The Earl I Was Meant to Hate (Preview)

Chapter One

The carriage trundled up the rough, dirty road toward the house that sat on the top of the hill. In the pale, silvery moonlight, Willowbrook Manor looked like something out of a fairytale—one that Edmund Fairleigh, the Earl of Blackmere, might have heard from his nanny as a child. 

The house was tall, several stories high, and made from white limestone, although time and the punishing Norfolk weather had worn the stone to dark gray.

With its tall, conical turrets, steep gabled roof, large windows—none of which were lit at this time of night—and ivy creeping up the sides, the house looked more like a miniature castle than a manor house.

The front entrance was shielded by a portico supported by a colonnade, from which several steps led up to the main doors. 

Out front, the lawns spread down the hill, toward where Edmund sat in his carriage, watching the house grow closer through the window. The walled English Garden was just visible to the right of Willowbrook Manor, but in the darkness, he couldn’t make out much else. 

Willowbrook was not as familiar to him as Blackmere Hall, anyway. For many years, it had been the home of his younger brother, Lord Julian Fairleigh. Although they had sometimes spent summers there as a boy, it had been many years since he had visited. After his brother married, he’d extended an invitation to Edmund on several occasions, but Edmund always got it too late, or not at all.

He was traveling by then, moving restlessly from one city to the next, one country to the next. He had dreamed of doing so since he was a little boy, trapped in his father’s joyless house, with his strict ideas of what a man ought and ought not to do. He would often get irritated letters several months after they were postmarked, complaining that Edmund never wrote, responded, or visited. 

Well, I received this letter, Edmund thought dully as he looked down at the letter in his gloved hand. Although it took two years to arrive. 

Two years. It had been hard for Edmund to fathom how two years might have passed without him receiving word from his brother or even thinking much of him. Those two years had passed in a whirlwind of travel, visiting ancient archaeological sites, learning new languages at grand universities, and meeting with scholars and adventurers who also called these exotic, foreign cities home. 

Still, it struck him now as almost improbable that so much time had passed, and he had not thought to write to his brother to make sure the management of Blackmere Hall, Willowbrook Manor, and the earldom was going well. 

There was never a problem with money, Edmund reminded himself, not for the first time. I never had any trouble withdrawing funds, which I assumed meant everything was running smoothly back home. 

Which was why he had been shocked beyond belief when he received the letter he was currently holding. 

He was in Constantinople, in the lodgings he had rented overlooking Hagia Sofia, bathing in a golden claw-foot tub, when his valet had entered with the letter. The afternoon was hot, and Edmund was bathing in cold water. Thankfully, his lodgings were high up, and a small breeze had been tempted in through the windows, billowing the gauzy curtains and bringing with it a small relief from the hot, arid climate.

Edmund was leaning back in the tub, his eyes closed as he listened to the sounds of the city below, when he heard his valet enter and opened his eyes to see a letter held out on a silver tray. 

“It is from your sister-in-law, My Lord,” Roland had said, bowing as he held out the tray. 

“My sister-in-law?” Edmund had been unable to hide his surprise, and he reached for the letter before drying his hands. “I do not believe she has ever written to me.”

“In fact, it has been some years since we heard from either her or the Honorable Julian.”

Edmund looked up at this, blinking, and his hand trembled as he took the letter. Roland handed him a letter opener, but Edmund hesitated before opening it. 

“Do you think he is dead?” he asked, managing to keep the quaver from his voice. “Is that why she is writing to me?”

Roland hesitated, but to his credit, did not look away. 

“It is possible, My Lord,” he said at last. “But there is only one way to find out.”

So, Edmund had slit open the letter and read it there, naked in the bath, while the ethereal sound of the adhan began to ring out from the mosque, signalling the beginning of the Asr salat.

But the letter did not announce his brother’s death, and it was with increasing astonishment that Edmund read the short, to-the-point note from his sister-in-law, The Right Honorable Rosamund Fairleigh, nee Avery. It told him, in no uncertain terms, that his brother had abandoned his home and his wife and run off with his mistress—Rosamund Fairleigh was aware her husband had a mistress?!—and his current whereabouts were unknown. 

The letter was addressed to Edmund’s former lodgings in Paris, which he had given up two years ago to travel to Rome, then Athens, then Alexandria, before heading to Jerusalem, Tbilisi, and then back to Constantinople, where he had been for six weeks when the letter finally found him. 

Edmund, of course, had ordered Roland to pack his bags at once. There was no way of knowing whether his brother was still missing, whether he had returned to Rosamund and his home, or if he was still off somewhere with his mistress.

There was no way of knowing what had happened to the estate, to Rosamund herself, if she had run out of money and returned to her father, a minor baron, if Edmund remembered correctly, or if something worse might have befallen her. 

Edmund had so many questions but no answers, and as he stared up at Willowbrook Manor above him, the anticipation felt as if it had built to a crescendo inside him. It had taken weeks to get back to England from Constantinople. In the heat of the summer, the journey had been uncomfortable.

And the whole way, he could think of nothing except his brother’s unforgivable foolishness and his own guilt that he had not been there to stop him.

But at last, he was home, and he was about to get some answers. He could only hope and pray that Julian was back home and would be as shocked to find his elder brother returning in a state of distress as Edmund himself felt to receive the news of his abandonment. 

At last, the carriage came to a halt in front of the portico, and Edmund’s heart began to beat even faster. In a few moments, he would have all his questions answered, and he would find out if his family had spent the last two years in financial and social ruin, or if his brother had seen the error of his ways and returned to salvage what was left of his reputation. 

The door opened, and the driver undid the steps. Edmund stepped down from the carriage and looked up at Willowbrook Manor. The dark stones towered above him, but to his surprise, they did not look nearly as dirty or worn as he remembered. In fact, even in the dimness of the moonlight, he got the impression that the facade of the house had been recently washed. 

That was unusual. He had never known his brother to take an interest in the upkeep of the house. Glancing to his right, he saw the walled garden up close. Even from a distance, he could see that the lawn was clipped short, and the garden hedgerows neatly trimmed. This also surprised him. If his brother had been missing, he would have expected the garden and lawns to go untamed, for the grass to be long and unruly. 

Which must mean Julian was not gone for long, he told himself, his heart leaping. 

Edmund took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, then strode across the drive toward the main entrance. He took the stone steps quickly, passed under the portico, and reached the front door within moments. It was unlocked, and he turned the handle, pushed it open, and stepped into the entrance hall. 

The first thing he noticed was that the sconces were lit. Candles flickered in several sconces along the wall, casting a warm orange glow over the polished marble floor that led to the wide staircase.

The walls of the entrance hall were filled, he knew, with large oil paintings of the Norfolk countryside, famous hunts his ancestors had partaken in, and portraits of his predecessors. The light was too dim to make out the details of these paintings, but he could see, very clearly, the bottom of the staircase. 

A woman stood there. She was the second thing he noticed. 

The third nearly made his heart skip a beat. 

The woman was holding a pistol, and she was pointing it right at his heart. 

“Welcome home, My Lord,” the woman said, raising the pistol high. “It is about time.”

Edmund froze. His eyes traveled from the pistol, small and silver, up to the face of the woman holding it, and he took in his sister-in-law for the first time in four years, since he had left England for the last time with assurances that he “would not be gone long.”

Rosamund Fairleigh, he thought, looked nothing like the shy, waifish creature that he remembered from his brother’s wedding. She had the same dark, auburn hair, although it was currently not pinned in an elegant coiffure but loose and wild, falling around her shoulders in long, luxurious curls. She had clearly been preparing for bed when she heard the carriage arrive, as she was in a dressing gown, which was pulled tight over a chemise. 

But even clothed in such, Edmund could tell that she was no longer the slight, fragile creature he had known. She was still of medium height, but she looked stronger now, more substantial. Athletic might have been the word he would have used, had she been a man. But Edmund had never known a woman to be athletic, and certainly not a lady. Ladies read, painted with watercolors, embroidered cushions, and played the pianoforte. They were not athletic. 

Even so, there was no other way to describe Rosamund. She looked sturdy and healthy, her cheeks pink, her bow lips rosy, and her green eyes sparkling with determination even in the dim light of the sconces. 

Edmund felt his mouth go slightly dry, and he wasn’t sure if it was because the woman in front of him was pointing a gun at him or because the woman in front of him was one of the most beautiful he had ever seen in his life. The warm candlelight made her auburn hair look even more red and fiery, and he thought absurdly of the stories he used to love of Boudicca, the red-haired Briton queen who had fought and died for her country. 

She is your sister-in-law! he reminded himself furiously. Get a grip on yourself! Are you really so starved for female attention after all these years away?

He swallowed and tried to compose his thoughts. There was absolutely no way he could find Rosamund beautiful. Absolutely none …

Even if she did look like a warrior queen, with her pistol aimed right at his heart. 

“Rosamund,” he murmured, slowly raising his hands in what could only be interpreted as a gesture of surrender. “What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” she countered at once, taking a step toward him, her green eyes flashing. “I wrote to you two years ago, Edmund. Two years ago. So, you can imagine my surprise when I saw your carriage pull into the drive and realized it had taken you not weeks, not months, but years to respond to the urgent letter I sent you.”

“I know,” Edmund said, his mouth dry. “And I am sorry that it has taken me so long to get here. I only received your letter a few weeks ago. I had departed Paris by the time it arrived there, and as I was constantly on the move for the past few years, it had trouble … finding me.”

Rosamund’s eyes narrowed. “Do you mean to tell me that the Earl of Blackmere is so uninterested in the state of his own earldom’s affairs that he did not even leave a forwarding address at his residence in Paris?”

“I could not leave a forwarding address, as I did not yet know where I would be,” Edmund tried to explain. “I have been living rather … itinerantly.”

“Itinerantly.” Rosamund repeated the word flatly. Her expression, he was worried to see, was becoming harder and colder with every second. “What a privilege that must be, to be able to abandon your home and responsibilities and wander around Europe for years at a time, unconcerned with what is happening back home or who might need your help.”

“Well, it was not just Europe—” Edmund began, but she cut him off.

“How very much like your brother you are,” she snapped. “Both of you think nothing of running off when life at home becomes too staid. Neither of you has bothered to write. Neither of you seems to care about your family legacy.”

Edmund grew very still, Rosamund’s accusation ringing in his ears. He knew why it might appear that he did not care about his earldom, that he had run away with no intention of going back, but it was not the case. He was not like Julian.

“I have not abandoned my estate,” he said. “I left a steward to manage things, and my brother was supposed to—”

“Your brother is gone,” Rosamund interrupted. “For two years now.”

Edmund’s heart sank. “So, he has not returned since you wrote your letter?”

“No,” she said coolly. “And in the time that he has been gone, I have learned to manage very well on my own.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Edmund began, “the house and grounds are—”

“Nor do I plan to cede my authority to you, the prodigal son.”

There was a short silence, during which Edmund stared at his sister-in-law, not quite sure that he understood. 

“What do you mean?” he asked at last. 

“I mean that I am now the mistress of Willowbrook Manor, and I do not intend to see you take this house from me just because you have finally seen fit to return to your duty as Earl of Blackmere.” 

Rosamund’s voice rang through the hall, loud and commanding, and Edmund wondered, wildly, what possible leave of his senses his brother must have taken if he could have abandoned a woman as powerful and potently thrilling as this one. 

“I have cared for and stewarded this house for the past two years, along with the lands attached to it. I have earned the respect of my tenants and the loyalty of my servants. I have made my way in the world, despite the abandonment your brother imposed upon me. And you, My Lord, are not welcome here now. Not as my brother-in-law, not as my earl, and certainly not as my master.”

Chapter Two

Rosamund Avery gripped the pistol tighter as her words reverberated around the entrance hall. She had spoken defiantly and with righteous zeal, but as she waited in the echoing room for the Earl of Blackmere to respond, she hoped he could not see the sheen of sweat on her brow, or the way that her hand shook as she pointed the pistol right at his chest. 

Not that it mattered anyway. The pistol wasn’t loaded. She kept it by her bedside in case some local bandits were to get word that a lady was living alone and unprotected in the great house at the top of the hill and decided to rob her. But her intention wasn’t to shoot anyone, simply to scare them off should they try to break into the house to steal the china. 

If she was being honest with herself, she also kept the pistol there in case her husband returned. She wanted him to know, from the moment he walked through the door, that he was not welcome. 

Although if it were her husband, she reflected ruefully, as she stared into his brother’s face, she would, perhaps, want the pistol loaded. If anyone deserved a bullet to the leg out of pure vengeance, it was Julian Fairleigh. 

In fact, when she had first woken to the sound of the horses’ hooves coming up the road, she had thought, for a wild moment, that it was her errant husband, finally returned. And there had been half a second, when Lord Blackmere walked through the door, that she had mistaken him for his brother. 

But only half a second.

Because while her husband had been handsome in a forgettably aristocratic way, Edmund Fairleigh, Earl of Blackmere, was anything but forgettable. And it had only taken a split second for her to realize which brother it was who had finally decided to return to Willowbrook. 

Blackmere was slightly shorter than his brother but larger and more athletic, broad-shouldered and muscular, while Julian was more slender, almost feminine.

And where Julian had blond hair and an aristocratic face, Blackmere had dark brown hair that was always tousled, as if he had just dismounted from a long ride. His eyes, she remembered, were a piercing blue-gray, although in the darkness of the hall she could not make out their color, only their intensity.

And his face was devastatingly handsome, with a strong jawline and full lips, and a scar right above his left eyebrow from a childhood accident. 

He was, in other words, like a pirate, returned from the seven seas to reclaim his estate and take away everything she had worked so hard to build and preserve. 

And she was not about to let that happen. 

“Your master?” Blackmere blinked slowly as he repeated her words. “Is that why you think I am here, Rosamund? To kick you out of your home?”

“Why else would you be here?” she demanded. “I know that you have no love for me.”

“I do not know you; it is true,” Blackmere said slowly, “but I certainly have no wish to see you homeless.”

She studied him carefully. He looked remarkably calm, even with a pistol on him, but something teemed between the surface of his eyes that she could not place. It was watchful and calculating. Something dangerous. 

“But you do plan to take over the management of the house,” she said. 

“Well …” Blackmere let his hands drop to his side. “Willowbrook Manor is legally my house. It belongs to the Earldom of Blackmere. It is not yours, even if you have spent all these years managing it.”

Fury once more erupted in Rosamund’s chest, and she raised the gun higher, so that it was pointing right at his still, watchful face. 

“I will not allow you to take it from me,” she snarled. “You may be another entitled man, thinking you can claim whatever the law has given you, even though you abandoned it, but I will not allow it!”

“How will you stop me?” Blackmere asked. “By shooting me?”

“I will do what I must,” she responded, secretly hoping that she would not be forced to fire the gun. She would lose face significantly if he realized it wasn’t loaded. 

To her surprise, a small smile crept up the side of Blackmere’s face, and he took a step closer to her. The darkness in his eyes swirled more intensely, and she felt her heart hitch. 

“You will not shoot me,” he murmured. “You would not shoot your brother-in-law.”

“Former brother-in-law,” she corrected.

Blackmere stopped in his tracks. “Former?” he repeated. “What in God’s name can you mean?”

“Your brother abandoned me,” she said, lifting her chin defiantly. “For more than two years. I sought counsel in London, and I had the marriage annulled. My solicitor was able to argue that your brother’s abandonment so soon after our wedding was grounds for me to obtain an annulment, even though he is still in absentia.” 

“What?!” Blackmere’s face had gone very pale, and his voice lashed out across the hall, making Rosamund draw back slightly. “You annulled your marriage to my brother? And now you think you can continue to live in his house and run his estate? Have you lost your mind?”

“Have you lost yours?” she thundered, her voice once more echoing around the hall, glancing off the marble bannister and the suit of armor in the corner near the hallway. “You left this country for four years! And then your good-for-nothing brother deserted me with his mistress! The Fairleighs are a pair of dissolute, disreputable aristocrats, while I am a respectable lady who has done everything in her power to keep this house from falling into disrepair. So yes, I am going to stay here and run it, while you are to return to Blackmere Hall, take up your residency in the ancestral seat of your earldom, and leave me alone.” 

Blackmere looked stunned by her words, and Rosamund couldn’t help feeling a little bit smug about that. In his thirty years, he had probably never had a woman speak to him in this manner, and she couldn’t help feeling that it was good for him. It would teach him humility. And responsibility. 

And, sure enough, when he looked back at her, there was something almost like admiration in his eyes. 

“My Lady,” he said, sweeping into a low bow, “I believe that we got off on the wrong foot. You must first and foremost allow me to thank you for caring for this house after my brother’s departure. You were not required to do so, especially considering the nature of his betrayal. It would have been perfectly understandable and within your rights to return to the comfort of your father’s home. But you stayed here and ensured that my brother’s home and lands did not fall into disrespect, and for that, I am eternally grateful.”

She inclined her head briefly, in acknowledgement of his gratitude. His apology was appreciated, and it had been presented. And indeed, he did look particularly noble in his blue velvet coat, dark striped vest, starched cravat, and black top hat. It had been some time since she had seen a gentleman, or entertained one in the house, and she could not deny that his masculine nobility made something stir in her heart. 

“Perhaps we could discuss more about the stewardship of Willowbrook in the morning,” he continued. “After I have had a good night’s sleep and rested from my travels. I am weary, as you can imagine. I only arrived in London this morning and rode hard for Norfolk.”

Rosamund was surprised. She would have thought a man like the Earl of Blackmere would have stayed in London to rest. It did make her a little less angry to know that he had responded with urgency once he’d received her letter. For years, she had assumed the worst: that he had simply ignored her. 

“Would you be so kind as to have a maid make up a bedchamber for me?” he asked. 

“No,” she said, and he started.

“I beg your pardon?”

“We have no maids,” she explained, enjoying watching the shock cross his face. “I had to dismiss them all. To save money. And because …”

Blackmere raised an eyebrow. “Because why?”

“Because they were loyal to your brother.”

His eyes narrowed. “I see.”

“I was able to retain only the housekeeper, Mrs. Wilton, and the butler, Collins. For other tasks around the estate, I have employed men and women from the village, but always temporarily.”

Blackmere blinked rapidly, clearly taken aback by this news. “I … see. Well, it is no bother to me. I am used to traveling only with my valet. I have had very little need of servants these last few years.”

“Regardless, I will ask Mrs. Wilton to make up your bedchamber,” Rosamund said. “In fact …”

She heard footsteps coming up from the servants’ staircase, and a moment later, a door opened along the hallway, and Mrs. Wilton and Collins both emerged from the staircase. Mrs. Wilton held a candle, which she raised as she peered through the gloom into the entrance hall.

“Miss Avery?” she called out. “Is that you? We heard a disturbance.”

“Miss Avery?” Blackmere repeated, his eyebrows raised.

“I returned to my maiden name after the annulment,” Rosamund said with a small, smug smile. 

She was pleased by the look of shock on his face. 

“You did not think it possible, did you?” she asked. 

He shook his head slowly. “But I am beginning to believe many things I thought impossible before, being in your presence.”

“Is that his lordship?” Mrs. Wilton asked, startled at the sound of Blackmere’s voice. “Have you returned home at last, My Lord?”

“Yes, it is I,” Blackmere said, stepping forward. 

Mrs. Wilton let out a small cry of happiness, then hurried forward, her hands outstretched. Blackmere took them, pressing them as he smiled down at her. 

“It is good to see you again, My Lord,” Mrs. Wilton said. “It has been so many long years since you were here.”

“Your Lordship, we are most pleased to have you back,” Collins said as well, also stepping forward to bow. 

Rosamund remembered vaguely that Blackmere and Julian had spent some of the summers of their youth at Willowbrook Manor, which was perhaps why he was on such familiar terms with the servants. However, she did not like it one bit. These were her loyal servants now, and she did not like to see them show such deference and affection for the man who could take everything away from her. 

“Mrs. Wilton,” she snapped, straightening up, “we require your services. As you can see, Lord Blackmere has returned and needs a bedchamber for the evening. Can you prepare one for him?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Wilton said, still smiling up at Blackmere with wide, tear-filled eyes.

“At once,” Rosamund said sharply. “It is already late, and he is weary from his travels.”

There was a moment of tension as Mrs. Wilton stiffened and then released Blackmere’s hands. She turned slowly and curtsied to Rosamund.

“Of course, Miss Avery,” she murmured. “I will do so at once.”

“And if you could prepare some food for him, Collins,” Rosamund continued. “I am sure the earl has a hunger on him after his long journey.”

“As you wish, Miss Avery,” Collins said, bowing as well. Without another word, both left the hall. 

Silence remained once they were gone, and Rosamund suddenly found it hard to meet Blackmere’s gaze. 

“If that is how you speak to your servants, I am surprised they are so loyal to you,” he said at last, his voice somewhere between amused and curious. 

“I am very fond of Mrs. Wilton and Collins,” Rosamund said. And it was true. It was usually just the three of them in the house, and often she and Mrs. Wilton would laugh and gossip together in the afternoons while they both performed small chores around the house.

Collins, too, was her steadfast companion and advisor when it came to all matters of the estate. They had a good report, and she found him to be an honest and hardworking man. 

I will apologize to them for the brusqueness of my tone in the morning, she told herself. They will understand that I was flustered to see Blackmere.

And in truth, she had wanted to assert her authority. Blackmere threatened that, as did the obvious care both servants had for him. And she had to make sure they still saw her as mistress of the house. 

“Well then,” Edmund said, his tone light now. “I think I shall retire for the night. Can you have Collins bring my supper up to my chamber? Once it is ready, of course.”

Rosamund nodded dully. She wasn’t sure what else to say or do about Edmund’s presence. There was so much she wanted to ask him, but she didn’t want to seem too curious about what he had been doing for the last four years or where he thought his brother might be hiding. 

He took a step toward the stairs, and she instinctively raised the gun, as if he were a threat to her very person.

A smirk on his face, Edmund took another step forward, then another, until he was standing right in front of her, the barrel of the gun just a hair’s breadth from his chest. In the candlelight, he looked even more like a rogue as he looked down at her, the orange glow dancing across his handsome face.

He was more tanned than most Englishmen she knew, she realized suddenly. His long years abroad had made his skin warm and honey colored. She felt an awareness prickle through her and suddenly wished she were wearing more than her dressing gown.

“Unless you are going to use that,” he said softly, “I must ask you to step aside, so that I might go upstairs.”

Rosamund hesitated for a moment. Even though the pistol wasn’t loaded, she still felt safer holding it. Like it was some kind of defense against the power that he so effortlessly exuded. 

At last, she lowered the pistol. “Very good,” he murmured, and the sound swept over her like something warm and delicious. 

“Goodnight, Rosamund. I will see you on the morrow.”

“What will happen then?” she forced herself to ask.

He laughed softly. “I am sure you will continue to defend your land and fortune, and I will continue to claim what is rightfully mine.”

And without another word, he strode past her and disappeared up the stairs, leaving her staring woodenly across the entrance hall of her home. Her home. It was rare, in this world, for a woman to have her own home. A lady especially went from her father’s to her husband’s home. But Rosamund had built a home for herself, where she was free.

And she’d be damned if she let anyone take it away.