The Earl's Captive Bride Read online

  The Earl's Captive Bride

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Epilogue

  The Earl’s Captive Bride

  Copyright © Francine Howarth 2017

  Black Velvet Books

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  All characters in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental: whether alive or dead

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  Real persons and places of note may feature.

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior consent of the author.

  Prologue

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  Somerset: June 10th

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  The slap to her face stung as she fled to the orchard in tears, but it was as nothing to the dreadful hurt building deep within. She truly had prayed her father would finally see sense and refuse Sir Tarquin Farnley’s pursuit of her hand in marriage. Never had she thought her father, of all people, would resort to cruel action, cruel dictate, and give not a thought to the consequences of his having consented to a marriage betwixt her and Farnley. Time and again her Aunt Janie had said Farnley was an objectionable individual and expressed how much she disliked him. And Aunt Selena had likewise repeatedly said Farnley was quite unsuited to Erica: Sir Tarquin Farnley being a widower ‘n’ all, and a rake about town. Did father listen to his sisters? No he did not and prompt in defence of Farnley, he boldly stated, ‘by association I must be a rake likewise’. Both aunts held their tongues on that matter and had duly voiced further in disapproval of his intentions and declared they would not attend at the wedding if it was indeed to occur. Both were adamant in their objective to cut family ties with him; each declaring neither would pay visit to Frampton Manor again, and so they had departed under a cloud but a quarter hour past.

  Falling to her knees, uncaring of grass stains to her cream muslin day dress, tears flooding, and shoulders heaving, the gentleness of another’s hand resting to her shoulder afforded sense of sisterly affection. “Oh Marigold,” said she, glad of company if shamefully setting a bad example to a younger sibling in her refusal to calmly accept her fate. “There is no way out for me, it is a done deal, and it has caused a terrible rift in the family.”

  “Hush,” said Marigold, leaning forward to embrace her. “There is always a way, we just haven’t thought of it, yet. But we will, and perhaps James Pembrey will help.”

  “I couldn’t ask him for help. Of all people; not him, not after what father said to him.”

  “But Pembrey is brave, and he’s always been most agreeable in our company, and has displayed great fondness for us.”

  Slipping out of her sister’s embrace she rolled over and lay there looking up at the apple tree’s spread canopy. The first Devonshire Querrenden apples were beginning to swell and display a pink tinge, as pink as her sister’s cheeks, the latter rouged. She loved her sister’s optimistic bent, and prayed neither Marigold or Primrose would ever be faced with a similar dilemma, but there was no telling who father had marked as likely suitors for her sisters’ hands.

  Marigold flopped beside her, the heat of June markedly pleasing when sitting within shade, the younger quite obviously with much to impart. “Besides, Pembrey has a friend staying over. They drove past in his open carriage. You know the one, that new landau he was so keen to show us.”

  “I am of mind it was the carriage father took umbrage at, for the old contraption we have at the house has seen better days, and mother’s conveyance is no prettier.”

  “Oh indeed, for father quite set to in curt tone when telling Pembrey his visitations were ineffectual, and you were spoken for.”

  “Pembrey is too young for me, by four years. I do want a man senior to me by at least a few years, but not as old as Farnley, who is thirty and two. Besides, Pembrey came here because of you.”

  “Me?” exclaimed Marigold, a rosy glow flooding her cheeks.

  “Of course it is you he is sweet on. I swear he’s quite besotted.”

  “Are we not too down-at-heel for the likes of Pembrey and his friends?”

  “A little perhaps, for everything about this place has seen better days, and such leads me to suspect father has lost a great deal of money in recent years? Though how, I dare not dwell upon.”

  “Perhaps when mother returns from Suffolk she will intervene and press father to reconsider this ludicrous arrangement with Farnley. And lief another mystery, for if we are too dowdy for Pembrey, why then is Farnley chasing your skirts?”

  “I wish I knew, and fear mother may have known about his proposal before she departed, and I have wondered at her going so suddenly and for why.”

  Marigold’s expression fell to incredulity. “I thought her going was to facilitate Primrose’s chest complaint?”

  “I cannot envisage the air in Suffolk is more beneficial than the country air of Dorset. Primrose always feels so much better when down at Lyme Regis. Besides, why did mother not take you with them?”

  “Well I suppose Primrose is but a child, whereas I reached womanhood two years past when the dreaded monthly flow declared me of marriageable age. And what is to become of my coming out this season, now mother is extending her stay in East Anglia? Aunt Janie and Aunt Selena have taken leave under a storm of protest at Father’s unbending stance on Farnley, and I cannot imagine he will allow you out of his sight.”

  Erica let forth a sigh of frustrated disbelief her life had taken a wrong turn, a path she had no wish to traverse. She had already suspected father would attempt to keep a tight rein on her movements, but as yet there was no talk of his setting to with talk of an arranged marriage for Marigold. “You are young enough to escape marriage for at least another year.”

  “If my wish, Erica dearest, was to wait another season before my outing, I would agree,” said Marigold glancing down at her blossomed womanly contours. Expressing a great sigh, as had her sister, she furthered: “Granted we have been free to wander at will hereabouts, and in the local market town, but the chance of meeting a man of my dreams was always slim indeed.”

  “I had it in mind you were as sweet on Pembrey, as he on you.”

  “I was until father said I should drop any notions of a future match between me and Jude, for he would not have it so. So you see; Pembrey will never call at the house again, of that father made sure.”

  “True, but don’t you see, father is always foxed by noon and we shall slip away unseen as we have before.”

  Marigold picked at grass. “Oh, I think not, for he ordered Mrs. Tutton to keep a good eye on the pair of us, and we cannot escape by way of the house, else she will see and hear us. Besides he is expecting visitors at early eventide.”

  The thought of Mrs. Tutton as their in-house jailer stirred disquiet. “The housekeeper is to watch over us?”

  “Yes, and I do think it is quite mean of father to be so untrusting of his own daughters.”

  “Prisoners? We are to be kept prisoners within the walls of the house and gardens? That will not do, simply will not do. I shall write a letter to mother this very minute.”

  On her feet in a thrice, and Marigold keeping abreast alongside, the younger said: “Could we not simply rebel in deceitful manner as you suggested?”

  She paused in step, her sister’s speculative expression and mischievous glint in sapphire eyes setting her pulse racing, as air of devilment prevailed and each studied the other. “What other wicked thoughts are brewing in that head of yours, Marigold?

  “Well, it occurred to me the orchard is ideal as an escape route.”

  “How may
I ask, can we escape over a high wall and clamber down into the lane?”

  “We can’t, but we can climb over the lower wall to the field edge with a little assistance.”

  “Assistance?”

  “Those special ladders the gardeners’ use when we all set about gathering the apples.”

  “Oh, the ones with hooked cross struts?”

  “Yes, yes. We can use one to climb the wall. It is not all that far to drop down on the grass side, and then we can lift the second ladder over and use it to climb back again.”

  “Genius. You are quite the practical miss, Marigold, and let us away to the potting shed directly. We shall practise until we have the art of escape pitch perfect.”

  One

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  June 12th

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  More or less confined to their wing of the house for two afternoons due to excessive heat, they had not given a great deal of thought to their father’s reason for excluding them from the main part of the house. He was after all entertaining business acquaintances of his; and on occasions of that nature in the past they had been excluded and left to keep company with Primrose and the nurse maid. Besides, with a separate staircase they were afforded the opportunity to slip in and out of the side garden, and venture to the orchard or the cool shade of the arbour. Mrs. Tutton had found it increasingly difficult to keep her eye on two young ladies as well as attending to the guests’ needs. Thus, as greater demands befell servants, likewise Mrs. Tutton endeavoured to keep all ticking along in orderly and gracious manner. Hence she and Marigold had, by using the ladders to escape from the orchard, indeed ventured as far afield as partway to the village. A short walk all told, but accomplished with considerable ease, and their absence having passed unnoticed.

  Nearing late eventide, the air less oppressive, Erica closed her book and glanced across at Marigold struggling to read a book in the last fading embers of day. “You will damage your eyes straining to read so late without light close by.”

  Marigold raised a hand, the only acknowledgment to her sister’s caring regard whilst she fought to read the text tilted toward the window. A few moments later, she lowered the book to her lap and burst forth: “There, another chapter read.”

  “And how is Moll today?”

  “Miss Flanders is quite frank and unabashedly claims she is so enamoured with her first lover’s attentions and cannot resist him. How outrageous is that?”

  “I am of mind mother would thoroughly disapprove of your reading that book.”

  “But you’ve read it, and she minded not at all.”

  “I am four years your senior.”

  “You are but twenty and two Erica, and if I were a mother I would hide a book such as this from all unmarried young ladies.” Marigold wiped her brow with the back of her hand. “Phew, for Moll is quite the strumpet; and I do wonder at times what it would be like to lie with a man. Will you tell me, when you are wed, so that I shall know what to expect in its entirety? We know all about the painful virginal aspect, for Mary Prendergast said it is but a small price to pay for what comes afterwards, and it’s that part I want to know more about.”

  “No I shall not tell you any of it. Else, where will the adventure in marriage be for you?”

  “But Moll is not married, and I am dying inside to know what it feels like to have a man, well—”

  “Pleasant, if Moll is telling the truth, though hardly a subject for discussion.”

  “Why not? We are alone, and it is something to look forward to, and if Moll can do it why can’t you or I? Especially if we find someone we want to do it with.”

  “Would you give yourself to Pembrey?”

  “I think I would if I was sure he loved me.”

  “I fear I shall now have to keep a close eye on you and a tight rein if we are going over the wall proper on the morrow.”

  “Why don’t we go over now just before it gets dark? We could stroll across the field to the gate beside the lane. No one will see us, and it will be an adventure of sorts.” Marigold discarded her book to the window seat and leapt up. “Come on, Erica, it’ll be fun.”

  Fun yes, and so she obliged her sister. And all but a short while later they had scaled one ladder, clambered atop the wall, and down the second ladder. Half way across the field they heard trotting horses on approach along the lane, and quite audible sound of wheels grinding over stone.

  Men’s jovial interaction was barely discernable until: “How much farther?” enquired one, a deep timbre in tone.

  The reply was very definitely Pembrey’s baritone voice: “But a quarter mile to the turn.”

  The stranger thence said: “I would race you if I knew where the turn lies.”

  Pembrey laughed, and must have whipped up his horse for it picked up speed. “Turn right at the inn. You can’t miss it, and first gateway on the left along the highway. The gate lights will be lit by now.”

  Hitching up their skirts they ran and reached the hedgerow as Pembrey sped past with his golden horse, its cream mane and tail flowing ghostlike. Thence came his companion the horse so dark in colour they could barely see it. The two were racing along the narrow lane, the rear driver with no hope of overreaching Pembrey until they turned onto the highway.

  “How exciting,” exclaimed Marigold, quite taken with the mad caper out in the lane, “I do wish we could witness the outcome of their race.”

  “They are mad, quite mad, for what if someone should happen along from the other direction?”

  “At this time of the evening? Who would be out and about when it is near dark?”

  “They clearly are, and not a carriage light between them.”

  “Oh Erica, you always worry about what-if instead of thrilling to the moment.”

  “It was a mad caper similar to that in which our brothers fell foul to a tragic outcome.”

  “Only because Jack attempted to ford the river in order to race past Mark, who sensibly went by way of the bridge, and they were riding bareback. Besides, the river was running high and fast after rain and the current was too strong for his horse that day. I don’t suppose Jack thought for one moment Whisper would lose his footing, nor that he himself would be swept away under the bridge, would hit his head, and—”

  “Precisely,” intoned she for Jack’s loss to her was no lesser after five years. “Thoughtless tomfoolery in the heat of the moment is no excuse.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts, Marigold. Don’t you see how easy it is for something to go wrong?”

  Raising her voice Marigold pressed her point. “Well you almost fell from the wall the first time we climbed over it, but did that deter you from doing it again, no it didn’t.”

  “The wall is but four and a half feet high. At worst I may have twisted my ankle had I fallen from it.”

  “You could have broken your ankle. And what if you had banged your head?” said Marigold, running off into the darkness

  Chasing after her, it was true to say, Marigold had argued her case well, but to concede may encourage her younger sister to more foolhardy ventures in the future. And so they returned to the orchard in silence, part breathless in clambering back over the wall.

  As they re-entered the lower garden a squeal, a womanly squeal stole the moment. Both froze in step, quite expecting a servant girl and a stable hand or some such to venture their way whilst indulging a love tryst. But no, the squeals continued, drifting on the balmy night breeze, a male voice unmistakable in saying: “Less noise, you drunken wench.”

  Marigold leaned close and whispered, “Have you ever heard the like? And I do believe they are in mother’s grand arbour.”

  “It’s not one of the servants. I don’t recognise the voice at all.”

  “Nor me, but if we go by the camomile path we can sneak to the rear of the arbour and peep through the screen, it’s so laden with clematis and honeysuckle no one will see us.”

  “They may hear us.”

  Marigold tittered. “I thin
k not, they are making too much noise.

  That was true, for although the squealing had ceased as they hastened along the camomile strewn path, not a footfall sounded out to alert those ensconced in the arbour. Loud moaning sounds and male grunts as though great exertion was being applied to a task or other within the arbour, prevailed.

  On reaching the screened wall with due care, they were guided by the glow of lanterns within, and whilst holding hands they both sneaked closer, and thence the unknown voice said: “Wicked whore, you’ve done for me,” which preceded severe grunting sounds and manly breathlessness.

  There was no denying they were paying witness to debauchery, for a woman with her skirts flounced and resting on her back, her buttocks raised and she leaning forward with hands resting to the arbour seat, the man was having his way with her. Clearly sated the man withdrew, and said: “All cocked out, m’girl for now. Your turn, sir.”