Barbara Metzger Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Wedded Bliss

  Praise for Barbara Metzger

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  About the Author

  Wedded Bliss

  By Barbara Metzger

  Copyright 2012 by Barbara Metzger

  Cover Copyright 2012 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  Previously published in print, 2004.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Barbara Metzger and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The House of Cards Trilogy

  A Suspicious Affair

  An Angel for an Earl

  An Enchanted Affair

  Cupboard Kisses

  Father Christmas

  Lady Whilton’s Wedding

  The Duel

  A Loyal Companion

  http://www.untreedreads.com

  Wedded Bliss

  By Barbara Metzger

  “ROMANCE AT ITS FINEST AND FUNNIEST.”*

  Praise for Barbara Metzger and her novels

  “A doyen of humorous, Regency-era romance writing.... Metzger’s gift for re-creating the flavor and ambience of the period shines here, and the antics of her dirty-dish villains, near-villains, and starry-eyed lovers are certain to entertain.”

  —*Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “The complexities of both story and character contribute much to its richness. Like life, this book is much more exciting when the layers are peeled back and savored.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “A true tour de force…. Only an author with Metzger’s deft skill could successfully mix a Regency tale of death, ruined reputations, and scandal with humor for a fine and ultimately satisfying broth… A very satisfying read.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “Queen of the Regency Romp. [She] brings the Regency era vividly to life with deft humor, sparkling dialogue, and witty descriptions.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  A new beginning and a new baby. This one is for Andrew David Siegal with love.

  Chapter One

  There ought to be a rule, Rockford decided. A gentleman who was busy saving the world should not be further burdened with querulous in-laws, criminal bailiffs, and capricious sisters. Robert, Earl of Rockford, quickly brought his twitching lips under firm control before his hovering secretary noticed, but he did have to laugh to himself, at himself. After all, despite his elevated title, his vast wealth, and his prestigious, although naturally unpaid position in official circles, he was no more than a jumped-up translator, or worse.

  A gift for languages and a lifetime of training in the social arts made him the perfect diplomat, the ideal escort for visiting dignitaries and would-be allies. The prince regent valued Rockford’s services—and his company—so much that the earl’s request to join the military had been refused countless times. There was, of course, the earldom to be considered, with Rockford’s heir still a minor. More important, from Prinny’s view, was Rockford’s knack for convincing foreign princes to cast their fates—and their marks, rubles, schillings, or kronas—into Britain’s efforts to defeat the Corsican tyrant.

  With his excellent memory and his ear for dialects, Rockford could almost tell which side of which mountain this princeling commanded, which plot of mineral-rich land that archduke controlled. With his reputation for scrupulous integrity and attention to detail, the earl had accomplished much on England’s behalf. Soon, he felt, Bonaparte would be defeated and then he could think about accomplishing something more, although he knew not what, on his own behalf.

  Right now he was involved, far more intimately than he wished, in convincing one of the visiting Austrians to pledge her brother’s support for the war effort. Princess Helga Hafkesprinke of Ziftsweig would much rather pledge her hand to the wealthy, widowed Lord Rockford. Lud, the earl hoped Prinny never got the notion to trade Ziftsweig’s allegiance for Rockford’s ring on the plump princess’s finger. He’d have to leave the country. Then again, perhaps Rockford’s refusal to wed into a Teutonic dynasty could free him to join the army.

  No, he was too old. At five and thirty the earl knew little of combat maneuvers, less of military discipline, and nothing whatsoever of rough camp life, field tents, or foraging. He adjusted one finely tailored cuff of his Bath superfine coat with his immaculate, well-manicured fingers. He’d stick with his translator’s position.

  Translator? Hell, right now he felt like a panderer, trading favors for fortunes. Surely his skills and experience could be put to better use than playing companion to the hefty Hafkesprinke heiress.

  “My lord?” Rockford’s secretary cleared his throat and anxiously gestured to the opened letters on the cherrywood desk. The first commandment of his employment was that the earl not be bothered with domestic matters, short of life and death. Poor Clifton was nervously awaiting judgment on the three letters he had brought to Rockford’s attention.

  Rockford turned his brown-eyed gaze back toward the offending correspondence. He supposed his dead wife’s parents could not live forever, so that exonerated Clifton for plaguing him to read their whining. And the bailiffs absconding with Rock Hill funds was definitely a hanging offense, so that counted too. As for Rockford’s spinster sister running off with the dastard, well, the earl would strangle her if he could. “You did well, Clifton.”

  Relieved, the man bowed and left, straightening a ledger on his way out of the dark-paneled office. Everything had to be precise and orderly for Robert Rothmore, Earl of Rockford.

  Now nothing was, damn it.

  He reread the letter from his former in-laws, knowing he would have to do something about their demands. He owed them a visit, at least. A jaunt north to Sheffield might even be to Rockford’s advantage, his absence serving to cool Her Highness Helga’s ardor.

  Then he reread the other letter, from Rock Hill’s aged butler, Claymore. Claymore carefully enumerated every item gone missing with the larcenous land steward, from silver candlestick to spinster sister. A copy had been sent to the local magistrate, bu
t they were likely out of the country by now.

  Rockford cursed, eloquently and in several languages. He supposed it was all his fault, being too busy to oversee the estate himself, being too trusting of a mere paid employee. Not that he cared about the money or the knickknacks, except for the stolen Rembrandt. Lud knew he had enough of both, except for Rembrandts, of course. He only had the one sister, though, no matter how distant their relationship had become.

  Rockford poured himself a small glass of cognac, despite the fact that it was not yet noon and his customary hour for imbibing. If ever a man needed to bend his own rules, today was the day.

  He should have insisted Eleanor reside with him in London, by Jupiter, no matter how much she protested. Hell, he should have married her off to the first available peer willing to take the outspoken, unfashionable female. Instead he had listened to his older sister’s wishes, letting her stay at Rock Hill, stay unwed. A woman knowing what was right? Hah! He refilled his glass.

  Jilted once, Eleanor hated men. Or so she had said, anyway. She also despised London society, with the insincerity as thick as the fog and the restrictive conventions as permeating as the constant dampness. The canons of polite behavior that Rockford lived by were nothing but codswallop to Eleanor. In one week, during her distant Season, she had offended every patroness of Almack’s, swatted Prinny’s wandering hands with her fan, and told Brummell he looked like a cyclopean frog with his quizzing glass held up to his eye. Rockford had gladly driven her back to Rock Hill in Leicester himself, with every expectation that she would stay there and manage his household. She’d managed to create a scandal and a criminal investigation and a deuced lot of trouble instead. Now he had to find a new estate manager.

  Well, Eleanor would have to sleep in the bed she’d made. Be damned if they would see a farthing of her dowry, Rockford decided. They’d be lucky not to see the shores of Botany Bay. He had no intention of going after Eleanor, not even to recover the cherished Rembrandt Claymore listed as missing.

  Worse than the money, worse than the masterpiece or his mutton-headed sister, worst of all, in fact, was what was missing from Claymore’s list. The old butler never mentioned William, Rockford’s young son. Usually there was word of the boy’s health, brief news of his budding equestrian skills, some mention of his academic achievements. Surely the lad knew his times tables by now—so why was his name absent from the accounting? Had Rockford’s sister taken a little boy with her to Gretna? Not even Eleanor could be so addled, Rockford hoped, but he would have to go check for himself. No servant, obviously, could be trusted with the task.

  Within hours, the earl was in the saddle, headed north. When Lord Rockford gave orders, mountains moved…or carriages, baggage, and servants did, at any rate. Messengers delivered regrets for his social engagements. Grooms rode ahead to reserve rooms and horses and meals. His valet and his trunks, the four or five deemed necessary for a short visit to the country, would follow in the traveling coach. Rockford himself saw no reason to suffer through the trip in the slower, stuffy, confining carriage, not when he could ride cross-country and arrive that much sooner.

  Rockford told himself concern was lending urgency to the journey, not guilt. Why should he feel guilty about leaving the child alone? Heaven knew young William was being raised in the same fashion Rockford himself had been, seldom seeing his father. Like William, Rockford’s mother had died in childbirth and, like William, he had been tended by hordes of caring servants until he was old enough for school. William, at least, had his aunt Eleanor, until she got some maggot in her brain about finding true love or some such rubbish.

  The boy was fine, Rockford tried to convince himself as he urged his mount to greater speed, as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. Nanny Dee and Claymore and Mrs. Cabot the housekeeper were likely spoiling the lad unmercifully, he was positive, and wasn’t there a new tutor? The earl could not quite recall the fellow’s name or credentials, but he had to be highly qualified to hold so important a post. His secretary would not have hired the man, otherwise.

  Or had idiotic Eleanor selected the tutor? Damnation. He should have interviewed the applicants himself.

  He doubted his own father had ever concerned himself with tutors and such, being far too busy with his mistresses and his wagers. At least Rockford was busy with the Crown’s business, not the hedonistic pleasure seeking his late, unlamented father had indulged in. He was a better father than the previous earl…wasn’t he?

  Rockford rode through half the night, having to put up at a second-rate inn instead of the suite reserved for him at the best hostelry along his route. The horse he was given was inferior too, which darkened his mood even further. So did the storm clouds that doused him with cold, bone-chilling rain. Hell and damnation, his own father would not have gone to half this effort or inconvenience.

  Rockford might not have interviewed the tutor, but he had selected William’s first pony himself, which was more than the previous earl had ever done. And while Rockford was not personally overseeing the boy’s riding lessons, he did visit Rock Hill occasionally, for William’s birthday when his secretary, Clifton, reminded him. One of the spring months, he thought now, although he had been in Austria last spring, and Brighton for the summer. Well, he had seen the child a few times before that. What more could anyone expect from a widower with diplomatic commitments, one who knew nothing of the nursery set?

  The first time he had seen William was at his christening, following on the heels of William’s mother’s funeral. The babe had regurgitated sour milk all down Rockford’s shirtfront. The second time, at his first birthday, the tot’s nappy had leaked onto the earl’s knee. On his second birthday, William had cleverly unfastened his own diaper, with even more disastrous results for Lord Rockford’s linens. By the third anniversary of William’s birth, the earl had grown wary, keeping his distance until the little chap proved his maturity. At Eleanor’s urging, he had gone so far as to let William bring him a cup of tea. With the inevitable results for his wardrobe. He had not seen the boy since, Rockford realized.

  By George, Eleanor must always have been daft, although Rockford had never recognized her condition. He pulled his beaver hat lower on his head in an effort to keep the rain from dripping down his collar, and swore at the weather, the rough-gaited horse, and the condition of the roads. He damned women in general and both his sister and William’s mother in particular, for leaving the lad all alone. He cursed the butler for alarming him, and the bailiff for robbing him, and the regent for using him as bait. Mostly he railed against fate for making him responsible for a child he might not have fathered. There definitely ought to be a rule about that.

  *

  Rock Hill was just that: a heap of rocks on top of a hill. The house was a magnificent mélange of architecture, dating from the first stone fortress and added onto by successive titleholders. The huge gray dwelling with gray slate roofs overlooked acres of parkland and formal gardens, with geometric patterns of fields and farms laid out in the distance. All of it, as far as the eye could see and beyond, belonged to the Rockford earldom. Not just to Robert Rothmore, the current earl, but to his heirs and ancestors. Rockford felt the weight of those past and future generations on his damp shoulders as he rode up the long hill toward the vast ancient edifice that was his heritage, if not his home.

  The place was nearly a palace, fit for state visits. Now it more often hosted gawking sightseers on public days. Still, the lawns were manicured, the shrubbery pruned to perfection. The scores of windows shone, even in the rain, and the brass fittings gleamed. Everything was proper, elegant, bespeaking great wealth, endless pride, and centuries of privilege, to say nothing of royal favor.

  It was a dwelling well suited to Robert, Baron Roth and Rottingham, Viscount Rothmore, Earl of Rockford, etcetera, etcetera.

  It was where he had been born, and where he would lie buried when he died.

  It was where his heirs should be raised.

  It was a
blasted dungeon.

  He rode around back, thinking to deliver the hired horse to the stables, then enter the house itself through the service doors rather than trail mud across the marbled front hall or the priceless Aubusson rugs that lined the corridors, unless Eleanor and her bailiff had carried off the carpets too.

  An unfamiliar groom came to take his reins. “And you be?” the man asked insolently. “And what’s your business?”

  Rockford could not blame the fellow, since he must look no-account, dripping dirt and riding a poor specimen of a horse, without going to the front door.

  “Rockford,” was all he said. “I live here.”

  The man gulped, removed his cap, bobbed his head, and started to lead the tired animal away in a hurry.

  Rockford stopped him with a question. “Where is Jake?”

  Jake had been stable master for decades, putting Rockford on his first pony. The earl had been counting on the old horseman to do the same for William, or at least welcome him home.

  “Gone to drive Mr. Claymore and Mrs. Cabot to the village to fetch supplies, m’lord,” the groom replied, “and hire more help than what we keep on most times.”

  So no one was around to greet the prodigal son, not even the butler or the housekeeper.

  The groom must have noted Rockford’s frown, for he added, “We was expecting you tomorrow, else they would of been here. That’s what the messenger said, leastways.”

  The slightly accusatory tone of the man’s comment grated on Rockford’s already fraying temper. “I do hope my arrival is not an inconvenience to my staff.”