Table of Contents
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
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
To Tame a Savage Heart
By Emma V. Leech
****
Published by: Emma V. Leech.
Copyright (c) Emma V. Leech 2017
Cover Art: Victoria Cooper
ASIN No.: B079DGJVTV
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. 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. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. The ebook version and print version are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook version may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share the ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is inferred.
Table of Contents
To Tame a Savage Heart
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
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Persuading Patience
Want more Emma?
About Me!
Other Works by Emma V. Leech
Dying for a Duke
The Key to Erebus
The Dark Prince
Acknowledgements
To Tame a Savage Heart
Prologue
“Wherein a young Lucretia Holbrook forces a friendship and dares the fates.”
17th April, 1809
At twelve years old, there were few things in the world that Lucretia ‘Crecy’ Holbrook could endure less than a grown-up party.
She’d slipped away as soon as possible, leaving her big sister Belle to be the well-behaved one and stealing into the room where a lavish buffet had been laid out. Here, she picked at the best of everything she could find with two slightly grubby fingers, and finished off with a variety of cream cakes. Two of them were wolfed down on the spot, another carefully wrapped in a hanky and hidden in an increasingly sticky pocket within her voluminous skirts for later.
Crecy had also eavesdropped on several conversations. Most of them seemed to concern the latest gossip about a Viscount DeMorte. The voices that spoke about him sounded at turns angry, disgusted, intrigued, or utterly scandalised. One thing, however, seemed to link all these whispered voices together.
“He’s mad, of course.”
Crecy had stared with interest at an overly made-up woman in a startlingly orange gown. It was warm indoors as the spring sunshine fell upon the guests, and her make-up was beginning to sweat. Crecy narrowed her eyes, making her vision blur, and saw the woman’s face distort, the colours bleeding and looking rather monstrous.
“Oh, undoubtedly,” her companion said, nodding, her eyes alight with a strange kind of glee that Crecy could not quite understand. If they spoke of a madman, why did they look like dogs salivating over a bone? And how did they know he was mad?
Young she might be, but Crecy had already formed the opinion that polite society was a kind of madness, everyone nodding and speaking of nothing while what they really thought was hidden behind a glassy-eyed expression of placidity. She suspected what polite society saw as madness was just a kind of outspoken honesty that others did not appreciate nor understand, or perhaps were even afraid of. At worst, she thought it likely that they simply did not understand at all, and had no desire to.
Being polite was a skill that she had not yet learned to cultivate herself, much to Belle’s distress. But Crecy found the world perplexing, and could not understand why people didn’t see things like she did.
Why, for example, had that woman screamed and fainted when Crecy had showed her that dead lizard’s tail? Crecy had thought it a fascinating thing. For the cat had been tormenting the lizard and almost eaten it, but the lizard had escaped, distracting the cat with its still wriggling tail, which it left behind. It had wriggled for ages afterwards, even with no body to move it. But when Crecy had explained, everyone looked at her like she was mad.
It was at that point she’d thought it prudent to make herself scarce. Now, however, she wanted to see the madman and see what she thought of him. She suspected she’d like him a great deal.
It took her a long while to track him down, but she felt her instincts had been correct, as he, too, had escaped the crowds and gone to sit, alone, staring out over a rather lovely lake. There were spring flowers all around, daffodils bobbing their jaunty heads and a sky so blue; it reminded her of Mary’s cloak in the stained glass window of the church they visited.
She stared at his back for a while, admiring his hair, which was long and tied loosely back with a black velvet ribbon, which threatened to fall out, as it was half undone. His hair was messy, in fact, like he had run his hands through it, and so black that it shone blue, like a crow’s feather.
“You have lovely hair,” she said to the back of his head as she made her way carefully down the bank he was sitting on.
The dark head turned to look at her and she was momentarily startled by a pair of intense, glittering eyes. Suddenly the sky didn’t look so blue any more, not in comparison.
“It’s like a crow’s feather,” she added, waving a hand at his hair in illustration.
Heavy, dark brows that matched his hair drew together and he looked away again. Crecy was undeterred by this, however. She liked to be silent sometimes, so his lack of reply didn’t bother her. She sat down beside him and took out the cream cake. It was a little melt
ed, and her hanky was in something of a state, but nonetheless, it was a cream cake. She began to eat it, trying with difficulty to keep her bites small and dainty, remembering her sister’s recent scolding about her table manners.
She cast him a sideways glance. He was a young man, though a deal older than her, and he did have a rather forbidding expression. His shoulders were hunched and his glower was dark and angry.
“They’re all talking about you in there,” she said, wondering if that was what made him angry; she couldn’t blame him if it was. Crecy hated people talking about her, too. Licking each of her fingers in turn, now that the cream cake was gone, Crecy got up and inched closer to the edge of the lake to rinse her hands and wash out her hanky.
“You’ll fall in,” he observed, sounding like he didn’t much care if she did.
“Probably,” she agreed, grinning at him. She crouched down, heedless of her skirts in the dirt. Leaning forward a little more, she rinsed her hanky and wrung it out again. Standing up, she went to turn, but slid on the mud and began to overbalance, her arms cart-wheeling. With a startled shriek, she had a brief thought that Belle was going to kill her for this, when a strong hand grasped her arm and tugged her forwards, sending her to her knees.
“Thank you,” she gasped, looking up through the blonde curls which had tumbled into her face, up at the man who’d saved her. He gave her a dark look, heavy with irritation and said nothing.
Crecy scrambled back to her spot beside him, laying out with care her handkerchief to dry on the grass.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” he demanded, and she smiled at the sound of his voice. It was a good voice, earthy and deep and rich. It did sound rather vexed, though.
“No,” she said, leaning back on her hands and tilting her head to the sunshine. “Don’t you?”
There was a grunt before he replied. “No.” The word was curt and bitten-off.
“Why do they think you’re mad?” she asked, looking around at him. “You seem fine to me.”
He looked around at that, and if she had been a different kind of girl, she might have quailed at the look in his eyes.
“That,” he said, sounding as though he wished her to Hades, “is because you are an empty-headed little fool. Now run back to your mother and leave me be.”
“My mother is dead,” she said, as matter of fact as ever.
“I suppose you think I should regret my words and pity you now,” he said, sneering at her. “Should I tell you I’m sorry, too?”
Crecy frowned at him. “No, why should you?” she replied, sitting up and staring at him, her expression just as intense. “You don’t know me, you never knew my mother, so why should you care? You’re not the sort to care for someone unless you know them, are you?”
He stared at her, his expression a little perplexed, but that was nothing that Crecy wasn’t used to. “I care for no one,” he said after a slight pause.
She nodded, pulling her knees up to her chest and leaning her chin on them. “I can understand that. People are hard to like. I prefer animals. Well, apart from Belle, of course, she’s my sister.”
She was rewarded with another grunt, this one slightly disgusted and, she suspected, rather disbelieving. She’d spoken true, though. Her father was a drunken fool, her only other relation an aunt who was beyond vulgar, and she’d always found it impossible to become friends with girls her own age. They were so … dull.
“It’s all right you know, I don’t have any friends either,” she said, wondering if the fact bothered him, as he did seem terribly lonely out here. “We can be friends, if you like,” she added, brightening at the idea. “Then we both know there is at least one person in the world who thinks well of us.”
He looked around at that, blue eyes outraged. “You’re an annoying child, and I am not and never will be your friend. Go away, for the love of God.”
Crecy accepted this without any feelings of hurt. She’d tamed a fox once, when they’d still lived in the country. It was injured and could no longer hunt, and its hunger made it desperate enough to approach her to accept the food she held. She’d nearly been bitten a dozen or more times before the creature had allowed her to stroke his head.
“Well, that’s all right, I’ll be your friend, at least. You can’t stop me, you know,” she added with a sympathetic smile, as if she knew full well her words would only annoy him further.
“Oh, God,” he muttered, sounding as though any small amount of patience he might have had was fast disappearing.
They sat in silence for a while, and she watched him from time to time, wondering at the anger she could see as his dark blue eyes stared out, unseeing, over the water.
“When is your birthday?” she asked a little later.
He jumped a little and she realised he’d forgotten she was even there, lost in his thoughts as he was. The young man stared at her, incredulous, and for a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer, and then he frowned.
“Today.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, moving to her knees and staring at him. “Did you get any presents?”
He opened his mouth, staring at her before giving a snort of disbelief.
“I am considered a wicked and remorseless creature, black-hearted and mad. So, no, I did not.”
“Are they right to think so of you?” she asked, her head tilted a little to one side as she struggled to see any signs of madness in him. He was angry, certainly, and she suspected he was generally bad-tempered, but, then, creatures in pain usually were.
“Yes,” he hissed back at her, his eyes narrowed and intense.
Crecy nodded. “Well, it’s still your birthday, you ought to have a present from your friend, at least.” Quite unperturbed by his anger, she rummaged around in her pocket and drew out a beautiful feather. It was striped blue and black and quite the loveliest thing Crecy had ever seen.
“Here,” she said, holding it out to him. “Happy birthday.”
His expression was unreadable now, and she wondered if he would lose his temper entirely, but he said nothing. “Isn’t it beautiful?” She twisted the feather in her fingers so that the colours caught the sunlight. “Still not as blue as your eyes, though,” she added, grinning at him.
Those eyes rolled, looking revolted. “It’s a jay feather,” he said, the words a little reluctant, but then he added with relish, “garrulus glandarius. They’re nasty, vicious birds that steal the young from other bird’s nests.”
Crecy shrugged, unmoved. “Well, they have to eat,” she said, earning herself a look of surprise. “They’re certainly noisy, always shouting and looking fierce, that’s the garrulus bit, I suppose? But they seem shy to me.”
She looked up as a slightly desperate voice called out her name, echoing across the gardens.
“I have to go,” she said with regret. “But take your present first.”
He stared at her, but didn’t move, and she tutted. “I won’t go until you do.”
With a snort of annoyance, he snatched the feather from her hand and she grinned at him.
“I shall write to you,” she said, smoothing down her skirts and seeing the mud at the hem with a sinking heart; Belle would be cross. Realising it was a lost cause, she looked up again. “As you’re my friend now,” she added with a tone that brooked no argument. “And next year I’ll send you a present, too.
“Oh, for the love of God, please don’t,” he retorted. “I shall put any letters straight in the fire without looking at them,” he growled, his words harsh.
Crecy stared at him, considering. “No, you won’t,” she said, and his eyes widened at her.
Belle spoke again, sounding a touch hysterical now.
“Bye,” she said, picking up her still sodden hanky and moving away, and then pausing as she saw the black velvet ribbon that had secured his hair had fallen to the ground. With a grin, she snatched it up, clasping it hard in one hand as she ran away, holding her dirty skirts to her knees with the other as she went.
>
Chapter 1
“Wherein … an invitation to Longwold.”
December 6th, 1817
St Nicholas Day
Viscount DeMorte
Damerel House
Gloucestershire
My dear friend,
I am to be your neighbour!
There is no need for despair, however, it is only for a few days, I assure you. By some stroke of good fortune (or misfortune, depending on your point of view), Belle has secured an invitation for us to attend the Marquess of Winterbourne’s Christmas house party.
I know that this news will vex you as your cousin is clearly not a man you hold any affection for, if what I read in the scandal sheets is to be believed? Are you really so very wicked as they imply? I wish you would tell me one day. You know by now that I do not believe you mad, though I strongly suspect you would not return the compliment to me, and perhaps you are correct after all.
I honestly don’t know.
Shall we meet at last this year, as your estate is so close by? I intend to ride out and trespass if I get the opportunity, you know. Pray, don’t shoot me!
I shall ask, as I do every Christmas, that you reward my steadfast friendship by replying to this letter. Just one little reply would mean a great deal to me. However, after almost eight years of silence, I know you shan’t; strangely, not even to demand I stop writing (yes, I am smiling a little smugly here), so don’t imagine I shall be nursing a broken heart all the holiday, for I won’t. No. I shall be having a grand time, providing I can escape the deadly dull parties (I know you would feel the same about it) and filling my time ghost-hunting. Such a place as Longwold must be stuffed to the rafters with them, surely?
Are there ghosts at Damerel? I shall discover it for myself one day, you know.
Your friend, etc.
Miss Lucretia Holbrook
***
"How impressive it is!" Crecy exclaimed, her excitement mounting as the huge, sprawling castle appeared. A frail sunlight sparkled upon the frosty landscape, a fine mist hugging the ground and bringing to mind every Gothic novel she’d ever read. "I wonder how many ghosts there are."
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