To Love a Tormented Earl, page 1
To Love a Tormented Earl
A REGENCY ROMANCE NOVEL
BRIDGET BARTON
Copyright © 2020 by Bridget Barton
All Rights Reserved.
This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the publisher.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher.
Website: Bridget Barton
Table of Contents
To Love a Tormented Earl
Table of Contents
Free Exclusive Gift
To Love a Tormented Earl
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
How to Claim a Governess’s Heart
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Free Exclusive Gift
Sign up for my mailing list to be notified of hot new releases and get my latest Full-Length Novel “Honorable Rosalind’s Heart” (available only to my subscribers) for FREE!
Click the link or enter it into your browser
http://bridgetbarton.com/rosalind
To Love a Tormented Earl
Introduction
When her father took ill, Emilia Whitmore was left in dire financial straits and with very few prospects to walk down the aisle. Time is running short, and if she doesn't find a suitor soon, her household may not survive. Her life takes an unexpected twist, though, when she suddenly comes across her former employer who was believed to be dead. Even though she knows that a romance with him would be a false hope, she can’t stop daydreaming about his captivating gaze. When he asks for her assistance to unveil a conspiracy that ruined his life, her generous heart compels her to agree. Will Emilia manage to overcome the barriers that go against her happiness? Would destiny hold for her a happy ending?
After faking his own death three years before, Maximilian Emery, the true Earl of Ceastre, has returned to London to reclaim his estate and his name. But before he can do that, he must determine who is involved in the blackmail that prompted him to flee in the first place. When fate brings him together with a woman from his past, soon old feelings begin to resurface. But until he finds out who is hidden behind the evil plot against him, love will remain just a flight of fantasy, no matter how his anxious heart skips a beat everytime she is around. Will Max manage to solve a puzzle that has made his life a living hell? Will his only dream to live by Emilia's side come true?
Despite their strong feelings, Max and Emilia’s union seems impossible, as they come from two spheres of society not accustomed to mingling. To make matters worse, when Emilia discovers the reason for Max’s exile, she feels that everything is crashing down. Will the star-crossed lovers find a way through the obstacles that insist to keep them apart or will they accept a future without hope of true love?
Chapter 1
When Maximilian Emery descended the disembarking plank to the London Docks into the fog typical of the city, he knew he had come home.
‘Three years,’ he muttered. A man also leaving the ship jostled him as he passed.
London, it seemed, had not changed.
Ever lively, full of industry, the docks were just one facet of the soot-tarnished jewel of the English nation. A military company in red coats passed by. Two men yelled at each other beside a mule pulling a cart full of baskets of apples. All around, sailors unloaded trunks and wares from their ships.
Max turned and looked for his traveling companion, Royal Navy lieutenant, Thomas Roberts. His ruddy-haired, moustachioed friend, no longer in the service due to a medical dispensation, was just starting the descent on the plank. Trusting him to catch up, Max turned and began looking about for a hackney carriage as the porters deposited his trunk next to him.
‘I say, Emery—’ Roberts began as he neared.
Max’s palm shot up. ‘It’s Henry Milton now,’ he replied in a low voice.
‘Of course, I do apologise,’ Roberts said. ‘I shan’t make the mistake again, I guarantee.’
‘I’ll allow you one slip, old chap. But we must take care.’
Max had chosen ‘Milton’ as a pseudonym as a kind of inside joke. After all, his ‘paradise’ was, in fact, ‘lost.’ However, he was determined to find it again, and once he’d rectified the entire situation, he would lose the false name.
Roberts raised a hand and a hackney rolled toward them. 'There, now,' he said with satisfaction.
The driver hopped down and the gentlemen helped load their trunks aboard the carriage.
'I am quite pleased to nearly be home, at last,' Roberts remarked as they took their seats. He, too, was returning from exile. They had that in common.
The fog was beginning to lift, and with it, Max’s spirits. Excitement tingled through him as he gazed out at London. How striking it was to be back after all this time.
They would be living in a terraced house on the south side of Portman Square. Roberts had arranged the lease. As they neared the square, the first thing that struck Max was the way the black railings surrounding the central garden stood out against the lingering wisps of fog. Beyond it towered the multi-storeyed neoclassical brick buildings, built fairly recently in the latter years of the previous century.
The hackney came to a stop and the gentlemen descended, assisting the driver again at unloading their belongings. The staff Roberts had employed through an agency appeared and hurried to take over.
Max greeted each of them and learned their names. The gentlemen would have a very spare household, with a valet each, a maid-of-all-work, and a cook. Only four names to learn, for which Max was grateful. He had other concerns.
As the valets carried in the trunks Max straightened and looked over the square, a sight caught his eye and made him stiffen.
An exclamation left his lips: 'What the devil is she doing here?'
***
Emilia Whitmore was pleased that the fog seemed to be almost gone. It was never a happy experience to have to make one’s way through London when visibility was impaired.
'We’ve never taken a turn there,' her companion Alice observed as she gestured out of the landau to the garden at the centre of Portman Square. 'It looks very pretty.'
'Indeed, we shall have to return,' Emilia agreed, unwilling to suggest that they stop now. She had an appointment at the dressmakers to keep and she hadn’t the patience to consider pretty gardens until it was done.
'You do seem troubled,' Alice observed.
Emilia grimaced. 'I apologise, dear Alice. It’s the expense.'
Alice nodded. 'But one must have a new ball gown, or appear too impoverished to be considered a worthy bride.'
‘One must,’ Emilia agreed gloomily.
‘Be easy at least in the knowledge that the gown shall be quite lovely,’ Alice said to reassure Emilia. ‘The shade you chose, that pale pink, will flatter your dark eyes and hair.’
‘You don’t think it better for a fair lady such as yourself?’ Emilia smiled. ‘Golden curls might better suit such a delicate, light colour.’
‘I’ve no complaint regarding my evening dress,’ Alice said stoutly. ‘It has served me well and shall continue to do so until I’ve no use for it any longer.’
Emilia gazed at her companion affectionately. Alice was a sensible lady, and a boon as a friend. Alice never required more than Emilia could offer. Then Emilia’s smile faded. ‘Tis simply dreadful to have to spend so much, I must say. The sale of Mama’s favourite cabinet and what Dassel last paid me will only just cover the expense.’
Alice clicked her tongue. 'I do wish you would cease associating with that...man.'
'Oh, my dear Alice, how I value your counsel,' Emilia said, sighing. 'But you well know that my “association” to that man is the only thing keeping our household from simply drowning in debt.'
'It isn’t proper. If word gets out...'
'‘twas an old argument. Alice’s refusal to be pragmatic was nothing new. Emilia told herself she needn’t let it bother her.
'Oy! See here!' The shout came from Abraham, Emilia’s coachman.
Startled, Emilia looked out, trying to determine the source of his distress.
***
Easy to see sitting in her landau with its top folded down, Emilia Whitmore was an unmistakable beauty, with her large eyes so dark they looked black in her heart-shaped face, her alabaster skin contrasting with her ebony hair, which only showed with a few curls as she wore a neat bonnet. Spotting her in her carriage gave Max a turn, but he might have headed into the house and forgotten all about it, except for the dog.
The dog was likely not a purebred, for its body had the slender curve of a greyhound but its brown coat was that of a curly retriever. Max’s attention was first diverted from Emilia Whitmore to the dog by the uncouth shouting of the dog’s owner, a large, red-faced man in a tradesman’s leather breeches. That he seemed out of place in Portman’s Square was the first clue to his predicament with the dog. What he shouted was another:
'That’s the last time I go chasing after ye through these streets, y’damned cur!'
Any sympathy Max may have felt for the man evaporated, however, when he raised some sort of stick overhead and the dog yelped and scrambled away...
...right into the path of Miss Whitmore’s open carriage.
A collision was imminent, promising disaster all around.
Unthinking, Max darted after the animal, scooped it up, and nearly toppled over the railing to the central garden in his haste.
The landau lurched to a stop.
'Ho, there, guvnor,' shouted the coachman. 'Are you injured?'
Straightening, Max set down the dog, who was now intent on licking his face. 'Right as rain,' he said, turning to the man. But his eyes, instead, met Emilia’s.
The recognition was instant and undeniable.
The colour drained from her face, as though she had seen a ghost.
And, in fact, she had.
Because three years ago, Max had falsified his own death.
But now, he realized, the truth would surely come out.
Chapter 2
'Emilia, are you ill?' Alice asked as the landau began to move again.
Emilia leaned back. Her stays felt far too tight.
'Oh, dear,' Alice muttered as she fanned her companion. 'What is the matter?'
Emilia closed her eyes and forced herself to slow her breathing, grateful, at least, that the folding head of the landau was down, and she had plenty of air.
'Abraham,' Alice called. 'We must return home at once. Miss Whitmore is ill!'
'No,' Emilia managed, 'it is but my nervous complaint, Alice. It will pass. I must keep my appointment.'
Alice made an unhappy noise.
'Alice, please,' Emilia urged, quite unable to call out to Abraham herself, as the air still felt too rare.
'Oh very well,' Alice said. 'Never mind, Abraham, keep going.'
Emilia’s distress eased a little, but that only allowed the thoughts racing through her mind to take more substantial form.
It cannot have been him.
It simply can’t have been.
Maximilian Emery, the Earl of Ceastre? Alive? In Portman Square?
Certainly, she must be mistaken. The brown-haired man she saw was bearded. She had simply made a mistake.
But his eyes. Those striking green eyes.
How could they belong to anyone else?
The carriage halted and Abraham helped the ladies alight. Soon she was allowing Mrs. Gregson, the dressmaker, to take her measurements. But even as she stood still, when she closed her eyes, the image of the man holding the brown dog rose uninvited before her.
It was him. I know it was.
Nonsense. The distress of father’s illness, the bills, the cost of this fitting, all of it has had a terrible effect on your nerves, nothing more.
The argument continued to rage within Emilia all the way back home to Chesham Place. Alice was visibly concerned, clucking like a hen. She insisted on taking Emilia’s arm as they entered the Whitmore townhouse.
Emilia murmured reassurances and Alice took her leave to go freshen up after their outing. In the library, Emilia’s father was dozing in his favourite armchair by the fire. After pressing her hand to the back of his—a light touch which didn’t wake him—Emilia went to the mahogany desk.
All of the furnishings of the library, as with most of the house, were in the fashion of the previous century, with mahogany dominating. She considered, not for the first time, how unfashionable it all was. She felt no displeasure at the fact; she held affection for their décor. It did, however, act as a reminder of the loss of the Whitmores’ wealth.
When her older brother Harold died—’twas almost ten years ago, she realized with a start—abroad in the war, it was just at the time when her mother was making plans to replace much of the furnishings. Heartbreak, Emilia was convinced, led to her mother’s illness and death. All talk of décor was quite forgotten.
Her father’s health failed some years later. He was forced to cease all professional activity. It was then that Emilia began giving music lessons to Miss Charlotte Emery at Ceastre, the earl’s estate.
The grief she felt over the loss of her brother ebbed as the awed memory of that first day, entering the grand foyer of the estate, came rushing back to Emilia now. One of the first times she had conversed with the young gentleman, Lord Emery—his father still lived and he was not the earl yet, then—was on the subject of their older brothers, both lost in the war.
They had stood together at the window of the drawing room, whilst Charlotte practiced a few feet away on the pianoforte.
'Your cousin is progressing very well,' Emilia had said when Lord Emery approached her.
He was so handsome. His hair was golden brown, curling somewhat wildly. His limpid green eyes were full of good humour, and the way he gazed at her made her feel at once admired and unsettled. She cast her own eyes down, fearful that he might read her expression too well. There was no question in her mind of her status—Maximilian Emery would be the earl someday. She had no hope of acquiring his affection.
‘Miss Emery has a great affinity for music,’ she said.
