The Right One (One and Only Series)

by Samanthya Wyatt

  Table of Contents

  THE RIGHT ONE

  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

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  THE RIGHT ONE

  One And Only Series - Book One

  SAMANTHYA WYATT

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  THE RIGHT ONE

  Copyright©2014

  SAMANTHYA WYATT

  Cover Design by Christy Caughie

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN: 978-1-61935-473-9

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  To my loving husband.

  Thanks for pushing me and keeping my spirits up.

  You were there for me every step of the way.

  We did it.

  Chapter 1

  Whetherford Manor, 1825

  “Oh, Sir. Thank God, you’re home.”

  Home. After years of absence, Whetherford Manor was still home.

  Lightning flashed as Morgan Langston, Earl of Whetherford, closed the solid oak door. Heedless of the drops of water sliding from his rain-soaked cloak, he took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. He had not anticipated anyone being up and about. His missive had stated he should arrive within the week. Yet the servant emerged as if he’d been expecting the lord of the manor to appear any second. He settled his gaze on Frederick, a loyal member of his father’s staff. Morgan’s mouth grew taut as he forced the familiar ache away. He’d lived on the edge for so long he’d nearly forgotten the pain that drove him from his home years ago.

  “Why the devil aren’t you in bed at this hour of the night?”

  “Waiting for your return, sir. We sent a man straightaway to watch for your ship. We had no way of contacting you before you reached the cove.”

  Morgan shed his soggy overcoat, translucent beads soaking the wood-planked floor, and handed the heavy garment to his servant. Flexing his tired shoulders, he rolled his head side-to-side, cringing at the ache of every muscle from his stiff neck all the way down to his sore backside.

  Gone were the days when his family would welcome his presence. Gone were the hugs and embracing love he longed for. He stepped past Frederick and headed for the library. He passed through the double set of doors, a warm glow from the flaming fire greeted him. Wood sizzled, sparks popped, and the smell of burning logs filled him with a sense of family. He closed his eyes. Sentiment threatened. Emotions attacked. After years of forbidding any real feelings, they came crashing in like the hammering thunder outside. His heart increased its tempo. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

  He shifted, shaking off melancholy. The blaze cast enough light to see an outline of an unlit lamp on a nearby table. He knelt before the hearth and torched a sliver of wood from the fire in the grate. Lifting the glass, he turned the wick to meet the burning flame. A flare of light swathed the room, drawing his attention to the leather-upholstered chair facing the hearth. How many times he’d seen his father in that very spot. With a busy schedule and the responsibilities demanded of an earl, his father always made time to listen. He had time to deliver a scolding as well—which Morgan and his brother had suitably deserved.

  He grimaced, ignoring the slight twinge as the opulent leather came back into focus. He longed to fall into its padded comfort, stretch out his long legs and warm himself by the crackling fire. The thought of a long soak in a steaming hot bath sounded even better. For now, he’d settle for a taste of brandy to chase away the sting of the last ten miles he’d ridden in this godforsaken weather.

  He swiped the last drops of moisture from his unshaven face, the stubble scraping the tips of his fingers, and headed to the sideboard, his gaze already spotting the desired decanter. Pouring a generous amount of brandy, nearly filling the glass, he tossed back a hefty swallow. He savored the scalding sensation and waited for the burn of the liquid to warm the chill in his bones.

  He leveled his gaze on the figure standing inside the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. For the first time since Morgan could remember, Frederick had trouble looking him in the eye. “What is so important that could not wait until morning?” Damn. It was morning.

  “She’s gone.”

  Morgan narrowed his eyes. “Who’s gone?”

  “Miss Eastcote.”

  For the past month, he’d been confined to a ship, impatient to return to Whetherford Manor, only to arrive in a raging storm, causing them to dock after midnight. He spent the last hour saddled on the back of a horse, blindly making his way through the downpour. His patience had already taken a beating and now he struggled to keep a rein on his temper.

  “Make sense, man. I’m in no mood for riddles.”

  “Sorry, my lord. A gentleman arrived several months ago claiming kinship, Lord Eastcote—a distant cousin of your mother. He took over the manor as though it were his right. And that daughter of his . . .” Frederick straightened as if he’d just received a good kick in the arse. “Miss Juliana is a spoiled child even if she looks like a full grown woman, fancy as a goose at Christmas.”

  Ah, yes. Lord Eastcote’s daughter, Juliana. A handful. Just as wild as her tempestuous red hair hinted. Impromptu outbursts were a given. A spoiled girl who grew into a desirable woman with the expectation everyone should indulge her every wish, as her father had.

  “Lord Eastcote? What the blazes is he doing here?” Morgan raised the glass to his lips.


  “He is no longer here, sir. He’s dead.”

  Morgan’s arm halted midair. “Dead.”

  “The doctor said natural causes. Miss Juliana did not seem as broken up about it as a daughter should.” Frederick stood stiff, giving the impression he had a rod in the back of his breeches. Chin up, head straight, he stared forward as if something of import had gotten his attention on the opposite wall.

  Morgan gave an aggravated sigh. This story proposed to be a long and troublesome one. He pressed the back of his knuckles to his eyes, the warmth soothing his lids. If he wasn’t so damned tired . . .

  “They inhabited my home?”

  “Lord Heyworth would have sent them packing, but he knew the man to be who he claimed. Evidently, Lord Heyworth met Lord Eastcote shortly after your parents’ wedding.”

  A familiar tightening centered in Morgan’s gut. Anguish boiled anew, making old pain as fresh and sharp as when he’d first learned of his family’s demise. A ship that took not only his parents, but also his elder brother to a watery grave. Morgan had not wanted the title. It should have gone to his brother. Fleeing his responsibilities had not lessened his sorrow.

  Thank the good heavens for the loyalty of his father’s friend, Heyworth. The old gentleman had taken it upon himself to function as caretaker during Morgan’s absence—or should he say—his withdrawal from society.

  That was stating it mildly.

  Young and foolish, and full of bitterness, he’d accepted any perilous deed he could find. Dangerous missions were better than facing the demons that hovered to choke him. Vehemence and risk replaced torment and anguish. He spent years surviving by sheer force of will. No feelings. Forbidden emotions, vanquishing his agony without a care for his safety. Nothing was too risky, nothing too life-threatening for the dark devil he turned out to be. Putting his life on the line had become a way of perseverance, yet he had to face his torment, and his duty to Whetherford. If the family line were to continue, he needed to accept the title he shunned long ago.

  He strode to the hearth and stretched his hands toward the sizzling flames. After his fingers warmed, another glass of brandy would be just the thing. “Natural causes, you say?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “And his daughter?”

  “Miss Eastcote remained, ordering everyone about as if she were the lady of the manor. Then she left in . . . rather a bit of a hurry.”

  Morgan closed his eyes wondering what prompted her departure. Impetuous chit. Life too boring in the country, most likely. Not enough disruption to hold her interest. “A hurry, you say. Where is she now?”

  “No one knows.” Frederick cleared his throat. “Uh, my Lord. There is something else.”

  The distress in his tone triggered a gut feeling. Morgan glanced over his shoulder. Frederick lifted one shaky finger and pulled at the collar of his stiff shirt as though it cut off his air.

  Good God. What else?

  Morgan turned, putting his back to the grate, and scowled at his servant. “Out with it, man.”

  Frederick swallowed again. “The safe in your study . . . was open.”

  Moments ticked by while this bit of news penetrated his brain. Bloody hell! He shoved Frederick out of the way, not bothering to see if his servant still stood. He stampeded down the corridor, his boots thundering in the silent hallway. He charged in, banging the solid-oak door against the wall. As the sound reverberated through his skull, he came to a sudden halt. Even though forewarned, he was not prepared for the sight.

  His blood boiled as he stared at the empty safe. Gone! They were bloody gone!

  A haze of rage blurred his vision. His hands curled into fists while he sucked air over grinding teeth. His gut reflected the hollowness of his vault. Empty. She’d stolen from him? From his home? The muscles in his cheeks tightened with malicious intent.

  “She could not have done this alone. Find out who helped her and bring them to me.”

  Juliana Eastcote had provoked the devil. Now she had to face him.

  Miss Katherine Radbourn had been a willing participant in a great number of escapades. From the time, as a small child, she snuck into the kitchen and stuck her fingers in the cook’s baking, her brother had saved her. The time when she ruined her Sunday dress chasing a frog and fell into a mud puddle just before she was to go into the church at her cousin’s wedding, her big brother had taken the blame. But the time her mother repeatedly shushed her, she jumped up in the middle of the baby’s christening and yelled, “I gotta pee,” her brother laughed. Still he’d saved her from their parents’ anger.

  At twenty-three, she still had her moments. But they were more along the line of opening her mouth when she should keep it shut. Like today. At her best friend’s tea. Kat had embarrassed everyone. Well, maybe not her friend so much, but her aunt had nearly fainted when Kat mentioned seeing Lord Haslegrove with that other woman. How was she to know she was his mistress?

  Stephen had not been here to save her. He’d not been home for quite some time. And it just was not like him.

  “I can’t wait any longer.” Kat paced back and forth over the woven carpet of her friend’s London townhouse. Steam rising from the china teapot emitted a pleasant aroma in the floral sitting room. A soothing hot drink would normally soothe her nerves, but she was too wound up to sit.

  “Kat? What are you going to do?” Shrewd interest etched Charity’s heart-shaped face. The wife of a viscount, she appeared the epitome of grace and sophistication. But, Charity loved life, and she’d taught Kat how to laugh again. Mischief and daring flowed from her friend’s blonde curls down to her uncovered toes.

  “When did you remove your slippers?”

  Charity hid her toes under her gown. “After everyone left. Now, don’t change the subject. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” Kat studied the rose-pattern carpet at her feet. “My uncle plans to leave London the day after tomorrow.” The Season was far from over. What made him suddenly decide to return to the country? She paced again—back and forth—her fists clenched in front of her. “If we go to Chelmouth, how will I get word of Stephen? They can’t fool me. My aunt and uncle are as worried as I am.”

  “Your brother could have a reason for not being here,” Charity said.

  Kat flung her hair over one shoulder, and fisted her hands on her hips. “What could possibly be reason enough for him to be gone so long and not send word?”

  “Maybe he met someone. Stephen is one strapping man. Next to my husband, of course.” Charity’s eyes twinkled as she gave an all-knowing smile. “A girl can hardly breathe when Stephen’s around. Maybe a female finally caught his eye.”

  “All skirts catch my brother’s eye.” Six feet of solid muscle, the man was too handsome for his own good.

  The viscountess tsked and continued. “He could be courting and may not be in any hurry to come back.”

  “How could he forget about me? This is his home.” Kat waved her arms in the air and swung around to pace again.

  “The sea is his home, and you are only his sister.”

  “True he dumped me on our Aunt’s doorstep—for my own good of course,” she couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her tone. “And also true, I was bitter when I met you. But, I’m older now. I understand why he did it. A girl could not very well live on a ship with men.” She braced one arm on each hip. Then her heart grew heavy.

  “Stephen was my hero. I worshiped him. I remember running and screaming and he’d scoop me up and hold me high in the air. Maybe it was the difference in our ages. Maybe he felt guilty being gone for months at a time. I don’t know why he allowed me to follow him everywhere. I must have been an annoyance, yet he never pushed me away.” She swiped the corner of her eye. “Ever since our parents . . . he’s committed in coming home regularly. He should
have been home long ago. I know something is wrong.” She started pacing again.

  “There are many reasons his ship could be late.”

  Kat stopped mid-stride and whirled around. “Late? It’s been two blasted years.”

  “He is captain of his own ship. There could be any number of things to detain Stephen. He could have set off on a new adventure. His ship could be docked for repairs.”

  “Without sending some sort of missive?” Her frustration grew.

  “He’ll come home when he’s ready. Now sit down. You’re giving me a stitch in my neck.”

  Which meant, the conversation was over.

  Kat plopped in the chair across from her friend.

  Charity picked up the teapot and poured the remaining brew into a tiny cup.

  “He’s all I have left,” Kat said.

  “You have your uncle and aunt. You have me.”

  Kat never doubted their deep friendship. A girl of fourteen, overcome with grief, Kat had learned what it was like to be alone in the world. Not only did she have to deal with her parents’ death, but her brother had also discarded her.

  A ship is no place for a young girl.

  Uncle Albert and Aunt Elizabeth gave her love and understanding at a time in her life when she needed it most, but Charity had been her anchor. She had consoled Kat and supported her through her bereavement. Even though Charity was a year younger, she’d been married for three years and had a two-year-old son.

  “You are my dearest friend. But, you have a husband.”

  “You know, Kat, my father made an arrangement with Byron before I ever laid eyes on him. Father believes in the old ways.” A wistful expression crossed Charity’s features. “Even though I fought him, I will be grateful to Father every day for the rest of my life for choosing Byron.”