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For Kristin Reynolds Wray Wilda,
an extraordinary woman and beloved sister
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Main Players
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Teaser
Also by Kieran Kramer
Praise for Loving Lady Marcia
About the Author
Copyright
Acknowledgments
As always, I’d like to acknowledge the remarkable team at St. Martin’s Press for bestowing such love and attention on my House of Brady series, especially Jennifer Enderlin, my dream editor. And big hugs to Jenny Bent, my agent, whose steadfast support and great humor lift me always.
I’d also like to thank Kati Rodriguez, my incredibly kind, able assistant who loves romance novels and has her own blog with Jamie Murawski at http://romancingrakes4theluvofromance.blogspot.com. And I have to celebrate the fabulous group of readers who make up the Regency Rockstars, a street team I share with Vicky Dreiling. All of you are remarkably generous women with huge hearts! Many thanks to Vicky, too, for her friendship, which has meant the world to me.
Finally, I’d like to thank Chuck, Steven, Margaret, and Jack for being the family that has given me my own happily-ever-after.
The Main Players in the House of Brady
Michael Sherwood, Lord Brady
The Marquess of Brady; “Daddy” to his three stepdaughters; “Father” to his three sons
Caroline Sherwood, Lady Brady
Michael’s second wife and the Marchioness of Brady; “Mama” to her three daughters and three stepsons
Gregory Sherwood, Lord Westdale
Heir to the Marquess of Brady; Caroline’s stepson
Lady Marcia Sherwood, now Lady Chadwick
Eldest daughter of Caroline; Michael’s stepdaughter; married to Duncan Lattimore, Lord Chadwick; stepmother to Joe Lattimore
Lord Peter Sherwood
Second in line to the marquessate; Caroline’s stepson
Lady Janice Sherwood
Second daughter of Caroline; Michael’s stepdaughter
Lord Robert Sherwood
Third in line to the marquessate; Caroline’s stepson
Lady Cynthia Sherwood
Third daughter of Caroline Sherwood; Michael’s stepdaughter
Alice O’Grady
Family housekeeper at Ballybrook in Ireland
Prologue
The figure who slid into the Earl of Westdale’s coat every morning wasn’t happy. His name was Gregory Sherwood, and he had everything a man could want. But like a prisoner who can’t bask in a beautiful day outside his barred window, Gregory couldn’t enjoy his family, his wealth, or his title.
He was the legitimate heir to the Marquess of Brady.
But he wasn’t his son.
And he was doomed to a lifetime of lies.
“You know Mother meant for us to save those pieces for the women we’re to marry,” his brother Peter said in the light Irish accent all three Sherwood boys shared. He peered over Gregory’s shoulder as he sorted through a small chest on his dresser and pulled out a silk box. In it was a ruby ring their late mother, Nora, had left him in her will. “Are you going to propose?”
Gregory stopped his search and glared at his younger brother. “What do you think?”
“Really?” Peter gave a short laugh. “You’re jesting, aren’t you? Marriage is a long time.”
A very long time.
But then Gregory remembered sweet, shy Eliza last night, how he’d known exactly what he was doing when he laid her down on a sofa in an out-of-the-way sitting room at a Mayfair mansion during the height of a masquerade ball and slipped up her gown. Her parents had been throwing her at him for years, so it wasn’t as if the seduction would take her by surprise. She’d given a virginal cry when he’d first entered her, and there was the moment right before she’d peaked, her slender legs wrapped around his back, her hips arching upward while she sighed softly against his neck.
He’d felt more than his usual pleasure when he released his seed into her. There would be no turning back. Eliza was a lady. The knowledge that he’d do right by her had focused him, had cast away the shadows for just a moment. She’d be the beginning of a life he created on his own, not one that had been thrust upon him—as blessed as it had been, as grateful as he was for what he clearly didn’t deserve.
“But why tie yourself down now?” Peter asked him. “You’re much too young.”
“Mind your own business.” Gregory strode past his brother and brushed shoulders with him, just hard enough to drive the message home. He tucked the small box in an inner pocket of his jacket, adjusted his cravat, and left the bedchamber, a cavernous oblong space almost like a hunting-box bunk room. Father had designed it when the boys were small, and Gregory still shared it with his two brothers when he was home.
“I’m coming with you,” said Peter, and followed him out the front door.
“Go away,” Gregory told him.
“No. I’m not going to let you do this without a fight. This is serious, Gregory. You can’t give away Mother’s ring so easily.”
On the pavement, Gregory whirled around. “So easily? Do you think that little of me? Or the woman to whom I’ll present this symbol of my devotion?”
“Devotion? Is that the same thing as love?”
“Go away, Peter. You know nothing of love.” Not that Gregory truly knew anything of the romantic kind, either. He couldn’t begin to guess whether his mother and the marquess, the only father he’d ever known, had been in love. And if they had, did it count—when one of them was keeping a secret from the other?
But Father and Caroline, his second wife, whom Gregory called Mama the way his three stepsisters did, were most certainly in love, even after a decade of being together. And while he was glad of it, they were awfully in each other’s pockets.
The thought of such intimacy at the soul level made Gregory’s cravat feel tight. He’d be faithful to Eliza, and they’d no doubt meet regularly between the sheets—she had a sweet, welcoming nature and wouldn’t deny him his conjugal rights, he was sure—but as for staring into each other’s eyes and sharing dreams, hopes, and all that balderdash …
Well, no. A monolithic no, actually.
It was his duty to take a wife to secure the Brady line. But a part of him would never, ever belong to the House of Brady. That part that would remain undutiful. Would seek illicit pleasure. Would work desperately hard to forget his impossible position—that he belonged nowhere.
That part would take a mistress and leave his gentle, dutiful wife at home.
His brother huffed. “You’re not ready.”
“I am read
y,” Gregory uttered low. “I don’t take this step lightly. I’ve put a great deal of thought into the matter.”
And he had, for a man whose attention was drawn more to other things: his interest in design; his sporting life; politics and gaming; and his more mundane duties as heir, which Father and Mama were anxious for him to take up. And then there was his constant need to play a role—to hide the ugliness that was his secret. Some nights, he went to bed exhausted from its weight.
Peter’s pupils were wide and black, his mouth thin. “You haven’t considered this enough. Not nearly.”
“Wait a minute.” Gregory moved closer, his chest up to his brother’s. “Are you implying that Eliza isn’t worthy of my regard?”
Peter didn’t back away. “I’m not implying anything. I’m coming right out and saying you’re too besotted to see straight.”
“I will never be besotted, Peter, by any woman.”
“Then explain why you looked so feverish searching for that ring? I could have shot a pistol next to your ear, and you wouldn’t have turned to look. If that’s not besotted—”
“You don’t trust me,” Gregory said, feeling the irony of his words.
“Not about this, no.” Peter’s tone was firm. “You don’t value that ring the way you should, and I’m glad Mother’s not here to see what you’re doing with it.”
“I’ve had it with you and your insults.” Gregory pushed him hard on the shoulder. Peter flinched but didn’t lose his footing. “Come on, little brother.” Little half brother. “Show me what you’ve got besides words.”
“Forget it.” Peter stared at him, his eyes flat and hard. “Go ahead with your stupidity. See if I care. You’ll regret it later.”
He spun on his heels and stalked off.
Gregory stared after him, annoyed that he’d succumbed to his childish temper. Here he was, feeling man enough to marry Eliza. And yet Peter had managed to put a damper on the day.
If someone could so easily do that, how strong was his commitment, really?
He pushed the thought aside as ridiculous. Even apart from the fact that marriage was now a real necessity, he could easily see himself marrying Eliza. Her pedigree was impeccable. She was a good conversationalist and a pleasure to look at. And she accepted him at face value, which was imperative in a bride.
If he was on the young side, then so be it. His friends would get over their pique—and they’d damn well better get over any amusement—if they wanted to continue calling themselves his friends.
He walked the several blocks to his intended’s house with a purposeful stride. Every step he got closer, the muscles in his thighs, his calves, and his belly grew more tense. So proposing marriage was hell on even the most self-assured man, he was discovering. What would she say when he gave her the ring?
What would he say?
Dear God, he hadn’t even thought of practicing a speech. Being cast adrift without a map at a young age had given him practice navigating an uncertain world. He raced his best races when he handled the reins loosely, when he didn’t analyze every curve in the road. And his finest work as a new architect had all been done when he’d acted upon inspiration, the kind that grabbed him mid-sentence while conversing in a London coffeehouse. Or came to him in a dream. Or seemed to unfold as he was sketching, not knowing exactly in which direction he was pointed.
One benefit of losing his mother, his father, and his entire identity in a day: Life couldn’t throw anything at Gregory he couldn’t handle.
He rang the bell, sure at least of his welcome. The family appeared to approve of him—even the butler—as well they should. He was heir to a marquess. Of what could they disapprove?
He intended to ask Eliza to marry him first—a secret, intimate proposal that would take her by surprise, as all properly romantic gestures should; he owed her that—and then he’d play the usual societal game and request an audience with her father, which would be a matter of course. After her father’s approval was won, Gregory would pretend to ask her to marry him for the first time in Lord Baird’s library—but he and Eliza would know otherwise.
“Lord and Lady Baird are out. Lady Eliza’s in the back garden,” the butler informed him before Gregory could even ask. “She’s showing Lord Morgan and Lady Pippa Harrington her mother’s roses.” An invisible mantle came down at the mention of Pippa. Not her. “May I take your cane and hat?”
“Thank you.” Gregory concealed his annoyance at being thrown off kilter and handed the cane and hat over.
The silk box burned a hole in his pocket, but he’d have to delay the big moment. Dougal could be gotten rid of easily, but Pippa was another story. Gregory saw her once a year at a birthday dinner for her great-uncle Bertie, his godfather, in Devon, and had done so since he was eight—old enough to travel alone without crying—and she was three. She was rarely in Town, so he couldn’t simply fob her off. And prying her loose from her old friend Eliza might be difficult, as well.
Nevertheless, he’d get rid of the two interlopers—and they wouldn’t even know they’d been dismissed. He’d use the effortless charm that came straight from his mother—and not Father, as everyone assumed—to convince them they were leaving of their own accord.
“The quickest way is through the billiard room,” the butler said, indicating the route with a sure hand.
Gregory strode through the house and out one of the French doors onto a small pebbled path.
There came Pippa, striding toward him, her face slightly flushed. She’d never be able to sneak into a room with that fiery Titian hair. And she always wore at least one thing that was unusual. Today, it was a dramatic yellow-gold velvet spencer with tight sleeves that ended in large cuffs with outrageously large emerald paste buttons. Beneath it was a simple ivory muslin frock. There was no bonnet in evidence, but that wasn’t a surprise.
She was like Mother, who’d never shown the smallest regard for whether anyone approved of her. Of course, Gregory knew now that his mother’s insouciant manner had been an act. She had cared what people thought. Very much so.
“Swear you won’t tell our secret, Gregory.” Mother cradled his head on her frail chest and stroked his curls. “It would only hurt your father’s feelings and embarrass the family. But I had to tell you, darling, else I can’t fly. I can’t fly straight to heaven as I know you want me to do.”
“I swear, Mother. I’ll never tell. Never.”
Lucky him, helping his mother to heaven. Thirteen, he’d been, and he’d lived in his own sort of hell ever since.
“Gregory?” Pippa glowed as usual. She wore the same broad smile he’d seen the day she’d come into her great-uncle’s house from the moor with her two front teeth missing, a smudge of dirt decorating her nose, and a field mouse cupped in her hands, a birthday gift for Bertie. “You’re looking straight through me—as if I were a ghost.”
“You’re the furthest thing from one,” he said smoothly.
And he meant what he said. She was more alive than anyone he knew, which was why he couldn’t help being suspicious of her.
Did people like Pippa and his mother ever consider what their private joys did to other people? What price the rest of the world paid for their adventures?
Since Mother’s death, Gregory had ceased joining Pippa in their annual childish high jinks—he was always called Captain, and she was Lieutenant; their crab-apple wars were legendary—and he’d refused to spend time with her exploring the dramatic fells of Dartmoor, claiming to prefer his godfather’s library.
But that was a lie.
He simply didn’t want to be around her—a girl with bright eyes and a ready laugh and an earnest readiness to conquer the world.
“What’s wrong, Gregory?” she’d asked him in Bertie’s library once. Out of the blue, when he’d been quietly perusing the shelves. She’d stood at the door, her head cocked to the side like a robin’s.
“Nothing,” he’d told her. He’d been sixteen. She’d been eleven.
; She did the same thing several other years as well, the last time occurring when he’d just graduated from Oxford.
“What is it?” she’d said over dinner, when Bertie’s attention had been diverted by Pippa’s mother and obnoxious second husband.
“None of your business,” he’d said quietly. It was the first time he’d ever admitted to anyone that anything was wrong. “Don’t ask again.”
Small tears had formed in her eyes, and she’d looked away, at a candle flame wavering on its wick on the mantel.
Since that night, nothing else had been said.
Thank God.
Everywhere else, he was Gregory, the successful, sociable eldest son of the Marquess and Marchioness of Brady. But there was no hiding from Pippa, who seemed to read him as well as she did the sky and the moor she so loved. She sensed his misery. His darkness. It pressed against his polite smiles, made it difficult for him to maintain his façade as the London wit, the ambitious young architect, and the substantial heir.
Now he lifted her gloved hand to his mouth and brushed a polite kiss across her knuckles. “It’s a rare thing to see you in Town, my lady. And a distinct pleasure to see you so soon after Bertie’s birthday. How is he? Aside from the fact that he’s—”
“Older?” There was a twinkle in her eyes.
“Yes, older.” She had a clever way of handling awkward moments.
Of handling him.
“My uncle’s very well, thank you.” Her grin was demure. Knowing. She was well aware that he avoided her. “Mother and I wanted him to come to the Danvers-Tremont wedding, too, but you know Uncle Bertie. He’s determined that the next wedding he attends must be my own.”
To Gregory, was the unspoken conclusion to that sentence, they both knew.
“So you are here for the wedding,” he said.
The Earl Is Mine Page 1
