A Most Inconvenient Earl: The Brides of North Barrows, #4

Prologue

North Barrows, Cumbria—August 1815

Eurydice Goodenham stood with her hands folded before herself, watching as dirt struck the coffin.

Her grandmother, Octavia Hambley, Viscountess North Barrows, was dead. She had taken a chill in the spring and been unable to shake it. No matter which physician was summoned, the illness had persisted, lodging in her lungs with a tenacity that echoed the lady’s own. Four months they had battled, illness and dowager, and in the end, the illness had won.

Eurydice could not help but feel she had overlooked some detail that might have ensured her grandmother’s recovery. She had consulted every reference and made many suggestions, though none had helped. All said, she had done her best and more, but she was keenly aware that her best had been insufficient.

It was a hot day with a haze on the hills that promised at least a heavy dew that night, if not more. Eurydice was warm, even in her lightest summer muslin, but discomfort was irrelevant. She could not believe that her grandmother was dead, even though she had been granted custody of the dowager’s beloved umbrella. She clutched it now, unwilling to relinquish it. It seemed fitting that the umbrella should attend the service, just as Nelson and the other servants did.

It was not the first time she had attended a funeral of someone she held close, but this time, Eurydice understood the ramifications of death better. Her parents had died when Eurydice had been only five, leaving her and her older sister alone. She remembered uncertainty but had never guessed at Daphne’s terror of the future until told of it years later. She certainly remembered their grandmother arriving from Bath, austere and commanding, then sweeping them up on her way back to the North Barrows dower house. Lady Octavia had been stern but she had loved them fiercely and done her best for them.

Eurydice did recall her grandmother’s relief when Daphne had wed the Duke of Inverfyre. He was a good man, kind to her sister and their children. Eurydice liked watching him with their two sons, Malcolm and Edmond. It was a revelation to her that a somber and sensible man could be so playful—even silly—with Malcolm the toddler, and the sight made her smile. She’d learned from his lullabies to the infant Edmond that he had a fine voice. He had been generous with their grandmother, as well, inviting her to stay whenever she chose, for as long as she chose. The duke had promised the viscountess that Eurydice was secure in his household for so long as she chose to remain, giving her the freedom to not wed at all. Eurydice knew he had brought Daphne from Airdfinnan near the end to repeat his vow to their grandmother one last time.

Lady Octavia had died convinced that her responsibilities were fulfilled.

The funeral for the viscountess was held at North Barrows, in the church where she had been married decades before, and she would be buried beside her beloved Alasdair, Viscount North Barrows. Upon the death of Eurydice and Daphne’s father—Malcolm, the older son of Alasdair and Octavia—the estate had passed to his younger brother, Samuel, with the stipulation—made by Alasdair—that Octavia could reside in the dower house for her lifetime. The estate was currently held by Samuel’s son and Eurydice’s cousin, Daniel. He had permitted the party from Airdfinnan to stay at the dower house until the funeral and had even offered them whatever they desired of the furniture. Eurydice had no doubt that his wife had plans for the house, which was in need of renovation. She loved it as it was, but knew she was unlikely to ever cross its threshold again.

She gripped the umbrella, her throat tight as the dirt obscured the coffin. Daphne stood beside her, holding the duke’s arm, their older son before them and the younger in the nursemaid’s arms. Daniel and his wife and children stood on the opposite side of the grave. Nelson, the viscountess’s lady’s maid for years, sniffled loudly from the ranks of the servants. There were mourners gathered from the village, as well. The final blessing was pronounced and Eurydice let her tears fall.

Her life had been disrupted twice by death and left in uncertainty. It had been less of a shock this time, for her grandmother had faded visibly since Daphne’s wedding, but still she was aware that her position was precarious.

The duke had given his word, but what if he died? What if he and Daphne were killed unexpectedly, as her own parents had been? All might go awry for Eurydice if her sister no longer drew breath. The children doubtless had a more secure future, the oldest being heir to the dukedom, but Eurydice felt that the ground was loose beneath her feet.

She had no desire to wed for romantic reasons, as Daphne had, but it made good sense to marry for practical ones. She would be able to guarantee her own future, then, if she chose wisely. Once she had made a jest that she would wed a rich rogue, but increasingly, she saw the merit of such a notion. The rake in question could continue to be a scoundrel in town, and she would retire to the country to read and write in peace.

It was a perfect scheme, for even if he died, she would inherit a measure of his wealth as his widow. In fact, she would ensure as much by making the provision in his will a stipulation of their match.

Fortunately, she knew a rogue who would suit her well.

All she needed was the audacity to propose to Sebastian Montgomery, Earl of Rockmorton—and the good fortune to have him accept.

Chapter 1

Airdfinnan—November 1815

Sebastian Montgomery, Earl of Rockmorton, was enjoying a brandy in the library of his friend’s Scottish house, Airdfinnan. It was a most suitable pastime for a day cursed with driving rain, though he consumed very little of the brandy. He swirled it in the glass and savored the scent of it, as was his custom.

He had received another letter from his mistress in London, the alluring Esmeralda Ballantyne, and truth be told, he did not wish to open it. He much preferred to watch the rain.

Doubtless the missive was filled with pledges of affection, requests for his return, paragraphs of yearning enough to make him yawn and ultimately, demands for some token of his supposed affections. Esmeralda had been different from other mistresses for years, but of late, she had become the same.

She had, despite her many charms, become predictable.

Sebastian despised this part of an affair. He had to break it off, but he also disliked being responsible for any woman’s tears. Usually, he convinced himself that his mistresses’ lamentations were contrived, and that all they truly loved was his generous spending.

He tired of flinging coin hither and yon. He tired of insincerity. He tired of fashionable society. And, to his own astonishment, he even tired of scandal.

Clearly, having his friends happily wed and merrily breeding was affecting his bonhomie.

He should have returned to London months before, but had lingered in Scotland all the same. He did not care to hunt particularly, though he did enjoy a bracing walk. What he liked was that his friend Alexander Armstrong’s house was a home, for all its size and magnificence. He liked the open displays of affection between duke and duchess, the camaraderie between the servants and the unpredictability of two small boys, often bent on mischief. He had proven himself to be of assistance on such errands more than once.

Airdfinnan made him realize how solitary his own life had become.

Not that he had any plans to change his situation. Entanglements only led to disappointment, heartbreak and sorrow. No, Sebastian Montgomery had resolved twelve years before that his heart would never be shattered by loss again—and the sole way to achieve that objective, to his thinking, was to lead the life of a veritable hermit.

An occasional visit to Airdfinnan was simply a sample of the road not taken. It appealed precisely because it was so different from his own life, and he would not be seduced into making a terrible error.

Sebastian swirled the brandy and considered the wording of the missive he would send Esmeralda, terminating their arrangement. He would be polite but firm, as always he was. Resolute. If he did it by mail and immediately, by the time he returned to town, she would have found herself another lover. There would be no tedious scenes in public or awkward moments at the theater, and he would be able to seek a new recipient for his affections.

The other trouble was that he did not look forward to the search for a new nocturnal companion. He had always savored the hunt only when it came to women, but this particular chase had become so predictable.

What Sebastian desired most was a surprise. A challenge. A quest.

Even an adventure.

He was unlikely to find it in the duke’s library in Scotland while the rain beat against the windows. Nor was he likely to discover it at the bottom of the brandy decanter. How tedious that at thirty-two, he suddenly had need of an occupation.

He was staring at the blank paper as if his letter would magically write itself when Miss Eurydice entered the library. She appeared to be unaware of his presence, but that did not surprise Sebastian. The younger sister of the duchess was often lost in her own thoughts or bent upon her own quests. She was definitely unlike other women of his acquaintance and, as a rare species of femininity, she interested him. It appeared that she sought a book in this particular moment, for she immediately began scanning the shelves.

It was a pity that she cared only for books. Since the marriage of the duke to her older sister, Daphne, several years before, Miss Eurydice had blossomed into a most enticing young woman. She had to be eighteen years of age by now and though Sebastian did not care in the least for maidens, he certainly admired the result. Her hair was still a darker blond than that of her sister, and she had grown taller, slimming through the waist and gaining more curves in a most attractive way. The view of her from behind was most charming. Sebastian could even glimpse her trim ankles when she stretched to reach a volume from a high shelf.

She had a general indifference about her appearance, which he liked. He disliked when women were concerned only with their hair or their faces—there was something more honest about Miss Eurydice’s disregard for such details. This also meant that her hair was often in slight disarray despite her maid’s herculean efforts. The curls that escaped their bonds fascinated Sebastian—there was nothing quite so feminine as a stray curl against a soft cheek, in his view, or anything more likely to tempt his touch. Such was the curse of unruly waves in her hair, he supposed, but the sight of her often reminded Sebastian of the look of a woman who had been thoroughly sampled. Had she been lounging abed with a satisfied smile, Miss Eurydice would have been a fine subject for a painting, one he