His ring will rescue her
And she’ll save him from his solitude
It’s best if Sir Robert Gascoyne remains alone. That way he protects others from the curse that has plagued his family for generations. But when an injury results in Emma Harris spending a scandalous stay at his manor, wedding bells are inevitable! After losing his first wife to childbirth, Robert won’t risk exposing Emma to the same fate. Yet resisting his stunning new bride is much harder than he’d expected...
“I have lost one wife already, and a child, as well. I have no desire to risk such a loss again.”
“You do not want children,” Emma said, clearly shocked at the idea.
“Not if I am destined to lose them or you in trying for them,” Robert said.
“And you are here to give me the chance to refuse the marriage, based on a decision that could change later.”
“It will not,” he insisted. “I am adamant. Just as I planned, before I met you, I will not father a child on you or any other woman. My estate will go to my brother, should he survive me, which he likely will.”
“Because of your luck,” she finished.
Author Note
I had a lovely time with this story dreaming up my heroine, Emma Harris, and giving her qualities that I’ve always envied but never had.
First, I made her tall. Two hundred years ago, her height of six feet would have had her looking down on the Duke of Wellington, who was two or three inches shorter.
To go along with her height, I gave her a natural ability at many of the sports that were popular in the Regency and before. Though Emma was sheltered from them by her mother, there would have been nothing too unusual about a girl enjoying archery or tennis.
Though I am short and terrible at sports, Emma and I do share one thing. I gave the poor girl my clumsiness. Lucky for her, she will outgrow it.
CHRISTINE MERRILL
Vows to Save Her Reputation
Christine Merrill lives on a farm in Wisconsin with her husband, two sons and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off the computer so they can check their email. She has worked by turns in theater costuming and as a librarian. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out the window and make stuff up.
Books by Christine Merrill
Harlequin Historical
The Secrets of Wiscombe Chase
The Wedding Game
The Brooding Duke of Danforth
Snowbound Surrender
“Their Mistletoe Reunion”
Vows to Save Her Reputation
Those Scandalous Stricklands
Regency Christmas Wishes
“Her Christmas Temptation”
A Kiss Away from Scandal
How Not to Marry an Earl
The Society of Wicked Gentlemen
A Convenient Bride for the Soldier
The de Bryun Sisters
The Truth About Lady Felkirk
A Ring from a Marquess
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com for more titles.
To Jim, a very patient man.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Excerpt from The Enticing of Miss Standish by Julia Justiss
Chapter One
Emma Harris looked longingly out the morning room window at the sun shining on the park of her father’s country estate. It was a perfect day for a stroll. It would be nice just to sit beneath a tree and finish her book. Or she could take her sketchbook instead and draw mediocre charcoals of the little animals scurrying across the lawn. There were many ways she might occupy the space between now and luncheon that were either pleasurable or edifying.
But she would have happily stood in a downpour and done nothing at all rather than to be trapped here with her mother, undergoing the same quizzing that she got each day, as Mrs Harris tried unsuccessfully to turn her into the daughter the family wanted her to be.
‘Lord Weatherly,’ her mother intoned, staring at the piece of paper in her hand.
‘Baron,’ Emma replied, automatically.
‘Marital status?’
‘Never wed at forty-five,’ Emma replied. There were probably reasons that he had escaped women thus far. It was unlikely that the cause was homeliness, for she doubted that anyone who had risen to the rank of baron would be deemed too ugly to marry. It was probably temperament. She had met several of the men on her mother’s precious list and found some of them to be bordering on misogynistic.
‘Hobbies?’ her mother prompted.
She could not, for the life of her, remember. In such cases, it was safe to guess, ‘Horses.’
‘Horticulture,’ her mother said with a frown of disapproval.
‘I always mix those two up,’ she said with a sigh.
‘They have nothing in common other than the first letter,’ her mother said. ‘It is not confusion. It is evidence that you have not been studying the information I have gathered for you. Honestly, my dear, we shall never get you a husband if you are not willing to put in the effort necessary to catch one.
Though it was possible she was wrong, Emma doubted that other young ladies who sought husbands were forced to memorise the names and descriptions of eligible men. ‘Can I not just meet them naturally, as strangers, and find out the details later in an organic development of our acquaintance?’
‘You could if your father had a title to match theirs,’ her mother replied. ‘Of course, then you would already know them. You would have vouchers for Almack’s and arranged introductions. But your father has a stocking factory. Since you have money rather than breeding, we expect you to work harder to overcome the artificial distance that society has placed between you and the husband you deserve.’ Mother always spoke as if being rich somehow entitled the family to the privileges normally afforded to people of rank.
‘I could always marry a man in trade,’ Emma said, trying not to sound too hopeful. In truth, she did not particularly want to marry at all. The last thing she needed was some strange man correcting her many flaws in a way that might be even more critical than her mother’s. But her mother seemed dead set on a match this year and on yoking her to a man with a pedigree.
‘We did not raise you to marry a cit,’ her mother said, as if it had been possible to breed her for matrimonial success. ‘If we had, we would not have wasted money on educating you. We wish for you to better yourself.’
That made no sense. If she married, she would not be better. She could be the same, overly tall, clumsy, daughter of a stocking maker that she had always been. But if the right husband could be caught, she would be Lady something instead of plain Emma. And according to her father, when one
wished to sell a product, having the right label mattered even more than the contents of the box.
At least, that was all that mattered to her mother, who was referring to her list again, then looking back to Emma with a raised eyebrow. ‘You will have no husband at all if you do not do the work necessary to know who is available and who is not, so that you might cultivate the right people when you meet them. Now, tell me about Lord Braxton.’
This one was easy. ‘Engaged,’ she said with triumph. ‘The announcement was in The Times this week.’
Her mother said an unladylike word under her breath and reached for a pen to cross the name from her list. ‘I had such hopes for him.’
Emma had felt nothing but dread at the idea. The man was over sixty and had buried three wives already. ‘It is unfortunate,’ she said, hoping to mollify her mother.
‘Worse than that,’ she countered. ‘That is the third loss this month.’ She spoke as if the men belonged to her, like a flock of unruly chickens that kept escaping before they could be butchered and brought to table.
‘There will be other years,’ Emma said, crossing her fingers.
‘For you?’ Her mother gave her a dubious look that was most disheartening. ‘Your major advantage is that you are young. You are also...robust.’ It was a most unfeminine word to describe her, but her mother probably thought she had found a charitable term to describe a girl who was nearly six foot tall. ‘Not every man is willing to have a wife taller than himself.’ Then, she spoiled what little compliment she had offered. ‘You are young, but youth is a fleeting thing, my dear.’
‘Mama, I am only one and twenty.’
‘And next year, you shall be twenty-two.’ She said it in a dire tone that implied her death was imminent. ‘There are still a few names left. Tell me about Sir Robert Gascoyne.’
‘Thirty-two and widowed. A baronet. Brother of Jack Gascoyne, the war hero. Possessor of an estate not two miles from here.’
‘And...’ her mother said significantly.
‘There is little more to tell. The man is practically a hermit.’
‘He has the nicest house in the county,’ her mother prompted. ‘Twenty acres and nearly as many rooms in the manor. Just think of the parties you will have there, should you marry him.’
‘Should he offer for me,’ Emma corrected. ‘Which I doubt he shall, since we have yet to meet him in person at any of the gatherings in the public assembly halls we have been to. He does not go to the balls in London, nor does he entertain in his own home. And I have yet to meet a single person who can claim his acquaintance.’
‘That will change, once he is married,’ her mother insisted. ‘You will have a ball and invite titled ladies and gentlemen. In return, they shall invite you to their homes. He might stay at home as much as he wishes, but you, my dear, will be a success. And when you are, I hope that you will remember your poor mother and make introductions.’
‘Of course,’ Emma said weakly. As the months of the season had passed, her mother had grown more and more obsessed with the idea of finding a way into the aristocracy for their family. Her current strategy involved Emma’s successful marriage. Perhaps it was lack of effort on her part, as her mother claimed. Or perhaps she was simply not wanted. Thus far, all those careful plans had been unsuccessful.
‘Study the list.’ Her mother pressed the paper into her hands with a sense of urgency. ‘Knowledge is the key to everything.’
‘I will, Mama,’ she said, tucking it into the back of the novel she had been reading. ‘But for now, I think a walk is in order, if I wish to continue in robust good health.’
‘Then walk in the direction of the Gascoyne house and see if you can find a way to meet our neighbour Sir Robert,’ she said with a firm nod. ‘All you need is one happy accident with the right gentleman and you shall have maids calling you My Ladyship by Christmas.’
* * *
Sir Robert Gascoyne liked his solitude.
Rather, he tolerated it, as one would an old and somewhat tiresome friend. He had been alone for so long that he could not think of any other way to be.
Since it did not make him actively unhappy, he told himself that it was for the best that he remained secluded. When one had the luck of the Gascoyne family, it was better to live in isolation as one would when suffering from a disease. Self-quarantine spared the people around him from contagious misfortune.
Though that plan spared others, for Robert there was no escaping the family curse. According to his man of business in London, though every other mine in Cornwall flourished, the tin mine he had invested in had run out of ore. While he had been to visit it, his coachman had been kicked by a horse and broken a leg.
And yet, it could have been worse.
He must be thankful that he was still healthy enough to drive himself home, rather than leaving his best carriage in the hands of inexperienced grooms. With his finances in ruins and his strategies in chaos, it felt good to be in the driver’s seat and not dependent on the actions of another. He needed something he could successfully command to steady his nerves and to allow him to believe, for a few hours at least, that his life and destiny were something he could control, as easily as he could command a team and carriage.
The trip thus far had been uneventful. He was an excellent driver more than capable of handling any equipage. The horses were receptive to every flick of the reins. If the wheels stayed on the brougham, he would be home in less than an hour.
That was why he looked at the woman on the road ahead with trepidation. The way was wide enough for a pedestrian and she was well over to the side. There was no reason to believe that she was at risk from him. But there had been no reason to believe that a productive mine could lose the vein right after he had put money down on it. When Robert Gascoyne was involved, bad things happened.
As he approached her, he pulled as far to the opposite side of the road as he thought safe and slowed to a trot. Since she appeared to be absorbed in the book she was reading, he called to the groom to blow a warning on the carriage horn.
Perhaps he had waited too long to make his presence known. At the sound, she gave a start of alarm and so did the horses. The team shied and, as he struggled to control them, he lost sight of her. One minute she was there, the next she had disappeared from sight.
Robert felt a moment of blind panic as he tugged hard on the reins, cursing his carelessness and infernal bad luck, and hating each movement of hooves that might be further trampling the poor girl. The lack of cries was an ominous silence which made him wonder if she’d been killed outright by the first blow.
But, no. When he was able to hop down, she was not under the horses, but laying in a heap at the bottom of the ditch beside the road, face down and dangerously close to a puddle.
He stumbled down the hill after her, praying that he was not already too late as he rolled her face towards the sky. God bless her, though unconscious, she was still breathing. Her fair looks had survived quite well under a coating of muck and despite the cut on her forehead that was releasing a steady trickle of blood, vibrant red against her coppery hair.
‘Miss?’ he said gently, not wanting to startle her again. But the word did not earn even a moan of response. The pulse where he touched her hand was weak and her gown was torn in several places, a sign of the battering she had taken on the tumble downhill. She needed cold compresses for the bruises and someone more skilled than he to identify further injuries.
He dropped her fallen book into his pocket and scooped her into his arms, then laboured up the hill, surprised at her height which must be near to his own when she was capable of standing. Hopefully, this giantess would have stamina worthy of her size and shake off her injuries as quickly as she’d encountered them.
But for now, what was he to do with her? The village would be the more proper destination. But if there was something seriously wrong with her, his ho
me was several miles closer and nearer to the surgeon’s home as well. He would see to her welfare first. Then, with luck she would come round enough so that he could establish her identity and send someone for her people.
With a sigh of frustration, he carried her to the carriage and laid her down on one of the seats, signalling to a groom to take the reins for the last few miles to the house, before climbing in beside her and resting her head on his lap.
As they travelled, he fixed his eyes on the opposite wall, trying to ignore the strange, unsettled feeling of having a woman so close in the privacy of the carriage. It had been a long time since he’d been alone with any sort of female and even longer since his needs had been met by one. It was wrong to even think about such things in the presence of a well-born young lady, but he could not seem to turn his mind away from them.
He glanced down at her, then quickly away again. She was not the prettiest girl in England, but she was certainly one of the most striking he had seen. Would her eyes be blue or green when she opened them? Either would be an appealing match to her hair.
If she opened them, he reminded himself, reaching into his pocket and finding a handkerchief, then splashing some brandy from his flask on to it so he could clean the wound on her head. Her skin was pale, but he suspected it was naturally so. Redheads often had the sort of luminous complexion that this woman did. Even smudged with dirt, there was an almost regal dignity about her that was clearly a sign of excellent breeding. She put him in mind of a sleeping princess, albeit a very tall one.
He could not help casting a glance at her left hand and its empty ring finger. He was not in the market for a wife, now or ever. Nor was he the prince that this girl deserved. After seeing what damage he could do in a wordless meeting, she would be wise to run from him before they had spoken. Since she was unable to escape, it would be his responsibility to keep her safe and free of his company.
But a part of him did not want to. He liked the feeling of her resting against him. It also helped to know that, although he had been responsible for her accident, he was doing his best to make things right again. It went against his nature to leave the work to others, if there was something he could do to help.
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