The Earl in My Bed

by Stacy Reid

  “How was your day, my dear?”

  “Are you familiar with a Mr. Carrington who is to let Kellits Hall?” A flush ran over her entire body at her blurt, and she glanced away from the shrewd speculation that leaped into her father’s eyes.

  “How are you acquainted with him, young lady?”

  Deplorably, her heart skipped. “I met Mr. Carrington on my return walk. He was very good-natured and courteous,” she hedged. And handsome and so terribly appealing.

  “You like this Carrington?”

  Oh dear. “Papa!”

  “My child, we have each other’s confidence and trust. And you know my wish for you is a worthy alliance.”

  His unwavering stare prompted her into speech. “Our meeting was so brief I did not form an opinion, I am merely curious, Papa.”

  His mouth curved wryly. “I am not familiar with a mister, only with the Earl of Carrington. There was some speculation he was intent on purchasing Kellits Hall. And when I happened upon him this morning during my ride, he seemed to be touring Kellits Hall lands. He is known to be a most eligible gentleman with over one hundred thousand pounds a year.”

  An earl! Why hadn’t he said so? She was pleasantly intrigued. Now she understood why he hadn’t been flustered when during their discourse she had revealed her father to be Viscount Blagrove. He had been so attentive and good-natured. Best of all, he had made her heart race, very much like how her mamma had said Papa made her feel.

  How glorious it would be if he fell in love with her. One of the few things Daphne was certain of was that she wanted to marry for the most passionate and daring love, like the kind her mother had with her father. Though their union had been arranged, it had grown into an enviable love match, or so Mamma had recounted countless times. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the earl paid a call to me on my come out?”

  “And he would still not be worthy of you, my dear Daphne.”

  Embarrassed to be speaking so frankly of the silly hopes in her heart, she opened the book. “Let me read to you, Papa, then I’ll consult with the cook on tonight’s menu.” And she would also send a discreet note to summon the doctor. Her mother had passed away from a wasting illness, and while there were days Daphne feared her papa was ready to be with his beloved wife in heaven, she was not quite ready to lose him. Perhaps not for another fifty years or more. “Shall I read?”

  He nodded slowly, but there was a peculiar gleam in his eyes she did not understand. Unaccountably, it made her a bit apprehensive. Pushing the absurd thought aside, she opened the pages of The Mysterious Warning and settled in for a most amiable time with her father. She refused to dwell further on a certain earl who most likely had no more thoughts of her.

  …

  Sylvester Augustus Wentworth, Earl of Carrington, was exceedingly puzzled at the letter he’d gotten from Lord Blagrove, requesting an urgent audience. Sylvester had no interaction with the viscount outside of their brief meeting when he toured Kellits Hall grounds, and unexpectedly encountering his exquisitely charming and delightful daughter. Despite her disheveled state, the honorable Miss Daphne Collins had presented a very pretty and agreeable picture. Her lips had been so sweetly curved and tempting. Wisps of wet hair had escaped her chignon and framed her lovely features. Her deep-set brown eyes were particularly fine, and they had glowed with intelligence and warmth that instantly stirred his senses.

  She had been striking in her loveliness. He would allow that she had appeared lithe and graceful, and more sweetly sensual than all the ladies he’d encountered this season and last. She had tempted the scoundrel in him, and he had so badly wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her. Thankfully he had regained his good senses and had acted with respect to her sensibilities.

  Sylvester had been disturbed by his attraction to Miss Collins and had felt like a debaucher, though he had been very careful with his manners. It would not do for the girl to cry improper conduct on his part, forcing him to then be honorable.

  He was only three and twenty and had wicked plans before settling down with a wife. Sylvester was not quite ready for domesticity and its delights, which his mother and half the ton touted. A wife would hinder the plans he had for his pleasures and travels. Settling down would come later, for he knew and respected his duty to his title, and when the time came, he would select his bride with fine care.

  So what could the viscount want? Had Miss Collins revealed they had spent a part of the afternoon alone, unchaperoned? Or was it something far more serious?

  The note did seem rather urgent and troubling.

  Lord Carrington.

  A matter of grave importance has come to my attention that concerns your family. I ask for an audience at your earliest convenience.

  Faithfully,

  Robert Collins, Viscount Blagrove.

  A matter that concerned his family. Sylvester’s father had died three years past, leaving him to assume his seat earlier than anticipated. But he had been up to the task, having been groomed so relentlessly on his duty from the age of eight years, eschewing all form of childhood play. His father had been single-mindedly obsessed about the continuation of the title and what Sylvester’s duty to it must be. His father had left behind a heartbroken wife and daughter. Their wellbeing was now in his hands, and there was nothing he wanted more than to be capable and care for his mother and sister. He also had a stable of uncles, aunts, and cousins. Which of his family members could Lord Blagrove possess news of grave importance about?

  It was that question that prompted Sylvester to travel once more to Hampstead a few days later. He was now seated in a wingback chair in a firelit study, which was decorated in dark green hues, facing the portly viscount. The viscount seemed as if he had lost weight and gained more gray hairs since Sylvester had last seen him. The buttons of his coat did not bulge as if his rotund belly would part the buttons. His pallor had also decidedly worsened. Was the man ill?

  With all the pleasantries, and even a shared glass of brandy out of the way, he was getting impatient. “Why have you requested a meeting, Lord Blagrove?”

  “Ah, a man who likes to get on with business.”

  “I was not aware we had any business together. Come, man, speak now of this matter which involves my family.”

  The viscount reached into the top drawer of his desk and withdrew a thick envelope. He placed it gently on the surface. “This is for you.”

  The man’s air of secrecy was curious. Biting back a curse, Sylvester reached for the envelope, but the viscount placed a very deliberate fingertip atop the thick vellum paper, preventing him from taking it.

  “The contents of these reports are exceedingly accurate, and there will be a cost for my silence.”

  It did not take him long to see the old man was most assuredly serious. His heart froze in his chest, and the slide of alarm through his veins was decidedly unpleasant. “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. The gall of the man was shocking.

  A cough jerked Lord Blagrove’s frame. With almost painful movements, he took a handkerchief to his lips and dabbed. The eyes that peeked up at Sylvester were anything but frail, they were shrewd and ruthless.

  Not releasing his gaze, Sylvester retrieved the envelope and pried it open, frowning at the single sheet of paper that held a detailed report.

  Lady Henrietta Wentworth.

  The bold scrawl of his sister’s name atop the sheet of paper had an unnamed emotion crawling through his body. With great reluctance, he read the page, fierce denial roaring through him. His nineteen-year-old sister, whom he lovingly called Hetty simply to tease her, was engaged to the Earl of Hartington and Hetty professed on every occasion how ardently in love she was with the man. But this filthy report detailed his sister having a child a year ago, one she had given up to a couple in Cornwall.

  “This is a lie,” he snarled over the silence, rage and violence throbbing in his voice.

  How had the investigator come by such a report? It even gave the name of her vile seducer,
and the exact date her daughter had arrived into the world to a mother who had hidden the truth of her and had given her away to save herself from scandal and ignominy. If there was any veracity to this, he had failed his family.

  Sylvester glanced up, crumbling the paper in his fist.

  The viscount had relaxed back into his chair as if he had not delivered news that he knew was most distressing.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of the broker.”

  Sylvester stiffened. Of course he’d heard unfounded rumors of the blackguard who founded his wealth on others pain and secrets. “I can’t say I have.”

  The man’s lips creased into a semblance of a smile. “I have in my possession Lord Danbridge’s letters. They are of the most sordid kind, which confirms his affair with your sister.”

  An affair? She would have been only seventeen, and Danbridge was a married man of some years, who had garnered quite a reputation as a rake amongst his set. How in God’s name had his sweet and properly brought up sister fallen under the man’s wiles? Where had his mother been? Where had he been?

  “I have the next copy of this report locked away. With signed testimonies from a midwife and the letters from Danbridge, all bound and ready to be delivered to a scandal sheet of my choice.”

  Sylvester stared at the viscount, and the man cleared his throat. “Let me be clear, Lord Carrington, if I should be met with a foul end, my solicitors are instructed to act accordingly. I’ve planned this very carefully.”

  The man had accurately read the murderous thoughts beating through Sylvester’s soul.

  “You will force me to reveal a most sordid affair that will see your family ruined, and your sister’s current alliance damaged beyond repair. Not even a venerable title like yours will be able to render her respectable,” the viscount murmured, something akin to regret flashing in his eyes before quickly vanishing. “Let’s negotiate like the gentlemen we are.”

  Foreboding slithered through Sylvester’s veins. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve thought this through rather carefully, my lord. I want you to court and then marry my daughter by the end of the month. A special license will be procured, and our families united with all haste.”

  Miss Daphne Collins.

  “She is a child,” he snapped in disbelief, not to mention he would never give this vile blackmailer the satisfaction. “I have no notion of her character, nor she of mine.”

  “Yet it is you she wants, and you she shall have.”

  “What in God’s name do you mean?”

  “My daughter likes you, Carrington, and I must say I never hoped to land an earl for her. Certainly, a gentleman for her hand, but not one of your stature and lineage. I greatly admired your father, you know. He was a fine man.”

  Sylvester slowly stood. “She knows nothing of the man I am or aspire to be. Why would she wish to be my wife?”

  “It only matters to me that she would.”

  Anger lit in his veins. “You would cause my family untold pain with these vicious unfounded rumors because your spoiled daughter has told you she wants my title?” For the last two seasons, he’d been chased relentlessly by marriage-minded debutantes and countless matchmaking mamas. Sylvester was acquainted with the lengths and antics mothers and daughters indulged in when they set their cap on an unwilling suitor, but this…this was disgusting and unforgivable.

  “Yes,” replied the viscount without any evident remorse.

  How ill-judged Sylvester had been of her character, and how silly of him to have believed her to be a witty and pleasant young lady. He had thought her sweet and innocent. The very thought of being shackled for life to a covetous, grasping female like Miss Collins filled him with icy anger. “You do realize I would never love a deceptive bitch like her,” he said cuttingly.

  There was a slight tightening around Lord Blagrove’s mouth, but he replied mildly, “She will be a countess, there is no more I could wish for my daughter. With the need you will have for an heir, I am certain you will eventually be overcome by her charms.”

  “If you will excuse me,” Sylvester said sharply, “the air has been decidedly fouled.” With a huff of disgust, he spun on his heels.

  “You will be back, my lord,” Blagrove said softly. “For I will not hand over these papers until my daughter is your wife.”

  Sylvester ignored him, wrenched the door open, and with clipped strides exited the manor…and collided with Miss Collins. The bundle of flowers dropped from her hands, and she glanced up. She visibly brightened, delight burning in her brown eyes. The sun struck the silvery blond of her hair, lighting the darker strands with golden fire. She made a breathtaking picture.

  Disgust slithered through him that he could admire anything about her, knowing her avaricious heart.

  “My lord, I was not aware you had called,” she said, dipping into a quick, graceful curtsey. “How do you fare?”

  Fearing he would throttle the scheming beauty, he skirted around her without acknowledgment. She gasped, but Sylvester did not even deign to look back. His carriage was brought around, and he hauled himself inside, hating the pain twisting through his body.

  Could his sister truly have endured such hardship, and he’d been unaware? Or was this simply a vile rumor? Did he have a niece in the world that had been abandoned by her family?

  He would confront his mother, since surely Hetty would not have acted on her own. Someone had made the arrangements, if the reports were true. And he feared they were, for he recalled a time Hetty had been in the country with their mother, a prolonged illness, he had believed.

  The trap Miss Collins had laid was intricate, and he saw no way to escape it without bringing ruin to his sister. If he didn’t know better, he would believe Miss Collins had orchestrated her rescue by the river.

  Scrubbing a hand over his face, he prayed the report was a lie and Hetty had not abandoned her child to strangers. He prayed she hadn’t been used and discarded by a vile seducer like Danbridge.

  Closing his eyes, Sylvester settled against the squabs, hating that if the reports were true, he would be obliged to bind himself to the manipulative Miss Collins, for he would do anything to protect his family. A heavy weight settled into his gut at the very idea of marrying someone who only saw his wealth and status. How careful he had been to avoid the mothers and daughters of the ton who pursued him with such ruthless matrimonial fervor. How it infuriated him his choice was being blackmailed away from him, and how it stung that while he had admired her wit and beauty, she’d only had avarice in her heart and eyes.

  I’ll not give her any part of me. The vow traveled through his soul.

  She could take the bloody title, but nothing else.

  Chapter Two

  Present day…

  London, May 1822

  Daphne Wentworth, Lady Carrington, allowed Viscount Redgrave to twirl her across the ballroom with effortless grace. But it was impossible to lose herself in the rhythm of the sensuous waltz due to the voices of doubt and uncertainty rioting inside over her chosen path. Though the ball was an anticipated event of the season and promised to be great fun, Daphne was frightfully unhappy, a state she feared would soon drive her mad. Emptiness rose inside her like a great swell, threatening to choke her.

  She was three and twenty and had never been truly kissed, never been seduced by a charming scoundrel…or the man she had fallen in love with six years ago—Sylvester Wentworth, the eleventh Earl of Carrington, and her husband. How naive and foolish she had been. A man such as he had not been capable of love or even tender sentiments. Not then, and over the years he had only grown more austere, garnering a reputation for being remorseless and unforgiving. And she was his wife, his countess. She had once ached for him with such intensity that even now the mere memory had her breath trembling.

  Their marriage was not one of convenience or love, but one born through hatred and blackmail. Though it was safe to say his hatred had evolved over the years to cold indifference.


  Indifference. How the notion stung, deeply. She had once only desired the admiration of Sylvester. Now she was glad they hardly saw each other. The cruel charade of her marriage had become unbearable.

  Blackmail and dishonor netted you a title. I hope it keeps you warm when the nights are long, cold, and lonely…Countess.

  Words said years ago on her wedding night echoed in her heart with the same brutal sting. Oh, Papa. How she wished he had not interfered. Daphne had been too excited, too naive, and too foolish to consider the sudden engagement without the benefit of a lengthy courtship odd. Certainly, some of the blame rested on her shoulders for not wondering why an earl with such estimable wealth and connection would offer for her so suddenly. Nor had she thought overly much of his reticence on one of the few occasions he paid his addresses, and on their wedding day. Daphne had truly believed him to be similarly captivated. How silly she had been when she had thought she was worldly and self-aware because she was well-read.

  The waltz ended, and they glided along the edge of the ballroom, the heat of the crush almost stifling.

  “You are delightful,” the viscount murmured in a low, intimate tone. “I wish to dance with you again.”

  Lord Redgrave’s eyes glowed with warmth and heat, and she wished she could respond, but she would not. He hardly understood her reticence. After all, almost every lord and lady of the ton was indulging in some affair. It was a well-known fact most were not faithful; their proclivities were simply not commented on. It wasn’t that she found Redgrave unattractive. Far from it. He was the prime catch of the season. He was handsome, with his dark blond locks, hazel eyes, and one of the most charming smiles she had ever encountered.

  “We’ve already danced the quadrille and a waltz. Tongues will wag if we dare anymore,” she said with a small smile to remove the sting of her refusal.

  She tilted her head gracefully, absently noting the manner in which his gaze lingered on the gentle swell of her breasts, how it dipped and stayed on her hips. The viscount wished to be her lover, and he was naive enough to believe they could cuckold her husband and live to enjoy their stolen moments. The few kisses he had pressed upon her were pleasant, but Daphne would not allow more until she was free. And even then, she was not certain if she would enjoy a liaison with him.