The Earl's Bargain (Historical Regency Romance)

by Cheryl Bolen

  What the Critics Say about Cheryl Bolen's Books

  Bolen's writing has a certain elegance that lends itself to the era and creates the perfect atmosphere for her enchanting romances. – Romantic Times

  One of the best authors in the Regency romance field today. – Huntress Reviews

  * * *

  The Earl's Bargain...

  The impossibly young, stunningly beautiful widow Louisa Phillips finds herself penniless upon the death of her no-good husband. What's a man-hating bluestocking to do?

  Enter the Earl of Wycliff, who offers her financial security for life. All she has to do is travel across England posing as his wife. They're both hiding secrets – not the least of which is their budding love for each other.

  E-books available from award-winning author Cheryl Bolen

  A Lady by Chance*

  The Brides of Bath Series

  The Bride Wore Blue*

  With His Ring*

  A Fallen Woman*

  To Take This Lord (previously titled An Improper Proposal)*

  My Lord Wicked

  Lady Sophia's Rescue

  The Earl's Bargain

  It Had to Be You (Previously titled Nisei)

  A Duke Deceived*

  * Previously published in paperback

  The Earl's Bargain

  Cheryl Bolen

  Published by Cheryl Bolen at Smashwords

  Copyright 2011 by Cheryl Bolen

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Prologue

  London, 1818

  An austere butler with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks let Godwin Phillips into Tremaine House and silently led him through a darkened hallway to the morning room. This chamber was only dimly lit through a gap in the faded velvet draping a tall window which gave on to Queen Street. Never would Godwin understand the ways of the nobility. Lord Tremaine had money to burn, yet he kept his town house completely shut up most of the year and on the rare occasions when he was in residence was too miserly to light fires. Godwin was most appreciative the butler had not asked to take his coat for he was rather glad to keep it on in the dank, musty house.

  Lord Tremaine did not trouble himself to stand when Phillips entered the room, nor did Godwin expect such courtesy. He was, after all, merely a hireling of sorts to the eccentric peer.

  From behind the French writing desk, Tremaine appraised his caller a moment before addressing him. "I see you continue to prosper. Weston?"

  Godwin nodded. Only the best tailor would do. He had developed exceptional taste since he had begun his association with Lord Tremaine, who had honed the occupational skills for which Godwin already showed an aptitude. And now, at age fifty, Godwin was finally on the cusp of living the life he had always sought.

  "Well, well," Tremaine said, leaning his own frail body back in his once-luxurious tufted velvet chair, not removing his gaze from Godwin. "I understand you have been admitted to Waiters?"

  "Why, yes," Godwin said, peering suspiciously at Tremaine from beneath lowered brows.

  "Did it not strike you as being exceeding simple to be accorded membership?"

  His eyes widened. "You used your influence?"

  "Surely you did not hope to gain membership into one of London’s most exclusive clubs on your own questionable merit?" Tremaine smiled. Not a smile of mirth, but a smug, conspiratorial grin. "As it happens, membership in that establishment is also enjoyed by your next . . .how shall I say it? Lamb?"

  "Indeed?"

  The gray-haired baron nodded as he watched Godwin. "The Earl of Wycliff."

  "I see." Godwin's mouth was a taut line.

  "Already I have adjusted his stocks. Lord Wycliff has lost Cartmore Hall in Sussex.” Tremaine’s mouth tweaked into a sinister smile as he spoke of destroying another man.

  What had Wycliff done to ignite Tremaine’s hatred? Godwin would take care to never earn Tremaine’s wrath. “Anything else, your lordship?” He was particularly anxious to know what would be his reward for causing a man’s ruin.

  “If you are successful, we will gain Wycliff House in Grosvenor Square. How would you and the young lady you're about to wed enjoy living in one of the finest houses in London?"

  How had he learned about Louisa? "I should like it very much, my lord."

  "Then you know what to do." Tremaine put his elbows on the dusty desk, a smile curving his lips. "Shall it be pasteboards or dice?"

  "I think the pasteboards."

  Chapter 1

  London, 1826

  The scalloped rows of brilliant diamonds and emeralds laced through the long, manly fingers of Harold Blassingame, the seventh Earl of Wycliff. A lump balled in his throat as he remembered how the necklace had looked on his mother, whose beauty stilled eight years previously. Oddly, recovering the Wycliff Jewels did not bring the triumph he had expected. Even the recovery of Cartmore Hall from nearly a decade in a usurper's possession had left Harry wanting. Vindication of the Wycliffs would not be complete until he regained Wycliff House in Grosvenor Square.

  Edward Coke, the cousin who was as close to Harry as a brother, planted one booted foot on the Jacobean desk that separated the two young men. "How many quid to persuade Livingston to part with Aunt Isobel's jewels?"

  Harry eyed Edward, a somber look in his black eyes. "Twice what Rundel & Bridge would have valued them."

  His cousin winced. "Daresay Livingston knew you'd have come up with ten times the amount, though I bloody well don't know how he learned of your fat purse. 'Twas common knowledge when you left England eight years ago that Uncle Robert had left you penniless."

  "The fact that I did not balk at Kindale's asking price for Cartmore Hall has no doubt carried through London like leaves scattering on the wind," Harry said.

  “The Hall I can understand. Deuced fine stables you’ve got there, but to spend such blunt on some bloody stones?” Edward shook his closely cropped head of blond hair before leaning forward to pluck the Wycliff wedding ring from a heap of sparkling jewels on the desk. "Think you to find a suitable young lady to wear this, Harry?" He slid the emerald encrusted band on his pinky finger, but it stopped well short of his bony knuckle.

  Harry shrugged. How could he tell Edward his reasons for returning to England? How could anyone else understand the magnetic pull of the land that had been in his family for three-hundred years? How could he explain his need to restore the family’s good name or his need for a family? And a wife.

  But as his tracks to redemption grew steadier, Harry's conscience burdened him. What decent and noble woman would have him if she knew what he had been doing these last eight years? Oh, he could avoid the truth. His title and fortune alone could likely snare any woman of his choice.

  The problem was he did not desire a marriage based on deception. What he sought was a loving match. The kind his parents had enjoyed. His stomach twisted at the memory of his father’s perfidy. Yet his mother had never lost
her love for the man she had wed when she was twenty. The two shared everything. It was almost as if their hearts beat in the same rhythm. And when his father's heart stopped, his countess followed him to the grave not a month later.

  "Think you a woman would have me if she knew by what means I achieved my wealth?" Harry asked.

  Edward's eyes rounded. "Surely you don’t have to tell a wife everything. Take my father. He bloody well shields my mother from any manner of his, er, activities."

  A flicker of annoyance flashed across Harry's face. "You mean from the facts about his mistresses?"

  Edward swallowed and did not meet his cousin's gaze. "Well, of course. Simply isn't done."

  "Despite his grave faults, my father was ever honest with — and faithful to — my mother, admirable qualities in a marriage, I think." Harry drew his attention from Edward and looked at the tall casements that gave onto Upper Brook Street. "I doubt I'll ever have a wife with whom I can be completely honest."

  "Enough talk about wives!" Edward shuddered. “Let us make up for the lost years of debauchery." A broad smile lighted his youthful face.

  Harry could not repress his grin as he got to his feet. "I would prefer to see Wycliff House. I plan to make Mr. Godwin Phillips's widow an offer that cannot be refused."

  Edward's slender torso rose to its full height, which was several inches shorter than his elder cousin's. "Hope she's not as unscrupulous as her husband was. By the way, I've learned who now possesses your father's diamond snuff box. What say you we also pay a call on Lord Cleveland?"

  Harry whirled to face his cousin. "Whoever told you I wanted his snuff box?"

  "I. . .I just thought you were going to great pains to reclaim everything--"

  "I want nothing of his," Harry sneered.

  * * *

  As they rounded the corner to Grosvenor Square, Harry's heartbeat began to roar. He had not gazed upon Wycliff House in nearly a decade. Outwardly, the three-story edifice of creamy brick had not changed. It made up for in grandeur what it lacked in size. Lavish iron balusters lined the street level, save for the arched entry portico. Rows of tall, pedimented casements distinguished the upper floors that already stood out from neighboring houses because graceful Corinthian columns framed each window. A chiseled frieze of Grecian athletes banded the top of the building.

  No other modes of transportation waited in front of the house where he and Edward tethered their horses. Harry could barely remember a time when a variety of conveyances had not lined this street. The old earl had taken seriously his role as a Member of Parliament and had entertained often when Lords was in session.

  The front door was opened by a middle-aged butler to whom Harry presented his card. "It is a matter of a somewhat personal nature that I wish to discuss with Mrs. Phillips."

  The butler's brows elevated slightly when he read the card. "Won't you come to the morning room, my lord?"

  They strode across the broad entry hall’s marbled floor and settled in a small room his mother had called the morning room. "My mistress is presently engaged." The butler lowered his voice. "'Tis Tuesday, you know. Her meeting day. I shall inform her of your presence."

  That the morning room looked remarkably as it had nearly ten years earlier pleased Harry. Elegant draperies of light blue moire hung beneath gilded cornices on the windows facing Grosvenor Square. Blue silk damask sofas and chairs scattered about the room on a patterned carpet of gold and royal blue. A large crystal chandelier suspended from a ceiling bordered in ivory molding. Thank God the scoundrel Godwin Phillips had the good sense to change nothing.

  A moment later the butler reappeared. "Mrs. Phillips said her meeting's almost over, that it would do an aristocrat good to sit in on the remainder of the meeting."

  Harry exchanged puzzled glances with Edward. What did the widow mean it would do an aristocrat good?

  With a strange mix of emotions, Harry entered the drawing room at the back of the first floor. Like the morning room, it had changed little. Its walls were still the same asparagus green, as were many of the silk brocade sophas. However, the room's occupants had changed considerably. Harry could not remember ever seeing a more somberly dressed assemblage. And the drably attired consisted entirely of women. Good heavens! Had he wandered into a gaggle of bloody bluestockings?

  From amidst the sea of gray and brown woolens rose one of the prettiest young women Harry had ever seen. Though she wore a dreary graphite colored morning gown of serge, the lovely blonde sparkled like a diamond in a bed of coal. Of rather small bones, her body curved gently in the right places, but it was her face that drew his attention, for it was flawless: a perfect oval with a perfectly chiseled nose and full mouth revealing even white teeth. She took two steps forward, looking at Harry, her expression inscrutable.

  When she spoke, he realized her voice, too, was lovely. Smooth and clear and youthful without being flippant. "Which of you is Lord Wycliff?"

  He moved toward her and bowed. "At your service, madam."

  She barely inclined her head, then indicated extra chairs. "You may sit until we're finished."

  "There must be some mistake," Harry said. "I particularly wanted to speak with Mrs. Phillips." He could not remove his gaze from the young woman's extraordinary eyes. They were lighter blue than a robin's egg.

  "I am Mrs. Phillips," she said impatiently.

  "But---"

  "You expected an older woman." Her careless response indicated a pattern grown tediously routine.

  "You are the widow of Godwin Phillips?" It seemed incredulous this youthful beauty could have been married to Phillips. The man had been the age of Harry's father, and Harry estimated his own age of two and thirty to be a decade older than the slim blonde who stood before him all defiance and arrogance.

  "I am." Indicating the dozen or so women who sat primly around the room, she said, "I will not bother you with introductions, my lord. If you and your companion will be kind enough to sit down--"

  "Yes, of course," Harry said, taking a seat on a satin brocaded sopha beside Edward, who already had displayed the good sense to be seated and escape Mrs. Phillip's scathing gaze. For the first time in his life, Harry sensed rebuke at being called my lord.

  He paid little heed to the words bandied about among the prudish gathering, so moved was he at once again sitting in the room which enfolded him in memories of the loving family he had been part of. He could almost see his mother sitting in the very chair Mrs. Phillips used, her golden head bent over her ever-present embroidery. With his brows lowering, Harry remembered, too, sitting at the walnut game table happily playing backgammon or chess with his father.

  "What is fair about every peer of the realm having a vote when other men — men who are far harder working than the idle lords — have no vote at all?"

  Hearing peers so maligned cut into Harry's reverie, and he looked up to see that the speaker was a matron whose age exceeded his own. She wore spectacles and heavy merino so shapeless it completely concealed any hint of feminine roundness.

  A second speaker rose. "Certainly no consideration given to the greatest good for the greatest number. And something is inherently wrong with a franchise that extends only to freeholders."

  Aghast, Harry watched this second speaker, a young woman who wore a three-cornered hat much like his father used to wear, and epaulets clung to her well-covered shoulders. A man-hating bluestocking, to be sure.

  "Since we have digressed from the topic of injustices in the penal system," said the lovely hostess, "I would suggest we discuss Mr. Bentham's principles of utility at next Tuesday's meeting."

  While the ladies stood up and began to exit the room, Harry stood, as any proper gentleman would do. None of them acknowledged his presence or that of Edward, who stood silently beside him. The men watched as Mrs. Phillips followed her guests from the room, chatting merrily.

  When all the women were gone, Harry turned to his cousin and spoke in a low voice. "Bloody bluestockings."

  "
A good thing they've no guillotine," Edward said.

  Harry shook his head. "Violence, I should think, holds no appeal for these do-gooders."

  A woman's voice responded. "That is absolutely correct, Lord Wycliff."

  Peering at the angelic face of Mrs. Phillips, Harry could well believe violence was as alien to her as pock marks to her smooth, creamy skin. “I perceive you are a follower of Jeremy Bentham."

  "I admire him greatly but am not a utilitarian purist," she answered.

  "How gratifying," Harry murmured. "Tell me, in what way do your views differ from Mr. Bentham's?"

  She perused him through narrowed eyes. "Whereas Jeremy Bentham promulgates the greatest good for the greatest number of people — a belief that has much merit — I think that ignores the worth of the individual.”

  Harry nodded. "Then you’re more of a Rousseau disciple?”

  “If I were forced to choose between the two important thinkers, then, yes, I would prefer Rousseau.”

  She looked skeptically at him and began to move from the room. "I suppose you would like to see your former residence?"

  “Very much. In fact, I should like to make you an offer for the house."

  She spun around to face him, her eyes flashing. "That you cannot do. I found out only this morning that I am not the owner."

  "Then I beg that you direct me to the owner."

  "That I cannot do."

  Harry stopped in front of a massive painting of the Spanish Armada, a painting that had been commissioned by his great-great-grandfather. "And why can't you, Mrs. Phillips?" Despite his efforts to conceal it, anger crept into his voice.