Emma and the Earl
Samantha Holt
Bluestocking Brides
Table of 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
Epilogue
Chapter One
“Lord Radcliff. Oh, Lord Radcliff. Where are you? You are cheeky!”
Morgan held his breath. He daren’t move or Mrs. Newton would surely see him in the shadows. It was a minor miracle she had walked past him at all but he suspected she had enjoyed one too many sherries and the drink was making her bold.
It was not that he was averse to the occasional dalliance with a curvaceous, attractive widow—or perhaps a regular dalliance either—but Mrs. Newton was no widow and he did not engage with married women. Not to mention that Helen Oxford was here and he had yet to break things off with her. Helen was not the best choice of bed partner, as he had unfortunately learned. She was the jealous sort and would not take well to the delectable Mrs. Newton following him around.
“Lord Radcliff...” Mrs. Newton pivoted at the end of the darkened corridor and tried one of the doors. She had the same problem as he...all locked it seemed—likely to keep the rabble of guests out.
Hence how he had found himself tucked into a corner behind a dusty velvet curtain trying to ignore the tickle in his nose.
“You are a tease. Where are you? If you are trying to make me more eager, there is only so much waiting a girl can take.”
Mrs. Newton tried the next door, then another. She staggered before she came to the next and paused to rest against the wall. She pulled out a fan and swished it rapidly in front of her face. The fierce movement sent a gentle breeze his way. But it was strong enough to stir the dust on the curtain.
Morgan closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth. He was not going to sneeze. He was not going to—
The sneeze escaped him, sounding like the singular most loud sneeze in the history of mankind.
“Oh!” Mrs. Newton whirled in his direction and, even in the dark, he saw her eyes light up.
He dashed down the stairs, then back up on the other side, finding himself in another corridor of the same design. Behind him, he could hear tapping footsteps and a giggle.
“Lord Rad—”
He twisted a doorknob and fell through the doorway, surprised by its unlocked status. From his position on the floor, he slammed the door shut with a foot and rose to press his back to it.
Breath held, he waited. She had likely heard the door slam but did she know which room he was in? The light slap of slippers on floorboards scurried past then stopped. One door rattled a way down the corridor. Then another door opened and shut. He scanned the darkened room which looked to be a music room of some sorts. A piano sat in one corner with sheets of music laid out across the top of it. A cello was propped up by the fireplace and several violin cases were next to it.
Under his breath he cursed. No places to hide. He briefly debated folding himself into the open cello case on the floor but there was little chance his large form would fit.
The sound of a door closing far too near reminded him of his conundrum. He should just turn around, open the door and tell Mrs. Newton to go back to her husband, but everyone knew Mrs. Newton did not take no for answer. The tales of an extensive list of lovers was almost as notorious as his—with one exception, of course—Mrs. Newton did not much care if her lovers were married, engaged, virgins or confirmed bachelors. Morgan prided himself on having a little more discretion and taste.
No, he did not want to be added to that list. He was liked by all in London, and he did not need the taint of Mrs. Newton affecting his chances with the next beautiful widow on his list.
He tiptoed over to the window and pushed his head between the curtains. Only one floor up. Hardly a big drop. Perhaps he could find something to shimmy down and escape into the night. He was reluctant to give up an evening of dancing but it was surely better than being found in some sort of compromising position with Mrs. Newton.
Morgan popped the two locks on either side of the sash window and pushed it up, wincing at the slight squeak it made. Then he eased out onto the large stone window ledge and drew the curtains behind him. He waited there, crouched like an animal hiding from his hunter.
His legs began to ache as he waited. This was not a natural position for a man, particularly not one of his build. His heart thudded in his ears when the door opened and the floorboards creaked.
“Lord Radcliff,” Mrs. Newton called. “This is not funny anymore.”
He was not sure that any parts of this had been funny. Ending up being crouched on a ledge, only one step away from many broken bones was not his idea of fun.
Morgan braced himself for the sudden swish of curtains and the delighted cry of Mrs. Newton but it never came. She gave a huff. “I am not giving up. I shall be waiting right out here until you decide to come out. I am a stubborn woman, my lord, and no man gets away from me.”
He had to assume she meant the corridor as she left the room and shut the door. So that meant he had no choice but to try to escape via the window. He glanced down. There were no handy drainpipes or anything for him to climb down. If he jumped, he would surely break a leg.
As he peered over the edge, a redheaded woman came out from the assembly rooms, almost directly underneath him. She paused, looked up at the skies then sank down onto the step. He only knew of a few redheaded women in attendance so it had to be one of the Chadwick sisters. His good friend the Duke of Weston had married one of the sisters recently. The man had found himself utterly enamored with the girl.
He was about to call out to her when another redheaded girl joined her. The younger sister, he reckoned, although he could only see the tops of their heads. She was the smallest, though. These were the two unmarried ones by his reckoning.
What two skinny redheads could do to help, he did not know, but he was in quite a pickle, and he had little choice. He grinned as the youngest, Catherine, declared she would kick someone in the shins. He would wait just a moment, then rope them into help.
Chapter Two
Winter stubbornly clung to spring, forming dragon puffs of cloud around Emma’s breath. Strains of music and chatter ebbed from the assembly room door behind her. The stone step on which she sat bit into her rear and her skin pimpled with the chill. In only a white satin gown, she was hardly dressed for the weather.
However, it was preferable to being crushed between the sweaty, over fragranced bodies of the ton. Emma grimaced. A Mr. Bartholomew had been particularly keen on being present in her personal space and demanding as many dances as possible. To stand up with him more than once would look like a promise of something, and she had little idea how to say no. He was a rich merchant man, but plain in looks and personality. Not the sort to sweep a woman off her feet, particularly when he was adept at treading on them.
She took in a long inhale of bitter air. No doubt he was only interested in her connection to her brothers-in-law, particularly Lord Weston, who was a duke. Since Julia’s marriage to him last year there had been a renewed interest in the family, hence their coming to London.
She would far rather be running through the fields of Hampshire or down by the riverside, though. The fact was, no matt
er how interested people were in her—albeit for mercenary reasons—none of those people interested her. She rather liked the idea of marriage these days. Perhaps it was to do with getting older. But so far she had yet to meet anyone remotely interesting.
How fickle it all was. Not long ago, they had been pariahs. Practically banished from society all because of Cousin Bess who ran off with a vicar’s cousin. Her sisters’ tendency toward being bluestockings had not helped either, but now that two of them were married to a duke and a viscount, not to mention Lavinia who had married a Scottish laird, they could be as bluestocking as they liked and people still wanted to know them.
Dainty footsteps on the stone behind her made Emma turn her head. Her younger sister, and the youngest of all the Chadwick girls, stood in the doorway. Catherine was the smallest of them all even though she had just turned twenty, but she had the same build as Emma. ‘As skinny as reeds’ was how their father described them. They also took after him in their looks with their wild red hair and freckles. Unfortunately for them. Only Lavinia had been lucky enough to inherit their mothers looks, being fair and buxom. It was no wonder Lavinia had been the first sister to marry.
“Whatever are you doing out here? There’s still dancing to be done.”
Emma shook her head. “I’m not interested in dancing.”
“Whatever is wrong with you? You normally love to dance. Is it because you broke the strings on your violin? We could get the fixed while were in Town, you know?”
She shook her head again. When two of the strings on her new violin had broken, she had taken it as a hint to stop practicing. That and the way her sister covered her ears every time she had played had told her that this was definitely not the hobby for her. “No, it’s not that.”
“Then come and dance with me. I shall keep you safe from that boring Mr. Bartholomew.” Catherine gave a mock shudder. “He’s so keen on you, it’s unnatural. But if he touches you, I shall kick him in the shins.”
Emma could not help but laugh. Catherine might be small but she was the feistiest of them all. Few people would threaten to kick a gentleman at a ball, but somehow, she would not put it past Catherine to do just that.
“I will return shortly,” Emma promised. “I just needed some air.”
“Well, do not stay out here for long. Mama says there are many eligible gentlemen in attendance and you know she wants you to get married next. After all, it is your turn.”
“Why does it have to my turn? Maybe I do not wish to be married at all.”
“Nonsense. You are far more romantic than I. What if you found a man like Guy or Nicholas?”
She was referring to their brothers-in-law who had both managed to sweep their sisters off their feet, much to everyone’s surprise. No one expected the Chadwick sisters to be swept anywhere by anyone, let alone by titled, handsome men.
“They are wonderful for Amelia and Julia, but after seeing the offerings in there” —Emma jerked a thumb in the direction of the assembly room door— “I think I shall remain a spinster forever.”
Catherine shrugged. “That suits me. If you never marry, Mama shall not even bother to force me.” She sat on the step and looped her arm forcefully through Emma’s. “I rather like the idea of being crazy, unmarried aunts to Julia and Amelia’s children.”
Emma smiled at this. “Yes, we could be awfully bad role models. It would drive Amelia utterly batty.”
Catherine chuckled. “After all the effort she put in trying to be a good role model for us, it really would.” A sigh came from her sister. “I hope Amelia has children soon. She said it is not for lack of trying.”
“Yes, she would make a wonderful mother.”
“Speaking of mothers, I had better return to ours. I shall tell her I could not find you.”
“Oh, could you?” Emma gave Catherine’s hand a squeeze.
Catherine stood and straightened her skirts. “Just do not stay out here long. You are the only sister left at home now. I would not have you sickening. After all, I would have no one left to annoy.”
“I will not,” Emma promised.
After her sister returned to the hall, she turned her attention back to the dark skies and the surrounding buildings. She would have to return eventually and there would be many more hours of dancing to go. She pulled up her knees to her chin and rested it upon them. Catherine was right of course, she was the most romantic of the sisters. After seeing Amelia and Julia in wedded bliss, the idea of finding a man who might hold her interest and actually understand her had grown more appealing by the day. He was not, however, in these assembly rooms tonight.
“Oof.”
She stilled at the masculine sound and turned her gaze upward in the direction of the sound. Emma blinked twice to ensure she was seeing the source of the noise correctly. Frowning, she stood and turned to face the building fully.
“Lord Radcliff?”
He glanced down at her from his position on the windowsill. A position that looked awfully precarious, particularly given that he was a story up and if he slipped, he could easily break a leg or worse.
“Ah. Miss Emma.”
“Miss Chadwick now,” she reminded him.
“Of course.”
He froze and pressed a finger to his lips. He twisted his head to glance back inside and Emma scowled. Lord Radcliff had been introduced to them as Julia’s husband’s friend but they had only engaged in a few conversations and a dance once at Amelia’s house. He had invested some money into a business venture that Julia and Guy were working on but he seldom visited to see the progress. From what she knew of him, he was well liked by everyone, including many, many, many ladies.
“Whatever are you doing up there?”
He glanced down at her and flashed a wild grin. He had a handsome smile—the sort that instantly warmed a room and made people like him. She had thought him a pleasantly charming sort of person but, of course, she had not heard the tales of his many lovers until she had come to London, so her opinion of him had changed somewhat since.
Though, she supposed if she was a widow or an older spinster, she would not object to being on that list of lovers, she thought, feeling wicked indeed as the thought whispered through her mind. With chestnut brown hair, a long nose, firm chin, and lips that should have looked too big for a man, he was certainly one of the more handsome men in attendance this evening.
If one could call hanging from a window ‘in attendance’.
“I don’t suppose you could give me a hand?” he asked.
Emma lifted a brow. “I think you would be better off climbing back in. I’m not sure what I can do. A hand certainly will not help.”
He chuckled. “I can’t go inside at this moment.” He scanned the area. “That hay cart there. Can you get it?”
“Um.”
She peered in the direction of his gaze and spied a hay cart a little way down the road. It was small and only half-loaded but she wasn’t sure she could pull it herself. She swung her gaze between him and the cart, and sighed.
“If I get dirty, Mama will have my head,” she muttered.
“More fun than dancing with Bartholomew,” he quipped.
Emma sucked in a breath and scowled at him. “You were listening?”
“I tried to be a gentleman but there is only so much one can do to avoid ladies’ conversations when one is sitting on a window ledge.” He shrugged. “If it is any consolation, I think Bartholomew is a loathsome creature.”
“Stay there,” she ordered, not willing to have an argument with a man hanging from a window any longer.
“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”
Striding over to the cart, she inspected it. If he landed on it, he would have a few bruises but it would be a lot better than falling onto the stone pavement. She grasped one handle and gave it an experimental lift. It took some effort but she could lift it onto its wheels if she grabbed both handles.
A glance over her shoulder told her Lord Radcliff remaine
d where he was and for whatever reason, he was not going to return to the room. She could not very well ignore him and let him fall to his doom. If he hurt himself, she would feel guilty forever.
She took both handles and grunted as she lifted it. The wheels creaked when she dragged it forward. After a mere few steps backward, her arms burned with effort. She dropped it down with a clatter and shook out her arms.
“I do not mean to be a pest but I think my legs are going numb,” Lord Radcliff called.
Emma shook her head. This was the singular most strange thing she had ever done, and with sisters like hers, that was saying something. Emma had taken part in some crazy plans recently but this really was one to remember.
She straightened and braced herself to take the weight once more. She managed several more steps before she had to take a break. Her palms were filthy and she suspected she had a splinter in one finger. He’d better be grateful for her help. Any other woman would have pretended she did not see a thing.
“Miss Chadwick?”
“Yes, I’m coming,” she muttered.
With one last effort, she lined it up with the wall. Because of where the stairs were, it was not completely under the window but slightly to one side. It would do, though. If he jumped carefully, he’d land safely.
“There,” she declared, releasing the handles. Unthinkingly, she wiped her hands down her dress. Smears of grime marked her pale gown. “Blast.” How she would return to the ball looking like this, she did not know.
“Stand back.” Lord Radcliff twisted his body a little, lining himself up with the cart.
Emma took a step back and had to resist the desire to cover her eyes. He jumped and it seemed to happen slowly. He landed on the cart and the wood splintered. A great cracking sound tore through the night. Hay and dust clouded about the air. Lord Radcliff’s body bounced and before she could fathom it, he tumbled over the side of the cart, directly onto her.
Her back jarred against the muddy road. Her head connected with the ground and the thud rang through her head. Sparks jumped in front of her eyes. Lord Radcliff’s body smothered hers. It took several breaths and lots of blinking to establish quite what had happened. She was on the ground and Lord Radcliff had landed perfectly on top of her. She blinked again. With a groan she lifted her head and poked the lifeless earl in the cheek.
Emma and the Earl (Bluestocking Bride Book 3) Page 1