MY WICKED EARL: The Wickeds Book 3

by Ayers, Kathleen

  Oh, the irony of it all. Like the makings of a fine Shakespearian tragedy.

  His father barely acknowledged Colin and chose to only shower affection on Ian and Thomas. And the Mad Countess? The proof of her affection stared at him in the mirror every morning. A parting gift from his dear mother before she took her life.

  Absently his fingers touched the scar that neatly bisected the left side of his face, starting at the corner of his eye and ending at the top of his lip. The jagged line shined stark white against his cheek. Thankfully, the Mad Countess had poor aim, or he would have lost an eye along with his looks.

  Thinking of his mother only served to further agitate Colin, and he was quite irritated enough what with standing in the rain like a beggar waiting for someone to open the fucking door. His scar itched terribly in damp weather, as if a stream of ants were marching across his cheek.

  Ian had been first. A stomach ailment to which the local doctor could find no cause. His elder brother suddenly fell to the floor in pain, clutching his left side. Lord Kilmaire drank brandy. The Mad Countess prayed. Colin arrived just in time to witness Ian writhing in agony, his hands clutching the bedcovers as he died.

  The Mad Countess was next.

  His mother’s mental state had always been questionable, but grief over Ian’s death destroyed what little remained of her mind. She wailed like a banshee as her eldest son died, frightening the staff as well as her remaining sons and husband. A week after Ian was laid in the ground, the family sat down to dinner. A footman, one of the few left at Runshaw Park, began to circulate the table pouring wine before bringing in the main course, a goose on a silver platter surrounded by potatoes and onions.

  As the footman began to carve the goose, Lady Kilmaire suddenly stood on her chair. Lifting her skirts, she took a leap across the table, taking the knife from the startled footman’s hand. In her haste to grab the knife she upended the gravy boat, splattering the contents over Thomas and Colin, as she began to slash at her youngest son’s face.

  ‘Why couldn’t it have been you? The son I wished I’d never borne.’

  Even now Colin could not bring himself to eat goose.

  Shortly thereafter, the Mad Countess was found in her bath, wrists cut with her husband’s shaving razor, her naked body floating in a tub of water stained crimson from blood. Her lady’s maid, poor girl, ran screaming from Runshaw Park without collecting her wages.

  The Earl of Kilmaire followed his dearly loved, insane wife to the grave, but not before spending what was left in the Kilmaire coffers on drink. His lordship would disappear for days, only to be discovered in an unused drawing room, or the attic, a bottle of liquor clutched in his hands. The last time the earl disappeared, every room in the house was searched, even the old priest’s hole. It was Thomas who found him dead, sitting upright in a leather chair in the downstairs drawing room, surrounded by several empty bottles of madeira.

  Colin did not drink madeira either.

  Thomas and Colin went on as best they could given the circumstances, until the previous year. Thomas fell ill and died, but not before wresting a promise from Colin to restore Runshaw Park and care for the tenants. A promise Colin didn’t wish to make but did for the sake of his brother, whom he’d loved.

  Death shall surround you. Only you shall remain. No woman’s love shall keep you warm, my Wicked. Certainly not your mother’s. Nor the only one you are foolish enough to give your heart to. None shall love you. You are cursed to roam the earth alone until the end of your days.

  The damned gypsy and her curse. Even now, so many years later, he could smell the smoke of the fire and feel the damp chill of the woods. The press of her lips against his cheek as she whispered the prophecy into his ear. What a lark it seemed at Eton to be cursed by a gypsy. To be named along with his friends, the Wickeds.

  Not such a lark to be the Cursed Earl, as the gossips now christened him.

  Sometimes, at night, when Runshaw Park grew silent, and he worked over the trail of numbers in the account books that all told of his dwindling fortunes, it seemed he could hear the crone whispering to him. There were terrible nights when the gypsy’s words intertwined with the hateful ravings of the Mad Countess until he could no longer tell them apart. On those nights, Colin thought perhaps he was as mad as his mother.

  ‘None shall love you.’

  “Damn it.” Must he bang at the door like a tradesman? As he raised his hand to knock again, the door suddenly swung open.

  “May I help you?” A large, elderly butler stood in the doorway, guarding it like an aging mastiff. He lifted his nose in the air, his watery eyes alight with recognition as he took in Colin’s wet clothing and the length of the scar on Colin’s cheek. The butler was too well schooled to show any overt interest at the injury, but Colin still recognized the curiosity in his eyes.

  Not that it was unusual. The ton was endlessly fascinated as well. Not so much for the scar itself, of course, but for the story surrounding the wound. After all, not many titled gentlemen were attacked by their mother over a roasted goose dressed with onions and potatoes.

  “Lord Kilmaire to see the Dowager Marchioness.” A drop of rain dripped off Colin’s hat to land on his chin. His nose wrinkled with disgust as the smell of damp wool met his nostrils. Nothing worse than wet wool. He felt like a bedraggled dog.

  The butler cocked his head and raised a hand to his ear. “I beg your pardon?”

  Good God. The man was not only ancient, but deaf. And, familiar, though Colin couldn’t remember the butler’s name.

  “Lord Kilmaire to see the Dowager Marchioness,” he spoke louder into the butler’s cupped hand.

  Bushy gray brows drew up to the butler’s hairline. “Greetings, Lord Kilmaire. Lady Cambourne is expecting you.” Bowing as much as his age would allow, he waved Colin inside and slowly shut the door, grunting a bit with his efforts. Lifting trembling hands, the butler took Colin’s cloak and hat, handing the dripping garments to a waiting footman. Moving at a snail’s pace towards the double staircase at the end of the foyer, the butler turned his head slightly to make sure Colin followed.

  Christ, I can hear his spine creak. Colin ran a hand through his hair, droplets of rain falling from the shoulder length strands to sprinkle his coat, while he surveyed the foyer. It had been many years since his last visit to Cambourne House. He’d not even visited when Cam and his wife were in residence the month prior.

  The hall still smelled of beeswax from the battalion of maids who kept Cambourne House spotless. He could hear them even now, scurrying about like mice within the walls, ensuring that not a speck of dust would mar the bannister or a cobweb hide in the corner of any room. The foyer was painted a mellow cream color instead of the pale green it had once been, but the fine carpet covering the floor was the same. An expensive looking vase filled with pink roses, probably cut from the extensive garden behind the house, filled the air with their perfume.

  He remembered the Marquess of Cambourne’s garden well.

  I choose you, Colin Hartley.

  The seductive words lingered in the air like the scent of the roses.

  “This way my lord. I am Bevins, by the way.” Bevins dipped his head as he started up the stairs, his knees popping with each step.

  Bevins. How could Colin have forgotten?

  Pausing halfway up the stairs, Bevins stopped to catch his breath. “Lady Cambourne will receive you in her private sitting room.” A spiderlike wave of his hand urged Colin forward.

  Colin took a hesitant step. The last time he’d been in this house had been just before the gypsy’s curse began to unravel his life and his family. He’d been very successful in avoiding London since, and had no intention of ever returning, but for the fact that his financial situation required such.

  And he missed his friends.

  The solitary life he’d embraced at Runshaw Park grew tiresome. He had assumed, wrongly, that she would no longer be at Cambourne House. That she would be a duchess just as she
wanted. Married to another man with a passel of brats around her skirts.

  I was too much of a coward to ask Cam.

  Seeing her in the Duke of Dunbar’s study was akin to being punched in the gut. Hungrily his eyes trailed over the curves of her body as her scent, lavender and honey, filled the air around him. The silk of her skirts whispered to Colin seductively, a delicious plea for him to come closer. Her lovely green eyes, the color of a fresh grass in spring widened in surprise, and for an instant he saw his own hunger reflected. It wasn’t until one of the footmen addressed her that Colin realized something.

  Not married.

  “My lord?”

  Bevins opened a carved oak door with no small amount of effort and ushered Colin into a sitting room that faced the gardens of Cambourne House. The view was stunning for the Cambournes were known to employ the very best gardeners both in London and Gray Covington, the family estate outside the city. His eyes searched out the tiny white gazebo. Colin wondered if the bench was still there.

  Bevins beckoned Colin to enter the room, bowing slightly as he did so.

  The entire room was painted in pale yellow, the exact color of buttercups lining the fields every spring. Whimsical butterflies and birds hovered against the walls, so realistically painted that when combined with the view, it gave one the impression that the room was just an extension of the gardens.

  Bowls were placed at strategic intervals around the room, all filled with roses and lilies. Two comfortable, slightly worn chairs sat before a merrily crackling fire. One chair held a discarded embroidery hoop and a book of poetry while the other sat empty in invitation. There was no doubt that this room was the private abode of the Dowager Marchioness, for the room carried the very essence of her.

  Colin had always adored Lady Donata, the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne and his friend Cam’s grandmother. The Dowager lavished Colin with affection when he visited Gray Covington, seeming to know that the Mad Countess cared little for her son. She treated Colin as a member of the family, fussing over him and never forgetting his birthday.

  She was also quite fierce.

  Turning to ask Bevins how long the Dowager would be, Colin was instead greeted with the oak door shutting behind him with a discreet click.

  Colin moved towards the empty chair and the warmth emanating from the fireplace. Perhaps he could dry himself out a bit before the Dowager received him. He could think of worse places to await his fate then this cozy room.

  Halfway across the room Colin stopped, nearly upending a side table with a large vase of hyacinths.

  A cloud of hair, as black as ink, cascaded over the arm of a small, green tufted couch set off to the side of the room. Unbound and unruly, the curling tendrils nearly brushed the floor.

  Colin’s hands splayed against his thighs of their own accord, remembering the feel of those dark strands trickling through his fingers like silk.

  A small table sat just behind the head of the couch’s occupant holding a tray laden with tea and a plate of raisin cakes. The tray was pushed up against the arm of the couch so as to be within easy reach.

  She’s still enamored of raisin cakes.

  Colin’s breath caught painfully.

  Why hadn’t she married St. Remy? After all, that had been her plan six years ago. To marry the heir to a duchy. Become a duchess. Stroll about uselessly like every other titled lady of the ton. Spend her days deciding on which gown to wear to some ridiculous ball.

  Indeed, why hadn’t she married at all?

  Colin had done a wonderful job of steering clear of London and in doing so, avoiding her. But as luck would have it, his first night in London, she appeared in the Dunbar town house. In the confusion of the disappearance of Nick’s betrothed and his sister, Arabella’s role in the kidnapping, Colin found himself face to face with the one thing he’d been desperately trying to escape for so many years.

  Miranda.

  The bitterness rose up again at what she’d done. He didn’t wish to see her. Or speak to her.

  He turned, meaning to leave and call on the Dowager another day.

  A giggle sounded from the couch, halting his movement toward the door, as potent as a siren’s song.

  It wouldn’t hurt just to look at her.

  Unlike so many ladies of the ton who eschewed books as if they were the plague, Miranda was reading. A pillow embroidered with a spray of butterflies lay across her stomach, a book propped up against it. A pair of discarded slippers lay on the floor beside the couch, as if she’d just kicked them off. Her stockinged toes wiggled as she read, sliding over the couch and into the space between the cushions in a sensuous motion.

  A gentle flip of his stomach at the sight of her filled him with the most intense longing, a not so subtle reminder that time did not heal all wounds.

  There was not a bit of Miranda that did not call to Colin, beckoning his mind and his body. The fluttering of her hands, waving them about in excitement as she told him of a lecture on ancient Greece. The way she spoke, her topics and words winding into each other in such a way that one must pay close attention or be confused. The way she breathed his name in a litany as she came apart in his arms.

  The delicate, feminine hand in which she wrote the words that destroyed him.

  ‘While I’ve enjoyed our flirtation, Colin, we both knew this would end. I find that while I bear you no small amount of affection I am ill-prepared to become only Mrs. Hartley. The daughter of a Marchioness cannot possibly marry a third son with no prospects. I’ve decided to accept the suit of Lord St. Remy at my mother’s urging. He’s to be a duke one day and I shall be a duchess.”

  Colin swallowed, his eyes still on her dark cloud of hair, remembering the shock as his grandmother’s ring, the one he’d left for her, rolled out of the envelope and into his palm.

  Miranda was so absorbed in her book that she still hadn’t sensed his presence. What in the world was she reading that held her interest? He told himself he was only curious about the book she held. After all, he considered it research of sorts.

  Colin stepped carefully across the sitting room’s plush rug until he stood directly behind her. The vantage point gave him an exceptional view of her bodice and the crevice between the mounds of her breasts. He narrowed his eyes, at a disadvantage without the glasses he sometimes used.

  Miranda was reading the latest Lord Thurston novel.

  Colin had to bite his lip from laughing. How delightfully ironic.

  She giggled again, a light musical sound, and snuggled deeper into the couch.

  What in the world could she find so amusing about Lord Thurston? The tales of a disinherited earl turned pirate and his ladylove were thrilling. Romantic. Some would say slightly lurid. But, certainly not amusing.

  Tempting fate and himself, Colin leaned over Miranda, watching in fascination as the dark blonde tips of his hair mingled against the ebony curls. Closing his eyes, he took a deep silent breath, allowing her scent to permeate his senses. He knew men who had an addiction to opium or drink. It must feel like this. The almost insane need for the very thing that would destroy you. He should never have asked the Dowager’s help, nor come to Cambourne House. A dreadful miscalculation on his part.

  Opening his eyes, he bent down to whisper in her ear, loving the way her hair tickled his nose.

  “Lord Thurston? How scandalous, Lady Miranda.”

  3

  “Marcella!”

  Marcella tried to wrench her arm away from the pirate captain but succeeded only in tearing the sleeve of her dress. A feeling of desperation filled her as she realized that Captain Mohab might well use her as he had the poor women now cowering in the ship’s hold.

  Captain Mohab leered at her while she fought back his advances. She looked up into the rigging hoping for a glimpse of the one man who would be her salvation.

  Lord Thurston.

  She had not seen him in several days, not since Captain Mohab had taken her captive in Jamaica. Lord Thurston had danced
with her at the Governor’s Ball, then disappeared into the night mist as if he’d never been there. Captain Mohab and his crew snatched her from her father’s carriage as she made her way home.

  But she knew Lord Thurston would come for her. He had to. He was her only hope.

  “Capt’n!” A shout came from the front of the ship. “It’s the Gorgon! She’s closing fast.”

  Marcella wrenched herself away from Captain Mohab and ran to the railing. A ship was closing fast. The Gorgon. Lord Thurston’s ship.

  “He’ll not save you.” Captain Mohab pressed his lips against her neck. “You’ll be mine.”

  The crunch of wood splintering met her ears as the Gorgon scraped against Captain Mohab’s vessel. A cry reached her ear, the sound of men boarding the ship.

  “I told you he would come for me.” She spat at Captain Mohab.

  “Leave her!” A lusty roar echoed from the flapping sails as men scattered before the angry avenging angel who threw himself atop the deck.

  “Marcella.” Lord Thurston, his features, grim with worry, searched her face for any sign of injury. A firm arm wound around her waist, pulling her behind Lord Thurston as he thrust out with his sword. She melted into him, overcome with relief and something else.

  Miranda sighed and turned the page, relieved to hear the storm intensifying outside. Thank goodness for rainy days. The inclement weather would keep all but the most obstinate ladies from calling to pay homage to the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne.

  If the day was relatively free of rain, a steady stream of fashionably garbed ladies, their bland daughters trailing them, would arrive to engage her grandmother in what passed for witty conversation. Grandmother would receive them all in the formal drawing room, a room whose furnishings were so rich as to leave no doubt as to the power of the Cambourne’s and the Dowager Marchioness. The visitors would be appropriately grateful the Dowager was home to receive them.

  Most of the titled ladies wished to advance themselves by associating with the Dowager Marchioness or sought advice on how to find a suitable match for their dull daughters, for Grandmother was known to be an expert matchmaker. Some ladies, braver than the rest, fairly ran up the steps to call at Cambourne House hoping to catch a glimpse of Miranda’s brother, Sutton, a man whose very presence caused the ladies of the ton to swoon.