A Fiery Escort For The Roguish Marquess (Steamy Historical Regency) Read online

  A Fiery Escort for the Roguish Marquess

  A Steamy Regency Romance

  Scarlett Osborne

  Edited by

  Maggie Berry

  Contents

  A Thank You Gift

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Seduced by the Brooding Duke

  About the Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Also by Scarlett Osborne

  About the Author

  A Thank You Gift

  Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love.

  As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you called Seduced by the Brooding Duke. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by tapping this link here.

  Once more, thanks a lot for your love and support.

  With love and appreciation,

  Scarlett Osborne

  About the Book

  And suddenly, she was his everything...

  Having spent years working as an escort, Rachel Bell yearns for a chance at a different life, away from the sins of the past. That chance presents itself when a handsome young lord steps into the tavern.

  Ernest Jackson, Marquess of Dalton, sees his mundane life take a dramatic turn the day he finds a mysterious box. On a mission to solve the mystery of his allegedly deceased sister, he discovers he has been lied to all of his life.

  His search leads him to Rachel, who proves to be not only a skillful spy but also his sole ally...

  But their questions raise suspicions and when Rachel gets kidnapped, Ernest needs to pay the ultimate price: his own life. Sooner than later they will both realize that some truths are worse than lies—especially when the liar wears a familiar face.

  Chapter 1

  The men leaned forward with snorts of laughter, waiting with bated breath for the punchline. “And then he came home to find the little bobtail on his doorstep!”

  A roar of laughter filled the dining room, the sound rising into the great fug of smoke hanging above the men’s heads.

  “What d’you expect? The man’s the king of the bawdy houses. Those cats would all be out on their asses if it weren’t for him.”

  Ernest Jackson, Marquess of Dalton, realized his laughter was forced. How long had this been the case, he wondered? How many nights had he sat in this dining room with his father and his acquaintances, and laughed a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes? Though he had only just become aware of his strained chuckling, Ernest knew quite well that he had not found the Earl of Landon and his wenching particularly amusing for as long as he could remember.

  He took a sip from his port glass and leaned back in his chair, contemplating.

  Is there something wrong with me?

  Ernest had never thought himself to be a dull man. He was a fine whist player, was fond of a joke, and could strike up a damn good argument at the coffee houses. He loved sharp company, enjoyed a challenge, flourished around other men. And yet, this sorry excuse for humor that unfolded at Graceton Manor on a regular basis made him wish to be anywhere else on earth.

  Good Lord, he thought. A dull ache was beginning to press behind his eyes as the Earl had gone to fetch the chamber pot. He returned to the room, producing it with a flourish, to a cheer far more befitting a knock-out blow at a boxing final.

  The chamber pot was passed around beneath the table, eliciting an array of happy groans and sighs as it made its rounds.

  The Earl took a long draw on his pipe and blew a line of smoke upwards. “I tried to take her to the cock fighting,” he told the men, most of whom were now jacketless, their waistcoats unbuttoned over bloated stomachs. “Next thing I know, she’s out cold in my lap.”

  Another roar.

  There it is again. That forced laughter.

  Ernest had felt this way since his return from the war, three years earlier. After facing his own mortality, the flippant concerns of the ton seemed so pointless, so insignificant. How could a man be expected to care about the Earl of Landon’s latest exploits when he had watched his friends die around him?

  Ernest was growing less and less tolerant as his thirtieth birthday grew near. Then again, there had always been a part of him that had found something mildly cringe worthy about a group of grown men passing around a chamber pot and pissing beneath the table.

  His father, the Duke of Armson, who was sitting beside him, reached over to clap his son over the shoulder. “All right there, boy?”

  No doubt he’d noticed the strain in Ernest’s grin.

  Ernest nodded, smiled. “All right, sir.” He raised his glass and clinked it against the duke’s.

  Ernest had a deep love and respect for his father that even a night with the Earl of Landon could not erase. Outside of the smoking room, the Duke was a well-spoken and intelligent man, deeply committed to preserving the honor of his family name. He had been a strong and imposing figure throughout Ernest’s childhood, but it had never been fear that Ernest had felt for the man. Rather, he’d sought to be as much like his father as he could—well-liked, well-respected and brave.

  “You’ll notice Dalton here is rather quiet,” the Duke boomed, giving Ernest another hearty slap on the shoulder. “He’s never been one for animal sports, have you lad? Cock fighting and such.”

  Ernest gave a quick smile. “No, sir.”

  The Earl leaned forward, jabbing his pipe at Ernest. “What’s the matter, boy? The sight of blood makes you queasy?”

  Ernest shrugged coolly and took another mouthful of port. “I prefer my sports to involve a little more skill.” Did he sound like some conceited fop? So be it. Rather a conceited fop, he thought, than a bawdy drunkard like the Earl of Landon.

  The Earl snorted. “Like what? Bilbocatch?”

  “Dalton was a fine fencer when he was younger,” the Duke announced, jabbing his butter knife into the air like a rapier. “Regional champion and all.” His voice swelled with pride, and more than a little port.

  Fencing. Ernest had not thought of such a thing in years. Had not picked up a saber in years. But yes, he remembered. Once that sword had felt like an extension of his own hand. He smiled to himself, warm with th
e memory.

  With the port bottle emptied and the room filled with smoke, the men stood wearily and made their way toward the door.

  The Duke walked close beside Ernest. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you tonight.” His voice was low. “Speaking of fencing and the like.”

  Ernest chuckled. “No, sir. It’s quite all right.”

  He was glad of the memory. Glad to be reminded of a lost part of himself. Glad to remember a time when he had been far less disillusioned with this cigar-scented, smoking-room life than he was now.

  * * *

  Ernest lay in bed with his arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Despite the healthy serving of port he’d consumed that evening, he felt wide awake.

  My saber.

  When had he last seen it? Certainly, before he’d been shipped off to fight. Probably before his days in Cambridge. Was it still in the house? And, more to the point, why had he suddenly become so obsessed with the damned thing?

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ernest knew the answer to that. That sword was a tiny piece of his old, satisfied life—a life he longed to have back. The sense of feeling out of place was growing stronger with each passing year. A strange thing, he thought, to feel such a foreigner in the very house one had been born and raised in.

  He slid out of bed and pulled on his trousers, tucking his nightshirt into them messily. He lit a candle and made his way out into the hallway. The house was quiet, save for one of the kitchen maid’s soft footsteps in an attic bedroom above his head. Outside the window, he heard the faint coo of an owl.

  Ernest made his way past the closed bedroom doors of his mother and father, reaching one of the guest rooms at the end of the passage. He slipped soundlessly inside. This room, the smallest of the four guest chambers, was rarely used, the large oak bed draped with curtains that he was sure had not been drawn in years. A large wardrobe lined one wall. Ernest set the candle down and opened the large wooden doors. The hinges groaned in protest.

  This wardrobe, Ernest knew, had become a veritable shrine to him, firstborn son and only surviving child of the Duke and Duchess of Armson. His mother had requested each piece of clothing he had outgrown to be placed in the wardrobe, along with other scraps of his childhood—school books and skittles, a set of faded toy soldiers.

  Ernest had always known it to be strange behavior, of course, the way his mother had hoarded away every moment of his childhood. But he supposed he couldn’t blame her. Though the Duke and Duchess had been married more than thirty years, he and his sister, Unity, had been the only children to arrive.

  Unity had died in the cradle—had been and gone before his time. She was rarely spoken about within the household. The only reminder that she had ever existed was the small, worn gravestone hidden amongst the resting places of the rest of his family.

  Ernest brought the candle close to the rack and pushed aside the clothes. If his fencing sword were anywhere in the house, it would be here. The cupboard smelled musty and neglected, a sudden burst of dust making him sneeze. Had his mother ever once looked at these things, he wondered? Would she notice if he was to give them away?

  Behind the clothes, he found an old pair of boxing gloves, along with battledore and shuttlecock rackets. No sword.

  He moved to the other side of the wardrobe. More clothing: boy-sized waistcoats and ruffled shirts, a skeleton suit with a tear at the knee. Beneath the clothes sat a small wooden chest. Ernest peered at it curiously.

  What is this?

  He knelt, running his fingers over the delicate carvings on the lid. He had never seen such a thing before. Had it belonged to his mother? He lifted it from the wardrobe and sat it on the floor beside him. He opened the lid. Inside, a pile of clothes was neatly folded. Ernest reached in and took the garment from the top of the pile. It was a child’s smock, the neckline delicately embroidered with pink and purple flowers and a garland of intertwined leaves. The linen was soft and smelled faintly musty, but he could tell the garment had barely been worn. He sat it down and reached for the next item. A soft, cloth bonnet, its ribbons matched the pink and purple flowers embroidered on the smock.

  Girl’s clothing. Unity’s no doubt.

  Ernest stopped abruptly, the bonnet hanging from his hand. Unity had lived mere months, or so he had been told. And yet these were not the clothes of a newborn. These were a toddler’s clothes; smocks and gowns and bonnets made for a child to race around the square and play in the manor gardens.

  He hesitated. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps these clothes had been his. He dug into the chest and pulled out the remainder of the garments, searching for something that might trigger a faint memory within him. But no. The clothes in the chest were all gowns and bloomers and embroidered smocks. They had clearly belonged to a girl.

  Ernest closed the lid of the chest, suddenly feeling an intruder. He slid it back into the wardrobe where he had found it.

  His thoughts were racing. Sleep, he knew, would not be forthcoming for many hours yet.

  Those clothes in the chest had belonged to someone. And Ernest was determined to find out who.

  Chapter 2

  Rachel Bell peered around the ballroom, searching for the man whose arm she supposed she ought to leave on. It was well past midnight, and the ball had descended into a noisy, messy affair. Men and women were howling with laughter and cursing like sailors. Most had dispensed with the masquerade hours ago, and now brightly-colored masks were strewn across the floor, flattened by footsteps and endless, drunken gavottes.

  Rachel leaned back against the wall. She had not seen her client for at least half an hour. He had disappeared to relieve himself, then vanished into the crowd with a group of men he had seemed to know.

  Rachel yawned, tapping her foot impatiently. She’d leave if it weren’t for the fact that the bastard hadn’t yet paid her.

  Finally, she caught sight of him ambling across the ballroom, a wide grin on his face and his cheeks flushed. He was wearing his mask—some unimpressive black thing he’d clearly found on his wardrobe floor minutes before he was due to leave—but it sat crookedly across his face and appeared to cover one eye.

  He kissed her neck. “My beauty.”

  Rachel forced a smile. He stank of sweat and liquor. “My money?”

  The man grumbled to himself, but dug into his coin pouch and handed over her fee. Then he slid his arm around her waist and guided her toward the door. Rachel had hoped he might have had a few too many visits to the punch bowl to bother taking full advantage of her services offered, but he was heading to an alleyway across the road with renewed vigor and a gleam in his eye.

  Soon they were stumbling into the shadows like dogs.

  You might at least have found us a decent room.

  Rachel had come across men like him before. Men who liked the allure of the dark alley, the thrill that they might one day be caught. Men who liked to cast off the restraints of their station and become someone else for the night.

  This man was all sausage fingers and skin that felt like a wet frog.

  She looked away as he grunted and puffed and thrust inside her, fat fingers gripping her shoulder and his breath hot on her neck. Rachel willed herself away. She had become adept at letting her mind exit her body, for a few, blissful moments. She thought about Christmas time. Chocolate cake. Thought about the sea. What a long time it had been since she had seen the sea.

  The man finished with an overly-dramatic groan. Rachel rolled her eyes, hiding a yawn. He straightened, tidied himself, then gave her a thin smile. And like that, he was gone.

  She let out an enormous sigh, leaning back against the wall to count the money he had paid her. Her mask lay on the cobbles beside her, the feathers muddied and drooping.

  She stuffed her coin pouch back into her pocket and made her way out to the street for a cab.

  As she always did, Rachel asked the driver to take her to Bishopsgate. From there, it was a good mile’s walk to her tenement in Bethnal Green, but sh
e hated to admit where she lived, even to a stranger. The area was cramped and filthy, waste in the streets and windows patched with rags. In the red silk dress she had worn to the masquerade, Rachel knew she could have passed for a lady. But to admit she lived in the Bethnal Green slums, it would have become clear she was nothing but an escort.