Praise for In Bed with the Earl
“Exceptional . . . This series launch is an intoxicating romp sure to delight fans of historical romance.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Sizzling, witty, passionate . . . perfect!”
—Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author
Praise for Christi Caldwell
“Christi Caldwell writes a gorgeous book!”
—Sarah MacLean, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
“In addition to a strong plot, this story boasts actualized characters whose personal demons are clear and credible. The chemistry between the protagonists is seductive and palpable, with their family history of hatred played against their personal similarities and growing attraction to create an atmospheric and captivating romance.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Hellion
“Christi Caldwell is a master of words, and The Hellion is so descriptive and vibrant that she redefines high definition. Readers will be left panting, craving, and rooting for their favorite characters as unexpected lovers find their happy ending.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Hellion
“Christi Caldwell’s The Vixen shows readers a darker, grittier version of Regency London than most romance novels . . . Caldwell’s more realistic version of London is a particularly gripping backdrop for this enemies-to-lovers romance, and it’s heartening to read a story where love triumphs even in the darkest places.”
—NPR on The Vixen
OTHER TITLES BY CHRISTI CALDWELL
Lost Lords of London
In Bed with the Earl
In the Dark with the Duke
Sinful Brides
The Rogue’s Wager
The Scoundrel’s Honor
The Lady’s Guard
The Heiress’s Deception
The Wicked Wallflowers
The Hellion
The Vixen
The Governess
The Bluestocking
The Spitfire
Heart of a Duke
In Need of a Duke (A Prequel Novella)
For Love of the Duke
More Than a Duke
The Love of a Rogue
Loved by a Duke
To Love a Lord
The Heart of a Scoundrel
To Wed His Christmas Lady
To Trust a Rogue
The Lure of a Rake
To Woo a Widow
To Redeem a Rake
One Winter with a Baron
To Enchant a Wicked Duke
Beguiled by a Baron
To Tempt a Scoundrel
The Heart of a Scandal
In Need of a Knight (A Prequel Novella)
Schooling the Duke
A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart
A Matchmaker for a Marquess
His Duchess for a Day
Five Days With a Duke
Lords of Honor
Seduced by a Lady’s Heart
Captivated by a Lady’s Charm
Rescued by a Lady’s Love
Tempted by a Lady’s Smile
Courting Poppy Tidemore
Scandalous Seasons
Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride
Never Courted, Suddenly Wed
Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous
Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love
A Marquess for Christmas
Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love
The Theodosia Sword
Only For His Lady
Only For Her Honor
Only For Their Love
Danby
A Season of Hope
Winning a Lady’s Heart
The Brethren
The Spy Who Seduced Her
The Lady Who Loved Him
The Rogue Who Rescued Her
The Minx Who Met Her Match
The Spinster Who Saved a Scoundrel
Brethren of the Lords
My Lady of Deception
Her Duke of Secrets
A Regency Duet
Rogues Rush In
Nonfiction Works
Uninterrupted Joy: A Memoir
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2020 by Christi Caldwell Incorporated
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542021364
ISBN-10: 1542021367
Cover design by Juliana Kolesova
To Karen.
Thank you for your eyes. Your support.
And most importantly, your friendship.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter 1
When Lewis Tooley was hanged, to the more merciless crowd’s delight, and to the less hardened people’s horror, the man’s head popped right off.
Thomas Winterly wetted himself the moment the bag was draped over his head.
Or there was Mrs. Blythe Starwich, who went purple, and whose strangulation was so slow that even the most ruthless gluttons for displays of violence called out for mercy on the half-mad woman’s behalf.
Now, having come to terms with these, his final moments, contemplating each of those possible outcomes for his own demise, Dare felt more . . . a detached curiosity about the end of his life.
Unlike the ribald excitement that always filled the gallows on hanging day, there was a surprising quiet to the crowd. A somberness that didn’t fit with the affair.
He did a sweep of the thousands assembled, all faces blurring together, a swath of tattered brown fabrics all blended as one into a blanket of sorts comprised of the masses.
Tears wetted the coal-smudged cheeks of many of the spectators.
It spoke to his ungratefulness, because Dare should be grateful for those tokens, ones that indicated some out there would at least regret his passing.
And yet . . . they were still the tears of strangers. They’d grieve over the loss of what he represented for the people here.
There was one who might grieve, however . . . and as he looked out, it was her face he sought. The one who, years and years earlier, had urged him to the Devil and said he was dead to her . . .
The guard grunted. “It’s toime, Grey.” He prodded Dare sharply at the center of his back.
Dare stumbled and pitched forward, managing to right himself.
He steeled his jaw. He’d be damned if anything but that rope knocked him down.
Hisses and boos went up amongst the audience.
; “Free ’im . . .”
Those two words rolled slowly and quietly through the crowd, but then took on a steady beat until the crowd roared with demands for his freedom.
And in the greatest of ironies, his guard shifted uneasily, moving closer to Dare.
“Let’s get on with it,” the other guard shouted, his call barely rising above the deafening din.
Catching Dare at both arms, they dragged him closer to that dais.
He’d lied. He wasn’t at peace.
Sweat slicked his palms and coated his frame. Vomit churned in his belly, and he swallowed rapidly to keep from retching before the thousands bearing witness.
His gaze skittered frantically.
For all the times he’d found himself in Newgate, there’d always been an almost calm understanding that he’d escape. He’d never made it to his last meal and last rites. And this march. He’d never made this march.
He choked on his bile, grateful for the near pandemonium that allowed him that smallest dignity.
His stare landed on a gleeful face amidst the crowd. There was a vague familiarity to the stranger. And yet, for as many as Dare had helped, there’d been triple those whom he’d been unable to. Men and women he’d turned away. Or gang leaders whom he’d foiled.
The man grabbed himself crudely. “Deserve it, ya do . . .” That triumphant spectator’s mouth moved, his words clear, even as they were silent amidst the pandemonium.
Yes, there were those who’d relish his death.
Dare’s legs knocked against the bottom step leading up to the dais.
And the panic that had pounded like a drum within retreated and faded, leaving him numb once more.
This was what the end was, then. Terror, ebbing and flowing like the tides rushing in and then out.
Dougal, the burlier of the guards, grunted. “It is time to get on with it. Ain’t no one comin’ for ye this time.” A faint hint of regret tinged that announcement.
But then, in the thirteen times Dare had landed himself in Newgate for robbing some nob to give to the poor, he’d come to know many of the guards. Those same men had often helped coordinate the bribe which had seen Dare freed. This time, however, there’d be no escape. That reality did not erase Dare’s gratitude for what this guard, and others, had done in his past. He briefly held the other man’s gaze and nodded. “Thank you.” For all the other men had done before this moment.
The guard gave the slightest, most imperceptible of nods that, had Dare not been studying him so closely, he would have missed.
And oddly, that grounded him. It gave him the courage and strength to place his foot on the first step. Nor did he believe his march, different from the customary shorter one, was anything but deliberate.
No, everyone from the constables on down to the magistrate was making a pointed example of him.
Dare made a slow climb up the last ten stairs he’d ever ascend.
And then he reached the top of the dais.
Drawing in a slow, steadying breath, he stared out at the sea of strangers below. Men, women, and children who’d have no one fighting for their justice and their survival. People there to be exploited.
So much work left undone.
And he proved very much the bastard Temperance had called him out as . . . because he found himself thinking of just one: her.
I wanted forever with you, Dare . . . but I’m not your first love. Your first love will always be your thieving ways . . . and I cannot—will not—be around when you finally fall . . .
His throat jumped.
She’d been right.
She’d always been right about so much. Always honorable, Temperance had certainly been too good for the likes of him.
But I wanted her anyway . . .
He closed his eyes, letting the crowd melt from his mind, wanting her face to be the last he saw. Not as she’d been the last time he’d seen her, but before that. Back when there was her laughter and his, melded together, as harmonious in their joy as they had been in making love—
The guard jabbed him hard in the back, bringing the reverie to an end and Dare’s eyes flying open.
Dare sucked in a breath as he was swallowed by darkness. No.
A rope dropped about his neck.
Terror plucked at the very edge of his consciousness, and he clenched and unclenched his bound hands, wanting to rip at that weighted cord about him.
And then came the strangest of occurrences.
Silence.
An eerie wave of it rolled through the crowd, punctuated by the periodic wail of a small child.
And he found himself longing for the noise. The one that would keep the world from hearing the hammering of his heart or the ragged, frantic breaths he sucked in through lungs that were too tight.
I’m not ready . . .
“In the name of the king . . .”
The king . . . That monarch who’d never cared about his people. Not the ones who’d most needed his care. Rage swept through Dare, and he welcomed the white-hot rush of it. He opened his mouth and shouted into the quiet, “Fuck the king!”
Cheers erupted, a wild, raucous bellowing of approval so thunderous it dimmed the frantic discussion taking place amongst his guards.
“In the name of the king”—that voice at his back shouted once more—“you are hereby ordered to cease . . .”
I don’t want to die . . . I don’t want to die . . . I don’t want to die . . .
It was a litany that rolled around in Dare’s head. He was grabbed by the arms and lurched forward, all his muscles coiling tight at that violation, and it was all he could do to keep from trying to fight off those men propelling him onward to his death.
Nay, he’d not die a coward.
Then the enormous weight of the noose was lifted.
Through the haze of panic and the adrenaline that pumped in his veins came confusion.
He was dead.
There was nothing else for it.
“Save ’im . . . save ’im . . . save ’im . . .”
And yet if he were dead, why did the crowds cheer still?
Those cries and shouts pealed through the square.
Where was the silence death brought?
He staggered backward, nearly tripping over his feet at the pace set by his captors. His saviors? It was all confused in this moment.
They continued dragging him down the steps . . . and back still, leading him off. The din of those who’d assembled at the Old Bailey grew muffled and muted, indicating he’d been drawn away from the gallows.
A long while later, those leading Dare abruptly stopped, dragging him to a halt alongside them.
KnockKnockKnock.
The rusty creak of hinges squealed. Dare was shoved into a room.
“Remove that . . . bag . . . this instant.” An austere voice in the same clipped English as the king himself cut through the loud silence.
Hands were immediately on Dare, struggling with the knot about his neck.
The sack was pulled from him. A blinding blast of light streamed through the glass windowpanes, and he squinted, bringing his hands up in a bid to blunt the bright rays.
Perhaps he was dead, after all. And he was here to meet his maker and have his sins laid out before being cast into that fiery hell awaiting him.
“And his hands,” that same voice ordered.
Dare blinked; slowly his eyes adjusted to the light . . . and to the group of people assembled before him.
The gaoler, Wylie, stood at the center of a trio: an elderly pair who couldn’t be a day younger than their seventieth years, both with canes clutched in their opposite hands. And a finely dressed young woman, who just then wordlessly looked Dare up and down.
Dare rubbed at his wrists and assessed this audience of strangers. Searching his mind and memory for past lords and ladies he’d robbed. And yet . . . there wa
s nothing familiar about them. Nay, that wasn’t altogether true.
His gaze settled on the youngest person there.
Dark-haired, tall, and sharp-featured . . . there was something familiar about the woman.
Dare searched his mind but came up empty.
Tiring of the silence, he put a question to the one person he was all too acquainted with—Wylie. “Throwing me a party before I meet my maker, are you? That’s not a courtesy I thought I’d see from the likes of you.”
A hard smile ghosted the gaoler’s mouth. “It seems you’ve more lives than a damned cat, Grey.” He waved away the still-hovering guards.
As they marched off, befuddled, Dare searched his still-slow-to-process mind for what the ruthless gaoler was saying.
The white-haired gentleman limped forward and, holding a quizzing glass up to his eye, studied Dare for a long while. “Hmph,” he grunted, and let the scrap fall. “It’s him.”
All the color spilled from the old woman’s cheeks. “My God, it can’t be!” Her mouth trembled. “There must be some mistake,” she cried, those words a plea.
“At least he can speak the King’s English,” the gentleman said, patting her hand.
Dare kept his focus on him. “Only when Oi’m really trying.”
The fancily clad lady wilted. Collapsing into a nearby chair, she grabbed for one of two gold chains about her neck. Uncorking the vial of smelling salts, she inhaled deeply.
“He’s making a jest, Beverly,” the pragmatic lord, clearly the woman’s husband, said. “You remember how he was.”
Everything about you is games and fun. You’ve no sense of responsibility . . . no sense of understanding of what you’ll one day inherit . . .
That voice came from a distance, an echo of long ago, words forgotten . . . buried away.
The old man motioned once more to Dare, pulling him back from the past. “He spoke perfectly just moments ago. He’s merely trying to get a rise out of us.”
Dare rubbed at his wrists to restore the flow of blood. All the while he eyed the gathering, this group of people who had knowledge of him. “Who the hell are you?” Dare put that to the leader of the little trio.
Wylie opened his mouth to speak, but the commanding lord silenced him with a single finger. “Leave us.”
“You don’t want to be alone with the likes of Grey.”
The gentleman thumped his cane. “I said, leave us.”
And it was a testament to the man’s rank, power, and influence that he managed not only to silence Wylie but also to have the ruthless warden quit the room.