When a Girl Loves an Earl by Elisa Braden

Author:Elisa Braden
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Elisa Braden
Published: 2016-08-29T23:00:00+00:00

*~*~*

The coach rocked on another gust of wind. She did not envy the coachman and footman their task of driving in the storm, but she was thankful to be safe and dry.

And married. Mustn’t forget that.

She cast a sidelong glance at her husband—he of the granite jaw and precipitous brow.

Husband. How extraordinary.

Despite the inglorious circumstances of their wedding, Viola was beginning to feel the satisfaction—the warm, glistening, secretive pleasure—of concluding her Tannenbrook Hunt victoriously. At long last, the big, surly brute was hers.

Of course, there appeared to be much she did not know about her new husband.

Her teeth worried at her lip, and she twisted her mother’s ring about her finger.

For example, she’d never asked where James had spent his childhood. That was largely because she could scarcely elicit a response to questions such as “how do you find Northumberland?” and “why do you never dance?” Discovering answers which required more than a single sentence, or which invited further inquiry, had been akin to unknotting a disastrous tangle from her embroidery. In short, it required patience she did not possess.

However, as she was currently headed to her new husband’s birthplace, perhaps it was time to delve further into his past.

She cleared her throat. “So, you are a Scot.”

His deep hum must have been meant as assent.

“Why did you never say?”

“My name is Kilbrenner. Was this not a clue?”

She sniffed. “Your title is English. Your seat is in Derbyshire. Besides which, you do not sound Scottish.”

He shot her a skeptical glance.

“Very well, the frequent use of ‘aye’ and ‘lass’ might have given some indication.”

One corner of his mouth quirked. “Aye, lass. That it might.”

Oh, dear. He’d rumbled those words with a rolling, delicious brogue that played down her spine like a harpist plucking a perfect chord. Combined with the gleam of teasing humor in his eyes, it rendered her weak and warm. Why this should be so, when Lord Mochrie’s brogue merely sounded distorted and, at times, annoyingly incomprehensible to her ears, she could not say. But this was James. From the beginning, he had been the exception to every rule.

She finally caught her breath. “I assume others know of your background.”

“A few.”

“Why did you never tell me?”

Those massive shoulders shrugged. “No reason to discuss it.”

“Because you sought to rid yourself of me.”

He didn’t answer, merely turning his head to the squalling storm.

But she was not finished. “Well, I should like to know more about you.”

“Why?”

“You are my husband.”

Again, no answer. And his gaze remained fixed on the drenching rain.

She frowned. “James.”

Those shoulders rolled.

“Look at me.”

His head shook. “You are bloody well the most persistent female I have ever encountered, do you know that?”

“Yes, well. It has served me admirably.”

He snorted in disbelief, but his eyes did return to her. At least now she could see his expression, even if it was one of perplexed annoyance. “You engineered your own ruination, for the love of God. Not more than an hour ago, you stood in a toll house to hand yourself over to me, a man of whom you know so little, his origins came as a stunning revelation.

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