The Wild Lord (London Scandals Book 1)

by Carrie Lomax

  Richard sketched a bow. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Walsh."

  "Likewise," the lady replied. Even on the beach where the wind whipped away words the instant they were spoken he could hear the sultriness in her voice. It sent a frisson down his spine.

  Miriam Walsh looked up at him with enormous, heavily lashed gray eyes. Her cheek curved in a perfect oval, with a small pointed chin framing pretty lips of pale pink. The whole effect was topped by a wind-whipped coil of black curls escaping their casual coiffure.

  Miss Walsh is a moon goddess, Richard thought nonsensically. He shook his head to clear it.

  "Miriam is here with her family for the summer. On holiday. What a lovely surprise to see you here, dear, dear Miri." Lizzie clutched her friend’s arm.

  "Lizzie, no one calls me that nickname anymore." Miss Walsh replied with an easy laugh.

  "Well, I do." Lizzie grasped her friend's arm a little tighter, as though Miss Walsh were a shore bird that might take wing.

  "What brings you the Pines?” asked Miriam. Lizzie’s aunt’s retreat was known as the Pines, a sprawling estate reserved for warm-weather pleasures.

  “Liz-"

  Lizzie interrupted him with a laugh. "The same thing that brings everyone else, I'm sure. The summer heat."

  Richard frowned at his lover. She gave him one hard, quick glare that clearly said keep your mouth shut. What was she up to, anyway?

  "Yes, I had a break in my business in the city and decided to reward myself with a short holiday." Richard supplied. He could play Lizzie’s game a little longer.

  "How long are you staying?" asked Miriam.

  Richard glanced at Lizzie. "A few days," he replied vaguely. Lizzie flashed him a quick, brilliant grin. A queasy sensation settled into his gut.

  "And who is this charming young lady?" He bowed to the woman standing a few feet away. She reminded him of an umbrella. Her black dress fell in pleats from her waist. Her bonnet could have been the knobbed handle. Her form held no discernible curves, and her visage was sharp-featured as a crone’s though her skin remained unlined. She scowled at him.

  "This is Mrs. Kent, my nurse," Miss Walsh explained.

  Richard looked at her askance. "You seem rather aged for needing a nursemaid."

  The girl laughed. "I was ahead of Lizzie in school. My health is not as strong as one could hope, so Mrs. Kent attends me everywhere I go.”

  To be sure Miss Walsh was fine-boned and reed-slim, yet Richard sensed in her a vitality that belied illness. He smiled easily, a trick he had learned for getting along in his adopted country. "You look strong to me."

  It had been the right thing to say. Miss Walsh's fine eyes lit up like a thousand stars.

  "Miss Walsh suffers from asthma. Any attack could be fatal," Miss Kent declared dourly.

  "Thank you, Miss Kent, for your candidness about my private affairs," Miss Walsh replied firmly.

  Richard approved of this reticence. It struck him as very English to be so circumspect. He decided to like Miss Walsh. It was the first time he could recall ever feeling that way about an American. In two years of exile he had found much to admire, respect and appreciate about them, but he had not yet met one for whom he felt the slightest bit of kinship.

  This included Lizzie, who had been uncharacteristically quiet for the past several minutes.

  "Tomorrow we are going sea bathing in the morning. My aunt is holding an oyster bake in the afternoon for luncheon. Will you join us, Lord Northcote?”

  Again, Richard stared hard at his lover. “I am not Lord Northcote. Not here. I am only Richard, or Mr. Northcote if you must be formal.”

  “Don’t be silly. Miriam, Lord Northcote is related to royalty. Can you imagine?” Lizzie giggled.

  Richard sighed. What the devil was she plotting?

  Most likely, Lizzie was trying to in some roundabout way to get him to propose. Lizzie had a habit of ignoring boring practical matters, such as preexisting vows that legally bound her to another man. Richard had no intention of becoming the man she ignored, much less cuckolded.

  "Of course, I shall be delighted to join you." Richard finally replied, since she wanted it and Richard disliked fighting with her. Lizzie winked. Richard shook his head ever so slightly. What was she after? He returned his attention to Miss Walsh, who had glanced out over the sea, clearly embarrassed at the revelation of her condition. Unnecessarily so. Richard tried to forget about the fact, for Miss Walsh's sake.

  "Wonderful. We will meet you at the beach around eleven."

  Richard shrugged. He would do as he was told, up to a point.

  The two friends had separated and were standing a few feet apart. Catching Lizzie's elbow, Richard pulled her aside.

  “What are you up to?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Lizzie asked innocently.

  “Don't play coy. Whatever you're plotting, leave me out of it.” He jerked his head. “Her, too.”

  Lizzie tossed her head. “You've a suspicious mind tonight, Richard. I'll find you later and we'll talk.”

  Richard let her go. His eyes followed Miss Walsh as she and her companions made their way slowly up the dusky shoreline until they became mere specks upon the horizon, two vulnerable, unprotected women at the mercy of the sea and sky.

  Preorder The Lost Lord - Available on Kindle Unlimited

  9/8/2019

  Becoming Lady Dalton - Excerpt

  London Scandals Book 2

  Becoming Lady Dalton - Out Now - Read for Free In Kindle Unlimited

  She has everything a woman could want. The last thing she needs is a man.

  Mrs. Viola Cartwright's fortunes took a turn for the better the day her sister wed the Earl of Briarcliff. With her son headed to school, she has ample time to pursue her interest in music, acquiring a long-denied education, and dancing - lots and lots of dancing. Until a series of jewel thefts casts a shadow over the final weeks of the London season....

  He’ll take on Bow Street to save her.

  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?

  A past she can't escape threatens a future they both desire.

  When a figure from her past threatens Viola's new life, she must decide how far to trust Piers - and learns just how deep a family's love runs.

  Preorder The Lost Lord Now

  Chapter 1

  Mrs. Viola Cartwright traced a length of roller-printed linen and sighed. The fine fabric slipped beneath her gloved hand as smoothly as silk. If only the dressmaker hadn’t asked her to keep her gloves in place, Viola would have removed one—discreetly—to enjoy the texture of material that had been out of reach until a few months ago. Before then, had she tried touching delicate, expensive cloth, the dressmaker would likely have slapped her hand away instead of gently reminding her not to smudge the wares.

  Absorbed in making her selections, Viola sensed a presence at her back before a whisper-light touch brushed the scant inch of exposed skin between her sleeve and the edge of her thin cotton gloves. Viola jolted.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she breathed, glancing up over her shoulder. The room suddenly grew heated. Viola’s corset laces mysteriously tightened, threatening to constrict the breath right out of her.

  Lord Dalton had that effect on her. Likely, he had this effect on many women. Viola greedily wished she could keep this man’s blood-stirring regard all for herself. She supposed half the women in London felt the same way. Late last summer, she’d arrived on her grandmother’s doorstep with little more than the clothes on her back, and her eight-year-old-son and lovelorn younger sister in tow. Within a few short weeks, Harper had married Edward Northcote, the heir to the earl of Briarcliff, to the surprise of just about everyone. The couple’s first wedding had been an overwrought fiasco, followed promptly by a fire that had burned the
Briarcliff town residence to its foundation. It was whispered that Richard, Edward’s younger brother, had caused the fire in which the previous earl had collapsed and died, leaving Edward the new earl.

  Harper and Edward remained in the country, adapting to their new lives. But Viola had decided to return to London for most of December. After spending fifteen years on a farm near Upper Cotwold, a hamlet in the north of England, she’d taken to city life with an enthusiasm her sister and new brother-in-law lacked.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Dalton murmured, his hand hovering near hers. It had been months since their last meeting. What was he doing here, in a dressmaker’s shop?

  The answer stood behind him, a tiny girl in a blue wool dress. A heap of outerwear overflowed the child’s arms as she struggled to contain a velvet cloak and wool cap. She must be Dalton’s daughter, four-year-old Emily.

  “Here, Papa.”

  She dumped the pile at her father. Dalton accepted the bundle of damp fabric. Emily scampered off, led by a seamstress, to look at pictures of children’s clothes.

  “She’s grown a full two inches since her birthday. Nothing fits her anymore,” Dalton complained with affectionate pride.

  “I know the feeling. Matthew’s outgrown two pairs of shoes since last summer.” Never mind that the first pair had been woefully too tight to begin with. Five months ago, Viola had lost her home in Upper Cotwarren in the northern parts of England. Too-tight shoes had not been her primary concern. Penniless and homeless, Viola and Matthew had been forced to travel to London with her sister, Harper, to find their long-lost grandmother, Baroness Landor. The whirlwind of her sister’s marriage to the Earl of Briarcliff’s heir still made Viola’s head spin when she tried to think of all the changes her family had weathered in such a short time.

  “Has he now?” A slow grin spread across Dalton’s sensual lips. Oh, the man was handsome. Her heart fluttered at the thought that she, lowly Viola Cartwright, nee Forsythe, appealed to a young buck like Dalton. The four-year age gap between them was not in her favor, either.

  “Yes. He’s off to school in January.” Which would leave her all alone. Viola brushed away the thought like a cobweb. “I’m here to order his school wardrobe.”

  “Eton?” Dalton asked idly as he shifted the bundle of his daughter’s clothing from one arm to the other. A second seamstress appeared to relieve him of the burden. Viola mused that the shop was well-staffed—a luxury she had never experienced before a few months ago. It was all for the best the dressmaker wanted her to leave her gloves on. Viola’s chapped and scarred hands were as unfit for fine company as they were for fine fabric.

  “Bainbridge,” Viola replied. It was the nearest competitor to Eton. Only her new brother-in-law’s notoriety had secured Matthew a place. Her sister’s newfound status as a countess had brought with it unimaginable advantages. Viola was determined to enjoy every single one.

  Dalton’s dark gaze, like brown sugar caramelized over a flame, cut to her with an intensity that made Viola’s blood pound. If she could bottle that look and sell it, she’d be a rich woman in her own right, instead of a poor dependent. Sadly, however, Dalton was one luxury Viola could not afford for herself.

  There was nothing to prevent her from looking, though. With his dark locks curling about his ears and temple, and the severity of his cheekbones offset by the hint of a sardonic smile perpetually playing at the corners of his sensual mouth, she often caught herself staring at Dalton. Indeed, that had been how they’d initially met last fall. Her forward ogling had led to his impertinent introduction, and now…what?

  She was staring again. Dalton let her, with humor playing over his lips as his gaze met hers and slid away. Embarrassed heat flooded through Viola.

  “A worthy institution,” was all he said, meaning the school. “I’d best see to Emily.”

  “She looks enthralled.” Viola glanced across the room to where the seamstress had given her a doll with miniature clothing to dress. A wistful sadness ghosted through her. “My firstborn was a girl. She would have been twelve now.”

  Had she lived.

  Immediately, Viola froze in place. She never spoke of the child she’d borne at seventeen, who had died before her first birthday. It was a confession Viola could make without thinking only to Dalton, and precisely what made him so dangerous to her peace of mind. With his priest-like austerity and wicked, teasing gaze, the man tempted Viola to speak openly when she ought to mind her tongue.

  “Do you ever think of her as if she’d lived?” Dalton asked.

  “Of course. Don’t you think of them?” Viola asked softly as her embarrassment subsided slowly. She wished the man didn’t have this loosening effect on her lips. Her trust was hard-won. Though Dalton had proved himself worthy of her confidence last fall, she didn’t know him well enough to blurt out personal details about her life as she’d just done. Her cheeks flamed. She ought to conclude her business and flee into the cold December air of London’s streets before she embarrassed herself any further.

  But he’d lost his entire family as a boy. Then his first wife, Emily’s mother, had died before their daughter was a year old. Dalton knew loss. Worse, most of London regarded Dalton with a degree of superstition, because nearly everyone he loved died. No one wanted to be next.

  “Never,” Dalton replied evenly, unfazed by her breach of etiquette in the midst of a bustling shop. Perhaps the man enjoyed her company because Viola had never developed the habit of dancing around delicate matters, Viola mused. Dalton appeared to find her company refreshing.

  “I think of them as frozen in time. Forever six, eight, eleven, and seventeen. My parents never age. My late wife, however…” He trailed off as he contemplated his daughter. “It’s not quite the same. I can imagine moments when she’s alive beside me, because Emily is very like her.”

  Viola’s heart wrung like a dripping rag.

  “Emily is a lovely little girl. Very spirited and winning,” Viola offered hastily, glancing at the little girl who was charming the seamstress into giving her a tea cake. “I’ll bet she’s enjoying the day out with you. Does she ordinarily come here with her governess?”

  “Of course. But Miss Templeton is feeling unwell, so today I took a personal interest.”

  Dalton turned to her with a penetrating look. Viola felt his gaze rake up and down her body, admiring, just as she had done to him a moment before. The urge to flee, which always came hard on the heels of a private conversation with Dalton, no matter how innocuous, raced through her veins.

  Piers Ranleigh, sixth Viscount Dalton, was one luxury she could never afford to indulge.

  Despite this, he tempted her above all other delights. Viola would forego silk and satin by the bolt, fine linen sheets, dancing to exquisite music, evenings at the opera, even the pleasure of raiding her grandmother’s extensive book collection.

  She caught herself. Maybe not the library. One must have some standards, after all. Especially as regarded the male sex. Having naïve expectations was how she’d become Mrs. Cartwright, after all.

  “Are you, by chance, attending the Townsend ball tomorrow evening?” Dalton asked, pulling Viola out of her reverie.

  “I may. I may not.” Viola flashed a smile. She needn’t avoid all flirtatious interaction with the man, only the kind that tempted her to kisses…and more. “It depends upon whether my gowns can be made ready in time. Which is my second purpose in coming here today.”

  As if she’d conjured her, the dressmaker appeared to beckon her into the back room.

  Dalton gave her a devastating half-grin. A dimple flashed in the smooth expanse of his cheek below the sharp cheekbone and above the strong line of his jaw. Viola blinked at the ephemeral appearance of the divot. If she’d seen him smile fully before, it had been too brief and shallow for the whimsical mark to make an appearance.

  “Then, I may or may not see you there,” he responded with a slight bow. “But if I should be so fortunate…”

 
; He paused.

  “Yes, my lord?” she prompted.

  “Wear the crimson velvet.”

  Dalton turned on his heel and moved to attend to his daughter.

  Viola gaped after him, her mind awhirl with longing. Not for you, she reminded herself, grateful to return her attention to more accessible pleasures.

  Chapter 2

  She’s back. Piers could not recall ever experiencing such lighthearted exhilaration. It wasn’t as if he never felt happy—to the contrary. Emily brought him great joy every day. Yet, whenever Viola was near his chest expanded until he thought he might burst the buttons of his waistcoat. The world was a warmer, brighter place with Viola around to banter with.

  Piers had every intention of winning her heart.

  After the fire at the Briarcliff townhome two months ago, the Northcote family had retreated to the countryside for the remainder of the season, in part to avoid excess scrutiny as Edward settled into his role as the new earl. Viola’s brother-in-law was disinclined to follow convention under the best circumstances. Who could blame him, after the disastrous way he’d been lost abroad and forcibly repatriated?

  Most of London, as it turned out.

  It hadn’t helped that the previous earl had died from shock related to the fire. Nor had a botched elopement between the new countess, nee Harper Forsythe—Viola’s sister—aided matters. The disaster was still the primary topic of society gossip weeks later. If he’d been thinking and not just longing, Piers would’ve asked Viola whether she was in town to mitigate the disaster or simply because she missed him.

  Was he arrogant? Absolutely.