Her Wicked Earl Read online

  Her

  Wicked

  Earl

  (Imperious Lords 1)

  Lisa Torquay

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Her Wicked Earl

  Copyright 2019 Lisa Torquay

  Published by Lisa Torquay

  Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Editor

  Maz Loton

  Cover Art

  Jo Singleton

  Dedication

  To the women who make their own destiny.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To Cheryl Adamkiewicz for her endless patience.

  From the Back Cover

  An orphaned miss who would not settle for less

  Otilia Kendall is an orphaned miss brought up by her uncle and aunt, the late Earl and Countess of Thornton. Never having met her father, she learned the hard way that love or marriage isn’t in her future. Tired of receiving demeaning propositions from the ton gents, she has decided to make her own way in the world. But then the domineering—and handsome as the devil—new Earl takes over. He gives her a dowry and carts her to London to marry her off. She wants none of it but has no choice. In close contact with the man, it is becoming impossible not to make a fool of herself—yet again!

  An arrogant lord who could not stay away from her

  Edmund, the hot-blooded new Earl, is stunned by the poise of the very grown-up debutante he once met. Weary of women interested only in his title, he shuns any idea of love. It is getting hard to ignore the little miss—together with some other hard parts of his anatomy. The temptation of her is eating at him and making him crave the woman to distraction. Their simmering passion is about to burst. And to the blazes with propriety.

  And the love struggling to unite them

  CHAPTER ONE

  Leicester, England, 1815

  Miss Otilia Kendall was a woman destitute. She had not always been so. But for six months now, her situation had worsened considerably. She was destitute of legitimacy, for one. Her biological mother had been the late Countess of Thornton's sister who, after widowed, had embarked on a secret liaison from which Otilia had become its product. Dead at childbirth, the responsibility fell to her aunt, Lady Agatha Chadwick, nee Kendall, to raise her. And it eased the sadness of her aunt’s childless marriage. The poor dear who had been a mother to her died three years ago of consumption, leaving behind a great deal of sorrow for Otilia and her aunt’s husband.

  Lord Earnest Chadwick received Otilia in his household with affable acceptance and became nothing less than a father to her. Until he also passed six months ago, resulting in her being alone in this world, depleted of a family and a means of subsistence. The Thornton estate had endured bad crops in the last few years, making her uncle die poor and indebted.

  She was also destitute because there would never be the prospect of a decent marriage. Who on this earth would marry an orphaned, illegitimate, dowry-less miss? At twenty-six and practically on the shelf, she harboured no illusions on the matter.

  Which was why she had been answering advertisements requiring governesses or companions, whichever position availed itself first. She might as well put her polished upbringing and education to good use.

  But no position had arisen so far.

  This fact accumulated a certain distress over the shape of her future.

  Otilia was not a woman to sit and fret uselessly all day. This being the reason she now sat in the morning room with a pile of silverware before her. With a cloth in her hand, she cleaned the silver with scrupulous attention.

  The household had been reduced to a maid and a footman who amassed a heavy workload. Miss Kendall helped as much as possible. Part housekeeper, part bookkeeper, she did whatever other tasks needed attention. It was the least she could do for her dearly missed uncle.

  His heir did not show for the funeral, or ever since for that matter. Rumours had him travelling the continent on business. He could move to the confines of China as far as Otilia was concerned. The secret hope that she might find a suitable position before the absent heir deigned to undertake the responsibilities accrued to his title glowed snuggly inside her.

  If she did not have to see the man ever again in her life, it would be too soon.

  But she refused to think about the new Earl. There were countless chores that needed doing. After the silverware, she would help the maid and footman hang the laundry which was keeping them busy in the washroom this very moment. Then, after luncheon, there were the ledgers to update. Late winter announced a busy time in the manor.

  Located in the region of Leicester, Thornton Manor prided itself on being one of the oldest in England, albeit with undeniable signs of decay as of late. The main building exhibited an Elizabethan style preserved throughout the centuries by the wealthy Earls of Thornton. Medieval remains still surrounded the newer parts, witnesses of its long-standing power.

  Standing up from her chair, Otilia took the pieces she had already cleaned to keep them in the cupboard. An apron protected her simple mourning dress, retrieved from her aunt’s passing. Frugality must be the tune in these difficult times.

  Heavy footsteps pounded in the hallway. Robson, the footman, must be coming to tell her they had finished the laundry.

  “Good morning, Otilia.” The voice came from the door behind her.

  Her body went so rigid it must have been moulded in concrete. Her muscles and nerves stopped all motion, and her breathing stuck. If there was one thing she would never, ever forget in her life, it would be that deep, low voice. Long ago, she had compared it not to oozing chocolate. No, that comparison seemed too vulgar for that unforgettable sound. Over the years she had been such a naïve, romantic ninny, that she had compared it to rich syrup with a twist of nutmeg—sweet on the surface, but raspy underneath. The voice had enchanted her as much as, or even more than, his appearance.

  Only now did she realise the silver candelabra she was holding became locked in her fingers. They clasped the metal with such force they whitened, the reliefs on the piece digging in her palms. She made a conscious, superhuman effort to set her arms in motion again. In slow, deliberate movements, she raised the precious silver and placed it on the shelf. Studiously, she turned to the man standing in the doorway.

  “My lord,” she said in what she hoped was a cold greeting. The curtsy she produced came to her elegantly, due only to decades of practice.

  For eight years, she fed a fervent wish that she never set eyes on him again, not after she had made a stupid fool of herself. A mistake she promised not to repeat in her whole lifetime.

  Curtsy done, she had no other choice than to raise her gaze to him. As their eyes clashed, his widened for a millisecond. Those long-lashed, jet-black eyes melted stone as much as they froze the sun with a mere glance.

  No deliverance for her here. The sight of him still caused a vicious turmoil to move inside her as it always did. But before, it had been a joyous rippling, like gentle waves in an ebbing tide. Now, the waves smashed at each other in a tempest full of contradictoriness. The emotions shook her insides in a series of back sweeps. Her inner restive state provoked further stillness outwards, with a blank face to go with it. So, when her honey eyes met his, they took on a frosty hue.

  He stood just inside th
e threshold, six foot four inches of haughty nobleman, long legs braced, hands behind his back, filling nearly all the doorframe with a powerful body clad in black finery.

  “Welcome to Thornton Manor,” she clipped, meaning anything but.

  His hard, jet eyes narrowed on her for a split second before his expression smoothed to cool features; if that would be possible for such a rugged face.

  The most beautiful face she would ever have the displeasure of regarding. Coal hair, blade nose, unyielding jaw…

  “There seems not to be a butler in the premises.”

  He must have meant that as an explanation for not being announced. The expectation of a house full of servants surely originated from his newly attributed title because Edmund Randolph Brentwood came not from nobility himself. The late Earl had been his cousin trice removed. When her aunt got past the age of childbearing without an heir for her husband, it became clear he would be the next in line. And he received the required preparation for such a title. The man himself hailed from a bourgeois background.

  Her spine straightened, and her chin inched up a notch. “I am sure your solicitor explained the dire conditions of the estate.”

  His jet eyes inspected her, from her brown-sugar glossy hair, down to full breasts, a tiny waist, flaring hips to booted feet. A hot wave accompanied his almost insolent perusal, followed by her indignant anger.

  “He did, Otilia.” The rich drawl made everything worse, and she had to clench her muscles even tighter to stop the lamentable effect it erupted in her.

  For a split moment, her attention drifted astray and lowered. She had no chance of helping her gaze from focussing on that mouth, which must be sculpted in cold, hard granite, with perfect, precise lines. Impossible not to trace with keen eyes, if not with keen fingertips. Yet it had a carnal quality to it, worthy of years of fantasies involving kisses and other searing, dispensable daydreaming. She caught herself before her control flumped into humiliating idolatry. The same idolatry from years ago.

  To hear her first name on those lips was the least helpful sound in which she should indulge. It brought back a cart-full of memories she did not care to retrieve—memories which ended up in rejection and bitterness.

  “Miss Kendall.” She corrected him with a glacial inflection.

  His decadent lips had the temerity of curving up in a smirk. Knowing, sarcastic, hypnotic. “Otilia,” he insisted, uncaring if he uttered it for the third time in as many minutes.

  Her name reverberated deeper, with a trace of command and another subtle quality kin to seduction. It shifted her insides as if someone displaced the floorboards without warning, making her lose her footing. She did not have the luxury to fall. Not here. Not ever. And not for this man who had snubbed her before when she had been a tender-hearted girl barely out of the schoolroom. She was not that girl anymore. Twenty-six, on the shelf, twice orphaned, destitute, and hopefully out of this manor sooner rather than later. She steeled herself, cast a wooden look at him, not allowing him to give the cards at his will.

  “As you wish, Lord Thornton.” She would not pronounce his first name, not if she could avoid it, for the rest of her days on this earth.

  Edmund had been the man inhabiting impossible dreams. The name she used to repeat in the night, in her round-eyed reveries. It had meant the chance of happiness, fulfilment, and escape from her lonely destiny. It meant the possibility of something more, and out of her world. But he had been quick to shatter all of that, her heart included. And made her face the cold reality of her situation.

  A

  Eight years away had not prepared Edmund for the woman before him. When he last visited, she had marked him with her tenderness and openness, wearing the proverbial heart on her sleeve. Her enormous, long-lashed, fringed eyes hid nothing. They did not strive to do so. Her presence had felt like fresh air after spring rain with the scent of grass and flowers. But at twenty-five, he had already become the disillusioned, sceptical scoundrel he would forever be. None of her displays convinced him of their authenticity.

  Having made a fortune on his own and with a title on the way, women did not spare attempts to ensnare him. One of them had succeeded and turned him into a cynical bastard.

  At this moment, he was confronted with this block of iceberg, giving nothing away. The look she dispensed him with rivalled that of a queen high on her pedestal. Never mind she was an orphaned miss, with no prospects. The way she bore herself left nothing to be desired from a fine lady of the ton. It got to him. It really got to him.

  After their last conversation, conversation being just a metaphor, he kept away. His sporadic visits to his cousin ceased. He had left that summer determined not to come back. He returned to London focused on increasing his fortune, diving into work, and nothing else. The occasional mistress or dinner party did not divert him from his pursuits, hell-bent on oblivion.

  His memory would not let go of her though. In the most unexpected of instants, he would remember a word she had said, a look on her flawless face, or a girlish mannerism. And he attacked work with even more eagerness. In his mind, she had been one more of those title-hungry misses he met all too often. More so because she had the advantage of her connection with the late Earl. For him, her fresh innocence seemed false. Her naivety fabricated. Her sunny optimism a strategy for seduction. In his experience, this was what women did. Prevented from building wealth on their own, their only recourse would be marrying into it. But he would serve as no conduit for greedy women. He had almost fallen into this trap. And learned his lesson.

  Here she stood, however, every bit of the detached woman he did not imagine her to be. But what he imagined played no role in her stance. It played no part in the way she had matured, blossomed. A fully-grown woman of unique beauty. A beauty of which she barely seemed aware. Contrary to him, whose body responded to every one of her gestures. That she still owned the weaponry to affect him this much was proof he had to do something about it. And soon.

  “What I wish for is a bath sent to my room at once,” he ordered. He swung out of the room before she induced him to do something he would regret later, like inviting her to join him.

  A

  Otilia poured water in the cauldron to boil it for his majesty’s bath, fuming at the same temperature as the water would be in a few minutes. The insensitive scoundrel knew they were short of servants and did not have the decency of offering help. All right, so this was an unfair thought. He inherited the title and the prerogative of being served. Her fury did not abate, though.

  The menial task sent her mind down memory lane. Edmund had been a constant, if not a frequent visitor to the manor, and he showed genuine affection for Uncle Earnest. She had always nurtured fondness for him. He never forgot to bring her a gift or to hear her blabbing about the things her governess taught her.

  As she turned eighteen, he had spent the whole summer in Leicester. At twenty-five, his handsomeness was reaching its peak, but still withholding a boyish air on the side. She fell hard for him.

  There had been countless strolls in the garden, riding with her maid as companion, and conversations in the moonlight. She could barely hide her infatuation. Did not even try, to be honest.

  A few days before he left, she decided to declare her feelings. She had fantasised about it for a long time, imagining him reciprocating her. The giddiness inside her grew to bursting point. Dinner over, she approached him as he strode the hallway to his bedchamber. She gave him a handkerchief she had embroidered with his initials. After saying she loved him, she placed her hands on his broad shoulders, lifted on her toes and deposited a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

  The bristles greeted her together with the warmth of his skin and the soap of his recent bath. She wanted to stay like this forever.

  Only when she got down and looked at him did she see his scowl and realised something had gone terribly wrong. He stared at her with eyes turned icy and stony.

  “Paving the path to
becoming a countess, I see.” The voice she always listened to as the most beautiful opera now rang like bullets shot at her.

  Her honey eyes went from starry to confused, to hurt. Not for a moment had she thought about his future title. All she had in her mind was him, his intelligence, his gorgeousness. His unfeeling words broke the last of her girlish illusions. She wanted to deny his accusation, but his flinty expression said he would never believe her.

  She ran to her chamber, closed the door and cried for what seemed like weeks. Like the girl she still was, she avoided him for the remainder of his stay.

  It dawned on her then; she was a nobody and always would be. With no breeding, no parentage, and no pedigree, no decent man would have her as a wife. She had been condemned to loneliness from the start. Even with the support of her uncle and aunt, she would need to fend for herself in this world.

  Edmund hurt her so acutely, she could still hear his merciless words in her mind. And in her heart. In the coming years, she hardened both. She shut herself from any and every man who tried to come closer. Many of them confirmed her fears, propositioning her to become their mistress. The thought she might be mistress, not wife material had appalled and infuriated her to such a boiling point, she had been a hairbreadth from slapping several of them, be it at balls, soirees, tea-parties or garden-parties. But she refused to become a scandal. More than she already was that is, and distress Earnest and Agatha in the process. She would not disappoint them though, the only family she possessed. They gave the impression of being convinced their protection would be enough, but it was not. She must accept it, end of conversation. It did not lessen the sorrow, though—even less the distrust she had for the new Earl.