The Earl in My Bed (Rebellious Desires 2)

“How was your day, my dear?”

“Are you familiar with a Mr. Carrington who is to let Kellits Hall?” A flush ran over her entire body at her blurt, and she glanced away from the shrewd speculation that leaped into her father’s eyes.

“How are you acquainted with him, young lady?”

Deplorably, her heart skipped. “I met Mr. Carrington on my return walk. He was very good-natured and courteous,” she hedged. And handsome and so terribly appealing.

“You like this Carrington?”

Oh dear. “Papa!”

“My child, we have each other’s confidence and trust. And you know my wish for you is a worthy alliance.”

His unwavering stare prompted her into speech. “Our meeting was so brief I did not form an opinion, I am merely curious, Papa.”

His mouth curved wryly. “I am not familiar with a mister, only with the Earl of Carrington. There was some speculation he was intent on purchasing Kellits Hall. And when I happened upon him this morning during my ride, he seemed to be touring Kellits Hall lands. He is known to be a most eligible gentleman with over one hundred thousand pounds a year.”

An earl! Why hadn’t he said so? She was pleasantly intrigued. Now she understood why he hadn’t been flustered when during their discourse she had revealed her father to be Viscount Blagrove. He had been so attentive and good-natured. Best of all, he had made her heart race, very much like how her mamma had said Papa made her feel.

How glorious it would be if he fell in love with her. One of the few things Daphne was certain of was that she wanted to marry for the most passionate and daring love, like the kind her mother had with her father. Though their union had been arranged, it had grown into an enviable love match, or so Mamma had recounted countless times. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the earl paid a call to me on my come out?”

“And he would still not be worthy of you, my dear Daphne.”

Embarrassed to be speaking so frankly of the silly hopes in her heart, she opened the book. “Let me read to you, Papa, then I’ll consult with the cook on tonight’s menu.” And she would also send a discreet note to summon the doctor. Her mother had passed away from a wasting illness, and while there were days Daphne feared her papa was ready to be with his beloved wife in heaven, she was not quite ready to lose him. Perhaps not for another fifty years or more. “Shall I read?”

He nodded slowly, but there was a peculiar gleam in his eyes she did not understand. Unaccountably, it made her a bit apprehensive. Pushing the absurd thought aside, she opened the pages of The Mysterious Warning and settled in for a most amiable time with her father. She refused to dwell further on a certain earl who most likely had no more thoughts of her.

…

Sylvester Augustus Wentworth, Earl of Carrington, was exceedingly puzzled at the letter he’d gotten from Lord Blagrove, requesting an urgent audience. Sylvester had no interaction with the viscount outside of their brief meeting when he toured Kellits Hall grounds, and unexpectedly encountering his exquisitely charming and delightful daughter. Despite her disheveled state, the honorable Miss Daphne Collins had presented a very pretty and agreeable picture. Her lips had been so sweetly curved and tempting. Wisps of wet hair had escaped her chignon and framed her lovely features. Her deep-set brown eyes were particularly fine, and they had glowed with intelligence and warmth that instantly stirred his senses.

She had been striking in her loveliness. He would allow that she had appeared lithe and graceful, and more sweetly sensual than all the ladies he’d encountered this season and last. She had tempted the scoundrel in him, and he had so badly wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her. Thankfully he had regained his good senses and had acted with respect to her sensibilities.

Sylvester had been disturbed by his attraction to Miss Collins and had felt like a debaucher, though he had been very careful with his manners. It would not do for the girl to cry improper conduct on his part, forcing him to then be honorable.

He was only three and twenty and had wicked plans before settling down with a wife. Sylvester was not quite ready for domesticity and its delights, which his mother and half the ton touted. A wife would hinder the plans he had for his pleasures and travels. Settling down would come later, for he knew and respected his duty to his title, and when the time came, he would select his bride with fine care.

So what could the viscount want? Had Miss Collins revealed they had spent a part of the afternoon alone, unchaperoned? Or was it something far more serious?

The note did seem rather urgent and troubling.

Lord Carrington.

A matter of grave importance has come to my attention that concerns your family. I ask for an audience at your earliest convenience.

Faithfully,

Robert Collins, Viscount Blagrove.

A matter that concerned his family. Sylvester’s father had died three years past, leaving him to assume his seat earlier than anticipated. But he had been up to the task, having been groomed so relentlessly on his duty from the age of eight years, eschewing all form of childhood play. His father had been single-mindedly obsessed about the continuation of the title and what Sylvester’s duty to it must be. His father had left behind a heartbroken wife and daughter. Their wellbeing was now in his hands, and there was nothing he wanted more than to be capable and care for his mother and sister. He also had a stable of uncles, aunts, and cousins. Which of his family members could Lord Blagrove possess news of grave importance about?

It was that question that prompted Sylvester to travel once more to Hampstead a few days later. He was now seated in a wingback chair in a firelit study, which was decorated in dark green hues, facing the portly viscount. The viscount seemed as if he had lost weight and gained more gray hairs since Sylvester had last seen him. The buttons of his coat did not bulge as if his rotund belly would part the buttons. His pallor had also decidedly worsened. Was the man ill?

With all the pleasantries, and even a shared glass of brandy out of the way, he was getting impatient. “Why have you requested a meeting, Lord Blagrove?”

“Ah, a man who likes to get on with business.”

“I was not aware we had any business together. Come, man, speak now of this matter which involves my family.”

The viscount reached into the top drawer of his desk and withdrew a thick envelope. He placed it gently on the surface. “This is for you.”

The man’s air of secrecy was curious. Biting back a curse, Sylvester reached for the envelope, but the viscount placed a very deliberate fingertip atop the thick vellum paper, preventing him from taking it.

“The contents of these reports are exceedingly accurate, and there will be a cost for my silence.”

It did not take him long to see the old man was most assuredly serious. His heart froze in his chest, and the slide of alarm through his veins was decidedly unpleasant. “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. The gall of the man was shocking.

A cough jerked Lord Blagrove’s frame. With almost painful movements, he took a handkerchief to his lips and dabbed. The eyes that peeked up at Sylvester were anything but frail, they were shrewd and ruthless.

Not releasing his gaze, Sylvester retrieved the envelope and pried it open, frowning at the single sheet of paper that held a detailed report.

Lady Henrietta Wentworth.

The bold scrawl of his sister’s name atop the sheet of paper had an unnamed emotion crawling through his body. With great reluctance, he read the page, fierce denial roaring through him. His nineteen-year-old sister, whom he lovingly called Hetty simply to tease her, was engaged to the Earl of Hartington and Hetty professed on every occasion how ardently in love she was with the man. But this filthy report detailed his sister having a child a year ago, one she had given up to a couple in Cornwall.

“This is a lie,” he snarled over the silence, rage and violence throbbing in his voice.

How had the investigator come by such a report? It even gave the name of her vile seducer,

and the exact date her daughter had arrived into the world to a mother who had hidden the truth of her and had given her away to save herself from scandal and ignominy. If there was any veracity to this, he had failed his family.

Sylvester glanced up, crumbling the paper in his fist.

The viscount had relaxed back into his chair as if he had not delivered news that he knew was most distressing.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the broker.”

Sylvester stiffened. Of course he’d heard unfounded rumors of the blackguard who founded his wealth on others pain and secrets. “I can’t say I have.”

The man’s lips creased into a semblance of a smile. “I have in my possession Lord Danbridge’s letters. They are of the most sordid kind, which confirms his affair with your sister.”