Forced to Wed the Scarred Earl (Preview)

Chapter One

London, 1822, Early September

Miss Eliza Harwood ignored the knocks at the door as she finished the final swipe of her brush against the canvas. She didn’t need to check the door. She knew who it was. The sound echoed through the quiet, and mostly empty, lodgings. She was certain her brother was starting to clench his jaw in frustration.

Her brother, the Viscount of Harwood, a title he owned purely out of courtesy and nothing else, was likely already turning red in the face as he waited for her to answer. With ease and calm, she left her painting and went to open the door.

“The door was locked,” Marcus said, his green eyes as cold as always.

“That is likely because I locked it,” Eliza responded, returning to her painting.

Marcus followed, and she felt as if every ounce of breathable oxygen she’d had moments before was siphoned from the room. His overbearing nature could easily suffocate even the brightest of blazes.

“Why was the door locked?” he asked.

She glanced back at him. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

Returning to the canvas, she looked over her completed painting with new eyes. At last, she felt that it was truly completed. There was no detail that it lacked or area that seemed to distract her. Eliza crossed her arms, pleased with what she’d achieved.

“I’d love your opinion on my latest work,” she said, an invitation to her brother.

He stood stiff in the room, as if the sight of the paint and the brushes strewn across the table might send him into a fit. Clearly uncomfortable, he brushed his hand over his blonde hair and straightened his waistcoat, an item of clothing so fine that it did a good job of concealing the true nature of his standing in society.

“Is it finished?” he asked with little tact.

“It is.” She nodded.

Like a gear had been turned into action, he started straightening brushes and packing away tubs of paint. The concepts of freedom and expression were like a foreign language to Marcus, but Eliza had long forgiven him for that. Freedom had been her coping mechanism, while routine and rigidity had been his.

She would not get his opinion on the painting; he hardly ever gave one, and if he did, it was often poorly communicated, and she was often insulted.

“I have something important to discuss with you,” Marcus said.

“You always have something important to discuss.” Eliza sighed.

“Yes, well, it is the end of the Season now, and you’re no closer to being wed,” he said bluntly.

If he had come for an argument, he was going to find one with Eliza.

“I did everything I could,” Eliza said. “I smiled and danced and minded my manners, just as you asked me to. Do not try to blame me for this failure.”

Her defense was met with a blank stare. Eliza settled. Clearly, her hours of painting had done nothing to calm her down or ease her sense of frustration over a wasted few weeks.

Eliza and Marcus’s childhood had been far from happy or easy. They’d done what they could to get through it. It had resulted in a strained sibling relationship, one that functioned out of necessity and nothing more. That’s how it had always been with them, survival out of necessity.

To anyone outside their world, Marcus seemed like a perfect viscount, a man who knew what it meant to be important. He had perfect manners, an appearance befitting high society, and a careful way of moving through life. However, the façade was a far cry from the foundation.

Below the surface, he was a man struggling to pull his life together. Only Eliza knew that.

“What is it?” she asked, signaling to him that her defensive walls had come back down.

“I have a marriage contract for you,” he said as if it were the most normal thing to do on a Tuesday afternoon.

“Do you want to tell me who you expect me to marry?” she asked.

“Lord Tristan Vale, the Earl of Evermere,” he said. “The marriage will be in effect in three weeks.”

“Why?” she asked.

It was not the sort of conversation other women had when it came time for them to marry. There was no excitement, no concern, or fear. Instead, she merely wanted to know what her brother stood to gain from the marriage.

“He must satisfy an ultimatum put in place by his grandfather,” Marcus answered.

Her eyes narrowed. “He told you this?”

“I have heard of it.”

Something in the lodgings made a cracking sound as the day cooled and the wood settled, emphasizing the silence that had fallen between the siblings. As always, her brother had made arrangements without consulting her, and she would have little choice but to go along with it.

“You’ve already spoken to him?” she asked. “I assume this is beneficial to us?”

Marcus nodded. “All is arranged. As I said, the details of the contract are already confirmed. Our family will, indeed, as you suspect, benefit from the alliance.”

“Alliance? You make it seem as if we are going to war.” Eliza turned to take another look at her painting, a moment she knew would anger her brother.

He would not voice his anger, though, because he needed her to agree with him. Marcus did whatever he could to get what he wanted.

Now, he had the Earl of Evermere in his sights, his next target, and Eliza was expected to be his bullet. It wasn’t his fault. Their father’s gambling debts had put them in such a position. She knew as well as he did that they were running out of other choices.

She lowered her head, and she knew that he would smirk in his victory. Eliza couldn’t bear to look back and see it.

“This is how it is meant to be, then?” she asked. “The happiest day of a woman’s life, and I must spend mine with a stranger?”

“I have never pretended as if any of this is normal,” Marcus said. “I only do what is necessary to keep this ship afloat. Sometimes I suspect that you would rather it sank.”

Eliza had considered a few times what life would be like if they just gave up. Sometimes, it seemed like the easier option. Luckily for Eliza and Marcus, they needed to take care of each other. Accountability for another was all they needed to keep going.

“That’s not true,” she said. “It’s only that sometimes I wish that just one minute of this existence could be what I expect it to be.”

“Well, you can only play the cards you hold and nothing more,” Marcus said.

“It is not your life you’re marrying away,” she said, turning to him. “This is not a brief thing you are asking of me. It is the rest of my life.”

As impossible as it seemed, Marcus seemed to have stiffened even further. He seemed perfectly in control as always. Eliza, meanwhile, felt as if she was standing at the edge of a cliff, and at any minute, a strong gust would push her off the edge.

“There is an alternative life that you could face,” Marcus said. “Would you like me to paint that picture for you?”

“No, thank you.”

Her declining of his offer went unnoticed, and Marcus continued anyway.

“I could stop all the work I’ve done until now to cover both our debts,” Marcus said. “Debts that are not the responsibility of either of us, but the responsibility of a father who is not here to take care of them anymore.”

Marcus took a step closer to her, and she felt her existence shrink beneath his stare.

“I have covered my debts and yours, to spare you a reputation that I’d hoped would aid in finding a good husband who could help us out of this situation, but it appears that it wasn’t enough,” Marcus continued.

“And I am grateful for all of it, but—”

He raised his hand, and the rest of her sentence stopped in its tracks before spilling out of her mouth.

“So, as far as I am concerned, you have two options,” he said. “You can take this contract, marry the Earl of Evermere, and make the most of the life that it provides for both of us, or I can stop protecting you and your reputation and leave it to you to figure out.”

It had been a pattern in her life. Marcus would point in a direction, and Eliza would weave her way through his plans. There was no way out of it, she knew that. However, sometimes, fighting it made her feel better despite her guaranteed loss.

“I’m sorry,” she said, choking on the words. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Marcus said. “Every time I try to fix something, you want to go against it, and I am tired of it. I’d like for your defiant attitude to become someone else’s problem now.”

“I don’t have a defiant attitude!” she snapped. “I only want to know what is expected of me and what is to become of the rest of my life.”

“Like any other woman, you will be married, and you will take on the duties of a married woman,” Marcus said, speaking as if she had no intelligence at all. “When you are not being a wife, you can do as you please. It will be that way until either you or he is in the grave.”

“So it is settled then?” she asked.

He stared at her as if he wished upon her a lightning strike, as if he wielded the very power to smite her from existence and was intent on using it. Eliza had always done all that he’d asked of her. She’d practiced to be a well-mannered and pleasant woman, hiding her true view of the world from everyone.

If it was marriage that he’d arranged for her next, she would do it, because he held her life in the palms of his hands. What he’d said was true. Some of her father’s debts hung on her shoulders, and he had been the one who worked to pay it off. Marcus had kept them out of debtor’s prison, and if marriage secured their freedom, then it was all that she could do for him, even if she really didn’t want to.

“When will I meet my intended?” she asked. “The Earl of Evermere is not someone that I have come across in any social setting.”

“Meeting him is an unnecessary sentimentality,” he said. “I have deemed him good enough, and there is much that needs to be prepared if the wedding is to go forward in three weeks’ time. He is a busy man, and I will not waste his time with trivial matters.”

“I would prefer not to meet him first at the altar,” she responded as timidly as she could.

“I don’t see what difference it would make,” Marcus said. “What would thirty minutes in each other’s presence change about the strangeness of your relationship?”

“It wouldn’t, I suppose.” She was crestfallen.

“Then it is settled,” Marcus said. “And the end of this road is finally in sight.”

For the first time in all their lives, she thought she saw a glimmer of relief in his eyes. It was fleeting, so brief that she considered it might have been a trick of the light. As quickly as it had shown itself, he had returned to his steely gaze again.

He glanced at the canvas behind her, and she was certain that it was the first time he’d actually taken a look at her artwork since he’d stepped into the room. However, whatever joy she’d felt toward it no longer existed. Instead, Eliza dreamed of pushing her fist through the fabric of the canvas with as much force as she could muster.

“I like the way you’ve painted the light,” he said. “I have another appointment to get to. I’ll be back in an hour or two. This time, when I knock, answer the door. I looked like a fool standing out there for so long.”

“If you insist,” she said quietly.

He turned to leave, but not before casting a last look over her. “Tidy your hair. It has fallen out all over the place. And your fingertips are stained with pigment.”

With that, he left her, and the reality of her new life alone in the lodgings. Alone, she felt herself break a little as a shaky breath escaped her. While she knew marriage was her only option in that life, facing it so soon sent a chill down her spine and through her bones.

She reached up, tucking back locks of honey brown hair. Despite the sun having set, she felt her freckled cheeks burn red and knew that if she did not distract herself, tears would soon follow. Eliza took her newly finished painting down from the easel and leaned it against the wall.

With a fresh page pinned to the board, she reached for the charcoal, further dirtying her fingertips. With practiced ease, her own eyes stared back at her from the page after only a few lines drawn. She followed by adding in the curl of her hair, hanging wildly loose and free down to her waist.

She added in the defiance in her eyes and gave herself a look that seemed as if she could set the world ablaze. Her eyebrows dipped into a scowl, and there she stopped. She dropped the stick of charcoal to the floor, and it shattered, dirtying the bare wood. Yet another thing she would need to clean before Marcus returned.

Eliza could not finish the drawing. It showed her greatest desire, for her to be a wildly free woman, allowed to speak her mind and look as she pleased without the judgment of the world around her. If she finished the self-portrait, she would know what that freedom looked like, and it would never be removed from her mind.

There was one option moving forward. Eliza would need to find a way to be happy in her marriage. She’d found a way to be happy in her childhood, despite it being something that nobody would ever wish for, and should never have been. This would be easier, she thought.

She had always done it this way, and she was fairly certain she could do it for whatever remained of her life. After all, the marriage was for convenience only. Perhaps she could find a way to hide, appearing only when necessary, so that she could create a sense of peace for herself.

Eliza plucked the self-portrait from the easel and tucked it into the space behind the canvas so that it was hidden from view. Marcus had little interest in her art and would not find it there. It could be hidden just like the part of her that had inspired it.

Chapter Two

The Duke of Ravensholme leaned his cane against his desk and, with a light groan, took to his seat, ushering for Tristan Vale, the Earl of Evermere, to take a seat across from him. Tristan didn’t enjoy their meetings as much as he once had. With each year that Tristan grew older, the pressure placed on him by his grandfather mounted.

There had been a time when the duke had stood tall, at nearly six feet, and carried a proud attitude about him. The man that Tristan remembered from his youth had disappeared after the blaze that took the life of his father, the duke’s son.

Since that day, the duke had only one goal, and that was to keep the lineage alive. That responsibility rested on Tristan’s shoulders.

He settled into his seat, a comfortable chair that allowed some distance between him and his grandfather. The duke’s white hair was perfectly combed as it always was, his blue eyes staring back through gold-framed glasses that gave him the perception of being a friendly man. He hadn’t been a friendly man in many years.

All Tristan needed to survive was thirty minutes once a fortnight, and then he could carry on with his life as if his grandfather had no effect on him, despite that being the opposite of the truth.

“There was a gentleman here to see me yesterday,” the duke said. “Viscount Harwood.”

“I’m afraid I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting him,” Tristan said.

The duke nodded. “He is a very well-mannered, pleasant man. Well-dressed, and polite. Precisely how I like my visitors to be.”

Tristan knew that such a statement didn’t need a response. He could not be further from his grandfather in manner, belief, and appearance. He had his grandfather’s height, standing at just over six-foot-tall, but while his grandfather had blue eyes and once blonde hair, Tristan had inherited the raven hair of his mother and grey eyes of his father.

However, his grandfather seemed fitter in stature than Tristan, who carried with him many battle scars and a cane that resembled that of the duke, a necessary tool for walking.

“I’m pleased to inform you that I have found a wife to join you in this life,” the duke said.

The statement was sobering, chilling, and made Tristan feel as if he’d been bolted to the ground as a train was headed straight for him.

“I beg your pardon?” Tristan asked.

“The words I used were fairly simple, were they not?” the duke said. “Viscount Harwood approached me about his sister. I liked the terms that we discussed and agreed that she would be a suitable bride for you. Congratulations.”

Tristan didn’t feel like celebrating. He’d barely survived his time in battle and was convinced that he could not also be responsible for the life of another.

“You were making no progress, so, as always, I needed to take charge of the matter,” the duke said. “So, that’s precisely what I did. If I’m to live long enough to ensure that an heir is born, I will need to start acting quickly.”

“I am perfectly capable of choosing my own wife,” Tristan said, careful that his tone wasn’t too harsh or defensive.

“Yet, here we are,” the duke said. “And I am only getting closer to death.”

Tristan had seen battle, seen the hardships of soldiers who had lost far more than he. He understood what death could be. For those reasons, he struggled to resonate with his grandfather’s fears of dying before an heir was born.

“The viscount’s sister, Miss Eliza Harwood, is the chosen woman for you to marry,” the duke said. “As luck would have it, she is similar to you in the sense that finding marriage is not something she’s been able to achieve on her own.”

Tristan clenched his jaw, his hip and leg aching from his climb up the stairs.

“It is common knowledge that the Harwood family is riddled with debt, bad gambling debt caused by the viscount’s father. Or do you speak of a different, more mysterious Harwood family?”

His grandfather shot him an unamused look, the kind that often followed a poorly timed joke.

“She isn’t a suitable bride. I’m afraid that we will take on too much by bringing them into our family,” Tristan continued.

“You’d be wise not to speak to me as if I were unintelligent,” the duke said. “I am aware of the difficulties that the Harwood family has faced, but she is not her father and need not answer for his crimes.”

Tristan was even more convinced that his grandfather had lost his mind then. It simply wasn’t a good idea, but Tristan knew well enough that he had no choice. If he did not produce an heir before his grandfather’s death, he would have failed. It was his duty, and he intended to succeed in it.

“There is no reason to believe that she is unpleasant or unsociable,” the duke said. “There is nothing written of her in the scandal sheets. I’ve heard only good things from those who have met her, and I see nothing wrong with her as a potential wife for you.”

“I do not think there is anything wrong with her as a person, but what does this mean for our family?” Tristan asked. “We will take on her debts when the marriage goes through. Are you certain that is a wise idea?”

“I am certain that you should trust me,” the duke said, his tone shifting to something more dangerous.

He swallowed what remaining words he had to dispute against the duke. He knew better than to push the matter any further. Instead, he nodded.

“All right,” he said. “Then I am happy to start the discussions.”

“A contract is already being drafted,” the duke said. “Arrangements are already being made.”

Tristan swallowed. He’d never considered what life would be like with another person there all day. What would she think of him when she saw his scar-ridden body and cane? He shuddered to think how afraid she would be for her future when she took his side at the altar.

“When is the wedding expected to take place?” Tristan asked.

“Three weeks from now,” the duke answered. “As I’m sure I’ve made perfectly clear, I don’t have any time to waste. Three weeks is all that is necessary to get our affairs in order.”

Concentration evaded him as Tristan’s heart thumped in his chest. He thought of his usually quiet mornings and imagined an annoyed, angered woman across the table from him, devastated that her life had become whatever he had to offer.

The duke kept speaking, though, outlining particulars of the conversation and assuring Tristan that he’d made the right choice. While Tristan heard the words, the doubts within him were so strong that he almost choked on them. He needed water, but saying so would interrupt the duke and be considered rude.

After that water, he needed something stronger. Like a brandy, perhaps.

“For propriety’s sake, you must meet her before the wedding takes place,” the duke said. “I will arrange with the earl regarding a place and a time and let you know when you’re expected and where. I implore you to arrive in your best clothes, and with your most charming manners. I insist that your attitude be astute, confident, and powerful. I do not expect a queue of potential brides in your future. Do not make a mess of this.”

The duke was so overbearing that Tristan could feel the thumb that pressed down on his head at that moment. It squeezed any sense of confidence that Tristan had left.

“I will await your instructions,” Tristan said softly. “And I’ll do my best to be impressive. Although, as I understand it, all the arrangements are already in place.”

For the first time in what felt like years, the corner of the duke’s mouth curled up into a slight smile. Tristan’s surprise must have been evident on his face.

“Finally, I feel as if we are achieving something important here,” the duke said. “My grandson will be married, and I will see an heir to my bloodline.”

“Yes, it is important,” Tristan said. “Which is precisely why I wish I had been invited to the conversation when it was happening. It is, after all, my life we are talking about.”

“Your life?” the duke asked. “You’ve had control of your life for long enough. I’m not seeing much progress, and I can no longer stand idly by and watch you continue on this path.”

His words stung Tristan in both his heart and mind, and he clenched his jaw to hide that truth from being displayed on his face.

“I won’t let you down,” Tristan said.

He wanted to leave, to get out of there and move around, so that he could feel one short moment of relief in his leg and hip before the pain would set in again.

At last, the conversation came to an end, and he took to the street in search of his carriage. Within the confines of the small space, he was able to retreat and come to terms with his new reality, one he didn’t want.

It took two weeks for the marriage contract to arrive on Tristan’s desk. He’d been walking the halls of his home to soothe his leg and found it there when he returned. It had been all that he could think about for two weeks, and no amount of work, reading, or riding could distract him from it.

When he walked through the house, he imagined the sound of a woman’s footsteps close behind him, her frustrated sighs that he walked so slowly and could not move out of the way.

When he looked in the mirror, he imagined the horror on her face as her eyes trailed the scar that ran from his brow down to the bottom of his eye. When he sat at the dinner table, he imagined a conversation in which she would ask him about his day, and he would inform her daily that nothing of interest had happened.

He would watch the life fade from her eyes as she realized the life that she’d entered into. It would devastate him. That would have to wait. For now, he needed to know just what was expected of their estate. How badly would the Harwood financial situation impact all that his family had worked hard to achieve?

He opened the envelope and turned his back to the window so that the sunlight could properly illuminate the document. To his surprise, the contract was short and to the point. It included a modest settlement of some of the Harwood debts and a family connection.

That was the small price to pay for the duke’s happiness. Once the marriage was in place, and an heir was produced, the duke would release his tight grip on Tristan and his life. Perhaps that was the goal that he needed to focus on.

Tristan read the contract a second time to make sure that he hadn’t missed something that had been snuck in there. It was as he’d understood it, plain and simple.

He dropped the contract onto his desk and let out a long sigh. Soon, he would be expected to meet her, and he would need to face the reaction she would have to his appearance. He looked like a man who had been to war. Evidence of battle was scattered all over his body. He was not yet old, at only thirty-two. While he maintained a strong physical form, he already walked with the speed and agility of an elderly man, with a cane always gripped in his right hand.

A headache bloomed at the base of his head, and he glanced at the tray of brandy across the room, wondering how early would be considered too early for a tipple. He knew that he had no choice but to sign the contract.

It took only a second to add his name to the document. That was it. With little time to waste, he reached for another page to write a letter. The chapel would need to be arranged if they were going to be married. It all seemed too easy, too much like a business deal and less like a life decision.

After preparing and signing the document, he sent the letter off, and made his way to the brandy to pour himself a sip.

It burned as it ran down his throat and into his stomach. Careful of his state of mind, Tristan placed the empty cup back on the tray and walked away from it, opting rather to look out the window and over the gardens as thoughts raced through his mind.

He was going to meet his intended bride the next day. It meant that there were mere hours between where he was standing and the moment that she would see him for the first time. What lingered like a shadow was the memory of his parents’ loveless marriage, another decision made by the duke without consideration of anyone other than himself.

They had lived their lives like strangers. When Tristan was born, their duties to each other had been fulfilled. His mother was around, but the staff raised him. Every minute of his day was a lesson on how to move through life as a member of the Vale family.

Tristan never saw his mother and father laughing together. He’d never seen them in quiet conversation or enjoying each other’s company on a walk. Instead, they moved around each other, putting in effort to avoid each other as much as they possibly could, but smiled in public as if they were the happiest two people on Earth.

Imagining his own life that way saddened him. What was the purpose of any of it if there was no joy in it?

Would she duck into an empty room when she heard the sound of his cane coming down the hallway? Would he feel obliged to do the same?

His fears didn’t matter; he was only days away from finding out what his future would hold. He would be a husband, and at the very least, he hoped that he could be a better husband than his father had been.

It hadn’t bothered him until the day that his parents had succumbed to the blaze, and his family home had burned to the ground. He knew then that he had few happy memories of his parents, something that should have come quickly and freely as he mourned them after their deaths.

All he recalled was their coldness, their calculated manner of moving through life, and the quiet dinners they’d shared as a family. That was not how he wanted to be remembered, but thanks to his grandfather’s control and interference, it was becoming a possibility for Tristan, too.

His son, if one were born, would enter into a line of men who didn’t know love and care.