Her Cool Charms (Brides for the Earl's Sons Book 2) Read online

  Her Cool Charms RAW ARC version

  Brides for the Earl's Sons, Volume 2

  Isabel Simonds

  Published by Isabel Simonds, 2018.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  HER COOL CHARMS RAW ARC VERSION

  First edition. December 19, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Isabel Simonds.

  Written by Isabel Simonds.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Plot outline: Brides for the Earl's Sons | Book 2: Her cool charms

  Prologue:

  Chapter 1: A matter of money

  Chapter 2: An evening in London

  Chapter 3: A closer acquaintance

  Chapter 4: A matter of friendship

  Chapter 5: A day out in London

  Chapter 6: A talk over tea

  Chapter 7: Disturbing news

  Chapter 8: Of gloves and cravats

  Chapter 9: A meeting

  Chapter 10: A ball in London

  Chapter 13: More news

  Chapter 14: Moment of danger

  Chapter 16: Desperate times

  Chapter 17: Moment of discovery

  Chapter 18: Waking up

  Chapter 19: Putting the pieces together

  Chapter 20: Matter of urgency

  Chapter 23: Matters resolved

  Plot outline: Brides for the Earl's Sons

  Book 2: Her cool charms

  Bradford North, 25, is the second-eldest son of the Earl of Denham. A handsome young man, he is more than used to getting his own way with women. Somewhat of a charmer, he has never expected to find a serious relationship and stick to it. That is, until he meets Mirabelle Steele. Beautiful and cultured, aloof and sophisticated, Mirabelle is almost thirty and not the sort of woman Bradford has ever seen before. Not only is she entirely different to him – mature, reserved and wise – she is also seemingly indifferent to him. Bradford tries his best to woo her and then, believing he has failed, gives up. Little does he know that the beautiful countess has a secret.

  Mirabelle, widowed by the war, is facing difficulties of her own. And when Bradford finds himself in difficulty, they find themselves thrown together. Can they both overcome their considerable pride and open themselves to the frightening, fascinating and full possibility of their love?

  A tale of trust, truth and the unbreakable power of love, set against the refined and ruthless backdrop of Regency London.

  Prologue:

  “William, no. I declare it. You'll not catch me doing it.”

  Bradford heard his own voice ring out, rather loudly, across the drawing-room. On the chaise, his little brother George barely moved, nose buried in a book. Opposite him, his elder brother, William, simply laughed.

  “You know it's sensible,” he said.

  “I do,” Bradford agreed dryly. “Which is precisely why I'm not doing it, old boy. If you want sensible, find someone else.”

  William, uncharacteristically, didn't laugh. He seemed to be taking his role as elder brother seriously. It didn't particularly please Bradford, his junior by two years. William might be heir to the earldom of Althorpe, but, he wanted to remind his elder brother, he wasn't Earl yet.

  William sighed. “Fordy, at least try?” he asked. “It'd be a great weight off my shoulders. You know it's important.”

  Bradford nodded wearily. “I know it's important. Sensible, important...Boring. You know I'm not the fellow for any of those tasks. If you want someone to do something dull, ask someone else.”

  “I could go,” George declared, lately entering the conversation. “Except I can't. I have to go back to Cambridge.”

  “I know, brother,” Bradford sighed. “Which is a point,” he added, raising accusing eyes to William. “George can't go with us, remember. He has to finish the Tripos.”

  He had the pleasure of seeing William look slightly disconcerted. Evidently, their oh-so-clever elder brother had forgotten George had the final examinations for the Tripos – the course at Cambridge - to finish before he had any time to go on jaunts.

  Not that a trip to London counts as a jaunt.

  Bradford sighed. His real reason for not going wasn't boredom, or not really. He had been going up to London for the annual Season since he was younger than George. He had enjoyed it for the first few years. He had also managed to get himself into all sorts of mischief and almost causing a scandal or two.

  It wasn't my fault. Girls came to me. I didn't run after.

  Bradford ran a weary hand down his face. He hadn't really thought of himself as handsome before that first trip to London, but then he had begun to notice that ladies responded to him rather interestingly. It had been Chalmers, his friend, who had finally pointed it out to him. He grinned, remembering his words.

  “Dash it, Bradford. You're a fine-looking devil.”

  Bradford smiled. That had explained the trouble he was getting into. With pale hair, big brown eyes and a full-lipped mouth, he guessed he should have considered the possibility that women were attracted to him sooner. After he'd discovered the power of his charms, exercising them had become a source of much enjoyment.

  Much enjoyment indeed.

  He flushed, recalling romps he'd had with women from maidservants to governesses. He knew his father despaired of him, though he largely kept it to himself. That was why he was reluctant to go to London. He knew the kind of situations he could get himself into. And he didn't want to make any more scandal for himself: he'd had enough of it.

  “So, Bradford,” William asked, breaking in on his thoughts. “You'll go there?”

  Bradford sighed. “No idea.” What could he say? He knew William when he got an idea in his head – he was as fixed as a gate-post.

  “I'll go,” a voice spoke up.

  Bradford turned round to find himself looking at his younger brother, Elton.

  He sighed. A year Bradford's junior, with brown hair and meltingly-soft brown eyes, Elton was handsome in a gentle way. He was utterly unsuited to London, where, Bradford thought, the racy society would shock the poor lad rigid.

  And they would swarm round Elton. As stunning as he was, he would have had ladies flocking round him to the same extent as Bradford himself did. But Bradford knew of Elton's own pain.

  The lad was in love with Laurel, the woman promised to his friend, Culver.

  If Elton was willing to go to London, and seek out diversions, so was Bradford. The lad was plucky and deserved all the friendship he could get.

  “I'll go,” he agreed.

  He saw Elton's eyes warm and felt a rare stab of real affection in his heart.

  “Bradford! Good for you,” William said, his narrow, blue-eyed face smiling warmly.

  “It's not because you told me to,” Bradford muttered crossly. He saw those wintry eyes flare and was about to retort, when George stood up, yawning.

  “Has anyone seen the clock? I think it's lunchtime.”

  That broke the tension somewhat. Elton grinned. Bradford laughed. William shook his head, smiling fondly.

  “George, we don't need a clock in here. We have your stomach. It's accurate in a way no time-piece ever could be.”

  “Good,” George said. “Because I'm starving.”

  “And that means it's exactly half-past-twelve,” Elton chimed in.

  Bradford laughed and grinned at him. William jostled George playfully and the latter grunted in protest, digging his brother in the ribs.

  “Let's go down, eh?” William asked.

  “Yes,” Bradford agreed. “It
's time for lunch.”

  And, he reckoned, he had an adventure ahead. His brother wanted him to find a wife.

  Chapter 1: A matter of money

  “I just have to.”

  Mirabelle heard her own voice, tight and firm, echo in the still, cool air of her upstairs bedroom. Even to her own ears, it lacked conviction.

  “Beg pardon, milady?” Glenna's voice drifted in, making Mirabelle turn from her contemplation of the mirror.

  “I didn't know you were there, Glenna,” she answered her maidservant gently. “Come in. Were you looking for me?”

  Glenna shrugged. A gaunt-faced, auburn-haired woman, Glenna looked almost as careworn as Mirabelle felt. She had been Mirabelle's maid ever since she'd moved to Dalford House, and was more than a maid – she was a friend.

  “No, mistress,” Glenna informed. “I was just coming in to change the sheets.”

  “Oh. Well, then,” Mirabelle waved a hand at the bed in the corner, inviting Glenna to go about her work. “As you will.”

  “Thanks, milady. They aren't very well starched, I'm afraid,” she added, tugging the bedsheets off with an ominous sound of strained linen. “We just ran out o' starch two days afore.”

  “Ah,” Mirabelle said sadly. She laid aside the necklace she held up to her long neck as the weight on her heart grew a little weightier, dragging her down. The lack of starch, Glenna's pinched, tense face – they were all signs of the poverty she knew they were slowly sinking into. She had to do something. And soon.

  “Glenna,” she declared, trying to sound confident, “I am going to go to London next month. Or mayhap sooner – I've not decided yet.”

  “London?” Glenna looked up from where she vigorously tucked sheets in under the mattress. “You sure, mistress?” She gave her a dubious stare.

  “I have to, Glenna,” Mirabelle said sadly.

  “Well, as you will,” Glenna said tightly, and bent, beating out the eiderdown, raising a thin haze of dust. “It seems a waste of time an' effort tae me.”

  Mirabelle could hear, under the words, to Glenna's true point – that London was expensive, and how could she think of gadding off there when they didn't even have starch, or proper butter for the morning loaf?

  “I know, Glenna,” she said, trying to sidestep her maid's silent criticism. “I...I hope it will be a profitable venture.”

  With that, she shut the case of diamonds with a click, and slid it back into her drawer. The diamonds. I will sell them in London. I have to.

  That had been why she came up here – to make the decision. And she had just made it. The diamonds would go. She had already sold the carriage, and let off all but two of the staff, as well as some of the furniture, sold against the debts on the estate. Now, she would sell the diamonds.

  They had been a gift from her father, Lord Amhurst, on the occasion of her betrothal to Arthur. Now, with Arthur dead these past three years, and her father silent and distant in the north of England, she had no reason to keep them.

  Keeping them, as they are, is not worth the food and revenue they could bring.

  Mirabelle looked at herself in the mirror. She could see the tension these months of worry had put on her. She was thirty, but the lines at the corners of her blue eyes could have belonged to someone older. She frowned, worried to see the faint signs of her age. There were a few strands of silver in her hair, too, woven artfully between the honey-brown curls.

  I need to fix this mess. And then maybe I'll stop looking so awfully weary.

  “So...you'll be going a while then?” Glenna asked, breaking her focus. She had moved to brushing the dust off the parquet floor, her back stiff with disapproval.

  “I'll be gone a week, at least,” Mirabelle conceded. “So I think, when I pack, I will have to take three day gowns, maybe two evening dresses – maybe three,” she added, frowning as she ticked the items off on a mental list. She intended to attend parties to try and find buyers for the jewels. She had no idea how to go about selling them – not really – and hoped that someone she met, who mayhap admired them could help her in her endeavor.

  “You don't have three evening gowns – last one we cut down and remade into a promenade-dress, remember?” Glenna inquired dolefully.

  Mirabelle sighed. She had forgotten. The green dress – one of her newer ballgowns – she had indeed had remade into a day gown, something suitable for walking in the town. It was thrifty and sensible. She was glad, though, that she hadn't got rid of the other two.

  “Yes, I'd forgotten,” she commented, tucking a stray curl back into her elaborate up-style. “I'll take it too, then. I might go walking in the parks,” she added lightly.

  “Aye – that sounds nice,” Glenna said, her voice thick with disapproval. Mirabelle sighed.

  It's not as if I'm going there for my entertainment. I am going there to try and make the revenue we need to help us all!

  She shook her head wearily. There was no need to tell Glenna that: If Glenna knew, she'd oppose the idea and suggest some other crazy scheme for making money. They'd already tried selling cakes out of the kitchen...however, Glenna's baking seemed almost as dismal as Mirabelle's own might be, and they'd given up the venture despairingly.

  The debts had come in slowly. First, immediately after Arthur's death, had been the traders – the carters and tailors, the carpenters and other artisans who'd worked on or for the estate at some time and not been paid yet. Then, months later, had been the debts from Town. Restaurants, hotels...places Mirabelle had never known existed, much less visited: they had sent their accounts to Stilling, the steward.

  Now, with the last round of private debts, we need to find another way to resolve them. And soon. It might be best if I go to London this week.

  “Well, then,” Mirabelle said brightly trying to sound confident. “I'll pack tomorrow morning, then, and you can ask Stilling to find a coach that can take one passenger to London post-haste, traveling with one case.”

  “Yes, mistress.” Glenna said, beating dust out of the broom harshly. Clouds of it went through the window, fortunately carried off by the breeze. Mirabelle tried not to cough, and looked out through the window to the town beyond, feeling sad.

  When Glenna had gone, taking her brush and her temper with her, Mirabelle sat down on the bed and ran a weary hand down her face. She had no idea what she was meant to do about this situation.

  One thing she was sure of, however: She was going to solve it alone.

  I would rather starve here, in this house with Stilling and Glenna, than ask my father, Lord Amhurst the Ungenerous for help.

  She grinned tightly. She had coined the term for her father privately, having no siblings to share it with. She had lived alone with him, but for an aunt, his sister, Marlena. Aunt Marlena had griped enough about the man's ungenerous nature herself. She recalled her terse comments with a wry smile.

  “Hell will get cold before that fellow gets open-handed,” she'd said.

  The diamonds had struck them both as ironic more than anything else. Launderers and seamstresses' bills were strictly regulated, as were parties, balls, music...any other “fripperies” that might have made life at Amhurst Park bearable. Diamonds, Amhurst might have given, but only when his daughter was about to do as he had wished her to, and marry a lord.

  She sighed. Arthur, Count Dalford, her late husband, was cruel. Cold, aloof, unkind; he was used to commanding soldiers in the army and assuming that was his role in life. Mirabelle hadn't known him long before the campaign which ended his life, but she had found little to like and much to fear.

  The grief had numbed her – it had been a shock, a terrible one – but, in the year after, she found her overwhelming emotion was relief. She had escaped from the constant berating, the constant criticism, the pain. She was freed, not only from him, but from the loathing she had started to feel for herself.

  “I'm useless, Aunt,” she'd said sadly, when her aunt had visited, a year later. “Arthur was right: What do I know about m
anaging a household?”

  “You know more than he did, that I'll say,” Marlena said dryly. “With all those debts he ran up.”

  Mirabelle sighed. “I don't think I'm managing things well. I can't manage alone.”

  “Well, you look to be doing a wonderful job,” her aunt had sniffed. “I wonder what your servants would say, eh? They don't seem dissatisfied to me. Place clean as a pin. And an excellent tea, too,” she'd added, draining a cup. She looked at Mirabelle intently.

  “Well, they wouldn't say it, would they?” Mirabelle asked reasonably. “And I just...I simply don't feel like I have it in me anymore.”

  “You have it in you, alright,” Marlena had said, crossly. “My memory isn't what it was, niece, but it's not me being forgetful this time. It's you. You're forgetting all the things you used to know about yourself.”

  With that, she had set the cup aside and left. The words had changed her outlook, Mirabelle found. Marlena had been right. She had forgotten the Mirabelle who had laughed, running, through the gardens of Amhurst. Who had been loved by the maidservants and village-folk. The Mirabelle who had drawn, painted and sung.

  And now I feel more like myself again. Mirabelle Steele. I just need to find something to do about the money.

  She leaned on the windowsill, looking out over the town where it lay, spread out under a lilac evening sky. Dalford was a pleasant place and had become her home. It was a small village with most of the architecture Medieval, the streets cobbled and the roofs steep and the fronts made from drunkenly-curved pine trees, filled between with wattle and daub panes.

  She had loved it instantly. The little houses, the not-quite-straight church spire, the winding streets. It had been charming and lovely, so different to Amhurst in the bleak, barren north.

  It would be strange, she thought, to leave it.

  Mirabelle walked back from the window, her eye falling on the dressing-table again. The few jewels she possessed were laid out there – the pearl earrings, the matching pendant – those had belonged to Mama, and she'd never sell them. The brooch from Marlena, a comb from a friend, and the ring from Arthur during their courtship.