Lady Charlotte's First Love

by Anna Bradley

  She took his face in her hands, stroked her thumbs softly over his cheeks, and looked into his eyes. “I see them now.”

  Epilogue

  Hadley House, December 1816

  “My goodness, Aurelie. Why did you insist on smoking the wretched thing when you knew it would make you ill? You look quite green.”

  Aurelie waved the smoke away from her face and gave Lissie a wan smile. “But it’s a lovely, flattering shade of green, non?”

  “No.” Lissie rose from her seat, took the cheroot from Aurelie and tossed it into the fire. “You look like you’re about to disgrace yourself all over Charlotte’s lovely Aubusson carpet.”

  Lady Annabel studied Aurelie through a cloud of smoke, then turned her gaze on Charlotte, who was sitting facing the fire, her cheeks flushed, and a soft smile playing about her lips. “Such a satisfied smile you have this evening, Charlotte. You look as though you’re thinking pleasant thoughts.”

  “Or wicked ones.” Lissie gave Charlotte a playful nudge with her toe. “For your sake, my dear, I hope they’re wicked, because those are ever so much nicer.”

  Charlotte roused herself from her contemplation of the fire, and turned to her friends, her smile widening. “I was thinking how happy I am to have you all here.”

  There was a short silence; then all three of her friends began to laugh at once.

  “What?” Charlotte frowned at each of them in turn. “Why should you find that so amusing? I was.”

  “No, you weren’t!” Lissie gasped out another laugh, then wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her gown. “You were thinking of that handsome husband of yours, and wondering how much longer it would be before you could bid us good night, hurry off to your bedchamber, and pounce on him.”

  “Well, mon Dieu, cherie,” Aurelie drawled. “Do you blame her?”

  “I don’t blame her a bit. If ever a gentleman was made for pouncing upon, it’s Captain West.” Annabel studied her for a moment. “He was always sinfully handsome, but I fancy he’s even more so since you settled at Hadley House for the winter. Does the country agree with him? He looks much more rested and peaceful than he did when we met him in London.”

  He was. They both were. Julian still had occasional nightmares about Colin, and every now and again a painful memory would come upon Charlotte as she wandered the house or grounds of Hadley House, but they had each other now, and they were building new memories together.

  “He does look very well.” Lissie grumbled, a little crossly. “I suppose you’ll never come back to London now.”

  “Of course we will, Lissie, next season, and I’ll expect you all to be as entertaining as you’ve always been when I arrive.”

  “Well, perhaps not quite as entertaining. I don’t suppose your husband will approve of another brothel wager.”

  “No, I think my brothel frolics are over.” Charlotte laughed, but after a moment her smile faded. “Speaking of brothel wagers, what’s become of Devon? Julian and I invited him to come stay with you all, but he declined.”

  “Devon’s gone off to Cornwall on some mad adventure or other.” Annabel took a last draw on her cheroot, then rose and tossed it into the fire. “Cornwall, of all places. Can you imagine?”

  “Poor Devon.” Aurelie shuddered. “It’s quite wild there, non?”

  “Devon’s from Cornwall, and it’s not a mad adventure, for goodness’ sakes. He’s gone to close down his ancestral estate. He thought his father shut it down after his brother died, but it seems the old earl never quite got around to it. Devon was furious when he found out.”

  “Close it down?” Charlotte frowned. “But… Didn’t he grow up there?”

  “He hasn’t been back in several years. It’s out in the wilds, much too far for an easy trip from London, and Devon told me once he despises it there.” Lissie paused. “He didn’t go into details, but I gather his childhood wasn’t a happy one, and there was that business with his brother.…”

  “Poor Devon,” Aurelie said again, but her voice was subdued this time, and for a moment no one spoke.

  “Perhaps there will be another brothel frolic, after all,” Annabel murmured. “To keep Devon amused.”

  “Not for Charlotte. Husbands tend to look with disfavor on brothel frolics.” Lissie shook her head. “Much more amusing to remain a widow, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte only smiled. She wouldn’t trade Julian for every wicked entertainment London had to offer, and her friends knew it well.

  “My goodness, there’s that wicked smile again. I can see you’ll be useless to us for the rest of the evening, Charlotte. Off you go to your husband, then.” Annabel waved a hand toward the door. “I feel quite sure Captain West will keep you amused for the rest of the evening.”

  Lissie snorted. “The rest of the night, you mean.”

  “Bonne nuit, Charlotte.” Aurelie blew her a kiss. “You will show us the gardens tomorrow, oui?”

  “Yes, of course.” Charlotte kissed each of her friends on the cheek, then made her way upstairs to her apartments. Julian was stretched out on the bed with a book open over his chest, wearing a dark blue banyan.

  “My, you look comfortable.” Charlotte closed the door behind her and approached the bed. “Is that a new banyan?”

  “It is. A gift from Cam.” Julian grinned at her. “Ridiculous, isn’t it? Take it off me at once, please.”

  “But you look so dashing in it.” Her gaze moved over him and her body flushed with heat, as it did every time she looked at Julian. “Very handsome indeed, Captain.”

  He let out a low growl, and tugged her onto the bed and into his arms. “What took you so long? I’ve been waiting all night, and I’m…lonely.” He rolled her onto her back and slid his leg between hers.

  Charlotte wrapped her legs around his hips, a smile rising to her lips at his helpless groan. “I’ve been trying to come up this past hour. I adore my friends, but…” She slipped her hands into the open neck of his banyan to caress his bare chest.

  “You adore me more?” He was pulling the pins from her hair with one hand and tearing at the buttons on her gown with the other. “I know there’s bare skin under here somewhere. Ah, here it is.” He pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat, then dragged his mouth lower, to kiss between her breasts. “Dear God, you smell good, and you taste even better.”

  She sank her fingers into his hair and tugged gently to raise his face to hers. “I adore you above all things, Julian. You know I do.”

  He nodded, his dark eyes going soft as his gaze moved over her face. “And I adore you. I love you so much, Charlotte.”

  “Show me how much.” Charlotte dragged his banyan down his back, then arched up to nip at his bare shoulders and whisper, soft and low in his ear. “Show me, Julian.”

  And he did.

  When a headstrong beauty clashes with the man she once loved, she’s determined that the spirit of Christmas will open his mind, heal his heart, and perhaps give them a reason to celebrate—for many seasons to come…

  As far as Ethan Fortescue is concerned, his family’s seat in Cornwall is only a source of torment, one that he’s managed to avoid for two years. Now that he’s the Earl of Devon however, he can close the door on his haunted past by locking up the cursed place for good. But upon arriving at Cleves Court, he’s shocked to find the house aglow with Christmas celebrations, and filled with music and laughter. And right at the center of the holiday madness is the infuriating—and eternally tempting—Theodosia Sheridan…

  Thea has always loved the town of Cleves, especially at the holidays. As a girl, she also loved Ethan with all her heart. It’s painful to see how his brother’s tragic death has embittered him. Still, she will do anything to make sure the town thrives—even if it means going to battle with Ethan to save Cleves Court. Now she has only until Twelfth Night to make a Christmas miracle happen—by
proving that his childhood home can be a source of love and wonder. But before long, she finds herself wondering if she’s trying to save the house—or its handsome master…

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Anna Bradley’s

  TWELFTH NIGHT WITH THE EARL

  coming soon!

  Chapter One

  Cornwall, England

  Christmas Eve, 1816, 7:00 p.m.

  Somewhere between the Duke’s Head Inn and here, he’d fallen off the edge of England and into the deepest pit of hell.

  Hell, or Cornwall. Same bloody thing.

  The Duke’s Head.

  Ethan snorted. Pity he wasn’t in the mood for a laugh, because that was damn amusing. The Duke’s Head was the only inn in the tiny village of Cleves, and it was the last place a duke would be caught dead, with or without his head.

  His horse stumbled as Ethan led him around another of Cornwall’s endless muddy puddles. Christ, it was dark here. He wouldn’t have believed any place in England could be this dark if he hadn’t seen it himself. Or not seen it, as it happened, because it was too bloody dark to see bloody anything. Well, except for his flask. He could see that because he had it clutched in his hand, and a bloody good thing too, because a man doomed to spend Christmas in the wilds of bloody Cornwall bloody well better keep a flask to hand at all times.

  He paused to count, the flask hovering in front of his lips.

  Six bloodies in less than a minute.

  There was a chance—just the merest possibility, of course—he wasn’t overflowing with the joys of the season.

  Ah, well. At least he was overflowing with whiskey.

  He tipped the silver flask to his lips and took another swallow. What he lacked in Christmas cheer he more than made up for in drink, and it wasn’t as if any of the servants left at Cleves Court were in a position to scold him for his drunkenness. He was the Earl of bloody Devon now, and in the year since he’d become his lordship, he’d discovered earls were permitted to behave rather badly, indeed. Not as badly as marquesses and dukes, but badly enough, and no one seemed to trouble themselves much about it.

  Perhaps that’s how his father had become such a wastrel. Too much…Earling? Earlishness? Lordshippery? Ethan frowned. It was one of those, but it didn’t matter which. Whatever you called it, it amounted to the same thing—some earl or other had behaved badly, so the new earl was obliged to ride to bloody Cornwall in the cold and dark to clean up the disaster the previous wastrel of an earl had left behind.

  That it would be a disaster, Ethan hadn’t the slightest doubt. The last time he’d been to his country seat it was teetering on the edge of disreputable, and that was two years ago. He hadn’t the faintest idea why his father hadn’t shut the cursed place down altogether as he’d promised he would, but whatever whim had moved the old earl was no doubt fleeting, like most of his whims.

  God knew once his father abandoned something, he never looked back.

  He’d have forgotten all about the place the moment he returned to London, and by now the old pile would be collapsing into rubble. With only a handful of servants left to tend to it, it would be dark and freezing, and likely damp as well, with cobwebs thick enough to smother Ethan in his sleep, and servants who hadn’t the faintest notion how to look after an earl.

  What if they led him to some godforsaken room with damp walls, uncarpeted floors and mice-infested sheets? What if they didn’t even have sheets, or proper lamps or candles? Or, dear God, what if he should run out of whiskey while he was trapped in that old tomb, and was forced into tedious sobriety?

  Damn it, perhaps he should have dragged Fenton with him to Cornwall, after all. He’d considered it, but Cleves Court was barely civilized. His fussy London valet would be in fits of horror over the savagery of it all, and Ethan didn’t want another useless servant about, wringing his hands and making things difficult. This visit was bound to be unpleasant enough without Fenton’s hysterics to contend with.

  No, it was best to keep things simple. Wrestle his way through the wilds of Cornwall to Cleves Court, issue orders for the house to be closed at once, stay long enough to see those orders carried out, then get back to London before his supply of whiskey was depleted.

  But he’d have to see to it he had a proper bedchamber. He was an earl, after all, and accustomed to his comforts. He’d need something with sheets and without mice, and he’d prefer better music, as well, instead of that incessant picking on the pianoforte keys, but he supposed it was too much to ask if anyone at Cleves Court would know how to play the pianoforte—

  Music? What the devil?

  Ethan brought his horse to a halt and stared down at the flask in his hand. Good Lord, how much whiskey had he drank? He was so far in his cups he must be hallucinating, because there wasn’t a blessed thing for miles around here aside from Cleves Court, and the music couldn’t be coming from there.

  Could it?

  It was damned odd, but it seemed as if someone at Cleves Court was playing the pianoforte. If you could call it playing, that is. Pick, pick, pick. He couldn’t quite decipher the song, but it was something irritatingly festive. Without realizing he did it, he began to hum along under his breath, trying to place it.

  Four calling birds, three French hens…

  Oh, Christ. It was the Twelve bloody Days of bloody Christmas. Christmas music in general was intolerable, but he loathed this song in particular. A man might be partial to milkmaids, and eight of them at once could prove amusing, but what the devil was he to do with French hens and a partridge? They’d only get in the way.

  Ah, well. It was nothing more whiskey couldn’t cure.

  Ethan drained his flask and urged his horse forward, but once he crested the hill he stopped a second time, his gaze frozen on his ancestral estate nestled at the notch in the hill just below him.

  Light spilled from every downstairs window and cast a cheerful glow onto the drive in front of the house, which was crowded with wagons and carriages. Even from this distance he could see people passing to and fro in front of the windows, and hear voices and an occasional shriek of muffled laughter. The delectable scent of sugared apples and roasted meat drifted through the air, and Ethan’s stomach let out an insistent growl.

  Laughter, music, and sugared sweets? He might be in his cups, but he wasn’t so foxed he couldn’t see what was right in front of his eyes. Some presumptuous devil was running amok at his estate, without his knowledge or permission.

  Ethan tucked his flask into his pocket, kicked his horse into a run, and shot down the hill toward the house. Damnation. He’d only just arrived, and already he was being thrown headlong into sobriety.

  A few coachmen were loitering in the drive, but they were distracted by cups of ale, so he dismounted and tied his horse himself, grumbling at the neglect. What bloody good was it being the earl if he didn’t get to shout orders, and then stand back like a proper aristocrat while the servants rushed about in a panic to do his bidding?

  He strolled through the front door, squinting at the sudden light. It appeared they did have candles and lamps at Cleves Court, because the place was brighter than a London ballroom. A dozen or so people hung about, and the entire entryway was smothered in kissing balls and evergreens. It looked as if Christmas had gotten foxed, and then cast up its accounts all over Cleves Court.

  But there was a rather nice-looking Christmas punch on a table at his elbow, so Ethan snatched up a glass. Whiskey was preferable, but he’d drunk it all, so the punch would have to do.

  He raised the glass to his lips, took a healthy swallow, spluttered, and then stared down at the glass, aghast. For God’s sake, who made a punch without brandy? It was a disgraceful waste of perfectly good fruit—

  “Who d’ye think ye are? That’s my punch ye just drunk.”

  Ethan dropped the glass onto the table and turned to find a thin, da
rk-haired boy at his elbow. “Who the devil are you?”

  Instead of disappearing as a figment of one’s imagination should, the boy jabbed his thumb into his chest. “Why, I’m Henry Munro.” He announced this as if everyone in their right mind should know who Henry Munro was. “Who’re you?”

  “The Earl of Devon.” Everyone in his right mind should know who that was, but if Ethan expected the boy to blanch with terror to find the master of the house had suddenly appeared in his midst, he was disappointed.

  “What, yer a lordship? I’ve not got much use fer lordships, meself.” Henry took in his depleted glass of punch, and gave Ethan a disgusted look. “’Specially those what drink my punch.”

  “That’s my punch. Didn’t you hear what I just said? I’m Lord Devon.” Ethan waved a hand around the room. “Lord Devon. This is my house. Every glass of punch in the bloody place belongs to me.”

  He sounded like a two-year old whining over a toy, but for God’s sake, who was this demonic imp, and what was he doing here? And didn’t anyone in this house recognize the name Devon?

  “Aw right then, guv. No need to take on like that.”

  The boy grabbed what was left of his punch and tried to dart away, but Ethan snatched him up by the collar and hauled him back. “Who’s in charge here?”

  “I thought ye said this was yer house.”

  “It is, but—”

  “Ye don’t know who’s in charge of yer own house?” Henry eyed him, looking less impressed with every passing second.

  Damnation. As much as Ethan hated to admit it, the boy had a point. “I’ve been away. Is it Mrs. Hastings still?”

  It seemed unlikely Mrs. Hastings—or Mrs. Hastens, he couldn’t quite recall—was the authoress of all this offensive merriment. A vague image of a gray-haired lady with lace collars and dozens of iron keys at her hip rose in Ethan’s mind. She had to be at least sixty years old by now. Perhaps she’d gone senile.