Unraveling the Earl Read online

  Unraveling the Earl

  Lynne Barron

  Book three in the Idyllwild series.

  The Earl of Hastings’ reputation as London’s greatest gift to the ladies has taken on a life of its own, one he is only too happy to live up to in one Mayfair bedchamber after another. Until he encounters a lady more interested in poking around his country estate than sampling his lauded charms.

  Georgiana Buchanan is possessed of murky morals, skewed notions of right and wrong, a talent for dancing around the truth, and a penchant for crashing weddings, funerals and charity balls.

  When Georgie catches Henry’s roving eye, she turns the tables on the arrogant scoundrel, introducing him to a world of sensual delights and unraveling his vaunted control before fleeing into the night.

  Henry is determined to make the elusive Georgiana his mistress while the lady wants only to use his desire to further her own schemes. When they find themselves marooned at Idyllwild during a summer storm, they will both discover they’ve gotten more than they bargained for.

  A Romantica® historical romance from Ellora’s Cave

  Unraveling the Earl

  Lynne Barron

  Prologue

  River’s End, Somewhere Nearby

  September, 1827

  “Please don’t kill Archie.” Georgie Buchanan hurried to catch up to the tall, brawny man as he disappeared into the dilapidated barn.

  “How many times I got to tell you not to make pets of the wooly beasts?” Douglas tossed the question over his shoulder without slowing his steps, without so much as glancing her way.

  “I won’t, I swear it. Not ever again,” she vowed. “Just let this one live.”

  It was beyond silly to care about the life of one lamb, one small lamb born with a withered and useless hind leg. If the foxes that roamed the hills and woods surrounding River’s End did not make a meal of the lame creature, the harsh winter to come would surely put an end to his young life.

  Somehow the tiny lamb with his downy, soft fleece and his face as black as pitch had become all tangled up in the confusion and loneliness and despair that colored Georgie’s world until she could no longer differentiate one from the other.

  “He’s too lame to last out the year,” Douglas growled. “But he’ll make a fine dinner and his hide a pair of warm mitts for one of the girls.”

  “I’ll do whatever you want!” Her words were a muffled wail as she grasped the torn hem of her shirt and wrestled the garment over her head.

  Douglas spun around and froze, a look of surprise and something else transforming his handsome features until a stranger stood before her with Archie wiggling about in his arms.

  “Please.”

  “What are you about?” he asked even as his gaze drifted over long pale arms and small breasts barely coming into bloom.

  “I see the way you look at me.” Georgie allowed the stained and threadbare shirt to fall to the hay-strewn dirt floor.

  “I don’t look at you no different than I always have.” His words held denial and a trace of mocking laughter, but his gaze lingered on the two pink buds made hard by the wind that whipped in through the cracks in the old barn.

  “You want me.” Where she found the words and the bravado to utter them she knew not but they fell from her lips with surprising ease as he took one step toward her. “You want to lay me down on the floor and do to me what a man does to a woman.”

  “That ain’t so.” He took another step nearer, and another and another, stopping only when he stood close enough she could see the moisture dotting his brow.

  She dropped her trembling hands to the rope belt that held torn and patched trousers sagging around her bony hips. “You think I don’t know you watch me from the trees when I bathe in the river? I feel your eyes on me.”

  He licked his lips and his gaze dropped to her fingers fumbling with the frayed knot. “Don’t do this, Georgie.”

  “I want to,” she whispered as the tattered rope unraveled, the rough hemp sliding through her fingers and biting into her flesh. “I want you to touch me, to love me.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he murmured even as he lowered the lamb to the floor.

  “I do know.” She released the rope and her breeches fell to pool around her bare ankles as the fluffy lamb ran from the barn. “I’ll lie down with you and you’ll let Archie live.”

  Chapter One

  Buckinghamshire, England

  June, 1831

  Henry Tinsdale, the Earl of Hastings, shifted his weight from one foot to the other, covertly angling his body away from Reverend Jones who stood just outside the open door of the Somerton family vault. On and on the clergyman droned, reliving one anecdote after another, most of which the earl suspected were entirely derived from his imagination.

  As far as Henry knew his mother had never volunteered so much as an hour of her time at the London Foundling Hospital. Nor had she been in the habit of delivering baskets to the poor, sewing shirts for her servants at Christmas or visiting Mr. and Mrs. Jones after Sunday services. And if she had, she certainly would not have partaken of a glass of his homemade elderberry wine.

  Ignoring the reverend’s tale of a young Lady Lydia gamboling over the hills surrounding Somerville, Henry turned his head just enough to catch the vision in blue from the corner of his eye.

  The lady stood in a beam of sunlight slanting through the trees at the edge of the graveyard as if she were a player poised on a stage waiting for the curtain to rise. It was odd to find a woman at the funeral when his female relations had bowed to society’s strictures and remained ensconced at nearby Somerton Manor. Odder still that she appeared to be quite alone.

  In a sea of gentlemen adorned in black, she stood out like a beacon in a robin’s egg blue gown that hugged her slender waist before belling out in yards and yards of fabric, lace and bows. On her head she wore a fantastical confection of a bonnet, blue and white flowers and ribbons encircling a wide brim that cast her face into shadow.

  It wasn’t the first time Henry had seen the lady lingering on the fringes of this event or that. By his calculations, she’d been following him around London for nearly a year, flying past him on the street in her yellow curricle, loitering outside his Mayfair mansion, sitting in the box directly across from his at the theater. Hell, he’d seen her in St. George’s Church at a number of London weddings, including his sister’s. In fact, it was at that event, as he’d ushered Olivia down the long aisle, that he’d first noticed her.

  “Tell me you did not invite your latest paramour to travel with you to your mother’s funeral.” Viscount Easton whispered the words, though idle chatter could be heard from the other gentlemen gathered around the tomb.

  “Even I would not stoop so low.” Henry watched as the lady lifted her hand and placed it on the crown of her hat. Her skirts lifted on the warm breeze, revealing white half-boots amid numerous frilly petticoats.

  “Who is she?”

  “I’ve yet to make the lady’s acquaintance.”

  “That beanpole is hardly Hastings’ sort,” Lord Everett said, openly ogling the woman who gave no indication she was aware of their combined scrutiny.

  “How would you know what my sort is?”

  “All of London knows your sort. It isn’t as if you are discreet in your liaisons.”

  “He has you there, Hastings,” Easton said.

  “You’ve a preference for beautiful ladies with big, round—”

  “Ahem!”

  The cousins turned as one to find the uncontested head of their combined families glowering at them. Uncle to all three gentlemen, the Earl of Somerton ruled with a bellowing voice and a booming laugh, alternating demanding their obedience and turning a
blind eye to their rebellions.

  Henry had lost count of the number of times he’d been called on the carpet in his uncle’s study to endure long-winded lectures prefaced with the order to appear properly chastised at the conclusion.

  He dutifully settled into quiet contemplation of the mysterious woman who’d shadowed him through London only to follow him to the country. He hadn’t lied when he’d said he’d yet to make her acquaintance. As Reverend Jones’ sermon wound to a close, Henry determined that today he would do just that.

  If he had to waylay her in the streets of Somerville to see it done, so be it. The lady had obviously heard of his talents and wanted a go at him. It wasn’t the first time a woman had stalked him before approaching to offer him a tumble in her bed, a secluded corner of a garden, a linen closet or a bouncing carriage.

  Though never before had one waited so long to offer an invitation nor followed him to the country.

  “Where are you rushing off to?” The Earl of Somerton’s thunderous voice stopped Henry in his tracks half an hour later, just as he’d turned away from his waiting carriage to follow his quarry down the road to the village proper.

  “I’ll be along shortly, Uncle Robert.” Henry kept his eyes on the swaying blue skirts. “I just need a moment.”

  “Bloody hell, son. I’m sorry.” The earl slapped his nephew on the back in what he supposed was meant to be a gesture of commiseration. “I know it couldn’t have been easy having your mother residing with you this last year, as daft as she’d become. But you stuck by her as a dutiful son ought to, I’m proud to say. If you need a moment to collect yourself before joining the throng at the house, you go right ahead.”

  “Thank you,” Henry murmured as the lady turned onto a narrow lane that would take her to the High Street.

  “In fact, take the entire day. Hop in your carriage and continue on to Hastings House. I’ll make your excuses and we’ll join you there tomorrow.”

  Visions of the two-hour journey to his estate, blue skirts hiked up around pale thighs as the lady bounced over him, filled his head. “I might just take you up on the offer.”

  “Go on, then.” Somerton gestured to the footman in blue and gray livery who hurried to open the carriage door and lower the step.

  With a nod, Henry approached the luxurious coach and four matching grays, pausing long enough to whisper to the footman, “Drive through the village.”

  She was easy enough to spot on the streets of the bustling little village. Henry laughed as locals greeted her with nods and smiles before hurrying to remove themselves from the path of her full skirts and swinging reticule. Blue and white flowers shimmied and swayed and long, trailing ribbons floated out behind her as she swiveled her head from side to side, clearly taking in the sights of the quaint little hamlet.

  Knocking on the roof, he waited only long enough for the carriage to roll to a stop before pushing open the door and jumping to the ground.

  The lady had halted before a shop window, her gloved hands pressed to the glass as she peered inside.

  Nodding to the villagers he passed, Henry came up behind her, his gaze sweeping over her from the bright orange curls that had escaped her bonnet to trail along the pale skin of her nape, to the long line of her back, to her tiny waist and beyond, over what seemed to be miles of skirts.

  He’d never been quite so close to her and was struck by her slender build and uncommon height. Racing his gaze over her reflection in the glass he took in a long elegant neck, a white lace fichu tucked into a bodice that skimmed over…next to nothing.

  Two nearly indiscernible bumps barely lifted the silk that hugged her svelte form. Either she was astonishingly small-bosomed or bound up tighter than a drum.

  He nearly laughed aloud, though he couldn’t have said why he found the tall, wraithlike creature standing before him amusing. Perhaps it had something to do with his shirking his duties as host to the guests who had traveled from far and wide to show their respects for a woman who’d openly reviled most of them. All to chase a woman who, as Everett had proclaimed, was not his usual sort.

  He dragged his gaze back up to find her looking at him in the distorted reflection of the glass.

  “I beg your pardon.” Thrown off balance to be caught blatantly leering at a lady on the street, Henry felt heat sweeping up his neck.

  She made no reply, simply continued to study him. The old glass window panes were coated with a thin layer of grime, small bubbles and hairline cracks, rendering both their faces hazy and unfocused.

  “I could not help but notice you at my mother’s funeral,” he said, disconcerted when she remained silent. “I’m Hastings. That is I am the Earl of Hastings.”

  Slowly she turned around, her head tilted back and her chin lifted in a gesture that struck Henry as both haughty and wary.

  He had only a moment to contemplate the odd dichotomy before he was ensnared by eyes of a startling shade of blue bordering on lavender, large and luminous and framed by long golden-red lashes.

  The woman’s skin was so pale as to appear nearly transparent, without a freckle, blemish or line to mar the angles of a face that was arresting rather than beautiful, or even pretty. With her astonishing eyes set below winged brows and a smooth expanse of forehead, and a pointy little chin, she might have possessed a certain delicate, feminine appeal. But her features were too bold, too dramatic for true elegance. Her cheekbones were sharp ridges above gaunt hollows, her nose a long, thin blade with a bump and a bend just below the bridge.

  And her mouth, good lord, her mouth was the work of a demented artist, a taunt and a tease, with an upper lip as thin as the bottom was plump. That is to say the upper was as noticeable as her bosom while the bottom resembled a pretty pink pincushion.

  “I know who you are, my lord.”

  Her voice was sinfully soft and husky and laced with a faint Scots burr, bringing to mind all manner of torrid thoughts. None of which belonged on a village street.

  Scrambling to think of something even remotely intelligent to say to the woman who was nothing like the beautiful ladies with whom he normally dallied, yet oddly alluring, Henry finally stammered out, “You are up on me then.”

  Her lips twitched.

  “That is…you are one up on me. As you know who I am and I do not.” Heat bloomed on his cheeks. “That is I do not know who you are.” Christ, he sounded like an idiot.

  “I took your meaning, Lord Hasty.” A dimple flashed to the right of her mouth, drawing his eye unerringly to that devilishly lush bottom lip. “But as we’ve yet to be properly introduced I am afraid I cannot stand about conversing with you on the street.”

  Henry ignored the mangling of his name and looked left and right, spotted a middle-aged woman, plump and matronly, who looked vaguely familiar, and bounded off in her direction.

  “I say, Mrs. Smith, is it?” he demanded of the startled woman as he stopped before her in the street.

  “Mrs. Cooper, Lord Hastings,” she answered, dipping a quick curtsy. “My son works for Lord Somerton as a groom.”

  “Yes, I remember,” he lied. “Tall fellow with blond hair.”

  “My Joe is actually a tad on the short side,” she replied. “And his hair is dark. Sable I like to call it. Or chestnut. He’s a fine boy.”

  “Right you are. Now I recall the lad. I wonder if you might do me a service, Mrs. Cooper?” Henry tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and turned her toward the lady who watched them with a faint smile. “Do you see the lady in blue?”

  “Oh, Miss Buchanan, you mean?”

  “You know her?”

  “She’s taken rooms above my brother’s inn. So sweet she is, just as sweet as can be. Why when my sister-in-law Jane woke feeling poorly this morning Miss Buchanan offered to help with the little ones. Not that we accepted the offer, mind you. Imagine a lady such as Miss Buchanan caring for an innkeeper’s rowdy boys.”

  “Unimaginable,” he agreed. “I wonder if you might introduce me?”
r />   “Introduce you to Miss Buchanan?”

  “Precisely.”

  “She’s a lady, my lord.” Mrs. Cooper tugged her arm free and stopped to glare up at him.

  “A lady to whom I would very much like to be introduced.” Henry reached for her hand again only to have her bat his away.

  “We’ve heard about you,” she declared. “We’re not so far from London as to miss hearing of your shenanigans. Begging your pardon, your lordship, but I cannot in good conscience introduce you to a lady you’ve likely accosted on the street without invitation. And on the day your lady mother, God rest her soul, was entombed in the family vault. Shame on you.”

  “Mrs. Cooper.”

  Henry looked away from the enraged woman to find the lady in question right beside them. Chagrined to realize she’d overheard the set down he’d received, he stepped back, tempted to flee to the safety of his carriage.

  “It might prove more diplomatic if you simply acquiesced to his lordship’s request,” she said, reaching out to lay her hand on the other woman’s arm. “I would not want the Earl of Somerton to find fault with your behavior toward his nephew.”

  Mrs. Cooper harrumphed, clearly not ready to capitulate.

  “I knew Lady Hastings and I have a nodding acquaintance with Lord and Lady Piedmont, his lordship’s cousins. I do not think it would be at all improper were you to introduce us,” she continued pleasantly. “And you know how the high-born can be. Sometimes it is best to simply humor them.”

  Henry was riveted by her voice, by the lyrical cadence and the sultry tones, only fully hearing the actual words when Mrs. Cooper let loose a great guffaw.

  “I do know,” the older lady agreed around her laughter. “That I surely do. Well if you are quite convinced of the propriety, I would be pleased to introduce you. Lord Hastings, this all too kind and gentle lady is Miss Buchanan. Make her a bow.”

  Henry dutifully bowed, fighting to contain a grin.

  “Miss Buchanan, the Earl of Hastings.”