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An orphaned miss who would not settle for less
Otilia Kendall is an orphaned miss brought up by her uncle and aunt, the late Earl and Countess of Thornton. Never having met her father, she learned the hard way that love or marriage isn’t in her future. Tired of receiving demeaning propositions from the ton gents, she has decided to make her own way in the world. But then the domineering—and handsome as the devil—new Earl takes over. He gives her a dowry and carts her to London to marry her off. She wants none of it but has no choice. In close contact with the man, it is becoming impossible not to make a fool of herself—yet again!
An arrogant lord who could not stay away from her
Edmund, the hot-blooded new Earl, is stunned by the poise of the very grown-up debutante he once met. Weary of women interested only in his title, he shuns any idea of love. It is getting hard to ignore the little miss—together with some other hard parts of his anatomy. The temptation of her is eating at him and making him crave the woman to distraction. Their simmering passion is about to burst. And to the blazes with propriety.
And the love struggling to unite them
CHAPTER ONE
Leicester, England, 1815
Miss Otilia Kendall was a woman destitute. She had not always been so. But for six months now, her situation had worsened considerably. She was destitute of legitimacy, for one. Her biological mother had been the late Countess of Thornton's sister who, after widowed, had embarked on a secret liaison from which Otilia had become its product. Dead at childbirth, the responsibility fell to her aunt, Lady Agatha Chadwick, nee Kendall, to raise her. And it eased the sadness of her aunt’s childless marriage. The poor dear who had been a mother to her died three years ago of consumption, leaving behind a great deal of sorrow for Otilia and her aunt’s husband.
Lord Earnest Chadwick received Otilia in his household with affable acceptance and became nothing less than a father to her. Until he also passed six months ago, resulting in her being alone in this world, depleted of a family and a means of subsistence. The Thornton estate had endured bad crops in the last few years, making her uncle die poor and indebted.
She was also destitute because there would never be the prospect of a decent marriage. Who on this earth would marry an orphaned, illegitimate, dowry-less miss? At twenty-six and practically on the shelf, she harboured no illusions on the matter.
Which was why she had been answering advertisements requiring governesses or companions, whichever position availed itself first. She might as well put her polished upbringing and education to good use.
But no position had arisen so far.
This fact accumulated a certain distress over the shape of her future.
Otilia was not a woman to sit and fret uselessly all day. This being the reason she now sat in the morning room with a pile of silverware before her. With a cloth in her hand, she cleaned the silver with scrupulous attention.
The household had been reduced to a maid and a footman who amassed a heavy workload. Miss Kendall helped as much as possible. Part housekeeper, part bookkeeper, she did whatever other tasks needed attention. It was the least she could do for her dearly missed uncle.
His heir did not show for the funeral, or ever since for that matter. Rumours had him travelling the continent on business. He could move to the confines of China as far as Otilia was concerned. The secret hope that she might find a suitable position before the absent heir deigned to undertake the responsibilities accrued to his title glowed snuggly inside her.
If she did not have to see the man ever again in her life, it would be too soon.
But she refused to think about the new Earl. There were countless chores that needed doing. After the silverware, she would help the maid and footman hang the laundry which was keeping them busy in the washroom this very moment. Then, after luncheon, there were the ledgers to update. Late winter announced a busy time in the manor.
Located in the region of Leicester, Thornton Manor prided itself on being one of the oldest in England, albeit with undeniable signs of decay as of late. The main building exhibited an Elizabethan style preserved throughout the centuries by the wealthy Earls of Thornton. Medieval remains still surrounded the newer parts, witnesses of its long-standing power.
Standing up from her chair, Otilia took the pieces she had already cleaned to keep them in the cupboard. An apron protected her simple mourning dress, retrieved from her aunt’s passing. Frugality must be the tune in these difficult times.
Heavy footsteps pounded in the hallway. Robson, the footman, must be coming to tell her they had finished the laundry.
“Good morning, Otilia.” The voice came from the door behind her.
Her body went so rigid it must have been moulded in concrete. Her muscles and nerves stopped all motion, and her breathing stuck. If there was one thing she would never, ever forget in her life, it would be that deep, low voice. Long ago, she had compared it not to oozing chocolate. No, that comparison seemed too vulgar for that unforgettable sound. Over the years she had been such a naïve, romantic ninny, that she had compared it to rich syrup with a twist of nutmeg—sweet on the surface, but raspy underneath. The voice had enchanted her as much as, or even more than, his appearance.
Only now did she realise the silver candelabra she was holding became locked in her fingers. They clasped the metal with such force they whitened, the reliefs on the piece digging in her palms. She made a conscious, superhuman effort to set her arms in motion again. In slow, deliberate movements, she raised the precious silver and placed it on the shelf. Studiously, she turned to the man standing in the doorway.
“My lord,” she said in what she hoped was a cold greeting. The curtsy she produced came to her elegantly, due only to decades of practice.
For eight years, she fed a fervent wish that she never set eyes on him again, not after she had made a stupid fool of herself. A mistake she promised not to repeat in her whole lifetime.
Curtsy done, she had no other choice than to raise her gaze to him. As their eyes clashed, his widened for a millisecond. Those long-lashed, jet-black eyes melted stone as much as they froze the sun with a mere glance.
No deliverance for her here. The sight of him still caused a vicious turmoil to move inside her as it always did. But before, it had been a joyous rippling, like gentle waves in an ebbing tide. Now, the waves smashed at each other in a tempest full of contradictoriness. The emotions shook her insides in a series of back sweeps. Her inner restive state provoked further stillness outwards, with a blank face to go with it. So, when her honey eyes met his, they took on a frosty hue.
He stood just inside th
e threshold, six foot four inches of haughty nobleman, long legs braced, hands behind his back, filling nearly all the doorframe with a powerful body clad in black finery.
“Welcome to Thornton Manor,” she clipped, meaning anything but.
His hard, jet eyes narrowed on her for a split second before his expression smoothed to cool features; if that would be possible for such a rugged face.
The most beautiful face she would ever have the displeasure of regarding. Coal hair, blade nose, unyielding jaw…
“There seems not to be a butler in the premises.”
He must have meant that as an explanation for not being announced. The expectation of a house full of servants surely originated from his newly attributed title because Edmund Randolph Brentwood came not from nobility himself. The late Earl had been his cousin trice removed. When her aunt got past the age of childbearing without an heir for her husband, it became clear he would be the next in line. And he received the required preparation for such a title. The man himself hailed from a bourgeois background.
Her spine straightened, and her chin inched up a notch. “I am sure your solicitor explained the dire conditions of the estate.”
His jet eyes inspected her, from her brown-sugar glossy hair, down to full breasts, a tiny waist, flaring hips to booted feet. A hot wave accompanied his almost insolent perusal, followed by her indignant anger.
“He did, Otilia.” The rich drawl made everything worse, and she had to clench her muscles even tighter to stop the lamentable effect it erupted in her.
For a split moment, her attention drifted astray and lowered. She had no chance of helping her gaze from focussing on that mouth, which must be sculpted in cold, hard granite, with perfect, precise lines. Impossible not to trace with keen eyes, if not with keen fingertips. Yet it had a carnal quality to it, worthy of years of fantasies involving kisses and other searing, dispensable daydreaming. She caught herself before her control flumped into humiliating idolatry. The same idolatry from years ago.
