A Rose At Midnight
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
About the Author
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Copyright
“Despite your opinion of me, I am not a barbarian.”
“That is not my opinion,” Carolyn corrected.
“Oh? Then I see I have been too tame.” Magnus came to her chair and, taking her hand, drew her to her feet. “I hope I have not left you with any misconceptions. Now, come and kiss me goodbye.”
She started at his boldness. He chuckled. “In less than a week, we shall share more than that, Cara. Having second thoughts?”
“No!” she declared a little too vehemently. He was close and she found it difficult to breathe. And his hand resting high on her waist, just under her breast, was giving off a scalding heat.
There was some vague knowledge that he was toying with her, trying to shock.her. Despite his tender courtship today, she must remember Magnus was the infamous Earl of Rutherford, of whom she had heard so much ill.
Dear Reader,
If you’ve never read a Harlequin Historical, you’re in for a treat. We offer compelling, richly developed stories that let you escape to the past-by some of the best writers in the field!
We are delighted with the return of Jacqueline Navin, who is quickly becoming known for her wonderfully stormy Medieval tales with “to-die-for” heroes. Her first Regency, A Rose at Midnight, has the same passion and charm. When the powerful, roguish Earl of Rutherford thinks he is dying, he finds a wife to have his child. A penniless countess marries him because she secretly needs the money to care for her ailing brother. Neither realize that their fateful marriage of convenience will blossom into a profound love…..
For Love of Anna by Sharon Harlow is the sweet, heartwarming story of a young widow with children who finds her happilyever-after in the arms of a cowboy who is running from his past. Elizabeth Mayne’s latest Medieval tale, The Highlander’s Maiden, features a fearless female mountain guide who, by royal decree, must join forces with a mapmaker from an enemy clan.
And don’t miss Hawken’s Wife, book three of THE WEDDING TRAIL series by RITA Award finalist Rae Muir. Here, tomboy Meggie Maclntyre falls for an amnesiac mountain man whose past life threatens their future together.
Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historical® novel.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell, Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
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A Rose at Midnight
Jacqueline Navin
JACQUELINE NAVIN
lives in Maryland with her husband and three small children, where she works in private practice as a psychologist. Writing has been her hobby since the sixth grade, and she has boxes full of incomplete manuscripts to prove it.
When asked, as she often is, how she finds time in her busy schedule to write, she replies that it is not a problem-thanks to the staunch support of her husband, who is not unused to doing the dinner dishes and tucking the kids into bed. However, finding time to do the laundry-that’s the problem. Jacqueline would love to hear from her readers. Please write to her at this address: P.O. Box 1611, Bel Air, MD 21014.
To family and friends
who have held nothing back in their support of me—
thanks for all of it.
Prologue
All actual heroes are essential men,and all men possible heroes.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Magnus Eddington, the sixth Earl of Rutherford, was not a nice man.
People knew this, but they were drawn to him just the same. Men admired him, for he had an easy mastery of all things masculine: financial success, an excellent seat on a horse, women vying for his attentions. What made it all the more dashedly enviable was that the young earl seemed not to expend one whit of effort in any of these accomplishments. For this reason, among others, he had his detractors. Though fair, Eddington was a hard man who had not shrunk from making an enemy or two in the pursuit of his ambitions.
As for women, they were attracted in droves, much as moths to the flame, and most times just as tragically, for he was not prone to romanticism. He was arrogant, but they forgave him; he was inattentive, but they excused. He was handsome, of course, with a fierce look about him. Dark brows hovered over intense eyes of emerald green, glossy rich hair so dark it appeared black curled loosely down to the nape of his neck, and his face was constructed of planes and angles to lend a most appealing aspect.
This accounted for his attractiveness to women, along with the air of tragedy that surrounded him like a subtle scent. Those of a more sensitive nature responded to it, intrigued. Yet no one knew the cause of this darkness, for he kept his demons well hidden.
His only spot of humanity, insofar as anyone could see, was his fondness for his younger brother. David was an exuberant, good-natured fellow and as simple a soul as his sibling was not.
When the news of Magnus Eddington’s fatal illness reached the ears of the London social set, it was met with a mixed reaction ranging from weeping and beating of breast to glasses raised high in triumphant salute. As for the mysterious earl himself, he ingested the results of his latest medical consultation with the expressionless equanimity for which he was so well-known. The physician, the fifth and last member of that noble profession to whom he had submitted himself for examination, delivered the unfortunate diagnosis and then sat in the ensuing silence, wriggling like a plump grub on the end of a fishing hook as he contended with the earl’s strange green stare.
“There is no mistake?” The earl’s voice was a rich baritone. He could raise it with tremendous effect, shaking the rafters and jarring his listener to the core. Yet, when he spoke in this soft, even tone, the quiet innuendo of threat made it all the more intimidating.
The poor doctor cleared his throat. “Ah, ah, no.that is to say, there cannot be any other conclusion, based on my examination. The evidence is persuasive, and with the history of heart ailment in your family, there is no question, I am sorry to say.”
Magnus stood. “Then allow me to thank you, Doctor. My man will show you to the door.”
The doctor all but leapt to his feet. His hands worried at the felt brim of his hat. “There is the matter of my fee.”
“Send me an accounting of the charges, and I will pay on the morrow. Now, if you will excuse me, I wish to be alone.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Dastardly news, to be sure. It will take some time to adjust, I expect. Yes, well then, my lord. Call upon me any time you wish. Any time a ‘tall.”
“By your own prognosis, I am going to be dead before long, Doctor. Time is not something at my disposal.”
Whether from the scathing tone Magnus used, or the withering glare he threw in for good measure, the doctor’s tentative smile was quelled. “Yes, quite right.” He moved toward the door. “I shall leave you, now. I will send my man round tomorrow.” He hesitated, turning back to his patient. “May I ask, if you do not mind. what it is you plan to do now?”
Magnus bestowed his laziest scrutiny upon his guest. He wished he would leave. He wanted a drink, badly, and as reproachable as his manners were, he could not very well partake without offering the doctor a similar indulgence and Magnus had no desire for company.
The diagnosis was not a surprise. The other four physicians had rendered identical decisions. Heart ailment, the same as his father. All the information these most distinguished healers had to offer was that the trend of his decline showed no promise of relenting and would, if it continued on its current course, lead him to his grave in less than a year. It seemed there would be no answers to the why of it. Only the when.
Magnus raised his eyebrows as he forced himself to speak civilly. “What shall I do? But of course, my good man, I plan to select a wife and marry as soon as possible. Then I shall plow the wench whenever my waning energies allow and with any luck I shall beget a child on her so that when I die, a small part of me lives on.”
The doctor simply gaped at him.
Magnus felt a twinge of regret at his harshness. Devil take it, why had he spoken so? he wondered. He was feeling a subtle rage, though he was not at all certain to whom it was directed. Right now, the doctor was bearing the brunt, which was unfair. It was no more this man’s fault than it was his own.
“Are you serious, sir?”
Magnus grinned lazily. “Deadly. Now, Doctor, if you would leave me. I wish to be alone.”
After the doctor had scurried out the door, Magnus poured himself a tall glass of whiskey, threw it back in one swallow, and filled it again. Then he walked to the fireplace and stared at the cold embers in the grate. Sweet sounds of birdsong filtered through the open windows and cheery light flooded the room, contrasting sharply with his mood. He placed a hand on the mantel, letting his fingers trace the carved stone. It was beautiful. He had never really noticed it before.
Good God, he was becoming maudlin already! He drank deeply, reducing the brown liquid by half and savoring the way it burned in his chest. Pain was life. Not pleasant, but so much better than nothingness.
Maudlin indeed.
He was a liar. He didn’t wish to be alone.
Was he afraid? To his surprise, he found he was, a little. Not of death. He had to admit, this was not from any great courageousness on his part, but rather the fact of his demise still being too far off to seem real. What he was afraid of was leaving nothing of himself behind. And though it was said with a defiant bravado, every word he had uttered to the doctor had been the truth. From the time the first physician had pronounced his death sentence, he had grappled with the most fundamental urge to not quit this earth without leaving behind a trace of himself. Each doctor he consulted had stolen hope that there could be some other way to interpret the strange attacks that had begun to plague him six months ago. In its place a strong desire grew, desire for the one thing—the last and only thing—of meaning.
A child.
It was a very basic aspiration, he supposed, just one to which he had never been subject before. He had always assumed those ambitions were reserved for men more worthy than himself.
Now, the need was growing into an obsession, and with it a sense of urgency. He was dying. He had precious little time.
He abandoned the pretense of the glass and sank into a leather chair with the bottle of fine whiskey in his fist, drinking steadily until David came in.
His brother said nothing. He took the other chair, sharing the silence until Magnus spoke.
“Find her for me, David. Find me a wife.”
Chapter One
Rutherford, Cambridgeshire, England 1847
With back ramrod straight and chin raised to give her courage, Caroline Wembly lifted the heavy knocker and let it fall with a resounding knell. She cast a look over her shoulder in time to see the coach and four being led away, leaving her alone in the semicircular driveway of the grand manor of Hawking Park. Turning back to the massive door, she hitched a trembling breath and waited.
Not wanting to seem gauche in front of the coachman, she had tried to appear unimpressed by the stylishness of the phaeton in which she had just ridden. Likewise, her first glimpse of the enormous house had drawn no comment from her, nor did any of the other trappings of the Earl of Rutherford’s fabulous wealth. Still, she could not deny utter shock when she noticed the knocker she had just made good use of was not brass, as she had first assumed, but gold.
The massive portal swung inward, and a tall serious chap with a thick topping of salt-and-pepper hair stood in front of her.
“Miss Wembly?” he inquired.
She inclined her head. The man stepped backward, a sign she was to enter.
Complying, she found herself in a large circular foyer that dazzled with light from the leaded panes of countless windows. “I am Arthur,” the man said in his clipped, precise tone. “The master is expecting you. Follow me, please.” Dutifully, Caroline trailed after the majordomo, down the long, vaulted hallway. Silent except for the click of her heeled slippers on the marble floor, they proceeded past a row of arched embrasures housing a series of exquisite sculptures, alabaster nymphs whose writhing naked forms skated perilously close to the edges of decency. She was shocked by the sensuous bodies, and had to keep her gaze averted until they passed through a groaning set of mahogany doors and into a palatial salon. Arthur indicated a chair, and Caroline seated herself.
“The master shall be in momentarily,” he stated. He backed out of the room, closing the door without producing the slightest sound.
Blowing out her held breath, Caroline Wembly deflated, bowing her head and almost doubling over. Gloved hands dug into the brocade upholstery at her side, finding no purchase in the stiff cushion. Throwing back her head, she breathed deeply to steady her nerves as she looked about her.
Never had she been to a place such as this! As if her present mission were not harrowing enough, finding herself amidst all this mind-numbing grandeur nearly reduced her to a quivering mass of anxiety.
Praying the earl would not be arriving too quickly, she rushed to a gilded mirror to check her appearance. The crisp swish of her skirts seemed to echo in the cavernous room. A critical perusal in the silvered glass reassured her all was in order. She ran her hands down the clean line of her gown, frowned, then adjusted her bosom so a generous swelling of each breast loomed over the top. It was, of course, unthinkable to be showing one’s bosom at this time of day, but Caroline was determined to exploit all of her assets to the best advantage.
After all, she mused as she adjusted a blond curl at her temple, if one is going to act the whore, one should look the part.
Her eyes caught their own reflection then. Blue orbs, so deep in color they had been called violet by more than one admirer, appeared overlarge, dominating her tense, pinched features. Good Lord, this would never do! She looked petrified. The image staring back at her from the glass was of a pale-faced, round-eyed waif frightened out of her wits.
No matter if it were true by half, the Earl of Rutherford would not want an awestruck ninny. It was worry over James, written in her face, making her appear less than her twenty-two years. Grimacing, she narrowed her eyes and firmly turned her thoughts to her father—that wretch! It was he who was most to blame for her having to come here and prostrate herself in a most humiliating fashion in front of a stranger. As the bitterness congealed inside her chest, she watched her wan face harden. Her soft mouth set, her eyes turned cold.
Satisfied, she shifted her attention to her gown. This was the one detail where she was the least sure of herself. She had purchased it only last week from Mrs. Rensacker’s shop in London. It had stood on the rack with the other abandoned garments which had been ordered by frivolous patrons and never collected. The material was a deep blue silk, a shade which provided a striking foil for her unusual eye color, and offset the paleness of her cornsilk-colored hair. Caroline and her mother had labored around the clock to rework the castoff into some semblance of style and fit for her slender form. However, neither she nor her mother were clever with a needle, and the niggling fear that she would split a seam was distracting. Even with this concern, the dress was lovely, truly worth every penny.
A pang of conscience at the cost hit her hard. She had spent nearly all of the proceeds from her greatgrandmother’s brooch. The sadness at the loss of such a precious keepsake was overshadowed by the thought of the amount of money she had invested in this insane scheme, money they could ill afford. Reminding herself it was all for James, she pushed the regret aside. No cost was too high for him.
She gave herself a last long look, deciding that she had, after all, turned out satisfactorily.
From behind her she detected a sound: someone—a male someone—clearing his throat. She whirled.and found herself staring at a darkly clad form of a man.
He had her pinned by a pair of iridescent green eyes that seemed to glow with an inner mischief. From the cut of his clothing and the haughty expression, Caroline concluded he could be none other than Magnus Eddington, Earl of Rutherford, himself!
But this could not be the earl. This man was not what she had expected.
In fact, he was amazingly robust for a dying man, younger than she had anticipated—perhaps a score and ten. Caroline guessed he might stand a head taller than the average male, and thus herself, for she could meet most men on eye level. The crisply starched lawn of his shirt and loosely tied cravat seemed a gratuitous semblance of civility encasing a massive chest and shoulders as broad as the mighty Atlas. A carefully tailored morning coat stretched snugly across the breadth of these assets, showing them to advantage then tapering to accentuate a narrower waist and hips. Oh yes, a man in excellent physical health to be sure. Caroline was certain she must be mistaken.
“My lord?” she asked. Her voice sounded high and unnatural in her own ears. Goodness, she had suffered a shock.
He bowed slightly, almost mockingly. “Magnus Eddington, at your service, Miss Wembly.”
This was the earl! His face was fascinating, for there was hardness in the cut of his jaw and the contemptuous curl of his nostrils, yet the strange green eyes, held as they were in frames of sooty lashes, looked haunted and the sensuous curve of his mouth belied a soft, sensitive aspect as if twin natures were at war within him, each claiming different features. A peculiar observation, as was the certainty of mystery, of something withheld, behind the aristocratic bearing and devastatingly handsome face.
That was another surprise. Her mental image of the earl had been of a frail, sickly man prone to vanity, for she had heard rumors of his amorous conquests and questionable reputation. A popinjay, perhaps; what used to be called a “fop” in her grandmother’s day. The man before her was the quintessential opposite of such a dandy, for he exuded an air of unrefined masculinity that seemed to steal across the room and entwine itself around her, choking away her courage.
And he had seen her preening like a court peacock! Ignoring the shame flooding through her, she pulled herself up into a rigid posture and met his gaze head-on. It was an old reflex; just when she felt the most vulnerable did she become the most reckless.
“Miss Wembly,” he said again as he strode into the room. “Please have a seat.”
She was grateful to do so, for her faux pas left her feeling off-balance. She perched on the edge of the chair and watched as he moved, as stealthily as any feline, to recline comfortably in the opposite chair. Crossing his long legs, he cocked his elbows on the tufted arms of the chair and folded his hands in front of his chin. Saying not a word, he gazed at her mercilessly until she spoke to fill the void.
“You have many beautiful pieces.” Waving an arm toward a pedestal, she indicated the gorgeous sculpture set upon it. She was mortified to realize the piece was a particularly vivid depiction of two unclothed lovers in each other’s embrace. Quickly, she returned her hand to her lap.
The half smile reappeared on his face. “Yes, I noticed you admiring them.” He meant, as she well knew, that he had seen her fussing over her appearance. It was this quip which caught her up short and enabled her to regain her head.
She forced herself to sit back in her seat and return his stare with what she hoped was a look of defiance. She would be damned if she would flutter and gab to fill the silence. After all, it was his interview. Let him take the lead.
Best not to think how desperately she wanted, needed, to win this position. How odd, to think of it that way, but it was the truth. She was applying for the position of his wife and future mother of his heir.
Forcing aside discomfort, she sat unmoving under that strange stare of his until he finally spoke.
“Please tell me about yourself, Miss Wembly.”
She had prepared for this. “My name is Arabella Caroline Wembly, but I have been called Caroline since birth. I am twenty-two years old. I was born in London, and have lived there since I was a babe. My father was the second son of a marquess, and made his money in shipping, so we were somewhat well-off, though by no means wealthy. I was educated by a governess until the age of eleven, when I was sent to-”
“Why are you unmarried at such an age as twentytwo?” the earl interrupted.
The question was insufferably rude. Yet in this strange, almost absurd situation, common courtesies could not stand unaltered. Caroline drew in a bracing breath and answered. “1 did have two seasons when I was seventeen and eighteen, but no one caught my fancy.”
“But I’ll wager you caught theirs, did you not?” He moved suddenly, leaning forward to peer at her more intently. How like a cat his movements were. A cat eyeing its prey. “How many marriage proposals did you receive?”
“Several,” Caroline countered curtly.
“Several, meaning two? Or several meaning twenty?”
Caroline glared at him. The maddening way his gaze held her almost as tightly as a stifling embrace wore on her nerves. She notched up her chin and said, “I received nine marriage proposals, my lord.”
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, but she could see he was pleased at having baited her so well. “And did none suit?”
“No, my lord.”
“May I ask why not?”
She gritted her teeth. “No, my lord, you may not.”
He was deciding whether to anger or be amused, she could see. Damn him, and his impertinent questions. She wanted this so badly, but already he was prompting a most unattractive aspect of her nature to assert itself—pride.