The Earl's Forbidden Ward

The Earl's Forbidden Ward
Bronwyn Scott

Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesShe was his one temptation… Innocent debutante Tessa Branscombe senses that underneath her handsome guardian’s cool demeanour there is an intensely passionate nature. The arrogant Earl infuriates her – yet makes her want to explore those hidden depths…Peyton Ramsden, Earl of Dursley, has no time for girls – especially those who are suddenly given over to his care! Miss Tessa Branscombe, in particular, is trouble.She tempts this very proper Earl to misbehave – and forbidden fruit always tastes that much sweeter…

 Tessa stood up. ‘Do not mistakeone kiss in an alcove for more thanit was.

‘It does not grant you permission to pry into my life. My business is mine alone. I am capable of taking care of myself and my sisters.’

Peyton Ramsden rose to meet her, his own temper rising with her. Lord, the woman was stubborn beyond all good sense. He knew instinctively that she would argue ad nauseam. He could think of nothing else to do except take his friend’s advice and kiss her.

‘One kiss might not qualify, but perhaps two will.’ Tension sparked between them. Thank providence the Ramsden brothers counted kissing among their many accomplishments…

Author Note

I hope you enjoy THE EARL’S FORBIDDEN WARD and watching Peyton fall in love. It was great fun designing a heroine who would challenge him. This story was the perfect chance to do something with Russian history. I had the opportunity to study in Russia, right outside St Petersburg, a few years ago, and I’ve been wanting to do a story with some Russian history in it ever since. Giving Tessa the background of being a diplomat’s daughter was a great opportunity to do that.

It was also interesting and a bit tricky doing some of the research about the location of the Russian embassy in London at that time, since the embassy moved from its original location to Kensington and even went through a non-active period during the Napoleonic wars.

A third point of interest is the scene set at the Academy. The recollection Peyton has about the John Turner painting is all true. I found a short but great article that talked about the Academy art show that year and I just had to use it.

The final challenge with this book was stepping out of the regular tonnish neighbourhoods. I knew Tessa wouldn’t have a home in Mayfair, so it was fun researching the Bloomsbury population of the 1830s. I had a chance to walk through Bloomsbury on a recent research trip to London, which helped me describe Tessa’s neighbourhood more thoroughly.

For more about Bloomsbury, the Academy art show or embassies, check out my website at www.bronwynnscott.com and keep reading!

Bronwyn Scott is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing, she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages.

Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, www.bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. She loves to hear from readers.

Recent novels from Bronwyn Scott:

PICKPOCKET COUNTESS

NOTORIOUS RAKE, INNOCENT LADY

THE VISCOUNT CLAIMS HIS BRIDE

THE EARL’S FORBIDDEN WARD

Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

For my niece, Rachel, who wanted to knowhow wars got started and actually listenedwhen I explained it to her.

Chapter One

London—Spring 1832

Peyton Ramsden, fourth Earl of Dursley, was doing what he did best—technically superior, emotionally removed sex with his mistress of two years. Certain of her fulfilment, he gave a final thrust and efficiently withdrew to make a gentleman’s finish in the sheets.

His mistress, the elegant Lydia Staunton, raised herself up on one arm, letting the white satin of the sheet slide provocatively down her hip. ‘So, you’re giving me my congé,’ she said matter-of-factly.

‘Yes, I am,’ Peyton answered evenly. There was no need to dress up the conversation, although he’d planned to bring up the issue after he’d got out of bed. For a man who liked to keep his life organised into neat compartments, there was something inherently wrong about discussing business so soon after coupling, even if it was the business of sex.

‘How did you know?’ He hadn’t spoken of it or dropped the slightest hint at ending their arrangement since he’d come up to town three days ago, although he’d made it plain at the beginning of their association that he had no intentions of sustaining their relationship beyond two years.

‘It was worse than usual tonight.’ Lydia could always be counted on to speak her mind.

Peyton fixed her with an arrogant stare, one eyebrow raised in challenge. ‘I highly doubt that, madame.’ If there was one area the Ramsden brothers excelled at, it was in the bedroom arts. They’d been schooled at an early age about how to please a woman, part of their father’s training regimen for a gentleman.

Lydia fell back on the pillows, ennui punctuating her words. ‘It’s not that. It’s never that. You know you’re exquisite in the bedroom, Dursley. You don’t need me to tell you your skills are unsurpassed.’

Dursley. He hated being a title to everyone, especially someone he’d shared conjugal relations with. Peyton rolled out of bed in a single fluid motion and strode across the room to the chair where his clothes waited. He picked up his shirt to put on. Perhaps he’d demand his next mistress call him ‘Peyton’. And perhaps not. Forced intimacy wasn’t true intimacy and he required honesty above all else.

‘Well, thank goodness. For a moment I was starting to doubt.’ His tone conveyed the exact opposite. There was no misunderstanding the real message. The Earl of Dursley did not doubt himself in the least, in any aspect of his life.

Lydia sighed. ‘Skills aren’t everything, Dursley. It takes more than prowess in bed to be a good lover. Some day, you’re going to have to feel something.’

This was an old discussion. Lydia had accused him of being detached more than once during their association. Tonight, Peyton chose to ignore the comment. Arguing at the end of their association would resolve nothing. He pulled on his trousers and shrugged into his coat. He walked to Lydia’s dressing table and pulled a slim box from the inside pocket of his coat. He didn’t need to tell Lydia what it was. She was experienced enough in these dealings to know the box contained an expensive parting gift; something she could choose to flaunt or sell, depending on her circumstances. He placed a calling card on top of the box.

‘Peter Pennington, Viscount Wyndham, has suggested he is in the market. I offered him the lease to this house if you’re amenable.’ Lydia would know exactly what that meant. He’d found her another protector. Her financial security would not lapse in the wake of his exit.

‘Bravo, very nice, Dursley. You’ve wrapped up all the loose ends in two sentences.’ Lydia got out of bed and slipped her long arms into a silk robe, one of his many gifts to her over the years. She belted it at the waist. ‘Tell me, do you ever get tired of being in control?’ The words were not kind.

Ah, the usually unflappable Lydia was piqued. Peyton sensed it was time to make an expedient exit before a quarrel cast a pall over their parting. He understood her discontent. For all the physical pleasure he gave her, Lydia wanted something more from him, something he was unwilling to give. ‘I know what you want, Lydia. Wyndham is better suited to give you the illusion of romance than I am.’ He made a short bow in her direction. ‘I wish you the best. Goodnight, my dear. I have other business to attend to before my evening is through. I will show myself out.’

Once outside in the cold evening, Peyton sent his coach home, choosing to walk instead. The night air was bracing and he suddenly found himself in possession of a burst of energy begging to be spent. It was just as well—a walk would give him time to think and there was plenty to think about. Giving Lydia her congé was only one of the situations he’d come up to town to resolve. The other item involved a summons from an old friend at Whitehall regarding a colleague who had recently passed away.

Peyton reached for his pocket watch and flipped it open. Nine a.m. That gave him a half an hour to make his nine-thirty meeting with Lord Brimley. It was Whitehall business they were to discuss. Brimley had made that clear in his letter. But they would discuss it at White’s in a private room.

He had plenty of time to travel the few streets to St James’s and White’s Gentlemen’s Club, but his pace increased none the less. There was a certain excitement in the prospect of the upcoming meeting and he’d acknowledged weeks ago he needed something to keep him occupied.

His youngest brother, Paine, and Paine’s wife, Julia, had taken up residence at the family seat, deep in the idyllic heart of the Cotswolds, to await the birth of their first child not quite a year after their marriage. He was, of course, thrilled to have his brother under his roof. But the birth of Paine’s son four weeks ago had made Peyton restless in a most uncomfortable way.

He adored his new nephew without question, having been shamelessly caught on numerous occasions in the nursery with the infant in his arms—a sight most of London would have been shocked to see, given his reputation towards sombre decorum. Yet, watching Paine and Julia together with their new son had filled him with disquiet and a sense that his life, for all his accomplishments, was incomplete in his thirty-eighth year.

Logically, the assumption that his life lacked something was ludicrous. He’d come into his title at the young age of twenty-three when he had years ahead of him to maximise the earldom’s prosperity and take advantage of all the technological advances open to agriculture. Maximise them he had. While others struggled with outmoded notions of estate management and agricultural depression, Dursley thrived. It was no small thing to accept responsibility for the Dursley holdings and the people attached to them. His successes were their successes.

Additionally, he did his duty in Parliament, coming up to town when sessions needed him to lend his voice on weighty matters. And his devotion to country and king didn’t end there. During the years following the Napoleonic Wars, he’d done his duty as a discreet diplomatic courier to Vienna when tensions over the future of the Balkans arose. He’d become a regular face in the drawing rooms of the New Europe in those days as nations negotiated new political boundaries and privileges.

Oh, no, although he was not one to need public acclaim for his efforts, he could personally acknowledge that his efforts had borne worthwhile fruits. His life had not been spent in idle pursuits of no account, but in the pursuit of building an empire that would far outlast his years on earth. A man could take pride in such achievement. Indeed, a man should take pride in such a life.

Which was why the internal unrest he’d suffered from lately was so distressing. It had sprung from nowhere and for no reason. Such an appearance was all the more disconcerting for a man of his ilk, who exerted control over all aspects of his life—demanded it, in fact. Imbalance was not a common or tolerated occurrence within his domain.

The façade of White’s loomed across the street. Redemption waited inside. Soon, he’d appease the errant devils that plagued him and get his life back to normal.

He was expected. A footman whisked away his hat and outerwear while another one smartly led him upstairs to the private rooms. Brimley was already there. Peyton’s anticipation grew. Brimley’s early arrival suggested the man was anxious about the meeting.

Such concern seemed out of character for the context of the meeting. In his note to Peyton, Brimley had indicated simply that there were a few details to wrap up with Branscombe’s passing. The only oddity was that Brimley had summoned him at all. He could count the times he’d met Sir Ralph Branscombe on one hand and still have fingers left over. If he remembered correctly, Branscombe had primarily been stationed in St Petersburg.