Acknowledgments
I want to thank my patient editor, Sue Grimshaw. I hope the book was worth the wait. My thanks go to the whole team at Penguin Random House Loveswept.
Thanks also go to my family, who helped me through a trying time and kept my spirits up.
Sarah Younger, my agent, thank you! You’re the best.
Finally, an apology to my two little dogs, Brandy and Duke, who have missed out on a few walks as I tried to get the book finished. We have been walking up a storm the past week and quite a few bunnies are once again being chased.
As always
Read. Feel. Fall in Love.
Bronwen
BY BRONWEN EVANS
The Disgraced Lords Series:
A Kiss of Lies
A Promise of More
A Touch of Passion
A Whisper of Desire
A Taste of Seduction
A Night of Forever
A Love to Remember (coming soon)
The Imperfect Lords Series:
Addicted to the Duke
PHOTO: © MALCOLM BROW
USA Today bestselling author BRONWEN EVANS grew up loving books. She has always indulged her love of storytelling and is constantly gobbling up movies, books, and theater. Is it any wonder she’s a proud romance writer? Evans is a three-time winner of the RomCon Readers’ Crown and has been nominated for an RT Reviewers’ Choice Award. She lives in Hawkes Bay, New Zealand.
bronwenevans.com
Facebook.com/bronwenevansauthor
@bronwenevans_NZ
Read on for an excerpt from
A Love to Remember
A Disgraced Lords Novel
by Bronwen Evans
Available from Loveswept
Prologue
CLEVEDON, SOMERSET, ENGLAND, JULY 1815
I’ll wear your memory proudly
My honorable brother…my true friend
May my love for you reach Heaven above
Until we meet again
His youngest brother Maxwell’s words barely penetrated Philip’s consciousness. Standing over Robert’s open grave, he felt the blame-filled stares of friends and family. He knew they all thought, Why could it not have been Philip killed instead of Robert?
Robert was born to be the earl. He was his father’s firstborn favorite, yet he never lorded it over his siblings. He loved them, took care of them, and stood up to anyone who would hurt them. Robert was perfect. Once Father died, Robert turned around the fortunes of the estate and proudly and earnestly took his seat in the House of Lords, participating in making England great. Everyone loved him. Everyone wanted to be him.
So why did he go to war? Why risk his life?
Everyone standing around the grave in the pouring rain knew why. Because Philip, against Robert’s advice, had taken a commission. There was no way Robert was going to let “he who made a mess of everything” go to war alone. Robert had no faith that Philip wouldn’t accidentally run himself onto a French bayonet.
Philip had never done anything right in his life. He’d been trouble since the day he was born. When he was a boy, he’d almost burned the house to the ground one year by deciding to light a campfire in the nursery. As a young lad, he’d cost his father his champion horse by trying to make him jump the river. He failed and the horse broke his leg and had to be shot. A year later he’d taken Portia out and decided to tease her by losing her in the forest, only he did really lose her, and when the storm broke they took hours to find her, she caught cold, and almost died. And only last year, he’d invested in a “sure thing,” only to lose his year’s allowance.
Philip was a genuine walking, talking, breathing disaster.
If anyone was going to die on the battlefield of Waterloo, it should’ve been him. But it was his older brother, Robert, the late Earl of Cumberland, who lay cold as stone in the coffin before him.
At Waterloo, in a blink of an eye, Philip had watched as if in a macabre dream, the French bayonet delivering its mortal blow when Robert stepped in front of the Frenchman set on killing Philip. Robert, selfless to the last, had died saving him. He still did not understand why.
Philip remembered seeing his shock and disbelief mirrored on their friend Grayson Devlin’s face. He remembered falling onto Robert’s body, pressing his ear against the blood-soaked jacket and hearing Robert’s final words, “Look after the family, you’ll make a fine earl.”
Robert only took up his commission to ensure his younger brother came home safely. To everyone’s horror, Philip had come through the battle without a scratch. Instead, it was Robert who lay in this grave, and here Philip stood, the new Earl of Cumberland.
You don’t deserve the title. Everyone at the graveside knew that. Was thinking it. It’s your fault he’s dead.
Philip’s stiff shoulders almost buckled under his guilt. He understood that he was solely responsible for this tragedy. He should have tried harder to make Robert understand that he should stay home, that his duty was to his family. A second son’s duty was to his country. But he had done no such thing. He’d selfishly loved having Robert with him. It made him feel safer having his perfect, indestructible brother riding by his side. His selfishness cost the finest man he knew his life.
He stared blankly at the elaborate coffin in the gaping hole and swore he would be a man his brother could be proud of.
But he also swore that the title would not be passed down to his children. He did not deserve the title; it should have been passed to Robert’s children, but Robert, by following him into battle…well, Philip had stolen that privilege from his unmarried brother too.
He vowed that he would be a good earl and work hard for the family, but the title would pass to Thomas, the next brother in line, a younger replica of Robert. A son far more worthy of the line of succession than Philip would ever be.
This he swore over Robert’s grave. If that meant never marrying, so be it. He could not let himself profit from Robert’s death. He did have that much honor.
He barely noticed the others drifting away. Douglas and Maxwell, his two younger brothers, had tried to make him leave, but he’d brushed Douglas’s hand off his arm. Thomas had not made it home from India for the funeral, and Philip was pleased. He didn’t think he could look him in the eye.
Pain lanced his body and he wished he could jump into the open grave with his brother.
Philip had no idea how long he’d been standing there as the rain poured down around him, when a small hand slipped into his and he looked sideways.
Of course it would be Rose Deverill, the Duchess of Roxborough, who stood beside him. She was his younger sister Portia’s best friend, a widow. When they were younger she had adored him, following him like an obedient puppy wanting attention. God knows why. If he recalled, she was one of the few people to see good in him.
“The grave diggers need to finish their work before the grave floods,” she said. “Come home, Philip, your mother and siblings need you.”
The pity in her eyes was almost his undoing. He wished Rose would take him in her arms and make the pain go away. She’d grown into the most beautiful woman, and since becoming a widow, well, he’d heard her nickname—the Wicked Widow. Perhaps he should succumb to her charms to help him forget. A shudder ran through him. Nothing would take the pain away or make him forget this was his fault.
Nothing.
She tugged his hand. “Your mother needs you, come, please.”
He looked into her eyes for one moment and then turned away from what he saw there. How could she still adore him?
He straightened to his full height. Duty. Duty to his family. That is what he would live for now. He would ensure the Cumberland seat was the most profitable in all England when it passed to Thomas or his son on Philip’s death. God willing that would be sooner rather than later.
He squeezed Rose’s hand and let her lead him back through the waterlogged garden, toward the house.
To a life, title, and estate that shoul
d not be his.
Chapter 1
SCOTLAND, EARLY AUGUST 1817—TWO YEARS LATER
Rose had not always enjoyed sex. Sexual congress with her elderly husband, the Duke of Roxborough, the man her family had literally sold her to, had been something to endure. So imagine her surprise when as a young widow of one and twenty she’d taken her first lover, her older brother’s friend Viscount Tremain. Conrad had been a marvelous teacher. He’d introduced her to a world of desire and pleasure and she was forever grateful.
On that same day she’d made a decision. Marriage was not for her. She loved her freedom too much. As a widow no one told her how to behave, or what to wear, what to eat, drink, or where she could go. Marriage held few advantages for a woman. Besides, she had her son, money, and the title of duchess. She did not want for anything.
The ton of course did not understand her resolve to never remarry. She was still young and beautiful; surely she needed a man to make her life complete. They did not understand how she could turn down so many proposals.
She had men—just not a husband! A different man whenever she wanted. She did not have to put up with their tantrums, boring displays of jealousy, or worry that they were after her money; she simply sent them on their way when they no longer mattered to her.
Over the years she set about building a reputation that would ensure most men never saw her as wife material, and it had worked. Worked perhaps too well.
Now six and twenty, she was not ashamed to say that she still enjoyed pleasure—the giving, and especially the receiving—who wouldn’t? But not every man was as considerate, or as skilled a lover, as her viscount. She’d learned that from taking her fair share of paramours, which earned her a reputation and the scandalous name of the Wicked Widow.
Society had so many double standards. A title and money forgave many a sin.
However, over the past two years she’d come to realize something else. Making love was far better than experiencing just pleasure. It was by far the most sensual and exquisite experience a woman could have. It was like touching heaven, and she knew she’d only ever feel that with one man. The man who’d become her lover on that wet, stormy day when they had buried his older brother.
Philip Flagstaff, the Earl of Cumberland. The man who was naked in this bed, buried to the hilt inside her, while her hands fought to keep hold of the headboard as he thrust forcefully into her from behind.
“Oh God, Philip, yes that’s it, I’m going to—”
Her words were lost on a scream of pleasure as her world exploded in a vision of color. Only his arm about her waist stopped her from slumping to the bed as his thrusts became more frantic, and with a roar, he found his release.
Philip tumbled sideways on his huge bed, pulling her with him so she landed curled into his side. He was still panting from his exertions. She was struggling to get her own breathing under control too.
They’d been in this bed since she’d arrived at lunchtime. Philip hadn’t even let her recover from her journey. He’d wanted her with a ferocity that excited and warmed her. After the third bout of lovemaking, her body was numbly sated and she needed a bath.
She glanced out of the large windows and noted the sun was getting low. “What is the time?” she asked, pushing at Philip’s arm still pinning her to his side.
“We have time.”
“Time for what? You can’t possibly have that much stamina.” She giggled.
He lifted her hair and pressed a kiss to her neck. “I have missed you, darling. It’s been six weeks since I saw you.”
“I missed you too, but Lord Kirkwood, while tolerant of the way I wish to live my life, didn’t need to have my reputation shoved in his face while he was in London visiting Drake.”
Drake was her seven-year-old son, the Duke of Roxborough. The only person she loved more than Philip.
“Kirkwood knows we are lovers; hell, the whole ton knows.”
He knows and he’s wondering why you have not proposed to me, Rose said to herself. “Knowing and having to see the evidence are two different things. He can deny the rumors if he doesn’t witness scandalous behavior.”
Lord Kirkwood, the Marquess of Blenheim, had been her husband’s and her father’s best friend, hence he was more lenient when it came to her behavior. He always thought it wrong that she had been married off at such a young age to a man old enough to be her father, if not grandfather. He indulged her need to be free, but Lord Kirkwood controlled every aspect of Drake’s life. He consulted with her, but ultimately he was the one who would make the decisions as trustee of the Roxborough estate as well as being Drake’s guardian.
She knew that one day Kirkwood would order her to settle down, and he would force her to select another husband. But she’d fight that battle when it happened.
Perhaps marriage would be bearable if Philip was that man. They had been lovers for two years and he didn’t seem to be tiring of her, nor she of him.
Surely the fact that she had not ended their affair, as she normally did after a few months with a paramour, told Philip what was in her heart. Or did he believe the tale she spun about never wishing to remarry? Or worse, did he not deem her marriage material? Her reputation—while no worse than his, definitely no worse than his—counted against her because, of course, for women there was a double standard.
If she’d known she might have had a chance of winning Philip’s heart, she would never have cultivated such a wicked reputation. Men tended to like their wives chaste and young. Two strikes against her suitability.
Besides, men never married their mistresses. She kept telling her heart not to expect more from Philip. The only reason they became lovers at all was because of his grief. She could not bear to see his suffering, so she had seduced him the night of the funeral. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine that two years later he would still need her. As far as she was aware, he had no other mistress or lover.
She rolled to face him. Philip was so handsome that he always took her breath away: bright blue eyes framed in a face of artistic angles and aristocratic lines, lips that were full and inviting, and deep auburn hair that glinted copper in the sunlight. He could make her wet with a simple smile.
“Sebastian and Beatrice are arriving tonight, and don’t forget they are bringing my son, Drake, too. We should get ready to greet them. Christian and Serena, Marisa and Maitland and their children will arrive tomorrow.” Sebastian Hawkestone, the Marquis of Coldhurst; Maitland Spencer, the Duke of Lyttleton; and Christian Trent, the Earl of Markham, were three of Philip’s closest friends, and Rose was grateful that they were happy to stay with their wives as well as their children, knowing she was present.
Philip pressed more kisses over her bare shoulder. “Damn your bloody carriage losing a wheel. I wanted you to myself for a few days, instead all I get is an afternoon.”
“I’m as disappointed as you, darling, but we still have three weeks together with our friends. You’ll likely be keen to see the back of me by then,” she teased, waiting for him to deny her statement, but alas no reply.
At least she should be pleased that he wanted to spend time with her, but it almost sounded as if he resented the fact her son was arriving. Drake came first. She would not let her affair with Philip distance her from him. The only reason her son was traveling with Sebastian and Beatrice was Drake wanted to journey with Henry. Sebastian’s ward was about the same age as Drake and the two were firm friends.
In addition, Beatrice kindly suggested Rose leave three days before the others to give her and Philip time alone. Very rarely did Rose get to spend quality time with Philip, especially once the season finished. He would leave London to attend to his estate in Devon, while she was expected to spend time at the Roxborough seat in Cornwall. Although Devon was not far from Cornwall, she could not openly call on him unless Portia was in residence. Since Portia’s marriage to Grayson Devlin, Viscount Blackwood, meant she did not return to her family home nearly enough, and now she’d recent
ly given birth, Rose’s excursions to Flagstaff Castle would likely be nil for the rest of the year.
“I thought I’d take Drake and Henry fishing tomorrow.”
She wanted to hug him for the offer, considering a moment ago she’d thought he resented her son. “They would love that. Thank you.”
“You are never too young to learn how to catch salmon. Watching them jumping out of the water…I still remember my first fishing trip with Robert and Father.” Philip’s smile dimmed and he rolled away from her onto his back.
Philip had still not gotten over his brother’s death. She used to try and talk to him about it, but he refused to discuss the subject and got angry with her for bringing it up. She knew he felt guilt that he survived when his brother did not, but Robert was a grown man, he made his own decisions, and going to war was one of them.
She reached out and took his large hand in hers and squeezed. He didn’t squeeze back. Portia wished she could learn his thoughts. Where did he go when these moods came upon him?
The silence lengthened, their intimate moment destroyed by Robert’s ghost. A far too often occurrence of late.
Finally, Philip rose, and donning a robe pulled the bell to summon his valet. When the man appeared, Philip said, “Wilson, can you arrange for a bath to be drawn, and also draw one for Her Grace in her dressing room?”
“Very good, my lord.” He bowed and left. Wilson had been Robert’s valet and he asked to stay and valet for Philip. He was the soul of discretion and genuinely seemed to like her. He certainly accepted her presence here in Philip’s room.
Philip walked around to her side of the large four-poster bed and handed her a robe.
“You are right, my sweet. We should be ready and waiting for our guests when they arrive. Cook has planned a light supper in the drawing room, as I suspect they will be tired from the journey, and Drake will be eager to see you.”
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