Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
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
About the Author
Discover more historical romance… A Lady Never Tells
Highland Obligation
A Rake’s Revenge
His Rebellious Lass
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Sharon Cullen. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 105, PMB 159
Fort Collins, CO 80525
[email protected]
Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Erin Molta
Cover design by EDH Graphics
Cover photography by Killion Group and Deposit Photos
ISBN 978-1-64063-863-1
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition September 2019
Dear Reader,
Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.
xoxo
Liz Pelletier, Publisher
To John, my soul mate whom I was lucky enough to find at age sixteen. You’ve supported this crazy dream I had of becoming a writer and pushed me when needed, cheered alongside me, helped me research, and listened when I was stuck on a plot point. You are my hero.
To Megan, Nic, and Abby, three perfect children who never thought it was weird that their mom wrote books.
Prologue
She was wearing peach, and it suited her so well.
She was speaking to the same group of girls she’d been talking to at the other ball, the night they’d first met, but as if she could feel his presence, her head turned, and their eyes met. She lowered her lids and turned back to her friends, and he headed toward her. Drawn as if someone was pulling a string straight to her.
“Miss Hillgrave.” He stopped in front of her, and it took everything inside him to not wind his arm around her, to not pull her to him, to not kiss her.
“Lord Fairview.”
“I pray that you saved a dance for me tonight.”
With a saucy grin she examined her dance card and hummed to herself as if she were contemplating granting him a dance. He could see her card. There were three spots open, all waltzes.
“I believe there is one left,” she said. “I will pencil you in.”
He grinned and turned to her friend…Victoria? Blast it, he couldn’t remember the friend’s name, and asked her to dance as well, so as not to call attention to the fact that he’d singled Ellen out.
Damn Society’s machinations!
He didn’t have to wait long, just a few interminable dances before it was his turn. However, watching her dance with three other mates was torture. He experienced a wave of jealousy that set his teeth on edge. He drank far too much wine, in order to keep his hands occupied, as he watched her flit across the dance floor in other men’s arms.
He knew people might notice his preoccupation, but he couldn’t help himself.
And then it was his turn and she was in his arms and all was right with his world.
She smiled up at him.
“All night I’ve looked forward to this dance,” she said.
“I could barely contain myself, seeing you with the other men.”
Her smile widened. “Just know that I was thinking of you the entire time.”
“That gives me some comfort.”
They moved well together. He shouldn’t be surprised. They kissed well together. They conversed well together. Everything they did together, they did well.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispered.
He closed his eyes, and his heart thundered. He had missed her so much in the three days since their kiss.
“I can’t do this anymore, Ellen,” he said softly. The music was loud but still he didn’t want anyone to overhear.
She frowned up at him. “What do you mean?”
He didn’t want to discuss it here, among the swirling bodies and the perked ears. He wanted Ellen all to himself, to speak freely.
“Can you meet me outside?”
“Oliver, you’re frightening me. Tell me what this is about.”
“Nothing to be frightened over. I promise you. It is something good. Wonderful.” He smiled down at her.
“Do you swear?”
“I swear on my honor.”
The dance seemed to be endless and over too soon, all at the same time. He wanted to keep holding Ellen in his arms, but he also urgently needed to speak to her, to finally make all of this formal and permanent.
“Meet me outside. Through there.” He tilted his chin toward a set of doors that he knew led to a terraced patio.
She nodded and turned away from him.
In order not to make things look odd, Oliver wandered through the ballroom and spoke to a few friends, extricating himself before he was caught up in some debate or good-natured ribbing.
Being outside, in the cool air, did nothing to clear his mind. His hands were sweating and his heart was pounding, but he had never been so sure of anything in his whole life.
He made his way to a darkened corner, dodging other couples standing close together or intertwined, and nervously waited for Ellen to appear.
Luckily it didn’t take her long. Unlike him, she didn’t hesitate or make it seem like she was just out for fresh air. She made her way straight to him.
“What is wrong?” she asked anxiously, looking up at him.
He took her hands in his and kissed her. The rigidness in her spine loosened until she melted against him, pliant beneath his hands, her lips molding to his.
He drew away, breathless.
“I want everyone to know about us, Ellen. I’m tired of hiding our relationship, of sneaking around like we’re doing something wrong when we’re not. We’re both adults. I am a viscount, someday to be an earl.” The thought of his father not being around sent a pain through his heart, but that was the reality of being an heir. “You are a lady, daughter of a baron. We are well-matched and well-suited.”
She squeezed his hands, her eyes glistening. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I want to declare my intentions to your father
. I want to marry you, Ellen.”
Her eyes widened, and a slow smile broke across her face. “Oh, Oliver.”
“That is, if you will have me as your husband.”
“Of course. Yes! I want nothing more.”
“Then it is settled. I will talk to your father first thing tomorrow. And then we can start planning our future.”
She pressed his hand to her pounding heart. “I can scarcely believe this is true.”
“By the end of the summer we will be married.” The thought made his own heart pound in excitement. “I will take care of you, Ellen. I will always be here for you. You’ll never have anything to worry about.”
Tears leaked from her eyes. Tears of joy and laughter. She leaned against him, pressing her head to his chest. “I love you, Oliver, and I can’t wait to be your wife.”
“I love you too, Ellen.”
Chapter One
Seventeen Years Later
Typically, he wasn’t overly concerned about his appearance. But this evening wasn’t typical.
Was the scarlet waistcoat too much? Too…over the top?
Should he settle for the very staid, very traditional black?
His valet fit his black coat over his shoulders and brushed it clear of lint. Oliver McCaron, the Earl of Armbruster, thought about asking his valet, Richard, his opinion on the color of the waistcoat and decided to hell with it. He’d wear the red and damn anyone who thought he was too gauche.
It wasn’t as if he were attending a formal ball. It was just a salon filled with bohemians and others on the fringe of Society. They were hardly worthy enough to look down at his attire.
Except those weren’t the people he was concerned about.
“Concerned, my ass,” he muttered.
“Pardon, my lord?” Richard paused in his endless brushing.
“Nothing,” Oliver said. “I’m ready to depart.”
Richard put his brush down. “Very good, my lord. Your carriage is waiting.”
Oliver was in a contemplative mood on the way to the salon. He’d been at odds for the past few weeks.
Bored. Restless.
His friend, Jacob Baker, the Earl of Ashland, was usually able to divert Oliver’s moods, but Ashland was newly married and had undergone a great ordeal when he was almost killed by a man who had murdered at least five women.
It had been a horrendous time, and Oliver did not begrudge his friend the moments he wanted to take with his wife, but Oliver missed his weekly meetings with Ashland.
And maybe, he might be a tad jealous that Ashland had someone to go home to every night.
Oliver’s carriage pulled up to the Fieldhurst home, and Oliver took a moment to gather his thoughts before exiting. This sort of hesitation wasn’t like him. He tackled all his problems head on, but he was suddenly stricken with the memories of the last time he had been here.
It had been for the wedding of Lady Fieldhurst. A grand affair it had been, too. She’d looked elegant and oh, so beautiful. The groom had been twenty years her senior but had stared at his bride with love and longing.
He should not have gone. He knew that now, and he’d known it at the time. His pain had been fresh, raw. But he’d had to see for himself that she was truly going to wed a man twice her age. Afterward, he’d gone to his club and gotten so pissed that his father had to retrieve him. His father had never asked why, when Oliver had never been drunk like that before or after, and Oliver had been relieved to not have to say.
The footman waited patiently for Oliver to exit, and the carriages behind him were no doubt wondering what was taking him so long. Reluctantly, he hopped down and straightened his jacket.
Maybe scarlet had not been a good choice for the waistcoat.
There was no announcement as he walked in. This was not a formal ball, but an informal salon where people who normally did not mingle, mingled. There were few of his mates here. Those whom he spent time with were not impressed with the artsy nature of such a gathering.
Truth be told, he wasn’t quite certain what went on at these events. He was here on a special request from his friend, Detective O’Leary, from Scotland Yard, because he was the one person in Society that O’Leary knew. If he’d known he was walking into the lion’s den of Lady Fieldhurst, he would have passed on the offer.
Or would he have?
He saw her long before she saw him. She was standing with a strange group of people, fops, rogues, and women of dubious reputations, her raven hair curled and draped over one creamy shoulder. Ironically, she was wearing red as well. More of a burgundy, but red nonetheless.
He circled the edge of the room, keeping his eye on her as he snagged a glass of wine from a passing servant. He’d been told there would be a poetry reading later. He was not looking forward to that. Poetry was not his thing. Theater was good, and he enjoyed a good orchestra. But he’d never understood poetry.
Ellen loved it.
He remembered that. He remembered a lot. Too much, maybe.
He found his prey after about fifteen minutes of searching and leaned a shoulder against a white pillar to study him from afar. He was a twitchy little man. Short in stature, with a most horrendous mustache, heavy brows, and beetle-like eyes. Or maybe the unfavorable description was Oliver projecting his dislike on the man. He did seem the nervous sort, though. Looking around as if he trusted no one in the room.
Oliver wondered what Ellen saw in the man to invite him to her home. Did she know he was a Chartist? A threat to the Crown?
Oliver grimaced. Damn Chartists were causing all sorts of problems for Queen Victoria. Normally, Oliver didn’t get involved in politics, and never had he done any work for the Crown. He could say that he wasn’t working for the Crown right now.
Oliver had acquiesced because…well, he wasn’t certain why he’d agreed. Boredom, most likely. He wanted something interesting in his life. Socializing, gambling, drinking—all of his favorite pastimes—were wearing thin and, truth be told, after watching Ashland fall in love, Oliver had felt a twitch of something in the region of his heart.
He sipped his wine and watched the man. He was speaking with his hands. Grand gestures that almost knocked a tray from a passing servant and he didn’t even notice. His captivated audience seemed more like a captured audience. Not too keen to be with him, but not knowing how to disengage themselves.
For their sakes, Oliver hoped the poetry reading—another grimace—started soon.
“Lord Armbruster.”
Oliver was in the process of taking another sip of wine when his arm froze halfway to his mouth. Every muscle in his body clenched, and he had a very strange impulse to not turn around, not face her. To walk away. The hurt, the shame, the anger, all came crashing back, but he was good at shoving those unwanted emotions away and ignoring them.
He forced a smile on his lips and turned to her.
“Lady Fieldhurst.”
Seventeen years ago she had been beautiful, all lovely curves and wide eyes and luscious lips. Now she was stunning. She’d filled out in the years, her hips more rounded, her waist still impossibly small even after giving birth to the current earl. There was not a hint of gray in her hair, but there were tiny laugh lines at the corners of her eyes that only added to her beauty.
“I’m surprised to see you here.” Her voice was musical. Deep and rich with a slight rasp that stirred his loins. He looked at Ellen, and he immediately thought of bedding her. It was an ungentlemanly thought and one he tried to banish, but it persisted nonetheless.
It had always been this way with her. She stirred him in ways that no other woman had since, and he had definitely tried hard to erase her memory with other women.
“Are you?” he asked. “Surprised?”
She smiled, a slow seductive smile that made all the blood rush to his cock. “Shocked might be a better word. You’ve never attended any of my salons before.”
He shrugged, almost forgetting that he was holding a glass of wine. It sloshed. He st
eadied it. “I wanted to see what it was all about.”
She tilted her head and studied him. “You despise poetry.”
Why was he so inordinately pleased that she remembered that about him?
“I’m a changed man.”
Her smile slipped. “I hope not.”
…
Why are you here? Ellen desperately wanted to ask Oliver, but she refrained from being rude.
When she’d seen him enter, her blood had run cold. For all these years they’d had an unspoken agreement to steer clear of each other. If they happened to be at the same ball, they remained on opposite ends of the room. They hadn’t spoken since…
She pushed the memory away.
Why was he here now?
“The poetry reading will start momentarily. You might want to head in to get a good seat.”
He barely disguised his grimace. She did not disguise her grin. So, he still hated poetry. She was right. He had not changed, and that comforted her.
He tilted his tawny head toward a man a few feet away. “Who is that?”
“Antoine Bertrand?” she asked in surprise. He was here to see Bertrand? There was a curious feeling in her chest that was absolutely not disappointment.
“Bertrand,” he repeated, as if memorizing the name.
“Do you know him?”
He seemed to shake himself and turned back to her with a slight grin. “Never met him. He seems passionate about whatever it is he’s discussing. His audience is captive. And not in a good way.”
She studied Bertrand. She didn’t know the man well, but he was a part of the eccentric crowd that Ellen was drawn to.
“That’s unkind,” she said. “They don’t seem too miserable.”
He made a noise in his throat, and she was suddenly irritated with him. “Why are you here, Oliver?” This wasn’t his crowd of people. In fact, the idea of Oliver socializing with any of these people was laughable.
He turned the full force of his intense blue eyes on her, and she wished she’d not asked. She wished she’d walked away. She wished she’d not approached him at all. Those eyes had been the subject of her dreams for years before she’d finally forced herself to stop thinking of him.
“How have you been, Ellen?”
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