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  Joy To The Earl

  Nicola Davidson

  Nicola Davidson

  JOY TO THE EARL is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  JOY TO THE EARL © Nicola Davidson

  First Edition: October 2016,

  Second Edition: August 2018

  Cover design by: Dusean Nelson at AuthorsDesigns

  Stock art: Period Images

  Formatted by: Tamara Gill

  Contents

  Joy To The Earl

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  Also by Nicola Davidson

  Standalones

  About the Author

  Joy To The Earl

  Shunned for his mismatched eyes and awkward limp, Yorkshire carpenter Jack Reynolds lives a lonely and impoverished existence. Then comes a shocking discovery: he’s the discarded heir of a wealthy noble family, and if he travels to London by Christmas, he’ll not only gain an earldom, a home, and position like he’s never dreamed, but maybe—just maybe—he can finally lose his damned virginity.

  Scandalous widow Rosalind Nelson’s life centers around four things – her young daughter, helping couples suffering sexual discord, avoiding all peers, and definitely not falling in love. That is, until the day she rescues a mysterious stranger from a carriage accident. Kind, brave, and achingly seductive, Jack is everything she’s ever wanted. Nothing can destroy their growing bond…except the demons of his past...

  Dedication

  For my amazing CP, Sherilee Gray,

  with all the thanks in the world.

  And for Christmas lovers everywhere!

  Chapter 1

  North Yorkshire, December 1813

  By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.

  Well, perhaps it was more hair raising on the back of his neck than thumb pricking. But Jack Reynolds knew trouble when he saw it, and the Macbeth line shrieked again in his head as a finely dressed older man stepped out of a richly appointed and crested travelling carriage, and made his way toward the manor’s front door.

  No one ever stopped by Northridge Farm. It was too small, too cold, too isolated, and too far from the gracious peak of Roseberry Topping, which offered unparalleled views of the county for hardy visitors who climbed to her summit. And yet the man didn’t have the look of someone lost. His gaze was contemptuous, his stride certain.

  Wiping his hands on a rag, Jack left his carpentry shed and crossed the tiny but immaculate paved courtyard. “Can I help you, sir?”

  The stranger turned at his greeting, pale blue eyes missing nothing. Then he whipped out a notebook and pencil, muttering to himself as he wrote. “Subject is much worse than supposed. Frightful lowborn accent. Clothing so bad not even the poor would want them. Rough, callused hands, like a common laborer. Grotesque height, surely six and a half feet if I’m a judge, and that pronounced limp…ugh. Subject must sit at all times in company and converse as little as possible…do you lounge?”

  Jack blinked. “Are you talking to me?”

  “Of course I’m speaking to you. There is no one else in this godforsaken place. Are you mentally incapable? None of the reports mentioned that. Oh dear, with all your other faults, that will be a bridge too far.”

  “My name,” said Jack as calmly as he was able, “is Jack Reynolds. May I have the courtesy of yours before I throw you off my land?”

  The man sneered and made another notation. “Subject is ill-mannered. Uncouth. But the facial resemblance to his grandsire is uncanny, same blond hair and abnormal combination of one green eye and one blue. The height and build is the fault of some ghastly Norse ancestor on the maternal side, his father and brothers were both men of perfect proportions and features.”

  “What on earth—”

  “My name is Crawley. Bernard Crawley, Esquire,” said the man, finally deigning to look up. “I am the London legal representative for her ladyship, the Countess of Lynthorpe.”

  Jack froze in confusion, his gut churning. Grandsire? Brothers? What the hell was the man talking about? He was an only child, raised by his mother at Northridge and kept mostly apart from others for his own good due to his cursed eyes and the hip disfigurement that gave him such a damned awful limp. He’d lived in this lonely but peaceful place for as long as he could remember, the last year by himself as his mother had passed the previous November.

  “I’m afraid you have me mistaken for someone else, Mr. Crawley. I don’t have any family. I’m an orphan. Certainly not acquainted with this Lady Lynthorpe person.”

  Crawley sighed audibly. “I am never mistaken. And for the rest of this story, a gentleman would invite me indoors at once. Fiendishly cold out here.”

  Silently, Jack pushed open the front door and gestured the man inside, even though every sense he possessed was screaming at him to toss the frigid city bastard out on his ass and bolt the door.

  The fire in the small front parlor was barely a smolder, but a few swift turns of the poker and an extra piece of scrap wood, and a healthy blaze began to warm the room. It was his favorite in the manor and contained his most prized possessions, his books. History, poetry, plays, languages, science, and mathematics, an entire world surrounding him, which helped immeasurably on the days when it felt like his solitary, repetitive existence would suffocate him.

  He could hardly take a wife. Ladies weren’t interested in men with meagre incomes who lived in the middle of nowhere. Even less so at the thought of lying with someone not only damaged, but bizarrely large. Damn it, even the tavern girls in Middlesbrough had refused to bed him for payment, the result being he was, rather humiliatingly, probably the only twenty-eight-year-old virgin in England.

  “Well then,” said Jack eventually, as they both settled onto overstuffed chairs. “Tell me the rest of this…story.”

  Crawley frowned. “This is not some fanciful tale, young man. Everything I’m about to tell you is undisputed fact.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do. Firstly, and most importantly, your name is not Jack Reynolds. You were born The Honorable John Henry Francis Wakefield, third son of the eighth Earl of Lynthorpe and his wife, the Countess. Yours was a difficult birth both due to size and a breech position, and once the physical deformities of your hip became obvious after you learned to walk…well, that on top of your eyes was far, far too great a burden to expect of any well-bred woman, let alone her ladyship. You were given to Mrs. Reynolds, a distant cousin, at age two to be raised so you did not infect the rest of the family or other ton children.”

  Head pounding, Jack hunched his shoulders and folded his arms so Crawley didn’t see his trembling hands. The tale seemed ridiculous, fantastical…entirely too far-fetched to be true. He wouldn’t have believed it either. Except for the single page contract he’d found hidden in the bottom of his mother’s chest of drawers after her passing. One that banned her, on pain of penury and imprisonment, from ever bringing JHFW to London or its near surrounds.

  He’d always wondered who or what JHFW was. Now he knew.

  “And why…why are you here telling me this after so long? Do…does my family wish to see m-m
e?”

  “Good God, no,” said Crawley, curling his lips in distaste. “In normal circumstances, life would have continued with you receiving the allowance Mrs. Reynolds was paid to care for you, nothing more. But these aren’t normal circumstances. Your father passed ten years ago, and was succeeded by his eldest son, as proper, and second son, as spare. However, I am grieved to report those two fine, upstanding men succumbed to a fever that swept through the countryside in mid-November. We strived to keep it quiet until I could travel here, but you, my lord, are now the eleventh Earl of Lynthorpe.”

  Shock lashed him like a whip, harsh and unrelenting. Beth Reynolds not his mother, but a distant relation paid to feed and clothe him. A father and brothers who never wanted to know him, and were now dead. The woman who birthed and discarded him only reaching out because she had no choice, not because of any remorse or caring.

  Launching himself out of his chair and limping across the room to brace his hands on the window ledge so Crawley didn’t see his damp eyes, Jack shook his head. “No. I can’t. Surely there must be someone else, a cousin or somebody who would do a far better job. You said yourself I am entirely unsuitable.”

  “You are,” said Crawley in an irritable voice. “On every level. But English law is quite specific when it comes to patent. The Lynthorpe title can only pass down through the direct male line. Your brothers had no offspring, so unfortunately you are the last.”

  Jack clenched his fists, then took a deep breath. He couldn’t refuse. There would be staff. Tenants. Families. Men and women and children afraid for their futures and relying on him to provide some stability and security. He hardly knew what that was, but he had to try. “I suppose I am.”

  “Come now, it’s not the end of the world. There are a great many benefits to being an earl. Once the writ of summons is approved, you’ll have Wakefield House in London, of course. Lynthorpe Park in Devonshire, plus ten other properties scattered about. And did I mention your fortune? A little depleted in recent times, but still nearly a million at last estimate. My advice to the family has always been sound.”

  Jack turned and scowled at the lawyer. “I think it obvious money and estates are things I can live without.”

  “Then think of yourself,” said Crawley in a far more wheedling tone as he got up and strolled over to him. “Perhaps…a mistress to warm your bed? I daresay you’d find London ladies rather more accommodating to oddity than any around here.”

  “I’ve had women. Many women,” he replied hotly, his cheeks flushing with the lie. “I want something more.”

  “Ah. You want a wife. Well, I know of one young lady who would be a perfect Countess of Lynthorpe. Her name is Lady Marianne Alton. Excellent family, pretty little thing, likes singing and watercolors, just made her come out this year. She was promised to your brother, but in exchange for a generous allowance and a chance to wear the Lynthorpe emeralds, I just know she would stoically do her duty and wed you instead. Imagine, my lord. A companion to share meals with and escort to balls and soirees. A son or two in the nursery.”

  Longing hit him like a cannonball to the stomach. Lady Marianne. She sounded charming, and if she were a virgin, it wouldn’t matter that all his carnal knowledge came from textbooks and one jaw-droppingly explicit journal written by a world traveler. They could muddle it out together. Perhaps, in time, grow to care for one another and be friends as well.

  Besides, it was not like anything tied him to Northridge. Just memories that weren’t even true.

  “When,” Jack said slowly, “would you want to leave?”

  Crawley smiled thinly in triumph. “As soon as possible, my lord. We are but a fortnight away from Christmas, after all, and I fear bad weather is on its way.”

  “Very well. I’ll go.”

  Rutland

  “No, Rosalind, I will not come down. Not until that witch has been arrested and taken away by the constabulary!”

  Rosalind, Lady Nelson, rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to ward off the headache threatening to dismantle her skull. It was far too bloody cold to be traipsing around the garden searching for retired soldiers with the common sense of a turnip, especially those who preferred to conduct arguments from the middle branches of oak trees. If the man were any other than her beloved uncle, she would have left him to form an ice sculpture. Snow was already falling, the valley would soon be coated.

  “Please, Uncle Donald. Aunt May is very sorry she added the extra Eros drops to your soup.”

  “No I’m not,” said May, Lady Kilburne, shooting her a glare. “Do you know how many times he took me last night? It was marvelous, like we were twenty again. Would have thought you’d be far more sympathetic, being the queen of fornication and all.”

  Rosalind gritted her teeth. “I’m not the queen of fornication, no matter what the scandal sheets say. I merely counsel couples in overcoming discord in the bedchamber. And you know very well I would never countenance drugging one’s spouse.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Donald. “I agreed to test a few drops of your latest herbal mix. Not half a bloody cupful. Bad form, woman.”

  “Oh, hush up!” May yelled back, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “It wasn’t my fault the kitten pounced when I was measuring. Besides, I didn’t hear any complaints. Just pleas to whip you harder with the crop.”

  “Stop it, the pair of you,” said Rosalind, her shoulders sagging with relief when a footman appeared with the sturdy wooden ladder often used to rescue her uncle from his treetop musings. He was like a cat—able to climb up, but never get down.

  “I wish my husband would whip me with a crop,” said a glum voice beside her, and she turned to pat Mrs. Claire Vale on the arm. The young wife of a wealthy industrialist, Claire had been married to Phillip for five years, and the couple were Rosalind’s live-in clients at the present time. Unfortunately, even with the experience of thirty successfully assisted couples behind her, Phillip and Claire were proving to be quite the challenge.

  “Mr. Vale is making good progress. Didn’t you say he permitted the candles in your room to stay lit when you were last intimate?”

  “Yes. However, I want so much more from him. To be left all sweaty and messy and tender, so exhausted by his attentions I can barely see straight. But Phillip kisses me gently, holds himself up on his elbows so he doesn’t touch me, and apologizes for the inconvenience of his manly urges afterward.”

  “If required, I’d fuck you hard, madam,” said Donald cheerfully, swinging his legs so hard he almost somersaulted off the tree branch. “Vale is a housecat, you need a lion. I was a soldier, you know. Calvary. Not much I don’t know about riding.”

  “Bah. Mr. Vale may be shy, but I don’t see him climbing trees in winter to converse with the faeries,” snapped May. “And if a certain lion attempted to mount another lioness, that lion would find himself short one appendage.”

  Rosalind clapped her hands together. “How about we all go inside and discuss these matters over a nice pot of tea? There’ll be no mounting whatsoever if everyone catches a chill, now, will there?”

  “Good point, Rosalind,” said Donald approvingly. “What a clever girl you are. Help me with the ladder, would you, there’s a dear. A wise man only communes at height with the faeries for a half hour or so…by Jove!”

  “What?” shrieked May. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, my dove. Just a carriage going much too fast on the main road…weaving all over the place…they’re going to tip. Slow down, you fools! Oh hell, the horses have broken away…they’ve tipped into the ditch by the driveway…they’ll drown or freeze!”

  Not even stopping to think, Rosalind began to run, thankful she’d changed into her sturdy leather outdoor boots. Over her shoulder she called to the footman to fetch Mr. Vale and a cart, but continued at pace down the graveled driveway of Nelson Manor, her late husband’s adored country seat. The driveway was barely a half mile long, but it still felt like it took hours to reach the stone pillars and wrou
ght iron gates.

  Hitching up her gown and tucking it into the sash around her waist, she carefully slid down into the ditch. The water only reached her knees but was icy cold, and she gasped, thankful at least she wore woolen stockings and suede gloves. Several feet away, the carriage rested on an ominous angle; the broken door hanging drunkenly on one hinge, its elaborate family crest gouged almost unrecognizable and the side window smashed. Two wheels were missing, probably in pieces on the road, and the end where the horse’s bridles usually fastened was gone completely.

  “Hello!” called Rosalind, inching as close to the creaking, rocking mess of wood and metal as she dared. “Hello!”

  No one answered, and swallowing hard, she bent to examine the carriage. A well-dressed man covered in blood lay sprawled across one seat, but when she gently picked up his wrist, there was no pulse, not even a faint flutter. Bile rose in her throat, but there was no saving him or the driver, who’d been mangled by the front of the carriage tearing away from the back.

  Oh God.

  “Rosalind! What do you see?” called May from the end of the driveway, her face bright pink from the exertion of running.

  “I’ve found two men…a driver and a passenger. I think that’s it—”

  A sound interrupted her, so odd at first she thought she’d imagined it. A groan? Was there someone else?

  Hiking through the freezing muddy slush, Rosalind peered around the back of the carriage. Partially trapped under a piece of door and almost submerged in the ditch was another man with a large, bloodied head wound. But his eyelids were fluttering!