Earl of Darby: (Once Upon a Widow #4) (Wicked Earls’ Club Round 2)

by Aubrey Wynne

  He dropped to one knee. “Miss Hannah Pendleton, will you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?”

  Her eyes glistened, her smile tremulous. “Yes, Lord Darby, I will marry you.”

  He stood and cupped her face in his hands. “I may have rescued you earlier this week, but you have rescued me from a lifetime of misery.”

  He kissed her, closing his eyes when her velvet lips met his. He pulled her against him, feeling how her curves fit against his like the pieces of a puzzle. With her, he was whole again. Her hands went from his shoulders, tracing the curve of his arm, and up his chest.

  Desire stoked deep inside him, and he felt his passion grow. His tongue glided along the seam of her mouth, begging to delve deeper, and she opened to him. She tasted of gingerbread and fresh butter and he wanted to devour her, every inch of her.

  “Nicholas,” she said against his lips, “I think—”

  “Don’t,” he said and moved his attention to her jaw, trailing kisses down her neck.

  She tipped her head back, and a soft moan escaped her throat. He chuckled, feeling himself harden with the thought of the sounds she would make another time. His lips traced her collarbone. She pushed on his chest.

  “Nicholas,” she whispered, “I think we have an audience.”

  His head jerked up. In the doorway stood a grinning Lady Roberta and Lord Chester.

  “Well,” exclaimed Lord Chester, “it looks like love is the theme for this Christmas, eh?”

  Lady Roberta chuckled. “Did you propose, Lord Darby? Or are you taking advantage of my niece under my nose?”

  “We are betrothed, Aunt Bertie, never fear. Not that propriety has ever been a major concern of yours.” Hannah laughed when Lady Roberta flapped her arms at the comment.

  “Propriety would never have gotten me the love of my life, now would it?” she asked with a wink, then looked up at Lord Chester. “My dear, do you see where we are standing?”

  He looked up and grinned. “My, my, it is my lucky day.”

  With that, the older gentleman put his arms about Lady Roberta’s waist and kissed her with all the passion of a young man. Nicholas whistled. “I’m glad to know age does not dampen ardor.”

  “Not if it’s the right one, my boy. Not if it’s the right one.”

  Nicholas turned back to Hannah. “Happy Christmas, my love.” He bent to kiss her and she put her fingers on his lips.

  “What about the mistletoe? Shouldn’t we wait for our turn?”

  “To hell with the mistletoe, and to hell with waiting.” And with that, he claimed her lips and any further protests. He’d have to sneak some more berries in the bough when no one was looking. It was going to be a lusty holiday and numerous kisses between now and Twelfth Night.

  Afterword

  When my editor first received this story, she called me. “You’re beginning a Christmas story with a suicide?” She asked in a worried tone. I explained in order to understand the hero, we had to experience why he was so driven. I promised her I would make it work, and in the end, she was surprised and pleased.

  I wanted to dedicate this to the many who do not enjoy the holidays. To those who anticipate the season with dread, know they will succumb to depression, and avoid the well-meaning friends who try to rally them with good cheer. We lost my mother-in-law in December, and it was difficult to have the same joy without her.

  Though time often heals, we cannot move the hands of that abstract clock to suit our own needs. Patience and love are the keys to supporting a loved one dealing with depression or any mental health issues.

  In the end, Nicholas, Earl of Darby, found his needed comfort with the passage of time, the hand of justice, and in the arms of Hannah. I hope you found the end joyful, restorative, and romantic enough to overcome the prologue.

  I’ll also share a secret. Lady Matilda’s story will be next in the Once Upon a Widow series. The pirate she danced with at the masquerade ball? None other than the ex-Bow Street Runner, Walters!

  * * *

  Fact Check:

  The Cato Street Conspiracy was a true event. It was an attempt by radicals to revive the spirit of the French Revolution. While it is not known how widespread the conspiracy was, the rumors were numerous. An informer helped the police trap the plotters at their Cato Street meeting place near Edgware Road in London.

  The original conspirators were known as the Spencean Philanthropists, named after the British radical, Thomas Spence. Some of them had taken part in the earlier Spa Field Riots of 1816, still incensed by the Six Acts and Peterloo Massacre (described in Rhapsody and Rebellion).

  The plan: assassinate the cabinet while they were gathered at a dinner. Then the Philanthropists would overthrow the government by capturing key buildings and form a “Committee of Public Safety.” Unfortunately for the conspirators, there was a spy among them. He created the fictitious dinner where the officials would be murdered and financed the plot. In my story, I have used the evil duke as the source of those funds provided by the spy.

  Arrests were made on February 23, 1820. On May 1 at Newgate Prison, the convicted were hanged in front of a crowd of thousands. They were strung up for half an hour before being cut down and decapitated, each head shown to the crowd and denounced as the head of a traitor before being placed in the coffin next to their bodies.

  I thought this would be a fitting end for my villain, the Duke of Colvin, and fitting justice for poor Alice.

  Sneak Peek

  The next Wicked Earls’ Club member

  Earl of Scarborough

  The Honorable Rogues

  Wicked Earls’ Club

  By

  Collette Cameron

  * * *

  October 1817

  Wicked Earls’ Club, London England

  * * *

  Bored. Bored. Bored.

  Ansley Twistleton, the Earl of Scarborough, was bored. Out of his mind with ennui. Furthermore, he had absolutely no bloody idea, whatsoever, how to remedy the situation. This discontentment. This restlessness. This new, entirely irksome, wholly vexing dissatisfaction. It made him edgy and irritable.

  As was his habit, he analyzed his feelings logically and dispassionately. To a degree, he’d brought this state of malaise on himself. A man of rigid schedules and habits, nothing unexpected or exciting ever happened to him. That was precisely how he preferred his well-ordered, predictable life.

  Until now.

  Drumming his fingertips atop his thigh, he clamped his back teeth together, pondering the exasperating irregularity.

  Why now? Why, after years of consistency, was he bored?

  Probably, because his pursuits and interests were few.

  He neither gambled nor frequented bordellos—God only knew how many men those creatures of the boudoir had serviced—nor did he racehorses. Assemblies, routs, balls, and the like were avoided like the plague or clap, as were picnics, the opera, musicals, and the theater.

  Although… He’d been known to attend the latter by himself. If the play consisted of something worth watching, and he made his way into his box before anyone had a chance to corner him into conversation. There was the inconvenience of having to wait until most of the other patrons had departed before he could make his escape. But on rare occasions, the performance had been entertaining enough to warrant the minor irritation.

  To say he was socially awkward was as much an understatement as suggesting Caroline of Brunswick was out of favor with the portly Prince Regent, or the English had a slight partiality for tea.

  Ansley’s physical fitness and athleticism could be contributed to hours spent riding, fencing, and biweekly bouts of training at No.13 Bond Street with Jackson himself. Generally, those activities required little more than an occasional one-syllable-word comment, a grunt, or a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

  Men never felt the need to blather on just to hear their own voices. And of colossal more importance, no primping, simpering, salivating females were eve
r in attendance.

  God, help him. But like hounds on the fresh scent of blood, eligible young misses, their terrifying marriage-minded mamas, and their pernicious plotting papas had the habit of popping up at the most inopportune moments.

  Much like disease-infested rats, cockroaches, or fleas.

  One knew the loathsome pests lurked about in dark corners and crevices, but when one accidentally came upon one, the experience proved most alarming and unpleasant. Unlike those vermin which usually ended up dead, the giggling debutantes—God’s bones how he detested giggling—were almost certain to appear again.

  And again. And again. God help him and any other unattached male possessing a title.

  Fingering his glass with its remaining dram of superior cognac, he rested his head against the wingback chair’s plush crimson velvet. Legs crossed at the ankles, he stretched them before him and stared at the robust fire through half-closed eyelids.

  Around him, the soft din of his fellow Wicked Earls’ Club members’ gaming, laughter, and conversations barely permeated his aura of jaded disinterest.

  A wry smile kicked his lips up on one side. Wicked earls, indeed. His claims to wickedness were his cutting, sardonic tongue and wit. However, he couldn’t vouch for the other earls one way or the other. He didn’t know any of them well enough to form an opinion.

  The trouble was, he decided, returning to the issue of his boredom with a slight downward slant of his mouth and a drink of the amber liquid, he eschewed most social gatherings. Consequently, he often found himself with nothing at all to do.

  Until recently, that truth hadn’t bothered him. He’d even declined to seek memberships at White’s, Brooks, and Boodle’s. As select as those gentlemen clubs were, they still allowed far too many members for his comfort.

  Other than the secret Wicked Earls’ Club and Bon Chance—another exclusive club and the only two places other than his country estate where he felt a degree of ease around other people—he avoided le beau monde.

  Well, he didn’t willingly entertain and mingle with the haut ton.

  Since coming into his title seven years ago at the tender age of one and twenty, due to the premature death of his uncle, he’d been obligated to venture out on occasion. Very rare occasions. Mostly when his mother or sister entreated him to put on a mien of civilization. And loving them as much as he did, he tried to oblige their wishes every now and again.

  He suspected they were the only two people entirely aware of what an immense effort it took each time to don his public persona. For he couldn’t bear changes in his routines. Most particularly, unforeseen variations.

  It rattled him in a way that was not only difficult to explain, but disconcerting and humiliating. Everything in his ordered life had a time. When he rose. Bathed. When he ate. What time he retired. When his hair was trimmed—every third Wednesday at half-past two. When he arrived at his clubs and, unsurprisingly, when he departed.

  More than once, he’d wondered if he was even sane.

  Surely such compulsions bordered on madness. A terrifying notion that had haunted him since his youth.

  At least he wasn’t as dotty as that fellow who put on and removed his shoes five times before he’d leave his home and then checked to make sure the door was soundly locked by pushing the handle then the door itself in rapid succession four times.

  No one—bloody no one—kept to habits as he did. Several times, he’d tried to ease his inflexibility and found himself a wreck. Tense. His nerves on edge. Unable to concentrate or relax. His oddity was a damn curse. Indeed, it was.

  Oh, he could do it—if push came to shove. In fact, typically, no one was the wiser except those closest to him. But he preferred not to stray from routine if at all possible.

  He dragged his eyes open and squinted at the white marble and gilt bronze clock. Exhaling a long breath, he levered himself upright in the chair and tossed back the remaining spirits. Time to leave. He set the glass aside, then shoved to his feet.

  No one paid him much mind, which didn’t bother him in the least. He enjoyed solitude. Craved it, in fact. He’d wanted to be a scholar before inheriting the earldom—had hoped to teach Natural History and Ecclesiastical History at Oxford or Cambridge.

  But earls didn’t don austere robes and become professors. A rather irritating voice also dared remind him he mightn’t have been able to stand before a hall of students and orate.

  God’s teeth. His own education had been as painful as hell, and he couldn’t deny the truth. Despite his desire to teach, he lacked the wherewithal. No, that wasn’t precisely correct. He possessed the knowledge but was without the ability to adequately communicate with or instruct a room full of pupils.

  Reclining against the back of his usual chair beside the window, the Earl of Alcott smoked a cigar and stared morosely into his whisky tumbler. Somber, sad even, he raised the hand with the cigar toward Ansley in a silent farewell.

  He acknowledged the salute with an elevated chin. Alcott was a decent chap. In fact, it was he who suggested Ansley join the Wicked Earls’ Club.

  Nonetheless, he hadn’t ventured to the club tonight for titillating conversation. Or any other night, for that matter. Not a bit of it. No, he forced himself out of his rather ostentatious Grosvenor Square house four nights a week, else he’d easily become a hermit, locked inside his comfortable home, playing the pianoforte, wasting time on billiards, and reading musty old tomes till time for bed.

  Sounded like bloody bliss.

  Another sardonic twist of his mouth followed his retrospection.

  He rather liked the thought, truth be told. Why, he wouldn’t even be required to shave or even dress, for that matter. All his meals might be taken in his banyan.

  Recalling the correspondence from his mother this morning, suggesting the names of several eligible young misses that would make “exceptionally, wonderful countesses,” the tic near his left eye began twitching in earnest. A sure indication he was more upset than his outward façade of bored-nonchalance proclaimed. One would think he’d have become accustomed to the spasms, yet deep-rooted humiliation tumbled about in his stomach.

  Dearest Mama had also recommended he host a Christmastide house party this year at Fawtonbrooke Hall, his country estate. He barely suppressed a shudder of distaste.

  Horror of absolutely absurd horrors.

  Guests tramping all about his sanctuary from dawn to midnight or later? Required to dine with them? Entertain the throng? Converse. Dance?

  Absolutely not.

  Bright-eyed misses with their coy smiles and simpering manners.

  Hell on earth. A fate worse than death for a man like himself.

  The muscle by his eye convulsed harder, and he angled his head toward the fireplace to hide the tremor lest it draw unsolicited attention. Disgust and anger at himself that he could yet be self-conscious of his—inconvenience—jabbed his pride.

  Mama simply could not accept that at eight and twenty—nine and twenty in January—he possessed as much desire to wed as he did to have all of his teeth pulled. Or be keelhauled. Tarred and feathered. Eviscerated with a hairpin. Burned at the stake. Hung by his ballocks.

  A wife dragging him hither and yon, chattering like a magpie about nonsensical drivel, would drive him stark-raving mad. And what kind of a spouse would he be? Other than his title and passably good looks, he held no false illusions about his appeal or qualifications as a husband.

  Or lack thereof.

  In short, Ansley Cecil Huxley Twistleton, sixth Earl of Scarborough, was a stuffy, dour chap who broke into a cold sweat when in a room with more than a dozen or so people. A man who had as much skill with small talk as he did needlepoint or midwifery. A lord who’d been thrust into a life he had no more aptitude for than a hippopotamus did for ballet, or a cat for archery.

  He was an oddity.

  And, blast and damn, he shouldn’t care.

  * * *

  Want to read more of Ansley and Willow’s romance?


  Get EARL OF SCARBOROUGH at major retailers, including Amazon!

  https://amzn.to/2MqhF3e

  About the Author

  Bestselling and award-winning author Aubrey Wynne is an elementary teacher by trade, champion of children and animals by conscience, and author by night. She resides in the Midwest with her husband, dogs, horses, mule, and barn cats. Obsessions include wine, history, travel, trail riding, and all things Christmas. Her Chicago Christmas series has received the Golden Quill, Aspen Gold, Heart of Excellence, and the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence and twice nominated as a Rone finalist by InD’tale Magazine.

  Aubrey’s first love is medieval romance but after dipping her toe in the Regency period in 2018 with the Wicked Earls’ Club, she was smitten. This inspired her award-winning series Once Upon a Widow. In 2020, she will launch the Scottish Regency series A MacNaughton Castle Romance with Dragonblade Novels.

  * * *

  Social Media Links:

  Website:

  http://www.aubreywynne.com

  Aubrey’s Ever After Facebook group:

  https://www.facebook.com/groups/AubreyWynnesEverAfters/

  Sign up for my newsletter and don’t miss future releases

  https://www.subscribepage.com/k3f1z5

  More Historical Romance

  Once Upon a Widow (Sweet Regency Series)

  Earl of Sunderland #1