Too Tempting to Resist: Gothic Love Stories #3

by Ridley, Erica

  “You could choose to give it to me instead,” she said hopefully. Such a neat solution would grant her the independence she craved without causing her to be a burden on anyone else.

  “And have you spend the entire sum on tiaras and fur muffs?” He laughed. “Come now, child, I’m far too practical to blunder that badly. You would be penniless in a fortnight. Have you forgotten I live with six ladies of impeccable taste? What you need is a strong hand, I’m afraid.”

  Not as afraid as Rebecca was. The last thing she needed was a husband. For the past five years, she had got by without anyone but the castle ghosts.

  She’d missed her parents, of course. Dreadfully. And at first, she’d even missed other people. But when her year of mourning concluded, she’d had no money to return to London and no sponsor to accompany her to another Season.

  More importantly, by then the idea of trying to fit in with the fashionable set no longer interested her. She held no desire to be among silly people, or have Lord Stonebury’s sharp tongue flay her anew. The castle was her home now.

  Or had been.

  She straightened her shoulders. “You cannot possibly expect me to find a husband inside of a month. It cannot be done. You are a practical man. If marrying off women were that simple, your eldest daughters would already be wed.”

  The new earl frowned. “If you insist upon a Season at your advanced age, you may attend with my family in January. But my focus, as you correctly point out, must be on my own daughters. Your wardrobe and entertainment costs will be deducted from your five hundred pound balance, leaving you very little with which to attract a husband. You would need to charm him fast.”

  Rebecca’s fingers curled into fists as she fought to hold her tongue at this rebuke.

  Blast it all, her uncle’s assumption that she could not attract a suitor without aid of a dowry hurt only because it was true. She had learned that much during her sole, ill-fated Season, in which Lord Stonebury had been too embarrassed to be seen with her in public.

  Suffering through another London Season would be a living hell.

  “There has to be another way,” she whispered.

  Lord Banfield brightened. “If you don’t want a Season, we can have the thing solved in no time. Surely a village like Delmouth must have at least one bachelor in want of a wife?”

  Rebecca’s stomach churned. She would have no more chance for happiness with one of the local fishermen or wayfaring smugglers than she would with the London crowd. She didn’t fit in anywhere.

  What she wanted was her independence. Not a husband. Just the freedom to be herself.

  “Please, Uncle.” She clutched her hands to her chest, fully prepared to beg. “Could you please give me the money outright? I promise never to return, asking for more.”

  He laughed jovially and gave her a kind pat upon the shoulder. “Of course I cannot. The very question proves how silly women are. How would you pay your accounts? Everyone knows females aren’t good with figures.”

  A bolt of impatience flashed through her.

  “Who do you think has been auditing the books?” she snapped without thinking.

  The solicitor’s stricken face swung in her direction. “It wasn’t one of the ghosts?”

  “I daresay a ghost would do better at accounting than a woman,” Lord Banfield put in disapprovingly before Rebecca could answer. “I won’t stand for any such meddling, young lady. Now that I’m the earl, you are forbidden from even touching any of the journals. I take care of my business myself. Starting with you. If you wish to make your own decisions, then turn your pretty head to selecting a husband.”

  “And…if I can’t find one?” she stammered with dread.

  “If you aren’t wed before the start of the Season and cannot bring anyone up to scratch before your portion runs dry, then you leave me no choice but to do the selecting myself. If you haven’t chosen a husband by the end of January—I’ll choose for you.”

  She tried to hide her shiver as a chill went down her spine.

  He nodded at the solicitor. “Now if you’ll excuse us, we’ve invitations to address, and then I must collect my wife and daughters. Dozens of guests will be arriving for the reading of the will. Lady Banfield will wish her family to be settled first.”

  Rebecca stepped back as the two men swept past her. When they disappeared down the corridor, she sagged back against the wall and tried to calm her heart.

  Three months. She had only until the end of January to find a sweet, not-too-demanding suitor delighted to have her dowry—and happy to leave her alone. She swallowed.

  Perhaps Delmouth would be a fine pond to fish in. She could stay in the country, far from London. And her husband would be gone all day, doing whatever it was country husbands did.

  Such a marriage might be bearable after all. Provided she could arrange one within three short months.

  Her fists clenched. She could not allow her uncle to choose for her. He’d pick some dreadful London fop, or an ancient roué, or a self-important, fickle rakehell like that arrogant Lord Stonebury… who undoubtedly topped the guest list for the reading of the will. Not just because he was related to the prior earl’s sister. But because everyone who knew Lord Stonebury, loved him.

  Once, Rebecca had too.

  She leaned the back of her head against the wall in despair. What hope had she of even attracting a country gentleman? Even her alleged friends had turned from her ever since the moment of Lord Stonebury’ public cut.

  In fact, Rebecca had been hurt so badly that she was relieved at first when her parents didn’t have the funds to give her a second Season. But they loved her too much to give up.

  They’d trekked all the way to South Cornwall in the hopes that her mother’s distant uncle, the Earl of Banfield, might be impressed enough with the gentle manners and pleasing face of a young Rebecca that he might be coaxed into sponsoring her second Season.

  It worked. Banfield had agreed to fund her second Season. Rebecca’s parents had been ecstatic.

  They’d begged her to join them on a pleasure boat to celebrate their financial success in Cornwall before returning to London.

  Rebecca had declined to join them. She’d discovered the castle’s soaring library, and meant to inhale as many books as possible before returning to their barren rented cottage on the outskirts of London. ‘Twas both the best and worst decision of her life.

  She had never seen her parents again, not even as ghosts. Only bits of wreckage ever drifted ashore.

  When her year of mourning had concluded, Lord Banfield no longer recalled his promise to sponsor another Season. He had forgotten she was under his roof altogether.

  And the new earl would be rid of her three months hence, come hell or high water.

  Rebecca rubbed her temples in frustration. What was she to do? She had no fashionable clothing. No knowledge of whatever was popular at the moment. No skill at flirtation—or even conversation. She had spent the past lonely years haunting the library, the billiards room, and the hedge maze behind the castle, should the sun chance to peek through the omnipresent clouds.

  How would she possibly attract a promising bachelor’s attention, much less his hand in marriage?

  Especially with Lord Stonebury under the same roof, right there to see her fail.

  She cringed at the imminent humiliation. Saints save her. He was the only person likely to remember her name—and thus the only one who might be able to help a reclusive spinster without the slightest talent at coquetry obtain a marriage proposal before time ran out.

  That settled it. She lifted her chin in determination. Swallowing her pride would be well worth the chance to attract a better man.

  Who better than a rakish viscount to teach her how to snare a true gentleman capable of appreciating her charms?

  Chapter 2

  October 18, 1811

  Mayfair, London, England

  Daniel Goodenham, Lord Stonebury, could scarcely hear himself think over the shri
ll of laughter and raucous shouts. His friends swirled into each other in a drunken quadrille in his front parlor.

  In honor of his birthday, he’d had every carpet and every stick of furniture swept out of sight, and a small—yet astonishingly loud—six man orchestra brought in for entertainment. There was nowhere to sit and no one who desired to. There was too much good wine, too much music, too much food, too much mirth. Every room and corridor overflowed with friends and revelry.

  It was, without a doubt, the most successful birthday celebration he’d had in the nine years since he had inherited the viscountcy. His townhouse overflowed with so many guests, he didn’t even recognize half of them.

  They all wished him well, of course. At every break in the music someone would raise their glass in a toast to Daniel, and the subsequent moments would be a whirl of champagne and claps on the back and tipsy kisses behind the cover of painted fan.

  He recognized his good fortune. After all, he might be a viscount celebrating a birthday, but the unmarried young ladies in the crush were celebrating being within arm’s reach of an eligible, twenty-six-year-old bachelor. He wished he enjoyed it.

  To the debutantes, he was in possession of a title and in want of a wife—a circumstance from which they sought to save him. Daily. Hourly. He could barely catch his breath between encounters with this young lady or that, each of them hoping that her stolen kiss would be the one to bring the unattainable viscount to his knees.

  It had been fun, he supposed. At first. Perhaps not nine years ago, when he’d inherited the title at seventeen years of age and hadn’t had the least idea what to do with it, much less what to do with a woman.

  He’d learned quickly, though. On all points. He’d had to—sink or swim.

  And now here he was. No longer a gangly youth terrified of living up to the Stonebury name. Now he was the Stonebury name. The viscountcy was a tight ship, Daniel’s arguments in the House of Lords concise and persuasive, and invitations to his fêtes eagerly anticipated.

  Yet at some point, the fawning attention had ceased being flattering and had simply become part of the job. It was all automatic now. He managed his estate. Balanced ledgers. Looked after his tenants. Voted Whig. Fended off the flirtations of sixteen-year-old doe-eyed beauties hoping to crown their come-outs with banns and a marriage.

  He wondered if he could slip out of the back door into his empty garden without anyone noticing him missing.

  “My lord.” One of Daniel’s footmen stood unobtrusively behind a cluster of young ladies vying to entice him into a waltz. “A letter has arrived for you.”

  “At last!” Daniel exclaimed, as if he had the slightest idea from whence the missive had come. He snatched the folded parchment from his footman’s outstretched palm. “Thank you, John. My dears, you’ll have to pardon my absence for the smallest of moments while I attend to this very urgent matter. There will be more quadrilles, never fear.”

  Without awaiting a reply, he held the letter before him like a torch lighting his way, allowing its rain-smeared script and indistinct seal to part seas of well-wishers as he made his way out of the festivities and up to his office.

  He closed the door, although no one would bother to follow him. Wine and music were on the ground floor. Business matters were boring.

  Daniel lit a few extra candles, then angled the letter beneath their light.

  Ah. Now he recognized the seal. The Earl of Banfield must have written, although Daniel couldn’t imagine what on earth for. He hadn’t set foot on the foreboding grounds of that old macabre castle in nine delightful, ghost-free years. He didn’t intend to ruin his streak.

  With a small blade, Daniel sliced open the seal and unfolded the letter. Stark, bold handwriting covered the parchment.

  * * *

  Dear Lord Stonebury,

  In regards to the matter of the unentailed estate of the late Jonathan Hambly, 10th Earl of Banfield, be advised that your attendance is urgently required at the reading of his lordship’s Last Will & Testament, to take place on the first of November of this year at Crowmere Castle in Delmouth, Cornwall.

  Regards,

  Mr. Timothy Hunt, Esq.

  * * *

  The faint scent of cinnamon sugar tickled Daniel’s memory.

  Perhaps his first thought should have been for the plight of the late earl. His second thought, perhaps, should have concerned his apparent unexpected inheritance.

  But his only thought was Miss Rebecca Bond.

  He regretted nothing more deeply than the lost friendship he’d shared long ago with the one woman who treated him like a man, not a title.

  Rebecca was the epicenter of Daniel’s best and worst moments at Crowmere Castle.

  The best such memory happened to also be Daniel’s all-time favorite birthday. His fifteenth, to be exact. Rebecca had been twelve. Old enough not to require a nanny, yet young enough for her parents to think nothing untoward of their daughter spending the afternoon in the company of a young lad on his birthday.

  They’d snuck into the castle kitchen, where Rebecca had baked him raisin biscuits—the only thing she knew how to make. She had flecks of flour in her glossy black ringlets and sugar on the bridge of her nose. She smelled like warm cinnamon. He’d stolen a kiss that tasted like every present he’d ever wanted. Raisin biscuits were his favorite to this very day.

  Rebecca likely didn’t think of him as fondly.

  A few years later, when he was seventeen and she fourteen, they once again crossed paths at Crowmere Castle. There had been a crush of some kind, and the castle brimmed with important people. Daniel no longer recalled the occasion. All he remembered were those few moments with Rebecca.

  She had been radiant that night. Her best gown, her black curls piled high, her lips plump and deliciously red against the smooth porcelain of her skin. But it was still two years before her come-out, and her parents had forbidden her from joining the party.

  Daniel hadn’t even wanted to attend until he’d caught sight of Rebecca. If she couldn’t enter the ballroom, what lure held it for him? The only thing he wanted was gazing up at him from beneath dark lashes, a flush of pink dusting the apples of her cheeks as she asked him to dance with her right there, since she was forbidden to go inside.

  He wanted to. He should have done. Daniel still hadn’t forgiven himself for that night. How much he’d hurt her. Nor had he forgiven his grandmother, Lady Octavia, for her role in the matter.

  Shortly after, he’d inherited the viscountcy and no longer had time for anything or anyone. Life had other plans. He and Rebecca never spoke again, just as he no longer spoke to his grandmother.

  But Rebecca had always been the loss that stung.

  He straightened his shoulders. Now that his life and the viscountcy were under control, he was in a different position. He was a different person than he’d been back then.

  This was his chance to prove it to Rebecca. His excuse to finally extend the olive branch he couldn’t offer her years before.

  He reread the summons. Crowmere Castle was three hundred miles away. The first of November was less than a fortnight hence. He considered his options. Most of the other guests wouldn’t arrive until closer to the reading. If Daniel left immediately, changing horses as often as necessary to take advantage of every scrap of daylight, he could make the trip in three days.

  Better yet, he could start now. Couldn’t he? There was no moon to speak of, so he wouldn’t be able to leave London until dawn. But the sun rose at six o’clock in the morning, and as it was already half three. That left him two and a half hours to pack his trunk, rouse his valet, and set off toward the first posting-house. A capital plan!

  He shoved the letter into his waistcoat pocket and raced to his dressing room. It was considered bad ton to abandon one’s own birthday party, but if Daniel wished for a chance to speak to Rebecca in private, he had to arrive before the others.

  There were no other circumstances in which the two could be alone without ra
ising eyebrows. No better opportunity to even be under the same roof. Once the other guests arrived, his chance to make amends would vanish.

  He’d already squandered too many opportunities. He couldn’t let it happen again.

  Without wasting a single moment, he collected his trunks and his valet and set out for Cornwall. They took hurried meals at humble inns along the way, and stopped at posting-houses only long enough to change horses or grab a few hours’ sleep.

  As the wheels of his carriage brought him inexorably closer to Crowmere Castle, all Daniel could think about was Rebecca.

  When he’d first met the pretty gray-eyed girl all those years ago, he’d had nothing to offer her. Daniel’s father had been Lady Octavia’s prodigal second son, whom she had vociferously declared unfit for the title. When the viscountcy had dared to pass to seventeen-year-old Daniel, Lady Octavia had been even less pleased with the newest lord.

  As angry as he’d been with his grandmother for her constant belittling, young Daniel couldn’t help but seek her approval… or at least enough success to make her eat her words.

  He’d thrown himself into the title, the estate, the House of Lords, and spent the next few years proving Lady Octavia wrong. At the expense of all else. He’d been so focused on managing and improving every aspect of the viscountcy, he hadn’t had a moment to spare for so much as a single dance during Rebecca’s first Season. He hadn’t even returned her calls.

  Next year, he’d told himself. Next year he’d have everything under control and be able to relax and enjoy life. Next year he’d finally be free to sweep Rebecca off her feet at a midnight waltz, if some blackguard didn’t beat him to it.

  But next year never came. Rebecca never set foot in London again. The chance was lost.

  He didn’t need her, he’d insisted to his empty heart. They already hadn’t spoken since their falling-out at Crowmere Castle a few years prior. Their romance simply wasn’t meant to be.

  Once Daniel had gained his confidence and entered the social whirl, he’d been immediately surrounded by beautiful women. A viscount in want of an heir could have his pick of accomplished young ladies eager to be his bride. Grandmother had even earmarked one or two “healthy chits” whose bloodlines made them especially suited for the role of future viscountess.