Three Wicked Nights with a Notorious Earl, page 2
Yes, perhaps it was time for a change. She would have security and a husband, and yes from the rumors he was an unsavory sort, but then, so were many men, her father included. Since she wasn’t stunning in the way of looks and was too outspoken for many men, this might rather be a blessing in disguise. None of her Seasons had taken, and with Reddingham, at least the dream of having a family of her own would become a reality.
In marrying, would have the freedom to explore her dreams, for once the earl got his heir, surely he would tire of her. Men like him would never be faithful to a wife. And they were strangers, after all. How much could they possibly have in common?
With a sigh, she bounced her gaze between her parents. “Reddingham said we wouldn’t return to London any time soon. I suppose we should have as many gowns and other clothing done up before the trip that we can. It’s the least Papa can do with the sudden influx of funds.”
It’ll serve you right, you weak man.
Her mother nodded. “Of course, dear. I’ll make arrangements today.”
She would pack every book she could find—from the ones she’d managed to hide so her father couldn’t sell them—and everything else she could think of that might bring her a modicum of entertainment or comfort.
However, if Reddingham had enough coin to throw about as evidenced by him paying off her father, then she would absolutely want for nothing when it came to material items. That was oddly reassuring in a way.
“Then you agree to remove to Cornwall?” her father asked with obvious relief in his expression.
“As you have said, I don’t have a choice, and in the doing so, perhaps I can mold the life I want at the earl’s expense.” Evangeline couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.
“Well, I will leave you ladies to the planning.” Her father stood and then quit the room as if the hounds of hell were after him.
“Are you quite certain you wish to do this, dear?” her mother asked with a frown.
“If I don’t, you and papa will be in forfeit.” She shrugged. “I am choosing to look at this as an adventure rather than a death sentence. Perhaps, if I am fortunate, I will finally feel as if I’m valued for me instead of what I can do for someone else.” Of course, if the earl only wanted her to beget an heir, none of that would ring true.
“But Reddingham is a horrible man,” her mother continued in a hushed voice with round eyes. “It is said his tastes in the bedroom are beyond wicked and have run to the depraved.” She leaned forward and touched a hand to Evangeline’s knee. “I have not told you what happens between men and women in the marriage bed.”
Heat stung her cheeks. “I have read enough books, Mama, to puzzle it out, and my friends have told me things in confidence that I’m not completely unaware.” Under no circumstances would she share about her stint in being a witness to a coupling.
“But he might corrupt you, force you into his debauched world.”
A shiver twisted up her spine. “Well, you and Papa have literally thrown me to the wolf—or lion as it were—so if something does happen to me, that’s on you.” In this, she didn’t care, for her parents were supposed to have wanted the best for her, and they had failed spectacularly. “Now, let’s not waste more time. There is much to do.”
A life far removed from London and everything she’d ever known. How bad could it be?
Chapter Two
May 7, 1813
Lionsgate Hall
Deporth, Cornwall
What must I remain behind to suffer, to remember?
Sebastian Hamilton—Earl of Reddingham—frowned at the ever-moving sea from the same boulder that he did every night, for this was the spot where he contemplated the waves and the unfathomable colors found therein. Additionally, he contemplated his past as well as his future while wondering what the devil he was doing with his life.
And why he hadn’t managed to end it long ago.
For whatever reason, he hadn’t even though there were probably many people in London who wished he would. He wasn’t a good man, certainly wasn’t a hero, had done nothing heroic in his whole existence. In fact, when anyone within the beau monde thought of him, they went as far as the gossip and rumors. Some of which were glaringly true. It didn’t matter, for he’d never cared for any of those things, not even when he lived in London, when his parents had been alive... when Charles had been alive.
Pain stabbed through his heart and chest. Damn but he missed his best friend. He missed his mother. A huff escaped him, but he flat out refused to grieve for his dastardly father. That man had been rotten to the core, and quite frankly, he was glad he was dead.
Had those traits been passed along to him? Was his blood as tainted as his sire’s? There was no way of knowing, which was partially why he’d fled to his estate in Cornwall—to remain aloof from everyone. The steady stream of gossip and innuendo had also made him flee, and honestly, he had never felt that he’d fit in with the London ton. Here in the wilds of Cornwall, he was free to be as rugged and mysterious and as harsh as the seas themselves, and there was no one around to bid him nay or to respond with censure.
Yet, living so far from the main hub of society came with its fair share of loneliness. Women from the demi-monde were more difficult to come by, for he hadn’t been a monk, but if a man was intent and he had enough coin—which he did thanks to clever investments and smart partnerships—lovers and mistresses were supplied in abundance.
If the rumor mill insisted on painting him with the brush of perversion and depravity, he might as well act the part. It was not a crime to heartily enjoy carnal activities, and the more risqué the better, but he’d been adamant that none of those women ever attach themselves to his heart. He had refused to marry out of fear that he might indeed be like his father, and he certainly didn’t want to grieve like his mother—regardless of how that man had treated her—or as he’d done for his mother. Grief was more horrid than the emotions that wrung out a man in love, but while love made a man weak and vulnerable, grief strengthened him, closed him off from potential harm and threats.
And feeling.
Such was life. Then again, perhaps his soul was as black as his father’s had been, for he had killed his best friend during a semi-drunken row... and then had gone on to eliminate the threat that his father indeed was. No one would care that his friend’s death had been accidental. Sebastian heaved a sigh, and stuffed those welling emotions deeper down in his chest where they wouldn’t creep out. It didn’t matter now. The damage had been done, and he’d accepted his self-exile here.
There was no desire to return to London.
For long moments, he closed his eyes and gave himself over to the ever-present slap and retreat of the waves against the shore. He breathed deeply of the salty air, lifted his face to the patchy sunshine, reveled in the way the constant breeze rifled through his hair he kept a bit longer than current fashion demanded. Here in Cornwall, hidden away from the rest of the world, he wasn’t nearly as ashamed of who he was as he might have been in the middle of society. On this estate, in front of the sea, he was almost proud of himself for surviving all that he had.
Almost.
Despite all of that, a part of him desperately wanted respectability, acceptance, and to take pride in his title, make it an honorable one again after his father had completely destroyed it and Sebastian himself had wrecked his own reputation while holding it. And though he cared nothing for that same title—because in his mind it still represented his father and everything that horrid man was—he did wish to pass it on some day to his own heir. Not to his weak, distant cousin who was more of a poor relation than anything else. The man had no vision and even less drive to make something of himself. Absolutely not would that man hold the earldom.
Of that I can promise.
Which is why he’d made the most recent decision he had. For years it was assumed Sebby would cock up and the title would go to his cousin. That’s when he remembered the betrothal from his childhood, struck between his father and one of his sire’s contemporaries in the ton. After a few nights of contemplation, he’d dug out those old documents. They’d never been rendered null and void, and from all accounts, the woman in question was as proper as they came. In fact, from what he could manage to discover, she was the baby of her family. The two other siblings had died from various causes, which meant she’d been sheltered and coddled as a matter of course. He’d recalled from his time in London that she’d had a couple of Seasons before the funding ran out due to her father’s penchants for gambling and drinking, but she’d never taken. And though she had received a few offers, since her parents had been angling for a title, they’d rejected all of them.
Because there was always the security of knowing they had his betrothal to fall back upon. He snorted with a fair amount of bitterness. Though he was unsavory, he did have a title, and rumor held that Satterfield was desperate for the blunt. The greedy bastard had practically salivated over any scheme that would put coin in his pocket.
God, I despise people.
For long moments, he watched the play of the sun dance on the blue-gray water like a shipwreck had spilled trunks of diamonds all over the surface of the sea. Having a wife or being a married man had never been in the cards for him, and after witnessing his father’s rampages and abuse, he’d been violently opposed to that state. However, having a wife might raise him in the opinions of the beau monde if he ever wished to go back and take his place in society, but it might also give him companionship. Despite his predilection for bed sport, he was sick of his own company and wanted a friend.
Could a woman—a spouse—teach him how not to hate himself? How to forgive himself as well as his father? How not to feel like a disappointment? How not to be a recluse and ashamed? He grunted and shifted position on the boulder until he sat cross-legged, Turkish style. That remained to be seen, but perhaps he could only be who he was, and nothing would change.
Would Miss Rigsby wish to be initiated into sin and scandal? That provoked a slight grin. He certainly hoped so, for it was one of the only things he genuinely enjoyed in life. It made him forget about who he was and where he’d come from, made him forget his grief and sadness and emptiness for a time. Yet the true facts were he needed a wife, and he needed an heir. He couldn’t have one without the other. Once he put a babe in the woman’s belly, he could return to the man he was before the marriage, or perhaps send her to London. She could live out a happy life with his protection and funds, raise the child—or children if they didn’t have a son the first go ‘round—and stay well away from him, never giving him a chance to be like his father.
He could remain here in his Gothic-style manor house on an isolated Cornish coast with the tiniest of all villages a few miles away, alone with his thoughts and misery.
And regret.
After all, wasn’t it his lot? His punishment? Lord knew he didn’t deserve anything else. Once more, Sebastian frowned at the sea, then frowned even harder from the hail that came from his man-of-affairs who lived in the nearest town some thirty miles distant where he had a small solicitor’s practice. The man came out several times of year to check on Sebby, make sure he hadn’t offed himself. They usually shared a good meal—his cook was quite the best—shared a few bottles of wine or brandy, played some cards, discussed business, and then Francis left him to his thoughts.
“What do you want?” Gods, when had he become such a surly, snapping beast?
“And good afternoon to you too, Sebastian.” There was no anger or annoyance in the other man’s voice, merely good-natured teasing, for they had known each other a long time, had gone to university together, had knocked about London together as friends... until Sebby had inadvertently made a mess of his life.
Mr. Francis Bollinger was the extent of his social life here in Duporth. He was the one friend who hadn’t yet washed his hands of him, and he was the one man who would stand by his side no matter what was said. Sad but true, and the solicitor would probably never know how much Sebastian appreciated that loyalty.
“Ha.” He huffed but couldn’t help the tiny grin. “Good afternoon, Francis. How do you fare this fine day?”
“Very well, thank you.” The man approached, looking every bit the country gentleman out for a hike on the coast. Tweed coat, brown breeches, tan waistcoat, scuffed but high-quality Hessians. A walking stick was clutched in one gloved hand. “A lovely day for a walk.”
“You are one of the true spirits who adores Cornwall and every lonely face it presents.” Sebastian unbent himself and slid from the boulder. He tugged at the hem of his jacket and once more glanced at the unforgiving but constant sea. “Did you finish the contracts?”
“I did.” Francis stood near to Sebastian’s location. The wind fluttered through his black hair beneath his top hat. “Everything is as it should be.”
“No alterations?”
“Not many. The original contracts are still valid since there is no formal documentation that asks you to void them. I got in Satterfield’s response just this morning.” Francis rested a speculative gaze on him. “Are you sure you wish to go through with it? You have never exactly been a marriage-minded lord.”
“I am well aware of that, but I grow tired of the life I lead now, my friend.” He paused as his mind tumbled over his next words. “I need something new. Someone new, and since I have had more than my fill of mistresses, why not try a wife?” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter much to him. “What do you know of Satterfield’s daughter?”
“Not much.” Francis prodded the small pebbles nearby with the tip of his cane. “There’s talk she fancies herself a baker since she failed in her Seasons. Wants to open a bakery, specialize in pastries of the French style.”
“Interesting.”
“Indeed.” The solicitor bent, picked up a piece of green sea glass and held it up with a nod.
“What of her looks?”
“Well, she’s not horrible but not a Diamond. Black hair always styled simply, but that is easily corrected. In the right clothing and jewelry, she could be stunning.”
Making her into an acceptable countess might become a superior way to pass the time. “Curves?” He rather did enjoy a woman with secrets to explore.
“Enough to tempt well... even a man like you.” One of Francis’ eyebrows lifted. “And that’s saying something.”
At least there was that. “Bedding a woman who didn’t resemble a stick is always a pleasant endeavor.”
His friend snorted. “She might even manage to tame you.”
“Ha.” Slowly, Sebastian shook his head. “I don’t require taming. Just an heir.”
For a long time, the other man regarded him with a return of speculation in his eyes. “Then what?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged and turned once more to the sea. “Let my wife raise him in London and if it appears I’m as rotten as my father, I will make the necessary steps to remove myself.” What else could he do?
“From life?”
“Take from that what you will.” Sebastian cared not.
“Dramatic, of course, but then your life hasn’t exactly been proper or staid.” Concern clouded the man’s eyes. “Or this marriage could be what you have wished for your whole adult life, the one thing that will usher in your redemption, if only for yourself.”
Could it be that easy? “I wonder...”
“Regardless, Miss Rigsby will arrive here in less than a month.” He patted his chest. “Satterfield has returned the signed copies. Quite punctual, that one. As I said, they arrived in the post this morning. I brought them for your perusal.”
“Thank you. I’m quite certain he was ecstatic for the infusion of funding.” When Francis didn’t answer, Sebastian snorted. “Blunt, power, prestige. That is what anyone wants.” What of caring, of music, of the softer side of life? Did none of that matter any longer? Damn, any more thinking along those lines would drive him into madness. It was the reason he’d turned long ago to the pianoforte, for music soothed him when he was in such a state.
“I rather think Satterfield has a different agenda, and your ten thousand will allow him that for a time, until he runs through it.”
“Well, I refuse to extend him any more funds. If he wishes to become a charity case, it won’t be on my doorstep.” Yes, he’d grown to despise people over the years, himself included. “You did the addendum detailing what I am prepared to settle upon my wife once we’re wed?” It was only fair, and he was only allowing it after how he’d seen his mother struggle against his father’s tight-fisted ways.
“I did. Yearly allowance. Pin money. An estate in her name in Derbyshire. Is that all?”
“At this time, yes.” If the woman wanted more, she would need to earn it in his bed, and if she could manage to surprise him in that manner, he would gladly reward her.
“Then I suppose there is nothing left to do but wait for Miss Rigsby to arrive.” Muscles in his gut pulled with anxiety. His days as a bachelor were certainly numbered.
“Indeed. In the meanwhile, you can fit up the rooms in the east wing as a countess suite. If you and she don’t get on, she will need a place of her own and you will not wish her underfoot for your nocturnal activities with other women.”
Sebastian grunted. “I may be many things, my friend, but once I wed, I will not stray.” He was damned adamant of that.
“Ha!” Francis stared. “I find that hard to believe. You have always had women.”
“Yes, and now I only want one.” He shrugged. “Being faithful is my intention, to honor my mother. She wished me to be a proper gentleman, a good husband... nothing like my father.”
“Ah. I wish you luck then.”
“I suspect I will need it.” A long-suffering sigh escaped him. Anticipation warred with foreboding. At least for a short time, there would be enough to occupy him with the newness that he wouldn’t grow bored. “Care to wager on how quickly I will cock this up?” He did have rather large and skewed appetites when it came to carnal pleasures. Would that frighten an innocent wife away?
