The Earl's Wagered Bride: Christmas Belles, Book 1 Read online

  The Earl’s Wagered Bride

  Christmas Belles, Book 1

  Cerise DeLand

  Copyright © 2018 by Wilma Jo-Ann Power writing as Cerise DeLand

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  W. J. Power Publisher

  Designer: Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9908943-5-3

  ISBN-10: 0-9908943-5-5

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Your Invitation to Marsden Christmas House Party

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Who is Cerise DeLand?

  Also by Cerise DeLand

  Your Invitation to Marsden Christmas House Party

  The Countess of Marsden invites you to her house party! Seven nights and days of frolic, gossip, dancing…and match-making for her three nieces.

  Sad, isn’t it, that none of the Craymore sisters wishes to wed?

  Exciting, isn’t it, that three war heroes arrive who know precisely what they want for Christmas?

  Wonderful, isn’t it, that each might gain the most precious Christmas gift of all?

  The Earl’s Wagered Bride

  A lady bets her future.

  Miss Marjorie Craymore wants to surprise her two sisters with a wonderful gift this Christmas. A house. A home! One they can call their own. After their father gambled away their dowries and drank away the family reputation, the three young women have lived with their Aunt Gertrude. While that lady’s generosity is most kind, her charity chafes their pride. This Christmas at their aunt’s house party, Marjorie plans to employ the one talent she learned well from her notorious papa. She’ll gamble at cards and dice against every wealthy guest—and win. But she encounters one big problem. The man she’s craved all her life appears on Aunt’s threshold and challenges her. Tested by combat, he’s bolder. Dashing. A distraction. And suddenly too charming to resist.

  A gentleman weighs the odds.

  Griffith Harlinger, the war-weary fourth earl of Marsden, returns home from his duties in Paris with the Duke of Wellington to celebrate the joys of the Season. At urgent request of his step-mama, he must stop her niece Marjorie from creating a scandal by fleecing her house guests! Griff’s thrilled to engage the one woman who’s tormented him and beguiled him all his life. So he makes Marjorie a bet she can’t refuse: he’ll play her for enough money to buy the house she wants.

  But can he let her win if he loves her too much to let her go?

  And who really wins when both want what’s best for those they love?

  Chapter 1

  December 20, 1815

  Marsden Court

  London, England

  “This will work.” Griffith Harlinger, the fourth Earl of Marsden, took a seat in his traveling coach and folded his arms. A smile curved his mouth that he was finally on his way to his summer home in Brighton. He’d wanted this leave for months. Asked Wellington to grant it time and time again. Ever since he and his cohorts had defeated Napoleon Bonaparte in June, he’d done his job assisting the duke in Paris at the headquarters of the Occupation Forces. But at night in his dreams and during the day at his desk, he’d tasted Cook’s pasties and puddings. He’d felt his step-mother grab him in a strangling hug of joy. He’d needed this leave of absence to bleach the cloying odor of rotting flesh from his nostrils. Yes, years in the thick of battle against Bony gave him confidence. Bombs and gunpowder had not defeated him. “So taming one hoyden will be simple.”

  He’d repeated that sentence to himself. Too often!

  Thank god for friends. Comrades in arms. Conquest was predictable with safety in numbers.

  He barked in laughter. Even with allies, Griff understood his challenge in Brighton would have nothing to do with his seasoned knowledge of horses or canon or sabers. He’d need charm.

  He snorted. “Guts is more like it.”

  That was the ticket. He pulled at the cuffs of his blue dress tunic, his tall hat under his elbow a prop of assurance. The Royal Horse Guards uniform and tall black plumed helmet inspired many a Frenchman or woman to drop their jaws in curiosity, if not awe.

  For the house party and the social whirl he’d soon step into, his valet Walters had meticulously cleaned his last remaining uniform of navy wool, gold braid and grey trousers. His two others were so worn and torn and soiled with the blood and mud of France that they were quite beyond repair. For his continued duties in Paris working for Wellington, Griff had ordered three new uniforms from his London military tailor yesterday. No self-respecting officer of The Blues could appear in less than meticulously cut attire. But for this party at his step-mother’s home, he had quickly ordered from the man two new pair of breeches, two shirts, a waistcoat and frock coat. He had no idea if his old clothes would fit him, but he wanted to present himself as best he could.

  Fashion might be helpful. He intended to use every weapon in his arsenal to bring Miss Marjorie Craymore to heel. “If the majesty of a uniform does it, I’ll use it.” Along with surprise...and demands. Lots of them.

  One hand to the black leather squabs, he weathered the turn of his coachman into St. James’s. Oh how he’d prefer to ride his own mount. But the weather was beastly cold and a coach for the comfort of his two friends was a much better accommodation. Neville Vaughn, Viscount Bromley, had recovered well from his injury to his heel and knee. A major of the Coldstream Guards, Bromley had escaped harm during four years of service until some fool Frenchmen had wounded him in both legs at Waterloo. His friend, an expert tactician and swordsman, now marched to the tune of dot-and-go-one. Bromley laughed at his infirmity, a good sign for one who would be permanently afflicted. He hinted at resigning his commission. But then, he had other more spectacular prospects before him if word from the restored French king was to be honored.

  Griff’s other friend—a childhood playmate—suffered much worse than an occasional headache. Alastair Demerest, Captain Lord Lowell, only recently ascended to a dukedom, had been so badly wounded at Waterloo, he had not known his own name nor his regiment. Lucky to be discovered alive on the battlefield and taken to hospital, Alastair had recovered his wits over many harrowing months. Ten days ago, he had found his way from Belgium to Griff in Paris.

  The coach rolled to a stop and a footman pulled open the door for Griff.

  “No need to get out, Marsden!” Bromley hailed him with a grin from his front step. “I’m ready. Cases are inside,” he told the assembled servants in the road.

  While the coach bounced as footmen stowed his luggage in the boot, Bromley climbed in opposite Griff. He wore his bright red uniform still, so he’d not yet resigned his commission. “I say, terrible storm brewing. Snow, don’t you think?”

  Griff grasped his hand in hearty welcome. “And heaven knows what it will be like along the Channel. Hope you brought heavy woolens. Rough going in Brighton in December. Never visited, you say?”

  “No.” He removed his beaver hat and ran a meaty hand through his bright copper hair, then set his black cane against his calf. “Sent my valet to your second coach to ride with your man. I’m most eager to be off.”

  Griff chu
ckled. “I can tell!”

  “I’m sorry to have delayed you until this afternoon.”

  “That’s not a problem, Bromley. I’ve sent a footman on to take rooms for us at an inn in Crawley.”

  “I’m grateful for the stop. My leg goes stiff on me. I appreciate your help with my...issue.”

  “I’m glad you came to me.”

  “Are you?” Bromley dropped his exuberance so quickly, Griff knew it had been a mask.

  Dear god. He’s that nervous about this Christmas party? “Of course. My step-mother loves nothing more than a house full of people especially at this time of year.”

  “My parents did, too. Does your step-mother know we shall be three?”

  “She does. What she does not know is that we arrive tomorrow. I wanted this to be a surprise.”

  “Surprise or planned, I am grateful for your invitation.”

  “Glad to be of help.”

  Bromley had appeared at Wellington’s headquarters at the Hotel Charost three days ago. Posted to a regiment patrolling with the French gendarmerie in Paris, he asked if Griff might give him an introduction to his step-mother who lived at their home in Sussex. “I have leave beginning day after tomorrow for nearly three weeks, and I’d like to spend it in Brighton.”

  “Better than that, Bromley, what if I take you there?” Griff happily invited him. “Come home with me for the holiday. What do you say?”

  Bromley jumped at the chance.

  “Can I ask why? Have you met my step-mother?” Griff knew many who thought his father’s beloved second wife was a scatterbrain. But having grown up under her tender hand, he knew the Countess of Marsden to be pure of heart, devoted to gossip, but never mean or vindictive.

  Bromley’s answer surprised him. “I’ve learned from friends that the three Craymore ladies live with your step-mother. Your cousins, aren’t they?”

  “We say we are, but no. The Misses Craymore are my step-mother’s nieces by her sister.”

  “I see. One of them, Miss Delphine Craymore is a lady with whom I’d like to renew my acquaintance.”

  What Griff heard was more than the verb ‘renew’ implied. “I did not know you’d met her previously.”

  “I did. Years ago. Before my marriage.”

  “And now you wish to meet her again?” Griff asked because he took his responsibilities as protector of the Craymore girls seriously.

  “I made a mistake then, allowing my father to bully me into marrying. My wife has passed on and I am—shall we say—a wiser man? I wish to see if Delphine might look on me with favor. Of course, I hope you’d approve.”

  Griff had readily.

  He glanced at his friend who settled into the cushions and rubbed his knee through his dark breeches. “Did they remove all the grapeshot from your wound?”

  “The surgeon said he had, but digging it out meant they took quite a bit of tissue along with it. I’m afraid, I’ll always walk like a pigeon.” He tapped his cane. “Don’t know if I can dance and hope that doesn’t bar me from Delphine’s good graces.”

  “I’m sure it won’t. She has a big heart and your injuries may be just the thing to help soften her opinion of you.”

  “My rejection of her wasn’t intentionally harsh. But I had to be quick and I’m afraid it was not easy for her. She was very angry with me.”

  “I knew there had been a man she cared for, Bromley. Had no name to him or rumors of him or his reputation. But after that summer, she remained reclusive for a very long time. We worried. And she was very young.”

  “Seventeen.”

  The sound of the boot slamming shut made Griff wince. Strong noises, reminiscent of the British artillery’s twelve founders, could start a violent headache. He sought to quell the ringing in his ears, ground his teeth and crossed one leg over the other. They’d be on their way to collect Alastair at his Club. Brooks’s was not far from Bromley’s house which meant Griff had to get his warning out now. “I know your intentions are honorable toward my cousin. But I ask you to make your cause strongly. Delphine has changed quite a bit since you met her. She is no longer young.” No longer naive. “But head-strong. Determined.”

  Bromley’s dark red brows drew close in a scowl. “Do you say she’ll refuse me?”

  “I’ve no idea. I will say that my mother writes that Delphine finds many men attractive, but she favors none of them. Not for long. If you wish to have her you must find a way to rise above the pack.”

  That sobered the man. “A cripple? A man who can no longer waltz with any grace?”

  “A man who won her heart before, I would wager, did so with more skills than a dance.”

  Bromley set his soft grey eyes toward the window and the passing scene, then shot a wicked look at Griff. “I will employ those other skills.”

  “Not too many of those, please!”

  The coach rumbled to a stop.

  “You met my friend, His Grace the Duke of Kingston, at my lodgings in Paris. He, too, comes with us to secure a wife.”

  “Is that so?” Bromley’s smile drained from his face. “Not—?”

  “No. My apologies. I didn’t mean to give you a start. Not Delphine, but in fact, her oldest sister, Belinda.”

  Bromley’s large body sagged.

  Griff did not laugh. After all, he had his own ironies to contend with. Marjorie was no child, not a flirt like her younger sister Delphine, nor an impetuous dreamer like her older sibling Belinda. No, worse. Marjorie fancied herself a card sharp. His mother had written that if she continued and he didn’t come home soon to stop her, she would find herself in frightful straights facing a nob or two whom she’d fleeced.

  The door to the coach fell open and Alastair beamed at them. Griff had not seen him the past two days and already, he looked not only more prosperous but more rested. Evidently he’d hired a valet who knew how to shave a man’s jaw with the precision of an Arab corsair and cut his golden hair to short fashion. But he’d discarded his poorly fitting army uniform in favor of smart new civilian clothes of black cape, bottle green frock coat and black breeches. “I am very ready to leave this city.”

  “Come in and welcome,” Griff urged him.

  The men greeted their newest traveler who took a seat next to Griff. “Pardon me for sitting near you. Hope you don’t mind. I can no longer ride backward in a coach. Makes me ill.”

  “Nothing could persuade me you must sit otherwise,” Griff said.

  “And you, Bromley?” Kingston asked the other man.

  “My injuries have less to do with riding than with walking.” He lifted one leg and pointed to the other foot. “Sit as you will, Your Grace.”

  He raised a hand. “Alastair, please. I am new to the formalities of this inherited title and among friends—which I hope we will become, Bromley—I wish to be informal.”

  “Thank you,” Bromley said to him with a twinkle in his dove grey eyes. “It seems we have a similar quest so that friendship seems an easy task.”

  “Oh?” Alastair glanced from Bromley to Griff. “What quest is that?”

  Griff laughed and extended a hand to Bromley. “Do tell him.”

  “I asked the noble earl of Marsden here if he might invite me to his home so that I might renew an acquaintance.”

  Alastair caught on to the game and grinned with feigned horror. “Do you tell me you court a lady?”

  “Miss Delphine Craymore.”

  “Ah,” Alastair said with raised brows from one man to the other. “So we are on a campaign to secure brides, are we?”

  “Just so,” said Bromley with a snort.

  “And if we are successful,” Alastair said, “you and I shall be brothers-in-law.”

  “Right, you are,” said Bromley.

  “And what of you, old man?” Alastair nudged Griff.

  “Not I,” he said because he had dreamed of coming home...and coming home to Marjorie. To hear her laughter. To stop her mischief. To taste her lips again. But marriage? No. No, no. “I’m on a
nother mission.”

  “I see,” said Alastair. “To do what?”

  “Enjoy the Season. The cuisine. The music.”

  Neither man pressed him. Which was fine. He had no aspirations to enchant Marjorie Craymore. As a child, she’d been a little hellion. Hiding his toys, cutting his hair, riding off on his pony. As a young woman, she’d grown into a beauty with velvet violet eyes and honey blonde hair that flowed like a river over her slim shoulders. She had pert breasts, a smart mouth and quick wit. She was everything in a woman he did not want. Unpredictable. Irresistible.

  So. No. He was not home from the wars to capture mischievous Marjorie Craymore.

  He was here for one purpose only. To stop her from cheating the ton of their riches with her skill at the card table.

  And that was all.

  Chapter 2

  December 20, 1815

  The Lanes

  Brighton, England

  

  “I must leave you both.” Marjorie put down the length of ivory Chantilly lace and leaned close to whisper to her older sister, Belinda. Her younger sister, Delphine, was thoroughly engrossed with the modiste’s fabric suggestions for yet another gown. Marjorie had no need of more than the seven their aunt had ordered for each Craymore girl. And now that their fittings for their Christmas wardrobes were complete, Marjorie had an errand to do before their Aunt Gertrude’s coachman returned outside the Lanes to take them home. “I’m going into the alley across the street.”

  Bee threw her a dark look and Marjorie shot one back, fearing they’d argue yet again about her visits to the two women in the ramshackle hut between the shops.