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The Earl's Practical Marriage
Louise Allen
Childhood friends now all grown upNow they must marry for convenience!Giles Redmond, Earl of Revesby, is marrying childhood friend Laurel Knighton because it’s the only way to save his family fortune. Last time he saw her she was an unconventional tomboy… Now she’s a beauty, but finding himself aroused by her is as baffling as it is surprising. Who would have thought such an infuriating, disobedient bride could be so tempting?
Childhood friends all grown up
Now they must marry for convenience!
Giles Redmond, Earl of Revesby, is marrying childhood friend Laurel Knighton because it’s the only way to save his family fortune. Last time he saw her, she was an unconventional tomboy... Now she’s a beauty, but finding himself aroused by her is as baffling as it is surprising. Who would have thought such an infuriating, disobedient bride could be so tempting?
“Readers will enjoy the unique setting, the many twists and turns of the plot.”
—RT Book Reviews on Surrender to the Marquess
“From the first page, readers will be hooked by the suspense and romance of this pleasing tale... This is another keeper.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Many Sins of Cris De Feaux
LOUISE ALLEN loves immersing herself in history. She finds landscapes and places evoke the past powerfully. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite destinations. Louise lives on the Norfolk coast and spends her spare time gardening, researching family history or travelling in search of inspiration. Visit her at louiseallenregency.co.uk (http://www.louiseallenregency.co.uk), @LouiseRegency (https://twitter.com/LouiseRegency) and janeaustenslondon.com (http://www.janeaustenslondon.com).
Also by Louise Allen
Once Upon a Regency ChristmasMarrying His Cinderella Countess
Brides of Waterloo miniseries
A Rose for Major Flint
Lords of Disgrace miniseries
His Housekeeper’s Christmas WishHis Christmas CountessThe Many Sins of Cris de FeauxThe Unexpected Marriage of Gabriel Stone
The Herriard Family miniseries
Forbidden Jewel of IndiaTarnished Amongst the TonSurrender to the Marquess
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
The Earl’s Practical Marriage
Louise Allen
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07356-1
THE EARL’S PRACTICAL MARRIAGE
© 2018 Melanie Hilton
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To the Pit Crew with all my love
Contents
Cover (#u86492833-5cd5-5da8-b22a-974f04f2a334)
Back Cover Text (#u929748c1-3848-5442-9c41-cb9582a6bd56)
About the Author (#u148d17d4-a998-5201-b8cc-c8cf95fd038c)
Booklist (#u850debf3-b24b-53a7-9eb8-73fec80ccb3e)
Title Page (#u10bc685a-4730-5bf8-b9b6-57bc0cb75ed4)
Copyright (#ud7bbd03b-2067-50e2-a188-e2840af6dbbb)
Dedication (#ude3b7858-c350-5af6-873e-892afc9d801f)
Chapter One (#u88b45db1-94ad-51de-b14e-c92777d86667)
Chapter Two (#ub7f43129-2cfb-523c-9002-c3695da5504a)
Chapter Three (#u55e5e67a-1f42-57d6-8a12-f0cdfd5f3885)
Chapter Four (#u0158464a-5435-5d43-a071-731b777fef84)
Chapter Five (#udc9e75c3-d94e-5a8f-b9ef-4906bcbf5636)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ufe639add-7f17-5946-9f85-ce03e8c98afb)
Beckhampton on the Bath Road—June 1814
‘This is completely unacceptable.’
‘You are accustomed to the forces of nature observing your convenience, ma’am?’
She should have ignored the man, obviously. No lady fell into conversation with complete strangers at roadside inns and most certainly not with tall, raffish ones. And by definition, as this one had addressed her uninvited, he was not behaving as a gentleman should.
Laurel turned her head to give him a fleeting glance, although the fine mesh of her veil blurred his features a trifle. She had looked more directly earlier, of course, when she was certain she was unobserved. She was female after all and, at twenty-five, not quite a dried-up spinster on the shelf yet, whatever her stepmother liked to imply. She had a pair of perfectly good eyes and a functioning pulse and the stranger was a good looking man if you liked tall, broad-shouldered blonds with overlong hair. And a tan—another indication that he was not a gentleman, although to be fair she supposed he might be connected to the East India Company or have just arrived home from the West Indies.
She had been sitting at a table in the public room of the Beckhampton Inn sipping tea with her maid, Binham, primly silent at her side, when he had sauntered in. He ordered porter which he drank with one elbow propped negligently on the bar as though this were some common ale house and not a highly respectable posting house on the Bath Road.
‘I am used to the postilions I hire knowing the way to circumnavigate obstacles, sir,’ she said now. ‘I do not expect them to throw up their hands and declare that they must make an exceedingly lengthy detour simply because a tree is down and blocking the road at Cherhill.’
They were now standing in the yard and it was becoming unpleasantly crowded with the stage just in and three other post-chaises beside her own jostling for space and changing horses. In the midst of the bustle the guard from the London Mail was standing, the post bags slung about him and the reins of one of the abandoned Mail’s team in his hand, ordering a riding horse to take him on to London while fielding agitated queries as to just how bad the blockage was three miles ahead.
‘As I told you, ma’am, we can go south to Devizes and then Melksham and get to Bath that way round.’ The postilion who had brought her the unwelcome news shot her a resentful look. ‘By all accounts the only thing that’ll get round that big old oak is a rider on horseback. The Mail’s stuck on the other side and if they can’t get the Mail through, they can’t get anything on wheels past.’
‘And I explained to you when we set out that I require to call in at Pickwick on the way.’ Laurel opened the route book that she had tucked in her reticule and ran one finger down the column for roads to Bath. ‘As I thought. If we go via Melksham, which is what you are suggesting, then it is a significant detour to reach Pickwick.’
‘No other way to do it, ma’am.’ The wiry little man stood firm.
Laurel sighed, more at herself than at him. The past few weeks she had lost both her patience and her sense of humour and she knew it. None of this was life and death—nothing actually felt very important any more, if she was honest. If they had to make a long detour and were late reaching Aunt Phoebe’s house, then that was the risk one took in making a journey. Stepmama was right, she was turning into an old maid before her time, crotchety and intolerant.
‘Very well. I am sure you know best.’
‘Or possibly not,’ the stranger remarked, brazenly intervening in the conversation again. ‘What about the old road by Shepherd’s Shore and round over the flank of the Downs to Sandy Lane?’
‘The turnpike trust gave up maintaining that road more than fifty years ago, sir.’
‘It is still there, is it not?’
‘Aye, sir, and I’m sure it is fit for farm carts and riders, but not for the likes of Quality in a chaise.’
‘The ground is dry, there is little wind and you have a team of four.’ The man turned to Laurel. ‘I am on horseback, so I can lead the way. It will be rutted and it’s a long pull, but it bypasses Cherhill and Calne and you will be able to re-join the road to Chippenham and Pickwick without having to turn back on yourself.’
Laurel studied him, wondering why he seemed vaguely familiar, but unable to pin down why. One man could hardly be a danger to her, she told herself. She had an escort of a maid and two postilions, albeit sulky ones. There was the risk of breaking a wheel or an axle and finding herself stranded on top of these godforsaken Downs, of course, but she wanted to get to Bath badly enough to take that chance.
‘Thank you, sir. I am obliged.’ She turned to the postilions. ‘You heard the gentleman, we will follow him to Sandy Lane.’
They turned and went to the horses without comment, although if backs of heads could speak Laurel thought they would be saying, You’ll be sorry. Or possibly, Women!
‘Ma’am, excuse me, but have we met before?’
He feels it, too?
The stranger was staring as though he hoped to penetrate her veil. He had blue eyes and dark, dark lashes.
‘I hardly think so, sir.’ She did not trust blue eyes, however attractive, and it was unwise to be drawn into conversation which was doubtless a handy ploy for scoundrels. Before you knew where you were you were revealing information about acquaintances and locations that would give a confidence trickster or a seducer valuable insights. Not that she thought him either, but presumably if such people were obvious they would not be very successful.
‘No, of course not.’ He frowned. ‘It was something in the way you tipped your head to one side when you were thinking. It reminded me of an old acquaintance.’ Whoever it was, the memory did not appear to give him much pleasure.
Laurel nodded and walked away from him to the chaise. His face was intelligent and sensitive when he was serious, not merely handsome. That expression made up for the blue eyes—in fact, it was positively engaging. Trust me, it said.
‘Hah!’ she said under her breath as she climbed into the chaise and made room for Binham on the seat beside her. Men were not trustworthy, strangers or relatives, or friends. Life had taught her that.
‘My lady?’ Her new maid, a stickler for protocol, including being addressed by her surname by her employer and as Miss Binham by the lower servants, was radiating disapproval at the conversation with a strange man. Her stepmother thought well of Binham. Laurel had plans to find the lady’s maid a new employer at the earliest opportunity unless she showed signs of developing a sense of humour.
‘Nothing, Binham. Hold tight, this will be a bumpy ride, I fear.’
They turned south, then west, climbing steadily, paralleling the modern road two miles or so away to their right on the other side of the great rise of Downland. Almost immediately the metalled road turned into a chalk track, rutted and white with dust.
Binham gave a little shriek at the first lurch, clutched Laurel’s dressing case to her bosom with one hand and grabbed for the strap with the other. Laurel held on tightly and looked forward, through the glass between the team of four and the postilions, to the horseman leading the way.
He was sitting relaxed on a big grey horse that had as much of a raffish air about it as its master, its tail ungroomed and long, its legs covered in the thick dust of the road. It was not some hired hack, that was for sure, not ridden on such a loose, trusting rein by a man who looked as though he had spent so long in the saddle that he was perfectly at home there.
Laurel pushed back her veil and narrowed her eyes at the broad shoulders, the comfortable slouch. It was most improbable, but there was still something familiar about the man.
