Wicked Earl, Wanton Widow Read online

  Wicked Earl, Wanton Widow

  Bronwyn Scott

  Herefordshire, England. 1830.

  Rose Janeway had heard rumors of Killian Redbourne’s prowess with women. The new earl of Pembridge was infamously wicked and utterly masculine…and just the thing to tempt the passionate widow into taking a lover. But as their days of ecstasy flew by, Rose feared that Killian would return to London, leaving her beloved community destitute and her heart broken. Unless she can persuade him to stay in town and in her bed…

  This Undone was fun to write, especially since I wrote it during the fall and apples are such a big deal in the Pacific Northwest where I live. Herefordshire, where this story takes place, is the Orchard of England, even today. Cider enjoyed a popular existence in Herefordshire since the Middle Ages but it wasn’t until the 19th century that farmers banded together to make it possible to transport cider to the cities and make it a more lucrative industry outside of the region. Today, 63 million gallons of cider are produced in Herefordshire, accounting for over half of the cider produced in England.

  I hope you enjoy the story of Killian Redbourne and his feisty heroine, Rose Janeway. Peyton Ramsden, the Earl of Dursley, is on hand to help Killian with his awkward inheritance. You can read more about Peyton Ramsden in The Earl’s Forbidden Ward, due out in North America spring 2010!

  Drop by and say hello at www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com

  Bronwyn

  This one is for Kerry Stoner, a great supporter of education for women. Thanks for your commitment and dedication to PEO and chapter GC’s Make it and Take it. You are an inspiration to us all. Thanks for your leadership.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  Fall, 1830, Herefordshire, England

  Killian Redbourne’s kisses could make a woman swoon. They had in fact done just that two weeks ago at the theater where a Mrs. Dempsey had been caught in his arms performing said feat (a stunt many suspected she’d engineered herself). Such was the latest rumor that had accompanied him down from London.

  Rose Janeway was not proud that she’d succumbed to the inclination to gossip, but it was all the people of Pembridge-on-the-Wye knew of the man who would be earl. She excused her weakness on the grounds that no one had actually seen Killian Redbourne in fourteen years, not since his last quarrel with the Earl of Pembridge and no one had expected to see him again. After all, he wasn’t the heir, merely the cousin of the heir in case the unthinkable happened. But the unthinkable had happened. The heir had died a few months ago without securing the succession and the old earl had never recovered from the blow.

  Tired of living with the reality that his prodigal nephew would inherit, the old earl had shuffled off his mortal coil and surrendered to the inevitable five days ago. And here they all were: a motley assortment of villagers, farmers and herself, gathered at the grave of the earl in the chilly October wind, drawn in small part out of respect for the passing of the resident peer and in larger part by the lure of seeing the rumors incarnate.

  News filtering down from the big house held that Killian Redbourne and a friend, Lord Dursley, had arrived late last night in a black-lacquered carriage with wide glass panes and elegant lanterns for night travel. The carriage had been pulled by a superior set of four matched gray horses, no expenses spared and the trappings of luxury self-evident. That would have to change. If he wanted to succeed around these parts, he’d best put a damper on such a blatant show of wealth. Harvests had been poor and the day laborers who worked them even poorer these last three years.

  The object of her ruminations (and truth be told, the ruminations of everyone assembled at the funeral) stood across from her, separated only by the width of the open grave. Over the edge of her prayer book, Rose covertly surveyed the rumors made flesh, concluding that in this case, the rumors might indeed not suffer from over-exaggeration even if her own rather heated imagination did. She’d been without a man four years now and the absence had been wearing on her lately. She’d even contemplated the notion of taking a lover. It was all very hypothetical. No one had appealed as a likely candidate, although since it was hypothetical, Killian Redbourne would certainly be a viable nominee.

  In theory, he definitely possessed the potential to make a woman swoon. Taller than the other men gathered, Killian Redbourne drew the eye and riveted the mind. He wore his hair longer than fashionably suitable, although today, out of respect, he’d tied it back with a tasteful black satin bow reminiscent of an earlier age. His broad shoulders filled out the greatcoat to advantage, the coat itself left open to show off long legs in riding breeches tapering into high boots, offering hints of a trim waist and a well-muscled torso. Temptation of an excellent physique aside, Killian Redbourne’s best asset was his eyes; dark coffee orbs framed by long black lashes that flashed with a suggestion of laughter, and they were laughing now.

  At her.

  She’d been right and duly caught.

  It seemed unfair that she’d been the one caught when everyone else was getting away with it. A slow sensual smile spread across his lips, igniting a certain aching warmth deep at her core and a wicked fantasy.

  What would it be like to take a man such as him to her bed and ease the loneliness of the nights? Images raced through her mind of him naked and aroused, rising above her, his dark hair falling forward, his eyes hot with desire, his body slicked with the sweat of his exertions.

  Across from her, Killian Redbourne winked in concupiscent conspiracy as if he knew precisely what she’d been thinking. Rose blushed. How could she not? Her thoughts were hardly fitting for a funeral. But their eyes held. Why not stare openly? There was no sense in looking away now. The damage was done.

  It wasn’t the first time a woman had stared at him. The fairer sex had been staring since he’d turned fifteen and the blacksmith’s daughter had lured him behind a haystack. Women had been trying to catch him ever since.

  He was thirty-four now and had no more intention of being caught than he had back then. It had become something of a game for him over the years. The risks had been higher in recent months, the pursuit more ardent once his prospects as the Earl of Pembridge were assured. Even so, his ability to keep his heart separate from his encounters had risen proportionately to the increased need for evasion.

  Killian studied the striking woman, letting a slow smile take his mouth, the smile that said he was aware of her scrutiny and was most ably returning it. She was slightly taller than most, with a firm, high bosom (his preference) and long legs (also his preference), and her hair, what he could see of it beneath her bonnet, promised to be a rich shade of red-gold. All in all, a very nice package.

  To his surprise and delight, her forget-me-not-blue eyes did not look away. Perhaps this visit to the hinterlands of Herefordshire wouldn’t be without its comforts after all. The earl’s funeral had inconveniently drawn him away from some deuced excellent hunting and he was eager to get back to it. But in the meanwhile it appeared Herefordshire had its own charms.

  Beside him, his traveling companion, Peyton Ramsden, the Earl of Dursley, nudged him none too gently in the ribs, reminding him flirtatious shenanigans had no proper place at a somber occasion. Well, maybe not for Peyton. Peyton didn’t have a reputation for the shocking to uphold.

  It
hardly mattered to Killian what the people of Pembridge-on-the-Wye thought of him. No doubt they’d been living on speculation and hearsay for years in regards to him. He’d hear the reading of the will, consult the steward who’d been running the estate for ages, give him instructions along with an address of contact and be on his way in two days—tops, the pretty woman across the grave site notwithstanding. Still, two days was a long time to be alone when one was Killian Redbourne.

  Chapter Two

  “I, Rutherford Michael Redbourne, fifth Earl of Pembridge, being of sound mind and body on this day, the fifth of September, in the year eighteen hundred and thirty, bequeath my earthly estate and all its entailments to my nephew and heir, Killian Christopher Redbourne….”

  Killian tapped impatient fingers on the small table beside his chair in the private study of Pembridge Hall, seat to the Pembridge earls for five generations. With an eye to expediency, he’d requested the solicitor read the will immediately following the funeral. The sooner everything was signed and the title officially transferred the better. His uncle had never liked him, nor he his uncle. There was no need to stand on the pretense of grief and delay realities.

  Killian had no title of his own, his father being a second son. But he’d never coveted Pembridge for himself, never wanted to trade places with his cousin, Robert, who’d grown up with the assurance of a place in society. Killian was proud to have made his own way in the world, his birth allowing him to straddle a delicate fence between the world of the ton and the world of trade. Now, his inheritance firmly entrenched him on one side of that fence. At the age of four and thirty, he was an earl, whether he wanted to be or not. If his uncle could have chosen, he would have preferred not. It was grim consolation to imagine his uncle turning in his grave at the thought of his black-sheep nephew inheriting lock, stock and proverbial barrel.

  The solicitor stopped reading, the ensuing silence drawing Killian’s attention. “Is that all? Are you finished?” Killian inquired. The solicitor was looking at him oddly over the rims of his wire spectacles as if he were expecting some kind of reaction. Admittedly, Killian had not given the reading his entire attention; he had saved some of that for introspection on his uncle and some of it for the lovely woman at the ceremony. But what he had heard was all as expected, quite de rigueur as wills went: a listing of assets to be considered as the entail and an outlining of debts requiring payment.

  The man coughed. “Mr. Redbourne,” he began, then hastily corrected himself, “Lord Pembridge, I said the estate is penniless.”

  That got his full, undivided attention. Killian raised an eyebrow in challenge. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The estate, milord, is, in the common vernacular, without a feather to fly with.”

  Killian sat back in his chair, letting the unexpected news penetrate. Those were words no businessman liked to hear. He had not anticipated this. He’d always imagined Pembridge as he’d known it during the infrequent visits of his youth: vibrant with bustle and consequently financially viable. “How is that possible?”

  The solicitor steepled his hands and assumed the tone of a bored schoolteacher re-explaining basic principles to an errant student. “Harvests have been poor these last few years and there hasn’t been enough work available. Tenant revenues have decreased and cottage rents have gone up to compensate for the loss. Workers have been displaced and ‘living in’ on the larger farms has faded out in these parts. It has not helped that your uncle invested heavily in farm machinery that limited the need for laborers. There simply hasn’t been enough money in rents to keep the estate running beyond a minimum. Surely, you’ve noticed such economic changes even in London?” The last was said with a patronizing tone that Killian did not like. He did not care for the solicitor’s obvious perception that he did nothing more than fritter away time and money in debauched city living. In fact, his life was quite the opposite. He was up early most mornings and to bed late, overseeing his shipping line. His recent hunting trip was a rare exception to the usual hustle of his day.

  Killian fixed the solicitor with a hard stare. Politics over the succession of the new king and the subsequent election that needed to follow had kept him in London all summer. He was all too aware that without new reforms, the situation facing rural England was only going to get worse. “Mr. Connelly, I am well aware of the social and economic situation facing the country these days. I was, however, unaware of how those conditions had affected Pembridge. My uncle—” Killian gestured meaningfully to the papers spread on the desk. “—did not communicate with me on such matters.”

  Duly reprimanded, Mr. Connelly made a great show of shuffling papers and ahemming. “Quite so,” he said, regaining his composure. “However, the fact remains that the estate hasn’t a penny once the bills are settled.”

  Killian dismissed the concern. When something in business cost more than it was worth, it was minimized or sold off. Since entail prevented selling, that left minimizing. “No matter, I don’t plan to stay here. We’ll shut the house up and that will decrease expenses immensely. I have my own funds, which are considerable in their own right, to fill in any gaps.”

  Mr. Connelly gaped at him. “But milord, what about the tenants? What about the farm? They will be penniless too. As the lord goes, so does the peasantry.”

  Ah yes, noblesse oblige. Killian sighed. He’d never cast himself in the role of a peer before, not even after Robert had died last spring. But surely his business skills would be suitable for remedying the circumstance. “I’ll tour the estate and assess their needs. I’ll see what I can do to provide for them.” Even if it means dipping into my own reserves. He was a businessman, but that didn’t mean he was heartless.

  In his mind, the situation was easily resolved. He would take care of the remaining tenants, see them off to a new life or make provisions for them to continue here, and be away, not in two days, alas, but surely within the week. With Peyton here to help him, it would go quickly, but they were both strangers. Gaining an entrée with the locals might be tricky given the reputation that preceded him.

  Inspiration struck. “Is there anyone here who is well-acquainted with the people? Perhaps someone who could ease my way with the tenants and villagers?” The last thing Killian wanted was to come up against the stubborn pride of farmers. It would slow him down immensely.

  The solicitor took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose in thought. At last he said, “Mrs. Janeway would be able to do that, milord. She’s run things here pretty much for the last two years since the old earl stopped going out on account of his bad leg. She knows everyone, visits the sick, takes food to the shut-ins, runs her own farm since her husband passed. Best apples in the county.”

  A paragon indeed and a widow to boot. Killian could imagine what this Lady Bountiful looked like right down to the eternal widow’s weeds and steel-gray hair scraped back into a no-nonsense bun. Lovely. Not only had his uncle interrupted his hunting season, he’d saddled him with a broken estate and now a bossy Mrs. Janeway.

  He’d been wrong—his uncle wasn’t turning over in his grave. No, his uncle was laughing his bony arse off.

  Chapter Three

  There were worse days for a ride. The wind of yesterday had died down and the sun had deigned to shine. With a blue sky overhead and the crispy crunch of fall leaves beneath the gig’s wheels, Killian was happy to be out of doors, even if it meant he was on his way to collect Pembridge-on-the-Wye’s model citizen, the Widow Janeway.

  The estate’s gig could only seat two and Peyton, no doubt seeing a way to avoid the task of going, had generously volunteered to stay behind and look over the books. Killian turned at the fork in the road and tooled the gig down the short drive leading to the Janeway grange.

  In the drive, he pulled the gig to a halt in front of a neat, well-kept brick-and-timber house and jumped out, reminding himself the day was beautiful even if Mrs. Janeway was not.

  A knock on the heavy door of the grange brought his fe
ars to fruition. A stout, gray-haired woman answered the door, wiping her hands on an apron.

  “Mrs. Janeway?” Killian inquired with all the charm at his disposal, only to find it didn’t work. The woman skewered him with an assessing eye, looking him up and down with a slight air of disgust. He assumed her disgust stemmed from having been interrupted on what was clearly baking day judging from the smear of flour on her cheek and the voluminous apron.

  “Dressed awful fancy for work, aren’t you?” She jerked her chin to the left behind the house. “Mrs. Janeway’s out in the orchards. You can see if she’s still hiring.”

  The door shut before Killian could give his charm another try and disabuse the woman of the impression he was looking for employment. All the same, he was relieved; Mrs. Janeway, whoever she was, couldn’t be worse.

  The orchard behind the house hummed with an activity that took Killian quite by surprise. Apple trees spread in long straight rows, ladders against their trunks, their branches alive with pickers. Calls rang up and the down the rows for basket runners to come collect full bushels. Even children were employed to gather up apples that had fallen or been shaken onto the ground.

  He’d forgotten the time.

  For the last fourteen years, he’d been a city man by necessity, his kind of business more efficiently conducted near banks and the Exchange. He’d forgotten the rhythms of the country. It was October, and to the people of Herefordshire it was time to pick the apple crop. At the sight of such industry, a deep-seated desire for the satisfaction of manual labor, of seeing the physical results of one’s efforts, stirred. Something that had lain dormant since he’d left his father’s home began to awaken in Killian.