by Jen YatesNZ
The Earl of Windermere Takes a Wife
An Erotic Romance set in the Regency Era.
(1st Book in ‘Lords of the Matrix Club’ Series.)
JEN YATESNZ
The Earl of Windermere Takes a Wife
Author Name: Jen YatesNZ
Publisher: Gyneva Books
Genre: Historical Romance set in Regency Era.
Copyright Notice: Copyright© 2016 by Jen Yates
Cover Design: by Tamian Wood twca0005 via romancenovelcovers.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning to a computer disc, or by any other informational storage and retrieval system without express permission in writing from the author and publisher. This work is protected under the statutes of the copyright act.
Disclaimer
The characters and events in this book are the creation of the author, and resemblance to persons, whether living or dead, is strictly coincidental. Towns and places are used as settings and have no relation to any event or actual happening outside the author’s imagination.
Chapter 1
May 1815
‘Jassie! You waited?’ he yelled across the Park. The day was instantly brighter for the sight of her.
‘I always wait, Rogan. I know if you’re home you’ll be up with the larks and will ride this way. You always do,’ came her lilting answer.
Nothing surer. With the driving instinct of a stag in the mating season, he couldn’t stay away.
Rogan Wyldefell, Earl of Windermere, savored the power of Raven, his satin black stallion, as he cleared the rails from Windermere Abbey lands into the Great Park of Brantleigh Manor. Jassinda Carlisle awaited him on her big chestnut where the old willow dipped its leafy fronds in the swift running waters of Neave Brook.
When he was home, and even though it would have been better for them both if he didn’t, he could never resist the need to simply be with her.
The dance of welcome in Jassie’s topaz eyes was just as bright as the first time he’d looked into them. She’d been a tiny baby then, a half-sister to his friend, Philip Carlisle, and he’d still swear she’d winked and smiled at him. She’d had his heart ever since. Philip’s too, oddly enough. From the time she could walk she’d followed them and they’d happily, mostly, allowed her along on their adventures. With her mother an invalid who died before Jassie was six and a reclusive and brooding father, she’d had no trouble escaping her nurse, and later governess, whenever they were home from school.
They’d put her on her first horse, taught her to swim in Windermere Lake, to climb trees; and she was no slug with a sword either. He’d known since she was quite small that his life would not be complete without her and that one day she would be his.
Such friendship as he shared with Jassie Carlisle was rare between the sexes. In fact, Rogan acknowledged as he pulled Raven into the shade of the willow, there was no one whose company he enjoyed more. She should’ve been his wife long since and a wave of bitterness engulfed him, knowing he could never realize that dream. His only consolation was she’d never accepted any other. He’d not been fair to her, but God help him, if her friendship was all he could ever have, he’d crawl on his belly through acres of enemy infested territory to be with her.
For the stark and ugly truth was he could now never marry anyone, least of all this beautiful, feisty woman with eyes like sunlit jewels and hair the color of newly minted gold; the one woman whose very presence made his world a brighter place. He would not allow himself to be the one to dim the brilliance that danced around her like a shimmering aura of happiness.
Rogan Wyldefell, Earl of Windermere, would never take a wife.
Rogan was home! Her heart was going to burst through the walls of her chest.
That dancing organ leapt right up into the base of her throat as she watched his tall broad-shouldered form urging the black stallion over the rails from Windermere. In and out of her home for as long as she could remember, he was as close as family, and his mother, Lady Olwynne, had long played the maternal role in her life. The image of him, six foot tall, broad and solidly muscular with black, Byron-cut hair, dark blue eyes, harshly squared jaw and deeply cleft chin was ever vivid in her mind. There were weeks when that remembered image was all she had but when he was home she knew he would seek her out, believed that he needed her presence in his life just as surely as she needed his.
Knew that while he’d vetoed marriage and they’d never talked of it since her sixteenth birthday, he was not indifferent to her as a woman. It was this knowledge that had long simmered in her breast until she could no longer contain it.
She’d made a life-defining decision after his last visit and here he was home again. So today—
Dear God, she wouldn’t think on what she’d decided or she’d be unable to go through with it.
Forcing the aching excitement back down into her belly, Jassie schooled her features into the ladylike, friendly smile of welcome she always showed him, when what she really wanted to do was throw herself onto his lap, grab that gorgeously scowling visage and kiss the harshly sculpted lips until he—
Botheration! Now she’d have to work harder at containing her smile, her love, her need—
‘Good morning, Jassie,’ he said, as he reined in the black to where she waited by the tree. The deep rich tones of his voice and the warm smile in his eyes were balm to her very soul. Her whole being wanted to sigh with relief at the sight of him, at the slow but guarded sweep of his gaze from the crown of her head to the tips of her boots. As if he was—reassuring himself it was really she.
‘Good morning, Rogan. I’m so glad you’re home at last,’ she answered, darting her own swift glance over the whole of his person to be assured he’d returned unharmed. She only had a vague understanding of what he did when he vanished, sometimes for weeks at a time. Once he’d returned with his arm in a sling, claiming to have badly sprained it by falling off his horse. His mother, Lady Olwynne, had been of the opinion it was more in the nature of a wound of some sort, but he had never changed his story. ‘When you leave I am never easy until you return. Lady O worries too, I know.’
Thick lashes drooped over the deep blue of his eyes so she could not read his true thoughts.
‘I am here,’ he said simply. ‘And as always, so are you. A most refreshing sight. Is that a new habit?’
‘How clever of you to notice! It’s the exact same color as my old one!’
The slight scowl left his face and for just a moment the old, sunny Rogue from her childhood grinned down at her.
‘But it’s styled quite differently. A more military look. Very becoming.
She allowed her hungry gaze to drink in the magnificence of him in buckskin trousers, midnight blue coat, and curly brimmed beaver sitting low on the broad brow, shadowing his beautiful eyes to a deep navy blue.
She could drown in those eyes if only he would allow her.
Her breath hitched in her chest as she briefly considered the momentous proposition she intended to put to the Earl of Windermere today. She’d planned the scenario right down to where she wanted to be standing when she uttered words no self-respecting single gentlewoman would ever speak to a man. To that end she must contain her unravelling emotions and try to keep her mind on other things until after they’d completed their ride.
‘Where are we headed today?’
‘Upper Farm. Harte has some new-fangled cropping notions he wants to discuss.’
‘Wonderful,’ Ja
ssie instantly responded. ‘I can already taste Mrs. Harte’s scones with quince jam and fresh cream.’
With a touch of her knees Chester leapt forward, Raven close on his heels. It was a glorious day for a gallop. Raked with nerves at the thought of her plans for later, Jassie needed a distraction and concentrating on keeping her seat on the flying red horse was just the distraction she loved best of all.
She intended to request they ride home via the standing stone on Neave Tor—which would tell Rogan there was something serious afoot.
They’d developed the habit of riding to Neave Tor when there were weighty issues to be discussed and resting on one of the huge flattish stones lying about the foot of the strange, rough monolith that had stood on the Tor for centuries. It was the only possible place for such a potentially life altering discussion.
Meantime she would just enjoy the balmy morning and the delight of the Earl of Windermere at her side and leave the possible joyous outcome of her daring proposition in the lap of the Gods. She was equally prepared to face the consequence, whichever way Rogan chose to step.
She was, she told herself firmly.
‘Which way home?’ Rogan asked two hours later as they rode down the lane from Upper Farm.
‘By way of Neave Tor,’ Jassinda answered, flustered that she was unable to look at him when she said it. Nevertheless she was aware of his sudden intense scrutiny and forced herself to ride without saying anything further. He could read her too easily.
‘Well?’
She couldn’t help but glance his way then. It was as difficult as she’d known it would be to maintain an innocent expression while he regarded her with that puzzled frown that always made her want to grab his face and kiss him until the worry lines went away.
‘Well what?’
‘Are you going to give me a hint of what you want to discuss?’
‘So you can line up your arguments to shoot me down?’
Thankfully she managed to waggle her eyebrows to give the impression it was nothing to angst over.
‘Mmm. Something like that.’
‘No.—About Mrs. Harte’s request to find a position for young Lucy; you know Jensen is not that much younger than the Countess and though she tries to hide it her arthritis causes her considerable grief. A young pair of hands and legs to fetch and carry would greatly relieve her I think. Your mother is quite demanding, as you know, much as we love her.’
Rogan rolled his eyes, but allowed himself to be diverted from pressuring her to reveal the topic she wanted to discuss with him at Neave Tor.
‘If you think she would suit perhaps you could sort it out with Mother and Jensen? I’m—’
‘—you are totally out of your depth dealing with domestic issues. You need a wife.’ The last four words had popped out of her mouth before she’d really thought about what she was saying. She snapped her betraying lips shut, then sucked in a breath and added, ‘Of course I’ll handle it for you.’
A pained expression flashed in the cobalt depths of his eyes but it was gone before she’d really been sure she’d seen it and he grinned lazily at her.
‘I don’t need a wife. I have you. I consider myself well blessed in my friendship with you.’
Jassie hoped the smile she pasted on her face for him was sweet enough to conceal the real state of her emotions.
‘As am I,’ she concurred. ‘Race you to the Tor.’
Further conversation was impossible but nothing could stem the torrent of her thoughts.
On the night of her sixteenth birthday, she’d carefully secured a private moment alone with him, determined to experience her first kiss with the only man she’d ever wanted anywhere near her person. He’d gone to great pains—after he’d fulfilled her dearest wish way beyond her maidenly dreams—to make her understand he would never marry and that she must not set her sights on him if she thought to find herself a husband in the near future. He’d never offered a reason as to why and the bleak, bitter visage he’d worn while warning her had deterred her from ever venturing to ask.
Could she still make her request in the face of this latest avowal that he didn’t need a wife? Could she ask for what she wanted without suggesting marriage? He’d never explained why he didn’t want a wife. Was it marriage per se that he objected to, or was it what marriage involved—in the bedroom? It wasn’t actually marriage she’d be asking for. Would he think her beyond the pale? Be surprised? Angry?
Impatient with the intensity of her desire to anticipate his responses and feelings, Jassie, lowered her head and concentrated on the ride. Of course he arrived first. He always did. Chester, disadvantaged by the uneven weight of the sidesaddle was no match for the more superior height and strength of Raven. It would be a different story if she were riding astride as she often liked to, she thought, trying desperately to still the wild hammering of her heart as he waited to lift her down as soon as she pulled Chester to a standstill.
His hands were hard and warm at her waist and gone all too quickly as he reached for Chester’s reins and dropped them over his head, leaving him to graze and snort with Raven. Hoping he would not feel the nervous tremor of her fingers, she laid her gloved hand on the arm he offered and together they climbed the last steep rise to the base of the looming stone monolith. Several other long flat stones lay about the hilltop and were suited for sitting and surveying the rolling green of the downs as they fell away right down to the distant valley where Brantleigh Manor nestled in peaceful rusticity. A rise in the landscape concealed Windermere Abbey from sightseers at this point.
As always, Rogan removed his jacket and spread it over the lichen covered stone before assisting her to settle comfortably. Then instead of taking his seat beside her as he usually did he stood with one foot on the stone, arms braced across his knee and levelled her with that unwavering midnight blue stare.
Jassie blinked then looked away from the temptation of taut muscle straining against creamy buckskin and the intensity she saw in Rogan’s gaze. She fussed with the arrangement of her moss green velvet riding habit, her mind racing with panic—more like excitement.
What was he thinking? Would the next few minutes produce her heart’s deepest desire? When she looked up again her attention was caught by the straining muscles of his thigh encased in taut buckskin and her heart rate increased from frantic to frenzied. What would that thigh look like—naked? Don’t think about it or you’ll hyperventilate.
Jassie concentrated on slowly removing her gloves and setting them on the rock beside her while she scrabbled in her mind trying to remember how she had intended to start this conversation. Because she had gone over it and over it until she’d had it clear exactly what she’d say. Now not a word of what she’d so carefully devised would come to her. Her mind was a blank—except for the startling vision of a naked and muscular male thigh stretched out on her bed for her exclusive perusal and touch.
Lord, she was going to make a mull of this if she didn’t pull herself together. And she’d probably never dredge up the courage to broach the subject again.
Breath shuddered into her lungs.
The large dusty leather boot thudded to the ground and suddenly Rogan was kneeling before her, cradling her restless hands between his large ones. The side of her brain that wasn’t entirely stultified by panic, noted how beautifully masculine and strong those hands were and longed to know how they’d feel, gliding over her skin, on her breasts—
She dragged in another shuddering breath.
‘Jassie! What the hell is bothering you? Are you in some sort of trouble? Do you need money? This is me, Rogan bloody Wyldefell, not the Grim Reaper come to haul you off! Tell me how I can help.’
‘It’s—it’s not so bad you need to swear,’ she muttered, making no attempt to retrieve her hands as a proper lady should. But she couldn’t really consider there was anything ladylike about her if she was going to carry through with the proposition she intended to put to him, could she?
She closed her hand
s around his, savoring the moment of close connection and finally allowed herself to look straight into the deep blue of his eyes darkened with concern and let him see—whatever he would—in hers. When he blinked and drew back a little, she knew he’d seen enough to shock.
Breathe, Jassie, breathe, she ordered herself as the healthy tan leached from his angular cheeks and his eyes changed from dark blue to the silvery shade of—horror?
‘What do you want?’ he whispered.
Oh God!
‘Do you know how old I am, R—Rogan?’
‘What? Of course I know how old you are. Twenty-five. And I know how old I am too. Thirty-six, in case you’ve forgotten,’ he snarled, almost sarcastically. He’d sensed she was off-balance and that what she wanted to discuss with him was, doubtless, even more so. ‘What does that matter to the point?’
Jassie breathed deep and fixed her attention on their hands gripped so tightly their knuckles had whitened. This was her moment, her only chance. She might as well just spit it out as Philip would have said.
‘I’m never going to marry but—but I—confound it, Rogan, I just have to know—just once—what it’s like to—to make love—no, I’m not asking that—I know the mechanics but I want to know how it feels to—you know—lie with a man!’ He never blinked and her own gaze danced across his face, desperately searching for a reaction, an emotion. Anything but the impression of horror that looked out of his eyes! She swallowed. ‘There is no one else I can ask. No one else I would want to ask—’
Breathing no longer a priority, Jassie wrenched her hands from his and jumped to a spot about three feet away and stared blindly down at Brantleigh Manor, lying like a toy model in the shimmering distance.
Then she closed her eyes and focused on the pain flowering in her chest and spreading to her belly. What had she done?
‘I’m sorry. Forget I said anything. It never occurred to me that you would be horrified by the thought of—of—making—having s—making l—love to me,’ she finished in a rush.
