The Earl in My Bed

by Stacy Reid

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Get Scandalous with these historical reads… Vanquishing the Viscount

  Marrying the Wrong Earl

  Scandal in Spades

  The Elusive Wife

  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 © 2018 by Stacy Reid. 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

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Scandalous is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Alycia Tornetta

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill

  Cover art from Period Images and Shutterstock

  ISBN 978-1-64063-476-3

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition April 2018

  Dusean, always and forever

  Chapter One

  Six years earlier…

  Hampstead, England, 1816

  “Good God!”

  Miss Daphne Elizabeth Collins whipped her head up, searching for the source of that expression of appalled disbelief. The light of the noonday sun valiantly peeking from behind bloated clouds obscured her vision. She kicked against the strong currents of the river while holding onto the wiggling bundle in her arms.

  “Thank heavens! Don’t just stand there, help me,” she gasped out. A light misting rain fell, and thunder rumbled in the darkened sky, a warning that more rain was on the horizon.

  The gentleman who’d stumbled upon her swung from his impressive horse and rushed toward the embankment. He knelt in the mud, uncaring that he was dirtying his breeches, and held out his hands. Releasing the jutting bramble, she slapped her hand into his, trusting that he would not allow the river to take her away. Dear God, let us be safe soon.

  He braced himself and hauled her from the churning water. He tried to stand, tugging her with him, but they tumbled along the slippery slope. He slammed into the earth with a grunt but was of a mind to protect her by wrapping his arms around her as she fell against him. The feel of his powerfully muscled body beneath hers sent shock and intrigue rushing through her veins.

  She could not have been in the water for more than a few minutes, but she was chilled to her bones. Daphne stirred, and her cold nose brushed against his rigid jawline.

  “I must say, this is not at all proper, is it?” she said into the curve of his neck, conscious of the wonderful heat emanating from him.

  With a muttered and very ungentlemanlike curse, he pushed her off him as if he had touched the plague, and Daphne found herself sprawled indecorously onto mud and grass. Her dress was muddied and ruined, her bonnet sat askew atop her head, there was a rip in her stocking, and one of her boots had somehow been lost. She was horribly aware of her bedraggled appearance. If Papa saw her now, she would have to be the very picture of female respectability and demure modesty before he would allow her to leave her chamber. Somehow, she would need to return to Seaview Manor and slip through the kitchens to avoid her father and governess discovering her terribly disheveled state. She chuckled softly at the challenge of pulling the wool over the eyes of her very observant and priggish governess.

  “There is nothing remotely humorous in this situation,” her rescuer said a trifle peevishly.

  As if to mock his assertions, her four-month-old energetic and badly trained wolfhound, Gulliver, licked the stranger’s face, yipping and wagging his tail.

  “I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole,” he muttered, trying to find purchase on the slippery slope as he stood. “The day cannot worsen.”

  Daphne was saved from the necessity of a reply as her puppy bounded over to her and licked along her chin. No doubt the wretch was grateful she had jumped into the water without thought to save his life.

  “If you will allow me to assist you, miss?”

  She glanced up at one of the most handsome gentlemen she had ever seen, even a messy and irritated one. Vivid green eyes peered down at her with studied seriousness.

  “Miss Daphne Collins,” she said, reaching for the hand he held out.

  Once again, he attempted to pull her up, and they went tumbling down. He cursed. She laughed. It was all remarkably ridiculous.

  A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. “Perhaps if we are very slow and careful.”

  “I agree, Mister…?”

  “Carrington.”

  She smiled, and they carefully found purchase and made their way up the slope toward the horse. The rain fell harder, and a mortifying sneeze rushed from her. An elegantly embroidered handkerchief materialized, and she took it, rather grateful for his courteousness. “Thank you, Mr. Carrington.”

  “Are you here alone?”

  She nodded.

  “How far do you need to go?”

  She swiped several droplets of rain from her face. “Seaview Manor, a few miles from here.” She pointed east, barely able to distinguish her home in the distance. “I was chasing Gulliver when he fell into the water. I was obliged to rescue the scamp,” she said, bending to scoop him into her arms.

  The harsh disapproval of her rescuer’s mouth softened as he peered at her puppy. “Your actions were foolhardy. What if I hadn’t ridden along?”

  A low growl escaped Gulliver, as if he understood this unknown gentleman was scolding her reckless bid to save him.

  “I’ve never been accused of being cowardly, and my little love would have drowned had I not saved him.” Another frightful sneeze escaped her into the wonderfully fragranced handkerchief.

  “Heavier rain is imminent, and we must find shelter. Have you ever ridden astride?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she admitted, casting a quick glance about, though there was one else present to hear her confession of improper behavior.

  He mounted his horse with masculine and graceful ease. He held out his hand to her, and she blinked before reaching up and allowing him to aid her onto the horse, behind him. Her entire body blushed to be so pressed up against him. Gulliver whined and tried to wriggle from her grasp, but she held tightly onto him as the stranger thundered off.

  And not in the direction of her home.

  Unbearable alarm slithered through her, and releasing his shoulder, she grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked.

  “Sweet Mercy,” he growled, bringing the horse to a shuddering halt.

  Daphne pointed left. “My home is that way, Mr. Carrington. I will be forced to do you irreparable harm if you do not take me there at once.”

  A strangled sound of disbelief emanated from him, and she winced.

  “It is too far, and we will not make it before the deluge. I am riding to Kellits Hall, which is only a few minutes this way,” he said with exaggerated patience, looking as if he wished to throttle her, before once again ur
ging his horse to a careful speed, the rolling hills of the countryside, carpeted with the greenest of grass and bluebells, a blur.

  “Very well,” she said, trying to swallow her apprehension.

  True to his word, they arrived at Kellits Hall a few short minutes later, and he assisted her down.

  She reflected, not for the first time, on how incredibly handsome he was. His hair was as black as coal, and his eyes the darkest green she had ever beheld, like the very grass upon which they stood. He was dressed in a brown jacket, a blue waistcoat, and light-colored breeches that disappeared into knee-high riding boots. Even his mouth was beautifully shaped. She jolted, mortified at the direction of her thoughts. He seemed terribly close, and the need to create a safe distance became imperative. He had an air of rakish danger about him, and perhaps it was men like him, with dastardly reputations, that her governess had warned her to be wary of.

  She hurried up the steps while he led the horse away, presumably toward the stables. Daphne knocked, and after waiting a few beats, the cold gust of wind and rain urged her to open the door and step inside. The large hallway was dimmed, and no welcoming fire greeted her. In fact, all the furniture had been covered with white sheets, and fine dust was settled on the parquet floor.

  The door slammed shut, and she slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her scream as she whirled around. Mr. Carrington leveled amused eyes upon her person.

  “It is only me. Let’s withdraw to the drawing room. I left a fire there earlier.”

  She tried to recall deportment lessons that would possibly guide her in how to behave at this unexpected development of sheltering from the storm with a strange gentleman in an evidently unoccupied house. Daphne frantically searched her memory but there was nothing.

  He prowled ahead, and she followed him into a room where the furniture was likewise covered in sheets. “I’ve heard it is to be let,” she said, hurrying over to the grate where a fire burned low. “Are you to occupy Kellits Hall with your family, Mr. Carrington?”

  He grunted but made no reply, shrugging from his soaked jacket.

  His hair was wet, and his waistcoat and white shirt were plastered to the powerfully defined muscles beneath them. A very strange but sweet twisting ache stirred in her belly, and her heart quickened. Blushing furiously, she dragged her gaze from his lithe form. She winced, for Papa would be grossly disappointed in any conduct that could be deemed unladylike. He had been trying so hard since Mamma died to ensure his daughter had the proper lessons to secure herself a suitable suitor at her coming out, which was only a few months away. An event she anticipated with great expectation.

  She glanced toward Mr. Carrington again. He looked to be about the same age as her older brother who was down from Cambridge for the week. Perhaps they were familiar? “Are you friends with Henry?”

  “Who, may I ask, is Henry?”

  Fiddlesticks. “The honorable Henry Collins, my brother. I thought you might know him.”

  “I don’t. How old are you?” Mr. Carrington asked abruptly. “Forgive my manners,” he amended, raking his fingers through his hair, creating a wave of curls.

  “I will be seventeen in a week,” Daphne said, tugging the bonnet from her head.

  His attention snapped to her hair. He sucked in a sharp and obvious breath, dealing her an arrested stare. Daphne knew she must look a fright—her soft pink day gown was dripping and clung quite uncomfortably, with grass and dirt stains on the hems and her back. And never forget she only had on the one boot. How mortifying. She then noted his gaze remained an inordinate time on her silvery blond hair before he lowered his regard to her face.

  The warm admiration in his eyes as they stroked over her was alarming…and captivating. At her silence, he tugged at his cravat, the nervous action pulling a smile to her lips.

  “I do not mean to be rude, but I cannot stay with you here alone.”

  She glanced at the windows. “The weather is frightfully unaccommodating of that wish.”

  He started to pace like a caged lion, and she couldn’t help staring at his graceful movements. It suddenly struck her that he was worried about being caught alone with her. “Oh, dear.”

  A decidedly imperious brow lifted. “I see you finally understand my predicament.”

  Oh, I do. To abandon her so very far from home in an empty manor was ungentlemanly, but to stay with her would surely compromise her reputation and his honor. A tremor of uncertainty quivered through her. “My father would understand the need that forced us alone for a few minutes,” she said, flushing.

  “Wives and daughters of society have tried to trap me with less inventive scenarios than this,” he said with a rueful twist of his lips.

  “Are you such a good catch, then?” she asked archly.

  He graced her with a look that was vaguely sardonic. “I’ve had to leave several balls early because of their desperate machinations.”

  The contempt in his words was stinging. He was clearly wealthy with impeccable breeding, and Mr. Carrington had an air of refinement that made her feel gauche. Perhaps he was wealthy with estimable connections that had made him sought after. Though it must be unpleasant to be hounded so. She made a silent promise to herself to never be so obvious or ridiculous with a suitor at her debut. The man she married must love and cherish her with his whole being, and of course, she would admire him with a similar ardent regard.

  “Papa has honor,” she insisted. Not that she could reveal her father’s dear desire for her to secure a titled gentleman. No mere mister or second son would do for his daughter, a statement he had made to the few suitors who had attempted to pay a call upon her these past months. Papa had been unforgivably rude and unrepentant.

  “Mothers are more marriage minded.”

  “Mamma is dead, so please suffer no fear in that regard.”

  He froze, then slowly spun on his heels to face her. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said gruffly.

  “It was years ago,” replied Daphne, burying the flare of familiar sorrow.

  He shot her a side-eyed glance. “It has been three years and six days since I lost my father. I still feel the sting of it every day.”

  “I am very sorry for your loss as well, sir.”

  “Please, let us be informal. I’m Sylvester.”

  Sylvester. She suddenly felt warm, despite her soaked clothing. “Oh no, I couldn’t. That would not be at all proper, Mr. Carrington.”

  He hesitated slightly, then said, “As you wish, Miss Collins.”

  He smiled, and the charm of it made her breath hitch. A dangerous promise—or was it a threat—lurked in his smile. The thrill of the moment was undeniable, and Daphne felt as if she were taking tea with a suitor.

  Somehow, they started a discourse, and he engaged her quite effortlessly in a conversation he seemed genuinely interested in. They did not speak of the things her governess had instructed her to have discourse on. There was no mention of the weather, or balls, or routes, or any on-dits. They spoke of the war and slavery, the affairs of the nation, and the fact that he wanted to explore the world. The passion he radiated as he spoke of traveling informed her that he did not like being restricted. In fact, the way he paced, his movements so carefully controlled, hinted at a gentleman who did not know how to simply pause and appreciate the simple pleasure of life.

  Or perhaps she was fanciful.

  He hadn’t seemed appalled that she’d formed her own opinions and shared them without reservations. He’d expressed no disapproval of her intelligence but simply accepted that she was well-read. How curious and frightfully appealing.

  What had started as a dreary day had taken quite a turn and was arguably one of the most amiable afternoons she could ever recall. Almost an hour had passed before she belatedly realized, while he now knew a lot about her family and her precious Gulliver, Mr. Carrington hardly spoke of his family.

  And once the rain eased, he ended their conversation quite brusquely and urged her from the house. He car
ried her home but only tipped his hat and whirled away the instant she had dismounted at the forecourt of Seaview Manor. Her disappointment was great. He made no indication if he would call upon her father and introduce himself, nor had he confirmed if he was letting Kellits Hall.

  Surely she had not misconstrued his admiration whilst they had chatted?

  Gulliver barked, but Mr. Carrington did not glance back. Turning on her heels, Daphne snuck inside before she caught a chill. A couple of hours later, freshly scrubbed from a bath and dressed in a short-sleeved white day gown, adorned with a bright red waist sash, she stared through the windows at the sleeting rain. Had Mr. Carrington returned to Kellits Hall? Or had he ridden off elsewhere?

  She wondered what her father knew of the mysterious man. Surely there must be a delicate way to pry the information from him without being too obvious in her admiration. She made her way from the drawing room toward her papa’s study.

  Daphne knocked and waited. Alarm slithered through her as a pained groan came through the thick oak door. She wrenched it open. “Papa!”

  He was bent over his desk, pain furrowing his bushy brows. She rushed to his side, helping him into his seat. “Dear Heavens, what is wrong, Papa?”

  The hand he had clutched to his chest eased slightly, and the lines of strain bracketing his mouth eventually smoothed. “I am well, my dear, very well indeed. This is a mild distemper of my stomach, no doubt from indulging in too rich a luncheon.”

  “Please do not lie to me.” Daphne was young, but she was not daft. “You were clutching your chest.”

  He brushed a hand across her cheek tenderly. “Come now, there is nothing to worry about. Sit with me. I feel we haven’t had one of our long talks for a while. Then perhaps you may read to me.”

  She did not point out it was only yesterday they had strolled along the lawns of the estate and recalled their wonderful time with Mamma. And she had read to him then, The Mysterious Warning by Eliza Parsons, a gothic story he had read to Daphne and Mamma as they had curled on the sofa by the fire in the drawing room. Instead, she walked over to the sofa closest to him, pushed her slippers from her feet, and curled her stocking-clad legs on the sofa. Shockingly, her papa did not berate her for her unladylike pose.