Authors: Alyssa Everett
“I can’t believe I ran away, with nothing but that dreadful letter as explanation,” she said. “I was beyond foolish.” His face blurred, and she realized she was laughing and tearing up at the same time. “I’ll write you a better letter. I’ll write you a hundred of them, every one telling you how wonderful you are and how I’ll never leave you again. I’ll write you so many love letters you’ll need a wheelbarrow to carry them about with you.”
“I hope not.” At her look of confusion, he said, “People only write when they can’t be together in person. Wherever I go from now on—whether it’s to my next diplomatic posting or simply back to Halewick—I want you with me.”
She wiped away happy tears. “Oh, thank you, John! I’m so glad you said that about your next diplomatic posting. I wasn’t sure whether you would want me along, and I wish so very much to go with you.”
“I wanted you with me in Vienna. We just got off to such a disastrous start...”
“I understand that now. You were taking up a new post in a foreign country, appointed to do the most serious and important sort of work, and in the three days before you left, I’d run away to another man, lied repeatedly and lashed out at you with insults. You must have been afraid to imagine what I might do next. But I’m not a girl of seventeen anymore, and I mean to be worthy of your trust. I’m even willing to grovel if that’s what it takes.”
“No groveling necessary. For a man who believes in diplomacy, I did a poor job these past five years of settling our differences. I’d be proud to have you beside me.”
“
Proud
,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment and smiling. “I’ll never get tired of hearing you say that word. I think that was the moment I first began to fall in love with you—that night we were lying in bed together, and as I was dropping off to sleep you said ‘I was proud of you tonight.’ It made me so ridiculously thankful and happy, I knew there had to be more to my feelings for you than mere pretending.”
“I’ve always been proud of you, Caro, even at our lowest moments.”
She threw herself into his arms. “Oh, I do love you.”
Smiling, he gathered her close. “Honestly?”
“Honestly. I love that you’re so good at building fires and bouncing children on your knee and singing sad songs and making the bed creak. And I love that you’re older but not too old, and that you’re handsome and kind and principled. I even love your rectitude. I
especially
love your rectitude.”
He laughed. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“I wish I’d realized five years ago that I was going to fall in love with my own husband, so I might have saved myself a good deal of heartache.” She raised her face for his kiss.
His lips came down to meet hers. It was a tender kiss, and it made her want to cry for all the time she’d wasted, and laugh for all the years they had still ahead of them.
He broke off the kiss and looked down into her eyes. “I know you said you’re done with telling lies, Caro, but if you’re ever tempted, you should know there’s no need to lie to me for fear I might stop loving you. There’s not much you can tell a man that’s worse than ‘I married you under false pretenses and I’d rather be with someone else,’ but when you wrote that confession in a moment of champagne-soaked candor, I didn’t stop loving you. I was angry, and I often wished I could stop, but I never did.”
She leaned her head on his chest. “Do you remember when you said perhaps someday I would embroider slippers for you? I did—two pairs, in fact, one the first week after you left for Vienna and the other that Christmas.” She looked up. “I simply never had the courage to send them. I was so sorry about everything I’d done, and so miserable that you’d left me behind. I knew it was my fault.”
“And I suppose if I’d relented even the slightest bit, at least that first year, we could’ve put the entire business behind us that much sooner.” At her nod, he said, “That was my fault.”
“They were fine slippers too.”
“I’m sure they were.” He stroked her hair. “So what happened to them?”
“I gave them to Ronnie.”
“Ah,” he said with playful wistfulness. “The women in my life always prefer him.”
“Not in
all
things.” She had her arms around his waist, but she let her hands drop, and was actually daring enough to give his backside a squeeze.
He laughed.
“John...”
“Yes?”
She gazed up at him. “You really must be angry with me, after all the lies I told and the horrid things I said to you over the years.”
“Not at all,” he said in surprise. “I thought we’d just cleared that up. All is forgiven. Forgotten!”
“I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “I suspect you’re very angry indeed. Furious.”
His brows drew down in confusion. “I’m not, my darling, truly—”
“No, John.” Pitching her voice lower, she gave him a significant look. “I’m certain you’re
livid
. Quite on fire to show me how very much I’ve displeased you.”
“Displeased me? But I—” Her tone finally registered. “Ah! Yes, I see.”
She took his hand and tugged him in the direction of the door. “You look as though you’re seething with rage. Barely able to contain yourself.”
“I think you may be right. I’m definitely seething with something.”
“You look quite dangerous.”
“I feel dangerous.”
Still holding on to his hand, she led him toward the stairs. “Well, then, what are you going to do about it?”
He stopped, yanked her back toward him so abruptly that she bumped against his chest, and swung her up into his arms. “I’m going to throw you on the bed,” he said, eyeing her with impressive sternness, “and have my way with you.
Furiously
.”
* * * * *
To purchase and read more books by Alyssa Everett, please visit
the author’s website
here
or at
http://alyssaeverett.com/bookshelf/
.
Available
now
from
Carina
Press
and
Alyssa
Everett
,
An Heir of Uncertainty.
Yorkshire, 1820
Lina, Lady Radbourne, thought being a countess would rescue her
from poverty. Unfortunately, her young groom failed to plan for the future, and
his drunken accident left her widowed and pregnant. Now Colonel Winstead
Vaughan—Win—will inherit her late husband’s fortune...unless she gives birth to
a boy. Win is her natural enemy, so why can’t she stop thinking about him?
Win is stunned to learn he stands to inherit a vast fortune.
He’s even more surprised to find himself falling for the beautiful, spirited
Lady Radbourne, who is the one woman who stands in the way of a life he’d only
imagined.
When someone tries to poison Lady Radbourne, suspicion falls on
Win. There’s a clever killer in their midst, and if Win doesn’t solve the
mystery fast, Lina may perish. He needs to win her trust, but how can he prove
it’s she he wants, and not the fortune?
Read
on
for
an
excerpt
from
Alyssa
Everett’s
AN HEIR OF UNCERTAINTY.
Chapter One
We inherit nothing truly
,
but what our actions make us worthy of.
—George Chapman
Yorkshire, Early December 1820
Lina had been married three months and two days when
her young husband drank one pint too many at the inn, climbed the church belfry
on a dare, and lost his grip in the December cold. The sexton might have buried
him in the very spot where he landed, except that the Earls of Radbourne were
traditionally interred in the family vault.
Lord Radbourne fell to his death at one o’clock in the morning.
At three o’clock, a pounding on Lina’s bedroom door woke her from a deep
sleep.
“My lady!” The voice belonged to Mrs. Phelps, the housekeeper.
“Forgive me, but you’re wanted downstairs.”
Half-asleep and befuddled, Lina sat up. Edward’s side of the
bed was still empty. “Downstairs?”
“Yes, my lady. At once.”
With a sigh, Lina climbed out of bed. What had Edward done now?
She’d have to ring another peal over his head.
If you’re
going to insist on getting into scrapes
,
you
might at least choose a more convenient time
, or
Really
,
Neddy
,
I’d
take you over my knee if I weren’t convinced you’d enjoy it.
Though
perhaps this time the disturbance wasn’t Edward’s doing at all, but rather an
emergency below stairs. Sliding her feet into her carpet slippers, Lina groped
in the dark for her wrapper. What if Cassandra was having another attack?
Lina emerged into the passage to find Mrs. Phelps waiting with
a branch of candles. “What is it?” she whispered.
“Mr. Channing is here to see you, my lady.”
Mr. Channing? What was the magistrate doing at the abbey at
this hour?
Mrs. Phelps turned to lead the way, and Lina followed, the
candles flickering before them. How silent and strange the house felt in the
dead of the night. They turned the corner and started down the stairs. In the
front hall, Mr. Channing was pacing, still in his greatcoat. His eyes swept over
Lina as she descended the last few steps.
A flutter of anxiety drove away any last vestiges of
sleepiness. She steeled herself for the look she was used to receiving from half
the citizenry of Malton—as if he were the king, and she were a bit of dung he
was scraping off his boot. She expected it would be especially pronounced this
time, since in her haste she’d thrown on the peignoir Edward had bought her on
their honeymoon trip, the one that made her look more like a
fille de joie
than a peer’s wife.
But the look never came.
She greeted him with a nod. “Mr. Channing.”
His brows came together in a somber frown. “I won’t mince
words, Lady Radbourne. Your husband is dead.”
“What?” It was as if the slate floor had dropped out from under
her.
“Dead, in the churchyard,” Mr. Channing said, and then she
scarcely heard him at all, though he went on talking—something about the
Radbourne Arms and young Ralph Whitacre and a dare. A
dare.
Edward never could resist that sort of thing...
Mr. Channing was still speaking, but Mrs. Phelps took her by
the arm. “Really, sir, can’t you see she needs to sit down?”
He trailed after Lina as the housekeeper drew her toward the
parlor. “I’ll inform the other trustees. Shall I contact Mr. Niven for you as
well?”
Too stunned to pull her thoughts together, Lina allowed herself
to be helped along. Not a single fire had been lit yet. Every room in the house
seemed unfamiliar in the darkness. “Mr. Niven?”
“Your husband’s solicitor. If you wish, I’ll send word to him
as soon as the sun comes up.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.”
“Do you know who’s next in line?”
“In line?” They’d reached the parlor. Lina sat down heavily on
the sofa.
Dead
. Edward, who was always so full of
life.
“Yes, in line to inherit the title and property.”
“Oh, of course.” How stupid Mr. Channing must think her, the
way she kept repeating everything he said as if she were a trained parrot at the
fair. “I can’t say. It used to be my husband’s brother, but now...Their father
was an only child, and their grandfather the only boy. It would have to be some
distant cousin, if such a person even exists. Perhaps Mr. Niven will know.”
Mr. Channing planted himself before her, leaning over her in a
posture that was half solicitous, half badgering. “Forgive the indelicacy,
ma’am, but the question must be asked. I assume there’s the possibility of a
child?”
How could Edward leave her like this? And her last words to him
had been
Do try to stay out of trouble
. She was
always scolding him, though he’d taken it in good humor. And now he was gone.
This couldn’t be real.
But Mr. Channing was waiting. With an effort, Lina dragged her
scattered thoughts back to their conversation. What was it he’d just asked?
At her blank look, Mr. Channing’s mouth twisted down, a little
of the old contempt creeping back into his manner. “To inherit, Lady Radbourne.
Your son would be the next earl. Surely there’s some hope...?”
Her son? What was he talking about? She’d never had a son.
Didn’t he know that? She wasn’t even expecting, apparently, not with the
spotting she’d had the morning before. “I don’t—no.” She shook her head. “No,
I’m quite certain it must be a distant cousin...”
“Ah. Well, then.” Mr. Channing straightened. “I’m sorry for
your loss. He was always a spirited lad, your husband, and would have ended up a
fine man if he’d had time enough to grow into the role. I’ll be on my way, and
Mr. Wilkins should be by to offer you what comfort he can.”
Mr. Wilkins? The vicar, comforting her. Edward didn’t even
like
the vicar.
Lina sat in a fog, hoping this was all a bad dream and in
another minute she would wake up, safe and well loved in the feather bed.
* * *
“Merciful heaven, we’ve arrived at last.” Freddie turned away
from the window as the carriage rolled to a stop, his long arms and legs making
the interior of the chaise feel even smaller and more cramped than before. “Even
an average pigeon could have made it here in six hours. A good racer might have
cut that time almost in half.”
Win rose, stooping so he wouldn’t hit his head on the roof
again. He was disposed to look with indulgence on both the eccentricities and
the chatter of his younger brother, but not when they threatened to wake his
daughter. “Keep your voice down, you nodcock. Julia’s asleep.”
Fortunately, Julia didn’t even stir, wrapped in a woolen
blanket against the cold. It astonished Win that anyone could sleep in a moving
carriage, especially with the wretched state of the roads in this corner of
England, but he’d slept in some rather uncomfortable spots himself when he was
five years old. Besides, it wasn’t far from her bedtime. The late January
daylight was waning fast.
Freddie opened the carriage door and hopped out. As gently as
possible, Win lifted his sleeping daughter in his arms, settling her head
against his left shoulder. Carefully, he stepped down from the coach.
He paused to survey the house before him. If ever a place was
likely to be haunted...
“Not much to look at, is it?” Standing at Win’s elbow, Freddie
wrinkled his nose. “It’s large enough, but—do you suppose there’s a dovecote? I
believe monasteries shared the
droit de colombier
with manor houses, and were allowed to keep their own pigeons.”
“I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.” Win’s eyes ranged over
the hulking mass of weathered stone. Abbeys generally came in two
varieties—soaring Gothic jewels like Westminster, and their squat Norman
ancestors. Belryth Abbey fell into the latter category. An entire wing was in
ruins—no roof, no windows, just crumbling gray walls—and the remaining structure
loomed like a giant overturned bathtub, bulbous and ugly.
But it was his ancestral home, and now he could finally make
good on his promise to Harriet. For that alone, he would learn to love it.
Win climbed the worn steps to the front door, his brother
trailing after him. There seemed no way to knock quietly with the heavy iron
doorknocker, but Julia didn’t even stir. When no one answered, Win banged again,
harder this time.
Presently the door swung open to reveal a portly servant of
middle age with keen eyes and a slightly receding hairline. He glanced from Win
to Freddie and back again. “Yes?”
Win opened his mouth to give his name—and, damn it, how should
he introduce himself? It felt presumptuous to march up to the front door and say
I’m Radbourne
to an old retainer, as if he’d
been waiting all his life to step into the late earl’s shoes. He hadn’t even
known he was next in line to inherit until he’d received the solicitor’s letter.
He settled on giving the name he’d used all his life. “Winstead Vaughan from
Hampshire, and my brother, Mr. Frederick Vaughan. The seventh earl’s fourth
cousins, once removed.”
At the Vaughan name, the butler’s demeanor changed from chilly
civility to brisk welcome. “Ah, of course, sir!” He bowed from the waist. “Do
excuse me. I was only surprised. Mr. Niven isn’t expecting you until tomorrow,
and we weren’t informed you were a family man.”
“A widower.”
Sir?
Win nodded to the
child sleeping in his arms. “My daughter, Julia.”
“Welcome, sir. I’m Dyson.” He looked over his shoulder to the
footman standing just behind him. “Fetch Mrs. Phelps. Tell her Mr. Vaughan has
arrived, and that he’ll require a room for his brother and young daughter as
well.”
Sir
again, and
Mr.
Vaughan
. Was that the usual protocol so soon after a
peer’s death, or was the butler unaware of his reason for coming here? Win could
almost believe the letter he’d received nearly three weeks before had been
nothing but a practical joke, an elaborate prank one of his old army comrades
was playing, except that Dyson had mentioned Mr. Niven by name and the servants
were clearly expecting him.
The house was better on the inside—much warmer, and not so dark
or closed in as Win had feared. Though the floor of the front hall was slate,
the rooms on either side boasted thick Persian carpets—expensive ones, if he was
any judge. Their rich colors brightened the interior, dispelling any sense of
gloom. Win detected no hint of damp or strong drafts, either, and that was
saying a lot for such an old pile.
“Is there a dovecote on the estate?” Freddie asked the
butler.
Dyson’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “A dovecote, sir?”
“Yes. You know, a columbarium. A structure for housing pigeons
or doves. There are dovecotes in France that have upwards of two thousand
boulins.
”
“Pigeon holes,” Win translated for the butler’s benefit. “My
brother has a great interest in pigeons.” Though he’d long since resigned
himself to the hopelessness of persuading Freddie to converse on any other
topic, at the moment Win wished his brother were a bit more circumspect about
sharing his eccentric single-mindedness with everyone he met.
“Centuries before Christ, pigeons were delivering the results
of the Olympic games to the city-states of ancient Greece,” Freddie told the
butler. “That’s why I give all my pigeons classical names. Admetus and Alcestis,
Odysseus and Penelope, Baucis and Philemon—”
Win cut him off. “No need to overwhelm Dyson with the entire
list, Freddie.”
The butler’s face remained admirably impassive. “I’m afraid
there’s no dovecote on the abbey grounds, sir.”
“Really? Well, dash it. Where might the nearest one be?”
Win had used every tactic at his disposal to persuade his
brother to make the trip, including vague intimations that Yorkshire was a
pigeon’s paradise. Naturally Freddie wouldn’t rest until he’d sent for his
birds. “Let’s worry about that after we’ve seen the rest of—”
He broke off as the housekeeper, younger and more attractive
than he’d expected, arrived to show them to their rooms. Win had no intention of
dallying with the servants, but discovering that the upper staff wasn’t made up
entirely of antiquated old retainers was a welcome surprise.
In the room meant for Julia, the chambermaid was still laying
the fire. Win deposited his daughter gently on the turned-down bed and drew the
crewelwork coverlet up to her chin, hopeful she’d sleep through the night. It
was a large room, and pretty, not at all the cheerless cell he’d feared—though
after seven days on the road, any room that didn’t look and smell like a
coaching inn was bound to seem inviting.