Last Night With the Earl: Includes a Bonus Novella

by Kelly Bowen

  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 © 2018 by Kelly Bowen

  Preview of A Rogue by Night © 2018 by Kelly Bowen

  Respect for Christmas © 2016 by Grace Burrowes. Respect for Christmas was originally published as part of a compilation entitled The Virtues of Christmas in 2016 by Grace Burrowes Publishing.

  Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes

  Cover illustration by Kris Keller

  Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  First Edition: September 2018

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  ISBN: 978-1-4789-1859-2 (mass market), 978-1-4789-1858-5 (ebook)

  E3-20180706-DA-PC

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  A Preview of A ROGUE BY NIGHT

  About the Author

  Also by Kelly Bowen

  Acclaim for Kelly Bowen

  Respect For Christmas

  Fall in Love with Forever Romance

  Discover More Kelly Bowen

  In memory of Kelly Kabernick, a true hero to everyone who knew him.

  You are missed.

  Acknowledgments

  Each book is a team effort, and I am privileged to have a talented team behind me. Thank you to Alex Logan, my editor, whose keen eye makes each story I tell so much better, and all the folks at Forever who work tirelessly on my behalf. To my agent, Stefanie Lieberman, who has offered me unerring guidance from the beginning. And to my family for supporting me every step of the way, thank you.

  Chapter 1

  Avondale House

  Dover, England

  Summer 1820

  When Lady Ophelia Volante smiled, she had a face that could start a war.

  Or at the very least provoke duels, enthuse poets, and empty hothouses of extravagant bouquets. A face with the sort of mysterious radiance that would have sent Rubens and Botticelli and Titian scrambling for their brushes and paints.

  The old masters were long in their graves. But Rose Hayward was very much alive and indecently pleased with the image that had emerged on the canvas under her careful brushstrokes. She was almost done, and the sultry, raven-haired, green-eyed goddess who stared back at her from a palette of decadent color was nothing short of breathtaking.

  Rose gazed at the portrait for a moment longer before she set her brush aside. She narrowed her eyes critically at the work, but even as hard as she was on herself, she knew without a doubt that this was one of her best. A slow grin spread across her face.

  “Is it done?” Lady Ophelia asked from where she reclined, up on the dais. She sounded hesitant and hopeful all at once.

  “Yes.” Rose arched her back and rubbed her neck, stretching muscles that had tightened across her shoulders.

  “Can I finally see it?”

  Rose looked up at her. “I would like nothing more.” She moved out from behind the canvas and made her way to the dais. She plucked an embroidered robe from the back of a chair on her way and climbed up to the long settee on the raised platform. Lady Ophelia had sat up and pushed her dark hair back over her shoulders, the self-consciousness that she had worn like a shield when she had first visited weeks ago nowhere to be seen.

  Rose handed her the robe and extended her arm. The young woman reached for it and pulled herself slowly to her feet. She shifted slightly to gain her balance and then slid the robe over her naked shoulders before belting it neatly at the waist. Letting Ophelia lead, Rose assisted her down the steps until they were on level ground.

  Lady Ophelia released her arm, and Rose retrieved her crutch from where it had been propped against the chair, passing it to her. They moved forward, Rose matching the speed of her steps to Ophelia’s uneven gait until they had almost reached her easel.

  “Close your eyes,” Rose instructed. “Don’t open them until I tell you to.”

  Ophelia gazed at her anxiously. “I’m nervous,” she said suddenly.

  “No, you were nervous when you first got here weeks ago,” Rose said lightly. “Now you are…spectacular.”

  The young woman smiled shyly, and Rose was again mesmerized by her beauty.

  “Thank you,” Ophelia said.

  Rose shook her head. “Truly, there is no need to thank me for doing something that I love to do. The pleasure was all mine.”

  “I don’t mean the painting, though I am grateful for that. I meant for your kindness.” She gestured to her crutch. “For treating me as a person and not a deformed cripple. For seeing me as something more.”

  Rose opened her mouth to retort and then thought better of it. “Let me show you how I see you,” she said.

  Ophelia held her gaze for a moment longer and then nodded.

  “Close your eyes,” Rose repeated, and this time, the young woman obeyed. She grasped Ophelia’s hand and placed it on her arm, then guided her slowly forward until they stood in front of the canvas.

  “Look,” Rose commanded.

  Ophelia took a deep breath and then slowly opened her eyes. She made a tiny noise in the back of her throat, and her fingers tightened around Rose’s arm like a vise.

  The nude woman on the canvas reclined on her side amid a bed of crimson satin, her skin like the finest ivory against the lush background. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders and across her generous breasts in a glorious curtain of midnight curls. One of her hands rested lightly on the exquisite curve of her hip, her good leg slightly bent and creating a shadow beneath the subtle swell of her abdomen. Her twisted, atrophied leg wasn’t hidden but simply rested beneath the smooth lines of the other.

  A soft smile curved her lips, her emerald gaze focused somewhere just beyond her
audience. Sultry, seductive, almost dreamlike. As though she was thinking of a lover. Or perhaps reflecting on a sensual passage in the book that was cradled in her other hand. Or perhaps simply reveling in the sheer pleasure of being a woman, confident in her strength and power.

  Ophelia’s throat was working. “I don’t…I can’t…Oh God.”

  Rose glanced at the young woman and saw a tear slide down her cheek.

  “That’s not me,” Ophelia whispered. “Is it?”

  “That is every inch you,” Rose replied firmly.

  Ophelia let go of Rose’s arm and stepped closer to the painting. She simply stared, and Rose retreated slightly, giving her whatever time she needed.

  Finally the woman turned her head. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Rose tilted her head. “Say that you’ll look at this painting as often as you need to remind yourself exactly how beautiful you are.”

  “I never thought myself beautiful. But the woman in this painting…”

  “Is you.”

  “But my leg—”

  “Is simply a part of you.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing.”

  “It’s never been nothing to my family. To them it’s a burden. An embarrassment at assemblies. An encumbrance during social calls. A liability in a ballroom.”

  Rose scoffed. “Clearly you’ve been dancing with the wrong men.”

  Ophelia laughed and sniffled at the same time, wiping the moisture from her cheeks. “No one has ever had the nerve to dance with me. Save for the poor dance instructor my parents paid to do so. Though he only lasted a week before he declared me hopeless and left.”

  “Then it is a good thing he left,” Rose said coolly.

  The young woman blinked. “Yes, I suppose it is.” She looked back at the painting. “Can I take this with me?”

  “I have a few details left to finish on the background,” Rose told her. “And it will take some time to dry properly. I’ll deliver it to you in London when it’s ready. Discreetly, of course.”

  “I don’t know how I can ever repay you for this.”

  “Don’t fret about that. Your father has compensated me very generously.”

  Ophelia laughed again. “He paid you for summer painting lessons from the Haverhall School for Young Ladies so he and my mother could enjoy their vacation in Dover without having to shuffle me around.”

  Rose grinned. “Ah. Well, my sister might have been a little vague on who would be doing the painting when she made the arrangements with your father.”

  “I didn’t want to come at all, you know. To Dover. To Avondale House. I didn’t want to take lessons in anything.” The smile slid from Ophelia’s face, and her expression became sober. “But your sister would not take no for an answer.”

  “Clara has some good ideas from time to time.” Rose was still smiling. “And duchesses always seem to get what they want.”

  “Did she know all along? That you would do…this when I got here?”

  “Yes.”

  “But what if I hadn’t…”

  “Taken a chance? Trusted me to paint you as I did?” Rose raised a brow.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I would have given you lessons. And you would have painted other women as I have painted you. Because there is no one perfect version of beauty.”

  Ophelia studied her fingers where they gripped the top of her crutch. “Do you do this for others? Like me?”

  “Sometimes. Though most of the time clients seek me out. Lovers, husbands, wives, friends.”

  Ophelia lifted her head and stared at the painting again. She reached out and ran a fingertip along the very edge of the canvas with reverence. “I never knew.”

  “That’s the idea,” Rose replied gently. “Each painting I do is a personal undertaking for each individual. Each work of art is not meant for public consumption, to be judged and evaluated, measured or mocked by people who do not understand. By those who fear difference because they refuse to open their minds.”

  The young woman was silent, lost in her thoughts and the image in front of her.

  “Get dressed,” Rose suggested. “Take as long as you like with your painting. No one will disturb you. I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready to return to town.”

  Ophelia nodded, still transfixed by her likeness on the canvas.

  Rose silently slipped from the studio, careful to close the door behind her. She glanced out the tall window at the end of the hall, noting the heavy clouds that were starting to gather on the horizon. It would rain again soon, she knew, and the darkening skies would steal the light she needed to finish the last details of the crimson satin on that canvas. But it didn’t matter.

  Because her work here this afternoon was done.

  * * *

  Eli Dawes, fourteenth Earl of Rivers, looked up at the ominous sky as he trudged onward. The clouds that hung low and heavy had broken in places just enough to allow a meager amount of moonlight through the all-consuming blackness. He’d forgotten just how much it rained along this coast, but the seemingly continuous deluge since his arrival had certainly reminded him. It seemed a fitting welcome for a dead man.

  Eli had always assumed that his name had been permanently etched in the long lists of soldiers who had died in the chaos and confusion of Waterloo. Just another man lying in the morass of wasted humanity, rife with lost dreams and identities. Except his supposed death hadn’t been accepted. At least not by the army of solicitors who had worked for his late father, and who presently, by default, worked for him. Somehow they had managed to find Eli Dawes, long after the guns had fallen silent.

  And now here he was, back on English soil, back to face a world and a life that had long since ceased to appeal. A new reality where his appetite for the things that had once seemed so important had vanished. And for the life of him, he couldn’t begin to explain what had finally made him return. A stubborn sense of duty that had ingrained itself too deep to be excised or ignored? A sense of guilt that, as the months had slipped by into years, he hadn’t been able to put ink to paper to let his father know that he was alive? Eli felt the side of his lip curl, his good eye narrowing.

  From the beginning his father had violently opposed Eli’s decision to fight. Railed at him, threatened to disown him, swore that the only way he would have Eli back was in a pine box. He’d been a disappointment to his father for as long as he could remember, and it seemed fitting that his return should be a final act of defiance.

  Just as well the old earl had died. He would never have approved of what was left of Eli Dawes anyway.

  The wind had shifted, and the briny tang of the sea became more pronounced, laced with the earthy scents of the vegetation that grew along the cliffs ahead. Eli passed the familiar bulk of the castle, its outline just visible by the light of the handful of torches set along its walls, their flames dancing in the wind, but the surrounding roads were deserted this time of night. There was no one to mark his passage, and he was glad of it.

  Eli hadn’t been sure of his exact destination until he had stood, his boots sunk in the fine sand of Ostend, and stared across the narrow expanse of sea. The idea of London was intolerable, and he’d discarded that out of hand. He would never go back. But Dover was close, and the earldom owned a far-flung estate perched on those chalky white cliffs, a good few miles from the town proper. It was a substantial manse crafted of solid, buff-colored stone, a stoic sentinel overlooking the sea. He recalled neat rows of glittering windows punctuating the tidy facade at precise intervals, and a rolling lawn divided in half by a wide, sweeping drive. He’d been there only a few times as a young man, and the memories that lingered were of wildness and isolation. Tedious then. Exactly what he wanted now. What he needed.

  If the solicitors representing his estate could manage to locate a dead man in Belgium, there was no reason they could not manage to conduct all further communication with him by post. And whatever matters might arise that needed his personal
attendance—well, those lawyers could come to him. Let the rumors make their way back to the city, as they inevitably would. At least Eli wouldn’t be there to listen to them.

  He glanced up at the sky again. The clouds were threatening to crowd back in and obscure what little light their absence had afforded, and a dispiriting dampness hung thick in the air. It would rain again, Eli knew, and soon. As if on cue, the sky lit and flickered, and a rumble of thunder rolled in the distance, heralding the arrival of another summer squall.

  He hurried on, heading for the one place where he knew his arrival would go unmarked and his presence unheeded by anyone save a handful of servants.

  Avondale.

  Chapter 2

  It wasn’t the first time Eli had broken into this house.

  The rain seemed to lessen slightly as he headed for the rear, toward the servants’ entrance near the kitchens. The doors of the house would be bolted, but there was a window with a faulty latch, something he had taken advantage of a lifetime ago when he would stumble back from town in the dead of night after too much whiskey. Eli gazed up at the empty windows that lined the upper floors, relieved to find that the vast house was dark and silent. Avondale would be operating with only a skeleton staff—aside from maintaining the structure and grounds, there would be little to do.

  Eli slipped his fingers under the edge of the low window and tapped on an outside corner while gently pushing upward. The window inched up slowly, though with a lot more resistance than he remembered. Above his head another roll of thunder echoed, and he cursed softly as the rain once again came down in sheets. Quickly he wrested the window the rest of the way up and swung himself over the sill, then lowered the window behind him. The abrupt cessation of the buffeting wind and the lash of rain was almost disorienting.

  He stood for a long moment, trying to get his bearings and listening for the approach of anyone he might have disturbed. But the only sounds were the whine of the wind and the rattle of the rain against the glass. He breathed in deeply, registering the yeasty scent of rising dough and a faint whiff of pepper. It would seem nothing had changed in the years he’d been gone.