtesan
Snowbound Wedding Wishes
“Twelfth Night Proposal”
The Outrageous Belle Marchmain
The Rake’s Bargain
The Captain and His Innocent
The Master of Calverley Hall
Unbuttoning Miss Matilda
The Widow’s Scandalous Affair
The Viscount’s New Housekeeper
Challenging the Brooding Earl
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com for more titles.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Excerpt from A Family for the Reclusive Baron by Carol Arens
Chapter One
Surrey, England—early spring 1802
It was past ten at night by the time Dominic, the Fifth Earl of Marchwood, glimpsed the travelling show camped on Weybridge Heath. It wasn’t difficult to find even in the dark, since from almost half a mile away you could hear the infernal music and smell the strong odours of hot food. Grim-faced, the Earl guided his mare towards the assembly of caravans and canvas tents, all of them gaudily lit by lanterns.
In his opinion, gatherings such as these were the plague of the Surrey countryside, attracting riff-raff and troublemakers. It was as well for them they hadn’t tried pitching up on his land, for he would have summoned the local yeomanry to clear them out, double quick. He was a proud man, the Earl of Marchwood, brought up from birth to know not only of his heritage, but of his obligation to society—which was precisely what he always tried to drum into the head of his young brother, Felix.
Unfortunately Felix was not inclined to listen, since the young fool believed he’d been put on God’s earth purely to enjoy himself. Just over a week ago in London, Dominic had collared Felix sneaking into the family’s Mayfair house at two o’clock in the morning, reeking of spirits and with his coat askew.
‘You’re coming with me,’ Dominic had ordered him, ‘to Castle Marchwood. Tomorrow.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Dom. Exile to the country—again! Do you want me to die of boredom?’
‘I want you to learn some sense. I want you to show some awareness of responsibility towards our family name.’ Dominic was quite sure by now that as well as brandy, Felix smelled of cheap perfume.
‘But you’re the one who sees to all that! Besides, you’re nearly six years older than me and quite used to all those responsibilities you’re so fond of preaching about!’ Felix tried and failed to adjust his crumpled neckcloth. ‘Dash it, Dom, I’ll never be the Earl. At least, I most sincerely hope I won’t.’
‘At the moment, heaven help us, you are actually my heir.’
‘Indeed.’ Felix looked glum, then brightened. ‘But you’ll marry again. You’re getting on a bit, of course, but any of London’s debutantes would jump at the chance to grab an earl. Then you can have lots of bawling brats and leave me in peace!’
Dominic had reeled slightly at that. Getting on a bit. He was nearly thirty years old. He had once been married and... Never again, he’d vowed. But Felix was right; some day he would have to provide the estate with heirs. ‘In the morning,’ Dominic had repeated, ‘we’re going to Castle Marchwood, you and I. Where you won’t find quite so many opportunities to throw your money around.’
But even in the depths of the Surrey countryside, it appeared that his brother had managed to seek out trouble. Earlier this evening the Marchwood estate’s long-serving steward, John Galbraith, had come into Dominic’s study. ‘My lord! I’ve heard that your brother has gone with some friends to visit the fair on Weybridge Heath.’
‘Good grief, Galbraith. Why?’
‘There is—’ Galbraith coughed ‘—a female there. She is a fortune teller, I believe, who has attracted a good deal of male interest.’
A fortune teller! Dominic had gritted his teeth. How low could Felix go?
He’d instantly ordered his horse to be saddled. Reaching his destination was easy, but finding his brother proved harder. He rode between the tents and stalls of the fair, soothing Meg as she fretted over the noise and bright lights. People turned to stare at him, exactly as he expected. By no means was he clad in finery, but he knew that everything about him—his upright bearing, his fine black mare—meant that he drew attention.
But he ignored them all and a moment later he spotted one of Felix’s friends, Tom Brierley, who was trying his hand at the shooting stall, without success. ‘Brierley!’ Dominic called.
Tom Brierley blinked when he saw who it was. ‘My lord. I didn’t expect—’
‘No,’ grated Dominic, ‘I imagine you didn’t. Where is my brother?’
A young female had come to cling to Brierley’s arm and her eyes widened on seeing Dominic. ‘Saints above,’ she whispered. ‘Tom, who’s this fine gent?’
Brierley ignored her. ‘My lord,’ he stuttered, ‘your brother wanted to see the fortune teller. But there was a long queue at her caravan, so I left him to it. Then...’
‘What, Brierley? Speak up!’
‘A few moments ago Felix came to tell me he’d had his pocket picked and lost all his money. So he said he was going for his horse to ride home.’
On his arrival Dominic had noted that most visitors who’d come on horseback had left their mounts in a nearby field allocated to the purpose. Nodding curtly to Brierley, he turned Meg in that direction and soon saw his brother speaking to one of the lads whose job it was to watch over the horses. ‘Felix!’ he called out.
His brother, turning, let out an exclamation. ‘Dom! How on earth did you know I was here?’
‘Never mind that.’ Dominic reined in his horse. ‘Tom Brierley told me you were robbed. Is it true?’
‘Oh, God, trust you to find out all about it.’ Felix’s face was a mixture of defiance and guilt. ‘I wanted to see the fortune teller. There were dozens waiting, so I joined them. But a rogue in a shabby blue jacket picked my pocket—can you believe my bad luck? Naturally I chased after the fellow, but I was too late to catch him. And my money’s gone now, so I can’t get my horse back!’
He gestured to the young lad who held the reins of Felix’s chestnut mare. Grimly Dominic handed over the required coins and Felix, with some relief, said, ‘Thanks, Dom.’
He was clearly eager to be on his way, but Dominic put out a hand to restrain him. ‘Listen. Has it occurred to you that the pickpocket might have been in partnership with your fortune teller? She attracts the crowds, while he looks for likely targets—you, for example.’ Felix was dressed as flashily as ever in a bottle-green riding coat with gilt buttons.
‘No!’ Felix was aghast. ‘I’ve seen her, Dom. She actually came out of her caravan to apologise to us for the delay. She’s really lovely and—’
‘Felix, I’ve warned you before. If you keep getting into trouble like this, I’ll cut off your allowance. Do you understand?’
Felix sighed. ‘Yes.
‘You appear to find excitement wherever you go,’ said Dominic grimly. ‘Promise me you’ll ride straight home?’
‘I promise.’ Felix swung himself into the saddle. ‘Are you going to ride with me?’
‘No. I’m going to take a look around. This fellow who robbed you—he wore a blue jacket, you say?’
‘Indeed. And he had black hair and a bushy beard, but he looked dangerous. Be careful, won’t you?’
‘Aren’t I always? You told me only last week I was the most cautious man in London. No sense of adventure and old before my time—I believe those were your precise words.’
Felix looked rather embarrassed and hastily rode off.
Leaving Meg in the care of the lad in charge, Dominic headed back to the fair on foot. The aisles between the stalls were more crowded than ever, but he shouldered his way through, looking in all directions. Where was this fortune teller? It was late, but he was damned if he would give up.
It was then that a nearby caravan caught his attention. Its door was shut, but a faint light glimmered in the window and a poster nailed to the door made him pull up sharply.
It said: Have your cards read for a penny.
This had to be Felix’s fortune teller. There was no queue, but that could be because the woman had made quite enough money one way or another and had decided to shut up shop for the night. He felt like hammering on the door, but he paused, because below the writing was a drawing of a tarot card showing the figure of a man strolling headlong towards disaster. It was the card known as The Fool.
He gazed at it, suddenly cold as he remembered the craze for tarot cards at fashionable private parties a few years ago. He remembered his lovely young wife laughing over the cards with her friends, then laughing at him later that same night when he’d asked her if she was having an affair.
‘Of course,’ she’d said. ‘And I’m leaving you, Dominic.’
He’d reeled. ‘You can’t mean it.’
‘But I do. And I know that you’ll accept the blame, noble as you are. Fool that you are.’
Though his fist had been raised to rap on the fortune teller’s caravan door, he let it fall now and closed his eyes. Damn it. He couldn’t face any more reminders, not tonight. Slowly he walked back to reclaim his horse, remembering how eagerly he’d walked into marriage. How blindly. As he rode from the lights of the fairground he tried to empty his mind of everything except the steady rhythm of Meg’s hooves on a path still strewn with the dead leaves of winter.
Suddenly, he realised three men were charging out from a thicket brandishing cudgels. He tried to wheel round and gallop away, but they were striking at Meg’s flanks with those cudgels until the terrified horse reared and pawed at the air. Dominic did his best to control her frantic kicks, but it was no good because Meg reared again and he flew to the ground, landing with such force that he was knocked senseless.
* * *
‘Please pass me the cold water, Cassie. There, that’s it.’
The voice was a woman’s and it was gentle, almost musical—but Dominic registered that something was very wrong. He was lying flat on his back and his brain didn’t appear to be working properly. He opened his eyes, then realised he couldn’t see much either because some kind of bandage half covered his eyes and he was in... What the hell was he in? The roof above him was low and seemed to be made of painted wooden planks...
He was in a caravan, for God’s sake. He was remembering now that he’d been attacked by fairground villains and they must have kidnapped him. Besides which, he must be losing his reason, for a young woman was leaning over him murmuring soft words just as Teresa had, causing him to feel the same weakness in his body and his brain, because he knew he couldn’t resist her...
Teresa is dead, he reminded himself. My wife is dead.
He perhaps tried to say something to the woman in the caravan and must have made some kind of sound, because he heard her saying, ‘I think he’s coming round, Cassie.’
He could just about see the speaker now because the bandage above his eyes had slipped a little. She had chestnut-brown hair that tumbled past her shoulders and thick-lashed green eyes. She had to be Felix’s fortune teller; he was sure of it. This woman’s accomplices must have robbed Felix, then found themselves another target and attacked him, too. But why bring him here? Why hadn’t they just stolen his horse and his money and left him lying in the woods?
He tried to sit up, but the startling colours of the woman’s cheap dress made his head swim. He struggled to clear his dry throat, intending to say, ‘I’ll have you hauled before the magistrates for this’, only it didn’t quite come out like that, because his lip was split and he could taste blood.
He realised he was lying on a narrow wooden bed fixed to the caravan’s wall and from here he could see a washstand, where another young woman with badly dyed blonde hair—Cassie, presumably—was rinsing out a cloth. Nearby were some shelves, on which sat several books and a piece or two of painted pottery, while at the far end of the caravan a pair of curtains divided off what he guessed must be space for sleeping.
Or for entertaining male customers.
Just then the fortune teller moved, allowing the light of the nearby lamp to shine more clearly over her features. He realised she was younger than Felix, easily. He saw also that her cheekbones were high, her nose was straight and her chin small but pointed. Around her neck hung a small gold-coloured locket set with fragments of green glass; the thing was probably made of cheap gilt, fake like her. And he needed to get back control quickly. He made another attempt to sit up, but failed.
‘You’d best stay still,’ the woman advised him. ‘Does your head hurt? I’m not surprised. You’ve a fine bruise there.’ She wiped his forehead carefully and as she drew the cloth away he saw that it was stained with spots of blood.
‘I’ll see you all in gaol for this,’ he muttered.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m afraid you can’t blame my friends for what happened. Those men who attacked you had nothing to do with our fair.’
He shook his head. ‘Why should I believe you? I know for certain that a man had his pocket picked outside your caravan earlier!’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ Her voice was steady. ‘But we fairground folk make our money from entertaining people, not from robbing them or knocking them over the head. You’ll realise, I’m sure, that crime is not good for business.’
His head was reeling again because she was so very well spoken, so calm, as she regarded him with those amazing green eyes. ‘Though I must say,’ she went on, ‘that most of our customers aren’t foolish enough to come here looking so obviously rich. You might like to know that Mr Ashley Wilmot, the owner of the fair, spotted you riding away. He’d heard there might be thieves lurking, so he and two of his men followed you and rescued you, suffering more than a few blows themselves in the process. You owe them your thanks, sir.’
The sir was almost mocking. He gazed at her, knowing that whatever the truth of her story, he was still vulnerable here. At last he said, ‘Those brutes struck my mare. Is she safe?’
‘She’s being checked over by our head groom, Jem. You may be sure that once Jem’s convinced she’s unharmed, you’ll be able to ride home as soon as you feel ready. I trust you don’t live far away?’
He shook his head. He was not going to let this woman learn anything about him. ‘Not far.’
‘Will there be someone to take care of you there?’
‘Plenty,’ he rapped out. ‘I have staff.’
He instantly saw those green eyes widen in mockery. ‘Staff,’ she murmured. ‘I can see we are honoured. Aren’t we, Cassie?’
She turned to the female at her side, whose eyes twinkled. ‘Indeed, we are, Miss Merryn,’ she agreed.
Dominic closed his eyes again, briefly.
You’re being an outright boor, he told himself, if these people really are trying to help you.
‘You’re from Ireland,’ he said suddenly. He’d registered a strong lilt in the blonde woman’s voice, though it was only faintly discernible in the fortune teller’s.
She leaned forward to press her cloth against his forehead again. ‘That is so. My grandfather was English, but he settled in County Kildare fifty years ago. My father and my mother were born in Ireland.’
