Tempting Her Reluctant Viscount
Read Tempting Her Reluctant Viscount Online
Authors: Catherine Hemmerling
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #England, #Mystery, #Spies, #fake courtship, #london, #London Stock Exchange, #unrequited love, #Regency
A pretend courtship… a real scandal.
L
ONDON, 1814
Hope Stuckeley has lusted after the handsome and charismatic Michael Ashmore, the viscount Lichfield, for ages—never mind that she’s never actually spoken to him. When the two join forces to investigate a London stock market scandal, pretending he is courting her gives her the chance to prove she’s more than the bookworm he takes her for.
After years of service as a soldier and newly titled as a viscount, actual marriage and settling down are the last things on confirmed bachelor Michael’s mind. But when their investigation puts the delectable Hope in danger, discovering the truth about the scandal could jeopardize the future he didn’t know he wanted.
T
EMPTING
H
ER
R
ELUCTANT
V
ISCOUNT
A
L
ADY
L
ANCASTER
G
ARDEN
S
OCIETY
M
YSTERY
C
ATHERINE
H
EMMERLING
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Catherine Hemmerling. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at
www.entangledpublishing.com
.
Scandalous is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
Edited by Stacy Abrams
Cover design by Libby Murphy
ISBN 978-1-62266-745-1
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition July 2014
Table of Contents
Romancing His English Rose
Taming Her Forbidden Earl
Romancing the Rumrunner
The Duke’s Quandary
The Highwayman’s Bride
Her Wicked Sin
This book is dedicated to my Auntie Anne. Although she is no longer with us, I still think of her every day. Her strength, character, and devotion to family is an inspiration and I know she is up in heaven loving every bit of my new career. I love and miss you, Anne!
Foreword
Stock Market fraud is apparently an age-old pastime. According to historical records, on the morning of Monday, February 21, 1814, a uniformed man proclaiming to be Lieutenant-Colonel du Bourg, aide-du-camp to Lord Cathcart, arrived at the Ship Inn in Dover, England, bearing news that Napoleon I of France had been killed and the Bourbons were victorious: an egregious lie. The lie was compounded by another coach, which circulated throughout London, bearing three French officers who distributed leaflets celebrating the Bourbon victory.
As it turns out, the entire affair was a deliberate hoax. In the afternoon, the government confirmed that the news of peace was a fabrication, but the damage had been done. The committee of the stock exchange eventually determined that approximately one million pounds worth of government-based stocks had been purchased and sold by conspirators. Launching an investigation, the committee vowed to locate the perpetrators and bring them to justice.
The following story is based on the known facts about the Du Bourg Hoax, including the real names of the men who committed this crime (or were thought to have committed the crime). While this story is written to correlate with the actual historical details reported about the event, the overall account and character interaction is fictional and meant for enjoyment only. Also, it should be noted that in the terminology of 1814,
stocks
referred to interest-bearing securities of the type that are today called
bonds
.
Happy reading!
Prologue
Where there is a will…
~The Duke of Lancaster
Michael stood at the back of the semi-darkened room. In front of him were rows of chairs arranged to provide the ultimate viewing of a quartet of ladies standing beside a pianoforte. Most of the chairs were filled, as this was the greatly anticipated Millar Winter Musicale. It was the fourth such musical event he had attended since the beginning of the year. Surely spring would be arriving any day now.
He had accepted the invitation from his old university friend of the same name, Millar. He had been assured the girls were all exceptionally talented, and perhaps they were, but Michael hadn’t heard a thing since he’d had the most unfortunate exchange with Miss Hope Stuckeley at the beginning of the evening.
It had started off simply enough. She had said good evening, he had nodded gallantly. She had smiled, he had felt the world turn on its axis and spilled half his drink down the young woman’s chest. He had attempted to, er, dry her off with his handkerchief, she had pushed him away politely and excused herself to the ladies’ retiring room.
It was a grand showing. Michael hadn’t even had the grace to apologize. Lord, but that girl caused him no end of grief. Unlike any other woman of his acquaintance, she had the ability to turn him into a complete idiot. Not a feeling with which he was familiar. He vowed the next time would be different; he vowed there would be
no
next time; his vows went unheeded.
So there he stood, staring at her while she sat applauding the end of the act, seemingly oblivious to his consternation. He had only stayed through the performance out of respect for his friend and because of a masochistic need to apologize to the chit. Surely she would just have him leave her be, but would he? No. Could he? Apparently not.
Dammit.
As the room slowly emptied, he was greeted by a number of gentlemen and subtly shunned by a number of ladies. He sighed inwardly. He was a viscount of a good family and of generous wealth. And a war hero on top of that, but did the marriage-minded women of the
ton
care? Not that he could tell. Not that it mattered. He was not in London for the season to meet a wife. He was there for business. To ensure the contacts made by his father and brother had been extended to him. And that was all.
One of the last to leave the room was his fair nemesis. Not waiting to let one of her lethal smiles unnerve him again, Michael stopped the young lady.
“I would like to apologize,” he said quickly before his tongue could become glued to the roof of his mouth. “For earlier. The drink. I—” He stopped there. That was good enough.
“Oh, please don’t give it another thought,” Miss Stuckeley replied. “My dress has had worse done to it. I have four younger siblings,” she added as if imparting a great secret, before giggling. “I have long embraced materials that resist staining.”
Miss Stuckeley then blushed as if she had said too much and added, “Good evening then, my lord.”
“Good dress—ah, event—er, night,” Michael stuttered. Not that it mattered anyway. The girl had fled in what looked like her own embarrassment.
Good Lord. If this was how all his conversations were to go with the opposite sex, it was a good thing Michael Ashmore was not in the market for a bride.
Chapter One
Hear all, trust yourself.
~The Duke of Lancaster
Aside from her odd love of all things numerical, Hope Stuckeley led a fairly normal life. She had just turned the grand age of twenty. Grand, because she was not so green and naïve as she had been at eighteen and nineteen and yet she was not so old as to be considered hopelessly on the shelf…which was a good thing, because although she had received a fair number of proposals in previous seasons, she was holding out for one proposal in particular, and this year, she was determined to make it happen.
She felt confident that this would be the year, because this was her third season out, and thus far, it had been the best one yet.
First of all, this year Hope was a member of the Young Ladies Garden Society, hosted by the estimable Lady Lancaster (as the lady preferred to be called despite being a duchess, dowager or otherwise); and, as an added bonus, the other four members of the Garden Society had become her very best friends. Secondly, she was finally on speaking terms with the secret love of her life, Michael Ashmore, the Viscount Lichfield.
Michael—as Hope thought of him, but only to herself—was the best friend of Lord Pembroke, her cousin’s fiancé, but it was not through her or, by extension, him that she had met the lord. Lord Lichfield, surprisingly enough, was a friend of Lady Lancaster’s. She wasn’t exactly sure how the two knew each other, but something made Hope think it was more than as just two members of the aristocracy.
Still, it was thanks to Lady Lancaster that Hope had been officially introduced to the viscount, and she tried to make the most of it whenever she could.
Just the other day, she and her cousin Hannah had run into Michael while out shopping. Hope remembered giggling with Hannah over how cute the man was as he approached. Tall, dark, and eminently charming. Hope sighed in remembrance. And although he spent most of his time chatting with Hannah about William’s whereabouts, at one point he’d turned to her and commented on her “fetching” new hat. The sincerity in his eyes nearly made her swoon. And that was how it had been for the last couple of years. Just a stray comment here and there (he seemed strangely struck silent around her most of the time), with her learning about him and his character through his conversations with others. It was frustrating that they couldn’t seem to have a full conversation themselves, but still, Hope wouldn’t give up those moments with him for anything.
Hope felt sure she would be a nice complement to Michael’s rugged good looks. She knew that she was not a raving beauty like her friend Emily, nor could she compare with the extreme loveliness of her aforementioned cousin, Hannah, but she was reasonably attractive with her light brown hair, golden brown eyes, and softly rounded figure. She wasn’t as thin as was fashionable, certainly, but frankly, she thought girls who ate like birds just to impress society were a bunch of ninnies.
However, Hope’s appetite wasn’t anywhere in evidence the morning of Sunday, February 20, 1814. In fact, she was practically ignoring her plate and wearing a rather uncharacteristic frown—that is to say, uncharacteristic for Hope when sitting at the breakfast table scouring the newspaper for news of the Stock Exchange (the frown was worn quite frequently during other less agreeable pursuits).
“Why the frown, sweetheart?” Mr. Stuckeley asked after filling his plate with eggs and sausages from the sideboard and sitting across from his daughter at the table.
“Hmm? Oh, nothing really,” Hope replied, looking up to greet her father with a small smile. Seeing him always put a smile on her face. Aside from Lady Lancaster and the girls, her father was her best friend. When her mother had died, Hope was just seven years old, and she and her father had become inseparable. Then, after Mr. Stuckeley had discovered her gift with numbers, the two became even closer; their relationship being built on more than just that of father and daughter, but of a mutual respect.
Two years after the death of her mother, Hope’s father re-married, as was expected of a man still considered in his prime. Her stepmother, a quiet, unassuming woman, was nearly fifteen years her father’s junior at the time of their marriage. Almost immediately, she became pregnant and she stayed in that condition on a regular basis for pretty much the next five years. Now, she spent most of her days with the children or with her embroidery or watercolors.
