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THE EARL NEXT DOOR
The Bachelor Lords of London #1
Charis Michaels
Releasing March 1st, 2016
Avon Impulse
Charis Michaels makes her Avon
Impulse debut with the first book in her new historical romance series, The
Bachelor Lords of London...featuring a brooding earl and the American heiress
who charms him.
American heiress Piety Grey is on
the run. Suddenly in London and facing the renovation of a crumbling townhouse,
she’s determined to make a new life for herself—anything is better than returning
to New York City where a cruel mother and horrid betrothal await her. The last
thing she needs is a dark, tempting earl inciting her at every turn…
Trevor Rheese, the Earl of
Falcondale, isn’t interested in being a good neighbor. After fifteen years of
familial obligation, he’s finally free. But when the disarmingly beautiful
Piety bursts through his wall—and into his life—his newfound freedom is
threatened…even as his curiosity is piqued.
Once Piety’s family arrives in
London, Falcondale suddenly finds himself in the midst of a mock courtship to
protect the seductive woman who’s turned his world upside down. It’s all for
show—or at least it should be. But if Falcondale isn’t careful, he may find a
very real happily ever after with the woman of his dreams…
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Chapter One
No.
21 Henrietta Place
Mayfair,
London, England
May
1809
Nothing
of record ever happened in Henrietta Place.
Carriages
did not collide. Servants did not quarrel in the mews. No one among
the street’s jowly widowers remarried harlot second wives, and
families with spirited young boys boarded them in school at the
earliest possible age.
No
one tolerated stray dogs.
A
calm sort of orderliness prevailed on the street, gratifying
residents and earning high praise from Londoners and country visitors
alike. It was a domestic refuge. One of the last such sanctuaries
in all of London.
Certainly,
the stately townhome mansion at No. 21 was a sanctuary to Lady
Frances Stroud, Marchioness Frinfrock, who had been a proud and
attentive resident since her marriage in 1768. With her own eyes,
Lady Frinfrock had seen the degradation and disquiet that had become
prevalent in so many London streets; noble-born men fraternizing with
ballet dancers in The Strand; week-long ramblings in Pall Mall. And
the spectacle that was Covent Garden? It wasn’t to be borne.
What
a comfort, then, that Lady Frinfrock would always have Henrietta
Place, where nothing of record ever happened. Where she could live
out her final days in peace and tranquility.
“It
looks to be fair for a second day, my lady,” said Miss Breedlowe,
the marchioness’ nurse, crossing to the alcove window that
overlooked the street.
“A
fog will descend by luncheon,” said the marchioness, frowning.
“If
it pleases you, we could take a short walk before then,” the nurse
said. “To Cavendish Square and back? Spring weather is so
unpredictable, we should take advantage of the sun before it
disappears again for a month.”
“Cavendish
Square is not to be tolerated,” said Lady Frinfrock.
Miss
Breedlowe looked at her hands. “Only so far as the corner and
back, then?”
“Not
I,” said the marchioness, pained.
A
sigh of disappointment followed, as it always did. How unhappily
accustomed Lady Frinfrock had become to her nurse’s chronic
sighing. It was obvious that Miss Breedlowe endeavored to be
patient, although, in her ladyship’s view, not nearly patient
enough. In return, the marchioness rarely endeavored to be agreeable
enough.
And
why should a woman of her age and station be prodded through an inane
schedule of someone else’s design? To be forced to engage in robust
activities intended for no other purpose than to move her bowels? If
her inept solicitors felt that her alleged infirmity warranted the
nurse-maiding of sullen, sigh-ridden Miss Breedlowe, then so be it.
They could cajole her to compensate and house the woman, but they
could not force her to abide her. Or to walk to Cavendish Square
when she hadn’t the slightest desire.
Miss
Breedlowe cleared her throat. “Perhaps tomorrow, then.”
Lady
Frinfrock made a dismissive sound. “If you wish to walk to
Cavendish Square, Miss Breedlowe, pray, do not let my disinterest
detain you.”
The
nurse turned from the window and studied her. “I had hoped to
discover an activity that we might enjoy together.”
“A
vain hope, I fear. I am a solitary soul, as the tyrants at
Blinklowe, Dinkle, and Tuft, would comprehend if their service to my
estate extended beyond calculating my worth in shillings and pounds
and subtracting their yearly portion…and then shackling me with
you.”
To
her credit, the nurse did not blanch, but she also did not reply.
The marchioness looked away. If such frank language could not elicit
some measure of honesty from the woman, perhaps it would scare her
into not speaking at all. Either would be preferable to her current
trickle of disingenuous small talk, not to mention the incessant
sighing.
“I
dare say your planters are the most beautiful for several blocks, my
lady,” Miss Breedlowe said after a moment. “Do you direct your
gardener in their care?”
“They
are not the loveliest on their own accord, of that you can be sure.”
“How
talented you are.”
The
marchioness snorted. “You can but see what becomes of a garden
when left unattended, even for a week. Just look at the deplorable
state of Lord Falcondale’s flower boxes and borders, if you can
bear it. Such an eyesore.”
“Oh,
yes. The new earl. Which house is it?”
“Number
24. There. Directly across the street. It’s been in his family
for an age.” She gently tapped the window with her cane. “His
late uncle, the previous Lord Falcondale, paid fastidious attention
to the upkeep of those planters. Tulips and ivy mostly, this time of
year. Simple flowers, really. No effort to maintain, but perfectly
lovely if kept headed and weeded, which he did. Not to mention his
staff swept the steps and stoop several times a day, even in the
damp. But now his far-flung nephew has inherited, and I fear the
entire property will fall into disrepair.”
“Hmmm,”
said Miss Breedlowe. “That would be a great shame.”
“Doubtless
it seems like a small thing to you, but this sort of irresponsibility
can bring about the demise of order and calm in a quiet street like
our Henrietta Place. It doesn’t help that Number 22,” she
gestured again, “next door to Falcondale’s, has been unoccupied
and for sale these last five years. The house agents keep it up, but
there’s no substitute for the loving care of a devoted owner and
staff.”
“Indeed.”
“To
make matters worse, the new earl is completely unresponsive to
neighborly suggestion. I dispatched Samuel to speak to his gardener,
only to be told that the man has let him go, the careless sod.”
“Dismissed
his gardener?”
“He
sacked the whole lot. I’ve since learned that every servant has
been turned out. Now I ask you, how is a house of that size to be
maintained without staff?”
“I
can only guess, my lady, but do take care. It would not warrant your
becoming overset.” She ventured small steps toward the
marchioness.
“The
demise of order and calm.” Lady Frinfrock tsked, waving her away
and rising slowly from her chair. She plodded to the window. “The
demise of order and calm.”
As
if on cue, a carriage, buffed to a sun-sparkling sheen, whipped
around the corner, thundering down the cobblestones from the
direction of Welbeck Street.
“Who
the devil could this be?” the marchioness whispered. She drew so
near to the window, her breath fogged the glass. The carriage
careened toward them at a breakneck pace, slowing slightly as it
neared Lady Frinfrock’s front window. With eyes wide, the
marchioness watched it jostle past her house and well beyond the
weed-ridden planters of Falcondale’s front door. Only when it
reached the unoccupied house at Number 22 did it lurch to a stop, the
coachman yanking the reins as if his life depended on it.
“Such
traffic in the street today,” mumbled Miss Breedlowe.
“Nonsense,”
said Lady Frinfrock, her eyes pinned on the carriage. “There is no
traffic
in Henrietta Place. Not on this day or any day. Such recklessness?
A conveyance of this size? It’s wholly irregular!”
“Indeed.
Perhaps a neighbor is expecting out-of-town guests?”
“No
relation to the occupants of this street could afford a vehicle so
grand,” she said. “Except, of course, for me. And I have no
relatives.”
“Not
even the new earl, Lord Falcondale?”
The
marchioness harrumphed. “He cannot even afford a gardener.”
The
carriage door sprang open, and Lady Frinfrock leaned in.
“Oh,
look,” said Miss Breedlowe, cheerful interest in her voice. “It’s
a young woman. How beautiful she is. And her gown. And hat,” she
marveled. “Oh, she’s brought someone with her. A companion.
Hmm. Perhaps a servant?” Her voice went a little off, and she
crooked her head to the side, studying the two women collecting in
the street.
“Is
that an African?” Lady
Frinfrock nearly shouted, planting both gloved palms on the spotless
glass of the window.
“I
do believe her companion is an…aboriginal woman of some sort,”
croaked Miss Breedlowe, herself moving closer to the glass.
“But
whatever business could they have in Henrietta Place?”
Miss
Breedlowe reached out a hand to steady her. “Do take care, my
lady. Perhaps we should return to the comfort of the chairs.”
“I
shall not be comfortable in chairs,” said the marchioness, swatting
her away. “But has the young woman come alone?” She tapped a
bony finger on the glass. “Where is her family? Her husband or
parents?”
“Perhaps
the men who have accompanied her are her—”
“Servants,
clearly,” interrupted the marchioness. “Look, Miss Breedlowe.
Trunk after trunk. Crates and baskets. Oh, God.” Her breath
fogged the glass. “They are conveying it to the former front door
of Cecil Panhearst’s old house. It’s been sealed like a tomb for
the better part of a decade.”
“So
they are. Perhaps you’re to have a second new neighbor.”
“A
lone young woman and an African?”
She moved closer to the window.
“Highly
likely, I’d say. It would appear they are…? Yes, they are
unpacking.”
“Well,
that cannot be,” Lady Frinfrock declared, shaking her head at the
street. “I won’t stand for it. Not without knowing who she may
be, or where she came from. And why she is accompanied by an
African.”
“Oh,
do not worry,” chuckled Miss Breedlowe, “the servants will learn
her story soon enough. If she has any staff at all, they will talk
with the other servants on the street.”
For
the first time since the carriage arrived, the marchioness lifted her
eyes from the window and turned to stare at the nurse.
“Why,
what an excellent idea, Miss Breedlowe.” She raised her cane and
jabbed it in the direction of the startled younger woman. “How
resourceful you are. The
servants will talk.”
She raised one eyebrow. “They
will learn her story soon enough.”
As
Miss Breedlowe stared in disbelief, the marchioness scrunched her
face and then swung the tip of her cane in the direction of door.
“Oh,
no, my lady,” said Miss Breedlowe, backing away. “You cannot
mean me.”
“Oh,
yes, ‘tis exactly what I mean. Finally, a suitable application for
your indeterminate hovering and resigned sighs. We shall devise a
reason for you to approach her, and you will discover her business in
my street. It is our duty as mindful, responsible residents to
know.”
“But
I was speaking of the maids, my lady. The kitchen boys. I…”
“The
maids are unreliable. The kitchen boys are inarticulate. You,
however, are ideal for this sort of thing. Steel yourself, Miss
Breedlowe. We cannot know what manner of objectionable thing she may
say or do. Better fetch your gloves. And your hat.”
It isn't often that I read regency romance, mostly because they are so long these days and full of crazy things. In this case Piety's family and Trevor's past, both making for some pretty unbelievable antics.
Trevor isn't looking for a relationship, but somehow Piety's problems become his own, first her house, then her life, all the while he is trying to convince himself that he isn't falling in love with her. It is a case of the man doth protest too much. There is a huge attraction between Piety and Trevor.
Some of the best scenes are with Trevor and the Limpetts. Piety's family are crazy. A mother who doesn't care for her daughter but only wants the money she was left by her husband. I didn't quite get on board with her trying to foist her stepsons on Piety to keep the money in the family so to speak. Also, Piety was 25, even in England she would have control of her fortune.
The cast of characters here is very strong. I loved the Marchioness, Jocelyn and Joseph. Joseph in particular was so loyal to Trevor.
This is Charis's debut novel and if it is any indication of what is to come, we are in for a lot of treats, especially with this series, The Bachelor Lords Of London.
There were times when the story got to be a little slow. This book was near 500 pages, and to be honest, it would probably have been perfect if it were about 150 pages shorter. There was just so much going on that at times it was hard to keep things straight and that is what keeps this from being a perfect read.
Rating: 4 flowers
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CHARIS MICHAELS is thrilled to be making her debut with Avon Impulse. Prior
to writing romance, she studied Journalism at Texas A&M and managed PR for
a trade association. She has also worked as a tour guide at Disney World,
harvested peaches on her family’s farm, and entertained children as the “Story Godmother”
at birthday parties. She has lived in Texas, Florida, and London, England. She
now makes her home in the Washington, D.C.-metro area.
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