The Brooding Earl's Proposition

Uncovering the mystery…

Of the brooding earl…

Arriving at the forbidding mansion on the Yorkshire moors, governess Selina Salinger is alarmed to find her new employer just as forbidding! Looking after his orphaned nieces, Selina gradually warms to Lord Westcroft. Their kisses make her dare to hope the ice around his heart is melting and a proposal could be a possibility. Instead he shocks her with a proposition so scandalous that no lady could ever accept!

LAURA MARTIN writes historical romances with an adventurous undercurrent. When not writing she spends her time working as a doctor in Cambridgeshire, where she lives with her husband. In her spare moments Laura loves to lose herself in a book, and has been known to read from cover to cover in a single day when the story is particularly gripping. She also loves to travel—especially to visit historical sites and far-flung shores.

Also by Laura Martin

Under a Desert Moon

Governess to the Sheikh

A Ring for the Pregnant Debutante

An Unlikely Debutante

An Earl to Save Her Reputation

The Viscount’s Runaway Wife

The Eastway Cousins miniseries

An Earl in Want of a Wife

Heiress on the Run

Scandalous Australian Bachelors miniseries

Courting the Forbidden Debutante

Reunited with His Long-Lost Cinderella

Her Rags-to-Riches Christmas

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Brooding Earl’s Proposition

Laura Martin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90130-1

THE BROODING EARL’S PROPOSITION

© 2020 Laura Martin

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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For everyone who has ever read one of my books.

You are the reason I get to live my dream every single day.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

‘Five minutes down the drive,’ Selina muttered to herself, grimacing as her boots splashed into another puddle. The coachman had refused to take her any closer, instead throwing the cloth bag that contained all her worldly possessions down from the coach and pointing with a crooked finger through the rusted iron gates.

It had been twenty minutes so far, twenty minutes of battling against the wind that whipped at her skirts, twenty minutes of cool drizzle soaking through her cloak. Twenty minutes to really start to regret the decision to travel so far north, to take up a position where she knew no one and where it seemed the weather was unforgiving and the locals unfriendly and suspicious.

As she rounded another bend the house came into view. It was large, with a central section and two sweeping wings jutting out from either side. The façade was of grey stone, weathered and beaten, and looked as though it was in need of some care and attention. Ivy grew up one side, covering the walls and creeping on to the windows.

‘Home…’ Selina murmured, feeling a sinking dread in her stomach. It didn’t look like a home, not one she wanted to live in.

She paused, knowing she had to go forward, but not able to take another step. Perhaps she could go back to London, go back to the agency and see if there were any other suitable positions. Somewhere a little more inviting, somewhere a little less isolated. Her fingers closed around her small purse of coins. Going back to London wasn’t an option; all the meagre amount she’d managed to save over the past year had been spent on her coach fare up to north Yorkshire and a new dress in the hope of making a good impression on her employer.

Lord Westcroft. A man she hadn’t been able to find much out about no matter how many people she asked.

The rain was getting heavier, the droplets pattering on the hood of her cloak and dripping off the edges. She could delay no longer. It was time to meet the family she would be living with for the next few years.

Selina took a step forward, pulling at her boots that had become a little stuck in the mud where she’d stood still for a few moments. The movement unbalanced her and Selina felt her boots begin to slip. She thrust her arms out, frantically waving them in the hope of regaining her equilibrium, but even before she began to fall she knew it was too late. Her heart lurched in her chest as she felt her feet slip out from underneath her and her body plummeted to the ground.

She landed in the biggest puddle in sight. Bottom first, skirts almost fully submerged. For a second Selina just sat there, unable to believe the coldness of the rainwater that soaked through her skirt. Unable to believe how fast this horrible day had got even worse.

With a shudder she stood, looking down in disbelief at the muddy mess of her clothes. Bedraggled as she was she looked more like a beggar woman than a respectable governess come to take up her position in the house of a peer of the realm.

‘Head high, back straight, shoulders down,’ Selina said to herself. It was how her late mother had always told her to deport herself. How to look people in the eye, even if they insisted on haughtily looking down at you.

With as much confidence as she could summon she stepped towards the front door, the feeling of being watched making her pause as her hand reached for the heavy iron door knocker. She glanced up, just quickly enough to see two sad faces disappearing from an upstairs window. They’d looked pale, almost ghostly, and Selina wondered if the two little girls she had been employed to look after ever saw the sunshine. With a grimace she eyed the thick clouds above her head. Perhaps this far north they didn’t get much sunshine.

Before she could talk herself out of it Selina lifted the heavy iron door knocker and let it fall twice, wincing as the door rattled with the force of the metal. A heavy silence followed, broken only by the splashing of the rain in the puddles behind her.

‘What do you want?’ a surly old woman asked as she opened the door little more than a crack and peered through. She eyed Selina up and down and shook her head. ‘No beggars allowed.’

‘I’m not…’ Selina’s protest was drowned out by the creak of wood as the door was shut firmly in her face. Feeling the first fire of indignation in her stomach, Selina lifted the knocker again, dropping it again and again in quick succession, knowing no servant would ignore such a commotion that could disturb their master.

‘Off with you,’ the old woman demanded as she opened the door again, reaching out a thin hand to push Selina down the steps.

‘What is all this noise?’ The deep voice came from somewhere in the darkness beyond the doorway, irritated and impatient.

‘I’ve told her to be gone,’ the servant said. ‘I’ve told her no beggars are welcome here.’

Selina opened her mouth to protest, to tell them her true identity, but the swift movement in front of her made her pause. Standing on the threshold, his large figure blocking most of the doorway, was a man she assumed must be Lord Westcroft. He was tall, well built with broad, strong shoulders. His expression was a mixture of irritation and shrewd assessment, but it was his eyes that held her attention. They flicked over her, assessing the mud-splattered dress and windswept visage before coming to meet her own eyes, the attention making Selina feel uncomfortable.

‘Give her some food from the kitchen,’ he said, his tone authoritative, before turning away.

He’d nearly disappeared back into the darkness before Selina found her voice. ‘Lord Westcroft,’ she called, her cultured tone causing him to pause where he was.

‘Stop bothering the master,’ the servant said brusquely. ‘Come round to the kitchen door.’

Once again the door started to close in her face, but this time Selina was ready. She stuck her booted foot in the gap just in time, wincing as the heavy oak hit her instep, but determined not to be dismissed again.

‘Lord Westcroft,’ she said more firmly, ‘I’m cold and wet and tired. I understood from the agency that you were desperate for a governess, so if you don’t want me to turn right around and take the next coach back to London I suggest you invite me in. And point me in the direction of the nearest fire.’

Matthew felt fear seize him. The woman in front of him didn’t look like a governess, with her filthy clothes and windswept hair, but she certainly sounded like one. Her tone was the right combination of commanding and disapproving, and he felt himself stand up just a little straighter as he turned back round. His instinct was to rush towards her, to pull her into the house and tell her in no uncertain terms that she wasn’t going anywhere.

He held himself back. Even only a newly titled man knew not to beg, especially in front of the servants.

‘Miss Salinger?’ he asked, recalling the name in the letter from the agency. A name he’d given heartfelt thanks for after two long months of searching for a governess for the unhappy girls in his care.

‘A pleasure to meet you, Lord Westcroft,’ the petite woman in front of him said, sounding anything but pleased. He looked at her properly, looking past the mud, and realised that underneath the layer of grime she must have picked up on the journey here her clothes were of fine quality and fitted well. Her skin was clear and bright and her hair, where it peeked out from underneath the hood of her cloak, was windswept but shiny and healthy. He wondered how he could ever have mistaken her for a beggar woman.

‘Come through to my study,’ he said, motioning down the dingy hallway. ‘The fire is roaring and the room warm.’

‘Thank you.’

She followed him, her movements stiff, her skirts leaving a wet trail on the floor behind her.

‘Governesses looking like beggars, how am I supposed to tell the difference,’ he heard Mrs Fellows, the housekeeper he’d inherited along with everything else in this house, mutter.

‘Come in, get warm,’ Matthew said, watching as Miss Salinger stepped towards the ornate fireplace, seeing the tension begin to seep from her shoulders. For a moment in the hall he’d thought she might carry out her threat, that she might turn around and head straight back to London. He wouldn’t really blame her after the welcome she’d received, or after seeing the imposing façade of Manresa House. It wasn’t the most inviting of houses or locations, isolated as it was on the edge of the moor.

‘I am sorry about my appearance,’ Miss Salinger said eventually. ‘The coachman refused to bring me past the gates and the driveway was treacherous.’ She grimaced as she raised a hand to her head, touching the wispy strands of hair that framed her face. She turned to face him and gave a little half-smile. ‘I fell in a puddle.’

As her eyes came up to meet his he felt a jolt pass through his body, a feeling he hadn’t experienced for a very long time. Quickly he suppressed it, suppressed the urge to glance over her pretty features and the soft curves of her body. He wouldn’t even contemplate jeopardising her role here with an inappropriate look.

‘I hope your journey was not too arduous,’ he said, wondering how long he needed to make polite conversation before he could usher the new governess up to the nursery and officially hand over the responsibility of his two nieces. It had been a responsibility that had weighed heavily on him these last two months and he could not wait to return to being accountable for no one but himself.

Miss Salinger looked at him, her dark eyes probing his, a hint of a smile on her lips. It was almost as if she could discern his impatience, carefully hidden though it was.

‘You are a very long way from London,’ she said.

‘It is your first time in north Yorkshire?’

‘Yes.’ She shivered, glancing past him and out of the window. ‘I’m woefully poorly travelled.’

‘You hail from London?’

‘Cambridge. Forgive me, Lord Westcroft, it seems as though you have somewhere else you wish to be.’

He frowned, not at the directness of her words, but at how she’d detected his eagerness to usher her upstairs.

‘The children are keen to meet you,’ he lied smoothly.

At the mention of her new charges he saw something soften in her and a spark light in her eyes.

‘Tell me about them,’ she said, shrugging off her cloak and looping it over her arm. Underneath the dripping garment she was dressed in a sober grey dress. Something entirely suitable for a governess. It was practical with its dark material and long sleeves, and designed to be as unattractive as possible, but it couldn’t entirely hide Miss Salinger’s narrow waist or the curve of her hips.

‘Priscilla is nine, a quiet, watchful young girl who enjoys reading and music. Theodosia is seven…’ He paused, wondering how to sum up his younger niece’s character diplomatically. ‘She’s lively and curious about the world and enjoys being outside.’

‘They sound delightful. Have they had much schooling before?’

‘A little.’ In truth he didn’t know. Before his brother’s death almost a year ago now he hadn’t even been aware he had nieces. The rift in the family had meant communication had been limited to only what was absolutely necessary and his brother hadn’t seen the birth of Priscilla and Theodosia as important information. For his part Matthew had enjoyed the freedom, the lack of responsibility.

Not any more, he thought grimly. There was no running away now. He was the Earl, he was guardian to his nieces, he had responsibility for the estate and all the people who lived on it.

‘Let me take you to meet them, then Mrs Fellows will show you your room,’ he said, reaching forward and taking the still-dripping cloak from Miss Salinger’s arms. As he did so his hand brushed against hers, the softness of her skin a contrast to his still-callused hands. She pulled away quickly, her eyes flashing up to meet his, a wariness about her that made him take a step back. ‘This way.’

He deposited the cloak in the hall, leading Miss Salinger up the sweeping staircase to the first floor and then up a smaller, much less grand staircase to the second floor where the nursery was situated. She walked a couple of steps behind him, her hands held demurely together, her eyes moving to take everything in. There was a quiet energy about her, an energy this house sorely needed.

He paused outside the nursery, steeling himself for what scene he might find inside.

‘Go away,’ a flat voice called out as he pushed open the door.

The nursery was tidy, eerily so, and the two girls sitting side by side on the window seat were both looking out the steamy windows at the rain.

‘Girls, this is Miss Salinger, your new governess.’

Theodosia began to turn round, interest on her face, but a quick tug on the arm from her sister stopped the movement. Matthew felt a bubble of irritation welling up. He knew the girls were grieving, knew it would take them a long time to feel anything approaching happiness again, but rudeness was still unacceptable.

‘Girls,’ he chided. ‘Come and greet your new governess.’

Slowly both girls got to their feet, Priscilla flashing him a dark look before tossing her blonde hair back over her shoulders and looking defiantly at the mud-spattered governess.

‘Good afternoon,’ Miss Salinger said. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you both, Lady Priscilla, Lady Theodosia.’

‘Did you walk here?’ Priscilla asked haughtily. ‘In this rain?’

‘Only from the end of the drive,’ Miss Salinger said, her calm demeanour making Matthew want to step back out of the room and hand things over to her immediately.

‘That was foolish.’

‘It was necessary,’ the governess said with a shrug. ‘And a little mud never hurt anyone.’

Priscilla wrinkled up her nose, but Matthew caught her younger sister trying to stifle a smile.

‘I look forward to getting to know you girls,’ Miss Salinger said. ‘Tomorrow we can decide what you would like to learn.’

‘We can choose?’ Theodosia stepped forward with shining eyes. ‘I want to learn archery—all the bravest fighters can shoot a bow.’

‘I’m not sure archery is quite what Miss Salinger meant.’

Theodosia pouted, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the governess wink at the little girl. Matthew felt himself relax. He might not be able to manage his two nieces, but it seemed that Miss Salinger was more than up to the job. It would allow him to recede into the background, to spend the next few weeks sorting out the house and the estate. Then, when the girls had settled with Miss Salinger he would be able to escape back to India, back to the life where he belonged.

Chapter Two

Selina pulled the comb through her hair with a satisfied sigh. Her initial welcome at Manresa House might have left much to be desired, but when she’d been shown to her room the housekeeper had already set the maids to filling up a large bathtub with steaming water ready for Selina to wash the mud from her skin and hair before dinner.

Quickly she pinned back the still-damp locks and checked her appearance in the small mirror. She looked pale, tired from the travelling, and the face that stared back at her was thinner than the one she imagined, the one she remembered.

Pulling herself from the melancholic thoughts of how her life used to be, she stood, smoothed down her dress and headed downstairs for dinner. Tonight she would be dining with Lord Westcroft, a chance to discuss the girls’ education and find out a little more about them. Every other night no doubt she would take her meals in the nursery with the children.

Selina had learned to walk quietly this past year, always conscious that she was in someone else’s house, never wanting to draw attention to herself. As she made her way to the drawing room she paused just outside the door. Lord Westcroft was already there, standing at one of the large mahogany tables, bent over something that was laid out on it. She watched him for a moment, taking in his absolute concentration, the small frown between his eyebrows as he traced a finger over the paper.

Suddenly he looked up, his eyes coming to meet hers immediately. Selina felt the heat begin to rise in her cheeks at having been caught staring, but forced a smile on to her face. She saw his eyes flicker over her and brought a hand up instinctively to her throat, a gesture of protection she’d become used to needing this past year. Not all her employers had kept the distance they should have.

‘Miss Salinger,’ he said, his expression unreadable.

‘Good evening,’ Selina said, dipping into a low curtsy. She walked into the room, catching sight of the document he’d been so engrossed in. It was a large and well-drawn map, with different colours denoting different continents and looped, ornate writing depicting the oceans. Open next to it on the table was a smaller, tattered book of maps and he seemed to be comparing the two. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

‘I have time for dinner,’ he said, his tone brisk. It was clear that he saw the next hour as a duty, a time to hand over responsibility for his wards, but then he would be keen to return to whatever work he saw as more important.

Selina adjusted her stance. Direct and to the point she could do. They both obviously wanted the same thing: to ensure the welfare of the two grieving little girls upstairs. If Lord Westcroft did not have time for small talk, then she would use the time over dinner to find out as much about her charges as possible and perhaps a little about the man responsible for them.

‘Shall we?’ He offered her his arm.

Selina hesitated, unused to being shown such respect. In her last position as governess to the son of Lord and Lady Gilchrist she had been treated as a servant, always pushed into the shadows, never spoken to directly.