“Build a wall about your heart.”
Riordan Wollstonecraft labors under the heavy burden of his forebears. For generations, a curse has followed the dashing young men of his family, guaranteeing the women they love an untimely death. The youngest grandson of the Earl of Wollstonecraft Hall, charismatic Riordan is quietly resigned to his fate, an educator who devotes his life to good works, and ignores any longing for something more . . .
Widowed and penniless, Lady Sabrina Lakeside is desperate to avoid a second forced betrothal—this time to an aged marquess. Her chance encounter with Riordan leads her to an impulsive offer: a temporary marriage of convenience that could benefit them both. His agreement is as surprising as it is welcome. Before long, Riordan’s keen intellect and kind words have Sabrina rethinking her plans of a union in name only. But her new husband is holding something back. Will giving in to their tantalizing passion lead her only to further heartache . . . or could it be the first step toward healing them both?
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Books by Karyn Gerrard
The Hornsby Brothers
The Vicar’s Frozen Heart
Bold Seduction
The Ravenswood Chronicles
Beloved Beast
Beloved Monster
The Men Of Wollstonecraft Hall
Marriage With A Proper Stanger
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Marriage With A Proper Stranger
The Men of Wollstonecraft Hall
Karyn Gerrard
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Copyright
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 by Karyn Gerrard
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First Electronic Edition: February 2018
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0546-5
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0546-X
First Print Edition: February 2018
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0549-6
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0549-4
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To my teacher husband, who is not only the inspiration for the hero of this book, but my rock and support. Love you. Always.
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Martin Biro, editor, at Kensington Publishing, my editor, Amanda Siemen, and my agent, Elaine Spencer from The Knight Agency. What a support you all are!
Prologue
Wollstonecraft Hall, Kent
Autumn, 1831
Taking a stroll through a gloomy graveyard was the last thing thirteen-year-old Riordan wished to do on this dismal, overcast autumn day. But he and his twin brother, Aidan, followed dutifully behind their grandfather as he led them to the private area on the edge of the vast estate of Wollstonecraft Hall.
Ravens cawed loudly overhead as they swooped and circled above the rows of tombstones. Gnarled trees stood around the perimeter of the cemetery, as if guarding the dead. Riordan swore he could see screaming faces in the patterns of the bark. A breeze rustled the remaining leaves, creating an eerie sound, causing a chill to curl about Riordan’s spine. Aidan, however, was not affected by their gothic surroundings; he gave Riordan a shove, almost knocking him from his feet.
“Stop it,” Riordan whispered fiercely.
Aidan gave him a smug smile and shoved him again. It was tempting to wrestle his annoying brother to the ground, but he decided against it when their grandfather stopped before a polished marble tombstone. “It is time you lads learned of the curse.”
That brought Riordan up short. He’d heard whisperings, from other boys in town and between the servants, but had never given the story another thought. To him, it was a fairy tale, and he was far too old for fairy tales.
“See all these graves? They belong to women who dared to love the men of Wollstonecraft Hall. Many of the men married young, had their first child before the age of twenty, and all buried their wives only a few years into their marriages. Most of the unfortunate women have died in childbirth. Generations of women who either married or were born into the family. Your own mother survived your birth only to succumb four years later to a heart ailment called carditis.” His grandfather laid a hand on top of the stone.
Fiona Fannon Black Wollstonecraft.
Riordan and Aidan’s Irish mother. Sadly, he had no memories of her. He glanced at his brother; Aidan’s expression was as serious as his own. He turned his attention to their grandfather.
“She was a rare beauty, your mother. Your father met her while on a business trip. He’d gone to meet with her father, a rich Irish merchant, as we wished to expand trade. At least, as far as the Corn Laws would allow.” This was the most Riordan had ever heard about his mother and her family—his father refused to speak of her. “A whirlwind romance. I advised him before he left to guard his heart. But he did not listen to me.”
“Why is it we’ve never met our Irish grandfather?” Aidan asked.
“Ah. When informed of your mother’s death, he was quite distraught. Blamed your father. Claimed he wanted nothing to do with him or his sons. It’s his loss that he does not wish to know you boys.” He pointed to a tombstone in the aisle behind them. Riordan and Aidan turned and found a crow perched on the stone, giving them a defiant look. It was a disturbing vision, and it caused another shiver to trickle through him.
“There rests my first wife, your grandmother, Lady Patricia Ackerly, daughter to the Earl of Clapham. Not exactly a love match, but a solid one in society’s eyes. She gave me a fine son, your father. However, she never recovered from the trauma of his birth, contracted a bed fever, and died a month later. I swore my next wife would be of heartier stock. I would defy the Wollstonecraft curse and bring it to a swift end.”
Their grandfather moved along the row and laid his hand on top of another gravestone. A wistful sigh escaped his throat.
Moira Mackinnon Wollstonecraft.
Uncle Garrett’s Scottish mother. “God, how I loved Moira,” he whispered mournfully. “But it wasn’t enough to shield her from the curse.”
Riordan did not like the sounds of this. He and Aidan exchanged worried looks.
“I met Moira in Edinburgh, about twelve years after your grandmother died. She was the epitome of a bonnie lass, with her fiery red hair and passionate natur
e. Does your father ever speak of her?”
Riordan nodded. “He said he remembered her always smiling.”
“She embraced this family. Became a mother to Julian. Always had a song in her heart. When Garrett was born, my happiness was complete. I didn’t give a hang what society thought about my choice of bride. For once in my life, I was content and in love. At peace.” A lone tear trickled down his cheek. “But it was not to be,” he whispered. “I wish you could have known her. She died when Garrett was five years of age. The year before you lads were born.”
“I thought the curse was broken if a Wollstonecraft man found true love?” Aidan asked. It was the first Riordan had heard of this. How did Aidan know about it?
Their grandfather barked out a cynical laugh. “Apparently not, for what I had with Moira was all that and more. Your father thought he’d found it. Yet here our wives lie, taken from us far too young. The doctor claims Moira died of a cancer that lay dormant for years, long before we met. Who is to know what to believe?” He shook his head.
“I dismissed the curse and refused to allow it to rule my life. Your Uncle Garrett needed a mother. Three years later, I remarried. A complete miscalculation, as we were not compatible. Yet I managed to get her with child the three or four times I visited her cold bed.”
Riordan was not used to such frank talk from his grandfather, and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. A wave of apprehension rolled through him.
“She died giving birth to a girl, who died three weeks later. They are buried together there.” He pointed to a small stone farther along the row. “Heed me, lads. The proof is before you. Ultimately, it will be your decision to involve yourself with a young woman when you’re older, but you would be better off guarding your heart. Let no female close, for it will end in tragedy. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Grandfather,” they answered in unison.
All at once, the dead-leafed trees appeared to be skeletal and more terrifying. Riordan couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through him. A terrible sense of foreboding took hold. Death, tragedy. All of this took place before he was born, or he was too young to have it impact him. But it did now. His family was cursed. He was cursed. He would not forget this day.
Not ever.
Chapter 1
Wollstonecraft Hall, Kent
August 1844
Growing up in an ancient, medieval hall filled with powerful men had not been without its issues, especially when tragedy and loss hung over the place like a heavy, melancholy mist on the moors. Today, however, Riordan was ready to embark on a new chapter of his young life.
Since sleep had been sporadic the previous night, he arrived in the dining room for breakfast and the first-Monday-of-the-month family meeting before the rest of his family. Rubbing his hands together to elicit a little warmth as he entered the room, the enticing aromas of bacon, ham, and coffee filled his senses. Murmuring “good morning” to the phalanx of footmen standing by, Riordan lifted the covers of the silver chafing dishes and commenced loading his plate with food.
Martin, the butler, already well-versed in Riordan’s beverage preference, prepared his tea the way he liked it, with two teaspoons of sugar and the milk added first. He set the cup and saucer on the table next to Riordan. “Cook made cinnamon scones, sir. Would you care for one? I know how you enjoy them.”
“After I tackle this rasher of bacon, I will. Thank you, Martin.” Popping a forkful of curried eggs in his mouth, he nodded to his father, Julian Wollstonecraft, Viscount Tensbridge, as he strode into the room. All the Wollstonecraft men were tall and dark-haired, save his Uncle Garrett, his father’s thirty-two-year-old half brother. At the age of forty-five, his father had threads of gray at his temples but was often mistaken for someone younger. His detached, distinguished air bespoke of their venerated lineage.
“Already tucking in, I see.” His father gave him an amused smile as he took his seat, content to allow Martin to serve him.
“I’m blasted hungry this morning. Perhaps it is the change in temperature,” Riordan said between bites.
“Coffee this morning, my lord?” Martin asked.
“Yes. Coffee it is. And ham instead of bacon.” Julian snapped open the linen napkin and laid it on his lap. “Riordan, where is your older brother?”
Older by fifteen minutes, Aidan was the heir apparent and Riordan was fine with it. His paternal twin had stumbled in at three in the morning; he couldn’t help but hear his brother’s cursing and bumping into furniture from across the hall. “Still asleep, I believe.”
His father sighed. “Martin, send one of the footmen to rouse my slugabed son.”
“At once, my lord.” The butler inclined his head toward one of the footmen, who exited the dining area.
Garrett walked into the room dressed as if he had come straight from the barn, which he had, seeing he spent all his time with horses. His uncle had inherited his red hair, pale skin, and freckles from his Scottish mother. Close to six and a half feet in height, his barrel chest and massive shoulders were a stark contrast to the leaner musculature of the rest of the men. Much like a medieval Highlander, Riordan mused.
“Before you ask, brother, I wiped my muddy boots,” Garrett said as he moved to the sideboard. His uncle managed to pile more food on his plate than Riordan had. Sitting across the table, Garrett immediately started to eat as the footmen brought toast and poured his tea.
“How’s Starlight doing?” Julian asked while cutting his ham into meticulous bite-sized pieces.
“She hasn’t foaled yet,” Garrett replied. “Going to be a long siege, I imagine. The stable lads are keeping watch and will inform me if there are any developments.”
Aidan happened into the room with a short, unsteady gait, looking the worse for wear. He plopped down next to Garrett. “Coffee, Martin, and lots of it. Bring me nothing else or I shall puke, for certain.”
Julian curled his lip in obvious distaste. “Out gambling and whoring again? Best not let your grandfather see the state of you. Sit up straight.” Aidan sneered, but did as he was told. “Martin, bring the heir toast and cheese. You will eat and get that insolent expression off your face. Look at the state of you, unkempt, eyes bloodshot. We will be speaking about this at great length after the meeting concludes.”
Riordan did not envy his brother. He’s in the soup now. But when had he not been with their father? It was as if Aidan acted in such a way to rile him on purpose.
As always, Oliver Wollstonecraft entered last. Tall and regal, his grandfather defied Father Time, standing as straight and tall as his sons and grandsons. He was a sterling example of exemplary hereditary vim and vigor and amazing good health. Riordan’s great-grandfather, the old earl, passed away five years ago, and he’d remained a striking figure well into his eighties. Of all the maladies to cause death, it was a winter chill that took him.
“Ah, all here. Excellent.” The earl took his seat at the head of the table while Martin and the footmen laid tea, coffee, and various food items in front of him—and Aidan, who turned a sickening shade of green at the sight of it. Riordan smirked. Having his brother cast up his accounts would certainly add drama to the gathering.
Attendance was mandatory at these family meetings. The earl would brook no argument or accept any excuses for not being present. What was discussed at these compulsory summits? Ways to further the family’s progressive agenda. Though distantly related to Mary Wollstonecraft, the late-eighteenth-century scholar, philosopher, and advocate of women’s rights, and to her daughter, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, essayist and the novelist of the gothic tale Frankenstein, the men of Wollstonecraft Hall were no less involved in liberal causes.
When he finished serving, Martin sat next to the earl, pen, ink, and parchment at the ready to record the minutes. The footmen moved efficiently around the table, bringing the scones, cheese turnovers, and fruit, and refilling bev
erages as the men conversed.
“I’ve received word that our eccentric neighbor, Sir Walter Keenan, has passed away,” the earl stated.
Riordan’s mouth quirked with amusement. Not at the news of Sir Walter’s death, but at the fact his grandfather found him eccentric, considering what society thought of the Wollstonecrafts. Sir Walter was an ex-soldier, granted knighthood for his bravery in the Peninsular War at Salamanca in 1808. Since returning home from the army in 1819, he had lived as a hermit.
“Since he is unmarried, the property is passing to his next of kin,” his grandfather continued. “His niece, a widow, I don’t know her name, is the beneficiary. He’s been our neighbor for more than thirty-five years. Someone should put in an appearance at his funeral.”
Julian shook his head. “The widow will be inheriting a run-down manor, to say the least. I will not be able to attend. I am heading to London, the autumn session of parliament, as I’ve meetings with Lord Ashley.” Since his father had a courtesy title, he didn’t sit in the House of Lords. He served as a member of parliament for this region of Kent, though he often worked with the upper chamber on many bills.
Riordan would not be able to attend the funeral either, but he decided he would leave his announcement for the end of the gathering. Why stir up the hornet’s nest at this juncture?
“How go the discussions for restricting the number of work hours?” Garrett asked as he sipped his tea. All the other men gave him incredulous looks. “What? I read the papers, and I am a member of this family. I have broadminded views.”
“I’m working with Lord Ashley to reduce the workweek to sixty hours for women and children,” Julian replied. “We are being fought tooth and nail. I predict a compromise somewhere between sixty and seventy.”
The earl harrumphed. “Still too long.”
Julian buttered his cinnamon scone. “I agree, but most peers strongly believe women and children are an integral part of a family’s earning power, and under the man of the house’s command. Most do not want any regulations at all.”
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