by Louise Allen
A proposal from the enigmatic earl
Plain, lame Ellie Lytton isn’t destined for marriage. She’s perfectly content being her stepbrother’s housekeeper… Until the high-handed Earl of Hainford arrives with shocking news—her stepbrother has been killed!
Ellie believes the earl is responsible for her plight and that he is duty bound to escort her on the journey to her new home. But soon Blake’s fighting an unwanted attraction to his argumentative companion… And when she needs protection, he determines he’ll keep her safe—by making Ellie his countess!
“You really are the most extraordinary creature,” Hainford said.
Ellie opened her mouth to deliver a stinging retort and then realized that his lips were actually curved in a faint smile. The frown had gone too, as though he had puzzled her out.
“So not only am I a creature, and an extraordinary one, but I am also a source of amusement to you? Are you this offensive to every lady you encounter, or only the plain and unimportant ones?”
“I feel like a hound being attacked by a field mouse.”
He scrubbed one hand down over his face as though to straighten his expression, but his mouth, when it was revealed again, was still twitching dangerously near a smile.
“I had no intention of being offensive, merely of matching your frankness.”
He made no reference to the “plain and unimportant” remark. Wise of him.
“You are unlike any lady I have ever come across.”
“But?” Ellie held her breath.
Hainford looked up, the expression in his gray eyes either amused or resigned, or perhaps a little of both. “But I will do it. I will convey you to Lancashire.”
Author Note
Do you ever wonder where the ideas for a novel come from? I do, too! Quite often they seem to appear mysteriously in my head—but occasionally I can trace at least some elements of the story back to their inspiration.
Marrying His Cinderella Countess was a marriage of more than the hero and heroine. I knew quite a lot about Ellie already and I knew just how Blake came to be injured at his club, but it took a little while to realize that the two of them belonged together. And then I went to the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s annual conference at one of Lancaster University’s rural campuses, built around an old farmstead. The lovely farmhouse had become part of the dining hall, and after several days eating my lunch outside its front door I began to wonder who had lived there.
It was when I imagined Ellie there that the parts of this story all fit at last. I hope you enjoy Blake and Ellie’s tale. And if you are thinking about visiting Lancashire I can promise that it really doesn’t rain all the time—that was 1816, which was not a good year for the weather!
LOUISE
ALLEN
Marrying His
Cinderella Countess
Louise Allen loves immersing herself in history. She finds landscapes and places evoke the past powerfully. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favorite destinations. Louise lives on the Norfolk coast and spends her spare time gardening, researching family history or traveling in search of inspiration. Visit her at louiseallenregency.co.uk, @LouiseRegency and janeaustenslondon.com.
Books by Louise Allen
Harlequin Historical
The Herriard Family
Forbidden Jewel of India
Tarnished Amongst the Ton
Surrender to the Marquess
Lords of Disgrace
His Housekeeper’s Christmas Wish
His Christmas Countess
The Many Sins of Cris de Feaux
The Unexpected Marriage of Gabriel Stone
Brides of Waterloo
A Rose for Major Flint
Stand-Alone Novels
Once Upon a Regency Christmas
“On a Winter’s Eve”
Marrying His Cinderella Countess
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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
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Excerpt from A Ring for the Pregnant Debutante by Laura Martin
Chapter One
London, May 1816
As the burning ball of the sun sinks into the shimmering azure of the Mediterranean and the soft breezes cool the heat of the day I lie in the cushioned shade of the tent, awaiting the return of the desert lord. The only sound besides the lap of the wavelets and the rustle of the palm fronds is the soft susurration of shifting sand grains like the rustle of silk over the naked limbs of…
‘Susurration… Drat!’ Ellie Lytton thrust her pen into the inkwell and glared at the words that had apparently written themselves. She opened the desk drawer and dropped the page onto a pile of similar sheets, some bearing a paragraph or two, some only a few sentences. She took a clean page, shook the surplus ink off the nib and began again.
I can hardly express, dear sister, how fascinating the date palm cultivation is along this part of the North African coast. It was with the greatest excitement that I spent the day viewing the hard-working local people in their colourful robes…
‘Whatever possessed me?’ she muttered, with a glance upwards to the shelf above the desk.
It held a row of five identically bound volumes. The gilded lettering on the red morocco spines read: The Young Traveller in Switzerland, The Youthful Explorer of the English Uplands, Oscar and Miranda Discover London, A Nursery Guide to the Countries of the World and The Juvenile Voyager Around the Coast of England. All were from the pen of Mrs Bundock.
Her publisher, Messrs Broderick & Alleyn, specialists in ‘Uplifting and Educational Works for Young Persons’, had suggested that Oscar and Miranda might fruitfully explore the Low Countries next. Edam cheese, canals, tulip cultivation and the defeat of the French Monster would make an uplifting combination, they were sure.
Ellie, known in the world of juvenile literature as the redoubtable Mrs Bundock, had rebelled. She yearned for heat and colour and exoticism, even if it came only second-hand from the books and prints she used for research. She would send young Oscar to North Africa, she declared, while secretly hoping that the Barbary corsairs would capture him and despatch the patronising little prig to some hideous fate.
What she really wanted was to write a tale of romance and passion to sell to the Minerva Press. But separating the two in her head for long enough to complete Oscar’s expedition—and earn enough from it to subsidise several months of novel-writing—was proving a nightmare. No sooner had the beastly boy begun to prose on about salt pans and date palms than her imagination had filled with the image of a dark-haired, grey-eyed horseman astride a black stallion, his white robes billowing in the desert breeze.
She pushed back the strands that had sprung out of her roughly bundled topknot and jammed
in some more pins.
After luncheon, she promised herself. I will start on the sardine fisheries while the house is quiet.
Her stepbrother, Francis, who had not returned home last night, was doubtless staying with some fellow club member, which meant that all was blissfully peaceful. With only Polly the maid in the house she might as well be alone.
The rap of the front door knocker threatened her hopes of an uninterrupted morning. Ellie said something even more unladylike than drat, and tried to ignore the sound. But it came again, and there was no sign of Polly coming up from below stairs. She must have slipped out to do the marketing without disturbing her mistress at work.
Ellie cast a glance at the clock. Nine o’clock, which meant that it was far too early for any kind of demanding social call, thank goodness. In fact it was probably only Francis, having forgotten his key again.
She got up, wiped her inky hands on the pinafore she wore when writing, jammed a few more hairpins into her collapsing coiffure and went out into the hall, wincing as her damaged leg complained from too much sitting. She tugged at the front door and it opened abruptly—to reveal not Francis, but a tall, dark, grey-eyed gentleman in dishevelled evening dress.
‘Miss Lytton?’
‘Er… Yes?’
I am dreaming.
She certainly seemed to have lost the power of coherent speech.
I have only just shut you safely in the drawer.
‘I am Hainford.’
‘I know,’ Ellie said, aware that she sounded both gauche and abrupt. Where are the white robes, the black stallion? ‘I have seen you before, Lord Hainford. With my stepbrother Francis.’
But not like this. Not with dark shadows under your eyes. Your bloodshot eyes. Not white to the lips. Not with your exquisite tailoring looking as though it has been used as the dog’s bed. Not with blood staining—
‘Your shirt… You are bleeding.’
Ellie banged the door open wide and came down the step to take his arm. It was only when she touched him that she remembered she was alone in the house. But, chaperon or no chaperon, she couldn’t leave a man out there, whoever he was. Losing blood like that, he might collapse at any moment.
‘Were you attacked by footpads? Do come in, for goodness’ sake.’ When he did not move she took his arm. ‘Let me help you—lean on me. Into the drawing room, I think. It has the best light. I will dress the wound and as soon as my maid returns I will send for Dr Garnett.’
She might as well have tugged at one of the new gas lamp posts along Pall Mall.
‘I am quite all right, Miss Lytton, it is merely a scratch. I must talk to you.’ The Earl of Hainford, standing dripping blood on her doorstep, looked like a man contemplating his own execution, not a shockingly early social visit.
He was going to fall flat on his face in a moment, and then she would never be able to lift him. Worry made her abrupt.
‘Nonsense. Come in.’
This time when she grabbed his arm he let himself be pulled unresisting over the threshold. She shouldered the door closed and guided him down the hallway, trying not to let her limping pace jar him.
‘Here we are. If you sit on that upright chair over there it will be easiest.’
He went willingly enough when she pushed him into the drawing room, and she realised as he blinked at her that he was very tired as well as wounded, and possibly rather drunk. Or in the grip of a hangover.
‘You are Miss Lytton?’
No, not drunk. He sounded perfectly sober.
Something fell from her hair as she put her head on one side to look more closely at him and she caught at it. Not a hairpin, but the quill she had misplaced that morning.
‘Yes, I am Eleanor Lytton. Forgive my appearance, please. I was working.’
And why am I apologising for my old clothes and ink blots? This man turns up at a ridiculously early hour, interrupts my writing, bleeds on the best carpet… So much for fantasy. The reality of men never matches it.
‘Please wait here. I will fetch water and bandages.’
The Earl had extracted himself from his coat by the time she got back. The state it was in as it lay on the carpet was probably not improved by her spilling water on it in agitation as he began to wrestle with his shirt.
He is wounded, she reminded herself. This is not the moment to be missish about touching a man’s garments, let alone a man.
‘Let me help.’
It was probably an indication of the state he was in that he sat down abruptly and allowed her to pull the shirt over his head. She took a sharp breath at the sight of the furrow in his flesh that came from below the waistband of his breeches at the front and angled up over his ribs to just below his armpit on the right-hand side. It was not deep, but it was bleeding sluggishly and looked exceedingly sore as it cut across the firmly muscled torso.
Ellie dropped the shirt, then picked it up again and shook it out, pulling the fabric tight as she held it up to the light.
‘That is a bullet wound in your side.’ She had never seen one before, but what else could make a hole like that?
He nodded, hissing between his teeth as he explored the raw track with his fingertips.
‘But there is no hole in your shirt. And the wound starts below the waistband of your equally undamaged breeches. You were shot when you were naked?’
Hainford looked at her, his eyebrows raised, presumably in shock at a lady saying breeches and naked without fainting. ‘Yes. Could you pass me some of that bandage and then perhaps leave the room so I can deal with this?’
He gestured downwards. The bullet must have grazed his hip bone, and the chafing of his evening breeches, even if they were knitted silk, must be exceedingly painful. He would certainly need to take them off to dress the wound. There was already far too much of the Earl of Hainford on display, and she realised she was staring in appalled curiosity at the way the light furring of dark hair on his chest arrowed down and…
‘Here.’ Ellie pushed both basin and bandages towards him. ‘Call me when you are decent—I mean, ready—and I will bring you a clean shirt.’
She was not afraid of the sight of blood, but she had absolutely no desire to get any closer to that bared body, let alone touch it, even though as a budding novelist she ought to know about such matters. Writing about them was one thing, and fantasising was another, but experiencing them in real life…
No.
She closed the door behind her and leaned back against the panels while she got her breathing under some kind of control. The man she had glimpsed a few times with Francis—the one who had become the hero of her future novel and the disturber of her rest—was in her drawing room. Correction: was half-naked and injured in her drawing room.
How had he been shot like that? By a cuckolded husband catching him in flagrante with his wife, presumably. She could think of no other reason for a man to be wounded while naked. If it had been an accident in his own home his servants would have come to his aid.
She could visualise the scene quite clearly. A screaming female on the bed, rumpled sheets, Lord Hainford scrambling bare-limbed from the midst of the bedding—her imagination skittered around too much detail—the infuriated husband brandishing a pistol. How very disillusioning. One did not expect to have one’s fantasy arrive on the doorstep in reality, very much in the flesh, and prove to be so sordidly fallible. Her desert lord was, in reality, a hung-over adulterer.
And, naturally, life being what it was, fantasies did not have the tact and good timing to arrive when one was looking one’s best. Not, she admitted, pulling a rueful face at her reflection in the hall mirror, that her best was much to write home about, and nor did she actually want to attract such a man. Not in real life.
Ellie had few illusions. After all, at the age of twenty-five she had been told often enough that she was plain, gawky and ‘difficult’ to recognise it was the truth. And now she was lame as well. A disappointment to everyone, given how attractive Mama had been, with
her dark brown hair and petite, fragile appearance. Ellie took after her father’s side of the family, people would tell her with a pitying sigh.
Her best gown was three seasons old and she had re-trimmed her bonnets to the point where they were more added ribbons and flowers than original straw. Her annual allowance, such as it was, went on paper, ink and library subscriptions, and her earnings from Messrs Broderick & Alleyn seemed to be swallowed up in the housekeeping.
None of which mattered, of course, because she was not out in Society, lived most of her life in her head, and had a circle of friends and acquaintances that encompassed a number of like-minded and similarly dressed women, the vicar and several librarians. Giving up the social struggle was restful…being invisible was safe.
It was Francis who had the social life, and a much larger allowance—most of which went, so far as she could tell, on club memberships, his bootmaker and attempting to emulate his hero, Lord Hainford, in all matters of dress and entertainment.
She did not enquire any more deeply about just what that ‘entertainment’ involved.
At which point in her musings the door she was leaning on opened and she staggered backwards, landing with a thud against the bare chest of the nobleman in question.
He gave a muffled yelp of pain as Ellie twisted round, made a grab for balance and found herself with one hand on his shoulder and one palm flat on his chest, making the interesting discovery that a man’s nipples tightened into hard nubs when touched.
She recoiled back into the doorway, hands behind her back. ‘I will fetch you a shirt.’
‘Thank you, but there is no need. I will put mine back on. Please, listen to me, Miss Lytton, I need to talk to you—’
‘With a shirt on. And not one covered in blood,’ she snapped, furious with someone. Herself, presumably.
