Dawson appeared in the doorway, looking uncomfortable in the luxurious surroundings of the house. He had a large block of wood, a chisel, and a hammer. He approached quietly and smiled at Willa. "Why, Miss Willa, it looks like you got yourself in quite a fix," he said, his deep voice echoing in the room.
"I did, Dawson," she retorted. "I'm hoping you can get me out of it."
John, who had perched on a footstool at Willa's side, stood up, albeit wearily. "Here, Dawson, I think you need this stool."
"I'll kneel, my lord. I'm afraid I'll get the stool dirty."
"You go right ahead," Blythe said as she scurried closer. "I've been wanting to have it recovered anyway."
And so Dawson eased himself onto the footstool, put his wood block down and then gently laid Willa's wrist on top of it. He positioned the chisel and then looked at her. "Now, Miss Willa, I don't want to hurt you, so please try to hold still. Just a couple of strikes with this big hammer, and we'll have these off of you."
The ringing of the iron hammer striking the chisel against the locks on the manacles made the family members cringe, but surprisingly soon, one wrist was free and Dawson had placed the other on the wood block. As Morton and a maid carried in a tea tray, Dawson got up and left with the stake, chain, and manacles in his hand. It was as Blythe poured tea and filled a plate with all kinds of delicacies when they all turned to Willa expectantly.
John took his seat on the stool again and let his eyes gaze on Willa's face. She smiled and then patted his cheek. "She was trying to kill me so she could have you, my love."
John snorted despite the company. "I would never look twice at her."
"That's what I told her, but I think insanity runs in their family."
"No doubt, if she could possibly believe I would ever marry anyone if I could not marry you." Then he looked up at the crowd of people in the room. After a moment he turned his head to look over his shoulder to the window and said, "Do you all see that unusual bird out the window?" As everyone looked, he leaned forward and kissed Willa lingeringly. In the background, there was a collective sigh and one or two feminine giggles.
****
Later, Willa had been carried upstairs to enjoy a hot bath and to have her poor knees bandaged and to be checked over by Dr. Saunders. John joined his soon to be father-in-law, his best friend, and Willa's uncle in the library. Brandy had been served all around and they were all comfortably seated when Noel said, "I think we have cleaned everything up. One of the grooms is taking Lady Norton's body to her father. Jenkins was alive but will awake with a fierce headache in Newgate Prison.”
"Willa said they put her in a badger den under a fallen tree in the center of the copse and then chained her down with the stake, no doubt planning to leave her to die,” John’s voice was filled with anger. “But she had worked on the stake, moving it back and forth until she loosened it because he had made the mistake of pulling her arms over her head where she could grasp it. I guess she knew the night before that she might be getting her feeling back in her legs because they had begun to tingle," he recounted.
"That's what she told Claire," the duke said, "but she asked Claire not say anything until she knew for sure so she would not get anyone's hopes up."
There was a knock at the library door, and Abbott announced the physician. Dr. Saunders was welcomed into the room.
"I am happy, nay ecstatic, to announce Miss Dutton has come to no real harm. Her knees will be sore for a while, as well as the palms of her hands where she has a number of blisters. But overall, she is in excellent health. And that telling tiny jerk of her foot right after her accident was, indeed, a good sign. Sometimes a person can suffer such an injury that, instead of leaving the spine permanently damaged, the tissues surrounding the spine can swell. When this happens paralysis sets in due to the pressure on the nerves, but with time, if the swelling is reduced, the patient can regain feeling and motion."
"So as the swelling went down," John put in, "the tingling in her lower extremities began just like when one sleeps on an arm for too long."
"Exactly," the physician said. "Of course, her legs are weak as she hasn't used them in such a while, but she's strong and determined, so she will soon be back to her old self."
"So we can reschedule the wedding?" the viscount asked.
"Please," John replied, "and let's make it soon."
****
The wedding was three days hence. The bells tolled in the little village and everyone who could escape from their work crowded into the small church. Those who did not fit filled the churchyard awaiting a glimpse of the bride and groom.
Willa, whose legs were still not quite back to normal, supported herself on her father's arm as Fayre began playing the organ. Tentatively, Willa took a step and then another, guided by John's loving countenance at the altar. Claire led the way, and the duke stood to John's left smiling upon his own wife. As Yale handed his only daughter off to the Earl of Roydon, he smiled, although he wiped away a few tears that spilled down his cheek.
Willa's uncle and the local vicar were sharing the wedding ceremony, and just before they began, John leaned down and winked at her saying, "Sweetheart, you'll never release me now!"
About the Author
Ilene Withers grew up in western Nebraska in a town with a population of four, and later, on a cattle ranch. After high school, she attended college long enough to meet the love of her life. In the ensuing years, she had a daughter and moved from Nebraska to Texas, to New Mexico, and then on to Colorado. Eventually, she decided to go back to college and finish her degree. She graduated with a BA in English Writing in 2012.
Ilene started writing a community news column for a very small county paper in high school. Later, she wrote a mental health column for another small newspaper. What she loved writing the most, however, was holiday plays for her sister’s one room country school programs featuring western and historical themes such as mail order brides and stagecoach stops. Finally, she wrote her first romance novel on a portable typewriter while living in West Texas. While that manuscript has never left her desk drawer, she later took a week off of work and wrote her debut novel, The Blackmailed Beauty. After much rewriting and fine tuning, that manuscript was published by Astraea Press in October 2013. To Release an Earl is her second Regency romance and a sequel to her debut novel.
Ilene is a member of Romance Writers of America, Colorado Romance Writers, and the Beau Monde. She lives in Loveland, Colorado with her musician husband and her Maine Coon cat.
Don’t miss the book that started it all!
Chapter One
Claire Stuart tugged her shawl close against the March wind as she stepped outside. After spending most of the morning bent over the sampler she was stitching for her mother’s birthday, she craved a short walk. A chill wind would not keep her from it. She slipped out the gate of the vicarage and paused. The church next door sheltered the cemetery and a quiet bower. It would be the perfect place to spend a few solitary minutes.
Her parents had left over an hour ago to visit the sick in Chittingham, a small Surrey village not far away, and her younger sisters were doing their studies. Mrs. Quince, their only servant, was busy baking bread. Claire reveled in the sounds of nature as she walked— the wind, the rustling grasses, a squawking bird.
Entering the churchyard, Claire stopped when she spied a young hare grazing in the cemetery. She admired the efficient way the animal foraged for tiny shoots of green among the more bountiful brown vegetation. Trying not to disturb the animal, she walked to the furthest corner of the church. There the bushes grew close to form a secluded bower where she could enjoy a few minutes of tranquility.
“Miss Stuart, what a delight.”
Claire jumped at the sound of the unexpected male voice. Stepping away from the bower with reluctance, she saw Alistair Norton, Viscount Pitt. A sense of dread came over her as she realized he must have been in the graveyard and had followed her.
“Lord Pitt,” Claire re
plied, her voice reflecting the deep aversion she had for the intruder. She was nervous to be alone in the isolated churchyard with him, for he had a reputation as a womanizer and a gambler. Rumor had it he had once shot a man over an opera singer.
Claire watched as his icy, gray eyes moved from her face downward, causing a shiver of distaste to crawl its way down her spine. She tugged the heavy shawl tighter, seeking what little protection it offered from his penetrating gaze. Forcing herself to stare impassively past his shoulder, she concentrated on her pounding pulse. Perhaps if she did not appear frightened, he might leave her alone. At last, he raised his eyes back to her face, his dark countenance appearing almost evil to her.
“My sister mentioned the two of you will be sharing a season this spring,” he remarked with an affected drawl.
Claire moved backward to put space between them. “I have heard we will be in London at the same time,” she said, implying no closer knowledge of Lady Regina Norton's plans.
“I, too, will be in town this season.” He leered at her bodice as he spoke in a suggestive tone.
Bile rose in her throat as the viscount stepped closer to her. Claire jerked her head toward her home. “I hear someone calling me,” she lied, seeking an excuse to escape.
“I didn’t hear a thing,” Lord Pitt replied as he followed her gaze. “You couldn't have in this wind. The vicarage is not close enough,” he added as he closed the space between them with one step. Before she had time to react, he reached out to stroke a tiny wisp of her pale blonde hair. His fingers slid down her cheek with a tortuous slowness. Claire stepped to the side, hoping to put distance between them, but also to step further away from the bower's entrance. Her foot caught on an exposed root of the ancient oak behind her, and she began to fall. Reaching out, she tried to catch herself but found nothing to grasp. Her shawl slipped from her grip just as her back slammed against the rough trunk, almost knocking the breath from her lungs.
Lord Pitt moved in fast, trapping her. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured, “with an angel’s face, and the figure—”
“Lord Pitt!” Claire’s voice shook with fear. “You are being ungentlemanly.”
“Most women beg for my attentions.”
“I assure you I am not one of them,” Claire stated emphatically. “Now I must be leaving.” She pushed away from the tree and quickly moved toward home.
He grabbed her upper arm and swung her around, his fingers digging into her flesh causing Claire to wince at the pain. “Not so fast.”
“Unhand me, sirrah,” Claire demanded as she jerked her arm away from his grasp, her heart pounding. She spun around once more to flee. He grabbed her again and swung her back around, wedging her between the tree trunk and his chest. With one quick movement, he captured her arms, pinning them behind her. Without warning, he crushed his lips against hers. Claire tore her mouth free as a wave of nausea washed over her. “Let me go!”
As she saw his face coming closer to hers again, Claire screamed for help. Her lungs burned as she gulped for air. She screamed again. The viscount laughed as her screams faded into the chill wind. When she struggled, he grabbed the base of her neck, splaying his fingers against her skin and tightening them until she could no longer breathe with ease.
He slammed his mouth against hers again, cutting off her next scream, as he moved his hand from her neck to grab at the bodice of her dress. Claire fought wildly, gaining strength with each precious breath. When she was unable to free her arms she stomped on his foot, but her slipper just slid off his boot. Grasping the worn wool of her gown, he ripped it open jaggedly over her heaving chest. A roar built in her ears as she felt his fingers trace the line of the torn fabric. Claire wrenched from side to side, desperate to escape him. He just tightened his hold on her as his lips ground against hers, his tongue forcing its way between her teeth. Gagging, she reacted automatically, biting down hard against the meatiness of it.
He pulled his mouth back. “You little witch!” His voice reflected his fury as his hand slapped her cheek, knocking her face against the rough tree bark. Tears sprang to her eyes. Grabbing her hair, he jerked her head back around as his mouth came down on hers yet again, bruising her lips against her teeth until she tasted her own blood.
Suddenly, Claire replayed her father’s voice in her mind. She tried to calm her panic as she remembered his words. “My dear, your beauty is such you may someday feel a man is forcing his attentions on you. In this case, you must insist he stop. Not all men will listen. Those more willful and less courteous will think only of their own enjoyment. If you ever find yourself in this predicament, aim for the spot between his legs. Bring up your knee fast and with as much force as you can muster. When you have made contact, he will release you due to being in a great deal of pain. Then lift your skirts and flee. Run like the wind to safety.”
Desperate to escape with her virtue intact, Claire knew she must follow her father’s instructions. She knew the viscount held her too tight for her to summon the necessary force she needed to bring him down with just her knee. Intent on what she must do and shuddering against the thought of it, she forced her body to become pliant and limp. It worked! He loosened his grip within moments, even as his mouth continued to plunder hers. No doubt, he thought she was growing to enjoy his repulsive attentions. Claire offered a silent prayer she would succeed. Knowing her life depended on this one opportunity, she bent her leg, and with sudden and extreme force jerked it upward until it made contact with his flesh.
The imprisoning hands fell away. Groaning, her assailant clutched himself and dropped to the ground as he began to retch. Startled, Claire stared and then remembered her father’s final words. “Lift your skirts and flee. Run like the wind to safety.”
Claire spun around and ran as she had never run before. She did not stop until the vicarage’s heavy gate slammed shut behind her. As her trembling hands checked the latch, her knees began to buckle until she was soon leaning against the fence to support herself. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes for a moment. Then it came to her— she was ruined. Ruined by a scoundrel she could not bear.
Another sense of panic overwhelmed her, and she found the strength to hurry across the yard. Quietly entering the rear of the house, she listened. Other than Mrs. Quince moving around in the kitchen, all was quiet. Claire climbed the stairs and went to her room. She locked the door and then allowed her body to sink to the floor.
Claire sat there, stunned and shaking, as tears rolled down her face. “I’m ruined, I’m ruined.” Her mind would not let loose of the words. After some time, she gathered her wits and took a shuddering breath. Burying her face in her hands, she tried to think calmly. No one else would know what had just happened, she told herself.
Sitting up straighter, she realized if she acted as if nothing had occurred, the attack would be her own painful secret. She vowed she would remain silent. He would probably not say anything either. After all, she had fought him off, and he would not want to admit it. Claire took another deep breath and crawled up off the floor. No, she would not allow the horrible beast to ruin her life.
Realizing just how sullied she felt, Claire ripped off her clothing and hurried across to the washstand. The water was cold, left over from the morning, yet she scrubbed herself furiously. She washed her face twice, noticing the soreness on her cheek, and roughly cleaned her lips over and over. Everywhere his hands had touched her, she rubbed a soapy, wet cloth hard across her skin as though she would be able to erase the touch. When at last she had finished, she dressed in fresh garments and brushed her hair, pulling it into a neat bun atop her head.
Finally, Claire glanced in the mirror. She inhaled and her eyes widened at what she saw there. A bruise was forming on her cheek, her lips were puffy and red, and there was a small cut near her eye. Staggering across to her bed, feeling as though she were beaten, she sank down on it. The bruise and the cut must be from when her face had hit the oak. She refused to think about her bruised lips, for
she could not bear it.
Claire’s mind, as if of its own accord, began to go over the horrible event. Remembering she had tripped on the tree root, she realized her shawl had slipped from her grasp. Her shawl! Jumping up, she searched through the pile of clothing on the floor. No, it was not there; she must have left it behind. Would he pick it up? Throwing herself back on the bed, she curled up in a small ball. Rolling over she buried her face in the pillow, groaning in frustration. After a few minutes, she sat upright. Why would he? It was obvious he had been in pain. Tomorrow, she would walk over and fetch it.
As if the clouds had cleared, Claire realized what she must do. She would tell her family she had tripped on the root. It was no less than the truth. Regretting the need to exaggerate a bit, she would say she had pitched forward, hitting the tree. This had caused her to cut and bruise her cheek on the rough bark and in the fall, she had bit her lip. Yes, there was her story!
Claire forced herself to relax. Now she had an excuse formulated, she knew she must discipline herself to act as if nothing more had marred her day.
Rising, she decided to dispose of the bundle of clothing. She never wanted to see them again. Not wanting to touch them, she kicked them toward the fireplace, where the ashes still glowed hot. Using the poker, she lifted the clothing, spread it out over the embers, and then waited for them to catch fire.
The flames did not start right away; instead, smoke began to pour from the fireplace. It seemed the chimney was drawing it well at first, but then it started to drift out into the room. Claire started to cough. Running across to the window, she threw it open. Then she grabbed the coverlet from her bed and stuffed it along the bottom of her door. She dare not let anyone notice the smell in the house— they would wonder what was happening and come to investigate.
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