Lord Hunter's Cinderella Heiress Read online

  Betrothed...to the wrong man!

  Building a life away from her bullying family, schoolmistress Helen Tilney now needs to convince her childhood sweetheart she’s a worthy bride. Standing in her way is Lord Hunter—the man Nell has just discovered she’s betrothed to!

  Hunter’s offer of marriage to Nell came out of guilt, and now seems less than appealing! So when she asks for his help to win another man, he agrees. Until their lessons in flirtation inspire a raging desire that has Hunter longing to keep Nell for himself...

  Book 1 in the Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies trilogy

  Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies

  Lord Hunter, Lord Stanton and Lord Ravenscar

  Three wild rakes whose seductive charms and aristocratic titles have the ladies of the ton swooning behind their fans. United by their charitable foundation to help those scarred by war, these lords are the firmest of friends.

  But they guard their hardened hearts almost as closely as they do their riches...that is, until they encounter three very special women.

  Could these innocent ladies be the ones to tame these wild lords once and for all?

  Read Lord Hunter and Nell’s story in

  Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress

  And look out for linked stories about Lord Stanton and Lord Ravenscar—coming soon!

  Author Note

  Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress is the first book in my Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies series about three friends who are infamous for their rakish past and supreme skill with horses. But though this is a romance, it touches on some serious and timeless topics—among them the impact of suicide on those left behind. The three friends are a product of their time in history, a generation shaped by a costly war and just as costly an aftermath. Many veterans of the Napoleonic wars returned to England wounded in body and mind, without an income or the ability to find employment. There were several hospitals dedicated to caring for soldiers “broken by age or war” (the most famous was the Royal Hospital Chelsea established by King Charles II in 1681), but they were a drop in the ocean after such prolonged, bloody and devastating wars that affected not just veterans but their families and led to many unreported cases of suicide (still a serious problem in most active armies today). My three wild lords share tragedies revolving around the wars and together they establish an institution, Hope House, to help veterans and their families rebuild their lives. In this first book my hero, Lord Hunter, is emotionally scarred by his brother’s suicide after being captured and tortured in France, and his guilt at failing to protect his adored younger brother becomes a driving force in his life and very nearly prevents him from opening himself to the healing power of love. Luckily Nell, my horse-loving heroine (who has a few scars of her own), is not easily dissuaded...

  LARA TEMPLE

  Lord Hunter’s

  Cinderella Heiress

  Lara Temple was three years old when she begged her mother to take dictation of her first adventure story. Since then she has led a double life—by day an investment and high-tech professional who has lived and worked on three continents, but when darkness falls she loses herself in history and romance (at least on the page). Luckily her husband and two beautiful and very energetic children help weave it all together.

  Books by Lara Temple

  Harlequin Historical

  Lord Crayle’s Secret World

  The Reluctant Viscount

  The Duke’s Unexpected Bride

  Wild Lords and Innocent Ladies

  Lord Hunter’s Cinderella Heiress

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

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  To Myrna, Mark and Arik,

  who miss David as much as I do.

  He couldn’t hold on but gave so much love

  while he did.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Excerpt from The Wallflower’s Mistletoe Wedding by Amanda McCabe

  Prologue

  Leicestershire—1816

  ‘You’re wanted, Miss Nell. The master has some viscount or other wanting to take Petra through her paces. Lord Hunter, I think his name was. Knowing fellow.’

  ‘Another one? I hope she takes him head first through a hedge, Elkins,’ Nell replied, her voice muffled as she bent to examine Pluck’s fetlock.

  ‘She’ll have to go to someone and he seems a fair choice—no bluster about him.’ The elderly groom smiled.

  ‘I don’t know why Father insists I escort his guests anyway. As head groom you are far more qualified than I.’

  ‘It’s simple, miss. You’ve got the best seat in the county and that gives them fellows the idea their wives or daughters might look the same if they took home one of these prime bits of blood. They won’t, no how, but there’s no harm in it. Your father’s a hard man, I know, but he’s right proud of the way you are with horses. You’re like him there, see you.’

  Nell wrinkled her nose—she didn’t want to be like the brutish sot in any way whatsoever. She secured the stall door, but Pluck shoved her arched neck over the side and shook her mane. Nell relented and came back for one more stroke.

  ‘No, you can’t go to your mama yet. And, yes, I will go and see if he is worthy of her and if he isn’t I’ll have her toss him into a pond. You like that idea, don’t you, you little rogue? Father and Aunt Hester will skin me, but for Petra I just might find the nerve. Now I must go or I will be late and Father will be furious and then Aunt Hester will be furious, too.’

  There was no way the filly could understand how serious that was, but Pluck’s head ducked back into the stall.

  Her father was already in the stable yard. He was hard to miss—even braced on his cane and his face lined with pain and puffy from years of hard drinking, his height and booming voice intimidated everyone around him. However, this time he was diminished by the man who stood by his side. Not in inches—they were probably of a height and the stranger certainly hadn’t her father’s massive and blustering look. In fact, the first thing that struck her was that he was very quiet.

  They hadn’t seen her yet and she watched as the stranger approached Petra. His movements were economical and smooth, and his hands, though they looked large and strong, were calm and travelled slowly over the mare as he examined her. It was just the right way to approach a high-spirited horse.

  It was only when her father called her over that she looked at the man’s face. He was probably close in age to Charles Welbeck, who had just turned twenty-five the week before she and her father had gone to Wilton, but he seemed older. There were creases of weariness about his eyes and a bruised look beneath them as if he had not slept well for a long time.

  She couldn’t imagine such an expression in Charles’s cheerful blue eyes. But other than that she had to admit he was almost as handsome as Ch
arles, though in a completely different manner. She wondered if he was perhaps part-foreigner and that might account for the dark chestnut hair and the warm earth tones of his skin and the sunken golden brown of his eyes. It wasn’t a comforting face—its sharp sculpted lines didn’t make her think of princes and dancing through the night at the village fête in Wilton; it was an arrogant face more suited to the weighty matters of a beleaguered king and she doubted a glance from his tired eyes would make her think of dancing.

  Not that Charles had ever asked her to dance. He hardly even looked at her for more than a kind greeting. Except for just once, when she had been fourteen. Her father had been furious at her for cramming one of his horses at the Welbeck jumping course and she had stood, humiliated and wilting under his wrath until Charles put his arm around her and said something which made the men around them laugh, but the smile in his eyes as he glanced down at her told her it wasn’t unkind. It had calmed her father and filled her with a peaceful warmth she had begun to forget existed. At that moment she had known there would never be anyone else for her but Charles.

  She had no illusions her love would ever be reciprocated. Charles was perfect and she...she was a beanpole, almost as tall as he but painfully scrawny. The village boys would snigger and call her Master Neil behind her back and she was accustomed to the dismay in young men’s eyes when she was partnered with them at the informal dances held at her best friend Anna’s home in Keswick. It was only when she was on a horse that her height didn’t bother her. In fact, very little bothered her when she was on a horse.

  So as she watched Lord Hunter mount Petra she hadn’t in the least thought about him as a man, or herself as an unattractive and overly tall seventeen-year-old. She was Miss Nell and she could ride a horse better than anyone—man, woman, boy or girl—in the county.

  She tensed as Petra sidled at the man’s unfamiliar hand and weight and was immediately checked, but so gently that the motion was almost invisible. She couldn’t decide if his calm was innate or assumed, but she met Elkins’s gaze and shrugged. He would do.

  ‘Fells Pasture or Bridely field, then, Miss Nell?’ Elkins asked.

  ‘Fell’s Pasture, I think,’ she replied and turned to the man. He was watching them with a slight smile, clearly aware he was being weighed and judged. His eyes gleamed gold at the centre, or perhaps that was a trick of the sun, which was just catching at the edges of the trees behind her. She herself preferred light-haired men, like Charles, but Anna would probably think him very handsome.

  ‘Is that good or bad?’ he asked.

  ‘It means we presume you can stop Petra from throwing you, Lord Hunter,’ she replied, surprising herself. She was not usually so direct. ‘But if you aren’t comfortable with her yet, we can start with some easy riding. It’s just that Fell’s Pasture has a few miles of open runs and safe jumps. Alternately once you ride her I can show you her paces myself. She is probably our fastest mare and it would be a pity if you didn’t see just how beautifully she gallops.’

  He cocked his head to one side with a glimmering smile that turned the lines of tension she had noticed into laugh lines. She had probably been wrong about the signs of strain; his smile didn’t allow for the presence of the darkness she had sensed.

  ‘I don’t think you meant any of that as an insult, did you?’

  Nell stared at him, running through her words in her mind.

  ‘Not at all, my lord. You appear to handle her well enough, but I just want to do justice to Petra. Father must have told you she can be a little resistant at first, but she knows me and will open up more easily with me in the saddle. I merely thought you would want to see her at her best.’

  ‘We won’t have time to switch to side saddle anyway, so let’s just see how I manage, shall we?’

  She shrugged and turned to Hilda, her mare, allowing Elkins to help her mount.

  ‘We don’t put a side saddle on Petra; she’s trained for a man’s saddle and weight. But as you said, we’ll see how you do.’

  This time she heard the condescension in her voice and almost smiled at it.

  ‘I’m almost tempted to do an abysmal job of it just to see what you mean, Miss Tilney.’

  He didn’t, of course, and as she watched him gallop across the field she didn’t know whether to be relieved that Petra was being delivered into the capable hands of a man who would treat her right, or disappointed that she hadn’t been given the opportunity to show him her mettle. In this one corner of the universe where she was completely capable, she rarely wished to show off, but today she felt that urge. She watched as the man stopped just short of where she and Elkins waited. There was gold in his eyes, she realised, and the colour was heightened by the clear enjoyment on his face, making him look younger.

  ‘Can you match that?’ he demanded, bending forward to stroke Petra’s damp neck.

  Elkins chuckled and Nell didn’t need further prodding. She tossed her reins to Elkins and slipped off Hilda.

  Clearly Lord Hunter hadn’t expected her to actually accept his dare because he looked disconcerted, but she just laid her hand on Petra’s muzzle and raised her brows, waiting.

  ‘Are you serious?’ he asked. ‘Now? But she’s probably winded and you can’t ride her in skirts...’

  Nell unhooked the fastening that held the wide train of her skirt and hooked it over her arm.

  ‘These skirts work as well on a regular saddle. I made them myself. And far from being winded, Petra is just warming up, so instead of sitting there while she cools down, you can dismount and I’ll show you what she can do and then you will probably ask Father to buy Pluck, her filly, as well. Now, down you go.’

  He dismounted meekly, still watching her with curious fascination as she placed her leg in the stirrup, swinging her other leg over, and with a practised flick cast her skirts over as well, the long folds of fabric covering her legs to her boots and obscuring the riding breeches she wore underneath. She plucked out the pin which held her riding hat and handed them to Elkins, and then she was off.

  Petra didn’t disappoint her. If ever a mare flew, the grey blood mare rose off the ground, as smooth and slick as water, her small head down and extended like an arrow. Nell didn’t bother with proper lady’s riding posture, but leaned low into the shape of the horse, laughing as Petra’s mane stung at her face like a brace of tiny whips. Nell wanted that man to appreciate what he was getting, and if she managed to convince him to buy Pluck as well, it would be worth it. She hated when mare and filly or foal were separated too young.

  She took Petra over the hedge at the far end of the pasture as if it wasn’t even in the way and then led her back for the long jump over the stream. When she drew up she was bursting with the excitement of the run. She could even cope with the knowledge that she probably looked a fright. Her hair was too straight to stay confined by pins and she could feel it hanging down about her face.

  ‘Well? Isn’t she amazing?’

  He took the reins she held out to him as she swung out of the saddle and she realised he really was very tall because she actually had to look up, an unusual feeling and one she didn’t quite like since it reminded her too much of Father stalking at her. She hurried to mount Hilda, her exhilaration fading.

  ‘Indeed she is,’ Lord Hunter said as he stroked Petra’s sweating neck. It was easier now that she was mounted and he had to look up at her. ‘What is the name of her filly?’

  ‘Pluck. Well, that’s just my name for her, though Father prefers to call fillies and foals after their sires, so she’s known as Argonaut’s Filly, but that’s a mouthful, so I just call her Pluck, because she is. Plucky, that is.’

  ‘Like you.’

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘Hardly. I’m the least plucky thing that ever was.’

  ‘Now that’s not quite fair, Miss Nell,’ Elkins interjected as they turn
ed back towards Tilney Hall. ‘There’s none like you for throwing your heart over a fence.’

  She shrugged, annoyed at herself and at them, though she didn’t know why.

  ‘That’s different. I know what I’m doing when I’m on a horse. You can see Lord Hunter to the house, Elkins. Goodbye, Lord Hunter.’ She rode off, feeling very young and foolish she had succumbed to showing off. He had been kind about it, but she still felt ridiculous.

  She hoped her aunt didn’t have one of her whims and insist she dine downstairs because then he would see how wrong he was about her pluck. She wasn’t yet formally ‘out’ in society and she rarely dined with guests, which suited her just fine because those occasions when her aunt did demand her presence were sheer purgatory. Her father’s temper was nothing next to Hester’s vindictiveness.

  * * *

  Just when Nell thought the hour of danger had passed, Sue, the chambermaid, rushed into her room.

  ‘Her majesty says you’re to join the guests for supper, Miss Nell.’

  Nell shook her head, desperately trying to think of some way to avoid this disaster, and Sue clucked her tongue.

  ‘There ain’t nothing for it but to go forward, chick. Hurry, now. Luckily I added a flounce to your sprigged muslin and it isn’t quite so short now, but you’ll have to keep the shawl over your shoulders because there’s nothing we can do now about the fact it won’t close right.’

  ‘I can’t... I won’t!’

  ‘You can and will. There isn’t aught else to wear, chick. Really, your father should know better but men are fools. That’s right—best heed me. Men are fools and you’re better a mile away in any direction!’

  Nell stood like a seamstress’s dummy, rigid and useless as Sue busied about dressing her in her one decent muslin dress with its childish bodice and equally childish length. Though Mrs Barnes was an excellent cook, neither she nor Sue were capable seamstresses and the new flounce was clearly crooked and this would surely be the night the straining fabric would finally give way to her late-budding bustline. She would sit down and there would be a horrible rending sound and everyone would look at her and her aunt would sneer and oh so kindly suggest Nell go change and perhaps ask her why she had insisted on wearing that dreadful old dress and really she despaired of the girl because no matter how hard she tried to make her presentable there was only so much one could do with such a hopeless long meg... Nell would leave the room and of course not return because she had no other dress that was suitable for evening wear and because she couldn’t face their contemptuous and condescending stares and sniggers, and tomorrow her father would rant at her for having humiliated him in front of his guests and for being as dull as dishwater and less useful.