The Wild Lord (London Scandals Book 1)

by Carrie Lomax

  Edward smiled genuinely this time. “Take all the time you need to decide. Whatever your choice—to remain here in poverty or seek your fortune abroad—I truly do wish you well. Despite everything, I remain hopeful that someday we can meet on better terms.”

  With that, Edward left his brother to choose his fate, closing the door softly behind him as he went to find his beloved wife.

  Will Viola and Darby find happiness?

  Can Richard live down his mistakes?

  Find out now in London Scandals Books 2 & 3

  Enjoyed reading this book?

  Please leave a review on Amazon!

  Author’s Note

  No author writing historical fiction would be able to work without the essential and sometimes obscure, painstaking work of historians and researchers. Edward’s character, of course, is loosely based on John Clayton II, Viscount Greystoke, from Edgar Rice Burroughs’ tale Tarzan.

  A less-recognizable influence on this book is the English poet John Clare, who was confined in an asylum during the latter half of his life. Dr. Patton’s asylum is based upon the descriptions of Dr Matthew Allen's private asylum. My understanding of the rising trend toward institutionalization is largely informed by the book Cure, Comfort and Safe Custody: Public Lunatic Asylums in Nineteenth-Century England by Leonard Smith (Leicester University Press, 1999). Harper’s ambition to take over the asylum would not have been out of step at the time. Women frequently worked side-by-side with men who ran “better” asylums.

  The backbone of The Wild Lord is from the book 1808: The Flight of the Emperor by Laurentino Gomez (Lyons Press, 2013). Everything in the first third of the book actually happened. I grafted an earldom and a backstory onto the history of Portugal’s king, Dom Joao, fleeing Napoleon’s armies.

  Finally, although Harper is now considered a feminine name, in 19th-century England it would have been more commonly a masculine or unisex given name.

  Acknowledgments

  I began writing what would become The Wild Lord in 2011, shortly after the arrival of my daughter. I am grateful to the following people and institutions for feedback along the journey (in chronological order):

  Maya Rodale, for early feedback and especially helping me sort out Regency titles.

  Hope Tarr, Ron Hogan and Leanna Renee Hieber, cofounders of Lady Jane’s Salon, for allowing me to read a segment in New York City. Standing on the stage and listening to the audience react was the first time I truly felt like an author.

  Ingrid Hahn, who gave me invaluable edits before I finally went into contract with -

  Champagne Book Group. Without receiving an offer of publication, I wouldn’t have had the confidence to venture into indie publishing. Thank you for understanding when I ultimately decided to go that route.

  I would not be the writer I am today without the support and feedback I’ve received from each of you.

  I am also grateful to Dominion Editorial for line editing and to Lillie Applegarth for proofreading. All mistakes are my own.

  Finally, to the Lomax family - Michael, thank you for covering dinner, dishes and cooking when I would have us all eating cereal out of mugs for dinner at every deadline. I love you.

  -Carrie.

  About the Author

  Carrie Lomax grew up in the Midwest. After a stint teaching in France, she moved to New York City for 15 years, where she acquired a pair of graduate degrees, a husband and a career as a librarian. She lives in Maryland with two budding readers and her real-life romantic hero.

  Her well-reviewed Say You Will trilogy is available on all platforms and in print. She has contributed a short story to The Cocky Cockers anthology to support Romance Writers of America’s Benevolence Fund. Carrie was a finalist in the 2018 Virginia Fool for Love contest for her historical romance, To Win a Wicked Widow.

  Also by Carrie Lomax

  Historical:

  London Scandals Series

  The Wild Lord

  Becoming Lady Dalton

  The Lost Lord (Coming Fall 2019)

  Contemporary:

  Say You’ll Stay

  Say You Need Me

  Say ‘I Do’

  Say You’re Mine

  Read on for An Exclusive Excerpt from The Lost Lord

  London Scandals Book 3

  The Lost Lord - 9/8/2019

  EXILED

  Banished from England, Richard Northcote has patched together a life for himself at the fringes of New York society, at the mercy of a calculating lover…

  ENTRANCED

  Miriam Walsh never expected to find love, much less marry. One evening with the mysterious English nobleman, Lord Richard Northcote, has Miriam dreaming of adventures beyond her limited experiences. But is the promise in his kiss only a practiced lie?

  ENGAGED

  After a whirlwind courtship, Richard and Miriam set sail for England to claim an unexpected inheritance. Miriam is heartbroken when the truth of their is marriage is revealed on the way to London.

  Can Richard ever forgive himself, and redeem himself in the eyes of society, his family, and the woman he has come to love?

  Preorder The Lost Lord Now

  Chapter 1

  June

  The scent of coffee tickled Richard’s nose as he lay hiding from the day. It meant Lizzie wanted something from him.

  He lay tangled in a white sheet redolent of sweat and the musk of a woman, overlaid with the all-too-familiar scent of stale liquor. His head throbbed like the very devil. He rolled onto his back, the muscles of his stomach bunching beneath his bare skin. His fingers idly traced up his abdomen, scratching as he tried to force his mind into alertness. The open window let in a strong late-spring breeze off the Hudson River and the clanging bustle of life below.

  Howard would be happy with this weather. Full ship’s sails meant money in his pocket.

  There came a harsh rattling sound, as if his visitor had yanked the curtain off the rod. Sunlight speared his half-open eyes. Richard pulled a pillow over his head to block it out.

  “Are you awake yet? I made coffee,” a woman’s voice penetrated Richard’s den. He peeked out from his nest. Lizzie Van Buren’s mane of red-gold hair floated around her sharp-featured face like a halo of pure energy. Foxy Lizzie, as she was known—among other names, most unkind.

  Richard’s eyes drifted down to the transparent shift she wore. Lizzie possessed spectacular breasts, in the judgment of a man who had seen many fine bosoms in his lifetime. She caught the direction of her interest, lifted her chin, and puffed out her chest.

  “Did I startle you, my lord?” she asked, drawing out the last word with a giggle. “Or is it, ‘your grace’? I never can keep it straight.”

  “I don’t know why you insist upon referring to a title,” he complained in a sleep-roughened voice. At their first meeting several months ago, Richard had introduced himself as Lord Northcote, out of longstanding habit. No matter how he attempted to correct her—admittedly not very hard—Lizzie insisted upon addressing him by his brother’s rightful honorific. As the second son of an earl, Richard’s proper form of address ought to be The Honorable. After fifteen years as the heir presumptive to the Briarcliff earldom, Richard had found it galling to be demoted in rank. Who did it harm if he continued using lord among these ignorant strangers?

  After Lizzie had followed him into a hallway and kissed him, Richard forgot about the issue. He had been shocked enough to let her. Were all American women so forward? he’d wondered, before surrendering to her affections with utter gratitude. He’d rather spit than admit how badly he’d missed the touch of another human being since he’d been banished from his homeland, England.

  That was before he’d discovered Lizzie was married.

  Lizzie leaped on him as he tried to rise, pushing him back down into the soft bed. She liked to run her fingers over the ridges and valleys, pausing to tug on the smattering of hair. When she was feeling impish, she tried to tug one out at the roots. When angry, she’d attem
pt to yank out a cluster from near his flat nipples, deliberately, to make him wince. If he bled, she laughed and called him weak. Richard, in his weak and lonely worthlessness, accepted her mean-spiritedness affections rather than make do without any human contact at all.

  He ran his palms up her legs. Lizzie also had a set of very fine calves, leading to even better thighs. Physically, she was a treasure. But the time he he’d figured out that Lizzie was the black sheep of Dutch New York society, it had seemed rather late to try and extract himself, or to correct her on the subject of his family. His older brother, Edward, had reappeared fifteen years after he’d been kidnapped in the Amazon and stolen the earldom right out from under Richard, by virtue of being the eldest son. Now, he was merely a spare—or he, had been until Edward had successfully supplanted him by producing a son with that quack woman doctor he’d married. To say that relations between Richard and his eldest brother were icy was like saying an Arctic winter was a mite chilly.

  Lizzie giggled and kissed him deeply. Richard let her. He let Lizzie do anything she wanted to. She had been the one to suggest their first carriage ride, where he’d been the one ridden hard and put up wet. She had been the one to unfasten his trousers, as practiced as any whore. Lizzie was a walking scandal, and it quickly became clear that her husband tolerated his wife’s actions because he was the only person in the world who genuinely wanted her—for his own demented reasons, Richard presumed. Richard had met him briefly, before he decided to avoid the man socially. Hardly a difficult task, given Richard cultivated acquaintances solely on behalf of his friend, Howard.

  Apart from balding at the tender age of twenty-three, Arthur Van Buren seemed a nice enough chap. Wealthy, earnest, if not very exciting. Then again, Lizzie offered more than enough excitement for ten men. In that sense, she and Arthur were the perfect match.

  Richard had come to believe that Arthur allowed his wife so much leeway because he believed Richard would soon take his wayward wife off his hands. Indeed, Lizzie had been pushing for that exact outcome for weeks. But the thought of being married to Lizzie Van Buren made Richard shudder.

  Lizzie broke off their kiss, though she left her legs wrapped around him. “Come and get your coffee before it gets cold.”

  “Why? What’s the rush?” Richard asked, palming one wonderful breast. She shook him off.

  “I want to go on holiday. Come into the kitchen and I’ll tell you when and where,” she said.

  Richard yawned, leveraged himself up and padded after her into the kitchen. Soft linen pajama pants with frayed hems swirled about his ankles, an indulgence he’d brought with him from England upon his departure. Outside, the sounds of city life banged unfiltered through his open windows. Each morning, if he was awake to hear it, the sounds of carts rumbling and horses clip clopping over cobblestone streets reached his third-floor apartments. A towering London plane tree shaded his front windows, where birds liked to roost and warble, or squawk in noisy umbrage. Richard would never have confessed how soothing he found the sound to another living soul. Especially not to Lizzie.

  "Here you are, piping hot just how you like it," Lizzie chirped in an awkward and affected English accent.

  Richard accepted the cup, hiding a grimace. Lizzie made exceptionally awful coffee. Richard had always preferred tea but had grown accustomed to the bracing bitterness of coffee, America’s brew of choice. This newborn country of industrious rebels certainly knew how to nurse a grudge. That Boston Tea Party incident had taken place a generation ago.

  "Thank you, darling." Richard sipped it and barely managed not to choke.

  Lizzie's expression turned radiant. Few would call her beautiful. It didn’t matter. An irresistible energy animated her elfin features.

  “Darling,” she smiled up at Richard winningly. “I want to take a holiday.”

  “You had mentioned something to that effect.” The coffee was even worse than usual. Lizzie must really be scheming up a storm this morning. Last time she’d made coffee for him, in earlier in the spring, she’d tried to convince him to let her move in with him. As though it weren’t bad enough that Lizzie spent several nights a week in his bed. He choked down a sip and set the cup aside. “What brought that on?”

  “Everyone leaves town in the summer. I know you can't go away for three months, but surely, we could take a week? Shipping slows down in the summer, doesn’t it?”

  Richard chose not to correct Lizzie’s misapprehension that shipping slowed in fine weather, when in fact the opposite happened. He pondered the meager funds in his bank account. Quarterly, he received an allowance from his brother, the earl of Briarcliff. Richard wondered why his brother paid it. He wondered what he would do if his brother ever changed his mind about doing so. Upon receiving his stipend, Richard paid his rent ahead, settled any outstanding debts and spent the remainder within weeks. His coffers would be replenished at the end of June, and not a moment before.

  “Right. There is only the matter of Howard and the imports warehouse,” Richard yawned.

  “Which you have precious little to do with on a day-to-day basis. Admit it. If you wanted to get away, all you would have to do is walk over to the warehouse and talk to Howard,” Lizzie cajoled.

  “Assuming I could find him, that is.” He did not want to go anywhere with Lizzie, much less publicly. He traded upon his misappropriated title and aura of dissolute nobility to bring Howard new investors. Howard had carved out a profitable niche for himself shipping wares up the Atlantic coast from Southern states. The whispers about his dalliance with Lizzie were bad enough. Confirmation of the rumors could ruin him—and Howard, by proxy.

  Well, Howard’s prospects, rather. Richard himself was already as ruined as a man could get.

  Upon landing in Boston nearly two years ago, Richard had stumbled—literally—into a partnership with a man named Howard. He remained uncertain as to whether or not Howard was the man's first or last name. All he knew was that Howard had saved his life, which was more than anyone else had ever done for him. One would never guess from his unshaven cheek and shabby garments barely fit for a stevedore that the man was not, in fact, hard pressed. Richard wasn't one to ask questions. When he needed money—which was often—Howard let him work in the warehouse. Supposedly, Richard received a share in the profits whenever Howard needed someone respectable to accompany him on meetings with prospective investors, which was how he’d come into Lizzie’s orbit in the first place.

  Following a series of connections made by leveraging his family’s illustrious name, Richard had made his way to New York, worming his way into the dining rooms and parlors of wealthy mercantile families like Lizzie’s, and rubbing elbows with newer, self-made industrialists flooding into the city. The first time Howard had tried to pay him for dining and “doing the talking” at a business dinner Richard had laughed it off, telling him to reinvest the proceeds. Though Howard stayed afloat, anyone who could afford it would have dressed better. The notion of taking badly needed money from someone who had saved his life sat uneasily on Richard's conscience.

  A strange thought, considering that he had not been previously aware of possessing any such thing.

  "How about in July?" he offered.

  Lizzie' expression turned mulish. "No. It has to be next week."

  "Why?"

  "Because."

  "That's it? Because?" Richard eyed her with a mixture of bemusement and annoyance.

  "It isn't as though you have anything to do,” Lizzie pouted, poking him in the pectoral muscles that had developed since his arrival in America. Moving heavy cargo in the warehouse had kept off the softness that nightly drinking with Lizzie might otherwise have packed about his middle.

  "Howard lives at the warehouse. I am sure you could find him, dear, darling Richard." The language of excessively familiar affection was a marker of how little genuine affection either of them felt. Lizzie had never given any indication of possessing a capacity to care about anyone apart from herself.

&
nbsp; Dear Richard was also code for I am calling your bluff and I win. Shrugging, Richard conceded victory. He always did. What Lizzie wanted, she got, and he saw little point in wasting breath to argue.

  "I don't have money for a long trip,” he began cautiously.

  "La, money. You are the son of an earl! Practically a prince. Princes aren't paupers. Ask your brother for an increase." Lizzie tripped down the hallway.

  Richard had two limits. He did not discuss his family, and he did not discuss money. He let everyone assume whatever they pleased. It was easier than trying to explain why he’d been exiled, not that it was anyone’s business but his own. Lizzie has just breezed past both boundaries in the span of a sentence.

  "Leave my family out of this,” he demanded, towering over her petite form.

  Lizzie smiled coyly and took his hand between her warm palms. "Darling. You deprive yourself unnecessarily. When is the last time you took a holiday?"

  Arguably, Richard had been on holiday for his entire adult life. He had completed all of one year at Cambridge before being tossed out on his ear for failure to attend classes and general misbehavior. He had then spent the better part of the next decade drinking and whoring with London's fastest set. Then, after the tragedy of his father's death, he’d been sent into exile by his brother, Edward. The only work Richard had ever performed had been for Howard, who always needed the help. Richard felt a twinge of shame that he only ever helped Howard when he himself needed money. Richard quickly swept that feeling into the unexamined corner of his soul where such emotions went to writhe in darkness. For whatever reason, Lizzie wanted a summer vacation, and what Lizzie wanted she usually found a way to get. He could fight her, but that would require effort.