Earl of Scarborough Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Quote

  Copyright

  Get Your FREE Digital Book!

  Other Collette Cameron Books

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  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

  Epilogue

  EARL OF SCARBOROUGH

  The Honorable Rogues™

  Wicked Earls’ Club, Book 21

  By

  COLLETTE CAMERON

  Blue Rose Romance®

  Portland, Oregon

  Sweet-to-Spicy Timeless Romance®

  “I confess, Willow, you fascinate me as no woman ever has.”

  EARL OF SCARBOROUGH

  The Honorable Rogues™

  Wicked Earls’ Club

  Copyright © 2019 Collette Cameron®

  Cover Design by Jaycee Delorenzo –

  Sweet ‘N Spicy Designs

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By downloading or purchasing a print copy of this book, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Blue Rose Romance®

  8420 N Ivanhoe # 83054

  Portland, Oregon 97203

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-950387-56-4

  Print Book ISBN: 978-1-950387-55-7

  www.collettecameron.com

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  The Honorable Rogues™

  A Kiss for a Rogue

  A Bride for a Rogue

  A Rogue’s Scandalous Wish

  To Capture a Rogue’s Heart

  The Rogue and the Wallflower

  A Rose for a Rogue

  Castle Brides

  The Viscount’s Vow

  Highlander’s Hope

  The Earl’s Enticement

  Heart of a Highlander (prequel to Highlander’s Hope)

  The Blue Rose Regency Romances: The Culpepper Misses

  The Earl and the Spinster

  The Marquis and the Vixen

  The Lord and the Wallflower

  The Buccaneer and the Bluestocking

  The Lieutenant and the Lady

  Highland Heather Romancing a Scot

  Triumph and Treasure

  Virtue and Valor

  Heartbreak and Honor

  Scandal’s Splendor

  Passion and Plunder

  Seductive Surrender

  A Yuletide Highlander

  Seductive Scoundrels

  A Diamond for a Duke

  Only a Duke Would Dare

  A December with a Duke

  What Would a Duke Do?

  Wooed by a Wicked Duke

  Coming soon in the series!

  Duchess of His Heart

  Never Dance with a Duke

  To Lure a Duke’s Lady

  Loved by a Devilish Duke

  Wedding her Christmas Duke

  When a Duke Loves a Lass

  How to Win A Duke’s Heart

  To Love an Irredeemable Duke

  Wicked Earls’ Club

  Earl of Wainthorpe

  Earl of Scarborough

  Heart of a Scot

  To Love a Highland Laird

  To Redeem a Highland Rogue

  To Seduce a Highland Scoundrel

  Coming soon in the series!

  To Woo a Highland Warrior

  To Enchant a Highland Earl

  To Defy a Highland Duke

  To Marry a Highland Marauder

  To Bargain with a Highland Buccaneer

  Boxed Sets

  To Love a Reckless Lord

  When a Lord Loves a Lady

  Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 1-3

  The Blue Rose Regency Romances- The Culpepper Misses Series 1-5

  To all of my precious readers with hidden disabilities.

  I understand, for I have them, too.

  You are brave, strong, and I believe in you!

  I love this part of writing, where I get to thank all those who have helped in one way or another to create my latest treasure. My amazing VIP Reader Group, Collette’s Chéris, always comes through for me, no matter what odd thing I might ask them.

  Thank you, Lori Dykes, for suggesting Ansley have a “tic,” Rhonda Gothier, for suggesting he carry a special stone around with him, and to Monique Daoust for Cinnabar’s name. The Chéris must also be acknowledged for helping to select Willow’s name.

  What would I do without you?

  I can’t forget to thank my fantastical beta readers, either. You spot things I miss and always, always give invaluable feedback. Thank you!

  A shout-out to my cover artist, Jaycee DeLorenzo, for THE EARL OF SCARBOROUGH’s amazing cover, to Period Images for the exclusive shoot for the cover image, and all of the other Wicked Earls’ Club authors for letting me join you for another round of deliciously wicked earls.

  October 1817

  Wicked Earls’ Club, London England

  Bored. Bored. Bored.

  Ansley Twistleton, the Earl of Scarborough, was bored. Out of his mind with ennui. Furthermore, he had absolutely no bloody idea whatsoever about how to remedy the situation. This discontentment. This restlessness. This new, entirely irksome, wholly vexing dissatisfaction. It made him edgy and irritable.

  As was his habit, he analyzed his feelings logically and dispassionately. To a degree, he’d brought this state of malaise on himself. A man of rigid schedules and habits, nothing unexpected or exciting ever happened to him. That was precisely how he preferred his well-ordered, predictable life.

  Until now.

  Drumming his fingertips atop his thigh, he clamped his back teeth together, pondering the exasperating irregularity.

  Why now? Why, after years of consistency, was he bored?

  Probably, because his pursuits and interests were few.

  He neither gambled nor frequented bordellos—God only knew how many men those creatures of the boudoir had serviced—nor did he racehorses. Assemblies, routs, balls, and the like were avoided like the plague or clap, as were picnics, the opera, musicals, and the theater.

  Although… He’d been known to attend the latter by himself if the play consisted of something worth watching, and he made his way into his box before anyone had a chance to corner him into conversation. There was the inconvenience of having to wait until most of the other patrons had departed before he could make his escape. But on rare occasions, the performance had been entertaining enough to warrant the minor irritation.

  To say he was socially awkward was as much an understatement as suggesting Caroline of Brunswick was out of fav
or with the portly Prince Regent, or the English had a slight partiality for tea.

  Ansley’s physical fitness and athleticism could be contributed to hours spent riding, fencing, and biweekly bouts of training at No.13 Bond Street with Jackson himself. Generally, those activities required little more than an occasional one-syllable-word comment, a grunt, or a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

  Men never felt the need to blather on just to hear their own voices. And of colossal more importance, no primping, simpering, salivating females were ever in attendance.

  God help him, but like hounds on the fresh scent of blood, eligible young misses, their terrifying marriage-minded mamas, and their pernicious plotting papas had the habit of popping up at the most inopportune moments.

  Much like disease-infested rats, cockroaches, or fleas.

  One knew the loathsome pests lurked about in dark corners and crevices, but when one accidentally came upon one, the experience proved most alarming and unpleasant. Unlike those vermin which usually ended up dead, the giggling debutantes—God’s bones how he detested giggling—were almost certain to appear again.

  And again. And again. God help him and any other unattached male possessing a title.

  Fingering his glass with its remaining dram of superior cognac, he rested his head against the wingback chair’s plush crimson velvet. Legs crossed at the ankles, he stretched them before him and stared at the robust fire through half-closed eyelids.

  Around him, the soft din of his fellow Wicked Earls’ Club members’ gaming, laughter, and conversations barely permeated his aura of jaded disinterest.

  A wry smile kicked his lips up on one side. Wicked earls, indeed. His claims to wickedness were his cutting, sardonic tongue and wit. However, he couldn’t vouch for the other earls one way or the other. He didn’t know any of them well enough to form an opinion.

  The trouble was, he decided, returning to the issue of his boredom with a slight downward slant of his mouth and a drink of the amber liquid, he eschewed most social gatherings. Consequently, he often found himself with nothing at all to do.

  Until recently, that truth hadn’t bothered him. He’d even declined to seek memberships at White’s, Brooks, and Boodle’s. As select as those gentlemen clubs were, they still allowed far too many members for his comfort.

  Other than the secret Wicked Earls’ Club and Bon Chance—another exclusive club and the only two places other than his country estate where he felt a degree of ease around other people—he avoided le beau monde.

  Well, he didn’t willingly entertain and mingle with the haut ton.

  Since coming into his title seven years ago at the tender age of one and twenty, due to the premature death of his uncle, he’d been obligated to venture out on occasion. Very rare occasions. Mostly when his mother or sister entreated him to put on a mien of civilization. And loving them as much as he did, he tried to oblige their wishes every now and again.

  He suspected they were the only two people entirely aware of what an immense effort it took each time to don his public persona. For he couldn’t bear changes in his routines. Most particularly, unforeseen variations.

  It rattled him in a way that was not only difficult to explain, but disconcerting and humiliating. Everything in his ordered life had a time. When he rose. Bathed. When he ate. What time he retired. When his hair was trimmed—every third Wednesday at half-past two. When he arrived at his clubs and, unsurprisingly, when he departed.

  More than once, he’d wondered if he was even sane.

  Surely such compulsions bordered on madness. A terrifying notion that had haunted him since his youth.

  At least he wasn’t as dotty as that fellow who put on and removed his shoes five times before he’d leave his home and then checked to make sure the door was soundly locked by pushing the handle then the door itself in rapid succession four times.

  No one—bloody no one—kept to habits as he did. Several times, he’d tried to ease his inflexibility and found himself a wreck. Tense. His nerves on edge. Unable to concentrate or relax. His oddity was a damn curse. Indeed, it was.

  Oh, he could do it—if push came to shove. In fact, typically, no one was the wiser except those closest to him. But he preferred not to stray from routine if at all possible.

  He dragged his eyes open and squinted at the white marble and gilt bronze clock. Exhaling a long breath, he levered himself upright in the chair and tossed back the remaining spirits. Time to leave. He set the glass aside, then shoved to his feet.

  No one paid him much mind, which didn’t bother him in the least. He enjoyed solitude. Craved it, in fact. He’d wanted to be a scholar before inheriting the earldom—had hoped to teach Natural History and Ecclesiastical History at Oxford or Cambridge.

  But earls didn’t don austere robes and become professors. A rather irritating voice also dared remind him he mightn’t have been able to stand before a hall of students and orate.

  God’s teeth. His own education had been as painful as hell, and he couldn’t deny the truth. Despite his desire to teach, he lacked the wherewithal. No, that wasn’t precisely correct. He possessed the knowledge but was without the ability to adequately communicate with or instruct a room full of pupils.

  Reclining against the back of his usual chair beside the window, the Earl of Alcott smoked a cigar and stared morosely into his whisky tumbler. Somber, sad even, he raised the hand with the cigar toward Ansley in a silent farewell.

  He acknowledged the salute with an elevated chin. Alcott was a decent chap. In fact, it was he who suggested Ansley join the Wicked Earls’ Club.

  Nonetheless, he hadn’t ventured to the club tonight for titillating conversation. Or any other night, for that matter. Not a bit of it. No, he forced himself out of his rather ostentatious Grosvenor Square house four nights a week, else he’d easily become a hermit, locked inside his comfortable home, playing the pianoforte, wasting time on billiards, and reading musty old tomes till time for bed.

  Sounded like bloody bliss.

  Another sardonic twist of his mouth followed his retrospection.

  He rather liked the thought, truth be told. Why, he wouldn’t even be required to shave or even dress, for that matter. All his meals might be taken in his banyan.

  Recalling the correspondence from his mother this morning, suggesting the names of several eligible young misses that would make “exceptionally, wonderful countesses,” the tic near his left eye began twitching in earnest. A sure indication he was more upset than his outward façade of bored-nonchalance proclaimed. One would think he’d have become accustomed to the spasms, yet deep-rooted humiliation tumbled about in his stomach.

  Dearest Mama had also recommended he host a Christmastide house party this year at Fawtonbrooke Hall, his country estate. He barely suppressed a shudder of distaste.

  Horror of absolutely absurd horrors.

  Guests tramping all about his sanctuary from dawn to midnight or later? Required to dine with them? Entertain the throng? Converse. Dance?

  Absolutely not.

  Bright-eyed misses with their coy smiles and simpering manners.

  Hell on earth. A fate worse than death for a man like himself.

  The muscle by his eye convulsed harder, and he angled his head toward the fireplace to hide the tremor lest it draw unsolicited attention. Disgust and anger at himself that he could yet be self-conscious of his—inconvenience—jabbed his pride.

  Mama simply could not accept that at eight and twenty—nine and twenty in January—he possessed as much desire to wed as he did to have all of his teeth pulled. Or be keelhauled. Tarred and feathered. Eviscerated with a hairpin. Burned at the stake. Hung by his ballocks.

  A wife dragging him hither and yon, chattering like a magpie about nonsensical drivel, would drive him stark-raving mad. And what kind of a spouse would he be? Other than his title and passably good looks, he held no false illusions about his appeal or qualifications as a husband.

  Or lack thereof.
>
  In short, Ansley Cecil Huxley Twistleton, sixth Earl of Scarborough, was a stuffy, dour chap who broke into a cold sweat when in a room with more than a dozen or so people. A man who had as much skill with small talk as he did needlepoint or midwifery. A lord who’d been thrust into a life he had no more aptitude for than a hippopotamus did for ballet, or a cat for archery.

  He was an oddity.

  And, blast and damn, he shouldn’t care.

  Ansley was not a conversationalist. Even his two former mistresses had complained about his reluctance to converse. Exasperation tightened his shoulders. For God’s sake. He hadn’t sought their deuced company for conversation. Not before, during, or after the act.

  He’d terminated his last paramour a year and a half ago, and though he sorely missed a woman’s soft curves and the sweet release her body afforded, he didn’t miss the pouting or bloody jabbering.

  One eyebrow quirked, he narrowed his gaze the merest bit.

  Odd, his mother and sister Nicolette didn’t jabber. Neither did Nicolette’s friends, the Duchesses of Sutcliff, Pennington, and Sheffield. Pressing a finger to the bridge of his nose, he pondered that fact for a blink.

  If—and that is one hell of a big if— he could find a woman with a degree of intellect whose conversations held substance rather than ridiculous flummery, who didn’t mind his unusual penchant for routines, and who liked English Foxhounds—he had five at Fawtonbrooke Hall—Ansley might consider wedlock.

  He slipped a hand into his pocket, rubbing the smooth stone nestled there between his forefinger and thumb. He’d carried the token with him everywhere since a small lad of less than nine summers. A kindly, understanding tutor had suggested he pick something unobtrusive to help relieve his anxiety.

  Extraordinarily, rubbing the stone had worked.

  He could still remember the week he and Mr. Quessling had spent days combing the grounds, meadows, and a nearby stream bed until Ansley found what, to an eight-year-old lad, was the perfect stone.