How to Marry an Earl (A Cinderella Society 1)

Chapter One

Some ladies promenaded with delicate lace parasols, and some ladies fell headlong into holes.

Persephone Blackwell counted herself fortunate that she had learned the trick of falling a long time ago. She had once gotten stuck in an Iron Age barrow and required a rope, two ladders, and three footmen to get her out. All while her grandmother’s pet spaniel Chartreuse ran around the edge barking hysterically. That had been a much bigger to-do. She’d just had word from Henry about the beauty and pleasure of Egypt, from the pyramids to the pillars at Karnak, and it had set her off. She’d marched down into her little British barrow, determined to dig right down until she hit water or hellfire itself in search of her own historical findings.

She’d found two toe bones and a tooth. And she was fairly certain the tooth belonged to a badger.

Which was still more than she had found in her current barrow.

Or, hole, rather.

To be fair, the hole wasn’t supposed to be there. She’d explicitly requested a trench be dug several yards further from the square in order for the children to practice their archaeological skills. For this express reason, it had to be said. Anyone might have fallen into a hole situated as it was, entirely too near the walking paths.

Also, it wasn’t supposed to be quite so… grave-like. It was meant to be an attraction in the village festival, not a harrowing challenge in one’s pursuits of leek pies or lace fichus, or whatever it was normal people did at a festival. Her tastes might run differently than most, but even she could see that. Not at the moment, of course. At the moment, all she could see was dirt, the pale roots of grass, and a slice of sky. This particular hole really was rather deep.

“Hello?” she called out.

A nearby swallow trilled a not-particularly-helpful song.

Never mind, she dug holes as a hobby. She might not find treasures of any historic significance in the village green, but she could certainly dig herself out. She pushed her bonnet back and ignored the twinge of new bruises along her elbow and shin. Her left knee throbbed. She really didn’t have time for that sort of behavior.

It might be half past seven in the morning, but at any moment someone was bound to come along on some errand or another; a constitutional, the chasing of a dog, a turnip cart. She wasn’t keen on having this added to the litany of stories told about her. Honestly, she could have written her own gothic novel. Not a terribly good one, but still. Fueled by the promise of new humiliation, Persephone launched herself out of the hole.

Well, not precisely out of the hole.

More like at the hole.

There was no denying she was short. And the hole was… tall. She slid down the side, dirt dropping into the sleeves of her spencer, and down the top of her dress. It was cold insult to injury. So was the dirt currently sticking to the back of her throat. She choked out a cough.

A new tactic was clearly required. She dug the toe of her boot into the side of the hole, trying to burrow it into the shape of a foothold. She lifted her right foot a little higher and did the same. She shoved her hands into the earth, searching for roots to hold onto. She could do this.

The earth, too soft to support her, crumbled away.

She landed with a jolt and an expletive best suited to gaming halls and pirate ships. The trouble was, she was accustomed to proper tidy trenches that sloped gently into barrows. This felt more like a trap from that same gothic novel she could now write.

Enter a handsome and mysterious gentleman.

“Lady Persephone?”

Splendid.

Not just any gentleman, but this one in particular. Of course.

Conall Hunter, Earl of Northwyck, future Marquis of Ashton.

He was aptly named – he put Persephone in mind of a hunter, not an earl. Tall and lean, with dark hair and grey eyes that tracked everything around him. They were currently fixated on her.

Stuck in a hole.

She had not seen him for several years. Not since she had ruined herself thoroughly enough that he would either not recognize her or else greet her with one of those insufferable smirks men seemed to reserve for ladies such as herself.

“Lady Persephone, it is you.” He inclined his head. Not a smirk in sight.

“Lord Northwyck, good morning.” She found herself tongue-tied. “Y-you’re back!”

And I’m in a hole.

She curtsied quickly. A clump of mud fell from her sleeve. Honestly, who curtsied while stuck in a hole in the ground? Even silhouetted against the sun, he was entirely too handsome for his own good.