by Kate Bateman
“Since our first marriage was a secret, I’m going to marry him again,” Georgie said. “I’d like to announce our engagement and have banns called as soon as possible.”
Mother’s teacup clattered in her saucer. “Good heavens above. Do you love him?”
“I do.”
“And does he love you?”
“He does. And before you ask, yes, he’s already signed the contract. I know for certain that he doesn’t want my money.”
Mother sank back on the chaise longue like a deflated balloon. “Well, then. Good gracious.” She took a fortifying swig of tea, and her eyes grew suspiciously moist. “Would your father have approved of him, do you think?”
Georgie crossed the room and sank down next to her mother. She gave her a fond hug. “I’m sure of it. Mr. Wylde is everything he ever wanted for me. He is loyal and brave and decent.”
“And penniless,” Mother added forlornly. “And untitled.”
“That too. But it’s not as if we really need any more money, is it?”
Mother reached for one of the little iced cakes on the tea tray and sniffed. “I suppose not. And if this is what makes you happy, Georgiana, truly happy, then of course I don’t object. It’s all I ever wanted for you, you know. For you to be happy.”
Georgie gave her another loving squeeze. “I know.”
The next moment, Mother seemed to perk up as renewed energy flowed through her. Georgie recognized it with an inward smile as her I-have-a-project look.
“Who would have thought it?” She chuckled gleefully. “Both of my daughters to be married within the space of two months! I must get to work! Heavens above, what shall I wear?”
Chapter 45.
Predictably, the “confidential” news of their engagement had spread from Admiral Cockburn to his wife, Clara, and thence like wildfire through the ton. To Georgie’s amusement, the announcement only served to increase her popularity. At every event she attended, she was besieged by gentlemen wanting to dance or perform menial tasks for her.
She finally sorted these men into two distinct camps. The first paid her attention because they were determined to find out what it was about her that had captured the attention of a man like Benedict Wylde, or to discern whether she was being hoodwinked by a fortune hunter.
The second group were those who still fancied themselves as potential suitors. They were praying for her to come to her senses and call off the engagement. Their attentions held a certain comical edge of desperation. Georgie could barely contain her laughter as Elton and Coster cracked heads when they both bent to retrieve her ostrich feather fan. Freddy Cadogan brought her continuous glasses of champagne. Five different men offered to show her various aspects of the gardens, fountains, shrubbery, and hanging lanterns. Even Sir Stanley Kenilworth renewed his efforts.
Benedict found it vastly amusing. “It’s sadly predictable.” He’d chuckled as he whirled Georgie around Lady Ashton’s ballroom. “The fortune hunters sense that time is running out. They’re trying to besiege you. A last-ditch effort, as we say in the army.” He let out a sigh of mock-regret. “If only they knew you were already married. Just think of the broken hearts.”
“Ha! There wouldn’t be a broken heart among them. All they see when they look at me is the matched set of horses they’ll buy at Tattersall’s, or the brand-new racing curricle they’ll order before the ink is even dry on the marriage register. None of them see me.”
He sent her one of those looks that made her stomach flip. “I see you,” he said softly. “I see a woman who is brave and headstrong and secretly rebellious. I see a woman who is witty and clever, and who doesn’t go fainting all over the place or falling into hysterics at the drop of a hat.”
Georgie felt heat climb into her cheeks at his sincere flattery. How far they’d come from the two strangers who had married in Newgate.
“You know, there are already bets in the Tricorn’s betting book about the arrival of my son and heir in nine months’ time,” Benedict whispered. He laughed as her cheeks flamed even hotter.
“That is not the case!” she whispered back. Her monthly courses had arrived on schedule last week; Benedict’s lapse in control had not resulted in a baby. Georgie had been surprised to find herself rather disappointed by that. “They’ll lose their money.”
He sent her his pirate’s smile. “Ah, but that’s assuming I can keep my hands off you between now and the wedding. I’m not sure I can, Mrs. Wylde. And besides, would it really be so bad? I’d love to give you children. If that’s what you want.”
Georgie’s heart stuttered, and she gave him a radiant, breathless smile. “I’d like that very much indeed, Mr. Wylde.”
“God, don’t look at me like that in public,” he groaned. “I want to ravish you on the spot. Please tell me Lady Ashton has a pagoda or a library we can sneak off to.”
“Behave. I’ll come to the Tricorn later, and you can show me all manner of depraved acts.”
He sent her a hard glare. “Fine. In that case, distract me.”
She laughed. Teasing him was so much fun. “All right. Did I tell you that I received a letter from Captain Moore? The Lady Alice arrived safely at Boston harbor. Cousin Josiah has apparently resigned himself to his fate during the voyage and indicated his decision to find himself a rich American heiress.”
“That sounds about right,” Benedict said scornfully. “It’s just like him to look for the easy way out. Heaven forbid he should actually work for a living. Let’s hope the ladies of Boston are as discerning as their English counterparts.”
“Since we’re exchanging news,” he continued, “instead of doing debauched things to one another, I should report that Seb and Alex tracked down Tom Johnstone. He’s currently in debtor’s prison, awaiting trial. Seb says he’s writing a book about his adventures.”
“And what about O’Meara?”
“He hasn’t been charged with anything yet. Lord Castlereagh’s looking into reports that members of the Bonaparte family transferred substantial funds to London over the past few weeks, but I’m not sure they can link it to O’Meara. Still, with Johnstone’s ship and Fulton’s plans now back with the Admiralty, I think it’s safe to say that this particular threat has been eliminated.”
“I think we make an excellent team,” she said smugly.
“I couldn’t agree more.”
Chapter 46.
The wedding of Juliet Caversteed and Simeon Pettigrew was, according to all who attended, the most lavish event of the season. The groom took the unusual step of reading aloud a sonnet he’d composed in honor of the celebration, but apart from that mystifying anomaly—during which one slightly deaf old dowager was heard to remark querulously, “I thought poems were supposed to rhyme?”—it all went off without a hitch.
The rings had been specially commissioned from rose-colored gold mined from the groom’s very own Welsh gold mine, and the bride was acknowledged to be as beautiful as a fairy-tale princess in a silver lame gown that had been modelled on the one worn by Princess Charlotte at her own wedding some weeks before. The bride’s mother was resplendent in a ridiculously impractical hat by Madame Cerise, which boasted no fewer than three different artificial fruits and obscured the view of everyone unfortunate enough to be seated in the three rows directly behind her.
Georgie and Benedict’s own wedding, a few weeks later, was a far less fussy, more intimate affair. It took place on a glorious summer day. White cow parsley and pale-green grasses bobbed like froth in the hedgerows, butterflies chased one another in lazy helixes, and fat pigeons cooed contentedly in the trees. Only a handful of selected guests weaved through the avenue of ancient yews to the crooked porch and crowded into the tiny Norman church at Little Gidding, but the atmosphere was one of quiet celebration.
Georgie wore a simple cream dress with a small amount of lace at the bodice and sleeves, and carried a posy of peonies and sweet peas. Juliet was beautiful as matron of honor in pale-blue sarcenet, and their mother
had come prepared, clutching her handkerchief and smelling salts in the expectation of happy tears and possible faintness.
Benedict, in a dark coat of navy superfine and buff breeches, was accompanied by his two groomsmen, Alex and Seb, both of whom looked exceedingly handsome in pale grey. Alex had, apparently, ruined no fewer than six cravats before he achieved the perfect knot.
When Georgie walked down the aisle on Pieter’s arm and got her first glance of Benedict waiting for her at the altar, her breath caught in her throat. The proud expression on his face made her heart swell with love.
The service proceeded with all due solemnity. Georgie, comparing this wedding to her first one, in the dark and gloomy bowels of Newgate, shook her head in wonder. Who would have thought that such an inauspicious beginning would end so happily? This time, there was no hint of uncertainty or trepidation in her breast. She meant every word of her vows, and she was equally confident that Benedict meant his.
She couldn’t wait to start their life together. Benedict was a far cry from some idealized courtly lover, but life with him would never be dull. It would be fun, irreverent, playful, breathless, and passionate. It would be the best adventure ever.
There was a moment of levity when the vicar came to the part in the ceremony where Benedict promised to endow Georgie with “all his worldly goods.” Benedict rolled his eyes and sent her a droll glance, and she had to bite her lip to prevent herself from laughing out loud. And when the vicar pronounced them “man and wife,” Benedict swept her into his arms and kissed her so soundly that she dropped her wildflower bouquet. Mother resorted to her smelling salts.
Now, three blissful weeks later, Georgie sat in her new office in the town house she and Benedict had rented a stone’s throw from Grosvenor Square, and gazed at her handsome husband across the large leather-topped desk.
“What is it?” Benedict asked. “You said you wanted to see me. Is anything the matter?”
She smiled at his concern. “No, nothing’s wrong. It’s just that I had Edmund Shaw drop these off a short while ago.” She tapped her fingers on the two folded vellum pages in front of her. “It’s just a small business matter we need to attend to.” She unfolded the first document and handed it to him. He took it reluctantly, and she watched in amusement as his brows lifted.
“This is the contract I signed in Newgate.”
“It is, indeed. Would you mind throwing it on the fire, please?”
He frowned at her, uncomprehending. “What? Why?”
She broke the red wax seal on the second document. “I have a different agreement for you to sign.”
He let out a good-natured groan. “Not another one. You’re obsessed, woman. What is it this time? Names for our future children?”
“No.” She rounded the desk, took the paper from his hands, and carefully ripped it in half. Then in half again. And then she threw it on the fire. The dry vellum burned cheerfully in the grate.
Benedict looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. She waved at the paper on the desk. “That new document gives us both equal access to my fortune. With sensible stipulations, of course. Any withdrawal of over five thousand pounds will require joint signatures, for example.”
He seemed to be a little dazed. “That’s—very sensible.”
“All of our children, no matter what gender, will inherit an equal portion of the estate when we die.”
He seemed to be getting over his shock. “How very modern of you, Mrs. Wylde. That sounds alarmingly progressive.” He frowned. “You don’t have to do this, you know. I’m not interested in your money.”
“I know. But it makes me happy. And I trust you. With my heart. With my happiness. It’s stupid if I don’t trust you with my money as well.”
He caught her in his arms. “In that case, I promise I will never give you cause to regret your decision,” he said gravely. He gave the desk behind her a speculative glance and backed her up so she was trapped between the hard wood and his strong body.
Georgie’s pulse quickened. He reached around her and pushed the silver inkwell and paper to one side with distinct deliberation. Her limbs turned to water.
“I don’t think I’ve ever shown you my husbandly appreciation on a desk before,” he mused. “A bed, yes. And several chairs, certainly. The sofa in the sitting room.”
“Don’t forget the bath,” she reminded him judiciously, as a slow curl of excitement twisted in her veins. “That was particularly memorable.”
“How could I forget the bath? But a desk? No. Never.”
“I don’t believe so,” she said breathlessly.
“In that case, allow me to—”
“Letter for you, sir!”
Benedict swore roundly as the cheerful voice of Jem Barnes carried down the hallway. They’d retained the little terror as a general stable boy, errand-runner, and cook’s assistant, as a means of providing him with a regular source of income and food. He slept in the rooms above the stable, and his boundless energy paired with his youthful cynicism was usually a source of much amusement. Now, however, his presence was most unwelcome. Georgie pushed her skirts back down just as he bounded into the room without knocking.
“Letter just come,” he repeated, his face glowing with excitement. “Look, ’ere. It’s from the king!”
Benedict took the proffered envelope and frowned down at the embossed royal crest. “So it is.”
Georgie peered over his shoulder as he broke the seal. “What does it say?”
“It’s a summons, from Carlton House,” he said, reading slowly. “The Prince Regent has been instructed by his father the king to bestow an honorific title to—good God—to Benedict Wylde, in recognition of ‘invaluable services to the crown.’” He looked up with an astonished, bewildered expression. “He’s making me an earl. We have to go to Carlton House for the investiture at the end of the month. Bloody hell.”
Georgie threw her arms around him and hugged him tight.
* * *
Three weeks later, in a private ceremony, Benedict knelt in front of the rotund Prince of Wales and became the newly minted Earl of Ware. Alex and Seb were also present and were made the new Earl of Melton and the new Earl of Mowbray, respectively. All three of them were wearing their medals.
“We know you’re well used to dealing with crooks, gentlemen,” the prince said jovially. “And sad to say, they’re not limited to the slums and docklands of this metropolis. Oh no. Plenty of ’em right here in Belgravia. And at Westminster too.” He sent each of the three men a steely look. “As earls, you can keep an eye on the House of Lords for me.” He chuckled, his belly shaking in mirth, then his gaze focused on Benedict.
“We are aware of the debts amassed by your father, Wylde, and your efforts to repay them. I wish you and your brother luck.” He shot Benedict a commiserating look. “Believe me, I know all about difficult fathers.” For a moment he looked aggrieved, and then he shook his head, dismissing the thought. “Admiral Cockburn tells me you took a bullet in the process of stopping this fellow Johnstone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Brave man.” He glanced over Benedict’s shoulder and beckoned Georgie forward. She swept a deep curtsey before His Royal Highness and the prince smiled at her approvingly. “And you, Mrs. Wylde, who I hear had no small part in the adventure, are now Countess of Ware.” His blue eyes twinkled. “What do you think of that, eh?”
Georgie glanced sideways at her husband and smiled. “I like it very much, Your Majesty. And if I may say so, I think my husband will make a very good earl indeed.”
Coming soon…
Don’t miss the next novel in The Bow Street Bachelors series
To Catch an Earl
Available in May 2020 from
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Praise for This Earl of Mine
“Delicious, witty, and ripping good fun! Kate Bateman’s writing sparkles.”
—USA Today bestselling author Laura Lee Guhrke
“Dashing
, daring, and deliciously romantic!”
—USA Today bestselling author Caroline Linden
“A riveting new voice for Regency readers! Kate Bateman is now on my auto-buy list.”
—Janna MacGregor, author of The Good, the Bad, and the Duke
About the Author
Kate Bateman (also writing as K. C. Bateman) is the #1 bestselling author of Regency, Victorian, and Renaissance historical romances, including the Secrets & Spies series: To Steal a Heart, A Raven’s Heart, and A Counterfeit Heart. All her books feature her favorite feisty, intelligent heroines (badasses in bodices!), wickedly inappropriate banter, and sexy, snarky heroes you want to both strangle and kiss.
Kate wrote her first historical romance in response to a $1 bet with her husband who rashly claimed she’d “never finish the thing.” She gleefully proved him wrong. When not traveling to exotic locations “for research,” she leads a not-so-secret double life as a fine art appraiser and on-screen antiques expert for several TV shows in the UK, each of which has up to 2.5 million viewers. She splits her time between Illinois and her native England and writes despite three inexhaustible children and that number-loving husband who still owes her that dollar. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
