The Earl in My Bed: A Forgotten Princesses Valentine Novella
Read The Earl in My Bed: A Forgotten Princesses Valentine Novella Online
Authors: Sophie Jordan
HE
E
ARL
IN
M
Y
B
ED
A Forgotten Princesses Valentine Novella
S
OPHIE
J
ORDAN
For my mother
C
ONTENTS
An Excerpt from
How to Lose a Bride in One Night
S
he could delay no longer.
As much as she hoped to put it off another day, another fortnight, Paget could wait no longer. As it were, the winter winds might freeze her to the bones if she did not return home soon. With a heavy breath, she took the final step that brought her to the crest of the hill overlooking the sprawling manor house that belonged to the Earl of Winningham. Exposed to the elements atop the rise, her wool dress whipped around her legs.
Paget swallowed thickly. The earl himself was in residence. As he had been for the past month. He was all anyone discussed in the village. Every tongue wagged with his name. Speculation was ripe as to when he would surface. Whether he would attend Sunday service. Or even the annual Valentine’s Day fête. Everyone desperately craved a glimpse of him.
Everyone except her.
She released a heavy breath, blowing aside a pale strand of hair that dangled in her face. Every Sunday she sat in the first pew, eyes trained on Papa at the head of the church, hands folded neatly in her lap as she braced herself for the telltale titter among the congregation, signaling the earl’s long-anticipated arrival.
Thus far it had not occurred.
She fervently hoped he did not attend the baronet’s Valentine fête. The annual gathering had always been such a happy time. Memories of it were always tangled up with her memories of Owen and Brand. Not Jamie. Never Jamie.
He
had never deigned to attend. He had looked down his aristocratic nose at such country gatherings. Only Owen and Brand had ever cared.
She blinked back the hot press of tears at the memory of her friends. Both were gone from her. One dead. The other fighting in a war halfway around the world. They should be here. Either one of them.
Both
of them.
An image of Jamie rose in her mind, that stiff walk of his with his hands clasped behind his back, his countenance dour, reflecting none of Brand’s warmth or Owen’s playfulness. He was the stiff, proper earl even when he had not been. Something dark twisted inside her heart. Perhaps he had always known the title would be his. Brand had always been weak and frail, after all.
Shaking off her bitter thoughts, she adjusted her grip on the basket handle. The aroma of warm biscuits drifted up to her nose as she sucked in a breath and descended the hill.
She wouldn’t be the first to call upon him. Her father had done so, of course. An obligatory visit. She usually accompanied him on his calls, but on that occasion she’d stayed behind, blaming an aching head. Sitting in the Winningham’s opulent drawing room without either Brand or Owen . . . knowing
Jamie
was the new earl . . .
She could not have borne it.
She still could not stomach it, but her father had looked askance at her when she declared that she would not be calling upon the earl with her customary basket of homemade lemon biscuits that she presented everyone with for all noteworthy occasions. The birth of a new child, the announcement of a betrothal, the passing of a relation. The new earl returning home after years of war certainly warranted a basket of baked goods, and well her father knew it. Well
she
knew it.
All was quiet in the morning light. Swans glided across the lake, faint ripples stretching out in ever-widening arcs. She eyed the manor’s wide double doors as she approached.
The Earl of Winningham.
Jamie
was now the earl. This truth rattled around in her head as if looking for a place to settle. Dear, sweet Brand lay buried in the family cemetery on the other side of the sprawling manse. He’d never been long for this world. Never robust, never able to keep up and play with her or Owen. She and Owen always had to backtrack for him. For all that he had tried, Brand had always been more ghost than man.
Now the title belonged to Jamie. Taciturn and aggravatingly proper James. Always looking down at Owen. Always making certain Owen never forgot he was a mere half-brother. Always looking down at
her
, a mere vicar’s daughter.
Unbidden, the memory flashed of Jamie happening upon Brand and Owen saddling mounts in the Winningham stable for an afternoon ride. She had stood alongside them, dancing in place, beyond excited. They promised to let her ride their new thoroughbred.
“Really, Brand. You’re father’s heir. You should know better than to consort with a girl of her ilk. I would expect such lack of judgment from Owen but not you.”
She did not give Owen the chance to defend her before she sent a dried clod of manure smacking Jamie in the middle of the face. A wholly reckless thing to do. Even if she was only a child of tender years. She was the vicar’s daughter. She should have known better. She should have regretted her actions and apologized immediately. But of course she had not.
Instead she’d planted her hands on her hips and thrust out her chin. “There’s more where that came from, you stodgy prig!”
Jamie had brushed the filth from his face and looked down his arrogant nose at her. Only three years her senior, he towered over her. “And I believe that only proves my point at how very ill-suited you are to keep company with my brothers.”
The rejoinder had hit its mark. It stung even now. She should have behaved better and shown just how dignified and gracious she could be . . . that it wasn’t a trait reserved to the aristocracy as he seemed to think.
Now that haughty peacock was home while Brand was dead and Owen was left fighting in a rebellion across the ocean. It was vastly unfair.
She flexed her hands around the handle of her basket and knocked on the heavy front door.
Mr. Jarvis, the ancient butler, promptly answered.
“Miss Ellsworth,” he greeted very properly, eyeing the length of her. His eyes brightened when they landed on the basket and she had no doubt he would filch one of her infamous biscuits from within before it ever made it to the earl’s hands.
“Hello, Mr. Jarvis. Is Lord Winningham receiving?”
“He’s not in at present.” He paused, his gaze still fixed on her basket. “Shall I take your parcel? I’ll see he gets it upon his return.”
Her heart skipped with delight as she quickly passed the basket into the butler’s hands. “Would you be so kind, Mr. Jarvis?”
She was cowardly, she knew, but she would not have to face him after all and feign happiness at his return. Relief coursed through her. She could rest easy and face her father having done her duty.
Jarvis nodded. “Quite so. Thank you, Miss Ellsworth. I’ll see the basket is returned.”
With a hasty wave and murmured thanks, she descended the wide front steps, her gaze skittering left and right as though the earl himself might appear and put a stop to her retreat.
With every step that distanced her from the estate, her breathing eased as the tension ebbed from her shoulders. At the crest of the hill, she paused beside the old oak and looked back, her hand curling into the rough bark as she stared at the sprawling manse that reeked of wealth and privilege.
Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought of Owen. He deserved to return home just as much as James did.
Please, let him be well. Safe. Alive and whole.
Again, she was struck with the unfairness of it all. Jamie had returned, but Owen remained in India, fighting for his life while servants waited hand and foot on his wretched brother. She read the papers. She knew of the atrocities being played out abroad. Civilians were not spared. She could not fathom how dangerous it was for a soldier.
Swiping at her eyes, she edged back a step, eager to be gone from the house that filled her with such somber thoughts. Whenever she grew morose, she penned Owen a missive. Whether her letters actually reached him was doubtful, she knew. Or at least she surmised as much, given he had ceased to correspond back to her. She had received only three letters, in the beginning, years ago. Since then, nothing. And yet she still wrote him, telling herself that if he received even a fraction of them, she could be offering him much-needed comfort.
Sniffing back threatening tears, she nodded decisively. Fully intending to return home and write him a new letter, she spun around and smacked into a wall. Hard.
She staggered. Strong hands steadied her, singeing her through the sleeves of her cloak and dress.
A gasp escaped her. “Oh! Forgive—pardon—I wasn’t—”
Her awkward apology died as her gaze lifted to the face in front of her. “Jamie,” she said before she could consider that she should address him with more formality. Heat flooded her face. He was an earl now, and they had scarcely been friends before. On the contrary. He would expect her to be more circumspect.
“Miss Ellsworth.” The proper, crisp pronouncement of her surname jarred her. His hands fell from her arms and he distanced himself with a smart step back. His voice was deeper than she remembered. She actually felt it. Like a physical touch . . . a feather stroke along her stretched nerves.
She blinked up at him, her head tilting back. Was he always this tall?
She had braced herself for this moment. Even as unwanted as it was, she knew it would come. She would see him somewhere about the village. Still . . . she was not prepared for this sight of him.
Gone was the gangly young lordling she remembered. The pup, it seemed, had grown into his limbs and paws.
“Lord Winningham.” This time she managed a more proper tone.
They stood awkwardly, staring at one another. His face was harder, carved granite. His skin sun-kissed. Then it occurred to her that he didn’t appear awkward at all. That condition seemed reserved for her alone. He seemed perfectly at ease and comfortable within his skin. He looked her up and down mildly. She detected faint curiosity brimming in his blue-green eyes as he assessed the changes that four years had wrought.
She tried not to fidget, smoothing her hands against her sides. She doubted she had changed much. She was merely an older version of the girl he and Owen had left behind. He, without a thought. Owen, with a kiss. Her first and last since.
She felt compelled to fill the silence. “You look . . . well, my lord.”
He looked more than
well
. She was loath to admit it—and a little startled at his impact on her—but he looked handsome. Strong and virile. Certain she did not look half so polished, she felt the insane need to reach up and tidy her hair.
