Lord Ravenscar's Inconvenient Betrothal

“Women either ran from Lord Ravenscar or ran to him.”

A Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies story

Alan Rothwell, Marquess of Ravenscar, is furious when unconventional heiress Lily Wallace refuses him purchase of her property. He can’t even win her over with his infamous charm. But when fever seizes him and they’re trapped together, horrified, Alan realizes Lily’s attentions will compromise them both! His solution: take Lily as his betrothed before desire consumes them completely...

Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies miniseries

Book 1—Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress

Book 2—Lord Ravenscar’s Inconvenient Betrothal

Book 3—coming soon

“The romance is as ever beautifully written by Temple...I adore it.”

—Goodreads on Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress

“Temple has a delightful gift with words that is sure to have readers smiling as the story of blossoming love and Gothic mystery unfolds.”

—RT Book Review on The Duke’s Unexpected Bride

LARA TEMPLE was three years old when she begged her mother to take the dictation of her first adventure story. Since then she has led a double life—by day she is a high-tech investment professional, who has lived and worked on three continents, but when darkness falls she loses herself in history and romance…at least on the page. Luckily her husband and two beautiful and very energetic children help her weave it all together.

Also by Lara Temple

Lord Crayle’s Secret World

The Reluctant Viscount

The Duke’s Unexpected Bride

Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies miniseries

Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress

Lord Ravenscar’s Inconvenient Betrothal

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Lord Ravenscar’s Inconvenient Betrothal

Lara Temple

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07351-6

LORD RAVENSCAR’S INCONVENIENT BETROTHAL

© 2018 Ilana Treston

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, 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 publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my fearless editor Nic Caws, who swoops in and saves me from myself and my babies from creative quicksand.

Raven and Lily are particularly grateful for your superpowers.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Extract

Chapter One

Alan Rothwell, Lord Ravenscar, drew his team of black purebreds to a stop on the uneven drive of Hollywell House. It was fitting that each mile passed on the road from Bath had added a shade of grey to the clouds. It suited his mood and it certainly suited the gloom of the sooty stone and unkempt lawn of Hollywell House.

The estate had seen better days and with any luck would see them again, but first he would have to buy the place. The only problem was that he had no idea from whom. The news that Albert Curtis had dropped dead in church in the middle of his sermon after recovering from a bout of fever was doubly unwelcome—now Alan would have to renegotiate the purchase with whoever inherited the house.

‘What now, Captain?’ His groom tilted his head to inspect the clouds and Alan handed him the reins and jumped down, avoiding a muddy rut. Even the gravel was thin on the ground and the drive in worse shape than the country lane leading up from Keynsham. No wonder poor Albert had wanted to escape to a mission in the jungle; he had not been cut out to be a landlord.

‘The door’s open. Perhaps the new heir is inside, come to inspect his new domain. Walk the horses while I see what I can do about this setback, Jem.’

‘Matter of time before we get soaked, Captain.’

‘Isn’t it time you stopped calling me Captain? It’s been six years since we sold out. Don’t think I don’t notice you only revert to rank when you’re annoyed with me, Sergeant.’

‘It’s coming through this stretch of Somerset, Captain. Always makes you jittery.’

‘With good reason. What’s your excuse?’

‘Your foul temper the closer you come to Lady Ravenscar’s territory, Captain.’

Jem grinned and tapped the whip to the leader’s back, setting the curricle in motion before Alan could respond to his old sergeant’s provocation.

Jem was right, of course. His temper was never one of his strong points, but it undeniably deteriorated the closer he came to Ravenscar Hall. Stanton had warned him to steer clear of Hollywell and find another property, preferably on the other side of Bristol, and Stanton had a damn annoying tendency to be right. No doubt he would tell him it served him right for trying to poke one in his grandmother’s eye. The satisfaction of imagining her reaction to his plans for Hollywell House was fast losing its appeal the closer he came to his childhood home.

No, not home. It had never been a true home. He had been six when he, his parents and his sister had left Ravenscar Hall for the first time, but old enough to be grateful it was behind him. The last thing he had wanted was to be dragged back there with Cat when his parents died, but at least he had spent most of those long years away at school rather than at Ravenscar, and the moment Cat had married, he had enlisted and sworn never to return as long as his grandparents were alive.

Hollywell House was another matter altogether. He had been here only last month on his return from Bristol, but his strongest memories of Hollywell were still those of a boy. For an angry and grieving twelve-year-old, Jasper and Mary Curtis’s library had been a sanctuary from the brutality of his grandfather’s tyranny. It was the library that had sparked the idea to acquire Hollywell for the Hope House foundation; it was light enough and large enough to make a fine memory room like the one they had established in London. After the fire at the old structure they had been using for Hope House in Bristol, it was no longer merely a good idea, it was a necessity. Whatever pressure he had to bring to bear on Albert’s heir, he would do so.

He took one step into the library and stopped abruptly.

Just last month he and Albert Curtis had shared a glass of brandy in what had been a perfectly ordinary and orderly library. The only unusual features were Harry and Falstaff, two weapon-wielding suits of armour which had taken pride of place in the centre of the room, standing guard over what was once a small ornate bookcase where old Jasper had kept his favourite books, and a pair of worn leather armchairs he had brought from France before the revolution. This unusual if pleasant arrangement had been reduced to a pile of tangled steel breastplates, helmets and books, and at the edge of the chaos stood a young woman wielding a very large flanged mace which had once been held confidently in Falstaff’s metal gloves.

‘Did you do this?’ she demanded.

The absurdity of her question when it was apparent she was not only the author of this destruction but probably also mad roused him from his shock. He surveyed the room again. And then her, more leisurely. She must be quite strong, because though the mace was substantial, she held it aloft very steadily, rather like a cricketer waiting for him to bowl. She was also reasonably pretty, so it was a pity she was mad.

‘Why would I do this?’ he temporised. ‘You can put that mace down, by the way. I’m not coming near you, believe me.’

The tip of the mace hit the floor with a thump that shook the room, but she didn’t release the handle.

‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’

‘What I am doing is giving you a wide berth at the moment. Is your mania general or is it directed against anything medieval?’

She looked around the room for a moment and her mouth drooped.

‘I don’t understand. Why would anyone do this? It makes no sense.’

‘That is the definition of madness, isn’t it?’

She frowned at him.

‘I’m not mad. You still haven’t explained who you are and what you are doing here.’

‘Nor have you.’

‘I don’t have to. This is my house and you are trespassing.’

‘You are Curtis’s heir?’

She nodded, her mouth quirking at the incredulity in his voice.

‘Albert Curtis was my cousin, or rather he was my mother’s cousin. Are you with Mr Prosper?’

‘No, I represent the people who were about to acquire the house from Albert before he inconveniently passed away.’

‘That’s not very nice. I think his death is much more inconvenient for him than for you,’ she said, a sudden and surprising smile flickering over her face and tilting her eyes up at the corners, transforming her looks from passable to exotic. He noticed the hair peeping out from her fashionable bonnet was auburn or reddish brown, which suited the honeyed hazel of her eyes. Warm colours. He was partial to light-haired women, but he could always widen his range. He moved into the room, just a couple steps so as not to alarm her.

‘Not at all. He’s dead. Nothing can inconvenience him now.’

He really shouldn’t be trying to shock the woman he now had to convince to sell them her legacy, but teasing a mace-wielding young woman was a temptation hard to ignore. She might be mad, but she was definitely entertaining.

‘You can’t possibly be a solicitor. I’ve met dozens and not one of them would dare say something like that.’

‘Dozens? You are perhaps a criminal, then?’

‘Worse. So if you’re not a solicitor, what kind of representing are you doing? And why are you pursuing it now Albert is dead?’

Worse? Perhaps she was mad. She didn’t seem addled, but neither did she seem very affected by her cousin’s recent death or even by being alone in a vandalised and empty house and in the presence of a stranger. Ravenscar knew his worth when it came to women and he wasn’t used to being treated with such cavalier insouciance; Rakehell Raven usually caused a much more gratifying response. Women either ran from him or ran to him, they rarely held their ground.

He nudged one of the books at the edge of the tumbled bookcase with the toe of his boot. On Customs of the Dje-Dje Tribes of the African Plain by Reverend John Summerly. That must have been Albert’s, poor man.

‘I didn’t know he had died until a few days ago.’

‘That still doesn’t explain why you entered, knowing full well you had no business here anymore. Why?’

He took another couple steps and bent to pick up a copy of Aurelius’s Meditations from under Harry’s gauntlet with a satisfied sigh. The spine had split, but that could be fixed. He tucked it under his arm and returned his attention to the young woman and her peculiar comments. She was still watching him with suspicion, but without a glimmer of real fear. Did she really think that mace would do an ounce of good against him if he chose to divest her of it?

‘What’s worse than a criminal, then? A nun?’ he asked.

Her eyes widened.

‘On what scale is a nun worse than a criminal? And please return that book. It’s mine.’

‘On the scale of flirtation material. I don’t flirt with nuns. Criminals are fair game.’

Her eyes widened further, the honey even more apparent the closer he came. Her skin also had a warm cast to it. This was no milk-and-water miss, despite her clothes. There was also just the faintest musical lilt in her voice which was neither London nor West Country. Perhaps she wasn’t as proper as she looked, which would present some interesting possibilities...

‘You are standing in what closely resembles the ruins of Carthage, facing a woman armed with a mace, and you are considering flirtation? You don’t look addled, but I’m beginning to suspect you are. Either that or quite desperate. Please put down that book. It’s mine.’

‘So you pointed out, but my advice is that you might not want to argue with someone you suspect is either addled or desperate or both.’

‘Thank you kindly for that advice. Now put down the book and step back.’

He moved closer, making his way around the pile of books.

‘Not until you tell me what you believe is worse than a criminal. Somehow I can’t quite see you as a nun.’

Her smile flickered again, but she mastered it. She raised the mace slightly and let it hit the ground again with an ominous thump. He stopped.

‘I shall take that as a compliment, though I am certain most would disagree. You have three chances to guess. If you do, I will make you a present of Marcus Aurelius. If not, you leave quietly.’

He put his hands on his hips, amused by the challenge. This unusual creature was brightening up a dreary afternoon quite nicely. He would very much like the truth to be that she was a very permissive courtesan so he could see if she could wield something other than a mace in those surprisingly strong hands, but her dress certainly wasn’t supporting that theory. He considered the bronze-coloured pelisse with just an edge of a muslin flounce embroidered with yellow flowers peeping out beneath. Simple but very elegant and expensively made. Her bonnet, too, though unadorned by all the frills and gewgaws young women favoured, looked very costly. Had he met her in an assembly hall or a London drawing room, aside from avoiding her like the plague as another one of those horrible breed of marriageable young women, he would have presumed she was perfectly respectable. But respectable young women did not wander through empty estates on their own, even if they had inherited them, and they didn’t threaten strange men with maces. They came accompanied and in such circumstances they swooned or burst into tears.

‘Let me see. You’re an actress. Your last role was Dido and you are reprising. I don’t think the mace is historically accurate, though.’

‘No, an ox hide would be more apt, but I feel safer with a mace. Try again.’

His brow rose. He added well educated to his assessment. Not many women...not many people knew the tale of Dido’s clever manipulation of calculus to capture land from the Berber king.

‘A bluestocking with a penchant for the medieval.’

She considered.

‘I would consider that a compliment, but that isn’t quite accurate and certainly not what I was referring to. One last try.’

Before he could respond, the door opened and Alan turned to face an exceedingly burly man. The mace hit the ground definitively as the young woman let it go.

‘Finally. Where have you been, Jackson? Distracting him is tiring work. I thought he might be the one who did this, but probably not, so do escort him out. Oh, and please leave the book as you exit, sir. You haven’t earned it yet.’

Alan considered the glowering man. She might not be a criminal, but her henchman certainly looked the part. He added it to his collection of facts about her, but he still drew a blank.

‘I have one last try, don’t I? Just like that fairy tale with the spinning wheel, no?’

She laughed and nudged the mace with one pale yellow kid shoe. An expensive one, he noted. He should know, he had paid for enough female garments.

‘That’s true,’ she conceded. ‘I’m nothing like that silly woman, though. Who on earth would barter with their unborn child’s life? I would have either thought of some better way out of that fix or something less valuable to bargain with. Well? One last try, sir.’

He moved towards her, ignoring the movement behind him. Her head lowered and she looked more wary now than when they had been alone in the room together. At first glance he had thought her pretty but unexceptional, but either closer examination or her peculiar chatter had affected his judgement. Her warm hazel-brown eyes, like honeyed wood, captivated him, and when she smiled, her mouth was practically an invitation to explore the soft coral-pink curve. She would taste sweet and sultry, honey and a hint of spice, he thought. It was a pity she was one of the most despised subcategories of the already despised species known as respectable young women. His only consolation was that they usually feared him almost as much as he wished to avoid them.

‘Very well,’ he replied. ‘My last chance at Aurelius. You’re a member of that dreaded breed of females who believe themselves deserving of all forms of homage and adoration for qualities that they have done nothing to deserve. You are, in short, an heiress.’

He had expected outrage, not amusement. She might be respectable, but she was not predictable. That at least might be a point in his favour when it came to negotiating the purchase of Hollywell House.

‘How do you know I have done nothing to deserve it? I’ll have you know being an heiress is hard work and not just for me as Jackson here will attest.’

‘Does this bruiser keep fortune hunters at bay, then?’

‘In a manner of speaking. Well, you have earned your Aurelius. Goodbye, sir.’

‘In a moment. We still have the matter of the sale of the house to discuss. We will offer you the same price as we did your cousin. It is quite generous, I assure you.’

‘As you pointed out, until after probate is granted, there is no point in discussing anything. Who is “we”, by the way? I thought you said you merely represented the prospective buyers. The use of the pronoun “we” seems to indicate otherwise.’

For a moment he debated telling her the truth about Hope House. She was just unconventional enough that she might not see it as a disadvantage, but he and his friends had long ago learned to keep their involvement in the Hope House foundation for war veterans private. It was no one’s business and certainly not the business of a pert and overly perceptive heiress he was still not convinced wasn’t also a little unhinged. Intelligence and madness often went hand in hand.

‘Does it matter, as long as we offer you fair price? You can’t possibly live here.’

Her mouth flattened and a light entered her eyes that in a man would have conveyed a distinct physical menace. Perhaps he had misstepped.

‘Do you hear that, Jackson? Here is another man who has an opinion about what I can and cannot do.’

The giant clucked his tongue.

‘I heard, miss. Shame.’

Alan tried not to smile.

‘I dare say now you are going to tell me the last fool who dared do so is buried under the floorboards?’

‘No, but I am very tempted to be able to tell the next fool precisely that. The door is behind you, sir.’

‘Do you really think you could carry out that threat? Or is it just a variation on the age-old cry of the spoilt heiress when her will is thwarted?’

‘You keep a civil tongue in your head around Miss Lily,’ the giant rumbled behind him.

‘Jackson, no!’ she cried out as a bulky hand settled on Alan’s shoulder.

Alan turned in time to intercept the anvil-sized fist heading his way. It wasn’t hard to dodge and the counterblow he delivered to the giant’s solar plexus was more by way of a warning than an attempt to do damage. But clearly this Jackson was in no mood to heed warnings. Even less did he appear to appreciate being tripped and sent sprawling on to the pile of books.

‘Careful of the books,’ the girl cried out with a great deal more concern for them than for her protector. The giant grunted, stood up, dusted himself off, smiled and lunged.

Alan did not in the least mind brawling. He and his friends often indulged in sparring either in the accepted mode at Jackson’s Boxing Saloon or in the much less respectable tavern yards and village greens occasionally set aside for such sport. This giant clearly also appreciated the fancy, but despite, or perhaps because of, his size, he was used to winning by force majeure rather than by skill and it was no great stretch of Alan’s skill to avoid or deflect most of his blows. He was just beginning to enjoy himself and was even considering offering the giant a pause so they could both take off their coats and make the most of this opportunity for some sport when the door opened and an elderly woman entered the library. But her shriek, either of shock or outrage, wasn’t enough to stop Alan’s fist from making contact with the giant’s face.

‘Alan Piers Cavendish Rothwell! What on earth is the meaning of this?’

Luckily the giant fell back under the blow and conveniently tripped over the books again, because the sight of his grandmother dealt Alan the stunning blow his opponent had failed to deliver.

Though they were a mere mile from his childhood home, the last person he had expected to see in the doorway of Hollywell’s library was Lady Jezebel Ravenscar, the only woman on earth he could safely say he despised and who fully reciprocated his disdain and had done so ever since he could remember. The only person whom he disliked more was her thankfully defunct husband, his grandfather and the late and most unlamented Lord Ravenscar.

Before he could absorb and adjust to this ill-fated turn of events, the girl spoke.