The Earl is Mine
Authors: Kieran Kramer
For Kristin Reynolds Wray Wilda,
an extraordinary woman and beloved sister
Contents
Acknowledgments
As always, I’d like to acknowledge the remarkable team at St. Martin’s Press for bestowing such love and attention on my House of Brady series, especially Jennifer Enderlin, my dream editor. And big hugs to Jenny Bent, my agent, whose steadfast support and great humor lift me always.
I’d also like to thank Kati Rodriguez, my incredibly kind, able assistant who loves romance novels and has her own blog with Jamie Murawski at
http://romancingrakes4theluvofromance.blogspot.com
. And I have to celebrate the fabulous group of readers who make up the Regency Rockstars, a street team I share with Vicky Dreiling. All of you are remarkably generous women with huge hearts! Many thanks to Vicky, too, for her friendship, which has meant the world to me.
Finally, I’d like to thank Chuck, Steven, Margaret, and Jack for being the family that has given me my own happily-ever-after.
The Main Players in the House of Brady
Michael Sherwood, Lord Brady | The Marquess of Brady; “Daddy” to his three stepdaughters; “Father” to his three sons |
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Caroline Sherwood, Lady Brady | Michael’s second wife and the Marchioness of Brady; “Mama” to her three daughters and three stepsons |
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Gregory Sherwood, Lord Westdale | Heir to the Marquess of Brady; Caroline’s stepson |
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Lady Marcia Sherwood, now Lady Chadwick | Eldest daughter of Caroline; Michael’s stepdaughter; married to Duncan Lattimore, Lord Chadwick; stepmother to Joe Lattimore |
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Lord Peter Sherwood | Second in line to the marquessate; Caroline’s stepson |
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Lady Janice Sherwood | Second daughter of Caroline; Michael’s stepdaughter |
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Lord Robert Sherwood | Third in line to the marquessate; Caroline’s stepson |
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Lady Cynthia Sherwood | Third daughter of Caroline Sherwood; Michael’s stepdaughter |
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Alice O’Grady | Family housekeeper at Ballybrook in Ireland |
Prologue
The figure who slid into the Earl of Westdale’s coat every morning wasn’t happy. His name was Gregory Sherwood, and he had everything a man could want. But like a prisoner who can’t bask in a beautiful day outside his barred window, Gregory couldn’t enjoy his family, his wealth, or his title.
He was the legitimate heir to the Marquess of Brady.
But he wasn’t his son.
And he was doomed to a lifetime of lies.
“You know Mother meant for us to save those pieces for the women we’re to marry,” his brother Peter said in the light Irish accent all three Sherwood boys shared. He peered over Gregory’s shoulder as he sorted through a small chest on his dresser and pulled out a silk box. In it was a ruby ring their late mother, Nora, had left him in her will. “Are you going to propose?”
Gregory stopped his search and glared at his younger brother. “What do you think?”
“Really?” Peter gave a short laugh. “You’re jesting, aren’t you? Marriage is a long time.”
A
very
long time.
But then Gregory remembered sweet, shy Eliza last night, how he’d known exactly what he was doing when he laid her down on a sofa in an out-of-the-way sitting room at a Mayfair mansion during the height of a masquerade ball and slipped up her gown. Her parents had been throwing her at him for years, so it wasn’t as if the seduction would take her by surprise. She’d given a virginal cry when he’d first entered her, and there was the moment right before she’d peaked, her slender legs wrapped around his back, her hips arching upward while she sighed softly against his neck.
He’d felt more than his usual pleasure when he released his seed into her. There would be no turning back. Eliza was a lady. The knowledge that he’d do right by her had focused him, had cast away the shadows for just a moment. She’d be the beginning of a life he created on his own, not one that had been thrust upon him—as blessed as it had been, as grateful as he was for what he clearly didn’t deserve.
“But why tie yourself down now?” Peter asked him. “You’re much too young.”
“Mind your own business.” Gregory strode past his brother and brushed shoulders with him, just hard enough to drive the message home. He tucked the small box in an inner pocket of his jacket, adjusted his cravat, and left the bedchamber, a cavernous oblong space almost like a hunting-box bunk room. Father had designed it when the boys were small, and Gregory still shared it with his two brothers when he was home.
“I’m coming with you,” said Peter, and followed him out the front door.
“Go away,” Gregory told him.
“No. I’m not going to let you do this without a fight. This is serious, Gregory. You can’t give away Mother’s ring so easily.”
On the pavement, Gregory whirled around. “So easily? Do you think that little of me? Or the woman to whom I’ll present this symbol of my devotion?”
“Devotion? Is that the same thing as love?”
“Go away, Peter. You know nothing of love.” Not that Gregory truly knew anything of the romantic kind, either. He couldn’t begin to guess whether his mother and the marquess, the only father he’d ever known, had been in love. And if they had, did it count—when one of them was keeping a secret from the other?
But Father and Caroline, his second wife, whom Gregory called Mama the way his three stepsisters did, were most certainly in love, even after a decade of being together. And while he was glad of it, they were awfully in each other’s pockets.
The thought of such intimacy at the soul level made Gregory’s cravat feel tight. He’d be faithful to Eliza, and they’d no doubt meet regularly between the sheets—she had a sweet, welcoming nature and wouldn’t deny him his conjugal rights, he was sure—but as for staring into each other’s eyes and sharing dreams, hopes, and all that balderdash …
Well, no. A monolithic no, actually.
It was his duty to take a wife to secure the Brady line. But a part of him would never, ever belong to the House of Brady. That part that would remain undutiful. Would seek illicit pleasure. Would work desperately hard to forget his impossible position—that he belonged nowhere.
That part would take a mistress and leave his gentle, dutiful wife at home.
His brother huffed. “You’re not ready.”
“I
am
ready,” Gregory uttered low. “I don’t take this step lightly. I’ve put a great deal of thought into the matter.”
And he had, for a man whose attention was drawn more to other things: his interest in design; his sporting life; politics and gaming; and his more mundane duties as heir, which Father and Mama were anxious for him to take up. And then there was his constant need to play a role—to hide the ugliness that was his secret. Some nights, he went to bed exhausted from its weight.
Peter’s pupils were wide and black, his mouth thin. “You haven’t considered this enough. Not nearly.”
“Wait a minute.” Gregory moved closer, his chest up to his brother’s. “Are you implying that Eliza isn’t worthy of my regard?”
Peter didn’t back away. “I’m not implying anything. I’m coming right out and saying you’re too besotted to see straight.”
“I will
never
be besotted, Peter, by any woman.”
“Then explain why you looked so feverish searching for that ring? I could have shot a pistol next to your ear, and you wouldn’t have turned to look. If that’s not besotted—”
“You don’t trust me,” Gregory said, feeling the irony of his words.
“Not about this, no.” Peter’s tone was firm. “You don’t value that ring the way you should, and I’m glad Mother’s not here to see what you’re doing with it.”
“I’ve had it with you and your insults.” Gregory pushed him hard on the shoulder. Peter flinched but didn’t lose his footing. “Come on, little brother.”
Little
half
brother
. “Show me what you’ve got besides words.”
“Forget it.” Peter stared at him, his eyes flat and hard. “Go ahead with your stupidity. See if I care. You’ll regret it later.”
He spun on his heels and stalked off.
Gregory stared after him, annoyed that he’d succumbed to his childish temper. Here he was, feeling man enough to marry Eliza. And yet Peter had managed to put a damper on the day.
If someone could so easily do that, how strong was his commitment, really?
He pushed the thought aside as ridiculous. Even apart from the fact that marriage was now a real necessity, he could easily see himself marrying Eliza. Her pedigree was impeccable. She was a good conversationalist and a pleasure to look at. And she accepted him at face value, which was imperative in a bride.
If he was on the young side, then so be it. His friends would get over their pique—and they’d damn well better get over any amusement—if they wanted to continue calling themselves his friends.
He walked the several blocks to his intended’s house with a purposeful stride. Every step he got closer, the muscles in his thighs, his calves, and his belly grew more tense. So proposing marriage was hell on even the most self-assured man, he was discovering. What would she say when he gave her the ring?
What would
he
say?
Dear God, he hadn’t even thought of practicing a speech. Being cast adrift without a map at a young age had given him practice navigating an uncertain world. He raced his best races when he handled the reins loosely, when he didn’t analyze every curve in the road. And his finest work as a new architect had all been done when he’d acted upon inspiration, the kind that grabbed him mid-sentence while conversing in a London coffeehouse. Or came to him in a dream. Or seemed to unfold as he was sketching, not knowing exactly in which direction he was pointed.
One benefit of losing his mother, his father, and his entire identity in a day: Life couldn’t throw anything at Gregory he couldn’t handle.
He rang the bell, sure at least of his welcome. The family appeared to approve of him—even the butler—as well they should. He was heir to a marquess. Of what could they disapprove?
He intended to ask Eliza to marry him first—a secret, intimate proposal that would take her by surprise, as all properly romantic gestures should; he owed her that—and
then
he’d play the usual societal game and request an audience with her father, which would be a matter of course. After her father’s approval was won, Gregory would pretend to ask her to marry him for the first time in Lord Baird’s library—but he and Eliza would know otherwise.
“Lord and Lady Baird are out. Lady Eliza’s in the back garden,” the butler informed him before Gregory could even ask. “She’s showing Lord Morgan and Lady Pippa Harrington her mother’s roses.” An invisible mantle came down at the mention of Pippa.
Not
her. “May I take your cane and hat?”
“Thank you.” Gregory concealed his annoyance at being thrown off kilter and handed the cane and hat over.
The silk box burned a hole in his pocket, but he’d have to delay the big moment. Dougal could be gotten rid of easily, but Pippa was another story. Gregory saw her once a year at a birthday dinner for her great-uncle Bertie, his godfather, in Devon, and had done so since he was eight—old enough to travel alone without crying—and she was three. She was rarely in Town, so he couldn’t simply fob her off. And prying her loose from her old friend Eliza might be difficult, as well.
