Excerpt of One Wedding and An Earl by Tracy Sumner

Blue-blooded cad. Arrogant bounder. Earl of nothing special!

Add to the mix that condescending criminal brother of his.

Necessity strode down the passage, her furious footfalls ringing off medieval stone. Sconces were thankfully lit, unlike the first dark corridor she’d stumbled down, tossing shadow and dim illumination across her path. A lost path. She had no idea where her bedchamber was as she’d been investigating the grounds. Green and in the west wing was all she’d been told. Her portmanteau taken up hours ago. Aspinwall’s housekeeper had directed her thusly without offering escort. The aged servant had placed her hand on her hip and grimaced as if to say: I can’t help you find your quarters but good luck to you in doing so.

Moments ago, when Necessity heard the earl’s voice sliding like mist down the hallway, a ragged note had held her in place as surely as his fingers wrapped around her wrist. So, she’d lingered outside his study. Snooping, if she was honest with herself.

What had that got her?

Another unflattering summary of what society thought of her.

Halting, she blew out a savage breath. Clenched her fists and willed away the heat scalding her cheeks, although much of his censure was self-directed.

When the gardener in question likely wouldn’t want anything to do with a broken-down earl rumored to be a recluse of the highest order.

She wished this statement was true. Could easily pretend it was true. She’d never had to hide attraction before, not really, so how hard could it be? Truthfully, the earl had tempted her in some mysterious, niggling way since she’d laid eyes on him. His cheek torn to shreds but his eyes, oh, those wondrous eyes, fastening her to him like he held a lock and key.

Nevertheless, despite the spark dancing between them, she’d never imagined that felonious dolt Xander Macauley would imagine her services were anything but scientific and of the horticulture world. She’d worked blasted hard to become a woman who didn’t have to sell herself. She only sold her knowledge. Her passion. Her body was off-limits and hers alone.

“Men are hounds,” she whispered and continued her search for her chamber. Only allowing a curse to fall free when she reached a dead end. Now what?

The earl caught her moments later, her eye pressed to a tiny keyhole in the stone wall that let one gaze across the vast woodlands surrounding Aspinwall House. The sun was setting, and the horizon was a burst of crimson and gold bordered by a set of verdant, rolling hills. The scent of pine and woodsmoke lay heavy on the air, the call of a hawk—or owl or a bird she’d never heard in the city anyway—piercing the twilight.

If she weren’t so vexed, she would have found it beautiful.

“It’s an embrasure,” he murmured, coming up swiftly but not silently beside her.

Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she glanced back with a cross look.

Stanford followed the move, his pupils flaring.

Oh, bother, she silently seethed. Men were fascinated by the most mundane bits. A flash of bony ankle, a lock of hair not bound to one’s head with pins. She’d restrain her stubborn strands in the tightest chignon she could manage tomorrow. Wear her ugliest dress, although the one she was wearing wasn’t set to entice. Let herself get filthy as a dog grubbing in the dirt.

That would show him and his silly brother what kind of offer this was, her being here. She was about the plants and nothing more. About that magnificent conservatory in need of

attention, the stately line of elms she’d envisioned lining the drive, the herbs and vegetables. The butterflies the new gardens would attract. The birds. The lawns stretching clear to the horizon.

And almost most importantly, Capability Brown’s notes.

“My lord?” she finally asked, an edge she wasn’t about to banish scalding her words.

Gently brushing her aside, he leaned in, pressing his eye to the stone where hers had been. A compelling scent, leather and something spicy, drifted from him. Heat where his shoulder touched hers raced to her toes. His hair was black as ash, overlong, curling about his ears and grazing his scarred cheek. He was taller than she’d recalled. Broader of chest. Rougher than any toff she’d encountered. He radiated a distinctive mix, to her experience, of refinement and ruggedness. When she’d only known men who possessed one trait. Aristocrats or common blokes, never a man who blended both.

“An embrasure,” he repeated and stepped back. This time sticking his long finger in the gap, warming her in areas she’d rather not think about. “It was designed to allow arrow fire through the slit at the top and small cannon fire through the circular opening at the bottom. Primitive defense. You’ll find them all over the dwelling if you’re set to explore.” He smiled, an action that didn’t seem completely spurious, set to make her forget the ribald comments repeated about her in his study. “Quite remarkable, isn’t it?”

She tangled her hands in her skirt, unwilling to soften her stance. So what if he loved this crumbling castle? What business of hers was it? “I’m not exploring, Lord Stanford. I’m lost.”

He frowned, a dimple, minuscule and almost bleeding into his ruined cheek, popping up to further aggravate her. “Lost? You’re staying in the west wing—”

“Green bedchamber,” she interrupted. “Your housekeeper informed me of the location while also letting me know she can’t manage climbing stairs.” She glanced down the hall and back. “Am I in the west wing? How can one tell?”

He shook his head, his gaze glittering in the meager light from the sconce. “No, this is the east. Come, I’ll show you.”

She followed him down the corridor, taking a left where she’d taken a right, struggling valiantly to lift her gaze above his firm bottom encased in clinging buckskin. The second time today she’d been presented the opportunity. Descending an impressive marble staircase, across a paneled gallery, and up the matching steps on the other side.

She couldn’t imagine owning a manor of such magnificence. The sheer breadth was astounding even if the dwelling was in disrepair. The Earl of Stanford had no idea how fortunate he was. Although most in society didn’t have funds for upkeep of their inheritances, the financial burdens could kill birthrights faster than Dutch elm disease did a tree.

“What you overheard, my brother, he was jesting,” he said, an admission that caused her to stumble over a rough spot on the tattered runner beneath her feet. Instantly, he reached for her, a steadying hand cupped beneath her elbow. “I find myself unable to agree to it most days. His brand of fraternal teasing stings. Xander and I were years apart and are now moving through what I feel is the adolescent phase of bonding. At least you didn’t come upon us tossing each other about the room.” He sighed out a laugh that rippled across her skin, the vulnerability revealed by the sound digging deep. “It happens. Quite often, actually.”

She paused, gently shook free of his hold.

Dangerous, she thought to herself. This man is dangerous.