Not the Kind of Earl You Marry

by Kate Pembrooke

  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 © 2021 by Kate Pembrooke

  Cover design by Daniela Medina. Cover illustration by Alan Ayers. Cover photography by Shirley Green Photography.

  Cover copyright © 2021 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  First edition: July 2021

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  ISBNs: 978-1-5387-0375-5 (mass market); 978-1-5387-0376-2 (ebook)

  E3-20210608-NF-DA-ORI

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Discover More

  Don’t miss Charles and Serena’s romance in the next Unconventional Ladies of Mayfair story, Say You’ll Be My Lady Available Winter 2022

  About the Author

  Looking for more historical romances? Get swept away by handsome rogues and clever ladies from Forever!

  To my parents for instilling in me a deep love of books

  and

  To my husband, with much love

  Acknowledgments

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to all the people who’ve helped me turn a story with great potential into a great story. Thank you to my wonderful agent, Rebecca Strauss for her enthusiastic support and her unfailing ability to brighten my day. You are the best.

  Thank you to Junessa Viloria, my amazing editor, for loving this story as much as I do. Your insightful guidance has been invaluable. And a huge shout–out to my team at Forever: Jodi, Daniela, Tareth, and Shelley. You guys rock!

  I wouldn’t have the opportunity to be writing these acknowledgments if not for my critique partners. Thank you to Teri Anne Stanley, who read the earliest versions of William and Charlotte’s story. Many thanks, also, to the Sunshine Critique Group who have helped me hone my writing skills and who never complained when I asked “Could you look over this chapter again?”

  Thank you to Cathy Maxwell, who took an aspiring writer under her wing and generously offered advice and encouragement.

  Thank you to Janet Raye Stevens, who judged my manuscript in a contest and then introduced me to her agent, who is now (I bet you guessed it!) my agent.

  And finally, my deepest thanks to my husband, who didn’t bat an eye when I told him I was going to write a book. Thanks also to my kids who’ve cheered for me each step of the way on this journey to getting a book published.

  Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

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  Chapter One

  London, 1817

  The morning began tranquilly enough. Finished with her breakfast, Miss Charlotte Hurst reached for the neatly stacked pile of correspondence beside her plate, when the doors to the dining room unexpectedly flew open and the butler entered, his normally impassive face flushed, his mouth pinched into an uncharacteristic frown.

  Standing just inside the doorway, Hopkins turned toward Charlotte’s brother, Phillip Hurst. “My lord, there’s a man who insists he must see you. I explained you don’t receive visitors before breakfast, but he said he couldn’t wait, that the matter was urgent.”

  “Did he now?” Phillip cut a bite of ham before spearing it with his fork. “Did this man give you his name? Or explain the nature of this urgent business?”

  “He gave his name, sir. He said it was—”

  “Norwood.”

  A tall, dark-haired gentleman strode into the room, finishing the butler’s sentence in a commanding, lord-of-the-manor voice.

  Startled, Charlotte dropped her correspondence, scattering the pages in an untidy disarray upon the table. Drat the man and his unheralded appearance.

  “Don’t blame your servant, Hurst,” the gentleman said, coming to a halt beside Phillip’s chair. “He made it quite clear you don’t take visitors during meals. However, this cannot wait.”

  Phillip laid down his fork. “You may go, Hopkins. I’ll attend to this.”

  “Very well, sir.” With a nod, the butler departed.

  “I can scarcely imagine any business between us that couldn’t wait, Norwood,” Phillip said.

  “Can you not?” The man slapped a newspaper down on the table in front of Phillip. “Then read this. Perhaps it will jog your memory.”

  Charlotte blinked, her interest sharpened. So this was the Earl of Norwood. She’d certainly heard of him, although they’d never been introduced. His social set and hers didn’t have much in common. Her brother knew him, since they were both peers in the House of Lords, but this hadn’t led to any sort of acquaintance between Charlotte and the earl.

  Still, all of London knew Lord Norwood was a rising star in the world of English politics, and that among his greatest political assets, aside from his impressive family and social connections, were his poise and unflappability, though he seemed to have only a tenuous grip on those traits this morning. He was angry, that much was clear. Less obvious was how it concerned Phillip.

  Her brother ignored the earl’s command. “Since Hopkins is usually allowed to usher in our guests, I must presume you have a singular reason for interrupting our meal in this irregular way.”

  “I do.” If Lord Norwood noticed the hint of censure in Phillip’s voice, he gave no sign of it.

  Phillip glanced at his unfinished breakfast, then picked up the paper and began to read. The earl’s gloved hand slapped softly against his thigh, producing a rhythmic tap, tap, tap that sounded unnaturally loud in the otherwise quiet room.

  Since Charlotte remained an invisible entity—Lord Norwood had not yet spared a glance in her direction—she took the opportunity to study him. His manners left a great deal to be desired, but she couldn’t say the same for his looks. He was undeniably handsome with dark brown hair tha
t showed a tendency to curl, and well-appointed features. His lips were firm and finely molded, his nose straight and patrician, and his slate-blue eyes, framed by dark lashes, had faint laugh lines at the corners. However, no hint of humor showed on his face at the moment. Instead, his gaze was stern and unwaveringly fastened on Phillip as he bent over the newspaper.

  After a moment, Phillip pushed the paper aside. “I’m as mystified as you are. I’ve no idea how that came to be published.”

  Lord Norwood gave her brother a hard, assessing stare. “Then perhaps she does,” the earl said tightly. His gaze swung for the first time to Charlotte, with a look so scorching she had to stifle the impulse to place more distance between them.

  “If you think that, you’re barking up the wrong tree.” For some reason, Phillip looked amused rather than affronted by the earl’s angry insinuations. “However, Charlotte can speak for herself.” He slid the newspaper across the table to her. “Have a look at this.”

  She hesitated, wishing the earl’s attention hadn’t shifted away from her brother. Lord Norwood glared at her as if she were an annoying insect he’d like to squash. For one defiant moment, she considered refusing, if for no other reason than she didn’t care for his rude, high-handed manner, but her curiosity surpassed this rebellious urge.

  “If I must,” she said, deliberately keeping her tone cool and disinterested. She moved her neglected correspondence out of the way, then unhurriedly reached for the paper and drew it over, aware that her lack of haste was fanning the flames of the man’s wrath, and yet unable to behave otherwise. Her dislike of him had overruled any spirit of cooperation.

  She read through the offending item, then once more, slowly this time, to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood. Cold tendrils of apprehension swirled through her, settling in a tight band around her chest as the implications of the brief paragraphs sank in. No wonder the man was so angry.

  It was the announcement of her betrothal to the Earl of Norwood.

  Shocked, she looked back at the earl, blinking stupidly. How had it come to be in the newspaper? It was false and utterly ridiculous. For heaven’s sake, she wasn’t even acquainted with the man. But true or false—it hardly mattered. This announcement could still ignite a firestorm of gossip that would upend her quiet, well-ordered life.

  “Well?” Lord Norwood demanded.

  The blood pounded in her ears at his accusatory tone. Her actions required no defense. On the contrary, if anyone had behaved indefensibly, it was the earl. Even now, apparently convinced of her guilt, he looked as if he’d like to leap over the table and shake a confession out of her.

  “If by ‘well’ you mean to imply I have any knowledge of who published this”—she gestured toward the paper with a dismissive flick of her wrist—“disabuse yourself of the notion right now. I didn’t have anything to do with this, and I welcome it no more than you.”

  A look of utter incredulity crossed Lord Norwood’s handsome face. “Forgive me if I sound conceited, Miss Hurst, but there are any number of young ladies who would more than welcome the chance to align themselves with my fortune and title, and—”

  “And I assure you I’m not one of them,” she cut in coolly.

  His lips pinched together for a second. “Furthermore, this wouldn’t be the first time a lady tried to entrap a gentleman by dubious methods.” He leaned forward and placed both hands on the table, his face so close to hers she could see the darker band that rimmed his blue eyes and smell the spicy scent of his shaving soap. “But make no mistake, I’ve not offered for you, nor shall I feel bound to honor a nonexistent engagement just because our betrothal announcement appeared in the Morning Post. It seems to me the only party who would benefit is you.”

  They remained nearly nose to nose, Charlotte smarting from the sting of his last words. She searched her mind for a suitably scathing reply, but the perfect set-down eluded her. She settled for meeting his angry gaze with a defiant one of her own.

  At last, he straightened and crossed his arms. “So, Miss Hurst? Do you still deny you had anything to do with this?”

  It was his impossibly haughty expression, coupled with that presumptive I-know-you’re-guilty tone that loosened her tongue at last.

  “I’ve already denied it,” she replied, “but you, with your colossal arrogance, have determined I must be guilty because of your faulty assumption that I’d welcome an alliance with you.” She paused and took a deep breath, determined to maintain control of her temper, especially since he seemed to have such a fragile grip on his. “However, nothing could be further from the truth. Most of society may put a premium on a man’s fortune and title when weighing his worthiness as a prospective husband, but I do not. I’m much more interested in the content of a man’s character than the contents of his purse.”

  Her verbal slap hit the mark. The color rose on his face as he drew in a sharp breath.

  “To put it plainly,” she continued, “I may not know you very well, but I’m completely sure you’re the last man I’d want to marry.” She shook her head. “No, not even the last man, because that implies a circumstance in which I’d agree to marry you, and I can say with great certainty you’re not a man I would ever choose to marry.”

  He scowled at her in disbelief for a long, thunderous moment. Charlotte watched with a certain fascination as he struggled to control his emotions. A vein throbbed at his temple, his jaw tightened like a vise, and the muscles in his throat worked furiously, though no words slipped through his tightly clamped lips.

  Once more she resisted the urge to put more space between them. Her rational side insisted his gentlemanly instincts would prevail over any murderous impulses he might presently harbor. And if not, surely Phillip’s phlegmatic nature wouldn’t prevent him from leaping to her defense if necessary.

  After several seconds of glaring at her in strained silence, something in the depths of Lord Norwood’s stormy gaze shifted and the rigid lines of his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. He’d become, once again, the unflappable aristocrat.

  * * *

  William Atherton, the Earl of Norwood, realized a few things in those moments he stood speechless before the Hursts. For one, they hadn’t appeared guilty when he’d challenged them on their knowledge of the engagement announcement. Confused, yes. And in Miss Hurst’s case, severely affronted. But culpable? No. It was now clear to him they’d had nothing to do with it.

  But if they hadn’t submitted that false betrothal announcement, who had? A new possibility suddenly popped into his mind. One he ought to have seen earlier, and would have if he hadn’t let his emotions overrule his reason. But no, he’d been so angry at the notion that some girl he’d never met would try to entrap him into marriage—and so eager to give her the dressing-down he thought she so richly deserved—that he hadn’t stopped to consider anything else.

  He was one of a half dozen or so candidates being considered for an important post in the prime minister’s government. It wasn’t at all far-fetched that one of his political rivals had tried to bolster their chance for the appointment by stirring up a scandal through a false claim that he and Miss Hurst were engaged.

  He should have known easygoing Phillip Hurst was an unlikely accomplice for an entrapment scheme. As for Miss Hurst’s fiery denunciation of him, he had to admit it wasn’t how a lady reacted if she harbored ambitions of becoming the next Countess of Norwood.

  In fact, if looks could kill, he’d be lying on the ground mortally wounded because Miss Hurst was currently shooting daggers at him with those fine blue eyes of hers. Not that he blamed her. He wasn’t such a boor that he didn’t realize he owed her an apology. A very pretty apology, and if she made him grovel a bit, it was probably no less than he deserved. He took a deep, fortifying breath and exhaled, prepared to do what it took to set things right between them. He’d need her cooperation if they hoped to minimize the damage.

  “I owe both of you my deepest apologies. I had no right to invade your home as I did,
much less make accusations for which I hadn’t a scrap of proof. I’m sorry. Deeply, deeply sorry.”

  Miss Hurst’s eyes widened slightly. No doubt an apology was the last thing she expected from him. She’d probably pegged him a pompous ass after his performance and with good reason. After all, he’d informed her practically every unmarried female in the kingdom desired him for his title and fortune. And worse, accused her of doing so as well.

  “Apology accepted, Norwood,” Phillip Hurst said. “Any man would be rocked to the core in similar circumstances.”

  “You’re remarkably forgiving, Phillip,” his sister said. “I, however, am not.”

  “I understand your reluctance to forgive me, Miss Hurst.” William gave her what he hoped was a charming (and conciliatory) smile. “Nonetheless, I ask you to forget the last few minutes and let us begin our acquaintance from this moment instead.”

  “Would you like to go out and come back in again?” Phillip asked in an amused voice. “It might help Charlotte to erase the drama of your first entrance from her mind.”

  “If only it were that easy,” William said. Miss Hurst, with her flashing blue eyes and stubbornly set mouth, didn’t appear as if she’d let go of her first impression of him too readily. “Naturally, we’ll carry on as if the betrothal were real. For the time being, at least.”

  “Naturally?” She gave him a look that questioned his sanity. “You made it abundantly clear how you feel about that false betrothal announcement, not to mention your belief I was the scheming mastermind behind it.”

  “A grave error on my part,” he assured her. “But you were also quite explicit in expressing your opinion of me. I admit your set-down of me was well-deserved. However, now that I realize you weren’t trying to carry out an entrapment scheme, a temporary engagement between us seems the best solution. I won’t let you suffer from a plot aimed at me.”

  “A plot?” she asked, again looking as if he were touched in the upper works. “You make it sound as if we’re characters in a gothic novel. Surely this is nothing more than someone’s notion of a bad joke. But whatever the motive behind it, we need only insert a retraction into the next issue of the Morning Post, endure the inevitable tempest in a teapot, and get on with our lives. There’s no need to pretend we’re engaged.”