by Meara Platt
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Copyright © 2018 Myra Platt
EPUB Edition
Cover Design by Melody Barber of Aurora Publicity
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
EARL OF
Hearts
by
MEARA PLATT
For Rachel, who shall forever remain in our hearts
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Cover
Free Novella
Copyright Page
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Excerpt from My Fair Lily
Excerpt from The Viscount’s Rose
Also by Meara Platt
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
Scottish Highlands
October 1814
JOHN RANDALL, THIRD Earl of Bainbridge, reached for his pistol as the howling wind caught the door to MacNaughton’s Tavern, flinging it open with a slam that rattled the rafters. All conversation in the crowded establishment suddenly came to a halt as everyone turned to gaze at the rain-soaked stranger standing in the doorway. John tightened his grip on his pistol, wondering what new trouble was about to unfold on this dark and deplorable night.
“What idjut would be out in such a storm?” his companion, Jordan Drummond, grumbled, setting down his tankard of ale with a thunk on the stained oak table as he reached for his own weapon. But he eased back in his chair a moment later and picked up his tankard once more to resume drinking. “Bah! It’s just a scrawny lad.”
John gave a distracted nod, his attention now riveted to the new arrival, who was not a lad at all but a slender young woman who appeared to be desperately searching for someone. His heart took a leap into his throat. “Bollocks, what’s she doing here?”
Nicola.
The wind chose that moment to gust again. It blew the hood of Lady Nicola Emory’s cape off her head to reveal the magnificent tumble of her wet, auburn curls and the blaze in her gorgeous, cat-like green eyes. “Better take cover,” he said with a groan, his gaze still fixed on the beautiful girl. “She looks angry.”
Indeed, Nicola in a temper was a thing to be avoided at all costs. Any man in his right mind would steer clear of her if he valued his life.
John hadn’t been in his right mind over Nicola for years now. She’d gotten into his heart long ago and he hadn’t been able to get her out no matter how hard he’d tried. But she was his best friend’s sister, so it was hands off for him.
Seeing her standing alone, still searching, brought his protective instincts surging to the fore.
What had happened to bring her out on a night like this? He drew back his chair and rose to make his way to her before any of the drunken sots in the taproom approached her.
He wasn’t worried about her safety, but theirs. Nicola riled was a force of nature.
She noticed him and was about to start toward him when someone called out, “Shut that door! Dinna ye hear me, lass? Are ye daft?”
Her hands curled into fists. “Shut it yourself, you rum-soaked, tub of—”
“Nicola!” John strode to the door and shut it before a brawl erupted with her in the center of the drunken melee and giving twice as good as she got. For a little thing, she had a stubborn determination and an impertinent mouth, which he’d ached to kiss for longer than he could remember. But that was never going to happen.
Certainly not now.
He’d never seen Nicola this overset. Mingled with her anger was an unmistakable desperation. That worried him. What had happened to leave her so distraught? “Nicola,” he said more gently, wrapping his arm around her as he guided her to his table.
She glanced up at him with her big, green eyes, and in the next moment, her entire body crumbled in defeat. She gazed downward and her slight shoulders sagged. Lord, he was an idiot. What she was feeling was anguish, not anger, and that troubled him even more. His stomach roiled. Had something happened to her uncle? He’d always thought the Earl of Darnley was quite fit for a man his age. But the Highlands winds and bone-chilling rains that rolled in from the North Sea could lay a man low. “Why are you here?”
He helped her to slip off her damp cape and settled her at the table he and Jordan occupied. Fortunately, it was in a quieter corner of the tavern. A quelling glance at the curious onlookers had them quickly turning away to stare into their tankards of ale. Good, he wanted privacy, for he was concerned about Nicola and eager to know what had brought her running to him on a night like this.
While John held out a seat for Nicola, Jordan took her cloak and muttered something about hanging it up by the hearth so it would dry.
John cast him an appreciative nod, knowing his companion meant to give him time alone with the girl. His heart lurched once more, for her shoulders were shaking not from the cold but from sorrow. Nicola rarely cried, she simply wasn’t one of those simpering, weepy misses. But tears were streaming down her face and mingling with the cold rain on her cheeks. “Answer me, Nicola. What has happened?”
“John.” She looked up at him with such an expression of agony etched on her face that his heart shot into his throat again. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
He frowned. “What did you do now?”
Her eyes widened in obvious surprise, more than a little hurt by his remark. “Why do you think I did something wrong?”
“You just said you’d made a mistake.” He sighed as he raked a hand through his hair. “Never mind, just tell me why you’re here and not warm and dry at Somersby’s hunting lodge with your aunt and uncle.”
She stiffened her spine and tipped her chin up in that mark of defiance he knew quite well. “I refuse to go back to that snake pit.”
“Snake pit?” He reached out and brushed back a stray lock of her auburn hair that was wet and pasted to her cheek. He wasn’t certain why he did it other than the need to touch her. Her cheek was soft and delicate.
He ran his knuckles lightly along the curve of her jaw, unable to pull away just yet. This was Nicola, beautiful and vulnerable, and at the same time, hardheaded and determined. “The Somersby hunting lodge is one of the finest in all of Scotland. Why won’t you go back there?”
She leaned into his touch and closed her eyes. “I caught the Marquis of Somersby with another woman. Oh, John, he’s going to announce our betrothal at tomorrow evening’s ball and I can’t go through with it.”
He stifled the urge to cheer. He had no right, for he’d chosen duty over love, taking on dangerous assignments to protect England instead of courting Nicola. He should have been the one to offer for Nicola, but he still had too much to accomplish and could never let on how he felt about her. “Are you certain? You might have mistaken—”
“I didn’t. He wasn’t just with this other woman. He was with her in that sort of way. They were in an alcove beside his library. I was o
n my way there to find a book to read when I heard sounds.” Her cheeks flamed a hot, bright red. “I’m such a naive fool. It never entered my mind that he would do such a thing on the eve of our betrothal.”
John had never liked Thomas Mooring, the Marquis of Somersby, but he could not blame the man for needing to release his pent-up desire. Nicola was innocent, but also incredibly luscious. Any man would ache to have her. How many nights had he lain in bed, dreaming of her beside him, soft and responsive as he stirred her to passion? “Nicola, sometimes…” Bollocks. He did not want to have a conversation about men and lustful urges with the girl.
Or his own lustful urges.
She was his best friend’s sister. If he touched her, he would be honor bound to marry her. Not that it would be so terrible, but he was on a dangerous mission at the moment, one he meant to see through to the end. There would be more missions for him when this one was over, perilous ones that were given only to unmarried agents of the Crown. That was the rule when working in this elite unit: marry and you’re out. He’d made his choice. He was all in. England needed him more than Nicola did.
He ran a hand through his hair once more in dismay. “Nicola, men have… urges.”
She frowned. “You don’t.”
“What?” The hell he didn’t. Right now, he was having a violent urge to throttle her. Did she think he was a eunuch? That his entire body did not roil in agony every time she was near him?
She rolled her eyes. “You’ve taken offense. I don’t mean it that way, John. My point is, if you were a day away from announcing your betrothal to me, would you be satisfying yourself in the arms of another woman?”
She looked up at him, suddenly distraught. “Would you?”
“No.” He meant it, too. When he married, it would be for love and there would be no other woman for him but his intended bride.
Nicola cast him a wistful smile. “I knew you’d be faithful. You’d be in love and would treat her with respect and affection. That’s the good sort of man you are. The best sort. Any young lady would be proud to marry you. But the Marquis of Somersby is nothing like you. He is an evil viper and he has a dark, odious heart.”
Her composure began to crumble again. “So you see, I’ve made a terrible mistake.” She buried her hands in her face and quietly sobbed.
He allowed her a moment before drawing her into his arms to console her. He wanted to continue asking his questions. Nicola could, at times, be theatrical in her descriptions. But he supposed she’d been terribly hurt and more than a little shocked to realize that the man to whom she was about to give her heart was stomping on it by dallying with another woman.
This was just the sort of thing Somersby would do.
For this, and other reasons, John had never liked the man. But he doubted Somersby was evil incarnate. “Has your uncle signed the betrothal contract yet?”
She sniffled. “No, I ripped it up and tossed the pieces into the fire before he could put quill pen to paper.”
“And then you ran off into the stormy night?”
She nodded. “I couldn’t very well stay under the same roof as that villain, could I?”
John frowned. “You’re fortunate you weren’t killed by a falling tree or set upon by smugglers or swept away in a sudden flood. Anything might have happened to you.”
“I know, but I had to find you. You’re the only one who can help me. The marquis will drag me back to his lodge and force me to agree to the betrothal. He wants my dowry. He doesn’t want me. I think I knew it all along but refused to admit it to myself.”
John leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. He and Jordan had come up to Invergarry a few days ago under the guise of grouse hunting along with the rest of London’s elite. But they were quietly working to break up a rather nasty ring of rebels who were financing their operation by smuggling goods through Invergarry. He dared not allow Nicola to interfere with his mission. “I’m sure he won’t drag you back or force you to do anything you don’t wish to do. Besides, now that you’ve made your wishes known to your uncle, he’ll support you. He won’t agree to the betrothal. Nor will Julian ever allow it,” he said, referring to her brother, Viscount Chatham, who had been in this elite unit with him until he fell in love with Rose Farthingale and married her.
John trusted very few people.
He liked even fewer.
Julian was the exception. He and Julian were as close as brothers, so he owed it to him to protect Nicola.
He’d died a little inside when her brother had told him of her impending betrothal.
But he had only himself to blame.
Only himself and the torment that had formed him into the man he was.
One who was not fit to declare his love for Nicola.
“You don’t understand, John. A simple refusal won’t stop the marquis. He has everyone fooled with his charming ways, but he isn’t a nice man. He’s dangerous and depraved.”
John did not know what to do with the girl. She was obviously overset and allowing her fears to run amok.
She stared at his expression and gasped. “You don’t believe me.”
“Nicola, he made a mistake. That’s all.”
Her eyes were blazing again. “You didn’t see the way he looked at me when he realized I had caught him in the act. There was no contrition. There was no embarrassment or shame. He made no attempt to apologize. Doesn’t that speak to the sort of man he is?”
“I don’t know. Not everyone reacts the same way when feeling trapped or embarrassed.”
“But that’s my point. He didn’t feel trapped. He made me feel as though I were the one trapped under the force of his arrogant gaze. He frightened me with that look. I don’t want any part of him, for I know what he’ll do to me once I’m married to him. He’ll break my spirit and force me to be a biddable, unquestioning drudge of a wife. He won’t be gentle about it either.”
John slapped his hands on the table and rose with a groan. His attempts to calm her were only serving to further rile her. “I’ll have the tavern keeper send a boy up to the lodge to let everyone know you’re safe. There are guest chambers upstairs. I expect they’ll all be taken by now, but I’ll give you mine. Use one of my shirts for a nightgown. Get out of your wet clothes, and try to have a good night’s rest. We’ll discuss your situation over breakfast in the morning.”
She remained seated. “Why won’t you believe me?”
He did not know what to believe. In truth, he was practically senseless at the moment, for the thought of Nicola in his bed, wearing nothing but his shirt against her soft, wet skin, was not helping him come to any logical conclusions.
Fortunately, Jordan returned and set his large frame on the chair beside Nicola’s, putting an end to John’s attempt to escort her upstairs. “Are ye hungry, lass? Perhaps a bowl of stew to fortify ye.”
She smiled at Jordan. “That’s very thoughtful of you. I’d like that, Mr. Drummond.”
John stifled the flood of jealousy that washed over him when Nicola returned his companion’s smile with a sweet and openhearted one of her own. What was wrong with him? Nicola wasn’t his. He had no claim to her. Yet his heart was pounding violently in his chest and idiotic thoughts were whirling in that empty head of his. Idiotically possessive thoughts. Mine. Nicola is mine. No one else can have her.
But he’d kept silent when he ought to have been courting her.
He’d kept silent when Somersby had shown interest in her.
Nicola blamed herself, but he was the one at fault.
“One of the maids will bring the stew up to my chamber,” he said, reaching out to take Nicola’s hand. “Come on, I’ll help you settle in.”
Jordan cast him a questioning look, his beefy hands curling into fists. “Where do ye intend to spend the night?”
“I’m giving her my room. I’ll share yours. I can make a pallet for myself by the hearth.”
Jordan nodded. “Aye, that’ll work.”
“Than
k you, Mr. Drummond. I appreciate your protecting me, but you needn’t worry. Lord Bainbridge has no interest in me other than that of a protective brother.”
Jordan arched an eyebrow. “Lass, he isn’t your brother.”
“No, but…” She sighed. “I would like to go upstairs now. My gown is soaked and I’m chilled to the bone. I don’t like the way some of these men are looking at me.”
Neither did John.
He cast them a lethal scowl that had them hastily turning away to stare into their tankards once more.
The girl was too pretty for her own good.
She was too pretty for his own good.
He was on an important assignment.
He needed to concentrate on destroying those smugglers.
But all he could think about was Nicola. In his shirt. In his bed.
The storm outside was nothing to the one raging in his heart.
NICOLA ALLOWED HERSELF to lean against John as he escorted her upstairs to his chamber. Fatigue overcame her the moment she rested her head against his big, comforting shoulder. She’d been so tense and overset ever since reaching Invergarry, sensing things were not quite right with the Marquis of Somersby. No doubt her uncle and John believed she was merely being a fickle maiden, but it wasn’t that at all.
She would have gone through with the betrothal and the wedding had the marquis been a moderately decent man. She would have vowed to honor and obey him—although she would need to work a little harder on the “obey” part—and agreed to become his wife. Once married, she would have tried her best to make their marriage work. “Thank you, John. I know I’ve been a bother to you. But I had nowhere else to turn.”
“No bother,” he said, but Nicola knew he thought of her as an unpleasant boil on his neck that simply would not pop. She did not mean to be a nuisance to him, but it wasn’t entirely her fault that she was in this mess over the Marquis of Somersby.
Didn’t Somersby have to take some responsibility for his actions?
And that was another thing. The marquis would not permit her to call him Tom or Thomas, but insisted that she always refer to him as Somersby or my lord. They’d never reached the point of amiable familiarity. She’d expected that to come in time, but now knew it never would.