The Earl's Marriage Bargain
Page 1
A compromising situation...
for an innocent lady!
After fending off ruffians with her parasol and hauling a battered man into her carriage, Jane Newnham finds herself unwittingly compromised with enigmatic Ivo Merton, Earl of Kendall! Jane always intended to become an artist, not a wife, and now she has no choice but to become betrothed. They strike a bargain that means she can continue to paint, but Ivo has awakened another passion in her—to uncover his secrets...
Liberated Ladies
Unconventional heiresses...full of big ambitions!
Friends Verity, Jane, Prue, Melissa and Lucy are unconventional ladies with scandalous yearnings and big ambitions—to be writers, painters, musicians—but the only safe sanctuary to exercise their talents is in one of their family’s turrets!
They have no wish to conform and be drawn into society’s marriage mart, unless they can find gentlemen who value and cherish them for who they truly are...and not the size of their dowries!
Read about Verity’s story in
Least Likely to Marry a Duke
And Jane’s tale in
The Earl’s Marriage Bargain
Both available now
And look for Prue’s, Melissa’s
and Lucy’s stories
Coming soon
Author Note
When I wrote Least Likely to Marry a Duke, I discovered that Verity Wingate had four close friends—Melissa Taverner, a freethinking novelist; Lucy Lambert, a pianist; Prue Scott, a scholar; and Jane Newnham, an artist.
Verity won her duke, but what happened to her friends, all of whom were following their vocations in the face of family disapproval? I had not intended to write a series, but their fates began to intrigue me. So here is the story of one of them, Jane Newnham, although you do not have to have read Verity’s story to follow Jane’s.
How does a respectable young lady from a modest gentry family find herself betrothed to an earl, especially when Jane never intended to marry anyone and the earl in question clearly has a secret in his past? I hope you enjoy finding out as much as I enjoyed writing their story.
LOUISE ALLEN
The Earl’s Marriage Bargain
Louise Allen loves immersing herself in history. She finds landscapes and places evoke the past powerfully. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favorite destinations. Louise lives on the Norfolk coast and spends her spare time gardening, researching family history or traveling in search of inspiration. Visit her at louiseallenregency.co.uk, @louiseregency and janeaustenslondon.com.
Books by Louise Allen
Harlequin Historical
Marrying His Cinderella Countess
The Earl’s Practical Marriage
A Lady in Need of an Heir
Convenient Christmas Brides
“The Viscount’s Yuletide Betrothal”
Contracted as His Countess
Lords of Disgrace
His Housekeeper’s Christmas Wish
His Christmas Countess
The Many Sins of Cris de Feaux
The Unexpected Marriage of Gabriel Stone
Liberated Ladies
Least Likely to Marry a Duke
The Earl’s Marriage Bargain
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com for more titles.
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
Excerpt from A Royal Kiss & Tell by Julia London
Excerpt from Her Best Friend, the Duke by Laura Martin
Chapter One
1st September, 1814
If she was in a novel written by her friend Melissa, then this post chaise would be rattling across the cobbles on its way to the Borders for a Scottish wedding and the seat next to her would be occupied by a dashing, dark and decidedly dangerous gentleman.
As this was real life, Jane was on the way to Batheaston to spend at least six months in disgrace with Cousin Violet. Beside her was Constance Billing, her mother’s maid. It had become clear ten minutes after their journey had begun that the only thing constant about Constance was her ability to sulk relentlessly and to disapprove of everything.
On the other hand, at least she was not being sent home to Dorset. Cousin Violet was entertainingly eccentric and—so she fervently hoped—Billing would be returning the morning after their arrival.
Jane consulted the road book. ‘We do not change horses at Kensington as it is not even two miles from London. Hounslow is the first halt, I believe.’
‘In that case, Miss Jane, why have we stopped?’
‘Because, as you can observe through the front glass, the traffic has become entangled for some reason.’ Jane half rose from her seat to look over the back of the pair of horses. ‘Ah, I see there has been an accident.’
The church was just ahead of them on the bustling main road through the village of Kensington and two large wagons were in front of it, apparently with their wheels locked. The drivers were both standing up, waving their whips and shouting at each other, which was not helping in the slightest. Fortunately, they were out of earshot. Passers-by and other drivers had stopped to offer advice, gawk or generally get in the way.
Jane dropped the window beside her and leaned out. Distantly behind them there was the sound of a horn. ‘That is either a stagecoach or the Mail is coming through.’
She settled back against the squabs and prepared to be entertained. Travellers complained about post chaises and their swaying motion, but they did have the benefit of a wide front window through which to survey the world. Naturally, Billing did not approve of all that glazing and kept her eyes averted from it. It was neither discreet nor private, in her opinion, and young ladies should not be looking around, risking attracting the roving eye of some rake or sauntering gentleman.
‘Do put up the glass, Miss Jane,’ Billing scolded. ‘There is a common alehouse just the other side of the pavement from us.’
She did have a point, Jane conceded. The Civet Cat opposite looked decidedly seedy and not at all like the well-kept, welcoming inns of the villages around her home.
As she mentally swept the frontage, cleaned the windows and added a pot or two of geraniums, the door of the alehouse burst open and three men rolled out, scattering pedestrians. They were followed by two others carrying clubs.
Billing gave a screech. ‘We’ll be murdered!’
‘No, we will not, but that man will be if someone doesn’t help him.’
The fight had resolved into one against four as the largest of the club-bearers dragged a tall, dark-haired man to his feet and held on to him as the others closed in and began to rain blows against head and body.
‘Why doesn’t somebody stop it? That is not a fight, that is a deliberate assault. They should call a constable.’
The tall man wrenched free, unleashed a punch and knocked down one of his attackers, sending him crashing into two of the others.
‘Oh, wel
l done, sir! Hit him again, the bully!’
Jane ignored Billing tugging at her arm and shushing her. She opened the window in the door of the carriage, gripped the edge and held her breath because, despite that gallant punch, the man was held fast now by the two he had fallen against. He was shaking his head as though to clear it after a vicious blow and was clearly now no match for the fourth assailant who was advancing, grinning in obvious anticipation.
To Jane’s surprise the attacker dug in the pocket of the frieze coat he was wearing, produced a folded paper and stuffed it into the coat front of the man before him. ‘With compliments,’ he said, then took a firm grip on his cudgel again.
The first swing of the club jolted the tall man out of his captors’ grip, across the pavement and into the side of the chaise. Billing gave another shriek as it rocked on its springs.
Jane threw open the door, reached out with both hands, grabbed the man’s arm and the collar of his coat and tugged. ‘Get in!’
Whether he heard her, or the momentum of his fall carried him in, she had no idea and she was far too worried about the gap-toothed snarl on the face of the cudgel-wielder to care. The man collapsed at her feet, the door swung in and then, as the chaise righted itself, came back on its hinges and hit the attacker in the face.
Jane took a grip on her parasol with one hand and dug frantically in her reticule with the other for Mama’s pocket pistol which was hopelessly tangled with her handkerchief. She was braced for the inevitable, when, with a blast on the horn, the Mail was on them. It swept past, forcing its way through the onlookers around the wagons. Their postilion seized his chance, whipped up his horses and the chaise, door still open, lurched into the wake of the stage and followed it through. As they passed the church the chaise tilted, the door slammed closed and they had left the Civet Cat and its ruffians behind.
Jane considered being sick, swallowed hard and let go of her weapons.
‘Miss Jane, tell the postilion to stop, this horrid creature is bleeding all over our skirts.’ Billing made as though to drop her own window to lean out.
‘Stop that,’ Jane said sharply. ‘Do you want those bully boys to catch up to us? Help me turn him over. Oh, do not be so foolish, Billing—have you never seen blood before? Put your feet on the seat then; at least it will give him more room on the floor.’
Billing huddled up in the far corner, managing in the process to kick the man who was prone at their feet. There was a groan. At least he was still alive.
Jane bent down and touched his shoulder and found good-quality broadcloth under her hand. ‘Can you turn over, sir?’
He grunted, began to lever himself up on his elbows in the restricted space and swore under his breath as the chaise hit a rut. ‘No.’
‘Very well, stay there. We will come to a turnpike gate soon, surely.’
* * *
It must have been about two miles before the chaise slowed, then stopped. ‘Help me, Billing. Billing.’
Somehow they hauled the man up on to the seat between them and it became clear that he was suffering from a knife wound in the shoulder, at the very least. There was blood, rather more than Jane felt comfortable with, and his left arm hung limp.
Jane stuffed her handkerchief and her fichu under his coat and pressed on the wounded area, ignoring the gasp of pain and the subsequent bad language. ‘Hold that.’ After a moment he obeyed, although his eyes were closed and his head lolled to the side.
She could sympathise with the gasp and she doubted if he was conscious enough of his surroundings to realise that he was swearing at two women. More of an immediate problem was Billing, who had recoiled further into the corner and was hectoring Jane on danger, impropriety, unladylike behaviour... ‘And what your sainted mother will say, I shudder to imagine. No respectable lady would consider for a moment—’
Jane stopped listening.
The postilion, having sorted out the toll, appeared to realise for the first time that he had an extra passenger. He handed the reins to the gatekeeper and came around to Jane’s window. ‘Here, what’s going on, miss? This vehicle was hired for two people.’
‘I know it was. I want you to stop at the next decent inn that serves stagecoaches and, I promise, you will be back to two passengers.’
He gave her a decidedly sceptical look. ‘It’ll be extra to pay at the end if there’s blood on the upholstery.’ But he remounted and sent the pair off at a canter and, as Billing finally ran out of breath, drew up at the Bell and Anchor.
‘Billing, please go inside and fetch a bowl of water,’ Jane said.
‘I’ll go in, that is for sure, but to try and get the blood off my skirts, Miss Jane! And I will send out some men to haul that vagabond out of our chaise,’ she added, scrambling down and marching into the inn. ‘I should be calling the constable, that’s what your mother would say...’ floated back to the chaise.
‘Quickly, unstrap her luggage,’ Jane told the postilion. ‘That wicker hamper and the small brown valise there.’ The stranger would have to look after himself for the moment because she needed to find her purse.
Just as Jane unrolled two banknotes Billing came marching out again without, of course, any water, but flanked by two anxious-looking waiters.
‘What’s about, Miss Jane? Those are my bags there.’
‘Billing, you are going home to Dorset. There is your luggage, here is more than enough money for the stage—you can pay for decent rooms and food on your way and a girl to accompany you. This seems a most respectable inn so I am sure they will advise you and let you hire one of the maids for the journey.’ She thrust the notes into the spluttering woman’s hands and closed the door. ‘Drive on!’
The postilion obeyed, ignoring Billing’s indignant cries as they rattled off down the road again. Jane flopped back against the seat. All things considered, a silent, if battered, man was a far more pleasant travelling companion than Billing with her sour face and nagging voice. Jane shifted on the seat to look at him more closely. He was also considerably better to look at than Billing although, even accounting for bruises, dirt and blood, he was no Adonis. On the other hand, she was now responsible for him, she had no experience of nursing wounded men and goodness knew what he would prove to be like when he regained consciousness. The quality of the coat did promise a certain gentility, at least, although, gravedigger or gentry, she would still have rescued anyone from a beating if she could.
Melissa would be deeply envious. This was the kind of adventure she was always writing about and which, Jane was certain, she yearned to experience for herself. She would just have to make do with letters, which were bound to be less enthralling than Melissa would have hoped. On the other hand, Jane could draw as vividly as her friend could write, which should make up for a lack of dramatic description. With a quick check to make certain the wounded man was still unconscious and the bleeding was under control, Jane took her sketch pad and a pencil from the door pocket and flipped back the cover.
* * *
Where the devil am I?
Ivo thought about opening his eyes, then decided against it. Everything hurt, but no one was thumping him at the moment, which was a decided improvement, and there was no point in jeopardising that to satisfy his curiosity. On the other hand, he appeared to be in a moving vehicle and the only thing that he could smell was leather and a decidedly piquant floral perfume.
From the motion of the vehicle he deduced that he was in a post chaise and, from the perfume, that he had been rescued by a lady. That was embarrassing, but preferable to remaining with the brutes that Daphne had set on him. The reality of the transformation in the woman who had once told him that she adored him and would wait for him was not something that he had the strength to consider now. What he would feel when he allowed himself to think of it was beside the point, he told himself. All that really mattered was that he could not honour his promise to his friend,
her brother, as he lay dying. That failure was a damned sight more painful than whatever was wrong with his left shoulder.
Distantly he could hear the hoofbeats of the horses, the postilion’s occasional shouted order to them as the chaise creaked and the wheels rumbled. Under those sounds there was a strange scratch-scritch noise, almost a whisper, right on the edge of his consciousness.... It was rather soothing.
The chaise was slowing, turning, stopping. There was noise from outside. Ivo dragged open his lids and found himself staring into a pair of long-lashed hazel eyes.
‘Oh, good, you are awake. I was wondering how we were ever going to get you out of the carriage if you were not. You are rather large,’ the owner of the eyes added critically. ‘And bloody. And dirty.’
He blinked and she moved back, which at least meant he could get her into focus through the headache. Mousy brown hair, freckles, a heart-shaped face. Not pretty, certainly not compared to Daphne’s exquisite blonde delicacy, but the overall effect was vaguely feline in an amiable sort of way. A gentle waft of warm female and floral scent tickled his nose.
‘Do you think you can get out and into the inn? I have asked one of the grooms to help.’ She smiled at him, her head tipped to one side. Smiles were preferable to beauty, just at the moment.
Ivo felt as though he was being studied in order to give an accurate description to the Runners and blinked again. It was possible that he was concussed and imagining this. Ladies did not stare closely at men. Nor did they drag them out of the middle of fights into their carriages, as his vague memory told him this one had done.
‘Come on, shall we try to get you out?’ She leaned across him, opened the other door and a man reached in. ‘Yes, that’s right, mind his left shoulder.’ He was seized, dragged out and, as he struggled for balance, dropped.
‘Oh, dear. Well, hopefully that won’t have started it bleeding again,’ his rescuer said blithely as the groom hauled him to his feet again. ‘Now, what did I do with my bonnet and reticule?’