by Meara Platt
“How long ago was that?”
Her big, sad eyes met his stern gaze. “Are you asking me how old I am?”
He folded his arms across his chest, needing to do something to distract him from the heat flowing through his veins and the inexplicable urge to hold her in his arms and protect her forever. Perhaps he was the one who needed protection from her. He turned away and grabbed his vest, putting it on as he answered her question. The more layers between them, the better. “I just saved your life. I deserve some answers.”
She nodded. “I suppose you do. I’m twenty years old. My brother, Thomas, died when I was sixteen. Childless. So his horrid ogre of a wife returned to her family and William became the new Baron Whitpool. He brought me back home. By then, he and our other brother, Gideon, had established a shipping company that hauled freight back and forth from the West Indies. Sugar. Spices. Rum.”
“They must have been successful businessmen.” He’d learned much in running the Westcliff properties as well as assisting to run this establishment. Even if one hired excellent managers, there was no substitute for one’s own diligence and attentiveness.
“Yes, they were. William never gave up his love of the sea. Despite his baronial responsibilities, he often joined Gideon on the shorter trips, sometimes to Ireland and sometimes to Flanders. They were caught last year in a sudden squall off the Irish Sea.” Her voice turned tremulous and raspy. “Both of my brothers drowned.”
He didn’t know what to say. So many losses in so short a span of time. He had three brothers of his own and could not imagine how he would have handled losing any of them. He felt a sudden pang of remorse. He hadn’t seen his family in a while. Perhaps he would stop by his mother’s townhouse for an overdue visit. Perhaps he’d invite this girl along when he did. “I’m so sorry, Abigail. Truly.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“No, call me Tynan. Or just Ty.” That’s what his brothers called him when they weren’t calling him something worse. They all loved each other, but they were brothers, after all. How else were they to show their love if not by mercilessly pounding on each other? “Call me whatever you wish.”
He did not bother with formality.
There was no propriety to their situation, especially not now with her sitting atop the silk sheets of his four-poster bed. He dragged the chair out from behind his desk and moved it near the bed. Turning it around, he rested his arms on its high back and sat straddling the seat so that he could face her.
The chair’s high back served as a barrier between them.
A necessary barrier, for she’d somehow stripped away his irritation. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms and comfort her.
In truth, he wanted to do much more.
But he wasn’t going to touch her. He’d promised.
She looked as soft and vulnerable as a gentle rabbit. His little rabbit. But he liked that she was also strong and spirited, ready to fight to save her last surviving brother. “Tell me more about Peter.”
What he really wanted to know was more about her.
Every blessed thing he could learn about her.
She curled her hands around the bedpost, as though the sad memories had cast her adrift and she needed to hold onto something solid that would serve as her anchor. “There isn’t much more to tell. He came home to take over the title and its responsibilities, but he’d been wounded during his military service and remains in terrible pain. The wounds never mended properly. No matter what the doctors have done to try to heal him, he awakens each morning in agony.”
“That’s how he ended up next door,” Tynan said, his voice barely above a murmur. “Each night he goes to that opium den to relieve the tormenting pain.”
She released a breath and nodded. “I want to take him home. I want to get him to the Whitpool estate by the seashore that he loves so much. I want to get him away from London and the bad influence of his friends. But I can’t do it alone and no one will help me.”
She gazed at him with her big, brandy-colored eyes.
Bollocks.
He only needed to give a responsive nod in sympathy. She wasn’t asking for his help. She was merely relating her tale of woe.
“Abigail…” Shut up, you idiot.
“Yes, my lord?”
He groaned.
What tempest was he about to sail into?
END
Want to read more EARL OF WESTCLIFF? Click here.
SNEAK PEEK AT A MATCH MADE IN DUTY:
CHAPTER ONE
London, England
October 1815
JAMES BRAYDEN, FIFTH Earl of Exmoor, glanced at the bottle of brandy his butler had just carried in on a sparkling silver tray and set down beside him on the elegant mahogany desk in his study. He waited for his butler to depart and close the door behind him before turning to the two guests who had just arrived and were about to change his life forever. “Care for a drink, Major Allworthy?”
Ordinarily, he would have given his friend, Lawrence Allworthy, an amiable pat on the back and poured them both a tall glass of the fiery amber liquid his butler had just brought in. Ordinarily, they would have settled in the cushioned leather chairs beside the blazing fire and spent the night getting drunk while reminiscing about the men in their regiment and the years spent on the Continent battling Napoleon’s forces. Ordinarily, their first order of business would have been to toast their fallen companions.
But tonight was no ordinary night. His gaze settled on the young woman with lustrous dark hair and big, brown eyes who stood quietly beside his friend. “And you, Miss Wilkinson. May I offer you tea? Refreshments? The journey could not have been an easy one for you.”
“No, thank you.” She blushed as she spoke and then looked down at her toes, obviously wishing to be anywhere but in his study.
James decided the rose blush was quite becoming on her cheeks.
He leaned on his cane to slowly walk around the sturdy desk that dominated the center of the room and came to stand beside his guests. Up close, he could see that the young woman was trembling, though she did her best to hide her fear as he approached. Were his scars so hideous? He supposed they were, for even he had yet to grow used to them. They’d be most alarming to a stranger. “Please,” James said, motioning to the chairs beside the fireplace. “This will be your home soon, Miss Wilkinson. You may as well get used to it.”
She pinched her lips and frowned lightly. “I don’t wish to be rude, Lord Exmoor. But what makes you think I wish to accept your proposal?”
He exchanged glances with Lawrence who appeared as surprised by her remark as he was. “It was your brother’s dying request that I marry you. I promised him that I would and I intend to honor that vow.”
Her pink blush deepened. “Do I have no say in the matter?” She tipped her chin up to meet his gaze, and although she was small and slender, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder, he could see that she had a full-sized, stubborn determination.
Lawrence cleared his throat. “Miss Wilkinson, what choice do you have? Do you not wish to marry an earl? I do not know of any young woman in your circumstances who would refuse–”
“Major Allworthy,” James said, quietly interrupting him. “I think it is best that I speak on my behalf.” He understood the young lady’s reluctance now that she’d taken a good look at him, and expected that she was now quietly swallowing her revulsion. While his leg would hopefully strengthen in time, the jagged scars etched on his face were permanent and unfortunately, too prominent to hide. “No doubt the terms of our arrangement must concern you. We ought to go over them now, for you may have some misconceptions about what… ah, I shall expect in your duties as my wife.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “Perhaps we ought to speak about this matter in private. Major Allworthy… Lawrence, would you mind giving us a moment alone?”
His friend appeared to be as uncomfortable as James was and more than eager to leave this embarrassing discussion to
him. “Excellent idea. I’ll be in your library. I’m sure there’s a book I’m eager to read.” He dashed out as though his coattails were on fire.
The girl appeared desperate to follow him out, but James placed a light hand on her elbow to hold her back. “Give me a moment of your time, Miss Wilkinson. Hear me out before you walk out of here.” He cast her a wry smile. “Or run out. I wouldn’t blame you.”
She relented with a curt nod.
“Please, let’s sit beside the warming fire.” He settled her in one of the chairs and took the other. She must have noticed the awkward way he sank into the soft maroon leather and stretched his leg in front of him since he could not yet bend it. But she said nothing, and to her credit, made no moue of distaste.
“I know this isn’t easy for you,” he said, uncertain how one politely raised the issue of the bedchamber to a young woman one had known for all of two minutes. Yet, that particularly thorny issue had to be foremost on her mind and James knew he had to address it immediately. “Rest assured that I will not… er…” Bloody humiliating! In all his days, he never imagined himself in this awkward situation. Before the war, he had been considered quite the catch. Beautiful young women threw themselves in his path with tedious regularity, all of them eager to gain his notice in the hope they might become the next Countess Exmoor.
Now, they darted away in the hope of avoiding him. All but the most desperate and browbeaten debutantes whose families were in dire need of funds to maintain their estates. He ran a hand across the back of his neck in consternation. “I promised your brother I would take care of you. He extracted my promise to marry you, for he feared your cousin would not be generous with you once he took title to your brother’s holdings. His fears obviously proved correct. What would you have done had Major Allworthy and his wife not been at hand to bring you to London?”
Her face began to heat and he knew it had nothing to do with the heat of the flames burning in the hearth. “I would have managed, my lord. I am not your charity case.”
“Indeed, you are not.”
“My lord,” she said more insistently as she met his gaze. “I agreed to accompany Major Allworthy in the hope that you might help me find suitable employment.”
He arched an eyebrow. “You’re asking me to renege on my promise to your brother?” In truth, he liked that directness about her and the fact that she did not flinch when looking at him. “I cannot do it, Miss Wilkinson. I’m offering to make you my wife. In truth, I’d be honored if you accepted. I know I’m rather a poor specimen.”
She quirked a soft eyebrow in what appeared to be surprise. Was she disputing the obvious? “Certainly not the husband you might have hoped for,” he continued, “but you will always be safe here and treated with honor.” He cleared his throat. “You shall have your own bedchamber, of course. And I shall not impose on you.”
Lord! How much plainer could he state that he’d keep his hands off her?
Her only response was a slight widening of her big, chocolate brown eyes, so he continued the uncomfortable conversation. “I am under no illusions. The war took its toll on all of us. Whatever hopes or dreams I may have had…” He motioned toward his face. “Well, I’m no longer any woman’s idea of perfection.”
Her lips turned upward in the hint of a smile. “My lord, may I be impertinent?”
He much preferred it to her being a timid mouse around him. “Of course.”
“You seem to think I’m a simple-brained ninny and that my only requirement in a husband is a man with a pretty face. I assure you, I am not that shallow.” She let out a soft sigh and leaned closer so that he caught the subtle scent of lavender soap along her slender throat. “I will not deny that my situation is dire. But that does not give me the right to interfere with your future happiness. As you can see, I have little polish. I’m no society gem.” She shook her head and sighed again. “How can you possibly think to make me your countess? I’m a penniless stranger with no family connections.”
“I gave your brother my word and I intend to keep it. I would do the same if you had the face of a wart hog or the brain of a goose. Thankfully, you have neither of those qualities. All I ask is that you live under my roof – separate quarters, of course – and act as my hostess when the need arises for me to entertain at home. I would also ask that you accompany me to the balls and other social engagements to which we shall be invited.”
She tipped her head and nibbled her lip as she studied him, her gaze once again direct and assessing. “A business arrangement.”
“Yes.” He nodded. “You shall have an allowance, of course. Your days will be mostly your own.”
“I see.” She stood and had the courtesy to pretend to study the flames brightly glowing in the hearth while he struggled to his feet in order to stand beside her. “I suppose we ought to shake hands to seal our bargain.”
Was she accepting his terms?
She stuck out her small, gloved hand to confirm it.
He wasn’t used to shaking hands with a woman, for those of his acquaintance merely dangled their fingers before him in expectation that he would bow over them and mutter some polite inanity. But Miss Wilkinson, although quite genteel in her looks and manners, had a no nonsense way about her. He set his cane aside and swallowed her hand in both of his. “Done.”
He expected a trumpet fanfare. A chorus of angels singing. A tremor along the ground, for the prospect of marriage was no small matter. But all was silent. Even Miss Wilkinson was holding her breath, no doubt contemplating the bargain she’d just made. “One small request,” he said, still holding her hand and noting that she’d made no move to slip it out of his grasp. “In public, I shall call you Lady Exmoor. But I’d hoped for something less formal when we are alone at home. What is your given name?”
She laughed lightly and shook her head. “Did my brother neglect to mention it?”
James cast her a wincing smile. “He mentioned it a time or two, but more often he referred to you as… Smidge.”
She couldn’t help but laugh again, but that melodic trill was punctuated with a groan. “Oh, dear! That was the awful pet name he gave me when we were children. I hope you will banish it from your memory at once! My name is Sophie.”
“Sophie,” he repeated softly. “Nice to meet you. I’m James.”
END
Want to read more of A MATCH MADE IN DUTY? Click here.
ALSO BY MEARA PLATT
FARTHINGALE SERIES
My Fair Lily
The Duke I’m Going To Marry
Rules For Reforming A Rake
A Midsummer’s Kiss
The Viscount’s Rose
Earl of Hearts
Never Dare A Duke
Capturing The Heart Of A Cameron
BOOK OF LOVE SERIES
The Look of Love
The Touch of Love
The Taste of Love
DE WOLFE ANGELS CONNECTED SERIES
Nobody’s Angel
Kiss An Angel
Bhrodi’s Angel
DARK GARDENS SERIES
Garden of Shadows
Garden of Light
Garden of Dragons
Garden of Destiny
THE BRAYDENS
A Match Made In Duty
Earl of Westcliff
Fortune’s Dragon
PIRATES OF BRITANNIA
Pearls of Fire
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Meara Platt is a USA Today bestselling author and an award winning, Amazon UK All-star. Her favorite place in all the world is England’s Lake District, which may not come as a surprise since many of her stories are set in that idyllic landscape, including her Romance Writers of America Golden Heart award winning story released as Book 3 in her paranormal romance Dark Gardens series. If you’d like to learn more about the ancient Fae prophecy that is about to unfold in the Dark Gardens series, as well as Meara’s lighthearted, international bestselling Regency romances in the Farthingale series, Braydens series,
and Book of Love series, please visit Meara’s website at www.mearaplatt.com.
