The Cold Earl's Bride: A Historical Regency Romance Read online

  The Cold Earl’s Bride

  A Historical Regency Romance

  Audrey Ashwood

  Contents

  About this Novel

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Sneak Peek: No Lord Desired

  Books in the Same Series

  Also by Audrey Ashwood

  About the Author

  The Cold Earl’s Bride Copyright © 2020 Audrey Ashwood

  This work is protected by copyright.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author. The characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are completely fictitious and are in no way meant to represent real people or places.

  Print ISBN: 1793930074

  About this Novel

  They took everything away from him.

  His reputation as an honourable gentleman.

  His hope for peace.

  His faith in love.

  Nevertheless, there is one thing that nobody can take from the merciless Marcus St. John, Earl of Grandover – his desire to take revenge on the men who wish for his demise. He is on the verge of identifying the mysterious mastermind who is pulling the strings in the background.

  But then he stumbles into a cleverly designed trap and finds himself forced to marry a woman who is an instrument of his enemy.

  The longer the ruthless earl watches the foe in his own house, the bigger his doubts become about the role she is playing. She is smart and beautiful, but above all, she touches his heart in a way that had long since been forgotten. Is it really possible that she has clouded his mind and confused his heart?

  Just when he starts to believe that he can see through her clever game, the cards are shuffled anew…

  Prologue

  Revenge is a dish best served cold. Greywood had repeated the phrase to himself over and over again, ever since the Earl of Grandover had returned. But given the arrogance with which that darned Catholic blackguard was sunning himself in the attention of high society, he found it hard to stay calm under such provocation.

  “Be like the spider that spins its net and sits quietly at the centre,” Greywood’s mysterious benefactor had written to him. For a man who was used to cold-bloodedly eliminating any obstacle that stood in the way of his plans, his writing was exceedingly flowery. During the rare moments when curiosity got the better of him and he tried to envision his mentor and employer, he wondered if the man might be secretly writing novels.

  He removed the sealed letter from its usual hiding spot and opened it as soon as he had made himself comfortable inside the carriage that had been waiting for him. In the finest handwriting the unknown man had given him detailed instructions about exactly what he expected from tonight’s event. Greywood was supposed to use the girl whom he had courted over the last few months as a decoy to lure the earl into the trap. Greywood’s mouth twisted as he read the lines in which he was cautioned and warned to watch out for any obvious moves.

  “Marcus St. John, the Earl of Grandover,” he read and stifled a contemptuous snort when he saw the title of his enemy written out in all its glory “… has the fine senses of a bloodhound. If even a single one of your gestures is not right, and if he so much as notices one glance of yours that might indicate that you are watching him, he will sense the trap.”

  Rupert Greywood ground his teeth. This was not the first time that he longed to come face to face with his employer to tell him directly what he thought of his condescendence. But anyway, as long as his own plans coincided with those of the man, he would keep his mouth shut. The gold that the man sent at regular intervals didn’t go amiss either. His lifestyle was that of a viscount, but unfortunately, his father had left him nothing but debt. Unlike the Earl of Grandover, he didn’t have inexhaustible reserves when it came to money.

  “As concerns the girl, you may do with her whatever you wish,” he continued reading. “I have seen how she looks at you, and I am certain that she will not reject you. Maybe you should consider using her for our, for your, purpose. If that is the case, you will have plenty of time to shape her according to your particular preferences, once Grandover has fallen.”

  With his throat suddenly dry, Viscount Greywood read the last paragraph once more. Yes, there was no doubt. The author of the letter was referring to something that no one else knew about, apart from Greywood and some of the doxies he consorted with. Which one of them had talked?

  Damn it. He would make sure that she kept her mouth shut. The blood rushed to his face, and he started to feel hot as he imagined how he would silence her.

  Regardless, first and foremost it was important to lure the earl into the trap. A smile that did not reach his eyes curved his cruel lips. Just the look on St. John’s face when he realised what was happening to him, was worth the perseverance. Indeed, Grandover, he thought and snarled to himself. The days of grandeur were numbered for the man who had taken so much away from him.

  But before that, Greywood would still have some fun – if not with the daft girl, then definitely with the earl.

  Chapter 1

  The night Lady Annabelle Carlisle found a fiancé had started in the same way as many other evenings since she had started her second London season. However, by the time it was over, she had a fiancé whom she did not want and, worse, a man who had no intentions of getting married had given his word to wed her.

  Yet it all had started so promisingly. Not only had Annabelle been able to get ready for the ball without having to hurry, but she also wore a dress that looked good on her. With her chestnut-brown hair and dark eyes, she didn’t think the colours that were currently in fashion for young women suited her. The delicate yellow everyone was so fond of at the moment seemed to give her hair an unfavourable tint of orange. Pastel green was acceptable, but not in vogue, according to her seamstress. White, she found to be too strong a tone for herself, and on top of that, dresses of that colour had the unfortunate tendency to look grimy on her after mere minutes.

  Today, her mother had allowed her to wear the pale purple dress. After one look in the mirror, she had realised that her oldest daughter was more likely to arouse the interest of a gentleman in one of her dresses from last season in which she felt comfortable, than in one of the delicate concoctions, which would undoubtedly have made her feel plump and clumsy. Her mother could be surprisingly unconventional sometimes – for a duchess.

  The dress was of simple design – at least the leading ladies of the society did not dictate that Annabelle wear voluminous skirts, which she would have considered a nightmare – and only the seams were adorned with a fine and subtle embroidery of tiny violet petals, exactly how she liked it. For her taste, the tone of colour was still not muted enough, but even just half a nuance darker would have inappropriately turned the dress into a gown for mourning. The comfortable dress would be the only pleasant thing at the ball.

  Immediately after their arrival, Annabelle had searched for a retreat, sheltering herself from prying eyes and tiring conversations, to instead enjoy her favourite pastime, observing everyon
e and everything around her. It wasn’t her intent to spy on others. Annabelle simply liked to watch and then interpret other people’s gestures, the looks, and the postures. She had become a true mistress in reading people, as she called it. At least, she corrected her own thoughts, for as long as she did not have to make direct conversation. Straight after the thought, she heard the voice of her father, the duke. “How will you ever be able to find a husband if you’d rather hide than dance?” she heard him ask. I will not, she would gladly have answered.

  With a sigh that came from deep within her, she reminded herself that this was already her second season. She felt old. This would not have been a particular concern for Annabelle if the time had also brought wisdom with it. Unfortunately, she did not feel wise at all. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Whenever she watched her friends or her sister, Felicity, who wholeheartedly embraced her first season in London, she felt an unwavering feeling in her chest that she was failing to grasp the most important rules. She felt clumsy when she tried to flirt, because she never understood why the gentleman did not just say directly what he was thinking. Behind questions such as “May I get you refreshment?” could lurk a thousand pitfalls that Annabelle would almost certainly become tangled up in. The last gentleman, whose question she had flat-out denied, had been the Earl of Shirrington. He had resentfully withdrawn from the conversation, and Annabelle did not understand why her truthful answer had angered him so much.

  Loudly spoken sentences distracted Annabelle. Even though she could clearly interpret words and gestures from a distance, she was unable to combine them into a meaningful sense. The two contradicted themselves a little too often, which confused her. It had taken a long explanation from her younger sister to help her understand that every other young woman would have gladly seized the opportunity to take the earl’s offer of a refreshing glass of lemonade. When she explained to Felicity that she would have liked to dance with the earl –she had observed that he didn’t step on his female dance partner’s feet – but that she had not been thirsty, Felicity had graced her older sister with a pitiful smile. “He may have danced with you, silly, if you had not told him that you were not interested in him.”

  “Well, that is not what I said,” contradicted Annabelle. “I simply was not thirsty.” She did not mention the purely practical consideration behind her rejection. The ride home in the carriage was not particularly short, and despite the suspension, the rocking back and forth increased a natural urge, caused by drinking too much lemonade.

  Sometimes Annabelle wished that her mother, her father, and the rest of society would simply allow her to live out her life in the country, surrounded by twenty cats, and grow old without a husband. But as the oldest daughter of the Duke and the Duchess of Evesham, Annabelle’s preferred fate was as impossible as her second favourite choice – to become an actress. She was expected to marry, give birth to children, and obey her husband as she had previously obeyed her parents.

  Most of the time she was happy to watch others from her withdrawn position, as she did now. She was content to remain a wallflower – the boring older sister – rather than to forget herself, as Lady Clarissa Montgomery, a friend of Felicity’s, had done. Clarissa had tried to elope with a Mr Weston to Gretna Green because her parents refused to agree to her liaison with the young merchant. Clarissa’s parents had caught up with the pair just short of the Scottish border, and since then Lady Clarissa had vanished as if the earth had swallowed her whole. The young man, by the same token, had been seen about in London with a group of friends, and allegedly, he had been in great spirits. She pursed her lips involuntarily and was promptly reprimanded by her mother, who had chosen that particular moment to look for her.

  “What is it that displeases you now?” The duchess was still a very beautiful woman. Annabelle loved her mother dearly, and she often wished she was more like her. Not only had her mother kept a fine sense of humour despite her husband’s numerous escapades, but she was also very patient with her daughters, unlike many other mothers whose daughters had reached a marriageable age. Right now, her tone of voice was a combination of love and resignation, which hurt Annabelle more than open criticism would have done.

  “Come with me to the edge of the dance floor, my dear, instead of hiding behind these ugly plants. You are much too young not to enjoy yourself, Annabelle.”

  “I am having a marvellous time,” Annabelle replied. “You know that I feel most comfortable when I am not the centre of attention. Please, Mama.” She whispered the last words. Even though there was no danger of anybody listening in to their muted conversation, away from all the excitement, they spoke quietly. Her mother didn’t care for anyone to deem her parenting skills lax, or to think that she was unnecessarily lenient, and Annabelle needed a few minutes longer to find the courage to face the exertion of the conversations that awaited her.

  Her mother gave her a smile. “Five minutes,” she said, and then she added, “Maybe you will be pleased to hear that the Countess of York has enquired about you. I do know that you like her very much, and it seems that the feeling is mutual.” Annabelle felt how her mouth formed into the first real smile of the evening. She liked the countess, who lived alone since the death of her husband and who wasn’t afraid to voice her opinion in clear words. Annabelle was eager to ask her, at some point, about her many travels. The countess had travelled alone, which in itself was considered an outrageous venture for a woman. She had visited the war-torn continent, and apparently, she had even been to Egypt! Annabelle could hardly wait to ask her all manner of questions: How had it been to travel without male protection? Did she manage to see the legendary pyramids? Had she really met the emperor of France, as rumour had it?

  “Thank you, Mama,” she said and returned to reality. She watched her mother move gracefully back into her circle of admirers. With a soft sigh she admitted to herself that she would probably never have her mother’s effortless elegance, nor master the graceful way she moved. She should probably consider herself lucky to find a man who would marry her – and not just for her dowry. Certainly, no gentleman would want to marry her for her gracefulness, which even after countless hours with the dancing master, had yet to make an appearance.

  Deep in her heart, Annabelle knew that there was no escaping the social trap, which is what she considered marriage to be. The worst part was that she seemed to be the only one who felt that way. All of her sisters, including her youngest, who had not yet been introduced into high society, saw in a marriage all that was desirable. Felicity was irrevocably convinced that by the end of the season, she would give her hand in marriage to a man who was at least an earl, handsome, wealthy, intelligent, and madly in love with her. At the moment, she favoured Viscount Greywood.

  Right now, for the third time in row, she danced with the man who, on the death of his father, would inherit one of the country’s oldest noble titles. This alone was unseemly in itself, however, what troubled Annabelle even more was the way they talked while they were dancing. They seemed to be discussing something very serious, if she was interpreting Felicity’s facial expression correctly.

  Her other sister, Rose’s, expectations were somewhat more modest, such as was deemed befitting a third daughter, but even she wanted a husband with a noble background – at the very least. When Annabelle thought of the books her little sister was reading, she wondered what was going on in her head. Titles such as “A Bride for the Viscount’s Cold Son”, “An Orphan for the Duke”, or “The Duke of the Moors”, did very little to strengthen Annabelle’s trust in her sister’s good sense.

  Quietly, Annabelle pulled her handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed a drop from her temple. The numerous candles that lit up the room created an unbearable heat. Added to this was the effort of the musicians trying to prevail against the guests’ clamour of voices.

  Annabelle took one last look at Felicity and Viscount Greywood and frowned for a second before she remembered where she was. Her sister’s posture revea
led that she was tense, whereas Viscount Greywood’s mannerisms reminded her of her father’s body language after he had won a wager on a dogfight. As was her habit, Annabelle compared their bearing to other couples in a similar situation.

  No, she had no doubt. Something was going on between Felicity and the viscount, and she did not like it.

  Had her mother noticed the unusual behaviour between the two as well? It did not look like it. The duchess was sipping her champagne and laughing about something the Chevalier de Belleroque had said to her. It was a sheer miracle that the man had been invited to the ball. Since Wellington had expelled Napoleon’s oldest brother from the Spanish throne, Great Britain believed in victory over the so-called emperor, but nevertheless, everything French was viewed with great suspicion. Annabelle had heard her father try to explain the political situation to her mother when he returned from his club in a good mood, and she remembered the harsh words that had been spoken, too well.

  “If we’re not careful, the revolution will spread to our beloved country like the plague,” he had said before her mother had steered the conversation towards a different, safer topic.

  Annabelle’s gaze moved from the Chevalier de Belleroque to the left, all the way to an assembly of artificial palm trees, an exact replica of the ones she had sought refuge behind. And just like her, there was someone standing behind them watching the spectacle closely. Well, that was not entirely true. Just like her, he was watching Felicity and her dance partner.