by Lauren Royal
“So you’re an accessory to the crime,” Colin accused, with that devastating smile that made Amy’s heart turn over, even after all these years.
“I suppose one could conclude that.”
“Which reminds me: How did she manage that hay trick? You must know.”
Amy did know. Jewel and Benchley, whom she’d long ago charmed into acting as her willing accomplice, had placed a board against the open wardrobe and stuffed hay behind it, then closed the door most of the way, pulled the board, and slammed the wardrobe shut. When Colin opened it to hang his shirt on a peg, he’d turned into a human haystack.
Watching from their bed, Amy had laughed herself sick. Jewel had run in, crowing with delight, prompting Colin to initiate a wrestling match that resulted in an explosion of sweet-smelling hay spread all about the chamber. And after Jewel returned to bed, Colin had picked the strands of hay from Amy’s hair, one by one…
Amy shook her head to clear it. No, she hadn’t the right to give away Jewel’s secrets. “I have no idea,” she said coyly. “Jewel doesn’t confide in me.”
But Benchley does, she amended to herself. Benchley was forever boasting about Lady Jewel’s accomplishments. To everyone but Jewel’s father, that was.
Benchley was loyal to a fault.
“Are you quite certain?” Colin asked, his mouth against hers.
“Quite.”
His arms tightened around her, and his lips pressed closer. Amy’s knees turned to pudding, and she felt her pulse quicken. His kiss intensified, claiming her as his alone. Her senses whirled, and her heart pounded so loudly she was certain he could hear it.
She vaguely wondered how she could feel this way—she, a grown lady of twenty-four, with three children. But inside, she felt no older than when Colin first kissed her, so many years ago. And his kisses still affected her the same way, only more so.
“Amy…” Colin murmured into her mouth.
“Hmm?”
He pulled his lips from hers. But he pressed her even closer to him. “How did Jewel pull off the hay trick?”
His lips brushed hers teasingly. And she almost told him…
“Lord Greystone?” A sharp knock came at the door.
Colin jumped away with a groan. “Yes?”
Lydia opened the door and stuck her head in just as Amy smoothed her skirts, her cheeks hot with embarrassment.
“Lady Jewel says you were supposed to tell her a story?”
“Oh…yes…I did promise her a story…didn’t I?” Colin groaned again, but Amy knew he would follow—he’d never disappoint his precious Jewel.
A Chase promise was not given lightly.
“This will be continued,” Colin vowed before going to his daughter. His deep, husky voice held a challenge, and Amy knew he was referring to the hay episode and what he doubtless considered an ingenious, delicious method of inducing her to confess what she knew about it.
But she chose to interpret his words in an entirely different context.
This will be continued. For a long, long, long time.
Forever.
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Next up is Jason’s story in The Marquess’s Scottish Bride. Please read on for an excerpt.
If you'd like to learn more about the real people, places, and events in The Earl’s Unsuitable Bride, turn the page for Lauren’s Author's Note...
BONUS MATERIAL
Author's Note
Explore the Chase Family World
Excerpt from The Marquess’s Scottish Bride
Books by Lauren & Devon Royal
Contest
About the Authors
Acknowledgments
Contact Information
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Dear Reader,
When I read a historical novel, I always find myself wondering what and who (besides obvious people like the king and queen) might actually be real. In case any of my readers share this curiosity, I thought a bit of information might be welcome.
The king's mistress, Barbara Villiers Palmer, Countess of Castlemaine (and later, after this story takes place, the Duchess of Cleveland), was indeed real. As King Charles's mistress on and off for at least ten years, she bore him four sons—all of which he created dukes—and a daughter. Charles granted lifetime annuities of £6000 a year for Barbara and £3000 for each of their sons. These were amazing sums at the time and more than he granted any other mistresses or children, yet he must have known Barbara had other lovers—a vast string of them, including not only many English and French courtiers, but also actors, a playwright, a Groom of the King's Bedchamber, and even a rope dancer.
I tried my best to recreate Barbara's vibrant personality from contemporary accounts of her life. I'll never forget the first time I read one of her early biographies, as a college student in the library at UC Irvine. The book, almost 300 years old, was much too valuable and brittle for them to lend out, but (unbelievably!) they did let me touch and read it. I remember my hands shaking—I found it so incredible that someone's words had come down to me through all that time. Years have passed, and I now have several very old books in my own library, but I still touch them reverently—such is the power and endurance of the written word.
Barbara Palmer was not the king’s only mistress, though she presented him with more children than any other. He eventually acknowledged nine sons and five daughters, and it's assumed that he had more. Sadly, Queen Catharine never did bear Charles any legitimate offspring, but nearly four centuries later, a descendant of his is poised to sit on the throne: Princess Diana's sons are descended from Charles II and Barbara, through their son Charles Fitzroy, Duke of Grafton, born in 1663.
As for Frances Stewart, the gorgeous but empty-headed courtier that Barbara and Colin were gossiping about, Charles decided to forgive her for marrying the Duke of Richmond. Though he did eventually succeed in wooing her as well, shortly thereafter she fell ill of smallpox, and the resulting facial disfigurement seems to have cooled Charles's passions. Before Frances succumbed to the dreaded disease, Charles's sister described her as "the prettiest girl in the world," and Charles immortalized that famous beauty when he had her pose as Britannia: Frances Stewart’s face and torso still grace English coins.
Cainewood Castle is loosely modeled on Arundel Castle in West Sussex. It has been home to the Dukes of Norfolk and their family, the Fitzalan Howards, since 1243, save for a short period during the Civil War. Although the family still resides there, portions of their magnificent home are open to visitors and more than worth a detour, should you ever find yourself in the area.
Greystone was inspired by Amberley Castle, also in West Sussex. Charles II visited the castle in 1651 and 1685. The then tenant, Sir John Brisco, commemorated the second visit by commissioning a mural of Charles and Queen Catharine, which can still be seen in the Queen's Room, now a gourmet restaurant. The castle has passed through many hands and is now run as a luxurious country house hotel. The walls exude the spirit of dreams and legends, and a stay there is the stuff memories are made of, well worth the splurge.
For their London town house, the Chases have borrowed Lindsey House bordering Lincoln's Inn Fields. Attributed to the esteemed architect Inigo Jones, it is the only original house left in the square. The house takes its name from Robert, third Earl of Lindsey, who purchased the property in the 1660s from the family of Sir Theodore Mayerne, who had been doctor to James I and Charles I. There have been various distinguished occupants since, including James Whistler, who painted the famous portrait of his mother there.
I hope you enjoyed The Earl’s Unsuitable Bride! Next up is Jason’s story in Th
e Marquess’s Scottish Bride. Please read on for an excerpt as well as more bonus material!
Always,
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LAUREN & DEVON’S NEXT BOOK IS…
The Marquess’s Scottish Bride
The Chase Brides
Book Two
Jason Chase, the Marquess of Cainewood, doesn’t know the first thing about hunting outlaws, but he won’t let that stop him from bringing a murderer to justice. Disguised as a commoner, he takes to the road, where he crosses paths with a hapless Scottish lad—who turns out to be a lovely Scottish lass, and none other than the renowned bounty hunter Emerald MacCallum. Realizing they're after the same man and fearing Emerald may be in over her head, Jason resolves to keep her close…
But all Caithren Leslie wants is to be as far away from her new “protector” as possible. No matter how many times she informs him she’s just an ordinary country girl traveling to see her brother—and definitely not some Emerald woman pursuing a dangerous outlaw—the pigheaded Englishman will not see sense. The road is perilous, but accepting Jason’s protection may mean jeopardizing her urgent mission. Not to mention her sanity, her personal property, and worst of all, her heart.
Read an excerpt…
Chichester, England
August 1, 1667
“JASON, YOU cannot mean to kill him.”
Jason Chase stopped short and wrenched out of Ford’s grasp. “Of course I don’t. But I’ll bring him to justice if it’s the last thing I do.”
“I’ve never seen you like this—”
“Because I’ve never seen anything like sweet little Mary lying still as death. Or the look on her mother’s bruised face as she chanted Geoffrey Gothard’s name over and over.” Trembling with rage, Jason’s hand came up to smooth his slim black mustache. “My villagers.” He met his brother’s gaze with his own. “My responsibility.”
“You’ve plastered the kingdom with broadsides.” Ford’s blue eyes looked puzzled, as though he were unsure how to take this new side of his oldest sibling. “The reward will bring him in.”
“I’ll be satisfied to bring him in myself,” Jason said with more confidence than he felt.
They turned and continued down East Street to where Chichester’s vaulted Market Cross sat in the center of the Roman-walled town. Carved from limestone, it was arguably the most elaborate edifice in all of England…but its intricate beauty could not distract Jason from the ugliness lurking inside.
An ugliness he intended to deal with.
He recognized the Gothard brothers from the descriptions his villagers had given him: Geoffrey, tall and slender with an elegant sneer; Walter, shorter and bony.
Jason’s footsteps echoed as he strode through the open arches, his own brother following behind. Scattered businessmen, exchanging mail and news in the shade beneath the dome, paused to glance their way. People seemed to stream from all four corners of town, rushing to catch the show.
Walter Gothard scurried back like a frightened rabbit, but his brother merely stared.
With a click of his spurred heels, Jason came to a halt and drew an uneven breath. He pinned Geoffrey Gothard with a furious gaze. “You’ll come with me to the magistrate,” he snapped out, surprising even himself at the commanding tone of his voice.
For a moment Ford seemed dumbfounded, then he stepped away and motioned back the crowd.
Gothard continued to stare.
Jason’s hand went to the hilt of his sword. “Now, Gothard.”
His stare held hard and unwavering. Finally his thin-lipped mouth curved in a smile. “My nearest and dearest enemy,” Gothard drawled.
A line Jason recognized from Shakespeare. The man wasn’t uneducated, then—indeed, his bearing was aristocratic, and his clothes, though rumpled from days of wear, were of good quality and cut. He looked to have but a handful of years on Jason’s twenty-three.
Confusion churned with the anger in Jason’s stomach. “Why should you call me your enemy?”
Gothard’s gaze roamed Jason from head to toe. “The Marquess of Cainewood, are you not?”
“I am,” Jason said through gritted teeth. He wanted nothing more than to go home to Cainewood, back to his calm routine, his life. But he could think only of little golden-haired Mary following him around the village, begging for a sweetmeat, her blue eyes dancing with mischief and radiating trust.
Blue eyes that might never open again.
And there stood the beast who had hurt her. Smiling at him from the shadows.
“I’ve done nothing to draw your malice—we’ve never even met.” Jason peered at the shaded figure. Gothard and his brother were pale, with the type of skin that burned and peeled in the sun—and it looked as though they’d been much in the sun of late. “Stand down and consign yourself to my arrest.”
Gothard’s blue eyes went flat with resentment. Jason blinked. He seemed to know those eyes.
Maybe they had crossed paths.
“A pox on you, Cainewood.”
Jason squared his shoulders, reminding himself why he was here. For justice. For Mary and Clarice. The questions could wait—for now.
Responsibility weighing heavily on his mind, his focus shifted to the fat needle of a spire that topped the old Norman cathedral across the green. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword.
Father would have expected this of him. To defend his people, stand up for what was right—no matter the cost.
Deliberately he slid the rapier from its scabbard.
Gothard drew his own sword with a quick screak that snapped the expectant silence. “We’ll settle this here and now.”
Jason advanced a step closer, slowly circled the tip of his rapier, then sliced it hissing through the air in a swift move that brought a collective gasp from the crowd. The blade’s thin shadow flickered across the paving stones.
His free hand trembled at his side.
With a roar, Gothard lunged, and the first clash of steel on steel rang through the still summer air.
Vibrations shimmied up Jason’s arm. Muscles tense, he twisted and parried, danced in to attack, then out of harm’s way. His heart pounded; blood pumped furiously through his veins.
Like most young men of his class, he’d been trained and spent countless hours in swordplay—but this was no game. And his opponent was skillful as well.
Two blades clanked with deadly intent in the shadow of the Market Cross.
Leslie, Scotland
“MARRIED? I’m not getting married!”
The last strains of the funeral bagpipes were still echoing in Caithren Leslie’s ears when she found herself facing the family lawyer across her father’s desk.
As though it weren’t enough she had to bury Da today, now this. She rubbed her eyes, still itchy from this morning’s tears. “Have I misheard you?”
Lachlan MacLeod sighed and ran a hand through his grizzled hair. “There’s nothing wrong with your hearing, Miss Leslie. All of Leslie is Adam’s…that is, unless you see fit to wed within the year. Then the larger portion that came through your mother will revert to you and your husband. In which case you’ll provide for your brother, of course. The minor lands entailed with the baronetcy aren’t sufficient to support a man.”
“At least not in the style to which Adam is accustomed,” Cait’s cousin Cameron put in dryly.
“Heaven forbid my brother should put Leslie before pursuing his
own pleasure,” Cait said, pensively twirling one of her dark-blond plaits. “It’s been five years since he’s been home for more than a visit.” She closed her eyes momentarily. “Crivvens, this cannot be.”
“It can be, Miss Leslie, I assure you.” MacLeod’s arthritic hands stacked the papers on the desk. “While it’s rare for a daughter to hold title, it isn’t unprecedented. Your father’s wishes will stand against a challenge.”
“Nay, that wasn’t what I meant.” Caithren stared at her father’s desktop. It had always been littered with papers, reflecting the goings-ons at busy Leslie. Now it was neat. Too neat. Her heart ached at the sight. “Da told me that if Adam didn’t mend his ways, one day Leslie would be mine. That part isn’t surprising.” She looked toward Cameron for strength, feeling a bit better when their hazel eyes met. He’d always been there to lean on. “It’s the marriage requirement that makes no sense.”
Cam perched his tall form on the arm of her chair, slipping his own arm around her shoulders. He looked toward the lawyer. “Might you read that wee portion of the will again? I don’t think Cait quite heard it.”
MacLeod shuffled pages, then cleared his throat. “‘I am sorely sorry for this requirement, dear daughter, but it is my hope that you will grow to understand my position. As you’re sixteen now—’” The lawyer broke off and tugged at one pendulous earlobe. “He wrote this last year, you understand, before he—”
“Aye, while I was naught but a bairn.” Caithren crossed her arms and legs. Beneath her unadorned black skirts, the leg on top swung restlessly back and forth as she talked. “Now, having attained the advanced age of seventeen, I imagine I’m a confirmed spinster—”
“‘As you’re sixteen now,’” MacLeod rushed to continue, “‘it’s time you looked to securing your future. In addition, I promised dear Maisie on her deathbed that I would see you safely wed. Since you’re hearing these words, it’s apparent I failed to live long enough to do so. Caithren, my love, you cannot but admit to a certain streak of stubbornness and independence, and bearing such, have left me no other avenue to make certain your dear mother’s wishes are granted. I know you’ll do right by your mother, myself, and your own life, rather than see Leslie fall into your brother’s incompetent hands. Please forgive me my duplicity and know it’s for your own good.’”
