by Emily Larkin
Harry choked on his brandy.
Kate jerked back, knocking over the candlestick. She reached for it desperately, blindly, and missed. The muted clang went unheard beneath Harry’s coughing.
She knelt in the dark, unable to breathe, while the candlestick rolled across the floor of the priest’s hole. James wanted to marry her?
“You want to marry Kate?” Harry said, when he’d regained his breath. “Why?”
Yes, why? Kate leaned closer to the peephole again and looked at James’s face. There was a crease between his eyebrows. His lips were pressed tightly together.
“Because I think we should deal tolerably well together.”
She closed her eyes. No.
“That’s no reason to marry,” Harry said.
“I have to marry.” James’s tone was flat. “And I like Kate better than any other lady of my acquaintance. I know her. She’s not going to turn into a shrew on me.”
“But you don’t love her.”
For a brief, foolish second there was hope. James’s words extinguished it: “Of course I don’t.”
“James . . .” Harry sounded worried. “You’re my best friend and I’d be pleased to have you for a brother, but—”
“You think it’s a bad idea.”
“I want you to be happy. Both of you. And I don’t know whether this . . .” Kate opened her eyes to see Harry shaking his head.
“It’s the only choice I have left. Damn it, Harry, if it must be a marriage of convenience, then I want a wife I can tolerate.” James’s voice was hard and his expression would have sent a dozen footmen scurrying for cover.
Tolerate. Something in Kate’s chest clenched miserably.
“But would you be happy?”
“Happy?” The word sounded bitter in James’s mouth. He shrugged. “Why not?”
“Would Kate?”
“She’d be mistress of Elvy Park. She’d have a title and a husband who respected her.”
“Respect,” Harry said. He shook his head. “Respect is all very well, but—”
“But?”
“But . . .” Harry shifted in the armchair. Leather creaked. When he spoke, he sounded uncomfortable, embarrassed even: “Shouldn’t a happy marriage have an element of . . . of passion?”
James’s mouth tightened. “Many women would prefer a passionless marriage.”
Not I. Spinsterhood would be preferable to such a fate.
Harry stiffened in his chair. “You don’t believe the marriage bed should be pleasurable for both parties?”
James clenched his jaw. “Damn it, Harry, don’t lecture me!” His grip tightened on the brandy glass, becoming white-knuckled, and then his anger appeared to ebb. His face became devoid of expression. His voice, when he spoke, was flatly neutral: “You think I can’t give a woman pleasure, even if I feel no desire for her?”
Harry put down his glass and leaned forward in his chair. “I’ve no doubt you can. But would you be happy doing so?”
James lowered his gaze to the brandy. A muscle worked in his jaw. “One woman is like another in the dark,” he said.
“You really believe that?” Harry’s voice was disappointed.
James looked up. His eyebrows drew together in a savage frown. “Damn it, Harry,” he said fiercely. “What do you want me to say? I have to believe it!”
Harry was silent.
Weariness replaced the scowling anger on James’s face. “If I could marry for love, I would,” he said. “But my time’s run out, Harry, don’t you see? I have no other choice. I’ve thought about this seriously. I don’t love Kate, or desire her, but I like her. If she married me I’d see that she was happy; you know I would.”
Harry sighed. “Very well,” he said. “Ask her. I don’t know what her answer will be.”
James looked momentarily startled. “You think she’ll refuse me?”
Harry shrugged. “She’s refused several offers.”
“Really?” James’s eyebrows rose. Kate was stung by his surprise. Resentment stirred in her breast. He needn’t be so astonished. He wasn’t the only man to see some use in her as a wife. “Such as?”
“Reginald Pruden proposed when she first came out.”
“Pruden?” James laughed, but there was little amusement in the sound. “Dear God, no wonder she refused! The man’s a pompous ass.” He drank a mouthful of brandy and then shook his head. “Pruden.” His upper lip curled with scorn.
“And . . . oh, there was Sir Thomas Granger, five years ago.”
“Granger? Don’t know the man.”
“You haven’t missed anything,” Harry said. “He’s a local baronet. Resembles a peahen.”
The description should have made Kate smile—for Sir Thomas Granger did resemble a peahen—but instead she shuddered with memory of that proposal: Sir Thomas clasping her fingers with a plump, damp hand and leaning earnestly towards her, and then, when she refused him, flushing with rage and calling her a bran-faced dowd who set herself too high.
James laughed again, a humorless sound. His voice held pity: “Poor Kate.” He looked at Harry and swirled the brandy in his glass. “Do you class me with Pruden and your baronet?”
Harry shook his head. “Of course not.”
“So why should Kate refuse me?”
Why indeed? James Hargrave, Earl of Arden, was a prize on the marriage mart. His wealth and title made him one of the most eligible men in Britain. And he was handsome. He could have his pick of ladies. His offer was extraordinary.
I should be flattered. Why, then, did she feel so wretched?
Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just saying, she might. Kate has a mind of her own. You know that. She’s not some milk-and-water miss.”
“She would have jumped at the offer eleven years ago,” James said, raising his glass to his mouth.
Kate flinched at this comment. Hot humiliation rose in her cheeks. The memory of that girlish infatuation was hideous. It made her cringe to think of it.
“Do you think she’s still partial to you?” Harry sounded surprised.
“No.” James shook his head and swallowed a mouthful of brandy. “She treats me the same as she does you—thank God! Having Kate making sheep’s eyes at me all the time would be dashed uncomfortable.”
Harry grunted agreement. His tone, when he spoke, was unexpectedly glum: “When will you ask her?”
“Tomorrow,” said James, looking as if the brandy had left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. “Unless you have an objection?”
“No.” Harry was silent for a moment. “I suppose I should wish you luck.”
“Thank you,” said James. “But I doubt I’ll need it. Kate’s been on the shelf for years. Of course she’ll accept my offer.” His voice was even, toneless almost, and his face was without expression. He looked trapped, Kate thought. As trapped as she was in the dark priest’s hole.
When the men had gone, Kate fumbled for the tinderbox and lit the candle again. In the flickering light she stood the goose feather quill in its holder and tried to blot the spattered ink. It had dried. The page was ruined. Not that it mattered; no one but herself would ever see it.
Kate gathered the diaries together. There were eleven of them, one for each year she’d been using the priest’s hole. She picked up the earliest one and opened it at random. Her handwriting was young and unformed, the entry hastily written. He’s coming again. I am determined to treat him as if he is nothing more to me than an acquaintance. No one must know of my feelings for him.
She closed the diary. She’d been seventeen when she’d written those words, seventeen and desperate not to make a fool of herself again. Her pretense had worked. James didn’t know, and neither did Harry.
Kate made a pile of the diaries and sat looking at them. What was she to do? She was no longer in the throes of a foolish infatuation, stammering and stuttering whenever she spoke to James and blushing hotly if she met his eyes. That youthful passion had long since matured into something dee
p and lasting. She loved James, and would do so until the day she died. There was no other way it could be.
He was going to ask for her hand in marriage. What would she say? What should she say?
Kate touched her mouth lightly with a fingertip, imagining James kissing her. She wasn’t a complete innocent. She knew something of what the marriage bed entailed: kissing, and much more intimate acts. To do those things with James would be marvelous beyond anything—except that he wouldn’t really want to touch her. He’d do so because he had to, because it was his duty, not because he desired her.
And why should James desire her? She was too tall to be considered feminine, and quite plain. The natural curl in her hair might be the envy of other ladies, but the color was a garish red and was accompanied by that worst of disfigurements, freckles. Looking as she did, it was inconceivable that any man would feel passion for her.
Kate closed her eyes. She wanted nothing more than to marry James—only not like this, without his love. He’d said that one woman was like another in the dark, but he was wrong. He might be able to imagine away her hair and her freckles, but darkness couldn’t give her a voluptuous figure. He would touch her and, even if he couldn’t see her, he would know that she wasn’t the woman he wanted in his bed.
She couldn’t do that to him. Or to herself.
Kate opened her eyes. She reached out and picked up a diary. It was dated 1813. Three years ago. She flicked through the pages. James has sailed to Spain again with his regiment. I am so afraid . . .
She closed the diary. Eight years he’d served in the 10th Hussars. She touched the calfskin cover lightly with her fingertips, tracing the date and remembering the changes she’d seen in him. It had been more than the uniform. He’d become quieter, more serious, although he’d never stopped laughing. The loss of laughter had occurred in the past nine months. Perhaps it had something to do with the action he’d seen at Waterloo, which she’d heard had been bad, but she thought mostly it was because of his father and brother. Grief could stop a person laughing, and so could responsibility.
She wanted James to laugh again, and she wanted him to have a wife he loved. Not someone he could tolerate, such as herself, but someone he could love. Someone who would make him happy.
When he asked her tomorrow, she knew how she would answer.
Like to read the rest?
The Earl’s Dilemma is available now.
Acknowledgments
A number of people helped to make this book what it is. I would particularly like to thank my copyeditor, Maria Fairchild, and my proofreader, Martin O’Hearn, for their hard work.
The cover is the work of the talented Kim Killion, of The Killion Group. Thank you, Kim!
And last—but definitely not least—my thanks go to my parents, without whose support this book would not have been published.
Emily Larkin grew up in a house full of books—her mother was a librarian and her father a novelist—so perhaps it’s not surprising that she became a writer.
Emily has studied a number of subjects, including geology and geophysics, canine behavior, and ancient Greek. Her varied career includes stints as a field assistant in Antarctica and a waitress on the Isle of Skye, as well as five vintages in New Zealand’s wine industry.
She loves to travel and has lived in Sweden, backpacked in Europe and North America, and traveled overland in the Middle East, China, and North Africa.
She enjoys climbing hills, yoga workouts, watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Firefly, and reading.
Emily writes historical romances as Emily Larkin and fantasy novels as Emily Gee.
Never miss a new Emily Larkin book. Join her Readers’ Group and receive free digital copies of The Fey Quartet and Unmasking Miss Appleby.
www.emilylarkin.com
Also by Emily Larkin
THE BALEFUL GODMOTHER SERIES
Prequel
The Fey Quartet novella collection
Maythorn’s Wish ~ Hazel’s Promise ~ Ivy’s Choice ~ Larkspur’s Quest
Original Series
Unmasking Miss Appleby
Resisting Miss Merryweather
Trusting Miss Trentham
Claiming Mister Kemp
Ruining Miss Wrotham
Discovering Miss Dalrymple
Garland Series
(Coming soon)
OTHER HISTORICAL ROMANCES
The Earl’s Dilemma
My Lady Thief
Lady Isabella’s Ogre
The Midnight Quill Trio
The Countess’s Groom
The Spinster’s Secret
The Baronet’s Bride
Midnight Quill 3-in-1 Collection
FANTASY NOVELS
(Written as Emily Gee)
Thief With No Shadow
The Laurentine Spy
The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy
The Sentinel Mage
The Fire Prince
The Blood Curse
Copyright © 2018 by Emily Larkin
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
www.emilylarkin.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
The Baronet’s Bride / Emily Larkin. -- 1st ed.
ISBN 978-0-9951050-3-4
Cover Design: The Killion Group, Inc
Created with Vellum