A Measured Risk

by Natasha Blackthorne

  A Total-E-Bound Publication

  www.total-e-bound.com

  A Measured Risk

  ISBN # 978-0-85715-936-6

  ©Copyright Natasha Blackthorne 2012

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright April 2012

  Edited by Rebecca Hill

  Total-E-Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2012 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e-burning and a sexometer of 2.

  This story contains 233 pages, additionally there is also a free excerpt at the end of the book containing 5 pages.

  Regency Risks

  A MEASURED RISK

  Natasha Blackthorne

  Book one in the Regency Risks Series

  He is her most dangerous temptation, the only man she has ever trusted and now he is demanding her submission. Dare she take the risk?

  Emotionally scarred in the horrific accident that took her husband’s life, Lady Cranfield is imprisoned by her lingering terror of horses and carriages. Lady Cranfield longed to be closer to the fascinating Earl of Ruel. She sensed intuitively that he could teach her how to overcome the terrors that held her in bondage.

  And now she’s willing to risk almost anything—her reputation, even her virtue—to find out. But what he proposes startles her.

  When the shy, studious and socially awkward young widow approached him, Ruel instantly sensed she would be the sweetest, most submissive experience of a lifetime—if only he can gain her total and complete trust. He makes her a non-negotiable offer. His help in return for her submission and obedience.

  But Lady Cranfield grew up neglected by her ducal parents, raised by servants and then later ignored by her handsome, charming husband. She’s learnt to protect her heart at all costs and she trusts no one but herself.

  How can the jaded Earl of Ruel break through her self-protective defences and show her how to love when he has spent his lifetime avoiding that tender trap?

  Dedication

  To all those who suffer from invisible illnesses. This is a work of historical fiction. It is not intended to be a guide to how people recover from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, nor is it intended to be an accurate portrayal of modern BDSM or D/s practices or lifestyles.

  Prologue

  Suffolk, England

  August 1818

  “In London it’s going to be different this time, Anne.”

  Anne Bourchier, the Countess of Cranfield, continued to watch the rain pelting the widow as the carriage rolled on through the night. The interior was hot and humid and she used her fan to cool her face with long, deliberate motions.

  “I mean it. You’re going to be active in society and make me proud for once.”

  She flicked him a disdainful glance. “And who will see to the running of our estate now?” It wasn’t her fault William’s long-term mistress had found another interest.

  “I do keep a bailiff on staff.” His voice was uncharacteristically terse.

  “His incompetence costs us too much. Since you refuse to dismiss him, someone needs to be there to keep an eye on him.”

  “He’s my half-brother, Anne. How can I dismiss him?”

  “You let your sentiment and your passions rule you.”

  “Oh, always so cold, so in control, aren’t you, my darling? I meant what I said about the other, too. You shall welcome me to your bed every night, except when nature inconveniences you. And you’ll at least pretend to be happy about it.”

  Her chest went tight and she slapped her fan closed. “I have never locked my door against you.”

  “I mean that you shall reside with me until the deed is done. Else I shall be forced to take more extreme measures. Five years of marriage is enough. I’ll have my heir or die trying.”

  She opened her fan and resumed cooling her face. She knew her husband well. Once in town, he’d find new distractions and she’d be able to slip away, back to the country.

  The carriage jolted; slid for a heart-stopping moment in the mud. Two days of rain had made the roads treacherous at best. She turned to him. “We should have waited for the other carriages.”

  Indignant eyes met hers in the lantern light. They were the most beautiful eyes—as green as summer grass and framed with thick, russet lashes. His elegant jaw tightened. “I didn’t want to wait—”

  A sudden jolt rocked the seat beneath her and shook through her bones. A loud crash sounded and the carriage rattled as if it would fall apart. It veered over slightly. Her heart knocked against her ribcage as she clutched the seat’s edge. Her mouth went dry.

  She glanced at William. He was so pale that his freckles looked like black specks. Her stomach flipped over.

  “Christ.” His word was a whisper; a prayer that hung in the air between them as the carriage rolled. She went flying from her seat. Something smashed into her side and forced the air to whoosh from her lungs. Her forehead met a hard object. White shards of pain exploded in her head…and then nothing.

  She opened her eyes slowly. Her head throbbed so fiercely that it made it painful to think. It was dark. Hard planks jammed into the softness between her hips and ribcage. She was mostly on her back, twisted halfway between the carriage wall and roof. She tried to ease her position but something heavy pressed her down and held her immobile. Helpless. She reached out to touch it and pain sliced through her shoulder and up into her neck. The sudden intensity made her nauseated and lightheaded. She cried out.

  “Anne?” His voice came from directly above her and it sounded weak.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you unharmed?”

  “Mostly.” With an effort, she moved her hands over the wool of William’s jacket. “And you?”

  “It hurts to breathe.”

  Afraid of injuring him, she stopped searching his body. “Some of your ribs must be broken. That’s all. The doctor will patch you up easily.”

  Dread went twisting through her stomach. How badly was he injured? Lightning flashed through the carriage window.

  “Damnation, it hurts. Anne, I can’t move.” Beneath the sharpness, his voice quavered. He was afraid—very afraid. Her heart contracted. She had once felt such tenderness towards him. A fragile, barely-born tenderness that had been killed in its infancy—yet it had been the dearest feeling she’d known in her life. It all came back to her, washing over her in an intense rush. She cradled his head to her.

  Thud, thud.

  The sound was loud—and close. A horse’s iron shoe kicking the thin carriage wall. It sent her heart pounding up into her throat. Her hands tightened on his crisp, red, curling hair.

  “I am sorry Anne. Should have waited. You’re always right…” His voice seemed to reverberate with pain.

  She winced
for him and caressed the side of his face. “Shh, it doesn’t matter now.”

  His breathing changed, sounding deep and laboured. He had lost consciousness. Her chest constricted so hard that her breath began to hitch.

  Please don’t let him die.

  Lightning flashed again, brilliant and close through the window. Thunder rumbled through the carriage’s frame. One of the horses screamed.

  Thud, thud, thud.

  The horse’s hoof pounded the outside more frantically this time. Her heart beat furiously. That fragile wall was all that separated them from those hard, shod hooves. They were pinned here; trapped. She gripped his arms and tried to move and pull him along with her, away from the sound. But the pain weakened her shoulder and his lean frame proved to be far heavier than she’d have suspected. Sweat poured all over her body and her grip slipped.

  The horse kept on pounding the wall. Her terrified heartbeat echoed each thud. God, she had to get them both away from those beating hooves. She clenched her jaw and redoubled her efforts, pulling with all her strength while groaning deep in her throat against the red-hot pain in her shoulder joint. She managed barely an inch, then her arms shook and gave out once more under the burden of his dead weight. They both slipped back to the carriage roof.

  Her lungs burnt and she gulped for air. Her head throbbed so hard that it made her dizzy. Tears flowed down her cheeks. How utterly helpless she was. But William was depending on her. She couldn’t fail him.

  She tried again to rouse herself but this time her arms were so weak and the pain in her shoulder so severe that she trembled and couldn’t move at all. Her headache increased to almost blinding intensity. She pressed her head to his satin-covered chest, inhaling the citrus scent he favoured. She gave in to her tears, sobbing silently.

  Lightning struck again; thunder boomed violently.

  The horse screamed.

  Thud, thud, thud, thud.

  Another solid thud sounded, followed by a crunching, cracking. Her head jolted up. Jagged edges of yellow lantern light broke through the blackness of the carriage wall and water trickled down the interior wall. It transfixed her eye.

  Crack!

  Light reflected off iron, the white of a fetlock. Something skimmed past her face; she sensed the radiant heat more than saw it. Icy tingling raced over her scalp, chilling her blood, freezing her heart.

  She tightened her hands on William’s shoulders. As if she could possibly protect him. A hollow, dull knocking sort of noise reverberated through her bones.

  Warm wetness splattered her face.

  Chapter One

  Suffolk, England

  August 1819

  She wanted to be brave. She wanted to be herself again. The warmth of the sun on her face was pleasant; strengthening for one who had spent so many months secluded indoors. The green scents of August mingled with the pungent odour of horses blowing on the wind from the stables. As she reached the entrance, the rustle of the horses carried to her ears and her feet seemed to stall. One more step. She’d done this before…and failed. But it would really be so easy to take just one more step.

  She swallowed against a throat gone dry. No, she couldn’t. Not just yet. But today, she would look inside. At least once before she left.

  Richard Bourchier, the new Earl of Cranfield, William’s cousin and life-long bitter rival, was holding a two week long hunting party and the gentlemen were all out on their mounts. But her beloved Neroli would be in the stable. She closed her eyes and pictured the mare, a glossy chestnut beauty, calmly chewing her oats. The mild eyes that always glinted with affection.

  How could she fear such a gentle creature?

  All right—the time had come. With her resolution to action came a trembling all over, making her question her resolve. No, she had to do this. Just one glance, then she could leave and return to the house and ring for a cup of chamomile tea.

  Such a silly fear for a woman; a widow about to turn twenty-three. Even a simpleton should be able to overcome this fear. And she would overcome it. Her chest grew tight and she fisted her hands at her side, digging her nails into her palms. She looked into the stable.

  Her eyes fell on the first horse inside its stall. Dust motes floated on the air as a shaft of light outlined its sleek lines; shards of white light zigzagged in the periphery of her vision. William’s black stallion, Zeus, lifted his head and snorted.

  Her chest grew tighter. He bumped his stall door and her legs went weak. She gripped the doorway. Whether here at Whitecross Hall or in Mayfair, William had always ridden Zeus every day. Now the grooms kept him exercised. What a powerful animal he was, his well-muscled legs capable of doing so much damage. She’d never have thought twice about that in the past. She would have walked right up to his stall and fed him an apple and petted his glossy coat before going to see Neroli. Now, such trust was unthinkable. He began to stomp, his iron shoes ringing on the stall floor. Her heart leapt into her throat and a strong urge to run jolted into her legs.

  He kicked and bucked against the stall door, intent on getting her attention, and panic slammed into her. She jerked her eyes away and pulled back. All she could see was the hoof coming down.

  Cracking William’s skull.

  Splattering her with his life’s blood.

  Oh God, oh God, oh God…

  Cold sweat poured from her brow and she shivered as nausea overtook her. Her vision grew dim and she dropped to her knees. Moments of quaking passed as her stomach rebelled against her.

  Once it was over, she crawled along the wall, away from the stable entrance. She flung herself back to the outside stable wall, her back slamming into the wood.

  The further away she managed to get, the more her heart slowed. She swallowed convulsively, trying to rid her mouth of the lingering, acrid taste of vomit. Oh, what if someone should happen along and find her in this condition? She had to get control of herself. She pressed a hand to her lurching stomach and forced herself to take slow, measured breaths. As soon as she was able, she stood on her shaking legs.

  What a dismal and complete failure.

  She hadn’t even managed to see her beloved mare.

  This terror—this weakness—was so intolerable. Logic she could handle. She could beat any man she knew at chess. She knew the contents of all the books in the study. But something like this fear, she didn’t know how to fix.

  She was about to turn twenty-three, yet found her world ruled by fears as if she were a girl. Found herself forced to live with her late husband’s cousin and his wife as an unwanted relic.

  Her father, the Duke of Saxby, a man of wavering interests, had at one time, early in her childhood, become fascinated by racehorses. He’d purchased a sizable horse farm with a luxurious hall in Ireland. Though her father had eventually lost interest in the venture and her parents had spent most of their time in Mayfair or in Norfolk on their ducal estate, Anne had grown up at the Irish hall.

  Anne had inherited it when her father had died three years ago. As part of her jointure, upon William’s death it had reverted to her. If not for her incapacitating fear of horses and riding in a closed carriage, she would already be living there. The lady of the manor, her days filled with purpose once more. Foremost, she’d be independent. She hated being obligated to others in any way. People couldn’t be counted on—except maybe for servants, and then only because they were paid to serve and feared to lose their position.

  Behind her, the hard drum of hooves sounded on the ground; the jingle of a bit and the heavy snort of a well-worked horse. She jerked her head up.

  Flashing hooves and wide, snorting nostrils dominated her vision. The creature was huge; as black as death and headed straight towards her.

  Everything went dark.

  “Lady Cranfield?”

  Her eyes fluttered open and she glanced about, her heart racing with unnamed fear. Then she recognised the cream and blue décor of the morning room. She was safe inside Whitecross Hall. Intense blue eyes met hers
. Slowly, the face above her came into focus. The high forehead with its permanent vertical lines between the eyes, the strong jaw, the long, narrow nose. Jonathon Lloyd, the Earl of Ruel. He was rubbing her wrists. His large, long-fingered hands were hard and smooth, just as she’d imagined. Yet his touch was by far gentler than she would have expected for such a fierce-looking gentleman. A thrill chased up her arms and through her whole being. The feeling fascinated her. She’d never known its like. Part of her wanted to stay still and allow him to continue caressing that sensitive area of her wrists.

  The more practical side of her won. She moved to sit.

  He ceased his massage and placed his hands on her shoulders.

  “Slowly, now.” The note of command in his deep voice comforted her.

  She allowed him to press her back to the settee.

  “I must have become overheated.”

  He studied her for a moment, his expression revealing nothing. “Undoubtedly.”

  “You mustn’t miss today’s hunt on my account. I shall be fine.”

  “I don’t care to hunt for pure sport. If I need something to eat, then I’ll do it, but in the most efficient way possible. I can’t abide gathering in the woods like a gaggle of geese and spending the day aimlessly wandering, while hissing and honking over the latest gossip. I was taking a morning ride but it’s a good thing I returned when I did, my lady.” A smile softened his hard-looking mouth.

  Flutters took up residence in her stomach and her palms began to sweat. He always did that to her. People in general made her edgy, but this man in particular made her a ball of pure nerves. He was no classically handsome Lancelot, but a hard-boned Viking warrior. He’d intimidated her from the moment they’d met. But right now he fascinated her. Of course he was the one who had ridden up on the black monster. Logic told her that. Why else would he be the one concerning himself with her now? Where did a man find the courage to ride a beast like that?