How Not to Marry an Earl
Page 1
The plainest Strickland sister
Part of Those Scandalous Stricklands.
To escape marriage to the newly inherited Earl of Comstock, bookish Charity must find her family’s missing diamonds.
She meets her match in an intellectual stranger auditing the estate...not knowing he is Lord Comstock himself!
With him, Charity feels different—even desirable! But will seizing one night of passion bind her to the very man she’s determined to avoid?
Those Scandalous Stricklands miniseries
Book 1—“Her Christmas Temptation” in Regency Christmas Wishes
Book 2—A Kiss Away from Scandal
Book 3—How Not to Marry an Earl
“Readers will enjoy the strong characters, swift pace, lively wit and the wickedly fun escapades that stubborn lovers can get into.”
—RT Book Reviews on “Her Christmas Temptation” in Regency Christmas Wishes
“Book two in Merrill’s series is a triumph. Opposites attract, repel, collide and unite in this thrilling romance.”
—RT Book Reviews on A Kiss Away from Scandal
Those Scandalous Stricklands
From the edge of disgrace to the altar!
The three Strickland sisters,
Faith, Hope and Charity,
have lived with their grandmother, the dowager countess of Comstock, since their parents’ deaths. But they are only now realizing just how close they are to being scandalously penniless!
Each sister has her own plan to save the family from disgrace—until they meet the gentlemen who will change their plans, and their lives, forever...
Read Faith’s story in
“Her Christmas Temptation”
Part of the Regency Christmas Wishes anthology
Read Hope’s story in
A Kiss Away from Scandal
Read Charity’s story in
How Not to Marry an Earl
All available now!
Author Note
For this book I did more than my usual amount of odd research, including a lot of comparison in the differences in life for my American hero and my English heroine. Adding an American meant that, for the first time ever, I managed to sneak in things that never belong in a Regency, like mentions of a raccoon, whiskey and lots and lots of corn.
But I was also surprised to discover that when my hero and heroine played billiards, there might have been a major difference. There is a theory that the practice of hitting a billiard ball off center to make it spin was something that was introduced to America by the English.
That is why, though it is called “side” in the UK, on my side of the Atlantic we speak of “putting English on the ball.”
Christine Merrill
How Not to
Marry an Earl
Christine Merrill lives on a farm in Wisconsin with her husband, two sons and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off the computer so they can check their email. She has worked by turns in theater costuming and as a librarian. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out the window and make stuff up.
Books by Christine Merrill
Harlequin Historical
Wish Upon a Snowflake
“The Christmas Duchess”
The Secrets of Wiscombe Chase
The Wedding Game
Those Scandalous Stricklands
Regency Christmas Wishes
“Her Christmas Temptation”
A Kiss Away from Scandal
How Not to Marry an Earl
The Society of Wicked Gentlemen
A Convenient Bride for the Soldier
The de Bryun Sisters
The Truth About Lady Felkirk
A Ring from a Marquess
Visit the Author Profile page
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To Caffeine, without whom this book could not have been written. Don’t ever leave me again.
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
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Excerpt from A Scandalous Winter Wedding by Marguerite Kaye
Chapter One
It seemed as if Miles Strickland had been running for ages. First, it had been from Prudence in Philadelphia, to avoid the plans she had made for them. Then the Shawnee, during his brief idea to go West and seek his fortune.
He had run from the Iroquois on the way back.
He had been two steps from the altar and one step away from debtors’ prison when the letter had arrived from England and convinced him that his luck had finally turned. His kin had been American far longer than that country had existed and in none of that time had they mentioned the noble family tree they had sprouted from. But now, the British branches had died, leaving him heir to lands and a title.
Visions of wealth and comfort filled his head as he boarded the ship to cross the Atlantic. And then, he’d spoiled it all by actually becoming the Earl of Comstock. Apparently, the English Stricklands were no better off than the Americans. His family’s debts had been minuscule compared to the ones attached to his new title. And there was no hope in clearing them, since a lord was not supposed to work. Instead, he was expected to collect rent from tenants even poorer than he was and take a seat in a government he knew nothing about. His brother, Edward, had been lucky that the English navy had got to him first. If he’d lived, he would have been press-ganged into Parliament, as Miles had been.
He had no patriotic loyalty to the government he was expected to join and even less faith in this antiquated inheritance of power without money. There was to be no magical solution to his previous problems. Instead, everyone expected he would sort out the mess left to him by his distant relatives.
Worse yet, there had been a stack of tear-stained letters from Prudence that had beaten him across the Atlantic on a faster ship. The situation was dire. He was her last and only hope. He must return home to Philadelphia immediately.
But would he be allowed to do so? He did not think that the Prince who was currently running things would drag him back to the House of Lords in leg irons. But after what had happened to Ed, he could not be sure. His brother had gone to Barbados in an attempt to turn the family fortunes by investing in sugar. The next any of them had heard, he’d been impressed into the British navy. In his last letter home, he had begged Miles to watch over Prudence until he could return to her.
Shortly after that Pru had got the news that she was an impoverished widow. And now, the moment Miles was not there to watch her, she had made things worse. She was an exceptionally foolish girl a
nd probably deserved what she got. But she was his responsibility, more so than these English strangers were. She needed him. What could he do but run back to Philadelphia, as fast as he had run from it?
It did not seem likely that Miles could leave from any of the ports around London, without someone noticing. So, he’d left the city making a vague reference to visiting the Comstock property while omitting the rest of his plan, which was to keep going until the entire country was no more than a distant memory.
He’d set off at a gallop and the fine blood he was riding was eager to carry him at full speed. It was the best horse he’d ever sat, much less owned. He’d had no trouble buying it on credit, since earls did not bother using actual money.
He must find a way to return it to its previous owners. In England, peers who could not pay for the things they bought suffered nothing more than embarrassment. But in America, he’d have been hung as a horse thief. His guilt when he looked at the bill to Tattersall’s was almost too much to stand.
What did bother him even more than the debts was having strangers scraping and bowing and calling him my Lord Comstock. He wanted to shout, ‘You don’t know me.’ If they did, they would realise that they had made a mistake in thinking a common ancestry qualified him to do the job they had foisted upon him.
After half a day’s journey, he passed the marker that indicated the edge of the Comstock holdings. There was no denying that the land he’d inherited was pretty, with rolling farmland and a village full of thatched-roof cottages. The view was spoiled when he paused to realise that he was responsible for keeping those roofs from leaking. But at least the tavern served a decent ale and did not enquire about his past, despite his accent. The last thing he needed was to be identified as their new lord and master before he could finish his drink.
* * *
After a light lunch he rode on towards the estate. But as he came around a turn in the gravel drive he saw two houses: the great house on the hill and a second house, large by normal standards, but dwarfed by the manor beyond it.
The smaller one must be the dower house that he’d been told of. It had been described as almost beyond repair, which meant it was unoccupied and unattended. If there was a couch, or at least a dry patch of floor to lay out his bedroll, he might stay there unnoticed. It would save him the trouble of making excuses to the servants at the great house about his sudden arrival and equally sudden departure.
And if there happened to be a set of silver left in a sideboard, he might still see some profit from this unfortunate trip. When pawned, a saddlebag full of second-best decorations would at least be enough to buy a ticket for home.
He dismounted, looped the reins over a nearby tree branch and approached the house. But before he’d got within ten feet of the door he heard a familiar angry bark and felt a fifteen-pound projectile strike his calf. He stared down at the little black-and-white head, with the equally small fangs sunk ineffectually into his boot leather, and resisted the urge to kick.
Instead, he reached down, grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck and tugged it free, then lifted it to eye level, glaring at it.
The dog returned the sort of look normally reserved for cats and creditors.
‘I do not know what possessed me to rescue you at the docks, since this is all the thanks I’ve got for it. If this is how you treated your previous owner, I understand why he was trying to drown you.’ It had been instinct that made him drop his luggage and grab for the burlap sack that the boy had been trying to fling off the gangplank of the Mary Beth, assuming that the child’s father had told him, harshly but sensibly, that a sea voyage was no place for a dog. By the time he’d turned to assure the little attempted murderer his pup would be safe, the boy had vanished and Miles had been the owner of the most ungrateful cur in the New World.
‘Grrr...’ The animal made a snap at the empty air, trying to reach him. Miles had told himself for weeks that the dog’s bad temper was caused by close confinement and the constant rocking of the ship. But he appeared to be no happier on the dry land of England than he had been in America.
‘When I sent you on ahead with the Dowager, I hoped we might never see each other again. Have you managed to get yourself banished from the main house already?’
The dog squirmed in his hands, taking another snap before wriggling free and jumping to the ground. Then, he turned towards the dower house and leapt through a broken window, still barking.
Miles sighed. ‘I am not climbing in after you. There is a perfectly good door.’ He walked to the front of the house, reaching into his pocket for the ring of keys, before noticing that it already stood open a crack.
‘You can come out on your own,’ he called. ‘You have four good legs on you and no longer need my help.’ He listened for a scrabbling of paws or any other sign that the dog had heard and meant to obey him. If he planned to stay here, it might be handy to have the little beast chasing down rodents for him. With the door left ajar, the place was probably crawling with them. But since the dog loathed him and tried to bite each chance it got, he was probably safer putting it outside and trying to befriend the rats.
As he stepped into the house, it surprised him that there was no sign of the dog, nor the sound of barking from deeper inside. Was there a chance that it had fallen through a weak floorboard, or injured itself on broken glass? He was a fool to care for a thing that wanted no part of him. But at least there was no one around to witness his softness. He advanced into the house. ‘Where are you, you little bastard?’ With luck, he could lead it back towards the open door without incurring any damage to boot or hand. Then, he could block the window and lock the door against it until it gave up harassing him and found its way back to wherever it was being kept.
Miles looked around him at the entryway to the dower house. Except for the dog, the place would not be a bad one to hole up in, until he decided what to do with himself. The Dowager had spoken of repairs too expensive to render the place liveable. But she was a great lady, used to comfort and entertaining. To a man used to sleeping rough, it was near to a castle. It was damp, of course. But a fire would help that. And the furniture had been covered to protect it against time and the elements, which would likely enter through the leaks in the roof. He would not trust the mattresses to be dry, but in the rooms he passed on the way to the dog, there were no end of tables and chairs, and probably a few long benches and sofas that would make a decent bed if one was tired enough. It would do nicely, even if he couldn’t find any silver worth selling.
A streak of black-and-white fur passed by the doorway ahead of him. There was another familiar bark as the dog came to the end of whatever course it had set for itself. Then a moment’s pause before it pelted back across the opening in the opposite direction. The creature had played a similar game on the ship, running back and forth down the companionway, dodging curses and kicks from angry sailors and passengers before racing back into his cabin and falling into an exhausted heap at the end of his bunk.
It had been amusing the first time. Now it was just annoying. But before he could shout at it, someone else said, ‘Pepper! Be still.’
He froze. Though it had the strength of a general, the voice was definitely female. Was it the empty house that gave it such an unusual tone? It seemed to echo, yet was strangely muffled. He approached the room in front of him with caution, not sure if it was better to confront her, or sneak away unnoticed.
When he passed the threshold, the explanation was obvious. The dog had halted his insane racing and was sitting on the hearth, sniffing at the pair of women’s boots standing on the andirons. As he watched, one of them lifted as the woman wearing them stretched her body upwards, reaching for something in the chimney.
There was a shower of soot and a muffled ‘Damnation.’
The dog retreated with a sneeze, waiting for the ash to settle. Then, as helpful as ever, he lurched forward and grabbed a mouthful of
skirts, swinging on them to further unbalance their wearer.
Miles could not help it. He laughed.
Slowly, the boot lowered, seeking footing on the grate. ‘Whoever you are, if you mean to harass me, I have a poker and am not afraid to use it on you.’ If her arm held the same resolve that her tone did, any blow delivered would likely be strong enough to make him think twice.
‘And I have a pistol,’ he countered. ‘But I don’t think either of us need worry, because neither of us wishes to resort to violence. At least until we know each other better,’ he added. In the past, there had been more than one woman ready to crown him with cast iron. As yet he had given this one no reason.
The dog skittered away as the boots hopped off the grate. After some shifting and more falling soot, the rest of the woman appeared in the opening of the fireplace. The rest of the girl, rather. Though she could not have been more than twenty, she was fully, and quite nicely, grown. Her bespectacled face was rather plain, though he doubted the smudges of ash on it helped her appearance. But one would have to be a fool to call a woman with such finely turned ankles homely.
She had nice calves, as well, even under the thick stockings she was wearing. He’d caught a glimpse of them as the dog had tugged at her skirts. And though the sensible gown she wore made no effort to flatter her figure, it could not manage to hide a slim waist and a fine bosom. He was not normally given to debauchery, probably because he had never been able to afford it. But if the village girls in Comstock were all as comely as this one, it might be tempting to play lord of the manor.
As if the dog could sense what he was thinking, its hackles rose and it faced off between him and the girl, baring teeth and offering a warning growl.
Miles braced himself for impact.
‘Pepper. Sit.’
As if by miracle, the dog responded to her command and dropped to its tiny haunches, still staring at him.
‘If you try anything, I will set my dog on you,’ she said, giving him a look as fierce as the terrier’s.