Rose, the Countess Malmstoke, is trapped in a marriage from hell. Escape seems impossible—until her horse groom Will Fenmore offers to help her find a way out.
Will has loved Rose since she was brought to Creed Hall as a new bride, but their relationship has only ever been that of mistress and servant. Born worlds apart, Will knows he could never be her husband, but maybe he can be her salvation.
As they plan her escape to the American colonies, Rose learns to trust Will with her life and her heart, but trusting him with her body is another matter. Can she conquer her fear of the marriage bed? Is the future she dreams of—being Will’s wife—possible?
Information:
Title: The Countess’s Groom
Author: Emily Larkin
Genre: Historical Romance Novella
Length: 84 pages
Release Date: September 2013
ISBN: 978-1-62266-222-7
Imprint: Flirt
Excerpt:
© 2013 Emily Larkin
Prologue
OCTOBER 2, 1762
Will Fenmore, horses’ groom to Rose Quayle, Countess of Malmstoke, watched his mistress as Creed Hall came into view on the hilltop. It jutted from the dark trees, a grim building of gray stone.
The Countess’s horse halted as its rider’s hands tightened on the reins. Will stopped, too. He saw tension in the Countess’s shoulders, in the stiffness of her jaw. One more night, he told her silently. You can do it.
The Countess didn’t move. The seconds lengthened into a minute.
Will wanted to reach out and touch her arm, to give reassurance. He curled his hands into fists to stop himself.
Another minute passed, and still the Countess sat motionless, staring at Creed Hall.
Is this it? Will she break today? The gelding he rode shifted restlessly, sensing his disquiet.
“He’ll be gone tomorrow,” Will blurted.
The Countess turned her head to stare at him.
Will didn’t look away, as a servant should. Instead, he met her gaze. You can do it, Countess.
“Yes,” she said. “He will be gone.” She urged the mare into a trot.
At the great iron-studded door he dismounted and helped the Countess to alight. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and entered Creed Hall.
Will watched the heavy door swing shut. Someone needs to rescue you, my lady.
Will was saddling the Countess’s black mare, Dancer, when his ears caught the clatter of hooves and coach wheels. He knew what it was: the traveling carriage departing, bearing Henry Quayle, fifth Earl of Malmstoke, south to Portsmouth.
For a moment he saw Quayle in his mind’s eye: the pomaded wig, the plump and dimpled cheeks, the full-lipped, pouting mouth, the brown eyes framed by lashes as long as a girl’s. A cherubic face—until one saw the cruelty in the soft mouth, in the large and liquid eyes.
The sound of the carriage faded. “Good riddance,” Will said. They could all breathe more easily now with the Earl on his way to the West Indies. Especially the Countess.
Dancer flicked an ear at him. She was a beautiful creature, as lovely and slender-limbed as her rider.
Will’s heart seemed to lift in his chest as he settled the sidesaddle on Dancer’s back. “You’re a fool, Fenmore,” he said under his breath. “She’s a Countess, you’re a servant. Remember that.”
“Fenmore.”
He turned. A footman stood behind him in a powdered wig and velvet livery. “The Countess won’t be riding today.”
Will knew what that meant. “He hurt her?”
“Worse ’n usual. Don’t look for her this week. She’ll send word when Dancer is needed.”
Will nodded. When the footman had gone, he turned to the mare. “I hope Quayle gets the fever,” he told Dancer fiercely. “I hope he dies.”
…
The riding crop had left deep cuts on Rose’s back. It took nearly a fortnight for the wounds to close over and heal. She spent most of that time asleep, safe in the knowledge that Henry was gone. She hadn’t slept so well or so deeply since her marriage, eight months ago.
When she was well enough to leave her bed, she had the servants move her belongings to a room at the side of the house. It was small and dark, but it felt safe. To her knowledge, Henry had never entered this room. Rose slept even more soundly after that.
Chapter One
APRIL 4, 1763
Rose stood in front of the mirror while her maid, Boyle, dressed her in a cherry-red riding habit. She averted her gaze from Boyle’s reflection—the broad, ruddy cheeks, the pale eyes, the grim-lipped mouth—and stood stiffly as the woman twitched the riding jacket into place over her shoulders. “My hat and gloves, Boyle.”
Her maid handed them to her.
Not my maid, Rose corrected herself. My jailer. Guarding her these past six months while Henry had been in the West Indies.
Rose placed the three-cornered hat on her head, pulled on her gloves, and headed downstairs, along the echoing Long Gallery with its portraits of Quayle ancestors, down the staircase lined with suits of armor. A footman opened the front door for her.
Rose stepped outside, drinking in the sunshine and the cool spring air. She trod briskly around to the stables. The sight of Dancer, glossily black, being led across to the mounting block made her mood brighten still further.
“Morning, m’lady,” her groom said.
“Good morning, Fenmore.” Rose stroked the mare’s neck. “How is she?”
“In fine fettle, ma’am.”
The groom helped her mount. Rose arranged her voluminous riding skirt and gathered the reins. They left the stable yard at a trot, taking the path to the lake in the middle of the woods.
At the lake, Rose paused and looked around. Spring surrounded them: budding leaves, fresh stalks of grass pushing up from the soil, birdsong.
She glanced back at the groom. “Let’s go somewhere we can gallop.”
Rose held the mare to a trot while they rode through the woods and urged Dancer into a gallop once they broke free of the trees. Hedgerows flashed past, leafless trees, muddy fields tinged faintly green. She felt a soaring sense of freedom. At this moment, it was wonderful to be alive.
When she sensed Dancer tiring, she allowed the mare to slow to a trot. Exhilaration tingled inside her. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled at Fenmore following faithfully behind.
An answering smile lit his face for a second, and then vanished. He was once again the impassive servant.
Rose turned back toward Creed Hall.
Hedgerows closed around them. Her joy began to trickle away. Every step Dancer took brought them closer to Creed Hall. Her home. Her prison.
A blur of movement, small and brown, hit Dancer’s right shoulder with a puff of feathers. The mare shied.
Rose clutched the reins, fighting to keep her seat—and then Fenmore was alongside, his hand an iron grip on Dancer’s bridle, stopping the mare from bolting.
“Thank you, Fenmore.” Rose gathered the reins more firmly. Her heart pounded in her chest.
He nodded, not releasing his grip. A feather spiraled slowly in the air.
Rose looked down. A song thrush lay on the ground. “It’s still alive!” She slid from the saddle and crouched to look at it.
Fenmore dismounted and looped the horses’ reins over a branch. He stripped off his riding gloves and picked up the bird. Rose watched as he examined it, carefully extending each wing. “Nothing’s broken.”
The bird lay cupped in his palm, only the movement of its breast showing that it lived. “Likely it has a nest full of eggs, this time of year,” Fenmore said, stroking the speckled feathers.
“Will it be all right?”
The thrush swiveled its head. One wing beat in feeble panic. Fenmore stilled it, laying his other hand gently over the bird. “Hush.” His voice was low and soothing. “We mean you no harm.”
The thrush seemed to understand him. Its struggles stopped.
Fenmore laid the bird to one side of the path and stood. He helped Rose to her feet. “It should be able to fly once it’s recovered its wits.”
Rose stared up at him. Fenmore wasn’t pretty, like Henry. He had a square, plain face. Blunt nose, blunt cheekbones, blunt jaw. He looked like a Viking warrior, with his white-blond hair and sun-browned skin and eyes as blue as the sky. Young and strong and vigorous, built to fight.
And yet he’d been astonishingly gentle with the bird.
Fenmore’s brow furrowed slightly. “Ma’am?”
“It wasn’t afraid of you.”
“Animals trust me. They know I won’t hurt them.” As if to underscore his words, Dancer nuzzled his shoulder. Fenmore’s hand went up to stroke the mare’s cheek, an automatic gesture.
…
Rose rode again in the afternoon. She preferred to spend as little time as possible indoors. Henry had been gone six months, but his scent still lingered in Creed Hall and his voice seemed to echo faintly in some of the rooms.
She cantered around the lake, Fenmore following with a wicker hamper strapped to his saddle. They halted at the small folly on the eastern side. It was built like a Greek temple, round, and encircled by a colonnade. The marble gleamed white in the sunlight. At the pebbly shore, a small rowboat was tied.
Fenmore spread a blanket on the ground and opened the hamper. He unpacked a flagon of lemonade, a plum cake, a loaf of dark gingerbread, and some nuts and candied fruit.
Rose stared at the food. “I’ll never eat all that!”
The groom glanced at her. A smile creased the corners of his eyes, but he said nothing.
The afternoon passed in slow contentment. Rose nibbled the plum cake while Fenmore tended to the horses, then she lay on the blanket and stared at the sky and the drifting clouds. Inside Creed Hall, her chest tightened and breathing became difficult, but here, surrounded by trees and water, she could breathe fully.
Fenmore packed up the picnic as the afternoon drew to its close. Rose sat on the marble steps, gazing across the water to the wooded hills on the other side. I wish I didn’t have to go back to the hall.
She looked around for Fenmore. He was scattering crumbs on the ground.
Rose walked across to him. “Is that for birds?”
“And squirrels.”
He towered above her, but she didn’t fear him. Beneath the plain features, kindness was imprinted on his face. And yet Henry, who is far prettier, I fear. Rose shivered at the thought of her husband. “I should like to see a squirrel.”
The groom’s eyes creased at the corners again. “Belike you will, if they know to find food here.”
“We could put more food out tomorrow,” she said hopefully.
“That we could.” Fenmore scattered the last of the crumbs, then fetched Dancer and helped Rose mount. They rode back through the woods. Rose’s hands clenched the reins as Creed Hall came into sight. For a fleeting second she thought she smelled the perfume Henry wore.
Rose blew out her breath. She relaxed her grip on the reins. The next ten months were a gift to be treasured. She wouldn’t ruin them by thinking of Henry. She would live each day as if he was never coming back.