My Irresistible Earl Read online

  Gaelen Foley

  My Irresistible Earl

  Love, that releases no beloved from loving,

  took hold of me so strongly…

  that, as you see, it has not left me yet.

  —Dante’s Inferno, Canto V. ll. 103–105

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Destiny’s Path

  Chapter 1

  There is a gorgeous man over there staring at you,”…

  Chapter 2

  Sometimes things just didn’t work out the way you planned.

  Chapter 3

  By the next evening, all signs of Thomas’s cold had…

  Chapter 4

  What is that man’s problem? Several days later, Mara still…

  Chapter 5

  Oh, what now? Jordan thought in annoyance, as the disturbance…

  Chapter 6

  Two A.M.

  Chapter 7

  After the long tense day, a celebratory mood lightened the…

  Chapter 8

  Any attempt at escape had proved futile, but Drake realized…

  Chapter 9

  Lady Bryce could not have been sweeter to their honored…

  Chapter 10

  Making love to Mara had left Jordan with a delirious…

  Chapter 11

  With the Regent’s cryptic warning to be careful with Jordan…

  Chapter 12

  Drake had suffered an excruciating headache for two days, taking…

  Chapter 13

  James Falkirk always stayed at the Pulteney when he came…

  Chapter 14

  Virgil quickly masked his emotions behind his usual gruff exterior;…

  Chapter 15

  What a dismal week she was having.

  Chapter 16

  Albert was stone drunk, according to plan, and Jordan was…

  Chapter 17

  As the light rose over London, the dawn of the…

  Chapter 18

  The only thing Jordan knew how to do in that…

  Chapter 19

  The trip to Carlton House was a blur.

  Chapter 20

  Were you seen? Were you followed?” Bloodwell demanded as he…

  Chapter 21

  Dreamy images filtered through Jordan’s mind, a country house…he heard…

  Epilogue

  Far away across the Channel, Emily moved confidently through the…

  About the Author

  Other Books by Gaelen Foley

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Destiny’s Path

  England, 1804

  Being born into a secret, centuries-old order of chivalry sworn to the fight against evil was not a destiny for the faint of heart.

  As a newly minted agent, twenty-two years old, Jordan Lennox, the Earl of Falconridge, had just completed years of rigorous training at the Order’s remote, military-style school in the wilds of Scotland.

  There, with his brother warriors, he had mastered all sorts of dangerous fun. He could scale sheer rock faces with naught but ropes and pulleys, had already swum the English Channel, could devise explosives out of a little saltpeter and random everyday objects found at hand. He was fluent in six languages, could navigate by the stars, and was so much at one with his smooth-bore rifle he could hit a bull’s-eye at fifty yards blindfolded.

  These were basic requirements for any young knight of the Order about to be deployed on his first mission.

  Jordan, however, more prudent, sensible, and cautious than his headstrong teammates even at the start of their illustrious careers, had already made up his mind about how he did not want the life of a spy to affect him in the long term.

  After years of observing the grim demeanor of their handler, Virgil, he had made a pact with himself not to end up like that.

  Too many of the older agents had that same dark look: cynical to the point of bitterness, hard-edged, stony.

  Ice-cold.

  What was the point of taking the Order’s blood oath to protect the Realm and everyone he loved—friends and family—if a man ended up as dead inside as an old, blackened hunk of petrified wood?

  And so, wherever his future missions might take him, he vowed, he would not let his work for the Order become the only thing that he had in his life.

  The key, as best he could figure, was not to lose touch with normal people, normal life, as silly and trivial as it sometimes seemed compared to the high-stakes shadow war that he and his brother warriors had pledged to fight.

  Max and Rohan preferred to scoff at the oblivious people in Society, but Jordan, with his wonderful parents, adoring siblings, and countless cousins, found a certain quaint charm in ordinary goings-on.

  Participating in all the social rituals helped him keep his balance—and it was for this reason that he accepted the invitation to the country-house party.

  He probably wouldn’t be able to stay the full month of July, he supposed, for any day now, he expected to receive his first assignment to one of the foreign courts presently under threat.

  With Napoleon running amuck across the Continent, every agent was needed, especially those of high birth who could be given entrée into places and meet with people to whom common folk had no access.

  But all this was a care for another day.

  For now, there would be picnics, outdoor games, strawberry picking with the delicate young ladies, quadrilles with debutantes, perhaps a home theatrical at their hosts’ elegant country estate.

  It was all so deliciously normal, the sort of pursuits in which any highborn young gentleman might while away the long, lazy weeks of summer. Jordan relished the chance to pretend for a while that he was no different than any of the other, well-fixed young rakes, aside from having already come into his title.

  He was even prepared to let the other lads win most of the athletic contests. What he was completely unprepared for, however, was meeting Mara Bryce…

  Chapter 1

  London

  Twelve years later

  There is a gorgeous man over there staring at you,” Delilah drawled under her breath as the two fashionable young widows sat amid the wealthy crowd amassed at Christie’s grand auction rooms in Pall Mall. “Mmm, he’s very fit. Blond, with a smoldering look. Impeccable clothes. Go on, have a look. I’ll take him if you’re not interested.”

  “Sh! I’m concentrating!” Mara, Lady Pierson, ignored her friend’s mischievous efforts to distract her and kept her attention focused on the auctioneer, who was smoothly managing the sale of the Old Master from his raised podium at the front of the long, high-ceilinged chamber.

  “Seven hundred fifty, do I have eight hundred pounds? Eight hundred fifty…”

  “You don’t need another painting, darling,” Delilah opined. “What you really need to do is take a lover, as I have long advised.”

  “That, I assure you, is the last thing I require.”

  “Prude.”

  Mara snorted, barely paying attention to her as the bid was raised again. “Another arrogant male to come along and lord it over me? No, thank you. I’ve just got rid of one.”

  “A lover, sweet, is different from a husband.”

  “Well, you would know.”

  Delilah smacked her arm lightly for this bit of insolence. Mara shot her a wicked, twinkling look askance, then returned her gaze to the front of the room. “No, my dear, I assure you, I can do without a man. I’m nearly thirty years old, and I’ve only just now got my life the way I want it. Why should I give some randy male the chance to wreck it for me?”

  “Well, that is a good point. But randy males have their uses, darling. I daresay you will learn to enjo
y them in time.”

  “I doubt it. I have no talent for such things, just ask my husband.” She cast her worldly friend a cynical glance.

  Delilah smiled sympathetically. “All the more reason for you to find a man who actually knows how to satisfy a woman.”

  “Is there such a creature?” she murmured, watching the auctioneer attentively.

  “To be sure! You could borrow Cole—but, no. Then I’d have to scratch your eyes out.”

  Mara laughed softly. “Don’t worry. Your Cole is safe from me. The only male I care about right now is two years old.”

  “That may be, Mama bear, but be warned, now that you’re out of mourning, you’re going to find yourself considered fair game.”

  Mara shrugged with a restless glance around the auction hall at her competition for the painting. “Whoever tries will only be wasting his time.”

  “Do I hear nine hundred?”

  She quickly raised her numbered paddle again.

  Delilah let out a bored sigh. “Why are you spending a fortune on this gloomy old portrait of some Dutch merchant’s wife? She’s ugly, anyway. She has a bulbous nose.”

  “There’s more to art than prettiness, Delilah. Besides, the painting’s not for me.” Mara winced at the climbing price as the auctioneer proclaimed: “One thousand pounds!”

  “Who’s it for, then?” Delilah asked in surprise.

  Her friend waited expectantly; Mara hesitated before answering the question.

  “Well?”

  “It’s for George,” she conceded at last in a low tone, flashing her paddle again.

  “George?”

  “Do I have eleven hundred?”

  “Who is George?” her friend whispered eagerly.

  Mara sent her a cautious, meaningful look, trying to be discreet.

  Delilah’s eyes widened. “Ohhh, that George! You mean the Prince Regent!” She gasped in scandalous delight. “Oh, you are having an affair with Prinny! I knew it!—oh, but darling, he’s so fat! Then again, he will be king. Hold on! Is he in love with you? Good God, you could get diamonds as big as your fist—”

  “Delilah!”

  “How is he in bed?” She laughed with wicked glee. “Oh, I’ll bet he’s terrible! But no worse than other heads of state—I wonder. What about King Louis of France? He’s also fat, and very old. At least he’s not Napoleon, poor little thing.” The merry widow’s meaningful laugh was pure deviltry.

  “For heaven’s sake, keep your voice down!” Mara scolded in a whisper, trying not to laugh. “Listen to me, you mad-woman. I am not having an affair with the Regent. We are friends. Friends, do you mark me?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “His Royal Highness is my son’s godfather, as you are well aware. That is all!”

  “Tell it to the ton, love.” Delilah folded her arms across her chest and studied her with a knowing eye. “With all your visits to Carlton House, there has been speculation.”

  Mara let out a sigh. I know, she thought wearily. What a perverse world it was. Why did people always assume the worst?

  “Eleven hundred! Do I hear twelve?” The auctioneer scanned the sprawling room. “Eleven hundred fifty?”

  Holding her paddle high, Mara bit her lip with another quick glance around. “I think I’ve just bought…”

  “Sold! To the lovely lady here.” With a polite nod to Mara, the auctioneer banged his gavel.

  “Well, bully for me.” When Mara turned to grin at Delilah, her friend was staring quizzically at her. “What?”

  “Eleven hundred pounds? Darling, I just furnished my entire beach house at Brighton for that much. Why else would you spend such a huge sum on the Regent unless he is your cher ami, hmm?”

  “Because,” she answered ever so reasonably, “Gerrit Dou is his latest collecting craze. And—” Mara stopped herself, unsure how much she was allowed to say.

  “And what?” Delilah leaned closer.

  “And…I happen to possess certain information that a happy royal occasion is about to be announced. Now you see how frightfully clever I am?” she teased. “I’ll already have my gift picked out, while the rest of you will be left to scramble when the big announcement comes.”

  “What big announcement?” Delilah prompted, tugging at her arm. “Are they finally going to let him have his divorce? Because, just think, then you could—”

  “No! Sorry, my lips are sealed.” Mara chuckled at Delilah’s imploring huff.

  “You’re really not going to tell me?” she exclaimed with a wounded air.

  “I can’t, love. They’ll throw me in the Tower.”

  “Right.”

  “My dear, I dare not. It’s not my news to tell, you see. But you’ll hear it soon enough. It should be made public within a sennight.”

  “You are wicked.”

  “Look who’s talking! So, where is this gorgeous man you were talking about, anyway? What did you call him—impeccable and smoldering? I rather like the sound of that.”

  “I thought you didn’t want a man.”

  “Well, I don’t mind looking.” Mara followed her gaze as Delilah glanced around.

  “Oh. He’s gone now. I don’t see him anymore.” Then Delilah sent her a small pout. “Honestly, you would tell me if you were sharing a bed with the Regent, wouldn’t you?”

  “With the way you gossip? Absolutely not,” she answered mildly.

  “But, my dear, that’s why you love me!”

  “True. All the same, there is nothing to tell. His Royal Highness is my son’s godfather and my friend.”

  “Your friend.”

  “Of course! He’s been altogether gallant to me and to Thomas ever since my husband’s death.”

  “I wonder why,” Delilah answered dryly.

  “Well, you know, he is married,” Mara pointed out with an evasive shrug.

  Delilah scoffed. “And your point is?”

  “Come, everyone knows the prince has always preferred older women. He’s kind to me, that’s all.” And I owe him in ways that you don’t understand. “What more can I say? I genuinely care for him.”

  “Well, that’s very sweet, darling. But you may be the last person in England who feels that way.”

  “I don’t care what anyone says about him. I adore our Prinny. He has an artist’s soul.”

  “Just what the country needs. Can we leave now?” Delilah complained. “It’s stifling in here, and it smells like my grandmother’s attic.”

  “Fine with me. I accomplished what I came for. I’m anxious to get home to Thomas, anyway. He woke up yesterday with a bit of a sniffle. It has me rather concerned.”

  “Horrors, a sniffle! And how many physicians have you had to the house in the past twenty-four hours to tend our little viscount?”

  “Delilah Staunton, you know nothing about children.”

  “I know enough to stay away from ’em, don’t I?” she retorted, her eyes twinkling.

  Mara gave her a severe look in answer.

  Delilah laughed blithely. “Come, I’ll send for our carriages if you want to go settle up for your painting and make the arrangements for its delivery.”

  She nodded, then the two ladies rose from their seats.

  As they maneuvered their long skirts with care, climbing as discreetly as possible past the row of still-seated patrons, Mara reflected on the pesky rumor that she was the Regent’s newest ladylove.

  Obviously, she did not want to risk insulting the future king by too vehemently repudiating the tale, as if the thought of him as her paramour disgusted her. Not for the world would she ever wish to wound the extremely sensitive royal George’s feelings. He was so conscious of his weight, so tenderhearted, so easily made to feel rejected.

  Thanks to her parents’ methods of raising her on a steady diet of barbed criticism and disparagement, Mara knew firsthand the difficulty of trying to live when one’s foundation, as it were, was built on complete uncertainty about oneself. Constant attacks on one’s worth and value tended
to fill a person with a hopeless sense of failure, no matter how one tried.

  That was why she could sympathize with the poor Regent. For him, there had never been any real chance of living up to the expectations of his father, the King, let alone the expectations of his countrymen. They had wanted a Wellington combined with a royal Adonis, and instead they had received an insecure, portly dilettante who had quickly become a nervous wreck.

  The pressure on the Regent was beyond enormous, and he was not the sort of man built to carry that kind of load. Mara knew he needed friends, actual friends, not two-faced toadies around him, and after what he’d done for her and her little boy, she was happy to stand by him with stalwart loyalty even if doing so did some damage to her reputation.

  What did it matter? She was no longer a girl of seventeen, anyway, obsessed with others’ opinions, trying to please everyone.

  With the Prinny situation, the wisest course in her view was simply to laugh off the rumor and protest it only mildly—in a way that would not bruise the royal ego.

  After all, a monarch’s friendship was not without hazard. If Beau Brummell himself could fall out of favor after one too-sarcastic jest, anyone could. The Prince Regent might be unpopular of late, but he still had the power to sentence anyone to social death.

  In the meanwhile, Mara assured herself, the Regent did not really want to bed her. He had only dropped a few hints, no more than a light, unserious flirtation. The thought that he might be serious in any degree was too terrifying to contemplate. No, his Royal Highness merely enjoyed her company—which was more than she could say for her late husband.

  Besides, the whisper of her supposed tryst with the Regent worked like magic to keep all the other lecherous lords of the aristocracy at bay. They dared not poach on what might be considered royal territory.

  Delilah was right. Widows who still owned a share of youth and beauty were often the most hotly pursued women in the ton, fair game in the eyes of London’s many highborn seducers. There was a time when Mara would have savored so much male attention, but that was long ago. Her brief career as a coquette seemed another lifetime.