He’s as dangerous as he is irresistible . . .
The heir to his family’s fortune, Aidan Wollstonecraft is ready to put his prodigal ways in the past and prove himself worthy of his illustrious name. Going undercover in a factory to expose the wretched working conditions, Aidan believes his noble act will lead him to a better future. Until he’s reunited with the sweet beauty who saw him through his darkest days. Cristyn Bevan stirs him like no other woman before. Makes him yearn to claim her, despite the damning curse that dooms any Wollstonecraft wife to an all-too-early death . . .
To fall for Aidan would be her undoing. Yet, something about the blue-blooded scoundrel draws Cristyn to him like a moth to a deadly flame. Is it a desire to heal him that keeps the lovely nurse close? Or her secret hope that somehow, some way, Aidan can let go of his dark past and see the light—and the love—waiting for him?
Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com
Books by Karyn Gerrard
The Hornsby Brothers
The Vicar’s Frozen Heart
Bold Seduction
The Ravenswood Chronicles
Beloved Beast
Beloved Monster
The Men Of Wollstonecraft Hall
Marriage With A Proper Stranger
Scandal With A Sinful Scot
Love With A Notorious Rake
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Love With A Notorious Rake
The Men Of Wollstonecraft Hall
Karyn Gerrard
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
Books by Karyn Gerrard
Love With A Notorious Rake
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Foreword
Prologue
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
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Meet the Author
Author’s Note
Copyright
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Karyn Gerrard
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.
First Electronic Edition: December 2018
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0548-9
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0548-6
First Print Edition: December 2018
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0551-9
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0551-6
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
A big thank you to my agent, Elaine Spencer, who exceeded every expectation I had. To Kensington Publishing/Lyrical Press and everyone involved at whatever step of the writing/publishing process, I thank you. To my family, love and hugs, especially to my husband.
Author’s Foreword
Elizabeth Gaskell’s North and South, and the 2004 BBC miniseries based on the book, was a definite inspiration for this story. The more I researched about factory working conditions in the early-to-mid Victorian era, the more I was appalled.
Many worked fourteen-hour days in incredibly unsafe conditions with few or no breaks or rest periods. The Factory Act of 1847 at least limited the workday to ten hours and reduced the number of hours women and children under age eighteen could work, but it would take to the end of the century and into the 20th before real reforms took hold.
Although this fictional story is not about such reforms, it is still the backbone of it.
Prologue
Standon, Hertfordshire
January 1845
How fortunate that Cristyn could study under her father, Dr. Gethin Bevan, at his private sanatorium. Women could not attend medical school—which was a vile injustice in Cristyn’s mind—so she soaked up everything her father taught her. There was no formal instruction or recognition for nurses, and the positions were often taken by volunteers, for the pay was low. Although much of Cristyn’s work consisted of cleaning and serving meals, there was more involved as her father’s sanatorium treated those suffering from addictions—specifically opium.
Cristyn moved about the clinic’s kitchen, preparing a tray for a patient. She toyed with the idea of a more solid fare, but decided to stay with the broth for the time being. This particular patient had her concerned.
The people—more specifically, men—often arrived with multiple injuries and their health in a precarious state. This meant she was able to utilize her skills to treat wounds and diseases of the mind, which her father vehemently believed—though the medical community did not—was the cause of addiction.
She had managed to remain compassionate toward her patients, but professionally distant.
Until Aidan Black.
Mr. Black had arrived five days ago in dramatic fashion. He was in a ghastly condition: barely conscious, malnourished, dehydrated, in the firm grip of an opium addiction, and quite out of his mind. He had been accompanied by his Uncle Garrett and another man, Edwin Seward, from London.
Mr. Black’s first few nights were harrowing as he experienced the various stages of withdrawal. Cristyn stayed with him every step of the way, cleaning up his vomit and wiping his brow. Try as she might to remain detached, she had been immediately struck by the vulnerability and loneliness that radiated from him. Never had any of the male patients she’d treated affected her this way. It was entirely inappropriate.
Sighing, she ladled the beef broth into a bowl, then placed it on a tray along with a spoon. How could this attraction be happening? Yes, beneath the illness and addiction was a comely man, but it was more than his looks. He touched her heart, burrowed his way in deep. As much as she tried to stay professional and emotionally disconnected outwardly, inside she could not.
Pushing the thoughts from her mind, she carried the tray down the hall, th
en entered Mr. Black’s room. The curtains were closed to keep out the winter sun. He lay on the bed wearing nothing but his drawers, since he alternated between perspiring and vomiting and had already ruined two nightshirts. Lord above, she should not be staring at him. He was finely made, though far too thin—his ribs were clearly visible. His shoulder blades were barely hidden by thinly stretched skin. How surprising to find that some delineation of lean muscle remained, considering his shocking physical state.
These wayward and inapt thoughts were not worthy of her. Focus on the patient’s needs. Not that she was in a profession acknowledged by men in the medical field, or society as a whole—another entirely unmerited inequality.
Mr. Black’s breathing was ragged, wheezing with every exhale, for he had a chest infection and a low-grade fever to accompany the symptoms of opium egression. Not to mention the flea and rat bites on his hands, arms, and chest, which she had treated the first night; he was covered in gauze dressings.
“Mr. Black,” she called out.
His shallow breathing ceased momentarily, and his glassy eyes tried to focus on her. “No. Leave me be!” he exclaimed in a raspy voice, trailing off with a slight groan, as if the act of speaking was a great effort. With a sweep of his arm, he knocked the tepid broth from her hand, sending it careening across the room, but not before it splashed across her apron and part of her face.
Mr. Black leapt from the bed, but couldn’t stand on his shaking legs and promptly slid to the floor. Cristyn rushed to his side, then fell to her knees, gathering him into her embrace. He was trembling, and she couldn’t tell if it were tears running down his cheeks or beads of perspiration, or perhaps both. “Hush now, it’s all right,” she soothed.
“Let me die,” he whispered. “My angel of mercy—end it.”
His stark, pleading words caused her heart to contract with sympathy. “No, Aidan, you will not die. I won’t allow it.” As she said the words, she gently caressed his forehead, moving his matted hair aside. She had called him by his first name, which was far too familiar; another constraint between a nurse and a patient that should not be ignored. Cristyn didn’t care.
He curled into her embrace, grasped her arm, and rested his head against her chest. “Lost… I’m…lost.”
“I’ve found you, and I will never let you go.”
Aidan began to sob, his shoulders quaking with each mournful lament. The somber sound arrowed straight to her soul. It was utterly improper for her to allow her unfettered emotions to enter this situation—emotions she had never experienced toward any man. The truth? She was attracted to Aidan, and Cristyn would own her feelings and not be ashamed of them, though she would keep them to herself. It was not as if she’d become besotted with every young man who had come through the sanatorium’s doors.
Cristyn held Aidan close, speaking soothing words of comfort. “All will be well, cariad. On this, I vow.”
She was falling for her patient, and had no idea what to do about it.
Chapter 1
From the papers of the Earl of Carnstone, 1704:
Hear ye future men of Wollstonecraft Hall. Misery awaits! For ye shall never find love. We are cursed. If ye marry, she will die. There is only one way for the curse to be broken, affirmed by Morag the Scottish sorceress: only a love bond accepted by all the men of the family alive during a lunar year will break the curse. I pray that somewhere in time, the cycle of grief ends.
Standon, Hertfordshire
Late May 1845
As Aidan Wollstonecraft came to learn, there were consequences for being a notorious rake. There was an exacting penalty for allowing yourself to sink to the lowest depths, wallowing in vice and sin, abandoning all restraints, moderation, and good sense. And he’d had plenty of time to reflect on it. What else could he think about all these hours alone, staring out the window, watching winter turn to spring?
Since early January he’d been at the Standon Sanatorium under the name Aidan Black—no one knew his real identity, except for Dr. Bevan. Aidan had arrived barely conscious, a complete wreck, suffering the ill effects of an opium addiction, accompanied by his uncle, and, he was informed later, Edwin Seward, a private investigator. They had found him in St. Giles, living in absolute squalor in a den of thieves and prostitutes. It was as low as a man could possibly descend.
In the ensuing months, he slowly recovered, thanks to Dr. Bevan’s empathic treatment and Cristyn’s compassionate care. Once he gained control of his emotions he hid them away, protecting them from exposure, though it had become increasingly difficult in Cristyn’s presence. His angel of mercy was a true beauty, inside and out, and he would be wise to keep clear.
As he took his seat in Dr. Bevan’s office, Aidan knew he would have to depart soon. And do what? Go where? An unknown future yawned before him. Damned unsettling. But he’d vowed to be honest in his dealings with the good doctor and remain as unemotional as possible.
Bevan opened the folder before him. “You’ve gained close to ten pounds since January. Excellent.”
Aidan was still far thinner than he had been. Food continued to hold little interest, but perhaps he would feel differently when he returned home, to more sophisticated meals than those served here. If he saw another bowl of stew, he would have what one American acquaintance called a “conniption fit.”
When Aidan did not reply, the doctor continued. “Yesterday afternoon, we were discussing the reasons for your descent into addiction and the accompanying lifestyle. Have you any further insight as to why?”
“I was bored, needed stimulation and excitement. Complete disregard for convention. Contempt for responsibility.”
Dr. Bevan scribbled notes as Aidan spoke. “At what point did it turn into contempt for yourself and complete disregard for your own preservation?” he asked.
Ah. There stood the crux of his downfall. “Perhaps since I’m cursed, I decided to indulge in all manner of sin and vice.”
“Cursed? Truly? How fascinating. Tell me about it,” the doctor asked, pen poised.
Aidan crossed his legs. “It has been in the family for centuries. It’s said that women, either born or married into the family, do not live long. My mother died of a heart infection when I was four—or was I three years of age? I have no memory of it. My grandfather was widowed three times. His own infant daughter did not survive. There is a cemetery on the corner of our property with rows of tombstones of women who dared to love Wollstonecraft men. I admit, when my grandfather first told me of this at the susceptible age of thirteen, it made an impact.”
“In what way?”
“I decided that when old enough, I would partake of pleasure. No curse would touch my life, as I planned to indulge and forego any serious attachments to anyone. Of course, at thirteen, I was not aware of exactly what pleasures were to be had. But I would cause no pain or suffering to anyone but myself.”
Aidan frowned as Dr. Bevan continued to take notes, dipping his pen in the inkwell every so often. Speaking of the family curse would no doubt have the good doctor come to the conclusion that he was completely daft—or he would think that Aidan was making rationalizations for his reckless behavior. In truth, the curse had played a significant part.
He believed in it more than he’d let on to the rest of his family, perhaps almost as much as his uncle. But Garrett had recently tossed aside his solemn oath to never fall in love, which made Aidan wonder if any decisions he’d made in his own life were sound, past or present?
“Can the curse be broken?” the doctor asked.
“I heard that only true love will break the curse; however, my father and grandfather proved that caveat to be untrue.” He stared at the doctor. “You are acting quite blasé about this.”
“It’s not important that I believe it, only that we explore the reasons why you do. Continue, please.”
“Eventually, the ‘serious attachments’ grew
to include my family. I became increasingly distant. The complete disregard? The steep decline? I cannot pinpoint the exact moment. Perhaps it occurred when I stopped returning home for the laborious monthly family meetings.”
“Why call them ‘laborious?’”
Aidan snorted derisively. “You know my family name. My grandfather is the Earl of Carnstone; my father is Viscount Tensbridge: progressive heroes of the British Parliament. My perfect schoolmaster brother is a paragon of decency. My uncle… Well, Garrett is a little of all of us mixed together. How could I possibly live up to their exacting high standards? Their lives are consumed by good works. Helping the poor. How tedious, and, for me, meaningless. For I care not.”
Bevan arched an eyebrow. “Are you not the heir apparent?”
“I am the heir, though I loathe being referred to as ‘lord.’ What does that matter?”
“One day you will be in the British Parliament. These good works will become your responsibility.”
Aidan snorted in response.
“You’ve told me more than once that you are proud of your family and their accomplishments,” Bevan said.
“They are not my accomplishments,” Aidan replied, flicking a speck of dust from his shirtsleeve.
“Then perhaps you should select something to focus your attention on instead of indulging in your own gratification.” Aidan rolled his eyes, but Bevan held up a hand. “Before you give me a snide response, hear me out. To keep temptation at bay, you must have an objective, to aspire to something greater than your own ego. Make one of the Wollstonecraft causes yours alone. Not superficially, but truly immerse yourself in it.”
Grudgingly, Aidan admitted there was merit in what the doctor said. After all, he was determined to recover. “I will seriously consider it.”
“Excellent. I believe you will be ready to return home in two weeks. At the end of the first week of June, I imagine.”
Trepidation moved through Aidan as swift as a flash flood. “I thought I would remain here until early autumn.”
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