Contents
Copyright
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
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Also by Gemma Blackwood
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 by Gemma Blackwood.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, businesses, places, events and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
I love hearing from my readers! If you have any questions, comments, or just want to get in touch, please email me at [email protected].
Alternatively, you can find me on facebook at facebook.com/gemmablackwoodauthor.
Sign up to my mailing list to receive the completely FREE 15,000 word novella, Duelling for a Wife, as well as being first in line to get news of my upcoming releases.
Click here to sign up
Chapter One
Scarcliffe Forest, England, 1820
Lady Cecily Balfour was lost, though nothing in the world would have induced her to admit it. Thoroughly and completely lost, and suffering the indignity of an encroaching rainstorm to boot.
It was simply too much! She had been exploring Scarcliffe Forest since she was a child. Why should it turn on her now? Oh, there were some areas of the woods which she knew she was not really supposed to venture into – but how could anyone restrain themselves from choosing the prettiest path on a warm August afternoon?
Now, the sun was setting, Cecily had got herself turned around in the forest, and she had a terrible suspicion that she had ventured over the border into Hartley land.
No member of the Balfour family ought to be seen dead wandering across the Hartley family's estate of Scarcliffe. The two families, though neighbours, were the most notorious enemies in England. The feud had lasted for generations, fuelled by the social snubs, vicious rumour-mongering, and challenges to masculine pride that were oil to the flames of high society hostility. There was not a single member of the aristocracy who did not agree that the Hartleys and the Balfours ought to be kept apart at all costs.
And now Cecily found herself trespassing on the Hartley side of Scarcliffe Forest just as the first fat drops of rain fell from the sky. Wonderful.
She hitched up her skirts to prevent them getting mudstained and began darting from the cover of one tree to the next. Surely there must be somewhere nearby that she might take shelter? A hunting lodge, perhaps? A charcoal-burner's cottage? The Hartleys could not be such savages that they were left wanting for material comforts when they explored their lands.
The rain quickly turned from a splatter into an outright downpour. Cecily gave up on protecting her clothes and let her skirts hang loose. She was not wearing anything particularly fine – a day dress of white jaconet muslin and a pale green spencer. Her boots were the precise opposite of fashionable coloured kid slippers or satin half-boots; black, serviceable leather was what Cecily required for a country walk. She took some comfort in supposing that, if anyone were to see her in her state of bedragglement, they would never guess that she was the only daughter of the Duke of Loxwell.
Cecily had never wanted for anything and, as a consequence, she wasted very little thought on her fine clothes and jewels. The activities which delighted her most all required sturdier clothing, and, when she was not about the tedious business of husband-hunting in London, that was exactly what she chose to wear.
The knowledge that she was not spoiling anything fine was very little comfort as the rain soaked through Cecily's dress and plastered it to her legs. If only she had listened to her mother's advice and taken a coat! The thin muslin was growing almost indecent from the wet.
A gap in the trees ahead spurred Cecily to run onwards, hoping to find a clearing with at least a bird-watching hide to shelter in.
Her surprise was very great upon breaking out from beneath the trees to discover a vast expanse of sky, black-clouded and lowering, and, to top everything, Scarcliffe Hall itself atop a rise of perfect grassy lawn in the near distance.
"Drat!"
The last thing she needed was to be seen by one of the despised Hartley family in this state. If she had any luck at all, they would not even be at home. The rift between the families was such that Cecily had no idea how often the denizens of Scarcliffe Hall were in residence. The chief property of the Hartley family was the marquisate of Lilistone, some miles to the north, but Scarcliffe Hall was the traditional seat of the Earl of Scarcliffe, the Marquess's eldest son. If he should happen to have a taste for passing the summer in the country, Scarcliffe Hall would be the ideal place to stay.
Cecily cast about for a place to take shelter. Across the beautifully-kept lawn, she spotted a small outbuilding that looked a reasonable option. She could only hope that the door was unlocked, so that she would at least be able to get out of the rain until the storm passed.
A brief glance at the grim sky told her there was not much hope of it passing any time soon, but that was a problem to be addressed once she was under cover.
Cecily lifted her skirts again and dashed out to the outbuilding, shuddering as the cold rain leaked down her back. A fork of lightning juddered across the sky. She counted five seconds before it was followed by a roar of thunder. Summer storms were always the most dangerous; rolling out suddenly across a clear blue sky, bringing enough wind to tear down an ancient oak.
Cecily's fingers were almost numb as she grappled with the door handle to the little outbuilding. When it failed to open, she wasn't sure at first whether it was only her gloves slipping in the rain. Her teeth were beginning to chatter. She cast a nervous glance in the direction of Scarcliffe Hall.
Well, if she had to freeze to death in clear sight of shelter simply to maintain her family pride, so be it. Her father had always warned her that the Hartley men were wild beasts, not to be trusted around women, and Cecily adored nothing in the world as much as her father. His word was enough to make the handsome Hall seem a den of horrors.
She pulled a hairpin from her head, sending a lock of chestnut hair tumbling, and set about trying to pick the lock. If a common thief could manage it, after all, why not the daughter of the Duke of Loxwell?
Cecily was so absorbed in her task that she did not even notice that, halfway across the expanse of sodden green between herself and Scarcliffe Hall, a broad-shouldered figure was run
ning towards her, shirt sleeves pushed up to the elbow, sheltered only by a dark cloak held over his head which the wind whipped out behind him.
Chapter Two
"A fine shot, Scarcliffe," said the Duke of Beaumont reluctantly, observing the billiard table with a displeased expression. Robert Hartley, Earl of Scarcliffe, gave him a brilliant smile and leaned down to take aim once more.
"Don't be sour, Beaumont."
"Who wouldn't be sour, after the nasty trick you've played?" asked Robert's brother, Lord Jonathan Hartley, who was lounging on the rug in front of the fire with his booted feet cocked up on a chair, pretending to read.
Beaumont's eyes narrowed. "What trick's that, Hart?"
Jonathan rolled over onto his belly to let the fire roast him evenly. "Why, if you haven't realised it by now, Beaumont, your brains must be more addled by the brandy than I thought. The fact is that my dear brother has been deliberately losing at billiards whenever you happen to be in the room for over a year now, with the sole intention of bleeding you dry this summer."
"Is that true, Scarcliffe?" Beaumont demanded, turning to Robert with fire in his eyes. Robert pocketed another ball and shrugged nonchalantly.
"You placed your bet of your own free will, Beaumont."
"It's your own fault," said Jonathan lazily, closing his eyes in the raw orange heat. "Everyone knows Robert's a crack shot."
"I thought that applied only to hunting!" Beaumont protested. There was a satisfying clack from the table as Robert pocketed his final ball.
"That's the game, Beaumont. Pay up."
"It's awfully unfair of you not to have spoken up sooner, Hart," grumbled the Duke, handing over his money to Robert. Jonathan cracked open an eye, irritated.
"The curse of the younger son strikes again. Am I always to be blamed for my brother's sins? None of you chaps know what I suffer."
"Yes, Scarcliffe," interrupted the fourth member of their little party, who was nursing a large brandy in an armchair in the corner. Ralph Morton, Baron Northmere, was a notorious stickler for fairness. The other gentlemen found it by turns amusing and admirable. "I think you owe Beaumont an apology."
"On the contrary," objected Robert, seeing no need to be gracious in victory, "it's Hart who ought to apologise to me. I had intended to maintain the ruse until at least September."
"I am not so gullible as all that, Scarcliffe!"
"That remains to be seen, Beaumont." Robert pocketed his winnings and began collecting up the billiard balls once more. "Care for a rematch? Double or nothing?"
"I'd like to retire with at least some of my dignity intact," said Beaumont, heading to the drinks cabinet. "Not to mention some money left in my purse to see me through till winter."
Robert laughed merrily. The Duke of Beaumont had a fortune so bottomless it was difficult to see that a few tricks on the billiard table would make a dent in it.
"Northmere, then?" he suggested, tossing the cue stick to the baron, who caught it deftly with barely a glance up from his brandy.
"Not for money, Scarcliffe. I'm not a fool." Northmere grimaced as a peal of thunder seemed to rattle Scarcliffe Hall to its foundations. "I say, the weather's taken a turn for the worse."
"It'll be too muddy to hunt tomorrow," sighed Jonathan, dropping his head onto his book and giving up all pretence at reading.
"Only if you're such a dandy that you can't stand to get your boots muddy, Hart," said Robert, knowing full well that his brother took such care of his appearance that nothing would induce him out until the paths were dry.
"Take a look at that lightning!" said Beaumont, walking to the window. "You promised us a summer of sport and fine weather, Scarcliffe. What do you call this?"
"Mother nature topping up the fishing lake is what I call it," said Robert, joining him in gazing out over the storm-tossed forest that lay beyond Scarcliffe Hall's gardens. "I dare say you'll be able to out-fish me, Beaumont, even if you can't beat me at billiards."
"I don't think you'll be able to induce me to lay another bet this summer, Scarcliffe," grumbled the Duke. He went to take up Northmere's vacated chair and top up his brandy. "More to drink, anyone?"
"Not for me." The hunting season had just begun. Robert intended to hunt the following morning, whether the skies had cleared or not, and he wanted a clear head for it. He was perhaps a little too proud of his reputation as a brilliant shot, and he meant to maintain it.
The weather outside was certainly impressive. Robert felt a shiver of exhilaration watching the grey sheets of rain lash down over the trees.
Scarcliffe Hall and its lush estates were the jewel in the crown of his father's possessions. Once upon a time, the Hartley family had made it their primary residence – but the proximity of their enemies had driven them away for the past few generations.
It suited Robert very nicely to have his father, the Marquess, kept at a distance from Scarcliffe Hall. Robert might not have inherited yet, but he was very much his own man.
Hart could complain all he liked about the plight of a younger son, but he had never aspired to much beyond lounging in cafes and idling away at card tables. Robert, on the other hand, was Earl of Scarcliffe, and he took it very seriously.
A fork of lightning split the sky above Scarcliffe Forest. Robert felt a sudden urge to run outside and open his arms to the pouring heavens. A good storm – particularly those violent, incongruous storms which crack open the heart of a hot summer – always filled him with a sense of anticipation, of near-longing. The sensation that, when the rain cleared, the world would be revealed anew, and full of more marvels than he had dreamed of.
As the thunder followed the lightning, Robert's eye was caught by a flicker of movement at the edge of the trees.
"Are you ready, Scarcliffe?" asked Northmere, behind him. "I'll take first shot, if you don't mind."
"Go ahead," Robert called, narrowing his eyes at the window. Was it real, or simply a mirage brought on by the inclement weather? He could have sworn he saw a flash of white muslin darting across his grounds.
The white-clad figure reached the shed where the head gardener stored his tools. It – no, it was now unmistakably a she – began tugging at the door. Robert had no doubt that it would be locked.
"Hart, is your cloak handy?" he asked. Jonathan had a habit of tossing his things onto the furniture whenever he came into a room, and leaving them where they fell. "You won't believe this, but there's a woman out in the storm."
"Now, now, Scarcliffe, let's have no more of your nonsense," Beaumont warned him. "We all swore to have a bachelors-only summer – I won't allow you to sneak a lover in under false pretences."
"For goodness' sake, man, she must be soaked through!" Robert leaped to snatch the cloak from Jonathan's hands, the urgency of the situation hitting him in a rush. "We can't leave her out there to catch her death!"
"He's right," said Northmere, peering out of the window. "There seems to be a woman attempting to break into one of your outbuildings."
"What on earth?" asked Hart. "Where did she come from?" He pointed an accusing finger at Northmere. "You've not picked up a girl from the town, have you? I know what you get up to when you think you can get away with it."
"Not me!" Northmere protested. In the meanwhile, Robert had forced his boots back onto his feet.
"Off to play the dashing hero, I see," remarked Hart dispassionately, as Robert ran from the room.
"Call yourselves gentlemen!" he shouted back. "Leaving a woman out there to freeze to death!"
He didn't stop to hear the responses they shouted after him, but ran down the corridor and wrenched open a side door. He allowed himself only a moment's hesitation before plunging out into the rain.
Who on earth would be foolish enough to be out and about on an evening as miserable as this? More to the point, why had she not come to the house to seek shelter?
Robert knew that his crowd of bachelor friends might not seem the most appealing prospect to a country girl caught ou
t in a storm, but was their reputation really as bad as all that?
The answer became clear as he ran, one arm spread out to keep his balance in case he should slip on the muddy lawn, and the other clutching his brother's cloak to keep the worst of the rain from his head. The woman standing, soaked and shivering, in the paltry shelter of the little outbuilding was none other than Lady Cecily Balfour.
He had seen Lady Cecily before, of course, though he had never stooped to seek an introduction. Even if he had been so inclined, on account of her not-inconsiderable beauty, he was under no illusions that she would actually accept him as an acquaintance.
The girl was a Balfour, and therefore beneath Robert's concern. Only the fact that he was quite certain she was on the verge of catching pneumonia in her present state prevented him from turning on his heels and running back into the house.
That, and the fact that he could not deny the allure of heroically rescuing a beautiful damsel in distress – even if she was only a Balfour. Robert had his pride – some would say he had a little too much of it – and it was chiefly that which led him to sprint to Cecily's side, fling his cloak about her shoulders, and scoop her up into his arms.
"Don't worry," he said, as more thunder boomed overhead. "I'll have you safe and dry in moments."
He was expecting a sigh of relief, a cry of gratitude, a feminine collapse against his strong shoulder. Now that Cecily's face was close to his own he could fully appreciate how fine-boned and pretty it was, even with rain dripping from the end of her nose.
What he did not anticipate was the blow of a balled fist to his shoulder, so unexpectedly forceful that he almost staggered down to one knee, and a cry of:
"You filthy scoundrel! I demand you unhand me at once!"
Chapter Three
Cecily did not usually have occasion to kick and scream, but she took some pride in the fact that she rose to the moment admirably. The strange man who had heaved her into his arms like so much old baggage had a devilishly strong grip which would take some effort to break. She gave him a good crack on the shoulder, which made him stagger a little, and attempted to bring her kicking boots into contact with his chest.
The Earl's Secret Passion (Scandals of Scarcliffe Hall Book 1) Page 1
