by Ella Edon
The Rake’s Hesitant Bride
She swore never to love, he vowed never to be hurt again...
Ella Edon
Contents
Thank you
Ladybirds of Birdwell
About the book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Extended Epilogue
Afterword
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About the Author
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Ladybirds of Birdwell
Book#1
The Earl’s Wicked Seduction
Book#2 (this book)
The Rake’s Hesitant Bride
About the book
She vowed never to let a man hurt her, especially not the famed rake next door...
Merope Robbins is in a dire state. Without a father or a brother, the small inn she owns with her mother will, eventually, fall into the hands of a male relative. To secure an heir for her property, she must marry before it's too late.
Then, a proposition comes from the last man she would ever choose.
James Brookford, Lord of Albany is in search of a bride. His rakish, womanizing ways are condemned by his family, and he is pressured to leave his old life behind.
Determined not to be deceived by love again, he decides to court the most unapproachable woman in town, and he comes with an offer she can't refuse: a marriage of convenience.
But before they reach an agreement, another woman will vouch openly for his hand: Merope’s best friend. And she comes with revelations that are about to destroy their marriage before it even begins...
Merope will soon discover that even the best laid plans can fall apart and that nothing breaks like a heart...
She swore never to love, he vowed never to be hurt again...
Chapter One
"Merope!" cried Mrs. Felicity Robbins, bustling out of the kitchen and drying her hands on her apron. She stood in the hallway of the Robbins Inn and looked towards the staircase that led upstairs. "Merope! Go and fetch the mail! After that, I will need you to go and inspect the rooms and make certain they are clean!"
Merope gently closed the front door of the inn behind her. She was dressed simply, in a plain muslin, with a white apron. Her blonde hair was pinned in a simple bun. Her mother whirled around and looked at her. "Oh! There you are. Go and fetch – "
"I have it right here, Mother," she said, holding up several folded, red-sealed letters. "I'll go upstairs and inspect the rooms in a moment, but you may want to know that there is a note from Worthington among this stack of letters."
"From Worthington! From the earl and the countess?" Mrs. Robbins snatched away the stack of letters and took them into the kitchen, where two servants worked to clean the dishes before starting the day's baking for the patrons of the inn.
She sat down at a small table in the corner and Merope took a chair across from her. "It's still hard to believe that the earl married that little servant girl," said Merope. "Grace Miller, wasn't it? She's come a long way from living in a cottage at the far end of town."
Mrs. Robbins shot her a quick glance even as she sorted through the letters. "Whatever her name was, it's Lady Worthington now, and she'll never be a servant ever again."
Merope sighed. "If Earl Worthington can marry a coachman's daughter and maid-of-all-work, I suppose anything can happen. Now, what is in the letter?"
"Here." Her mother allowed the note to fall to the table. "You may look at it and see, perhaps it is a dinner invitation."
"I suppose that would be nice," said Merope, reaching for the note, "but I am not sure there would be any reason for me to go. The earl is no longer in search of a wife."
"And what does that matter? Does he not have male friends? Cousins? Acquaintances? There could be any number of very respectable and very well-to-do young men attending the events held at Worthington."
Mrs. Robbins gave her daughter a very stern expression. "There is far more at stake here than you simply getting a husband. This inn – this source of income for you and me both – requires you to have a husband who can put his name on the deed, since neither you nor I can do so."
"Yes, yes. I will do my best I can to find a husband, but I am not willing to marry just anyone."
"Of course and since you do wish to marry well, you have every reason to prize an invitation to the home of the earl and the new countess."
Carefully, Merope broke the dark red wax seal that held the folded letter together and opened it up. "Hmm," she said, reading silently.
"Well, girl, what is it? An invitation? Or something else entirely? Tell me!"
"It seems to be," said Merope, "an invitation. To – a picnic."
"A picnic?" Her mother sounded a bit disappointed, but then could wait no longer and snatched the letter from Merope's fingers. "It is indeed a picnic," she murmured as she read. "It will be held on Midsummer, the twenty-first day of June. Won't that be nice?"
"Oh, yes, just ever so nice." Merope did not bother to hide the boredom in her voice. "Another of the same old picnics, like so many I have attended before. Are you certain you can spare me from my duties here?"
“Merope! No doubt, there will be many fine young men in attendance!”
Merope just nodded. Felicity Robbins had been running the Robbins Inn herself for many years, ever since the death of her husband when Merope was very young. If anyone knew the details of everyone who lived in the entire county, it was her.
"I see. So I suppose you want me to go to this picnic."
Mrs. Robbins peered at her daughter over the top of the note. "You suppose I want you to go? Of course you should go! What better place than a gathering at Worthington to find a man who will propose to you!"
Keeping her temper under control, Merope placed her hands flat on the table and closed her eyes. "Mother, I am nineteen years old and I have never received a single proposal."
"Yes, but – "
"You will not be able to run the inn forever, especially if you are alone here with only a cou
ple of servants to help you – servants who could leave at any time. You need me here. If I married, I would be expected to live with my husband."
Mrs. Robbins drew herself up. "I appreciate your kind concern, Merope, but I am quite capable. I have been running this inn since you were barely able to walk. I am sure I can continue to do so for many years to come, if need be."
"Yes, if need be – but perhaps you should not have to carry such a burden alone. I can help while I am here. Anyway, I cannot marry as long as I stay in this sleepy little town that has virtually no prospects."
"But – there are fine young men here. Farmers, merchants – "
She held up one hand. "But if I can do better, shouldn't I try for better? Though I do not wish to boast, it is simply a fact that I am one of the best catches in Birdwell. Men say they like blonde women with a little height to them. I am well read and capable. You have taught me to manage this inn, and so I could certainly manage a home. I am well worth a proposal. But I do not see how I will ever get one unless I can somehow leave this unchanging little town."
"Merry, please. I know you are desperate to go to London for a season, in hopes of finding a man more to your liking."
"A man who enjoys the city. A man who thrives on the variety and sophistication it has to offer. Not to mention, such a man might have an interest in business, and the running of an inn in a small town."
"Yes. I do understand. But I have explained that the cost is far too dear for you to go to London any time soon and will be for some time. There was the new oaken floor in the dining room, the replacement linens for the beds upstairs – "
"I know about all that, Mother. I know, but that will not get me married. I must find a way to get to the city, at least for a time. I am not going to find the right man at a little country picnic, even if it is a picnic at Worthington. The sort of man I want, the sort of life I want, is in the city. My kind of man will not want to be out here in the country, or have to do anything with this inn."
Somewhere in London
There was a tremendous pounding inside of James Brookford's head. Or maybe it was someone beating on the door of his room. Or maybe it was both.
"Innkeeper! Open up!"
Very slowly, groaning to himself, James sat up. He was in a rumpled bed, which sat beneath the one high window of his small room at the inn. Light poured in from the window above and made him close his eyes tightly. The room stank of unwashed bodies, filthy clothes, old food, vomit, and . . . worse.
The pain in his head only got worse with every move he made.
There was a quick rustling from either side of him. Blinking, James watched two women quickly sit up and get out of the bed.
"Thank you, dearie!" one of them called, gathering up her cloak.
"Got the payment last night!" said the other, hastily pulling on her half-boots. "Call us again anytime!"
The two women were only half-dressed in ragged clothes but did not seem to care; they pulled the door open and pushed past whoever was knocking on the other side. James closed his eyes again, partly from the ongoing pain in his temples, and partly from the sight of those two women.
The pounding continued, even with the door open. He must have made a particularly valiant effort at drowning his sorrows the night before. "Just – just a minute," James muttered, sliding his feet down to the floor and noticing with some relief that he was still dressed. "I'll be there directly."
He managed to stand up and then stumble over to the door, to find the tall heavy form and scowling face of the innkeeper.
"Enough's enough, Brookford," the man said, shoving a long piece of paper at him. "I want this paid today. Then I want you gone!"
James reached out for the paper. His eyes weren't focused enough to read it, but he knew it was a list of charges for several weeks' worth of rooming, food, ale, and wine. "All right," he said, attempting to fold the paper and slip it inside his linen shirt. "All right. Give me an hour. I will pack up - and then I will be gone."
"An hour. No more," growled the innkeeper. "If I come back and you are still here, I'll sell anything of yours that's still in this room - and you can take these too!"
A handful of folded papers fell to the floor. Some had bright red wax seals on them. "I'll pay it," James said, awkwardly bending down to gather up the sealed papers. "I can have gold, in an hour."
"Good! Don't make me – "
James threw the door shut, though he could not blame the man for wanting to be paid. It was true that he had stayed in this room for far too long and spent far too many weeks trying to forget about the games that women played . . . and the game that one woman in particular had played on him.
After making every effort to forget, all he had done was sink so low, that now, here he was waking up, ape-drunk, with two examples of some of the lowest of Haymarket’s wares to be found in his bed, and now his debts were running up so high, he could hardly guess the amount.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed with a heavy sigh, James tossed aside the list of charges. The sealed and folded papers looked to have been sitting for weeks, for he had never called at the desk for any messages.
There had been no reason why he should. Until some two years before, he had been living north of London at Albany, his family's small estate. He had been quite comfortable there, enjoying the peace and beauty, and left only to go to Cambridge University to obtain his degree in law. As soon as that was done, he returned home at the age of twenty-six and soon asked Angela, a beautiful girl from the little nearby town of Birdwell, to marry him.
At the thought of Angela, James nearly reached for the bottle of gin that still rested on the small table beside the bed – but then stopped. He had escaped to London with the sole purpose of never thinking of her again. Instead, he reached for the stack of letters that the innkeeper had brought him.
The first was from his cousin, Thomas Worthington, who was also the Earl Worthington. He lived on the grand and beautiful family estate of the same name, just north of the town of Birdwell. It was some eight miles from James's home of Albany and he fondly remembered visiting Thomas and his family when they were boys.
My dear cousin;
It has been a very long while since I last wrote, but I have much good news. The Teeswater cattle that I told you about when last I wrote has been progressing well. The herd is growing steadily.
My mother is well. She has stepped back from her duties and into the role of Dowager Countess, with her usual grace. She has been enjoying herself.
I must tell you of my joy: I have recently wed Miss Grace Miller. She is an absolute angel, and I have never been so happy in all of my life. We would all be very pleased if you would come and visit Worthington. I want you to meet my wife.
Not to mention, hunting season is just around the corner, and my friend, Simon Clarke, whom you know well is becoming serious about breeding Thoroughbred horses for both racing and the hunt field.
Please write back soon, so that we can make the proper arrangements for your arrival.
All the best,
Thomas, Earl Worthington
It all sounded lovely and perfect, which was always how the Worthingtons had lived their lives. Though it was true that he would not object to seeing Thomas again . . . and his new wife . . . and his mother . . . and enjoy their fine food and good wine and brandy . . .
But all James managed to do was vomit copiously into the sheets this time, before sitting up again and trying to catch his breath.
Sitting in the ruined mess of his room – and his life – James decided that the time had come - to go back to Albany and Birdwell. He knew that his family missed him and he was beginning to miss them, too. There were some painful memories there, but home was home.
A quick glance in the mirror showed James’s disheveled dark hair, his unshaven, pale face. The dark circles underneath his hazel eyes.
It could hardly be worse than this.
Chapter Two
Merope rose to her feet
and stood behind the kitchen chair. "Here in Birdwell, it's always the same thing, with the same men, over and over again. All the games and machinations and scheming and devious planning. No one ever tells the truth."
