The Cold Earl's Bride: A Historical Regency Romance

by Audrey Ashwood

  Moving a little further back behind the fleshy leaves of the plants, Annabelle shuddered. She knew this man! Not personally, but she had overheard Felicity and her friends giggle and talk about him. No woman who valued her reputation would be seen in the company of Marcus St. John, the Earl of Grandover.

  Annabelle’s parents had explicitly warned all three of their daughters to stay away from him. Annabelle recalled how her father had lamented what he saw as the decline of their society’s moral values. He had expressed his strong displeasure at the laws being changed to allow Catholics to serve in the army and the navy, and thereafter he commented that “the ton” had become very lax indeed when Catholic families such as the Grandovers, and a man like St. John, in particular, were allowed to attend the season’s gatherings.

  What made Lord Grandover all the more attractive in the eyes of most young women, was the strange accumulation of suspicious deaths within his circle, which only added to the disdain her father felt towards the man with the dark past. Annabelle felt she had to agree with her father, and she understood why he thought he had to caution his daughters.

  From a distance, Annabelle had to admit that the Earl of Grandover definitely seemed attractive. He had a characterful and strong face with a proud nose, a striking jawline and a noble forehead. She did not find his dark, even cold countenance very appealing herself, but she could imagine why the majority of women considered him a good-looking man. He had an unapproachable aura and, given his mysterious past and his reputation as a bon viveur, it was clear why women of all ages were drawn to him. However, the maxim “the more dangerous, the more attractive” did not apply to Annabelle. Of course, his exterior was certainly captivating, there was no doubt about that. Well, maybe his clothes could have used a touch more colour, even though they undoubtedly must have come from the finest tailor in town. But Annabelle did not just want a man whom she could admire for his wealth and his handsome appearance. She yearned for a husband who would listen to her, who would treat her less like his possession and more like a thinking, intelligent person. Her experiences so far had shown her that this was just a dream that would never come true.

  She saw that he was still absorbed, as Felicity and her beau were dancing in the distance. Their intense conversation seemed to be over. Now her sister looked up at Viscount Greywood with an expression that reminded Annabelle of a dog begging for a chunk of food. The viscount, at the same time, seemed as satisfied and content as a fat cat licking cream from its whiskers.

  This was not good.

  The two of them had plotted something. But what was it? A movement of the palm leaves across the room steered her attention back to Marcus St. John. He had taken a step forward. Now that Felicity and her Viscount had moved away from him, he had been forced to give up his hiding spot, if he did not want to lose sight of them. Just for a split second, her gaze met his. His piercing blue gaze sent a chill down Annabelle’s spine.

  This man was cold, ruthless, and he was up to no good.

  But why did he have such an interest in her sister? And why had nobody else noticed the Earl of Grandover’s strange behaviour?

  Had Felicity secretly entranced St. John, who was now consumed by jealousy when he saw her dancing with the viscount? Annabelle knew that her sister could be somewhat reckless, but she did not believe that Felicity would dally with two suitors at the same time. Then again, what did she know about the art of finding a husband?

  Before she could ponder about it further, the musicians stopped their piece. The dance couples paused and bowed towards each other. Normally, the viscount should have accompanied Felicity back to her mother’s care, but he did not. Annabelle’s heart started to beat heavily as she saw Viscount Greywood manoeuvre her sister skilfully past the other guests. He managed to escape every attempt to strike up a conversation. She stretched her neck, but it would not be long before they were out of her sight.

  Annabelle looked over towards her mother, who was still chatting with the vicomte. Where was her father? She definitely did not wish her father’s anger to be directed at her sister, but… Dash it all! Annabelle thought in frustration, he was nowhere to be seen. She tried everything she could to not lose sight of the two conspirators – which is what they undoubtedly were. If she were to go over to her mother and wait patiently until the duchess deemed it appropriate to interrupt her conversation with the vicomte, Felicity and the viscount would be long gone.

  Her eyes darted towards her left. The darkly dressed figure of St. John seemed to melt into the shadows. If it had not been for his light-coloured and slightly too long hair, she would not have seen him. The earl, too, had set about to follow the two.

  Annabelle ducked her head as she scuttled past a servant, who was offering refreshments. Her throat felt as dry as the desert, but she had no time to down a glass of expensive champagne. Apart from the fact that it was not becoming of a lady at a social gathering such as this to drink like a drunkard in a tavern, she didn’t dare to drink even one drop of alcohol. Especially not now that she had to keep a clear head to protect her sister from making a grandiose stupidity.

  This she was absolutely certain of: Felicity did not have anything good in mind and the viscount even less so.

  Annabelle pushed through the throng with a recklessness that would have caused her mother to reprimand her, but at this point, she did not care. Her stomach was in knots as she saw the viscount’s dark hair and her sister’s reddish-blonde curls disappearing towards the garden. In hindsight, Annabelle thought and was even angrier at herself than at her sister, the signs had been obvious. Tonight, Felicity had chosen her most boring, practical and darkest coloured dress she could find. That way it would be easier to disappear into the night with the viscount. Annabelle’s heart raced. She simply had to prevent her sister from making a grave mistake!

  Outside on the terrace, the cold of the British spring evening embraced her. In one spot, where there was a small piece of bare skin between the dress and the glove, unsightly goose bumps covered her arms. How could she have been so blind! While she hurried down the steps of the terrace, stumbling after the eloping love birds, she remembered her sister’s mood swings over the last few weeks. Turn and turn about, Felicity had been either overly happy or extremely sad, which were the typical signs of seriously falling in love, even though she had never experienced it herself. It was thus – if the poets were to be believed. Annabelle turned around to the gradually dimming sound of voices in the house, but nobody seemed to have noticed her hasty exit into the garden. At least one thing that had not gone wrong. Then again, who would even care if her reputation was ruined? Annabelle most certainly would not.

  The two figures before her melted with each step more and more into the darkness in the heart of the garden. Annabelle didn’t even try to mute her steps. When she saw her sister hesitate and turn around, Annabelle was almost certain that she saw a silent plea in Felicity’s eyes or at least doubt, but that was, of course, nonsense and nothing other than wishful thinking on her behalf. At this distance, and in the dark, it was impossible for her to make out more than only general movements. The viscount slowed his steps and spoke insistently to Felicity. Her sister’s posture expressed hesitation. Then Rupert Greywood stepped so close to her that both of them blurred into a seemingly single shapeless figure right before Annabelle’s eyes. She thought that she saw the viscount looking in her direction, almost as if he needed to assure himself that she was still there, before they continued on their way.

  She was relieved that she was not wearing voluminous skirts or a tightly laced corset, which would have made the pursuit even more difficult. Of course, fate decided at that moment to throw a stone into her path, quite literally, because Annabelle stumbled and nearly fell. She rose to her feet and looked in the direction where she had last seen the pair.

  Felicity and the viscount had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed them up.

  St. John cursed silently as he watched Greywood disappear into
the garden with a young woman, who seemed to have just stumbled out of her nursery. Even in his thoughts, he refused him his title of nobility, which, in his eyes, was wasted on a good-for-nothing like Greywood. This damned bastard was his only lead, and he had hoped to be able to follow him to one of the meetings this evening. But as it turned out, Greywood seemed more interested in seducing the girl than fostering his other, much darker plans. One day his lawlessness would lead to Greywood’s demise.

  An idea shot through Marcus’s head, but he didn’t have enough time, and all he could do was memorise it for later. The bastard was attempting to disappear. The chance of Marcus achieving his goal tonight was out of the question, thanks to the girl, but he wanted to make sure, nonetheless. He decided to follow them unobtrusively anyway. Maybe he would see or hear something that was of use to him later.

  From a distance, he caught sight of a young woman, who had also been hiding and watching the two lovebirds from a distance. The shock he had felt when he first saw her was still vibrating through his body. In the first moment of shock, he had thought that he was seeing a ghost, sent to him by a vengeful god. Her hair, her mannerisms, and the way she observed her surroundings so attentively and with barely noticeable amazement – even her controlled gestures reminded him of the woman who… He shook his head, angry at himself, and pushed the painful memories away.

  If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought that she, too, had come here to watch Greywood. For a potentially jealous former lover, however, she was much too calm. Although the muted colour of her dress, in combination with her young pale face, was extremely distinct, this rather striking contrast wasn’t something a secret observer would have chosen. Only when he noticed concern written all over her face, did he realise that it was rather the young girl that was the focus of her attention. For a moment, Marcus was distracted by his pity for the woman. The girl on Greywood’s arm was lost, even though she and her female guardian did not know it yet.

  He watched her, as her chestnut-brown hairdo (which was way too opulent for the zeitgeist), disappeared into the heaving crowd of heads, then he continued his pursuit of the viscount. To his left, he saw Lady Wetherby approaching him, with her two daughters in tow. Without hesitation, Marcus took a sharp turn, nodded towards the Duke of Titchfield, and followed Greywood out onto the terrace. The flickering light of the outside torches made it hard to see more, but he managed to make out the fluttering seam of a dress before its wearer vanished into the shadows.

  Just as he had suspected, Greywood was leading the girl towards the stables. That suggested two conclusions, Marcus mused, as he followed as silently as he could. Greywood either wanted to seduce the girl right there, or he planned to take her to one of his doss houses and take his time with her. He was not a man who cared about discretion. If he felt like it, he would simply find a corner somewhere inside the stables, and if someone were watching, he wouldn’t care less. Whatever the case, it was not his – St. John’s – task to prevent any of it, nor could he do it without blowing his cover.

  Leaves rustled behind him, but when he turned around, he couldn’t see anything that might have caused the noise. Calm down, he admonished himself. It was impossible that one of his enemies had tracked him down. He had taken every possible precaution to remain unnoticed.

  A subtle movement showed him the way. But instead of moving towards the stables away from the main house, as he had suspected, the two turned right, deeper into the garden. One of his friends had once called him “overly cautious to an almost ludicrous magnitude,” but tonight his carefulness would serve him well. He had memorised the floor plan of the house and its surrounding parks, just to be prepared for any situation. That was why he suspected where Greywood was going. In the centre of the garden stood a pavilion, which was perfect for his purposes.

  Marcus stood still. Now that he was almost certain that Greywood had only amorous intentions, he knew that he could just as well turn around and wait for the bastard to come back. So, what was it that made him sneak after the pair? Up until now, it had always served him well to trust his instincts, and he decided to do just that. After a brief moment of internal debate, he stepped from the gravel path onto the grass to dampen the sound of his steps. The moonlight broke through the clouds only sporadically, which worked as much in his favour as it worked against him, but since he did not change old habits easily, he had dressed in dark clothing, which made him virtually invisible.

  He started to move forward. In moments like these, his years of experience of working in the shadows was of enormous advantage, allowing him to separate his body and mind. Tiptoeing, searching the surroundings for anything unusual, and making cold-blooded decisions had helped him to survive. Once more he thought he heard a noise that didn’t seem to fit the night and the surroundings. Still, his eyes did not see anything that would have made him feel uneasy.

  Finally, he could make out the shape of the pavilion in front of him. Only a few steps separated him from his target. Just as he was thinking about how close he could sneak up to the two, and how odd it was that the woman in Greywood’s arms didn’t make a sound, the hairs on his neck stood up.

  But it was already too late.

  He bounced against something soft, which he unmistakably recognised as female breasts that were laced up scandalously loosely. Before Marcus could wonder about the reason for his displeasure, he felt a burning pain on his cheek. A tender hand in a white glove pulled back, but not fast enough for him.

  His fingers enclosed the tiny wrist, and while he ignored the painfilled but more so indignant scream, he pulled the woman close.

  “What have you done to my sister? Where is Felicity?” a voice hissed into his ear, which would have sounded pleasant under normal circumstances. But now, under the vibrating alto, he mostly heard one thing: fury. And fear.

  Once more the memory hit him with full force. He heard a similar-sounding female voice, which belonged to a different time and a different place.

  “Be still,” he ordered as he listened to the darkness.

  Most likely, her scream had alerted Greywood, but he still wanted to avoid any attention. He knew that the gossip about his transgressions, as well as the rumours about his past, had given him a rather dubious reputation, however, an attentive observer would almost certainly wonder about the reason for Marcus’ late-night presence in the gardens.

  “I do not think so,” the strange woman replied defiantly. “Not until you tell me where Felicity is.”

  “I do not know, and I do not care,” he answered harshly. From the corner of his eye, he thought that he saw the dark dress he had followed all the way out here. “Be still, or I shall see to it that you keep your mouth shut.”

  He was close to losing his patience with her. For a moment he was hoping that the strange woman in his arms would behave reasonable, but she proved him wrong. She did something no well-behaved young English maiden would ever have considered doing – she opened her mouth and spewed a flood of vociferous insults at him. In all his life, Marcus had heard far worse offences than “monster,” which was a ridiculous accusation in the face of the situation, but her lack of reasoning and sheer disobedience angered him.

  A short while later, when he was able to think clearly again, he would struggle to find a logical explanation for his behaviour, but in this particular moment, it had seemed like the only way to silence the strange woman. It might have been the warm spring air, the sweet, delicious scent of her soft body in his arms, and, not least, the fact that her sight reminded him of the happiest time in his life, but… he pressed his lips against hers and closed her mouth with a kiss.

  She smelled of almonds and something tart, which evoked thoughts of a hot summer’s day in the country. Besides her perfume, he smelled the scent of her soap, undeniably some expensive French concoction that more than likely had been smuggled here. However, the most tantalising were her lips, which she opened for him without hesitation. At first, he assumed that she was a vers
ed kisser, but then he realized by her posture that she was simply overwhelmed by the new experience of physical closeness. By now he should have realised that she was a complete stranger to him and not the beloved, familiar, dead woman of his dreams.

  But for a fraction of a second, Marcus St. John, Earl of Grandover, a man with a bad reputation and a well-known love of the female grace, had forgotten to study the situation carefully, and instead lost himself in the innocent but passionate kiss with the young woman.

  It was the moment that cost him his freedom.

  The moment the moon revealed her face from behind dark clouds, and he finally saw who was about to rob him of his sanity, it was already too late to deny that the kiss had ever happened.

  Behind the woman with the chestnut-brown hair, which threatened to fall into complete disarray, he saw three men approaching with hasty steps. The first man with his scowling gaze he recognised as the Duke of Evesham, one of the country’s most conservative peers, and a hater of Catholics.

  He looked at the woman he had just kissed. Her eyes darted from his face over to the duke’s and back to his. For a short moment, he thought that she would open her mouth and explain what had happened: That she had mistaken him for someone else, that nothing had happened that couldn’t be forgotten, as long as all involved swore to absolute silence in this matter – but, she said nothing, not even when the Duke of Evesham let loose a tirade of angry accusations. Her eyes, the colour of which he was unable to distinguish in the flickering light of the torches, widened in fear.

  He thought that she looked at him pleadingly, but then the presence of the three noblemen demanded his attention and she was pushed to the edge of his mind.

  Immediately behind the enraged father loomed the corpulent figure of his friend, the Earl of Warrington. The third man – Marcus froze at the realization – was Greywood. He barely did anything to hide his grin as the two older men stormed towards Marcus. Evesham was held back by his friend, as he waved his fists in Marcus’s face. Words such as “honour” and “satisfaction” were thrown around, but they bounced off Marcus like water off a duck’s feathers. The only thing he saw was the mockery in Greywood’s face, when Marcus realised that he had no other choice, given the Duke’s wounded honour.