Destined to Seduce an Earl (Preview)

Early September 1819

Rosalind

Miss Rosalind Read reached up and caught a branch, tugging it low enough for her friend, Miss Eira Weiss, to reach the small, coarse-skinned apples that grew from it.

’Twas a lovely September day, and the birds were still about, singing merrily in the branches of the forest. Next to Eira, an ethereal beauty with near-white hair that was wispy and light, her pale blue eyes and alabaster skin almost spectral, Rosalind was of an earthier sort: chestnut hair, rosy cheeks, dark grey eyes, and impish features. Eira might have been an angel, but if so, then Rosalind was an elf of the wood.

Which, reflected Rosalind, would have cast their teacher, Oma Weiss, as what? A witch, no doubt. Some of the Breacott townsfolk would certainly agree, though Rosalind had no love for them. Oma was far too good-hearted to deserve their superstitious scorn. The white-haired elderly lady, her face like a brown walnut, wrinkled and leathered with sun and time, stood fifty paces ahead, peering back at them to see why they had stopped. Rosalind smiled at her and gestured to the apples. Oma gave her a nod and moved just beyond sight, searching for more mushrooms.

‘You shall have these,’ Eira said, indicating the apples.

‘Oh no, you must keep them,’ Rosalind demurred. ‘You shall make some lovely tarts, I daresay, and I shall have a piece of one for tea one day soon.’

‘Nonsense,’ Eira said briskly. ‘Of course you well know I delight in baking tarts and the like, and you seek to tempt me thus. But I know your cunning ways, Miss Read.’

‘I, a temptress? How droll.’ Rosalind laughed.

Eira smiled at her. ‘In any case, I insist. You shall have the apples.’

Rosalind’s expression grew more serious. ‘I must thank you, dearest Eira. I do think apples might raise Mama’s spirits a bit.’

‘Just promise me you shall save the lion’s share for her and yourself,’ Eira admonished. ‘That Bertie deserves none at all, and I know you shall give him some all the same.’

‘You are so very severe when it comes to poor Bertie, Eira.’

‘Only because you forgive him far too much.’

Rosalinda’s grey eyes darkened, her gaze becoming troubled. ‘I fear you may be in the right, Eira—’

Eira’s pale eyebrows shot up. ‘Rosalind! Can you, at last, have seen the light?’

‘If by that you would imply that the “light” involves condemnation of Bertie’s many sins, as you see them, then no,’ Rosalind hastened to clarify. ‘I only mean that I am worried. He has been idle—’

‘But for the poaching!’

Rosalind winced. ‘He promised to cease poaching some weeks ago.’

‘And I imagine you believed him,’ Eira said with a nod.

‘Why mightn’t I? Bertie may be many things but a liar?’

‘When it suits him, I daresay.’

‘Oh, Eira, you are too severe.’

‘Perhaps. But you were saying, Rosie? You are worried?’

They began picking their way through the tangle of undergrowth, attempting to rejoin Oma.

‘’Tis only that—he is a young man, and to have no outlets for his intellect—he was well stimulated at university—’

‘Overly so, wouldn’t you say?’

Rosalind blushed. ‘He became misguided, I will allow. But I am the older sibling. ’Tis my lot to see to our well-being,’ she added with a pang of grief she did not share.

Eira shook her head. ‘I cannot agree, Rosalind.’

The brunette ducked under a branch and sought to change the subject, wishing to avoid the painful topic to which they had strayed too closely.

‘In any case, thank you for the apples. Mama shall be pleased,’ she said.

‘Apples,’ said Oma appreciatively as they approached.

‘You must take them,’ Rosalind blurted, guilt flooding her at having accepted them before offering them to Oma.

‘Quatsch!’ Oma snorted. ’Twas one of the German words she had never given up despite living in England for decades. Rosalind understood it to mean something akin to ‘poppycock.’ ‘They shall do nicely for your mama, Rosie. And if you tie the cores in some cheesecloth to boil, you may set preserves more effectively, ja.’

‘Preserves?’ Rosalind echoed uncertainly.

‘Ja, you must put the little bag of cores in with the fruit—the blackberries from yesterday, ja?—with sugar and water. Boil it all. The cores have a bitter essence which aids in setting jelly.’

Rosalind nodded and eyed the apples doubtfully, but Oma Weiss was never wrong about such things.

‘You’ve a full basket now, Oma,’ Eira observed, and indeed the elderly woman had collected an impressive harvest of mushrooms. ‘With the apples, surely we might return home now?’

Oma peered at her adoptive daughter with a shrewd smile. ‘Never one to enjoy the forest, eh, mein perle?’

‘Oh, Oma, you know I don’t,’ Eira sighed.

Eira would far prefer to remain at the hearth in the charming little house she shared with Oma on the outskirts of the nearest town, Breacott. She liked to embroider, knit, and engage in all sorts of other practical arts rather than forage in the woods for herbs and wild fruit. Rosalind regarded her fondly. She herself enjoyed the forest. She loved seeing birds in the branches, and to catch sight of a deer, and hear a gurgling creek, or smell the scent of honeysuckle. There were bluebells and flowering fruit trees in the spring. In summer, wildflowers blossomed far and wide, filling clearings and meadows outside the limits of the trees. In autumn, there were fruits everywhere: blackberries, rowan berries, whitebeam, as well as mushrooms and other wild foods to forage. And the leaves turned, blazing in bright reds, oranges, and yellows. The winter brought the quiet, the stillness of new snow. Few animals stirred, and the whole world seemed to be at peace.

Rosalind had not always lived here in western England, very near Wales, but she had come to adore the nature that surrounded her in the last three years.

‘We have not finished our efforts this day,’ Oma said, clicking her tongue at Eira in good-natured scolding. ‘Come, Rosie, I should like to show you some juniper.’

They stepped with care through the wood until the way became easier: they had found a deer path. Oma stopped in front of a tall shrub covered in needles.

‘This is juniper,’ Oma said, taking a bristly stem in her gnarled hand. ‘You see, the needles go all around, in whorls of three, ja? ’Tis of import, for the yew’s needles grow out flat in two rows.’

She walked a bit further, beckoning Rosalind, who followed. ‘This is a yew. You must not mistake it for a juniper. The yew’s berries are red, shaped like cups, and they are poisonous.’

‘And the juniper’s berries?’ Rosalind asked studiously.

‘Blue, and harder. They are good for many ailments. They fight fevers and assist in healing a festering wound.’

‘What was that?’ Eira asked, turning.

At first, Rosalind heard nothing. Then, as she strained her ears:

‘Dogs!’ she gasped.

Panic made her heart hammer.

Dogs and horses.

‘Oh no,’ Rosalind breathed.

Rosalind, Oma, and Eira were trespassing on the marquess’s land. If they were caught—

‘Come!’ Oma said, crouching and leaving the path. They rushed into the thick of the forest as fast as they could manage, with the creeping vines and fallen branches waiting for an unwary step.

The bugling dogs sounded closer.

They must not catch me!

Rosalind grasped a mossy sapling, pulling past. Eira let out a cry. Rosalind turned. Her friend had fallen. She was fifty paces behind.

Moving with haste, Rosalind hurried back for her. She pulled Eira to her feet. Pushing her ahead, Rosalind put out a hand to steady Eira if she slipped again.

Dogs bayed. The horses—there were many—thundered closer.

A hunting party?

It must be.

Oma had found a thicket. She crouched down, pulling the branches around her. A witch indeed, Rosalind thought, as the foliage made Oma near invisible.

Rosalind could hear the horses. The trees made it hard to place exactly where they were.

Surely they shan’t cross close to us—this area is too dense.

But the fox or deer they hunted might have the same idea as they and lead the hunters here.

With a whimper, Rosalind pushed Eira to the thicket. The slight blonde folded herself, slipping within the protection of the leaves.

Rosalind saw nowhere to hide.

A whinny—far too close—made her whirl around.

A huge, dappled, liver chestnut—near black—galloped through the trees towards her, a white streak of a blaze down his face. Rosalind hid behind a trunk, peering at the man riding the gorgeous horse.

The man looked as wild as the woods, she marvelled. His frame was large, befitting the massive horse. He had lost his hat, and his brown hair blew back from his face. Thick, arched eyebrows lowered over eyes a startling amber she could see even from this distance. A strange thrill passed through her even as she cowered behind the tree, praying he would not see her. Yet when he passed, evidently not having done so, she felt a most bewildering pang of regret.

‘Who was that man?’ she murmured in wonder.

She would find out sooner than she ever expected.

Chapter Two

Henry

Lord Henry Orson, Earl of Linwood, was out of temper the following morning, but that was nothing new. He wondered whether Phillips, his valet, ever tired of his choleric moods. It can’t be helped, he thought unhappily. Poor Phillips is quite unlikely to find another post, at least until we return to London.

The thought of doing so sent a wave of dread through the earl’s heart, and he clicked his tongue in agitation.

‘My Lord?’ Phillips said solicitously as he knotted Henry’s cravat.

‘Oh, ’tis of no account,’ Henry replied. ‘’Tis only that I wish I might leave, but I despise the thought of returning to London. Is it truly impossible to please me, Phillips?’

‘I think not, My Lord. You’ve always liked Linwood.’

That was true. The estate was not his family’s primary holding, of course, despite its vast grounds, but he had spent many years there as a child. There he had developed his fondness for all pursuits having to do with fishing, hunting, and riding. He did enjoy returning to visit Linwood whenever he could, which had not been for many years.

‘Perhaps I may find some reason to go there instead of London,’ Henry mused.

‘I should think that if you were to marry, you might take your new bride on a tour of the family properties, My Lord,’ Phillips suggested.

Henry made no reply. He was loath to marry, and the prospect of visiting Linwood was not enough to change that, but he saw no reason to say so to Phillips, who was only trying to cheer him.

‘Would that a fellow could simply travel wherever he pleased,’ he muttered.

‘Well, you are the Earl of Linwood, My Lord. I daresay you might visit it whenever you choose,’ Phillips said.

‘One might assume so, but one would find that my parents do not agree.’

The Duke and Duchess of Kenling had very rigid expectations for Henry. ’Twas the origin of all of his vexations when one came to it, and he resented them hotly for it, while judiciously avoiding ever confronting them about it.

His Grace the Duke had been born the third son, and as a result, pursued a career in the Royal Navy, rising to the rank of vice-admiral before the age of four and twenty due to his success in the war with America. However, both of his elder brothers died within the following decade, so he returned to England, married, and took on the title of Duke and all of its associated responsibilities. He never lost his strong sense of discipline and military outlook, however. When Henry was still in leading strings, his father was called again to serve against the Spanish, and he did not return until Henry was eight years old. He left again two years later so that in consequence, he was absent for most of Henry’s upbringing.

This was a source of great unpleasantness for Henry, for the duke viewed Henry as an indolent, undisciplined whelp quite ruined by the life of ease of his childhood.

‘There you are, My Lord,’ Phillips said, stepping back and studying his work. Henry had every confidence the cravat was impeccable.

With a nod of thanks to his valet, he made for the pink morning room, a large chamber in the expansive manor, one of two, which their hosts had designated for the first meal of the day. As he neared it, walking resolutely through the grand corridor paved in golden panels of wood arranged in intricate criss-crossing patterns that echoed with the impact of his Hessians’ heels, a lady turned a corner ahead of him. One could not mistake the sound of the hitch in Henry’s step as the sight of her arrested him. ’Twas Lady Alfreda Howard, eldest daughter of the Marquess of Corrach, lord of this estate, and the woman his parents had decided he was to wed.

Devil it, he thought crossly.

Had Henry a more romantic frame of mind, he might have liked Lady Alfreda very much. She was an incomparable female, with thick, dark blonde hair in luscious curls around her face, large blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and plump, pink lips. Her toilette was always perfect, and her attire tasteful and elegant. She was, in sum, the perfect English rose.

Henry wanted nothing to do with her.

’Twas too late to avoid her now, however. He bowed as she rounded to face him, and she curtseyed prettily in return.

‘Good morning, Lady Alfreda,’ he said dutifully.

‘Good morning, Lord Linwood,’ she replied, her blue eyes wide and expectant.

As was polite, Henry offered her his arm and walked with her the rest of the way to the morning room. As they entered, his mother looked up from her tea. Instantly he recognised the approval in her gaze. A glance at his father might have given one to believe him indifferent; he was reading a letter and did not stop to acknowledge them. Henry knew, however, that the duke was as set on this union as the duchess was.

Lady Alfreda’s own parents and several other guests were also present, and everyone greeted each other pleasantly.

Henry clenched his jaw as he sat, then set about toasting a piece of bread for himself in the fire.

‘Oh, what a fine idea, My Lord,’ Lady Alfreda chirped. ‘Might I ask you to toast one for me, as well?’

‘I would be delighted,’ Henry said through his teeth. His mother cut her eyes to him, a subtle warning to watch his tone.

Closing his lips with care, Henry said no more but set about the task of making toast for Lady Alfreda and planning how soon he might escape for a ride through the grounds. Truly, his situation was unbearable, but he could think of no remedy.

He must endure it.

Lady Alfreda Howard

Lady Alfreda Howard knew herself to be beautiful and charming.

These were attributes for which she had worked hard and made sacrifices. To do away with the few freckles that threatened to mar her creamy complexion, Alfreda covered her face in elderflower water at night and applied an unction oil of lemon juice and bitter almond every morning. She always protected herself from the sun with a bonnet, gloves, and a parasol, no matter the weather and what she might like to do. Some young ladies might run and play, losing a bonnet here, pulling off gloves there. But not Alfreda. And as for her comportment, she had been taking lessons since she was in leading strings. Although she had, of course, been blessed with lovely features and silky, thick hair, every aspect of her beauty that she could influence, she did. ’Twas her calling, as a nobleman’s daughter, to do so, and she stood in the long shadows of her two older sisters, after all. Beside them, she had, more often than not, felt inadequate. In her childhood, she had loved to read, and they had scorned her as a bluestocking. Eventually, under their influence, she had given up books. Her sisters made sure, as frequently as they could, to remind her of even her smallest failings. Alfreda’s mother, the duchess, thought this all to the good: it prompted Alfreda always to attempt to surpass herself in her comportment and accomplishments.

This was why Alfreda found Lord Linwood’s attitude to her very hard to understand. Alfreda was perfectly aware that he disliked her, but she could not fathom what prompted his distaste. She wore the finest dresses. Her lady’s maid, Joubert, styled her hair most fashionably. Alfreda laughed when one should laugh, and hung on Linwood’s every word, and moved with all the grace she had long practiced. She knew herself in every way to be an incomparable female, a perfect match for the earl. He should like her very much, and yet, he did not.

Linwood carefully placed her toasted bread before her and commenced another piece for himself, his eyes fixed on the task, showing no interest at all in gazing at Alfreda’s beauty. Two years ago, she might not have cared, but she was growing desperate. Two Seasons had failed to bring her to matrimony. She could not endure a third. It must be Linwood who married her. There were no alternatives.

‘I daresay it shall be another sunny day today, My Lord,’ Alfreda said to Linwood.

He had hardly grunted when one of the guests, Lady Harriet, put in, ‘Oh yes! I say! ’Pon rep, shall we have a skittles tournament?’

Alfreda glanced at her, suppressing a prickle of irritation at the interruption. She leaned closer to Linwood and batted her eyelashes. ‘Indeed, what a capital idea, and you shall be my partner, Lord Linwood. What say you?’

He looked at her at last, his golden eyes wide with alarm. ‘A tournament?’

‘A grand opportunity for you to dangle after Lady Alfreda, My Lord.’ Lady Harriet smirked. ’Twas all Alfreda could do to prevent herself glaring at the silly peahen. ‘Not that any of us could ever blame you. We can’t all be a diamond of the first water, n’est pas?’

‘Oh, piffle, Lady Harriet,’ Alfreda protested lightly. ‘You flatter me so.’

‘Nonsense, I speak nothing but the truth,’ Lady Harriet said with glee. ‘I daresay Lord Linwood shall delight in trailing about after you like the moon-calf he is.’

Alfreda narrowed her eyes at Lady Harriet. Was it possible the widgeon was cleverer than she seemed? She could not possibly be in earnest with this teasing. And yet, the lady’s face was guileless. She simply was that dim-witted.

With a smile, Alfreda changed the subject, asking another guest about their relations. In the corner of her eyes, she saw the tension in Lord Linwood’s shoulders.

He shall flee at the first opportunity, I predict. If the other lords wish to take a ride, I shan’t see him the rest of the day.

Unconsciously, Alfreda tore her toast to little bits, uneaten. She was at a loss.

She must marry Lord Linwood, the sooner the better. But how might she succeed in convincing the fellow himself of this imperative?

The answer eluded her, and she must remedy that as quickly as possible.

There was no other way forward but this. Her future depended upon it.

Rosalind

‘Eira, what a pleasant surprise,’ Rosalind said. She stood outside the chicken coop, holding a basket. Her light-haired friend had walked up just as Rosalind was about to collect the day’s eggs.

‘Lovely day,’ Eira remarked, joining Rosalind to help lift the panel sheltering the hens’ nests. Rosalind nodded and began gathering the eggs.

The chicken coop was one of three buildings on the small property. The other two were the goat’s little cabin, which abutted the coop, and the main house. This latter was very small, with three bedchambers, a parlour, a kitchen, and a necessary. The house was built of irregular grey stone.

The Read family had six hens, after losing several to a fox that summer. Rosalind frowned at three nests: empty.

‘I think some of them have stopped laying,’ she said dismally. ‘I should hate them to end as dinners.’

‘Have they laid since the fox?’ Eira asked.

‘No,’ Rosalind said. ‘At least, I think not. ’Tisn’t always evident who lays where.’

‘Oma says that when hens take a fright, they sometimes stop laying for a time.’

‘And do they then begin again?’ Rosalind asked hopefully.

‘I reckon so,’ Eira said. ‘We haven’t had any trouble with ours, I’ll own. So I cannot speak from experience; more’s the pity.’

Rosalind contemplated the four eggs in the basket. ’Twasn’t enough. They depended on the chickens to keep their bellies full, as well as milk from the goat. A roast chicken would be quite a departure—Rosalind’s mouth watered to think of it—but ’twould make for only one meal. Perhaps two, if she were careful. If there was a chance the hens might lay again, she mustn’t risk losing them. When would she have the money to buy more? And that would require going to market in the village. Rosalind preferred to remain hidden away in the Reads’ forest cottage.

‘Still, four eggs. And that isn’t every morning, either,’ Rosalind fretted. She had her mother and brother to feed, in addition to herself. Without any other source of meat, hunger would soon find them.

Eira gazed at her with a look of sympathy.

‘If only I might begin my work as Oma’s apprentice right away,’ Rosalind said. ‘I might bring home a bit of income, and we could buy some chickens then.’

‘Oh, Rosie, you told me just last week that you dread becoming a midwife.’

‘I dread starvation even more.’

‘Why not return to London?’ Eira asked. Her tone was bold and the question startling.

‘Whatever can you mean?’

‘You said you have an aunt. You might write to her. You could return,’ Eira said. ‘You would certainly meet suitors. You would marry and have a good life, Rosie.’

‘Impossible!’ Rosalind sputtered.

‘Why is it impossible?’ Eira demanded stubbornly.

‘If the authorities learned of Bertie’s whereabouts—’

‘Why on earth would that happen? Would you tell them?’

‘No,’ Rosalind conceded. ‘But if I turned up, surely they would want to know where I had been. They would hope to find him through me.’

‘Nonsense,’ Eira said. ‘Tell them some fudge or other. He bought passage to India or America. They’ve no reason to doubt you.’

Rosalind blinked at her friend in bewilderment. ‘But I cannot possibly think of leaving. What would become of my mother?’

‘Perhaps that is for Bertie to sort out.’

‘What an idea! Bertie! They would both starve within a month!’

Eira frowned at Rosalind. ‘Have you ever questioned why it is that you must be the one to tend to everything? Bertie is twenty. He is a man. Shouldn’t he provide for the well-being of his family?’

‘Bertie hasn’t any sense,’ Rosalind said in a low whisper, glancing over her shoulder towards the cottage. ‘And even if he did, he’s a fugitive. I can go into Breacott if I must, but Bertie cannot.’

Eira let out a frustrated sigh. ‘You are two-and-twenty, Rosalind. You have your life ahead of you. Surely you desire a husband? Children?’

A dreadful pang of grief rang through Rosalind’s breast. ‘You know that I do.’

‘And yet you resign yourself to a life of midwifery, despite how little the profession appeals to you,’ Eira said.

‘I haven’t any choice. I only wish to make us all secure. To prevent scarcity and want.’

‘But why must it be your responsibility, Rosie?’

Rosalind did not answer. She could not speak of the reason, though she knew it in her heart. Eira meant well, but she did not know the whole story. She did not know the truth of what Rosalind had done.

’Twas Rosalind’s secret, and she would not share, even with Eira.

This life was her lot, and she would make the best of it, whether it made her happy or not.

---

“Destined to Seduce an Earl” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Rosalind Read had several suitors and a promising future. All that changes when tragedy strikes and her family is forced to flee to the border of Wales. There, in an effort to provide for them, she has to trespass every day into the forest to forage for food. What she never expected, though, was to meet there the most seductive man she has ever seen… When an enticing nobleman is thrown from his horse in the forest, Rosalind is there to give him first aid. While helping him recover from his injury, she will feel captivated by his seductive gaze. As Rosalind’s desire to the injured Lord grows, will she finally dare to surrender to this fiery love affair?

Being the Earl of Linwood, Henry Orson is despaired of living the life his strict father requires of him: marry the Marquess’s daughter, a woman he has no interest in, and produce heirs to the dukedom. When he injures himself and becomes amnesiac, he senses he has no wish to return to his old life. Instead, when he meets the alluring Rosalind, he is shockingly enraptured by her magnetic beauty. Just after his memories return, and he is found in an abandoned cottage, he will find himself trapped in a dilemma; Will he finally choose to risk everything for the only woman that set his heart on fire, or will he go back to the life he left behind?

Without even realising it, Rosalind and Henry will start playing a wicked game of passion that can neither explain nor resist. However, someone has vowed to tear them apart, threatening to reveal a well buried secret. Torn between desire and logic, will they find a way to overcome the obstacles and prevent a scandal before it is too late? Or will their passionate future remain forever a dream that ended too soon?

“Destined to Seduce an Earl” is a historical romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

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