My Wicked Earl by Kathleen Ayers
2
LONDON 1836
Colin Hartley, the eighth Earl of Kilmaire, climbed the steps until he stood before the enameled black door gracing the home of the Marquess of Cambourne. He didn’t wish to be there. His gloved hand hovered over the snarling lion that served as the knocker.
The bloody thing looked as if it would bite off a finger.
He’d only wished a bit of help from the Dowager, guidance of sorts, to help him find a wealthy heiress to wed. It would have been so much easier if her ladyship had simply sent a list of suitable young ladies to his rented residence which he could peruse at his leisure. Alone.
Unfortunately, the Dowager had other plans.
She had insisted, rather firmly in a note sent to him that morning, that he call on her at his earliest convenience. Meaning immediately.
One did not ignore the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne if one wished her assistance in making a match. One in which the bride was possessed of a large dowry and whose family would overlook the scandal that was attached to the Earl of Kilmaire like a fattened leech. A bride who didn’t mind the tragedy of the Kilmaire family, of which Colin was the sole remaining member.
Knocking twice in rapid succession, he lifted his chin to the rapidly darkening sky above him. Tiny drops of rain started to fall, peppering his cloak like gunshot.
“Bloody wonderful.” He couldn’t wait to greet the Dowager looking like a drowned rat. A more perfect day he could not have imagined.
He wouldn’t be here at all, if it weren’t for the crumbling heap of stone that was the home of the Earl of Kilmaire. The responsibility of the estate, as well as the title, fell squarely on his shoulders, at the death of his brother Thomas almost two years ago. Even though Colin gave not a fig for either. His business venture, if one could call it that, was no longer enough to support Runshaw Park according to his solicitor. Only a large infusion of money would set things to rights.
Ignored for years by Colin’s parents, Runshaw Park had been allowed to rot. Decay oozed between the bricks instead of mortar. The vast woods surrounding the house were rapidly reclaiming the land on which the structure sat because there was no groundskeeper. Last summer’s rainstorm battered the dilapidated roof, scattering the shingles and ruining a portion of the west wing. The gardens, once the envy of the neighboring estates, had become so overgrown with weeds and tangled wisteria that one could no longer see the steps leading to Runshaw Park’s front door. A front door covered with peeling paint.
The tenants who farmed the land did so without modern tools and implements, their meager harvest barely enough to feed their own families. A new well needed to be dug. An illness had recently swept through the pigs decimating their numbers. The list continued to grow with no end in sight. Had the bloody place not been entailed, Colin would have sold it immediately. Not that there would have been any bidders on Runshaw Park. Not after what transpired there.
“Probably couldn’t give it away if I tried. Damn you Ian and Thomas.” He cursed his deceased brothers, both of whom had loved Runshaw Park far more than Colin himself did.
Rain fell harder, the dampness sliding underneath Colin’s cloak to send a chill up his spine.
He knocked again and shifted his booted feet.
It should have been one of his brothers, who needed to scour the ton for a wealthy heiress for Runshaw Park. Why must he sacrifice himself to keep that pile of shit whole? He took a deep breath feeling keenly the loss of his brothers, both of whom he’d held in great affection. The unfairness of both of them dying and leaving him to carry on alone was a lingering pain. Especially Thomas who forced a promise upon Colin from his deathbed.
A vision flashed before him, his brother pale and sweat-stained as he lay dying, begging Colin to do his duty to the family. The wasting sickness, the doctor called it. A horror of blood-soaked handkerchiefs and his brother coughing out his life into them.
Why hadn’t it been Colin? The least loved?
The irony of outliving his entire family was not lost on Colin. He’d never thought to inherit, never wished a moment for the title and was ill-prepared in assuming the earldom. The only satisfaction he gained, and it was very little, was that his parents were likely turning in their graves that Colin was now the earl.
Oh, the irony of it all. Like the makings of a fine Shakespearian tragedy.
His father barely acknowledged Colin and chose to only shower affection on Ian and Thomas. And the Mad Countess? The proof of her affection stared at him in the mirror every morning. A parting gift from his dear mother before she took her life.
Absently his fingers touched the scar that neatly bisected the left side of his face, starting at the corner of his eye and ending at the top of his lip. The jagged line shined stark white against his cheek. Thankfully, the Mad Countess had poor aim, or he would have lost an eye along with his looks.
Thinking of his mother only served to further agitate Colin, and he was quite irritated enough what with standing in the rain like a beggar waiting for someone to open the fucking door. His scar itched terribly in damp weather, as if a stream of ants were marching across his cheek.
Ian had been first. A stomach ailment to which the local doctor could find no cause. His elder brother suddenly fell to the floor in pain, clutching his left side. Lord Kilmaire drank brandy. The Mad Countess prayed. Colin arrived just in time to witness Ian writhing in agony, his hands clutching the bedcovers as he died.
The Mad Countess was next.
His mother’s mental state had always been questionable, but grief over Ian’s death destroyed what little remained of her mind. She wailed like a banshee as her eldest son died, frightening the staff as well as her remaining sons and husband. A week after Ian was laid in the ground, the family sat down to dinner. A footman, one of the few left at Runshaw Park, began to circulate the table pouring wine before bringing in the main course, a goose on a silver platter surrounded by potatoes and onions.
As the footman began to carve the goose, Lady Kilmaire suddenly stood on her chair. Lifting her skirts, she took a leap across the table, taking the knife from the startled footman’s hand. In her haste to grab the knife she upended the gravy boat, splattering the contents over Thomas and Colin, as she began to slash at her youngest son’s face.
‘Why couldn’t it have been you? The son I wished I’d never borne.’
Even now Colin could not bring himself to eat goose.
Shortly thereafter, the Mad Countess was found in her bath, wrists cut with her husband’s shaving razor, her naked body floating in a tub of water stained crimson from blood. Her lady’s maid, poor girl, ran screaming from Runshaw Park without collecting her wages.
The Earl of Kilmaire followed his dearly loved, insane wife to the grave, but not before spending what was left in the Kilmaire coffers on drink. His lordship would disappear for days, only to be discovered in an unused drawing room, or the attic, a bottle of liquor clutched in his hands. The last time the earl disappeared, every room in the house was searched, even the old priest’s hole. It was Thomas who found him dead, sitting upright in a leather chair in the downstairs drawing room, surrounded by several empty bottles of madeira.
Colin did not drink madeira either.
Thomas and Colin went on as best they could given the circumstances, until the previous year. Thomas fell ill and died, but not before wresting a promise from Colin to restore Runshaw Park and care for the tenants. A promise Colin didn’t wish to make but did for the sake of his brother, whom he’d loved.
Death shall surround you. Only you shall remain. No woman’s love shall keep you warm, my Wicked. Certainly not your mother’s. Nor the only one you are foolish enough to give your heart to. None shall love you. You are cursed to roam the earth alone until the end of your days.
The damned gypsy and her curse. Even now, so many years later, he could smell the smoke of the fire and feel the damp chill of the woods. The press of her lips against his cheek as she whispered the prophecy into his ear. What a lark it seemed at Eton to be cursed by a gypsy. To be named along with his friends, the Wickeds.
Not such a lark to be the Cursed Earl, as the gossips now christened him.
Sometimes, at night, when Runshaw Park grew silent, and he worked over the trail of numbers in the account books that all told of his dwindling fortunes, it seemed he could hear the crone whispering to him. There were terrible nights when the gypsy’s words intertwined with the hateful ravings of the Mad Countess until he could no longer tell them apart. On those nights, Colin thought perhaps he was as mad as his mother.
‘None shall love you.’
“Damn it.” Must he bang at the door like a tradesman? As he raised his hand to knock again, the door suddenly swung open.
“May I help you?” A large, elderly butler stood in the doorway, guarding it like an aging mastiff. He lifted his nose in the air, his watery eyes alight with recognition as he took in Colin’s wet clothing and the length of the scar on Colin’s cheek. The butler was too well schooled to show any overt interest at the injury, but Colin still recognized the curiosity in his eyes.
Not that it was unusual. The ton was endlessly fascinated as well. Not so much for the scar itself, of course, but for the story surrounding the wound. After all, not many titled gentlemen were attacked by their mother over a roasted goose dressed with onions and potatoes.
“Lord Kilmaire to see the Dowager Marchioness.” A drop of rain dripped off Colin’s hat to land on his chin. His nose wrinkled with disgust as the smell of damp wool met his nostrils. Nothing worse than wet wool. He felt like a bedraggled dog.
The butler cocked his head and raised a hand to his ear. “I beg your pardon?”
Good God. The man was not only ancient, but deaf. And, familiar, though Colin couldn’t remember the butler’s name.
“Lord Kilmaire to see the Dowager Marchioness,” he spoke louder into the butler’s cupped hand.
Bushy gray brows drew up to the butler’s hairline. “Greetings, Lord Kilmaire. Lady Cambourne is expecting you.” Bowing as much as his age would allow, he waved Colin inside and slowly shut the door, grunting a bit with his efforts. Lifting trembling hands, the butler took Colin’s cloak and hat, handing the dripping garments to a waiting footman. Moving at a snail’s pace towards the double staircase at the end of the foyer, the butler turned his head slightly to make sure Colin followed.
Christ, I can hear his spine creak. Colin ran a hand through his hair, droplets of rain falling from the shoulder length strands to sprinkle his coat, while he surveyed the foyer. It had been many years since his last visit to Cambourne House. He’d not even visited when Cam and his wife were in residence the month prior.
The hall still smelled of beeswax from the battalion of maids who kept Cambourne House spotless. He could hear them even now, scurrying about like mice within the walls, ensuring that not a speck of dust would mar the bannister or a cobweb hide in the corner of any room. The foyer was painted a mellow cream color instead of the pale green it had once been, but the fine carpet covering the floor was the same. An expensive looking vase filled with pink roses, probably cut from the extensive garden behind the house, filled the air with their perfume.
He remembered the Marquess of Cambourne’s garden well.
I choose you, Colin Hartley.
The seductive words lingered in the air like the scent of the roses.
“This way my lord. I am Bevins, by the way.” Bevins dipped his head as he started up the stairs, his knees popping with each step.
Bevins. How could Colin have forgotten?
Pausing halfway up the stairs, Bevins stopped to catch his breath. “Lady Cambourne will receive you in her private sitting room.” A spiderlike wave of his hand urged Colin forward.
Colin took a hesitant step. The last time he’d been in this house had been just before the gypsy’s curse began to unravel his life and his family. He’d been very successful in avoiding London since, and had no intention of ever returning, but for the fact that his financial situation required such.
And he missed his friends.
The solitary life he’d embraced at Runshaw Park grew tiresome. He had assumed, wrongly, that she would no longer be at Cambourne House. That she would be a duchess just as she wanted. Married to another man with a passel of brats around her skirts.
I was too much of a coward to ask Cam.
Seeing her in the Duke of Dunbar’s study was akin to being punched in the gut. Hungrily his eyes trailed over the curves of her body as her scent, lavender and honey, filled the air around him. The silk of her skirts whispered to Colin seductively, a delicious plea for him to come closer. Her lovely green eyes, the color of a fresh grass in spring widened in surprise, and for an instant he saw his own hunger reflected. It wasn’t until one of the footmen addressed her that Colin realized something.
Not married.
“My lord?”
Bevins opened a carved oak door with no small amount of effort and ushered Colin into a sitting room that faced the gardens of Cambourne House. The view was stunning for the Cambournes were known to employ the very best gardeners both in London and Gray Covington, the family estate outside the city. His eyes searched out the tiny white gazebo. Colin wondered if the bench was still there.
Bevins beckoned Colin to enter the room, bowing slightly as he did so.
The entire room was painted in pale yellow, the exact color of buttercups lining the fields every spring. Whimsical butterflies and birds hovered against the walls, so realistically painted that when combined with the view, it gave one the impression that the room was just an extension of the gardens.
Bowls were placed at strategic intervals around the room, all filled with roses and lilies. Two comfortable, slightly worn chairs sat before a merrily crackling fire. One chair held a discarded embroidery hoop and a book of poetry while the other sat empty in invitation. There was no doubt that this room was the private abode of the Dowager Marchioness, for the room carried the very essence of her.
Colin had always adored Lady Donata, the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne and his friend Cam’s grandmother. The Dowager lavished Colin with affection when he visited Gray Covington, seeming to know that the Mad Countess cared little for her son. She treated Colin as a member of the family, fussing over him and never forgetting his birthday.
She was also quite fierce.
Turning to ask Bevins how long the Dowager would be, Colin was instead greeted with the oak door shutting behind him with a discreet click.
Colin moved towards the empty chair and the warmth emanating from the fireplace. Perhaps he could dry himself out a bit before the Dowager received him. He could think of worse places to await his fate then this cozy room.
Halfway across the room Colin stopped, nearly upending a side table with a large vase of hyacinths.
A cloud of hair, as black as ink, cascaded over the arm of a small, green tufted couch set off to the side of the room. Unbound and unruly, the curling tendrils nearly brushed the floor.
Colin’s hands splayed against his thighs of their own accord, remembering the feel of those dark strands trickling through his fingers like silk.
A small table sat just behind the head of the couch’s occupant holding a tray laden with tea and a plate of raisin cakes. The tray was pushed up against the arm of the couch so as to be within easy reach.
She’s still enamored of raisin cakes.
Colin’s breath caught painfully.
Why hadn’t she married St. Remy? After all, that had been her plan six years ago. To marry the heir to a duchy. Become a duchess. Stroll about uselessly like every other titled lady of the ton. Spend her days deciding on which gown to wear to some ridiculous ball.
Indeed, why hadn’t she married at all?
Colin had done a wonderful job of steering clear of London and in doing so, avoiding her. But as luck would have it, his first night in London, she appeared in the Dunbar town house. In the confusion of the disappearance of Nick’s betrothed and his sister, Arabella’s role in the kidnapping, Colin found himself face to face with the one thing he’d been desperately trying to escape for so many years.
Miranda.
The bitterness rose up again at what she’d done. He didn’t wish to see her. Or speak to her.
He turned, meaning to leave and call on the Dowager another day.
A giggle sounded from the couch, halting his movement toward the door, as potent as a siren’s song.
It wouldn’t hurt just to look at her.
Unlike so many ladies of the ton who eschewed books as if they were the plague, Miranda was reading. A pillow embroidered with a spray of butterflies lay across her stomach, a book propped up against it. A pair of discarded slippers lay on the floor beside the couch, as if she’d just kicked them off. Her stockinged toes wiggled as she read, sliding over the couch and into the space between the cushions in a sensuous motion.
A gentle flip of his stomach at the sight of her filled him with the most intense longing, a not so subtle reminder that time did not heal all wounds.
There was not a bit of Miranda that did not call to Colin, beckoning his mind and his body. The fluttering of her hands, waving them about in excitement as she told him of a lecture on ancient Greece. The way she spoke, her topics and words winding into each other in such a way that one must pay close attention or be confused. The way she breathed his name in a litany as she came apart in his arms.
The delicate, feminine hand in which she wrote the words that destroyed him.
‘While I’ve enjoyed our flirtation, Colin, we both knew this would end. I find that while I bear you no small amount of affection I am ill-prepared to become only Mrs. Hartley. The daughter of a Marchioness cannot possibly marry a third son with no prospects. I’ve decided to accept the suit of Lord St. Remy at my mother’s urging. He’s to be a duke one day and I shall be a duchess.”
Colin swallowed, his eyes still on her dark cloud of hair, remembering the shock as his grandmother’s ring, the one he’d left for her, rolled out of the envelope and into his palm.
Miranda was so absorbed in her book that she still hadn’t sensed his presence. What in the world was she reading that held her interest? He told himself he was only curious about the book she held. After all, he considered it research of sorts.
Colin stepped carefully across the sitting room’s plush rug until he stood directly behind her. The vantage point gave him an exceptional view of her bodice and the crevice between the mounds of her breasts. He narrowed his eyes, at a disadvantage without the glasses he sometimes used.
Miranda was reading the latest Lord Thurston novel.
Colin had to bite his lip from laughing. How delightfully ironic.
She giggled again, a light musical sound, and snuggled deeper into the couch.
What in the world could she find so amusing about Lord Thurston? The tales of a disinherited earl turned pirate and his ladylove were thrilling. Romantic. Some would say slightly lurid. But, certainly not amusing.
Tempting fate and himself, Colin leaned over Miranda, watching in fascination as the dark blonde tips of his hair mingled against the ebony curls. Closing his eyes, he took a deep silent breath, allowing her scent to permeate his senses. He knew men who had an addiction to opium or drink. It must feel like this. The almost insane need for the very thing that would destroy you. He should never have asked the Dowager’s help, nor come to Cambourne House. A dreadful miscalculation on his part.
Opening his eyes, he bent down to whisper in her ear, loving the way her hair tickled his nose.
“Lord Thurston? How scandalous, Lady Miranda.”
