Her Errant Earl
Page 1
Table of Contents
Synopsis
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Preview of Her Lovestruck Lord
Preview of A Mad Passion
Other Books by Scarlett Scott
About the Author
Wicked Husbands Book 1
By
Scarlett Scott
Her Errant Earl
Wicked Husbands Book One
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2017 by Scarlett Scott
Kindle Edition
Edited by Grace Bradley
Formatting by Dallas Hodge, Everything But The Book
Cover Design by Wicked Smart Designs
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is punishable by law.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
For more information, contact author Scarlett Scott.
www.scarsco.com
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Synopsis
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Preview of Her Lovestruck Lord
Preview of A Mad Passion
Other Books by Scarlett Scott
About the Author
An American heiress married for her dowry…
When Victoria fell in love with the Earl of Pembroke, she never imagined he’d heartlessly wed, bed, and abandon her in the countryside. After he suddenly returns, determined to prove to her he’s a changed man, she’s not about to forgive him, trust him, or succumb to his scorching kisses.
A future duke trapped by obligation…
Will has devoted his life to enraging his loathsome father by creating one scandal after the next. Duty forces him back to the wife he resents, but he isn’t prepared for the raw desire she makes him feel. Seducing her will hardly be a tedious task. Guarding his heart, however, is another matter entirely.
A marriage of convenience no more…
What begins in deception and necessity turns into an attraction neither can deny. Can their newfound passion keep them together forever, or will the truth tear them apart?
For my dear Aunt Julia, who taught me how to sip tea from a cinnamon stick, and who never allows me to forget about the time we hid Gregory’s pumpkins or the measure of a good time.
London, 1853
ill watched his mother survey the efforts of her lady’s maid upon her hair, turning her head this way and that, admiring her own reflection. The duchess reminded him of the butterflies in the gardens of Carrington House. Bright and beautiful, forever flitting from one flower to the next. He longed for her presence, but she was always leaving.
“This will do, Ganley,” she told the servant. “Thank heavens the third attempt took. Pray take more care studying the latest styles. I cannot spend so many hours each evening upon my toilette. You are dismissed.”
The servant, who was always ready to sneak him sweets whenever he ventured belowstairs against the strict edict of his father the duke, curtseyed formally. Her expression was grave. His mother’s rebuke had stung. “Thank you, Your Grace. I will again study the lady’s magazines Your Grace has so kindly lent me this evening.”
“Mind that you don’t crease the pages, Ganley. I can’t bear to look at a magazine that looks as if it’s been riffled through.” The duchess directed a regal nod in Ganley’s direction.
The lady’s maid whisked her skirts past Will, but she took care to meet his gaze and give him a wink that told him she’d have his sweet ready when next they crossed paths. He certainly hoped it would be one of Mrs. Rufton’s seed cakes. Perhaps even a curd tart. His stomach rumbled with anticipation at the thought. His father forbid him from eating sweets, saying they rotted the mind and body. All he was served in the nursery was cold meats and hard bread, the disciplined diet befitting a future duke, according to his father.
Will hated bread, and he hated cold meat, but he hated his father the most.
“William, darling,” his mother trilled. “Come and give me a kiss before I must leave.”
Another ball, he supposed. Or dinner. Or musical evening. Or the opera. She was eternally headed somewhere, and she was ever saying goodbye, calling for him just before her departure, all gilded and glittering and beautiful. He knew how to tell time. He had his own pocket watch, engraved with a Latin verse he’d yet to decipher. According to the timepiece, he spent less than ten minutes with his mother each day.
He didn’t hate his mother. She wasn’t cruel and harsh. She had never told him he was stupid or sinful or unworthy of being the heir to a duchy. She wasn’t repressive or commanding. She didn’t force him to eat cold meat and sleep with only one blanket and recite the bible with a tutor who caned him when he confused a verse. But neither did she stop his father from doing all of those things. Nor did she notice Will, aside from her daily call to join her as she completed her toilette, just so that she could disappear again, having committed her maternal obligation.
No, he didn’t hate her, but he wished most wholeheartedly for her to care. For her to notice that he was her son and not another servant to dismiss at will so she could carry on with the next round of parties.
Dutifully, he crossed the soft carpets to her side, entering her enchanted circle just for a moment. She leaned down to buss a kiss on his cheek. Her perfume enveloped him so forcefully that he sneezed.
She drew back, a look of horror marring her features as she inspected her bodice. “William, just look at what you’ve done.” Her tone was appalled.
Specks of his saliva mottled the otherwise flawless silk and lace of her pink gown. “Pray forgive me, Mother,” he apologized.
“Now I shall have to call Ganley back, and I shall be late to the Featherston ball, you awful, careless boy.” Her voice was shrill in her anger.
He winced. “I’m sorry for my imprudence.”
“Sorry does not fix my gown. Do you understand?” She grabbed his shoulders with both hands, shaking him. “Have a care. You’ve ruined everything. You always ruin everything!”
“I’m so sorry,” he said again, his teeth snapping together under the force of her violence. He thought then of what he’d meant to tell her, what he’d been planning all day. “Please, Mother. I found a puppy, and I mean to keep him but Father won’t allow it. Can you tell Father to let me keep the puppy? I’ve named him Ferdinand.
”
She released him, making a sound of disgust. “You’ve ruined my dress, and all you can think of is yourself. Be gone from my sight. I’ve no more patience for you this evening.”
“But Mother—”
“Be gone!” she yelled, her eyes dark with fury. “Gone, I say!”
Will bowed and left the chamber. He knew better than to remain when his mother was in one of her black moods. Off to the nursery he went with Miss Greenley. He washed his face and behind his ears and said his prayers before settling into bed for an uneasy sleep. When he woke the next morning, the puppy lay dead at the foot of his bed.
England, 1877
ictoria awoke to the unmistakable thumps of footsteps approaching her bed. It was devilishly dark in her chamber and she couldn’t see a blessed thing. Her heart kicked into a frantic pace, threatening to gallop from her chest. As horror churned through her, she reached for the nearest weapon at hand, which turned out to be the novel she’d been reading earlier. Fortunately, it had just enough heft to do damage. Blessedly verbose fellow, that Dickens. As the unseen assailant approached her bed, she struck out in his general direction.
Thwack. She landed an appreciable blow in what she hoped was the scoundrel’s face. How dare someone have the impudence to accost her, the Countess of Pembroke, in her bed? Had the world gone completely to the dogs?
“Blast it, woman,” came a masculine growl through the murk. “I think you’ve broken my bloody nose.”
Dear God, she knew that growl, knew it better than her own voice. It mattered little that she hadn’t heard it in months. The velvety timbre hadn’t changed one whit. Nor had its unwanted effect upon her.
“Pembroke?” she asked though she needn’t have. “Is that you?”
“Yours as ever, madam.” The voice was now muffled though redolent with derision. “Although that was not precisely the welcoming I expected.”
“You weren’t expected,” she pointed out, making a concerted effort to squelch the sudden rush of jumbled emotion his appearance had stirred. She could not allow him to see how very much he distressed her.
“Nonsense. I live here.”
“Indeed.” She crossed her arms and glared at him, summoning the hurt and anger he’d dealt her. In the moonlight, she could discern only his broad silhouette, and how she wished she could see more. “Is it possible you’ve been hiding about in the kitchens with Mrs. Rufton for the last few months?”
“When did you acquire such a sharp tongue, my dear?”
He sounded surprised by her ire, the rogue. She hoped she had broken his nose. It would be a suitable punishment, a well-deserved imperfection to disrupt the masculine beauty of his face.
“One can take up any number of pursuits whilst abandoned in the country.” She sighed. “Can you not at least light one of the lamps? I dislike being at a disadvantage to my enemy.”
“Harsh words for your husband. Not even a kind remark or a kiss from your lovely lips?” There was a scuffling sound as she presumed he attempted to light the gas lamps.
That he would jest in such a moment of tumult infuriated her. Had he no feeling? No compunction? No inkling of how he’d torn her down as if she were no better than a crumbling garden wall, leaving her to grow lichens and moss on his vast estate? Being ignored was the gravest form of insult, for it showed an incredible dearth of compassion and feeling both. She must have meant less than nothing to him.
“You’re more likely to receive a kiss from Mrs. Morton,” she snapped.
“Who the devil is Mrs. Morton?” Light flared to life, making her absentee husband visible.
He was handsome as ever, the rotten cad, with thick mahogany hair worn a bit too long, blue eyes, a hint of whiskers shading his strong jaw, and high cheek bones. Some of the ice inside her melted, despite her firm determination to remain impervious. He’d had the same effect upon her from the moment she’d first seen him, and it was equal parts dizzying and infuriating. It wasn’t merely that he was fine-looking and charming. There was some indefinable quality that drew women to him, some rare magnetism that made everyone in a room aware of him the instant he’d entered it, and it vexed her to admit she had fallen prey to his charisma herself.
But not any longer. He still stole her breath, much as he’d stolen her foolish heart. And she still resented him for both. It would seem that little had changed save the level of her exasperation.
“Mrs. Morton is the housekeeper,” she explained to him through gritted teeth. She took great care to draw the counterpane up to her chin, all the better to defend herself.
“What became of Mrs. Grimshaw?” He looked truly perplexed. “Am I not to be made aware of changes in my own household? Why the devil didn’t the steward tell me?”
“There is no steward at Carrington House. As you should know, there hasn’t been one for some time. I wrote you a letter explaining Mrs. Grimshaw had unexpectedly passed on to her rewards and that we were in need of a replacement.” She couldn’t keep the scorn from her voice. She had been installed in his home for mere months and she already knew more of it than he, who had roamed its echoing halls and sprawling fields his entire life. But that was what Pembroke did, she’d discovered. He slipped through life, charming women, using his devastating good looks to his advantage, and happily ignoring all responsibilities. “Very likely you never deigned to read it.”
“No steward? Bloody hell.” He had the decency to look rather shamefaced at the revelation. “I’m afraid my secretary handles the bulk of my correspondence. I shall take him to task for not keeping me aware of the comings and goings of the estate.”
“Yes,” she agreed with feigned sweetness, “you certainly should. I’m quite sure it isn’t as if you merely toss my epistles into the dustbin the instant you recognize my penmanship.”
“I’ve never thrown away a single one of your letters.” Pembroke frowned at her, revealing small furrows next to his eyes. Surely their original source was laughter, she thought, rather than displeasure. A man of his nature spent his days in nothing but self-indulgence and sin.
“Nor have you answered any of them.” Not a single, blessed one. And she had sent many, varying in tone from polite to thoroughly aggrieved. Finally, she had simply stopped writing altogether, recognizing an exercise in futility when she saw one. “Indeed, I daresay you’ve never read them either.”
If bitterness laced her words, there was ample reason for it. She’d been taught well by her mother how to treat her husband. He was to be honored and respected above all. Her proud parents, nouveau riche and not old blood enough for Knickerbocker elite in New York, had gone to great pains to secure an English title for her with their wealth. And secure one they had, such a feather in her cap. The heir to the Duke of Cranley, the very picture of fine, English masculinity. Her mother had returned to New York victorious, determined to follow the same course with her younger daughters.
Victoria had been left alone, mired in the misery of the unwanted. She was no longer an innocent miss who believed her husband cared whether or not she even breathed. He’d dazzled her in the ballroom and then promptly forgotten her on the first day of their honeymoon as he rode back to London and a score of scandalous women.
He sat on the edge of the bed and her gaze slipped to his hands. She recalled too well how they had felt on her body. But those hands had betrayed her, bringing the same forbidden pleasure to countless others in her stead. He caressed the line of her leg beneath the counterpane and she scooted away from his touch.
“I’ve missed you.”
The pronouncement startled a laugh from her. She didn’t trust him. Not one jot. “You’ve arrived in the midst of the night to tell me you missed me? Surely you can think of something more worthy of your silver tongue than that, Pembroke.”
He shrugged as if he hadn’t a care. Perhaps he didn’t. After all, his life was nothing but one long string of balls, opera singers, and whisky-soaked nights. If only she’d realized the sort of man he truly was before
becoming his wife, she would have spared herself a great deal of heartache and loneliness. She’d been left an ocean away from her parents and younger sisters, saddled with the duty of a grand and neglected manor and the knowledge that her husband was off reveling in his degenerate life of London decadence.
“I wasn’t aware there were rules for arriving at my own residence.” His hand found her leg again and slid higher, only the barriers of bedclothes and fabric between them. That voice of his was smooth and sinful and deep, putting her in mind of Odysseus and his Sirens. “I know I’ve been remiss.”
His touch wasn’t lost on her. He reached her inner thigh. It would be so easy to give in, allow him to nudge her legs apart, strip away the bedclothes… She had been able to accomplish a great many things during her time at Carrington House, yet she had not been able to become entirely resistant to her husband’s lure. Even now, after months of silence as he betrayed her with half the ladies of London, his caress forced an unwanted trickle of need through her.
Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t fight him.
She slapped at his hand as though he were an offending insect. “You may continue being remiss. I have no wish for your company now or ever.”
He gave her a lazy smile, dimples bracketing his sculpted mouth. “I’m afraid you’re about to suffer a great deal of my company.”
Pembroke was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen on either side of the Atlantic, and the very worst part of this plain truth was that he knew it. He had a knack for flirting, for giving stolen kisses in the shadows of a ball. He had a gift for making women love him. He’d made her love him, once, though she’d done her best to bury all traces of that unwelcome emotion in the wake of his desertion. It was still difficult to resist his charm when he deigned to ply it, even if he collected hearts the way some men amassed tomes in a library.