Captivating the Cynical Earl Read online

  “Shh! Stop!”

  He pressed a finger gently to her lips, making her heart race and her mouth instantly desperate for his kiss. “You have no need to apologize for anything, so I do not wish to hear it, Lady Cecily.” His hand fell away. “Whatever you may have done, responsibility for it rests with me, for I was the one who—”

  “Shh!” Now it was her turn to silence him. Greatly daring, she lifted her finger and touched it to his warm lips.

  Instantly, and seemingly without forethought, he pursed his lips and kissed her finger. She snatched it away, blushing, yet knew that both her finger and her own lips were tingling from his touch, and that every nerve in her body was suddenly alive and begging for more.

  There was a breathless silence, during which they looked at each other, both seemingly frozen. She was acutely aware that they were in the gallery, where fellow guests and servants might appear at any instant. If not for that...

  Author Note

  Welcome to the third in my series featuring ladies from Ledbury House. Each book can be read separately. In book one, The Earl’s Runaway Governess, Marianne arrives as the new governess to Lady Cecily Thornhill, then aged just twelve. Book two, Rags-to-Riches Wife, features Marianne’s personal maid, Jane, who is called to visit wealthy relatives in the north. This book, Captivating the Cynical Earl, focuses on Lady Cecily herself, who is now aged twenty and has recently returned from visiting her friend Nell at Christmas—as those of you who have read “A Midnight Mistletoe Kiss” (part of the Christmas Cinderellas collection) will know.

  CATHERINE TINLEY

  Captivating the

  Cynical Earl

  Catherine Tinley has loved reading and writing since childhood, and has a particular fondness for love, romance and happy endings. She lives in Ireland with her husband, children, dog and kitten, and can be reached at catherinetinley.com, as well as through Facebook and on Twitter, @catherinetinley.

  Books by Catherine Tinley

  Harlequin Historical

  A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess

  The Ladies of Ledbury House

  The Earl’s Runaway Governess

  Rags-to-Riches Wife

  Christmas Cinderellas

  “A Midnight Mistletoe Kiss”

  Captivating the Cynical Earl

  The Chadcombe Marriages

  Waltzing with the Earl

  The Captain’s Disgraced Lady

  The Makings of a Lady

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com.

  This is my lockdown book, and as I was writing, I was continually aware of the everyday heroes keeping us all going during the pandemic. Those in health care, essential retail, social care, education, public services, and science and research, and the other unsung and unrecognized heroes. Thank you all.

  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 Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Excerpt from Enthralled by Her Enemy’s Kiss by Helen Dickson

  Chapter One

  London, March 1819

  ‘People of our class do not marry for love.’

  Augustus Henry John (Jack) Beresford, Eighth Earl of Hawkenden set down his wine and glared at his younger brother, who made no reply. Outrage and shock warred within him. Tom is married, and thinks himself ‘in love’? Lord, what a fix!

  ‘Tell me this is a jest, Tom, designed to make me laugh.’

  Tom shook his head, his hesitant smile fading. ‘It is true. I am lately married. I did write to inform you of it, Jack. Indeed, I have not as yet made any public announcement as I wished to ensure you were the first to know in London.’

  The two men were shut away in Jack’s library in the London townhouse, seated facing one another in matching armchairs. Outside, darkness was falling, and the servants had closed the shutters against the chill of early spring. Tom had accepted Jack’s offer of wine but had seemed unusually nervous. Jack now understood why.

  ‘You know I am just returned from France,’ he declared bluntly. ‘I have not yet opened my correspondence.’ Jack’s hands tightened on the arms of the chair as disbelief gave way to anger. ‘How could you marry like that, without as much as discussing it with me beforehand?’

  Tom’s eyes flashed. ‘Because,’ he rejoined haughtily, ‘I need no man’s permission to marry. Our parents are long dead, and I am eight-and-twenty years old. I reached my majority many years ago, brother!’

  Jack blinked. This was most unlike Tom, who would normally consult him on anything of importance. ‘As head of the family, I would expect—’

  ‘Head of the family, is it? We both forswore that nonsense after Papa’s death!’ Tom’s face had reddened a little, and he sat straighter in his chair. ‘You may be the Earl, but we both know that Papa—the former head of the family—had quite ruined your inheritance. People of our class,’ Tom added pointedly, ‘do not take such an active role in matters of business as we do.’

  ‘That is different.’

  ‘How? How is it different?’

  At that moment, Jack, strangely, could not find the words. ‘It just is.’

  ‘Pah!’ Tom’s dismissive gesture was one that would have led to a fist fight when he was eight and Jack ten. Now that they were twenty-eight and thirty, that would be entirely inappropriate. Still, bile rising within him, Jack considered for a moment how satisfying it would be to draw his brother’s cork. Manfully, he resisted the impulse.

  Why could Tom not see how important this was? Marriage was the single biggest decision a man could make. A lifelong commitment, with implications for the entire family. Why had he gone ahead without even telling Jack? He looked Tom in the eye. ‘So who is she?’

  ‘Who is who?’ Tom’s dander was definitely up.

  ‘Your dear lady wife.’ Jack’s lip curled. ‘And, more to the point, how much has it cost me—cost us—in marriage settlements?’

  Tom gritted his teeth. ‘You will speak of Nell with respect, or we shall not speak of her at all!’

  ‘Let us not speak of her at all, then!’ Jack flashed back.

  ‘As you wish.’ There was a silence. The clock ticked, and the fire spat. Between the brothers the air was tight with unspoken words.

  After a long moment Tom rose, set down his glass and adjusted his cuffs. ‘I shall wish you goodday, brother.’ With the shallowest of bows, he turned on his heel and marched out, vexation writ clearly in the tense lines of his figure.

  The door closed behind him with a loud click, and the Earl stared at it for a long moment, scarcely able to take in what had just occurred. His hands gripped the arms of his chair. Tom, married? Never!

  He could barely take it in
. He and Tom were close—much closer than many of their friends were to their own families. Or, at least, so Jack had thought.

  * * *

  Lady Cecily Thornhill was in a fix. Having carefully counted out what remained of this month’s allowance, she now knew it would not be enough. Leaning both elbows on the fine mahogany table, she cradled her head in her hands.

  Lord, how are we to manage this time?

  Once again, Cecily had had to use her own precious funds to settle her mama’s accounts, leaving her purse almost empty. Under usual circumstances—had they been staying at Ledbury House, where she had been born, for example—she might have managed until next month’s allowance arrived. But they were in London and were expected to attend routs and balls and Almack’s, suitably attired, as well as paying for their hotel. All of that required money. Money that was now in short supply.

  She lifted her head and addressed her mama, who was currently sipping tea from a fine china cup. ‘Mama, why did you order that new bonnet?’ Her tone was low, and she tried hard to keep the frustration from showing. Mama had just returned from visiting with one of her friends and had sunk into a satin-covered chair with some relief, declaring that her feet ached.

  ‘Because I liked it, of course! Lord, what a foolish question! Why does any lady order new clothes?’ She laughed for a long moment at her own wit then, realising her daughter had remained stony-faced, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Cecily, never say you have paid for it!’

  ‘Well, of course I have! I was never so mortified as when Mrs Newcomb the milliner came to see you today to ask for payment.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, child! I declare you have the soul of a cit! People like us do not need to settle our bills on time, because the likes of Mrs Newcomb knows that to have the patronage of me, Lady Fanny Thornhill, Dowager Countess of Kingswood, does much more for her business than a trivial bill for a bonnet that, on reflection, was not as pretty as I had believed it to be.’

  ‘But, Mama, you cannot afford another bonnet.’ Cecily spoke quietly but firmly. She had never won this particular argument but refused to concede defeat.

  ‘Of course I can! For eight years—since the very day your father died—people have been telling me that I cannot afford things, that I must practise economy and be sensible with my allowance. And I have continued to live in exactly the way I want to, and yet none of these dire predictions, such as bankruptcy, have come to pass.’

  ‘But that is because other people have helped you. Your friends, and Ash—’

  ‘Ash evicted us from our home. The least he can do is to pay my bills now and again.’

  ‘Mama, please. That is unfair, and you know it. As the new Earl, Ash was perfectly entitled to move into Ledbury House, as you are well aware. He and Marianne have made it clear that we can stay there any time we wish, and the dower house remains at your disposal.’

  Marianne, who had first come to Ledbury House as governess to the then twelve-year-old Cecily, became Lady Kingswood soon afterwards. She and Ash had provided a refuge for Cecily and her mother over the years, on the occasions when Lady Fanny’s financial difficulties became too pressing.

  Lady Fanny dismissed this with a wave of her hand. ‘Pah! I have no wish to visit the wilds of tedious Bedfordshire. I should much rather be here in London now the season is almost upon us.’

  ‘The season will not properly begin for nearly a month. We really had no need to arrive so soon. And, besides, how shall we pay for it all?’ One hand to her brow, Cecily indicated the luxurious suite they were currently renting. ‘How much will it cost to stay here, in one of the most expensive hotels in London? We have been here only a week, and already I cannot sleep easily at night for worrying about the cost.’ She bit back the harsher words she wished to say to her mama.

  Oh, if only I had the freedom to manage our money!

  Over the years, with Ash’s support, she had engaged in learning as much as she could about matters of finance and had occasionally even advised Ash on dilemmas to do with business. She had, she knew, an aptitude for such matters, although it meant little in the face of her mama’s spending habits.

  Lady Fanny tilted her head to one side. ‘You know, Cecily, if I could not distinctly remember the agonies of birthing you, I would wonder if you were my child at all. I simply do not understand why you should worry about such trivialities.’

  Since Fanny and Cecily looked quite alike—both fair-haired and rosy-cheeked, although Cecily’s eyes were amber while her mama’s were blue—this required no comment from Cecily. She did, however, object to her mama’s characterisation of their eternally perilous finances.

  ‘Trivialities! Why—’

  ‘Enough.’ Lady Fanny’s tone brooked no further disagreement. ‘This very day I have managed to secure an invitation for us to stay with one of my friends.’

  Cecily’s shoulders sagged in relief. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘You should have more faith in me, child. I always contrive in the end.’

  ‘Whom are we to stay with?’

  Lord, please let it be with someone sensible!

  ‘With Beatrice—Mrs Godwin. It seems she enjoyed our company so much at Christmastide that she wishes to invite us to stay with her while she searches for a townhouse to buy. She has rented a delightful place in Piccadilly—she received a generous settlement when Mr Beresford married her stepdaughter, you know. Young Nell and her husband are also in Town.’

  Cecily did know. Her dear friend Nell Godwin, Beatrice’s stepdaughter, had fallen hopelessly in love with Mr Beresford over Christmas. To Cecily’s great surprise, they had been married within weeks of meeting each other. At the time, Cecily could not feel easy about it, and had worried that Nell’s haste would turn out to be a mistake. The Hon. Thomas Beresford, while appearing entirely gentlemanlike, had managed to upset Nell on more than one occasion during the Yuletide festivities. Nell had become ill with distress, and only her reconciliation with Mr Beresford had made Nell contented again. Nell’s letters indicated that she and her Tom were now perfectly happy together and had no regrets about their swift marriage.

  ‘We shall move to Mrs Godwin’s house on the morrow,’ Lady Fanny declared. ‘I know you will supervise the maids and ensure all is packed and ready, Cecily.’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’ Cecily’s mind was already focusing on their move, other considerations being put to one side for now. ‘I shall send for them this instant.’ She tried not to sigh. Another move. Another temporary home. Still, her money worries were lessened. For the present, anyway.

  * * *

  Jack released a breath. Rising from his chair, he crossed the room and poured himself another generous measure of wine. His mind was still reeling from his brother’s unexpected—and entirely unwelcome—news. Rummaging through the correspondence on his desk, he found two letters in Tom’s familiar hand. Without bothering to sit down again, he broke the seals and read them both.

  Her name was Godwin. Miss Eleanor Godwin, of Chiddingstone, Kent. Nell, Tom had called her. The name conjured up an image of a buxom farmer’s daughter, with dimples and a fetching apron. Godwin...the surname was vaguely familiar, yet at this moment, Jack could not think why. Miss Eleanor Godwin was not, however, one of the known heiresses on the marriage mart. Those names he half-knew, as he would probably have to select one for his Countess. This being his thirtieth year, he had decided recently that he would begin his own search for a suitable wife this very season.

  It was inconceivable that Tom had married, and not, it seemed, for riches. Unless—could this Godwin woman be wealthy, but not of a good family? Despite their agreed need to increase the family fortune, that would almost be worse. Would Tom really do such a disservice to the family name?

  So why, then? Why had Tom done this? The worst possibility was that Tom had not been jesting when he had said he had married for love. Love? The very notion was nonse
nsical. It was madness, pure and simple, and Jack had never taken Tom to be a madman. Or a fool. Jack simply could not countenance it. Tom, believing himself to be ‘in love’, like the cloth-heads he had derided in Almack’s last season, and the season before? How could his brother have succumbed to the same madness, even though he had seen it afflict others? Impossible.

  Tom, like Jack, knew—understood completely—that love was not real. Oh, their mama had probably loved them before her death. Jack was willing to accept that warm maternal instincts probably existed. He had only the haziest memories of her—memories that were, to be fair, vaguely positive. However, the fact that she had deserted them by dying at an irresponsibly young age meant that Jack could not in all honesty attest to her having loved them. Somewhere deep inside Jack, the absence from Mama’s abandonment still ached.

  Papa, on the other hand, had offered his sons the courtesy of dying fairly recently—the year Jack had achieved his coming of age, in fact. By that stage Papa had enjoyed many years of punishing—and ignoring—both his sons. Much as Jack had hated school, he had always felt a sense of escaping from home at the start of each new term. At least at school the tormentors had not been family members.

  The sense of relief when his father had finally had the grace to die—overturning his carriage while taking a bend much too fast—had quickly been replaced by shock at the mass of debts Papa had accumulated. Jack and Tom had vowed to restore the family fortunes by entering the world of commerce and had worked closely together to build what was rapidly becoming a substantial network of businesses.

  No, ‘love’ was not something that existed. Tom knew this as well as Jack did. So why the sorry tale of marrying some wench ‘for love’?

  Could Miss Godwin truly be a simple country miss with little to recommend her beyond a pretty face and a good figure? If so, Tom would not have shown her more than a passing interest, surely? Such women were ten-a-penny in London each season. Even now, matchmaking mamas would be dragging unpromising virgins to dressmakers and milliners to try and disguise the girls’ limitations and falsely advertise them to potential suitors during the upcoming season. Jack had seen it every year since his coming of age, and it never ceased to amaze him how the most limited of young ladies sometimes managed to find a spouse. A winning smile and a neat ankle was enough, it seemed, to turn previously rational men into idiots.