The Earl Is Mine

by Kieran Kramer

  But when the carriage door opened fifteen minutes later, it wasn’t Oscar. From what Janice could see of the stranger through the new-fallen snow, he was a broad-shouldered man in his late twenties, she guessed—a working man, likely one of the duke’s grooms in his well-cut but serviceable coat and simply tied cravat. Beneath his beaver hat, his hair was like coal, curling around his ears and framing a square, shaven jaw.

  Janice’s spine straightened. His eyes, thickly fringed in black lashes, were deep blue, the color of Daddy’s sapphire ring. And his mouth—ah, his mouth. It was like a work of art. Hard, male, yet as expressive as his eyes, which radiated intelligence, good humor, and a bold, restless intensity that proclaimed him his own man, despite his servant’s garb.

  His sheer masculine beauty was a shock, especially when she was expecting the potato-nosed—but perfectly lovable—Oscar.

  Isobel, too, found the stranger compelling, judging from the way her chin dropped onto the thick violet muffler with extra pompons Janice had knitted for her.

  The man’s eyes glittered with interest when he perused Janice’s face, setting her heart racing. What on earth? He was a servant, of all things. He shouldn’t be looking at her that way.

  “You’re obviously unhurt,” he said, “so I’ll dispense with the niceties.” His voice was rich, earthy, faintly bitter, like one of the coffeehouse brews Janice craved on a regular basis and sneaked out to get when Mama wasn’t looking. “State your business, my lovelies. No one with good intentions comes down this road.”

  “Of course, we’ve good intentions,” said Janice, mortified. “We’ve been traveling all day long with good intentions, and we two lovelies, as you’ve brazenly described us, would like to get out of this carriage and have a cup of tea with His Grace and the dowager duchess.” Her heart pounded like a herd of stallions crossing a plain. She was dressed modestly, in a navy cape and simple matching bonnet. And as for her hair, she’d taken no time to pin it back up after a few ringlets had fallen out at their last stop. Yet the man eyed her as if—

  As if he’d like to disrobe her.

  She immediately thought of her underthings, all of them practical but with scraps of the finest Avignon lace sewn here and there. Mama had made them and stitched Janice’s initials on every garment.

  “Tea with the duke and the dowager.” The man grinned, exposing strong, white teeth. “That’s a good one. We received no notice of your arrival. Yet you’ve enough trunks to stay for months.”

  “Of course we do. We are staying.” Janice sat up higher on her seat, and despite her pique with this man, felt an insane desire to lean forward, lay the flat of her palm against his jaw, and cup it, just so she could trap that grin and stare at it all day long. She didn’t need the rest of him. Oh, no. The rest of him could jump in a lake. Just the grin would do. “The dowager summoned me herself.”

  “Caught you,” he said. “She’s incapable of summoning anyone. She’s beyond eccentric. She thinks she’s the Queen.”

  Janice felt a great shock course through her. “Well, queens do summon people.”

  His skeptical glance didn’t faze her.

  “I’ll have you know she was quite lucid in the letter.” Her tone was cool, but inside her heart was clamoring. How could the dowager think she was the Queen? Janice absolutely ached for the old lady if it were true. Mama would be most upset to know that Her Grace wasn’t in her right mind. She was to be Janice’s chaperone. Mama and Daddy would want Janice to come home straight away.

  But she couldn’t do that—no. Absolutely not. But—wretched thought—what if the duke didn’t even know she was coming? Mama had conducted all her correspondence with the dowager herself, who hadn’t once signed off as the Queen. It was all most peculiar. Perhaps this man was lying. “Who are you, pray tell? A tenant farmer? One of the duke’s grooms?”

  The man lofted a brow and opened his mouth to speak.

  “I knew it!” gasped Isobel before he could say anything. “He’s the duke himself!”

  “Izzy!” Janice cried, embarrassed. “What duke drives a cart?”

  His mouth twitched in amusement. “I am a groom, actually, and the best in the county, too. My skills venture beyond the stables, however. I’m tasked with preserving the integrity of the place, so don’t bother making up a wild story about why you simply have to stay. I’ve heard them all, I assure you.”

  “But we haven’t done anything wrong,” Janice insisted. “The dowager did summon me—I have the letter and seal to prove it—and you’re the most disrespectful”—handsome—“groom I’ve ever met—”

  “I assume your driver has gone ahead with the horses,” he interrupted her smoothly. “This road is impeccably kept, not a pothole in it. Which of you engineered that? Or was that your driver’s trick? The letter is easy enough to discount—forgers abound—but a broken wheel permits a second chance at staying while the letter is examined. An ingenious complication to the ploy, ladies.”

  “There is no ploy,” Janice returned hotly.

  But she could hardly hold on to her shock and anger. His eyes had filled with jealous admiration. Or perhaps it was reluctant respect, not the kind she usually got—the “I’m looking through you” token respect that men, servants, and everyone gave her as the stepdaughter of a marquess. It was very much like the respect she’d earned from her old friend Dickon. When she was eight and he was nine, she could balance on one leg much longer than he could. She could run to the back of the cemetery and to the gate again faster, too, much to Dickon’s dismay.

  This man was looking at her the same way, as if she had a talent. A skill of some kind. A special trick.

  And you do, the thought came to her. You’ve got all sorts of special tricks and talents.

  It was a big, wonderful notion, and it hadn’t occurred to her in a very long while. Confidence surged through her. She felt so confident, in fact, that she tossed her head and said, “I’d like to know what trick you’re up to, sirrah. I’m Lady Janice Sherwood. And this is my abigail, Miss Isobel Jenkins.” “Of the traveling circus Jenkins,” Isobel interjected proudly.

  He raised a brow.

  “You’re being most irregular suggesting we’re here under false pretenses and planned our little accident,” Janice said. “Had I not been rattled by the shock of hearing that the dowager isn’t well, coupled with the tumble we nearly took within this carriage, I’d take offense. What’s your name?”

  “Luke Callahan,” he said in a serious tone. “Thank you for asking. You’re the first ever to ask, of all the strumpets who’ve come to see the duke in the last six months.”

  Oh, God. His eyes. The pupils were like little black diamonds inside those sapphire irises.

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Callahan.” Janice swallowed. “Wait a minute, what did you say?” She stared at Izzy. “Did he call me a strumpet?”

  Izzy nodded, her eyes wide.

  “I’ll take it back”—his tone was completely unapologetic, but his gaze felt like a wonderful caress—“if you’ll cooperate. You’re going to the village, and you’re not to come back. Speaking of which, please behave in Bramblewood. The residents are my friends. I’ll turn my cart around now to escort you there.”

  “A cart?” Janice practically squeaked the words, she felt so prim at the moment—and she only felt prim whenever she was in over her head. Her middle was starting to get less discombobulated. More focused. More worried. “I don’t know what you’re about, but it makes no sense. No sense at all. I’m wearing such conservative garb—”

  “It doesn’t disguise your true hot nature,” he replied.

  “And if you don’t stop spouting nonsense—”

  “Let me explain a little closer,” he said, and without ceremony half entered the carriage, grabbed her by the hand, and pulled.

  Janice’s heart went wild. “What in heaven’s name? Just what do you think you’re doing?” Shock turned to anger, and anger made her fierce. She clung to the door of the carriage with
every ounce of strength in her.

  Yet with one quick motion, the groom tugged her free, and she fell into his arms, like a fly into a spider’s web.

  Isobel screamed just as he kicked the door shut and set Janice on the ground. “You’re good,” he said in an approving tone while holding her pinned tightly against his chest. “Not many know the dowager is in residence.”

  “Unhand me,” Janice said, low. “I’m the daughter of a marquess.”

  “That’s what they all say,” he said with relish, and captured her arm behind her back. “I must warn you. If you expect anything worthwhile from that excuse for a duke you’re after, you’ll be disappointed.” He paused long enough to rake her from head to toe with an appreciative glance—she put every ounce of scorn in her possession into the haughty expression she shot back at him—and then he kissed her, a bawdy, lush kiss that demanded immediate compliance.

  It was a miracle how quickly he redefined kissing for her, a marvel how well her lips fit with his in the brief second before she gathered her wits and her old life came rushing back to her with vivid clarity. When she was young, she’d seen men paw Mama. She knew what to do, but it was a pity her cloak was such heavy wool. When she attempted to knee the blackguard in the groin, she caught him on his thigh instead.

  “What the devil?” He drew back and stared at her, not releasing her arm, which he still held vicelike behind her back.

  Snow fell between them, and Janice had the uncanny feeling she was in a dream. It’s he, her heart said—her foolish, foolish heart—even as her lips stung, her throat tightened with white-hot anger, and her brain immediately pegged him as no good.

  The man like no other.

  The one that Mama had told her she’d find someday, that Marcia had also assured her would come her way despite the fact that her experience with Finn Lattimore had shaken her to the core and made her distrust men entirely.

  But Luke Callahan—this groom—couldn’t be he. He wasn’t a gentleman, not by half. Perhaps he wasn’t as bad as Finn—not that Janice could be certain. But of one thing she was sure: If Daddy had been here to see him drag her out of the carriage, he’d have knocked Mr. Callahan out with a one-two punch and then called him out when he woke up. Her older brothers Gregory and Peter would have done the same.

  Or they’d have tried. Luke Callahan would give them a good fight back, she had no doubt.

  Meanwhile, he wasn’t worth despising. That would mean he’d some sort of power over her. But she could despise herself for noticing depths in his taunting eyes. For imagining a flash of wonder there that reflected back her own.

  He bent down and kissed her again.

  Oh, God, what was she doing?

  But he was good … oh, so good. If a man could be called good the way she called a warm fire good, or a cup of steaming chocolate, or a … a mouth that spoke to her without speaking, the way his was.

  You’re made for love.

  You tantalize me.

  I want you.

  Messages that made her entire body wake up in a way it never had before. She was quivery, like a newborn lamb. Her eyes were closed, but the world unfolded like a bright spring meadow.

  His lips brushed soft yet insistent against her own, but hardness was what she was thinking of, the solid weight of him—of his chest, and his belly, and the security of his thighs against hers.

  Mr. Callahan’s thighs.

  Three words she never knew she’d say. She’d never even heard of the middle one, Callahan. But in that moment, they were the three most important words she’d ever put together.

  Life was full of surprises.

  Also by KIERAN KRAMER

  THE HOUSE OF BRADY

  Loving Lady Marcia

  THE IMPOSSIBLE BACHELORS

  When Harry Met Molly

  Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

  Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

  If You Give a Girl a Viscount

  Praise for Loving Lady Marcia

  “Kramer’s unique take on the TV series The Brady Bunch is a delight: funny, sweet, sexy, smart, and more charming than the show. With Kramer’s enchanting sense of humor, the blonde, lovely Brady girls and their irascible brothers, loving parents, and housekeeper Alice are off on a romp that rivals Shakespeare for a comedy of errors. Readers will be up all night before drifting off to dream of a love story like this.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Kramer scores with the inaugural House of Brady imbroglio … Though [she] includes her characteristic lighthearted touches, she’s smart and confident enough to take her characters and their situations seriously, turning what could have been a one-line joke into a deep and appealing story.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The Impossible Bachelors feature[s] delightfully witty and vibrant prose to match the books’ unforgettable titles … Kramer’s clever and engaging style is now employed in the service of finding the perfect mate for each of the six Brady siblings. Libraries should buy a bunch.”

  —Library Journal

  “An emotional story that will leave readers loving Lady Marcia.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “[An] entertaining homage to [the] television series.”

  —Night Owl Reviews

  “Fans of the TV sitcom The Brady Bunch will be amazed at how cleverly and unexpectedly Kramer improvises on the show in her latest incandescently witty, completely captivating Regency historical.”

  —Booklist

  About the Author

  USA Today bestselling author Kieran Kramer is a former CIA employee, journalist, and English teacher who lives in the Lowcountry of South Carolina with her family. Game show veteran, karaoke enthusiast, and general adventurer, her motto is, “Life rewards action.” Find her on Facebook, Twitter, and at www.kierankramerbooks.com. Or stay connected to Kieran on-the-go with her FREE mobile app available for iPhone and Android devices!

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THE EARL IS MINE

  Copyright © 2013 by Kieran Kramer.

  Excerpt from Say Yes to the Duke copyright © 2013 by Kieran Kramer.

  All rights reserved.

  For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  eISBN: 9781466805521

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / March 2013

  St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.