Loved by the Viscount
Happily Ever After Book 5
Ellie St. Clair
♥ Copyright 2018 by Ellie St Clair - All rights reserved.
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Also By Ellie St. Clair
Standalone
Unmasking a Duke
Happily Ever After
The Duke She Wished For
Someday Her Duke Will Come
Once Upon a Duke’s Dream
He’s a Duke, But I Love Him
Loved by the Viscount
Searching Hearts
Quest of Honor
Clue of Affection
Hearts of Trust
Hope of Romance
Contents
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
Epilogue
THE DUKE SHE WISHED FOR
Chapter 1
QUEST OF HONOR
Prologue
Chapter 1
More from Ellie St. Clair
About the Author
Also by Ellie St. Clair
1
The cemetery was silent but for the call of a bird in the distance.
Rosalind heard footsteps approaching from behind her, but she didn’t turn to look as she continued to stare out over the small plot of headstones in front of her.
Her husband was dead. Lord Harold Branson, Earl of Templeton, had fallen down the stairs of a brothel in a drunken stupor. When he hit the landing at the bottom, his head had cracked against the floor so hard that he had broken his neck.
“Rosalind,” came a soft voice behind her, and she felt Olivia’s cool hand on her arm. She turned around and looked up at her friend, whose face was wreathed in concern. “Are you quite all right?
The former Lady Rosalind Kennedy, made Lady Templeton but months ago, murmured a simple yes and nodded at Olivia. For what else was there to say?
The spring day was warm, and the sun shone brightly over the acres of grass stretching out in front of her, so at odds with the darkness that had invaded her soul. She wasn’t supposed to be out here; instead, she was to be in seclusion to mourn the man who had given her his name and his home and yet had taken so much away from her.
Only a few had seen the man actually buried, of course, but she had to see for herself that he was truly gone, see the fresh mound of dirt piled over his grave. Thankfully, the fact she was so newly and apparently so deeply in mourning meant that she did not have to maintain the facade of polite hostess in receiving those who had gathered here at their country home. She hardly knew what to say to them. It was one thing if one’s husband had died from sickness or in battle. It was quite another when he had practically fallen out of the arms of a prostitute to his death.
And so she had affixed a smile to her face and routinely repeated the same words over and over to any she met, thanking them for their kindness in her hour of need. Thank goodness Harold’s mother was no longer alive to know of her son’s actions. Unfortunately, his father had been just the same. It was difficult enough to have her own parents looking at her as they did, her mother with some pity, her father with disdain.
“I do not want to go back inside,” she whispered, cursing her trembling lips. With Olivia, her longest friend, she could be honest and share her true thoughts and feelings.
“I know, darling,” Olivia said, putting her arm around her and pulling her in close. “I wouldn’t either. But rest assured, all will soon be gone. It is a bit odd there are so many people here, but it seems Harold’s cousin was eager for all to see him as the newly appointed earl.”
Rosalind nodded in understanding, blinking back the tear beginning to leak out of her eye.
Olivia misinterpreted it.
“I am sorry, Ros,” she said. “I know how much you must miss Harold, despite what happened. And I am sorry that he … was where he was at the time of his death. I’m not entirely sure what is truth and what is gossip, but you must know that you are welcome to speak to me about it, anytime you wish.”
Rosalind turned her vacant stare back to Olivia, feeling her heart harden. She had not told Olivia of what her marriage to Harold had been like, had not wanted to feel her pity. Olivia wanted to solve any problem she came across, but there was nothing she could have done regarding Rosalind’s situation. Now, however, it no longer mattered.
“I do not miss him,” she said with so much vehemence that Olivia jumped a bit in surprise.
“That’s understandable too,” her friend said in a conciliatory tone.
“No, you do not understand,” Rosalind repeated, looking around to make sure they were truly alone. “I am glad that he is gone. I am happy he is dead. I hated him, Olivia, and now that he is gone, I feel free.”
Olivia’s mouth formed a round O as she took in her words, and Rosalind could see that she had shocked the normally unflappable Olivia Finchley, Duchess of Breckenridge.
“Well,” she finally managed, and Rosalind saw the corners of her mouth tugging up slightly. “I must say, Rosalind, I am proud of you!”
“Proud?”
“Why, yes,” she said. “For once in your life, you are allowing yourself to feel how you want to feel, not how you think you ought to.”
Rosalind sighed. “Oh, Olivia, does not thinking so make me the most horrible person you’ve ever met? How can one be glad upon the death of another, especially one’s husband?”
“A woman has every right to be glad, particularly if her husband was an absolute boor,” said Olivia, crossing her arms. “I never liked Harold, anyway.”
Rosalind was shocked at Olivia’s words. She had always acted pleasant enough to Harold. “Why did you never say so?”
Olivia shrugged. “I thought you loved him.”
“I loved the idea of him,” Rosalind said, beginning to lead Olivia back to the house, as much as she would have preferred to stay out here — even in the cemetery — until everyone departed. “I loved the idea of being married. And it was what my parents thought best. He was always kind and considerate while we were courting. Once we married, he was nice enough, if slightly disconnected. And then after only a few weeks, he became rather mean and obnoxious. My feelings, my thoughts, mattered naught. He called me his, ‘pathetic little wife,’ and spoke to me only if it were an order or an insult. Oh Olivia, I could hardly stand him! And then when he died…”
Rosalind recalled being informed of her husband’s death. They were in London, as her husband fo
und the country far too tedious and had loved going out to his gentlemen’s clubs. One of his friends had come to the door in the middle of the night, and her maid had woken her. Rosalind had put on her wrapper and met the man in the drawing room, where he ground out the words to her, his face tight as she pushed to know the details of what had happened. She gave the man credit, however, as he hadn’t held back, but had told her all she had wanted to know.
She had sat there, unmoving, unspeaking, unsure what to think of the news as her emotions tumbled inside her. Finally she had reverted back to how she had been raised — to respond to any revelation with a cool politeness, not showing any emotion. She had thanked the man, who left hastily although not without a backward look of concern, and she had returned to her room, where she lay in bed, unable to sleep, for the rest of the night.
“There is nothing of which you should be ashamed,” said Olivia firmly, drawing her back to the present. “However, I do wish you had told me of your feelings. You are always so stoic, so unflappable, that is hard to read what you are thinking.”
“It is better that way,” Rosalind said. She knew her mother had always wanted what was best for her, and yet had been so critical, so demanding, that Rosalind had learned to hide her thoughts and feelings from the world for fear of judgment.
“I do know, however, that I can trust you, Olivia, and I appreciate that more than you know.”
Rosalind smiled at her friend. “And now, only one more wretched afternoon with all of these people, and then I shall be free to do as I please. I know I will not have access to the same funds as when Harold was alive, but my small stipend is all I shall need to live out the rest of my days happily. Perhaps I will find a small cottage somewhere, or a townhouse in London.”
She stared away at the hills dreamily, picturing a quiet existence where she could read and write and take in all of the dogs and the cats she could ever want. Harold had refused when she had told him she wanted her own little dog for company. She no longer had to worry about that. She would, however, miss the opportunity to have children. If there was one thing she had longed for in life, it was to be a mother, but sadly it seemed not to be.
“In time, you will likely marry again,” said Olivia gently, but Rosalind shook her adamantly.
“No,” she said. “I no longer trust who a man may become. I thought Harold a good sort, and look how wrong I was! One never knows what one may get. You were lucky with Alastair; however, there is no guarantee that would be so for me.”
Olivia gave her a sad smile but said nothing, seemingly content to link arms with her and walk back to the house in companionship.
William Elliot, Viscount of Southam, looked out the window of Lord Harold Branson’s drawing room at the two figures drawing near the house. Well, he supposed it wasn’t Lord Harold’s any longer, but his cousin Bartholomew’s. The man seemed to already have made himself comfortable in his new role of earl, a wide smile on his face as he welcomed guests into his home but days after the death of his cousin.
Alastair Finchley, Duke of Breckenridge, came to stand beside him and joined him in peering out at his wife and the small figure next to her. William looked over at the man with a nod. They were not exactly friends as they hadn’t gotten off to the greatest beginning, but they had grown to be respectful of one another.
In truth, there was no reason to hold out any animosity toward Breckenridge. It wasn’t his fault that William had been in love with his wife since childhood.
The lovely, intriguing, unique Lady Olivia, however, had never seen him as anything other than one of her best friends, perhaps a brother more than anything. They had grown up together, their families’ country estates being so close. He had always been there for her, through one scheme after another as she found herself in all sorts of trouble, usually of her own making. Even this past year, he was there by her side as she fell deeper in love with the duke who now stood beside him.
“’Tis a sad day for Lady Rosalind,” Alastair said now, breaking the silence. “She was not only left a widow but humiliated by her husband, even in death. Olivia never liked the man.”
“No,” agreed William. “He was certainly something of a cur from what I knew of him, although fortunately we did not run in the same circles. I am not sure what shall become of her.”
“She will live off some of the income of the estate for a time, and she will have part of her dowry to sustain her. More than likely she will marry again.”
William wasn’t as certain. He had never been particularly close with Rosalind, as she had always been a somewhat quiet, timid thing. She had been friends with Olivia since childhood, and whenever the Kennedys came to visit, they would spend time together. Rosalind had never said much to him, though she would watch him with those wide eyes and hesitantly follow him and Olivia from one scheme to the next. She let Olivia do the talking for her, preferring to spend her time with a book or in the barn playing with the kittens. She was a pretty thing but always seemed to be outshined by the brightness of her friend.
He could see, however, that it could be hard for anyone to stand out next to Olivia. He knew Olivia’s mother had always despaired of her and her outlandish schemes, but William was always there, her “Billy” by her side, taking the blame along with her. He would do anything for her. He sighed now, looking out at her blonde head next to Rosalind’s dark one. He would have married Olivia, but she had always been determined to find love, and clearly she had not found that in him. Nor would her mother have ever wanted her daughter to marry a simple viscount.
“Do you know her well?”
It took a moment for William to realize the Duke was speaking of Rosalind, and not his own wife.
“Ah, somewhat,” he replied. “We met now and again as children, but she has always been a quiet sort. I have made her acquaintance in London at the odd social gathering, but that is all.”
“She is a gentle soul, is she not?”
“I suppose that is the best way to describe her,” William responded with a shrug. “I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but hopefully in due time she will realize she is better off without her husband.”
“One can only hope,” the Duke replied, and as they parted ways, William realized that for once his gaze had lingered not on the woman he had thought he had loved for so long, but instead on the small figure dwarfed in black. As she held her head high and wore a drawn yet resolute look, he felt a pull to help her out of her current situation, although he knew it was not his place.
Ah well, he thought, turning from the window. She had her family and her friends. Her problems were none of his concern.
2
Rosalind saw all eyes turn toward her as she entered the drawing room. They were so filled with pity that she did not want, and she longed to run from them all to her bedroom and hide under the covers for the rest of the day. Thankfully she could do so, but, alas, not immediately. No, Rosalind did as she always did — what was expected of her. She walked around the guests, thanking them for coming and making the polite conversation she so hated.
She began to make her way over to Olivia when her arm was caught in a tight grasp, and she turned to find Harold’s cousin Bart in her face. Oh, how she hated him. She had always felt his lecherous gaze on her, which he made even less attempt to hide now that Harold was gone.
“If you have a moment, Rosalind, I must speak with you — alone,” he said, a sinister smile crossing his face and making her shiver.
“Now?” she asked, looking around the room. “Do you not think perhaps we should wait until you have finished entertaining your guests?”
“Our guests, my dear,” he said with a condescending look. “I think now is best. Come.”
Rosalind didn’t want to follow him, but she wanted to make a scene even less, and so she decided the least amount of conflict could be found by getting through this conversation as quickly as possible.
Rather than allowing her to enter the room first, Bart brushed past he
r into the study that had been her husband’s. It was dark, the walls a deep navy blue that seemed to cave in on her, and as she sat in the hard, straight-back leather chair in front of the desk, she nervously twisted her hands in her lap while Bart looked down at her, his lips twisted in a malicious grin that reminded her of a hunter who had trapped his prey and meant to toy with it.
“Rosalind,” he said with relish as he stood, rounded the desk, and sat on the edge of it just inches from her. She tried to flinch away from his nearness, as her entire body loathed to even be in the same room as him. “I am sorry about my cousin’s passing,” he said, reaching out a finger to tip her chin up toward him, sending a shudder down her spine.
“Yes, you have said that,” she said, jerking her head back.
“There is more, however,” he continued, his mouth stretching to show his crooked, uneven teeth, and when he realized just how uncomfortable she was by his presence, he leaned toward her even more. “My cousin, unfortunately, did not see to your settlement.”
“My settlement?” she echoed, confused by his words. “You mean to live off of after his passing?”
“Exactly.”
“I am unsure of what the issue would be. I know I have money that would have been set aside from my dowry,” she said, trying to ignore the increased speed of her heart fluttering in her chest. “I am not sure exactly how much there is, but it should be more than enough. My father was very generous.”
“Yes, well, there was money there, but unfortunately, my cousin had a few vices, as you well know, and there is nothing left.”
Rosalind’s jaw dropped open as she watched him finally push back from the desk and resume his seat behind it.
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