MARRIED TO THE EARL
The Wallflower Brides
Samantha Holt
Copyright © 2020 by Samantha Holt
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Edited by Destini Reece
Proofed by Dom’s Proofreading
Cover Art by Midnight Muse Designs
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter One
“Bloody hell,” Joanna groaned.
“Joanna!” Her mother sucked in a sharp breath and scurried around to Joanna’s bedside as though she might somehow be able to push the curse back into Joanna’s mouth.
Joanna squinted into the sunlight that poured through the open curtain and threw an arm over her eyes, sinking back into the much welcome darkness there. “If ever there was a time to curse, Mama, it is now,” she grumbled.
“There is never a suitable time to curse.” Her mother’s voice was full of irritation—the sort that would send her on an hour long lecture on refined language, so Joanna removed her arm and eased herself up the bed.
She grimaced while her mother fussed with the pillow behind her head. Every inch of her ached, her mouth was dry, her eyes felt as though they were filled with dust. She put a hand to her hair and shuddered. Knotty and matted. Just wonderful.
This illness had taken her swiftly, making her delirious. She did not remember much apart from feeling overwhelmingly hot and dreaming of odd things—odd people too. People she hardly knew.
She frowned to herself. Or more to the point, men. Or one man. She couldn’t fathom why. The Earl of Newhaven had been in her general social circle for many years, but they rarely spent time together. As far as she was concerned, he was an arrogant, rakish sort of man, and while she had time for many an interesting person, he was obviously one of those men who lived off their good fortune and handsome looks without there being anything particularly interesting underneath the façade.
“You can stop fussing, Mama.” Joanna batted her hands away from behind her. “I can manage now.”
“You cannot blame me.”
Joanna eyed the darkened rings around her mother’s eyes. The creases in her face seemed more pronounced too. She sighed. “I know, but I am well now. You do not need to worry, I promise.”
Her mother bit down on her lip. “We thought we had lost you, Joanna. How could we have coped? First Noah—”
Her eyes widened, and her mother clamped her mouth shut and moved over to the dresser to fold some cloths that had been discarded there. Joanna tried to push away the pang that struck her at the mention of her late-husband’s name. None of them ever talked about him—and for that she was grateful.
Well, she thought she was grateful. It was a strange thing to lose the man she had pictured spending the rest of her days with so suddenly. All that one had hoped for had gone—swept away by a silly riding accident.
It was easier not to speak of him, really. It was simply too exhausting to linger on what could have been had he lived.
She forced herself to sit further up in bed, closing her eyes briefly as her head swam. Opening them and peering around her childhood bedroom, her gaze landed on the dolls that were propped up on the dresser. Why she had ever liked those ugly things, she did not know. Now, they peered hard at her through their lifeless eyes with their ugly dresses that were poorly patched by her own hand as a child, making her skin crawl. If she stayed here much longer, she really ought to at least put them out of sight.
She really ought not to be here at all. She was far too old to be sleeping next to dolls. After Noah’s death, her mother had swept her up and dragged her back home, leaving the house she and her husband had lived in empty. She’d been too grief-stricken to protest but she regretted letting her over-protective mother coddle her. The house had been willed to her as part of her dowry, but she had yet to return.
In truth, she had been considering going back to the house lately. Her two closest friends had married, and it left her with rather more time on her hands. There was no reason to put it off any longer.
Except she was not sure how to tell her mother that. She had been close to death these past few days and knowing her mother, she had fretted non-stop. Not that she was not grateful for her mother’s care. If there was a mother more involved in her children’s lives, Joanna had yet to meet her, but it was too much sometimes. Here she was, a grown woman, a widow, with a house of her own, and yet she was still being cosseted like a child.
“Well, I shall leave you to rest a little longer,” her mother announced. “Mrs. Giles shall bring you some supper shortly. Maybe some hot broth and bread shall do it.”
Joanna pressed a hand to her grumbling stomach. “That would be wonderful.”
Mama tilted her head. “I am so glad you are well, Joanna.” She leaned in and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. “I shall check back on you later, and I’ll send your father up when he’s home.”
“Yes, Mama,” Joanna said meekly, rubbing the spot where her mother had kissed her. Wonderful. Now she felt simply awful about wondering if she could flee as soon as she was well.
She stilled, frowning, and twisted her arm into the light, her gaze coming upon red marks that lined her wrists. She sucked in a sharp breath. They’d bled her. Touching her wrist, she ran a finger across the wounds. No wonder her mother had been so scared. She must have been closer to death than she realized.
“Well, that is not very attractive,” she grumbled, letting her fingers linger on the marks.
“You never look anything other than beautiful.”
Joanna snapped her attention upward and grinned at the sight of Chloe entering the bedroom followed swiftly by Augusta. Both women beamed down at her.
Joanna reached a hand out to Augusta. “I must look a sight, but I am so glad you are here.”
Augusta sank onto the chair next to Joanna’s bedside and squeezed her hand tightly. “You had us worried,” she admitted. “But you look so well already.”
“Indeed,” Chloe agreed, “it shall not be long before you are out of this bed and back to normal, I’d wager.”
Normal. Joanna grimaced. She had become friends with Chloe and Augusta because they were the only unmarried women in their social circle and had become far too close to being wallflowers for Joanna’s liking.
Joanna didn’t have much say in being one, but she’d recognized Augusta and Chloe had other options—mostly in the form of some handsome, rather adoring men. She, however, was still in her mourning period and therefore could do little at balls and parties apart from sit and watch. She was not so certain she wished to go back to normal.
; “Why that face?” Chloe asked, pushing a curl of red hair from her forehead.
She paused for a moment, glancing between her two young friends. There was no denying the loving glow in their cheeks. She could not begrudge them their happiness with their new husbands—they were wonderful women who deserved every drop of joy. Not to mention she may have had a tiny hand in ensuring they had time with their beaus. However, it meant she had lost what had become somewhat of a matchmaking hobby for her and she was the only unmarried one now.
The last thing she wanted to do was say something that would upset them when they were at their happiest, though.
“Joanna?” Augusta pressed.
Joanna released a sigh. “You know how tired I am of being a widow.” She held up a hand. “I am not saying I am desperate for another husband,” she added swiftly. “But the pity, and the sitting around as though all one is allowed to do is mourn.”
Augusta nodded. “I understand the sitting around part at least.”
“You know what I am saying then.” Poor Augusta had been forced to wait around whilst her fiancé gallivanted off around the world for years. “I am not used to doing nothing at the best for times. I just cannot help...” She swallowed the knot in her throat. “I just cannot help feel Noah would not like to see me like this. This...” She waved a hand down herself, “is not the woman he fell in love with.”
Augusta lifted a dark brow. “I highly doubt that, and you can forgive yourself for taking bed rest after such an illness. Goodness, Joanna, you nearly died.”
“I did,” she agreed. “And it made me realize I cannot simply sit around and be the grieving widow.” She glanced toward the window, picturing the spring weather, the flowers blooming, the clear blue sky, a sprinkle of fresh air touching her skin. “I miss him every day but to continue to be so confined by the role of widow...”
Chloe nodded. “Well, what can we do to help?”
Joanna lifted both shoulders. “I am at a loss.”
“It sounds to me like you need something with which to keep you busy. Some sort of project or hobby perhaps,” Augusta suggested. “What about learning a new instrument?”
A little shudder tracked up her spine. “I am far too old for that.”
“You are only two years older than us!” Chloe said.
“Besides, instruments come too easily to me. How will that keep me occupied?”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “I forgot you are ridiculously accomplished. If only you could pass some of that on to me.”
“Chloe,” scolded Augusta. “You are accomplished.”
“Not in the traditional sense.”
“Brook loves you as you are,” Joanna pointed out.
“Oh I know.” She waved a hand. “But it would not hurt to be able to play the piano or paint beautifully. At the very least, it would shock my family,” she said with a wicked grin.
“I think you shocked them enough with your choice of husband,” Augusta pointed out.
Chloe smiled. “I suppose I did.”
“Can we return to the subject at hand?” Joanna asked with a teasing smile. “I do believe we were discussing me.”
Chloe rolled her eyes again while Augusta gave a bashful smile. Augusta’s naturally meek temperament meant Joanna occasionally shocked her, but she was pleased to see her recent marriage to Miles was making her a little more outspoken. Chloe, on the other hand, was inclined to be more argumentative and stubborn.
Augusta pursed her lips. “You have such a way with people. Why do you not use those skills in some way?”
Chloe pressed a finger to her mouth. “It is true. You could convince anyone of anything, of that I am certain.”
“Whilst I do not mind this flattery, I am not sure what it is you want me to do.” Joanna smothered a yawn and tugged the blankets up around her shoulders as a sudden chill swept through her. She was not as recovered as she had hoped, it seemed.
Augusta rose from the chair and aided Joanna with the blankets, tucking her in until she was rolled up like a big ball of hay. “You would make an excellent nurse,” Joanna commented.
“That’s it!” Augusta snapped her fingers.
“I am not becoming a nurse.” Joanna shook her head vigorously. “I do not have the stomach for it.”
“No, but you could help sick people.”
Joanna glanced at Chloe, who merely shrugged.
Augusta sat down again. “Charity work,” she said simply.
“Charity work?” Joanna echoed.
“Oh, yes,” Chloe said, nodding eagerly. “It would be perfect.”
“You are a natural organizer, and you are excellent at charming anyone,” Augusta pointed out.
“It is not like I go out of my way to charm people...it just happens.”
“Precisely.” Augusta’s grin widened. “You would be perfect at it.”
Joanna wrinkled her nose. “At what, exactly?”
“Find a worthy charity—one for sick people perhaps—and help raise funds for it.”
Joanna nibbled on the end of a finger. She had never really been involved with charity with the exception of giving alms at Christmas. Would she even know what to do? She could not deny the thought did appeal, however. She would get to spend time with people, organize charity events, and most importantly be entirely occupied with something worthwhile instead of sitting around and mulling over a lost life.
“I think you have struck on the perfect plan, Augusta.” Joanna grinned. “I hope everyone in Hampshire is ready to hand over all their funds to me because I shall be the best charity advocate England ever saw.”
Chapter Two
Ambrose winced when the butler set the tray down on the coffee table. The ache thudding in his temples heightened and he pressed fingers to either side of his head.
This is what he got for indulging in too much whiskey, he supposed.
He groped for the cup of tea the butler had just poured and drained the delicate cup in mere seconds before placing it back upon the tray.
“Another, my lord?” Bram asked.
He nodded vaguely and rested his head upon his knuckles, his elbow propped upon the arm of the chair. His mouth was hideously dry. When was it he ceased being able to drink until the morning and still get up for a ride? Being thirty was not nearly as interesting as it was meant to be, especially when one could no longer tolerate alcohol.
He peered around the parlor room and glowered at the midday sunlight as it dripped in through the windows, highlighting the golden frames around paintings and making the glassware on the console table glisten.
Ambrose resisted the need to groan. He should have stayed in bed but his need for sustenance had defeated him, and he hauled himself downstairs in the hopes that the physical activity might remove the cobwebs from his brain.
The pot of tea clattered against the tray. Ambrose narrowed his gaze at the spry elderly man who swiftly moved out of the path of his glare and busied himself with the empty bottles discarded on top of the drinks cabinet.
Glass clinked. He winced. “Must you be so loud, Bram?”
“Forgive me, my lord.”
The man did not sound contrite one jot, and if his disapproving look this morning was anything to go by, the noise was deliberate. Ambrose couldn’t fathom why. It was hardly the first time he’d enjoyed many, many drinks with friends, and he doubted it would be the last.
Or perhaps it would. He grimaced and threw back a second cup of tea. His stomach rolled in protest and released a slight grumble. He was thirsty and he could swear famished too, but his stomach was telling him otherwise. This was the most beastly of hangovers.
“Any chance of some food, Bram?”
The butler came to stand in front of him, a brow raised.
“What is it?” Ambrose snapped.
“Are you certain his lordship can manage some sustenance?”
His gut rolled again but he would be damned if he was going to sit here and suffer an empty stomach. He’d choke down s
ome food and drag his behind from this chair even if it killed him. Hell, he was thirty—not ancient. The last thing he wanted to do was act like some feeble old man.
“I think I know if I can eat or not,” he grumbled.
“Very well, my lord. Do you wish to eat in here?”
Ambrose drifted his gaze once more around the generously appointed room. Tall windows looked out onto the London streets, framed by thick green velvet curtains. It would be less bright in the dining room, but he was not certain he could bring himself to move yet.
“It’s a beautiful morning. I think I shall stay here.”
“Indeed.” The butler’s expression hardly changed but that slight quirk of disapproval was upon his lips again as he moved past him and out of the room.
Once Bram was gone, Ambrose let his head loll back. He closed his eyes and swiftly realized his mistake when his head began to spin, so he snapped them open. Memories of the previous night were hazy. It had been fun, had it not? He and several excellent friends had gathered together for drinks and games. It must have been fun.
Except, he could not recall much and now it left him with that strange itching feeling. It was a sensation that had been taking over him for some time now. A sort of tickling in his feet that made him want to leap up and do something different. But what the devil could an earl in London do that was different? He was hardly a coward and had pursued some interesting hobbies in the past. Heck, he’d even climbed Ben Nevis in his early years at Cambridge.
If he could get rid of this damned headache, he could go riding down on the row. Or he could gallop out to the surrounding countryside. If he was feeling particularly foolish, he could walk through some of the dangerous parts of London and see if he survived.
He was not, however, that foolish, no matter how much whiskey still lingered in his body.
There was always Mrs. Calvert. Or even Lady Anne. They would welcome a visit from him. What better way to recover from a night’s drinking than in the arms of an experienced widow?
He curled a lip. “There really must be something wrong with me,” he muttered. The idea didn’t raise the slightest flutter of interest. He glanced down at his breeches and grimaced. Not even where it was supremely easy to raise a man’s interest.
Married to the Earl (The Wallflower Brides Book 3) Page 1