A Husband for Hire (The Heirs & Spares Series Book 1) Read online

  A Husband for Hire

  A Regency Romance

  By

  Patricia A. Knight

  www.trollriverpub.com

  A Husband for Hire

  The Heirs & Spares Series (Book 1)

  Copyright © 2018 Patricia A. Knight

  ISBN: 978-1-946454-43-0

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted, with the exception of a reviewer who may quote passages in a review, without written prior permission from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, events, incidents and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

  Join the fun with Author Patricia A. Knight for giveaways, updates and new release opportunities at: http://eepurl.com/dcJVCn

  Other books by Patricia A. Knight:

  Verdantia Series

  Hers to Command

  Hers to Choose

  Hers to Cherish

  Hers to Claim

  Hers to Captivate

  Stand Alones

  Adam’s Christmas Eve

  Undertow

  Dedication

  This one’s for you, Mom.

  You always wanted me to write a Regency.

  Table of Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  An Author’s Quandary

  Thank you to…

  A huge Thank You to Marilyn Lakewood who read every word of this in rough draft about twenty times, brainstormed the ending with me and is the best cheerleader an author could want. Heartfelt thanks to Elizabeth SaFleur who rearranged the opening line to the betterment of this story and to Carol McKibben, Kris Michaels and Rachel DeLune who read the first sex scene (and many other scenes for that matter) and gave it a gold star. And finally, kisses, kisses, to Stephanie McKibben who hates flashbacks! So there aren’t any. Ha! A huge “Muwah” to Kira, Diane, and Racheal for being great betas!

  Thanks most especially to Georgette Heyer, the Queen of Regency, whose witty banter and charming men captured my fourteen-year-old heart and started a love affair with historical romance that has never left me. I hope you reign in heaven.

  Finally, thank you to my wonderful editor, Josephine Henke, who rescues me from homonyms, fights the good fight against a plethora of adverbs, keeps the continuity flowing and wrangles all my commas into the right places. I promise I’ll get better. You have a thankless job if ever there was one.

  Chapter One

  London, late February 1814

  “T

  hese are the best marital prospects you can discover? In all of London?”

  The Lady Eleanor Constance Russell, sole offspring of The Right Honorable Earl of Rutledge and The Right Honorable Countess of Rutledge slapped the sheet of paper she’d been reading down on top of the mahogany desk and bestowed on her London barrister the look of a woman at her wit’s end. Grief for her dying parents and a sense of utter desperation had driven her to actions she considered borderline insanity. If she accepted any of the names on this list, she might as well rent rooms in Bedlam. Eleanor fought the hysteria surging in her breast and tried for a more cajoling tone. “Surely you can come up with more worthy candidates?”

  The barrister who had served her family for the last forty years sat immobile in his great chair, hunkered down behind his great desk, his hands steepled in front of his narrow-lipped mouth. “This was no small task you set before me, Lady Russell. We are at war with France. Many of our most eligible men fill our army and navy.”

  Her troubled gaze swung outward. Outside the windows of Elsington & Elsington, the London hansom cabs clopped past in the traffic-clogged street. Everyone had business to conduct it seemed. With a heavy sigh, she returned to the issue that had torn her away from the bedside of her failing but beloved parents and the celebrated stud farm into which she’d poured twenty-plus years of her life.

  Her eyes flicked to the sheet in front of her, and she jabbed at it with an index finger. “Sir Clive Wellery. Fifty-six years of age, just interred his fourth wife, has no property of worth, eleven dependents ranging in age from two months to twenty-two years, known for a propensity to overindulge in spirits and gambling, currently renting a six-bedroom house in Bloomsbury.” She shuddered and whispered, “Eleven children.” Her eyes rose and gazed at the gentleman across the desk from her then dropped back to the paper.

  “Lord Hilary Vance. Sixty-four years of age, of no property or spouse. No dependents, an unfortunate victim of the ‘China disease.’” She cleared her throat. “I understand there is no opium den he does not frequent.”

  The barrister sat motionless in his chair and gave her a disapproving frown. She rolled her eyes. “I am thirty-years-old, sir. I’m not an ignorant debutante.”

  “I disapprove of your unorthodox education, Ma’am. It did you a great disservice, and so I told your father.”

  You old fusspot. Eleanor swallowed her retort and returned her gaze to the page on the desk. “And then there is Sir Aubrey Dedham… really, Mr. Elsington? Really? The fellow lives at the molly houses.” She frowned as her barrister stirred awkwardly in his high-backed chair. “Did you think I didn’t know the meaning of the term? How am I supposed to persuade a sodomite into marriage with a woman when he is not inclined toward women in the first place?” She scowled. “Though perhaps my possessing no feminine attributes is a recommendation.”

  “Lady Russell, please…”

  Eleanor held up a gloved hand. “Stop. I know what you are going to say. £30,000 will make any man blind. And this last entry.” She sighed and relaxed her upright spine for one moment before resuming her erect posture and folding her hands in her lap. “This last marital candidate.” She could feel the heat climb her neck into her cheeks at the thought of a man that elegant ever giving her a second look and if he did… she’d probably turn and flee.

  “The Lord Miles Everleigh, twenty-five, the third of four sons, whose eldest brother is the new Duke of Chelsony. I understand Lord Miles lives on the charity of “friends” in return for his convivial companionship and educated guidance on the purchase of fine bloodstock. What could induce…”

  She closed her eyes and fought back the tears that threatened. How had she come to this? Was she going to go through with an action that in her more rational moments caused her to lose the contents of her stomach? In short, yes. The alternative was even more appalling.

  One thought of the manor house with its 100,000 acres of attached properties and villages all peopled with men and women who relied on her family for their livelihood... the thought of all this reverting to the Crown because of some quirk in the laws of primogeniture? Accompanying the loss would be the upheaval and complete displacement of the lovely Thoroughbred mares and stallions of impeccable breeding whose pedigrees she could recite to the nth generation and all their offs
pring, in short, the entire racing stud she’d helped her father make so fabulously successful. Well, it was enough to make anyone cry.

  Despite having three torturous seasons on the marriage mart ten years ago, no eligible man—there’d been numerous made ineligible by virtue of being unacceptable to her parents or unacceptable to her—had stepped forward with an offer to make her his wife. All the wealth and property she would bring with her was insufficient incentive to overcome her plain features, awkward deportment and utter lack of the slightest feminine attribute, so… she’d have to buy a husband—and soon. With no male heir, upon the death of her father, the estate, and all its entailed properties would be subject to the peregrinations of escheat.

  “Mr. Elsington…please. What could possibly recommend me to Lord Miles Everleigh? Even rusticating as I have been, I hear the on-dits about the ever-so-handsome and sophisticated Lord Miles Everleigh. There will always be other options for a man like this, much better options than a gawky plank of an ape-leader with shriveled social skills who reeks of the stables and is his senior by five years.”

  The man across from her cleared his throat. “My lady…if I may be allowed…” He looked over his pince-nez. “The marriage agreement that you have required me to draw up demands a gentleman of a certain …” He shifted uncomfortably. “Ah…”

  “Let me assist you. The word you want is desperation. It wants a gentleman who has reached a point of desperation. Well, Mr. Elsington, find more candidates. This week. I’m running out of time.”

  “Err, yes, Lady Russell. Quite.” His eyes softened. “How is your father, my lady?”

  Eleanor dropped her eyes and fought for composure until she was sure she could speak without succumbing to tears. “The physicians tell me, ‘at most a few months’. He could go at any time.”

  “My sincere regrets, ma’am. Lord Rutledge is a fine gentleman.”

  With a murmur of thanks, she inhaled and rose to her full height. Mr. Elsington was not a short man, but as he stood to escort her out, she topped him by a full head, reminding her yet again of her abysmal lack of any physical feature possessed by an even a moderately desirable woman. She hardened her jaw as she marched out of the law offices to her waiting carriage. There was no point in dwelling on a source of immense hurt that her adoring parents and formidable fortune hadn’t protected her from, nor the reasons for her present desperate action. She decided on the instant to go to the one place in all of London where she’d always felt at home regardless of the strictures of polite society and Richard Tattersal’s distinct lack of welcome for those of her sex.

  “Take me to Tattersalls, John. They have advertised some young breeding stock I want to inspect. We need some outside lines to cross on Dare To Dream.”

  “Yes, your ladyship.” With a tip of his beaver brim, he helped her into the carriage and climbed onto the box. At John Coachman’s instruction, the groom stepped away from the leaders, sprang to the back of the carriage and the team of beautifully matched bays stepped smartly away.

  The Lord Miles Wrotham Everleigh and his companion, The Right Honorable Reginald Eugene Beechworth, Baron of Stanton, “Reggie” or simply “Stanton” to his close friends, tipped their hats and bowed to two smiling matrons and their wide-eyed daughters who trailed their mamas like ducklings—if ducklings were prone to giggle. At mid-day, shoppers jammed the high street shops of London’s Burlington Arcade.

  “That Lady Beatrice Alderdice is a lovely item and young enough to be entirely amenable to be shaped to the wishes of a husband.” Reggie grinned at Miles. “It’s said she’s to have £5,000 a year. That sum would keep you in a good supply of fine cattle.”

  Miles summoned a smile and injected a carefree note in his voice that did not conform to his current inward disposition, but then a penniless gentleman reliant upon the good graces of his friends didn’t have the luxury of expressing his true feelings. He must be all things amiable at all times. “Ah, Stanton…you know as well as I, it’s not the young ladies I must navigate to acquire a wife…it’s their mamas and papas—and no parent worthy of the name would allow me to grace their doorstep—no matter my lineage. Besides, the young lady in question is only fifteen. She’s barely out of the schoolroom.”

  “But if they only knew you, Miles, surely…”

  “Ha! That’s the thing, you see. They do know me. They know I have nothing to offer their daughters other than the clothes I stand up in.”

  Both men paused in their stroll to tip their hats at another well-dressed woman of their acquaintance.

  “Fiend take it! Miles, you’re dashed handsome and well-spoken; you’re well-bred, connected to all the right people. Everyone likes you. You’re the best friend a man could ask for, and you’re—”

  “Poor.” He laughed. “I haven’t a sixpence to scratch with, Stanton, and no expectations. There’s no getting over this heavy ground lightly. I’m the third son who lives on his wits and twenty-five pounds a month. No recommendation when setting up a household.” He glanced at his friend and chuckled. “Even if you think I’m a nonpareil.”

  His friend sighed. “Well, you have a home with me for as long as you wish it. Mary adores you and…well…” Reggie cleared his throat awkwardly. “You know how I feel about you.”

  “You’re very kind.” Miles consulted his pocket watch. “We’d better be off to Tattersalls, or we’re going to miss the auction on that hunter you wanted me to look at.” At the change of subject, Baron Stanton’s face held an expression of relief that Miles found comical though he secretly sympathized. He was no lover of spouting on about his emotions, either.

  Eleanor glanced around the courtyard at Tattersalls and noted the auction on heavy hunters had just finished. Her presence at the male bastion of horseflesh drew many disapproving eyes from the gentlemen, but she didn’t care. Her groom accompanied her, so propriety was satisfied. She was here on business—not some frivolous passing of time. Her money spent every bit as well as theirs.

  The young breeding stock should be up next. Though she was not in the market for a hunter, a particularly prime specimen caught her eye, as did the two handsome men that remained to examine the bay gelding. She wandered over to secure a place in the front of the coming auction, her groom trailing at a discreet distance, and she couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

  “Stanton, I’m sure he will be up to your weight and give you many years of good use.”

  “You’re certain he is better than the chestnut, then? Miles, I had my heart set on that fellow.”

  The other gentlemen chuckled and shook his head. “Reg, the chestnut is a flash horse with his blond mane and tail and those four white stockings, but his legs lack the necessary bone for a hunter carrying a man’s weight. He might make a hack for Mary. I promise you…” He leaned over and gave the solid bay horse a fond pat. “This sweet goer will serve you far better though he be dressed in plain clothing. He won’t leave you riding shanks mare home from the hunting field.”

  Eleanor eyed the “plainly dressed” horse in question and thought him not plain at all. While it was true his coloration was of the most common, the animal’s build was anything but. He was an example of the best of breeding to purpose. His sturdy, straight, unblemished legs guaranteed whoever rode him out in the morning to hunt would not trudge home on foot in the evening, leading a lame horse. She thought ‘Stanton’ had received excellent advice, and she watched as a stable boy appeared and led the gelding away. The two men lingered, and she thoughtfully studied what she could see of them. There was something familiar about the taller man, but without a better look, it was difficult to say who he was.

  “What do you think, Miles? Shall we stay and see what breeding stock is up next? I wouldn’t mind something to send down to the home farm to breed to that old stud Lord Exeter is standing.”

  “I’m at your disposal, sir. My time is your time.”

  The elegantly attired gentleman addressed as ‘Miles’ turned slightly and glanc
ed at her. When she made eye contact with him and nodded, he gave her a quizzical look before a pleasant smile crossed his outrageously handsome face, and he tipped his hat politely. He turned to his friend and must have said something, for the man he was with raised his head and glanced at her, but dismissed her. It was a reaction she was all too familiar with. She was mature, not a beauty and far too tall to appeal to a gentleman’s eye. Eleanor drew back, ducking behind another patron. While it was obvious the taller gentleman did not remember her, she did recognize him. Lord Miles Everleigh. There were not many men of his height nor breadth of shoulder. Indeed, nature had not scrimped anywhere on Lord Miles. Even she, with her utter disdain for the male sex, had no difficulty whatsoever recalling every detail surrounding her first glimpse of the man.

  A conversation of many months ago with a dear childhood friend, now a dashing widow of independent means, came to mind, and color rose in Eleanor’s cheeks. Normally she’d find the hours spent selecting and buying a young broodmare a delightful occupation that would consume all her attention, but with the burning issue of finding a suitable marital candidate and the image of the striking Lord Everleigh fresh in her mind, perhaps reconnecting with her old friend was a more… profitable… way to spend her time.

  “Eleanor, what a delightful surprise! I had no idea you were in London.” The Honorable Lady Florence Lloyd-Smythe entered the elegant parlor of her London residence in a waft of attar of rose and a swish of fine linen and lace.

  Eleanor placed her teacup on the saucer in her lap then set both on a low table and rose to meet her friend. “Florence, I’ve missed you terribly.”

  “That’s your fault, dearest. I’ve asked you to town often enough.” The young widow wrapped Eleanor in a brief hug before she stepped back and motioned to the love seat. “Please sit. We have so much to catch up on.” She sank down beside Eleanor. “Oh, fabulous, Cook sent up tea and some of her biscuits and lemon cakes.” Florence laughed and patted her stomach. “I must restrict myself to bread and water one of these days, or I won’t fit into my new gowns.” She grinned at Eleanor and helped herself to a liberal portion of the treats.