Desired by a Lord (Regency Unlaced 5)

  Regency Unlaced 5

  Desired by a Lord

  By

  Carole Mortimer

  USA Today Bestselling Author

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2016 Carole Mortimer

  Cover Design Copyright © Glass Slipper Designs

  Editor: Linda Ingmanson

  Formatter: Matthew Mortimer

  ISBN: 978-1-910597-31-6 ePub

  ISBN: 978-1-910597-30-9 mobi

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved.

  DEDICATIONS

  My Wonderful Family

  Chapter 1

  Early October, 1816

  Ashingdon Village,

  Derbyshire, England

  I have realized many secrets can be learned through diligent observation.

  Secrets such as the married, middle-aged greengrocer’s less than fatherly interest in the young girl who serves behind the counter in his shop.

  The liking the doctor’s wife has for the laudanum she always carries with her, and occasionally replenishes from her husband’s surgery, without his knowledge, when her supply is running low.

  The baker’s son is stealing from his father’s till.

  The squire’s unmarried daughter meets twice a week with one of the grooms in the hayloft of her father’s stable.

  And the young widow whose bags are now being strapped onto the back of her ancient carriage in readiness for her visit to Yorkshire, who is doing her very best to look as if the hounds of hell are not snapping at her heels?

  All the village gossiped about the sudden death of her much older husband, who had been an unpleasant man not appreciative of his young and beautiful wife. They gossiped, but they did not have proof that Edmund Marsden was murdered.

  I do.

  I know why, how, and when he was murdered.

  All these things I have learned through diligent observation, to be secreted away until that information is needed.

  Mrs. Emily Marsden is mistaken if she thinks to escape the repercussions of that knowledge by removing herself from the village for several months.

  She cannot escape her secret, because it will follow her, holding her tightly in its grasp, until she too gives in to my demands.

  For I am not averse to using the knowledge I have gained through my diligence, to blackmail any of these sinners, and, most especially, Mrs. Emily Marsden.

  Chapter 2

  October, 1816

  Whitney Park, Yorkshire

  “I was under the impression you were a man.”

  Emily was well aware that Lord Alexander Whitney, only recently come into this estate in Yorkshire upon the demise of his father, had been expecting the arrival of Edmund Ackroyd Marsden rather than his wife.

  The letter received two months ago from this gentleman to Primrose Cottage, Emily’s home in Ashingdon in Derbyshire, had been addressed to E. A. Marsden, Esquire. The contents of the letter, requesting Mr. Marsden accept a commission to catalog and restore order to the famous Whitney Library, was as formally worded.

  Emily had been the one to reply to that initial letter, with her own signature, also E. A. Marsden. All without mention of her husband’s demise four months prior to receipt of that first letter. All the correspondence that followed the initial letter had been between Lord Whitney and E. A. Marsden.

  A deliberate deception, but Emily had been so desperate to leave Ashingdon, if only for a month or two, she had not really thought much beyond effecting that escape.

  If Whitney was surprised by her appearance, then Emily inwardly admitted to being equally so in regard to him. She certainly had not considered that Lord Alexander Whitney would be quite so…so… Well, to begin with, he was far younger than Emily had expected, possibly aged in his mid to late thirties, rather than the fifty or so she had imagined him to be.

  His looks were also…

  Well, to put it frankly, Lord Alexander Whitney was a rakishly handsome and athletic-looking gentleman. His overlong dark hair was fashionably styled. He had piercing blue eyes, an aristocratic nose set between high and distinct cheekbones, his lips sculpted, with a firm, square jaw.

  His clothing was obviously made of expensive cloth and in the height of fashion. His white linen was immaculate, a diamond pin adorning his neckcloth, and the black superfine was tailored perfectly to his wide shoulders and muscular chest. His waistcoat lay flat against his abdomen, with no sign of a paunch, in contrast to so many gentlemen of his age.

  Which was all Emily could currently see of his appearance, seated as he was behind the cluttered mahogany desk in his study, the room in which he had chosen to receive her.

  She did know he was at least a foot taller than her own five feet and two inches, Whitney having risen politely to his feet a few minutes ago when she was shown into the study by his butler. An occasion when Whitney had quickly hidden the brief widening of his eyes as the butler announced her as being Mrs. E. A. Marsden.

  To say she had never been in such…disturbingly male company as this before would be an understatement. Lord Whitney positively oozed male virility, of a kind that Emily could not help but be aware of. It was there, in the way he reclined back so confidently in his leather chair. In the way those intelligent blue eyes observed her between narrowed lids, from her bonnet to her boots, when she first entered the room. As for his mouth… Surely no respectable gentleman should have such sensual lips? Moreover, ones that seemed to be constantly curved into a mocking smile, as if Whitney was perfectly aware of his effect upon the opposite sex.

  That very same effect he was having upon her…

  Emily felt very warm, despite the fact she had only recently come inside from her ancient and exceedingly draughty carriage. The warmth given off by the cheerily crackling fire in the hearth had not had time as yet to permeate through her clothing to her chilled body.

  Her palms were damp inside her gloves, and she did not believe that reaction caused entirely by the nervousness she felt, knowing how important it was to her to be allowed to stay here.

  Her breathing was shallow, and her breasts felt uncomfortably confined inside the tight bodice of her gown. She had no idea what the heat and throb between her thighs indicated.

  Perhaps, after all, Whitney Park did not offer her the refuge she had hoped it would, but instead presented danger of a far different kind.

  Emily gave herself a mental shake as she realized Whitney was eyeing her curiously. He clearly waited for her to reply to his earlier comment. Whether she still wished to stay here or not, the next few minutes would either result in her having to return to Ashingdon, suitably chastened for her deception, or shown to the bedchamber she was to use for the duration of her stay.

  “You are no doubt referring to my husband, my lord,” she answered with a cool confidence in direct contrast to the inexplicable heat of her body. “I am afraid he died six months ago.”

  Whitney scowled. “Then who the devil have I been corresponding with these past two months?”

  Emily gave an inward quiver at the barely repressed impatience in his demeanor. “That would be me.”

  “You?”

  Emily suppressed a wince at the sharp disbelief of his tone. “I also am E. A. Marsden, my lord. Emily Anne, to be exact.”

  Xander’s gaze narrowed on the young woman seated very upright in the chair on the other side of his desk. A prim-looking woman with what looked to be red hair scraped back and hidden beneath he
r gray bonnet, her matching gown buttoned up to her throat.

  Despite the fact her milky smooth complexion and trimness of figure indicated she could only be in her early twenties, she wore the attire of a straitlaced spinster.

  Or a widow.

  Xander did not interest himself in ladies’ fashions, but he believed gray, along with purple, was one of the mourning colors widows wore after their first six months of wearing black.

  He had never met Edmund Marsden, but the longevity of the other man’s reputation as a historian and librarian indicated he had surely been in his fifties or sixties? Which would make him at least thirty years senior to this young woman, who now claimed to have been his wife.

  A not unattractive woman, if you were partial to ivory skin, fine green eyes, red hair, and a dusting of freckles across the bridge of a slightly upturned nose. As a rule, Xander was not. His usual preference was for voluptuous blondes. When he could spare the time to indulge himself, that is. Which he had not been able to do since inheriting his father’s run-down estate in Yorkshire four months ago.

  Good God, could it really be four months since he had…

  That would surely explain the unexpected interest he now felt to know what Emily Marsden might look like beneath those widow’s weeds. As to whether her breasts were as full and firm as they appeared. Whether the color of her nipples was a juicy pink or a tempting dusky peach. If her waist was slender. Her hips as curvaceous and inviting—

  Xander rose impatiently to move around to the front of his desk, a hard smile of satisfaction curving his lips as he saw the way Mrs. Marsden leaned back in her chair to avoid too close a proximity to him. An indication she was not unaware of him either?

  His mouth thinned. “Do you have children?”

  “Sadly, no.”

  “Documentation with you to prove your identity?”

  She looked flustered by the question. “You… I have your correspondence to me these past two months. Your letters are packed in my trunk, which is outside in my carriage.”

  He nodded. “Do you have any proof of your marriage to Mr. Marsden?”

  A frown appeared between her eyes. “I do not understand…”

  “You have deliberately deceived me, madam. As such, I believe I am perfectly within my rights to ask for written or documented confirmation of your identity. Otherwise, how can I know you are who you claim to be?”

  This was a possibility Emily had not even considered. Not that she would have shown Whitney anything which revealed her maiden name. “I assure you I am not a woman in the habit of telling lies, my lord.”

  He gave a slight inclination of his head in acknowledgment. “The short history of our acquaintance would seem to indicate otherwise.”

  Guilty color warmed Emily’s cheeks. “You would not have countenanced my coming here at all if you had known I was not my husband.”

  “Justifiably so, would you not agree?”

  “Not when I am just as capable as my husband, no. Edmund trained me in his method of work during our marriage.”

  “And the Whitney Library is vast, with many rare books amongst its number. Without confirmation you are at least who you say you are, I am loath to allow you to so much as look at them, let alone take on the task of cataloguing them.”

  Emily chewed on her bottom lip as she searched her mind for something that would confirm who she was. Ah. “I have this locket.” She raised her hand to loop a finger beneath the gold necklace and pull the piece of jewelry from within the confines of her gown. It was the only jewelry she owned, apart from her plain gold wedding ring. “Edmund gave it to me on our wedding day.” She opened the locket to reveal the engraving inside.

  And instantly realized her mistake as the short length of the necklace required Whitney to lean very close to her if he was to read the engraving.

  He smelled of the fresh outdoors. From a horse ride earlier today? Also lemons and sandalwood. Perhaps from the soap he used to wash his hair and body when he bathed after riding. Whatever the origin of those perfumes, it was a beguiling mixture.

  “‘Edmund Ackroyd Marsden to Emily Anne Marsden, 12th January, 1811,’” Whitney read, the warmth of his breath disturbing several loose tendrils of hair at Emily’s temple.

  Almost like a caress, she acknowledged breathlessly. Like the gentle brush of fingertips against her flesh. Not that she could recall what that felt like, but it was a pleasant sensation nonetheless.

  “Satisfied, my lord?” She closed the locket with a snap before returning it beneath her gown.

  He straightened. “I am satisfied that on the 12th day of January, 1811, Edmund Marsden did marry Emily Marsden,” he drawled. “You have shown me nothing to confirm that lady is you.”

  Her eyes widened. “Why would I lie?”

  “Possibly for the same reason you have pretended to be Edmund Marsden for the past two months,” he came back challengingly.

  Emily could take one of two paths now. Deny any intention of deception. Or own up to the crime.

  The first risked being dismissed as the nonsense it undoubtedly was.

  The second risked further questioning on the subject of why she had perpetrated the deception in the first place. Answers she could not give this man without incriminating herself to such a degree he would immediately ask her to leave.

  Emily decided to choose neither of those paths, but to forge one of her own. “Having very ably assisted my husband for the past five years, I am perfectly up to the task of cataloguing and returning order to the extensive library you have here. I am also sure that the person my husband used in London to repair and restore books will be happy to do the same for me.” In fact, Emily had always been the one to deal with Mr. Ames. Edmund could often be abrasive and tended to upset people.

  She knew, with Edmund’s training, she was more than capable of doing the work necessary in the Whitney Library. If Lord Whitney would only give her the opportunity to prove herself.

  If.

  It had seemed like a godsend, as if it was meant to be, when Lord Whitney’s letter arrived inviting Edmund to Yorkshire to catalog the famous Whitney Library. The present Lord Whitney’s great-grandfather had been a keen collector, and Edmund had often remarked that he would relish the opportunity to inspect the rare and coveted library.

  Unfortunately, Edmund had died four months before being offered the opportunity to come to Whitney Park.

  Xander was not ignorant of the fact Mrs. Marsden had not yet answered his question. “I was informed you were not accompanied by your maid.”

  She gave a tight smile. “Possibly because I do not have one.”

  His brow rose. “You do not have one now, or you never had one?”

  “I do not have one now.”

  Implying that she had once. Before or after her marriage? The mulish expression on Emily Marsden’s face said she would give him no more answers on the subject.

  One part of her earlier statement intrigued him, though. As it had when he read the date of her wedding to Marsden. “Surely you were still in the schoolroom almost six years ago?”

  A delicate blush colored her cheeks, strawberries amid the cream, throwing those freckles into sharp relief. “Not quite,” she said quietly. “I was seventeen when Edmund and I married.”

  “And your husband’s age at the time?”

  “I do not see…”

  “Humor me,” Xander drawled.

  “My husband was aged three and fifty on the day of our wedding, my lord,” she revealed with obvious reluctance.

  Xander inwardly recoiled. What had Marsden been about, to have married a girl so much younger than himself? More to the point, why would such a young girl marry a man so much older than herself?

  Money, perhaps?

  On the contrary, neither the shabby carriage this lady had arrived in nor her own appearance gave any indication of wealth. Nor did her lack of a maid.

  Maybe prestige?

  Edmund Marsden had certainly been lauded b
y his peers, but as they were as old and obscure as he was, there could not be much prestige there for a young woman either.

  Love, then?

  Emily Marsden’s tone had been cool when she spoke of her marriage and her husband’s death. Nor had Xander seen any sign of tears in those dark green eyes at the mention of the older man’s demise.

  So not money, prestige, or love. Which left what?

  Xander found he was very interested to know the answer to that question.

  An interest that was no doubt founded upon the fact he was unutterably bored after being stuck in Yorkshire for the past four months. Far away from his friends and the delights London had to offer, in which he had previously enjoyed indulging on a regular basis.

  Good God, he must be beyond bored if a little rabbit like Mrs. Emily Marsden and the secrets hidden in those green eyes could intrigue him!

  “My age, then or now, has nothing to do with anything,” the young widow dismissed briskly. “As I said, I am more than capable of doing the task for which you have employed me. My lord,” she added uncomfortably, having obviously realized she had dropped the formality in her determination to be heard.

  “For which I employed your husband,” Xander corrected pointedly. He had not said so, but he knew instinctively from the sincerity in that steady green gaze that Emily Marsden told the truth. That, unlikely as it might appear, she had indeed been the wife of Edmund Marsden.

  Nevertheless, Xander knew himself to have been deliberately duped as to whom he was corresponding with these past months. And he did not care for being toyed with.

  The last time he had been made a fool of, he had been a callow youth of seventeen. He had believed himself in love with, and loved by, a married woman. A lady whom, it transpired, had no intention of leaving her husband for him, when all she had wanted was his young and muscular body pounding in hers as often as possible.