The Mad Earl's Bride (Three Times a Bride Anthology)

by Loreta Chase

  Gwendolyn ran blindly down the hall, yanked the front door open, hurtled through it and down the steps—and ran straight into Bertie.

  “I say, Gwen, where are you—”

  She pushed past him and hurried to his gelding, which one of the stablemen was leading away.

  She snatched the reins from the groom.

  Bertie hurried up to her. “I say, Gwen, what’s happened?”

  “Give me a lift up,” she said tightly.

  He bent and clasped his hands together. “Don’t tell me Cat’s gone and bolted again,” he said as he hoisted her up. “I thought he’d get on well enough with Eversham, and I was just setting out to let Dain know, when I seen you turn into the drive and never was so astonished in all my life. You were supposed to be in—

  “Gwendolyn!”

  Bertie swung round. “There he is, Gwen. Ain’t gone after all. What was you—”

  “Let go of my foot, Bertie.”

  He let go, but Dorian reached them in the same moment and caught hold of the bridle. “My dear, I don’t know what you—”

  “I am a trifle…out of sorts,” she choked out. “I need…a ride. To clear my head.”

  “What you need is a cup of tea,” he said soothingly. “I know it was a shock to see Eversham, but I—”

  “Oh, I wish he’d never come!” she cried. Her voice shook, and her eyes filled. “But that is silly, I know. It is always better to know…the facts. And you have made me…so happy—and I love you—and I shall love you always, no—no matter what h-happens.” Her voice broke then, and with it the last shred of her control. She wept, helplessly, and when he reached up and grasped her waist and lifted her down, all she could do was cling to him, sobbing.

  “I love you, too, sweet, with all my heart,” he said gently. “But I do believe you’ve got this backwards.”

  “No, I heard,” she sobbed. “I heard what Eversham said—and he knows. He’s a p-proper doctor. Incurable, he said. Kneebones was right and I was wrong, and I should have known b-better.”

  “Backwards, indeed,” Dorian said as he threaded his fingers through her hair. “The London experts, Borson, and Kneebones all got it wrong. So did I. You knew better than any of us. I feel like an utter dolt. But your Mr. Eversham says my brain is functioning and one cannot inherit concussion, and so I collect you are stuck with me—and my confounded megrims—indefinitely.”

  She lifted her head, and through her tears, she saw the truth glimmering in his golden eyes. “M-m-megrims?”

  “Migraine, he calls it,” Dorian said. “Providence has played you another joke, I’m afraid. You came all this way to nurse and comfort a dying madman in his last wretched months, and advance the cause of medical science by studying his fascinating case…” He smiled. “And you wound up with a perfectly healthy fellow with a boring old headache.”

  She reached up and stroked her husband’s hair back, blinking at him through the tears that continued to fall though she no longer had anything to cry about. “Well, I love you anyway,” she said.

  She heard the gelding snort, and looked round to see the groom leading the horse to the stables and a worried-looking Bertie hurrying back to her and Dorian.

  “By Jupiter’s thunderbolts—I say—Good gad, Cat, what’s happened? What’s she bawling about? I never seen Gwen do that before.”

  “It is perfectly normal, Bertie,” Dorian answered while he gently stroked her back. “Your cousin is going to have a baby. It makes her emotional.”

  “Oh. Well. Oh, that is—I mean to say—Oh, yes. Jolly good. Indeed.” Gingerly, Bertie patted her head. “Well done, cuz.”

  “And you may be godfather.” Dorian drew back to peer into her face. “That’s right, isn’t it, sweet?”

  Gwendolyn gave a watery laugh. “Oh, yes. Of course Bertie will be godfather.” She let go of Dorian’s lapels and wiped her eyes.

  “And you shall have a lovely hospital, with a lovely new physician with modern ideas,” her husband told her as he gave her his handkerchief. “And we shall make tiresome old Kneebones go away, so that he can’t interfere or make obstacles or quarrel with sensible people. We shall send him as private physician to the dithering old Camoys ladies at Rawnsley Hall. If their own quacks and patent medicines haven’t killed them by now, it’s unlikely Kneebones can do them any harm.”

  She laughed again and wiped her nose—which was probably as red as her hair at present, she thought. And her hair must be a sight as well, judging by Bertie’s expression.

  “There, you see?” Dorian told him. “She is practically herself again.”

  Bertie was still eyeing her dubiously. “She’s all red and splotchy.”

  “She simply needs time to…adjust,” Dorian said. “It turns out, you see, that Gwen will be stuck with me for—oh, heaven only knows how long. Poor girl. She came all this way to comfort a dying madman during his last tragic days—and now—”

  “And now it turns out that all Cat’s got is a headache,” Gwendolyn said. Her voice was still wobbly. She steadied it. “It’s only megrims, Bertie.”

  Her cousin blinked. “Megrims?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Like Aunt Claire’s spells?”

  “Yes, quite like my mama.”

  “And Uncle Frederick? And Great Uncle Mortimer?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Well, then.” Bertie’s eyes grew very bright. He rubbed them. “But I knew it would be all right, all along, like I told you. Mean to say, Cat, it ain’t all right, exactly. Very sick-making. Great Uncle Mortimer bangs his head against the wall. But megrims ain’t killed any of our lot yet.” He clapped Dorian on the shoulder. Then he took Dorian’s hand and pumped it vigorously. Then he hugged Gwendolyn. Then, red-faced, he broke away. “By Jupiter. A baby, by gad. Godfather. Megrims. Well. I’m thirsty.”

  Then, frantically rubbing his eyes, Bertie hurried on to the house.

  An hour later, while Bertie was recovering his emotional equilibrium in the bathing chamber, Dorian stood with his wife, watching Mr. Eversham’s battered carriage lumber down the drive.

  “We must get him a better carriage,” Dorian said. “People judge by appearances, and young doctors have a difficult time inspiring confidence. But a handsome equipage will indicate a profitable practice. If people believe he’s greatly sought after, they’ll be less likely to doubt his competence.”

  “You think of everything,” Gwendolyn said. “But it is your protective streak—which I am beginning to suspect is a throwback to the Camoys’s feudal origins and the lord of the manor looking after all his people.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he said. “I’m only being practical. The man will have enough to do between doctoring and supervising the hospital construction, without having to prove himself as well and get involved with local rivalries and politics.”

  “Yes, dear,” she said dutifully. “Practical.”

  “And you will have enough to do, without having to leap to his defense a dozen times a day—or bothering me about it. Pregnancy makes you cross enough as it is. Can’t have you antagonizing all of Dartmoor.”

  They watched the carriage round a turning behind a hill and descend out of view. “The sun is setting,” he said. “The pixies and phantoms and witches will be at their toilette, preparing for the night’s revelries.”

  His gaze returned to her. “Will you walk with me?”

  She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and walked with him into the garden. He took her to the stone bench where he’d found her quietly waiting weeks earlier. He sat, taking her onto his lap.

  The sun hovered over a distant hill. Its glow set fire to the clouds scattered about like goose down pillows on a celestial bed of blue and green and violet.

  “Do you still want to build in Dartmoor?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I like it here, and so do you. And Dain and Jessica are near.”

  “We’ll need a larger house if we’re going to raise a family,” he said. He g
lanced behind him at the modest manor house. “I suppose we could add a wing. It would not be very grand. But Rawnsley Hall was grand and it felt like an immense tomb. Couldn’t wait to get out of there. At present, in fact, I am strongly tempted to forget about repairs and raze the whole confounded pile.”

  “You don’t like it, but your heir might,” she said. “If you rebuild, you might give it to him as a wedding gift.”

  He lightly caressed her belly. “Are you sure you’ve a boy in there?”

  “No, but we are bound to have one eventually.”

  “Even before I realized there would be an ‘eventually,’ I knew I should be just as happy if it were a girl,” he said.

  “Ah, well, you have a soft spot in your heart for females,” she said. “But you also seem to have a way with little boys, and so I am not anxious either way. You will make a doting, devoted papa. Which is a good thing,” she added with a little frown, “because the women of my family are rather negligent mothers. But then, they are always breeding, you see, which is distracting.”

  “Then I shall look after the children,” he said. “Because I should like a great many, and you will have the additional distraction of hospital matters.”

  She stroked his hair back. “You have a gift for thinking ahead.”

  “I’ve been blessed with a great deal to look forward to,” he said. “Watching the hospital rise from the ground, for instance. Discovering what modern medical ideas and principles can and cannot achieve. The possibilities. The limitations.” He shook his head. “It amazes me how much I’ve learned about medicine in these last weeks, and how interesting it turns out to be. It even has a sort of poetry to it, and its own logic and riddles, like any intellectual pursuit. And there is the same wonderful feeling of discovery as mysteries are solved. I felt that today, when Eversham explained where your notes had led you.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “You should be proud of yourself,” she said. “You did not put obstacles in my way, though you wanted to—to protect me from myself. Instead, you tried every possible way to help me solve my riddle—by writing to Borson and sending for Eversham.”

  “Eversham is not like any other doctor I’ve encountered,” he said. “He certainly does have his own ideas. While you were washing your face, I asked him why he had accepted you as a colleague. He told me that in olden times, women were the healers in many communities. But their arts, to ignorant folk, seemed like magic, which was associated with the Devil. And so they were reviled and persecuted as witches.” He chuckled. “And so I realized I had been right from the first. I had wed a witch. And he was right, too, for you are a healer. You’ve healed my heart. That was the part that was ailing.”

  She curled her fingers round his neck. “You’ve healed me, too, Cat. You made the doctor part and the woman part fit together.”

  “Because I love both parts,” he said softly. “All your parts. All of you.”

  She smiled, the sweet everlasting smile, and weaving her fingers into his hair, drew him down and kissed him, slowly, deeply, lingeringly.

  While he lingered with her in the warm forever of that moment, the narrow red arc of the sun sank behind the glowing hill. A faint thread of light glimmered on the horizon. The night mists stole into the hollows and crevices of the moors, and the shadows swelled and lengthened, shrouding the winding byways in darkness.

  The sharpening breeze made him lift his head. “A beautiful Dartmoor night,” he murmured. “At moments like this, it is easy to believe in magic.” He met her soft gaze. “You’re magic to me, Gwen.”

  “Because I’m your witch, and you are my devoted familiar.”

  “So I am.” He smiled down at her. “Let’s make a spell, sorceress.”

  She frowned her endearing medical frown. “Very well. But first you must help me find some eye of newt.”

  He laughed. Then, cradling his bride in his arms, the Earl of Rawnsley rose, and carried her into the house.

  LORETTA CHASE holds a B.A. from Clark University, where she majored in English and minored unofficially in visual art. Her past lives include clerical, administrative, and part-time teaching at Clark and a Dickensian six-month experience as a meter maid. In the course of moonlighting as a corporate video scriptwriter, she fell under the spell of a producer who lured her into writing novels…and marrying him. The union has resulted in more than a dozen books and a number of awards, including the Romance Writers of America’s Rita® Award. You can talk to Loretta via her email address Author@LorettaChase.com, visit her website at www.LorettaChase.com, and blog with her and six other authors at WordWenches.com.

  Turn the page for a sneak peek at

  IN PURSUIT OF A SCANDALOUS LADY

  The first in a new series from USA Today bestselling author Gayle Callen

  The biggest secret in London is about to be…revealed.

  Every gentleman is wondering: Who is the beauty in the scandalous nude portrait hanging in one of London’s most fashionable clubs? Is it true that she’s a member of the ton? Who would be so daring? So reckless?

  Julian Delane, Earl of Parkhurst, has a good idea. So good, in fact, that he’s willing to make a wager on it. If only the bet were all that’s at stake…

  Determined to clear the family name from a scandal that claimed his father’s life, Julian believes the ravishing model will lead him to answers. Rebecca Leland—spirited, adventurous, with a bit of a wild streak—is just as determined to evade his questions. But when Julian finally corners his quarry, he may find Rebecca well worth the pursuit.

  Rebecca felt a secret little thrill. She saw the way both women and men stepped out of Lord Parkhurst’s way. He ignored them all, his every focus on her. Awareness was a prickling flush that started at the nape of her neck and spread along her body. She barely felt Susanna’s fingers clasping hard on her arm, as she had to look up and up as the earl came closer and closer. Good lord, he made her feel positively dainty.

  She’d been longing for something different to happen to her—and now here he was, large and bold and threatening beneath a veil of civility.

  Lady Rosa beamed at her daughters. She had the same shade of dark brown hair as Rebecca, with only a little gray to betray her age. Susanna had inherited her warm brown eyes. She was a striking woman, displaying the easy elegance of her birth, yet at the same time showing her compassion and strength. She’d endured the fear of losing Rebecca to countless childhood illnesses and suffered through a year believing her son dead. Her marriage had almost floundered under the weight of a lifetime of scandal, but Lady Rosa had emerged victorious. Now the only triumph she seemed to truly want was to see her daughters well—and happily—married. And Rebecca almost regretted that she could not appease her mother in such a way.

  “My dear girls, how pleased I am to find you together,” Lady Rosa said, beaming. “Lord Parkhurst, allow me to introduce my daughters, Miss Leland and Miss Rebecca Leland. Oh dear, I’ve already gone on so long about them, you probably feel as if you know everything there is to know!”

  Rebecca’s smile stiffened. Everything there was to know, indeed. Lord Parkhurst probably did think such a thing, especially after the way he’d studied the painting for what seemed like forever.

  And then it was as if she were in the dark, candlelit saloon again, standing too close to this giant of a man, meeting his intelligent, assessing gaze. He should seem out of place in this false garden, where people talked with little substance. Instead, she could imagine him one with the forest, hunting a beast of prey.

  And she realized that she was the prey.

  A flush of heat had her wondering if he could see her blush.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, ladies,” the earl said, bowing his head politely. His voice was mild rather than challenging, though still deep and rumbling.

  She and her sister curtsied. Rebecca could feel some of Susanna’s tension subside. Up close and by the light of day, he seemed a bit…different. There were lines of
strain across his forehead, as if he regularly frowned. His eyes were hooded, almost tired.

  Had he spent much of the night thinking about her, as she’d thought about him?

  No, she wasn’t worth that to him. He was a bored aristocrat who’d found something to amuse himself for a few days—a month at most, she reminded herself. Though he might look different, he was surely the same as every other man of her acquaintance.

  “Is this truly the first time we’ve spoken, Lord Parkhurst?” Rebecca asked politely. “I feel like I’ve seen you at several events.”

  “And I have seen you, Miss Leland.”

  He spoke with all politeness, but she heard another meaning in his words, and barely withheld a shiver.

  “I wish to congratulate you all on the miraculous return of Captain Leland,” he continued.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Lady Rosa said with a happy sigh. “I was…quite devastated by the loss of my son. With his return, my husband and I are restored in spirit and in our hearts. The captain is spending time with his cousins this month.”

  “Ah, so I heard,” he said, glancing at the Leland sisters. “The captain himself told me. We have had several shared investments recently.”

  Why hadn’t he said that he knew her brother last night? Rebecca wondered with annoyance. She was feeling more and more deflated. The earl was not so removed from Society. She only wanted him to be.

  “Did you meet my son at university?” Lady Rosa asked.

  Lord Parkhurst linked his hands behind his back, his appearance casual—far too casual. Rebecca sensed…something beneath the surface.

  “No, I did not, my lady.”

  “Ah, then you must have gone to Oxford. My husband lectures at Cambridge.”

  “I came into my title at eighteen,” Lord Parkhurst said. “I did not have time for much else.”

  Lady Rosa’s expression turned momentarily pained. “Do forgive me, my lord. I had forgotten that your father died so many years ago.”