Lord Wastrel Read online

  Lord Wastrel

  Book 2 in The Curse of True Love Series

  When Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love, plays matchmaker, true love can seem like a curse

  Lord Wastrel—the most notorious rake in London—has a child? Clearly he knows how to sire one, but he has no idea how to actually raise one. He has to learn quickly, since he is the little girl’s only surviving parent, and he’s determined to find a wife who can assist him with this daunting task. All he needs is someone demure, and biddable, and most importantly, scandal-free.

  Lady Felicia Selby is no stranger to scandal, thanks to Society’s insatiable curiosity about her numerous failed elopements. She has devoted many years to finding her one true love, desperate to escape the consequences of the family curse, but she has begun to give up hope.

  Then, one evening, a chance encounter with Aphrodite changes everything…

  “It never goes smoothly when we get personally involved with the mortals.”

  ~ Ares, God of War

  “But that is what makes it so entertaining.”

  ~ Aphrodite, Goddess of Love

  Lord Wastrel

  Book 2 in The Curse of True Love Series

  Copyright 2014 Donna Cummings. All Rights Reserved.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

  Cover by Carrie Spencer, http://www.cheekycovers.com

  Dedication

  For everyone who asked about this book, and waited patiently for it to be finished—thank you for hanging in there! I hope you enjoy Hugh and Felicia, and Aphrodite and Ares.

  And a big shoutout for Carrie Spencer, who patiently created test version after test version to give me the exact cover I wanted. In fact, thanks for all the great covers you’ve created for me. This one is definitely my favorite…well, until the next one!

  Table of Contents

  Lord Wastrel

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Connect With Me Online

  Other Available Books

  Upcoming Releases

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  Excerpt from Lord Midnight

  Chapter 1

  London, 1811

  It wasn’t the night of hard drinking Hugh Longford, Lord Weyson, regretted in that particular moment. Nor was it the fact that the sun blistering his eyes meant night had slipped away without his knowledge, once again.

  The cause of his agony, and the source of his sudden wish that he had lived his past few years differently, was standing in his drawing room, calling him “Papa”.

  “What the deuce?”

  Hugh blinked again, and then rubbed his eyes, but there was no mistaking the little creature gazing up at him. Not with fear, he noticed. Her expression was more of fascination than anything else. The poor mite was probably wondering what kind of father she had—

  He gazed at the child’s nursemaid with unabashed hopefulness. Surely she had some other sort of explanation, something other than the one he was being asked to accept.

  “My lord, Miss Marguerite told me were anythin’ ever to happen to her…” The young woman coughed as she struggled to regain her composure, and then extracted a letter from her coat.

  Even knowing he did not want to see the contents, Hugh found himself reaching for the parchment, unfolding it with trembling hands.

  She had never meant to bother him, her letter said. He had been so generous with her, especially when he had given her her congé, but she had become gravely ill recently, and had no one else with whom to entrust their child…

  “Haselton!” Hugh sought his unflappable butler, the one who assured Weyson House always ran smoothly, despite its owner’s well-known excesses.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Haselton gazed upon the unusual scene without the slightest bit of perturbance, even though he was no more accustomed to young children arriving unannounced than his master was.

  Hugh sighed. “Well, yes, there’s—her.” He thrust his hand out toward the young child. “And, it says here—that is, I don’t know how it could be possible, for I always took every precaution, but I suppose it is not outside the realm of possibility—apparently I—this child is—”

  He ran his hand through his hair, quite undone by the morning’s unexpected revelations. At this hour, he was usually stumbling into bed, and generally not his own. Though he had earned the nickname Lord Wastrel for his profligate ways, he had never anticipated dealing with a fracas of this sort.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the looking glass over the fireplace. God, he looked wretched. His hair had no semblance of the latest style, his eyes were bleary and red-rimmed, his chin darkening with stubble. He was fast becoming an old reprobate, with little resemblance to the wealthy young London buck he actually was.

  He growled, his lips turned up in a sneer.

  “Are you the debbil?” a small voice asked.

  Haselton coughed, turning his head, but Hugh saw the smile he was trying to conceal.

  He also saw the little girl trying to hide her uncertainty. His heart softened. Her life had been turned upside down too. He bent down, to keep from towering over her, though it took more effort than he wanted to admit just to keep steady on his pins. The movement also made him feel a bit nauseous of a sudden.

  Why not just sit down where he was?

  The child giggled as Hugh plopped down onto the Aubusson carpet, putting his face level with hers.

  She had the most beautiful blue eyes. He remembered Marguerite, a fiery opera dancer, with those very eyes. And the child had the same dark-as-night curls that he possessed, not to mention features that clearly descended from his branch of the family tree.

  “Are you the debbil?” she repeated. She put her fingers on either side of her bonnet as if they were horns, and wiggled them.

  Hugh laughed, throwing back his head, wishing he hadn’t when the pain sliced through his skull once more.

  “Ah, no, but I sure feel like the debbil.”

  Since he no doubt looked like Old Nick in that moment, it was a wonder he hadn’t set the poor child to crying. Obviously she was made of sterner stuff. She had gazed at him quite fearlessly, and even with a hint of compassion.

  “My lord,” Haselton said, “perhaps you could sort everything out with your solicitor.”

  Hugh nodded. He knew that was the best advice, but for some reason he resisted it. He certainly didn’t want this responsibility. He wasn’t even sure he should take it on.

  His misgivings were not about the child being his. No, his concern was that while he was well versed in siring a child, he hadn’t the slightest notion of how to actually parent one.

  Hugh groaned, dropping his head in his hands. What on earth was he to do?

  He felt a light touch on his head, more tender than a wretch such as he deserved. It filled him with a strange sense of peace, one he did not want to lose anytime soon. Yet he was terrified at being the utter failure his own parents had
been.

  “I cannot have a child in my life right now,” he blurted, with more ferocity than he had intended.

  The little girl stepped back. Her bottom lip quivered, and for the first time she lost her composure. Hugh could feel a wrench in his heart, and even though he struggled against the odd emotion, he was powerless when tears started pouring from those innocent blue eyes.

  His daughter. And he had been the one to finally make her cry.

  The lump in his throat nearly choked him. He pulled her onto his lap, holding her protectively, resting his chin atop her head while she sobbed. He rocked her back and forth, comforting her, and himself, with the sounds used throughout the ages to ease unbearable heartache.

  “What’s your name, child?”

  “Lucinda,” she answered, sniffling. Her breath caught. “What’s yours?”

  “Lord Wast—” The hopeful expression on her tear-stained face changed everything. The wretched Lord Wastrel was no more. He had a child to care for—his child. “Lucinda, your father is Hugh Longford, the fifth Earl Weyson.”

  She gave him a tentative smile. “Can I call you Papa instead?”

  Hugh’s heart melted completely, all because of this child he had not known of until moments ago. Even so, he could not help but quake at what it meant to be a Papa. He squeezed her a little more tightly, for his own reassurance.

  Still, he knew without a doubt she had proved to be his salvation. He would not permit his profligate past to mar her future. Nor would he deny her the fine things in life to which she was entitled, even if she had the misfortune of being born on the wrong side of the blanket.

  He stood up with Lucinda wrapped in his arms, and strode outside the drawing room, heading towards the stairs.

  His head instantly filled with visions of what lay ahead of them, only this time he was not frightened. Now that he had been given this opportunity, this redemption, he couldn’t wait to get started on his grand plans for their future.

  First, Lucinda would need a nursery. He would see to setting up a suite of rooms for his daughter, filled with every imaginable necessity, and every luxury she might desire. She would also need clothes, and toys, and—

  He halted at the base of the stairs. He truly had no notion of what a little girl might need. Haselton could no doubt handle the myriad details, with Lucinda’s nursemaid assisting as well.

  But his daughter required more than devoted servants to help raise her into a proper young lady.

  “We must find you a mother.” He kissed her forehead. “A perfectly biddable female. One who has no comprehension of the word scandalous.”

  The words fell on deaf ears, for there was only so much excitement a four-year-old could endure before she fell asleep, safe and comforted in her father’s arms.

  “Haselton,” Hugh whispered, so as not to wake Lucinda. “I have need of a wife.”

  “Indeed, sir,” Haselton answered as calmly as if he’d been asked to deliver a tray to Lucinda’s room. “And where shall you procure one?”

  “London is filled with dozens of such females. All I need do is pick someone respectable, marry her, and a perfect life for Lucinda will be set in motion. I’m sure it couldn’t be any easier.”

  Haselton nodded, his expression grave. “One would hope so, my lord. One would hope so.”

  Chapter 2

  Why was it so difficult to fall instantly in love?

  Lady Felicia Selby stepped into the crowded antechamber, accompanied by her Great-Aunt Aurore, and waited their turn to be announced. As soon as they delivered their felicitations to the happy couple, Felicia could return her attention to appeasing the family curse.

  Unfortunately her attempts to find her one true love had not met with success, despite months of valiant effort. Now she had begun to wonder if the man fated to be her husband truly existed.

  No, she could not let that notion take root. Nor could she permit herself to consider the consequences if she failed in this pursuit.

  Yet with only a few weeks’ time remaining before her twenty-second birthday…

  “The heat is so stifling.” Great-Aunt Aurore dabbed at her forehead, careful not to dislodge her elaborate headdress. “Is all of London in attendance this evening?”

  “It is the event of the season,” Felicia said. “I cannot imagine anyone refused an invitation.”

  The elegantly decorated room was filled to overflowing with eligible bachelors, many of them devastated to see one of their own succumbing to parson’s mousetrap, with others visibly gleeful at retaining their freedom a while longer. An equal number of matchmaking mamas were plotting how to advance their daughters’ matrimonial aspirations before the gala affair concluded.

  “I had always anticipated your betrothal ball would be a veritable crush too. But with the family curse—”

  “Do not forget my impatient nature,” Felicia added, giving them both a hearty chuckle.

  “No, dear, you were never meant to follow the traditional route to marital bliss.”

  All at once the whispers commenced, softly at first, then growing in volume as the news of Felicia’s presence spread throughout the assembly. She was accustomed to the gleeful “It’s Flighty Felicia!” announcements wherever she went. The less-than-subtle nudges and stares were part and parcel of every outing too.

  This time there were even a few silk fans snapped open, no doubt to hide comments about the latest in Felicia’s long string of failed elopements.

  She bit back a laugh, especially when she saw her aunt’s face flushed with excitement. “Great-Aunt Uproar” loved nothing more than gossip and scandal, no matter who was the source of it. Fortunately Felicia had managed to provide a great deal of enjoyment for her beloved relative.

  Several debutantes gazed longingly in their direction. They were clearly eager to chat about Felicia’s most recent adventure, but doubtful about the propriety of approaching her.

  Felicia returned an inviting smile, and in the next instant, the emboldened misses had managed to surround her, peppering her with questions.

  “The latest on dit is someone with a fast carriage awaits you at this very moment. Is that true?”

  “How did you manage to escape your last elopement?”

  “What happened when you eloped with Lord—”

  Felicia quickly placed a finger to her smiling lips. “Shh. We must give the gentlemen some privacy. At least until they have recovered from the scandal of linking their name with mine.”

  The girls giggled, thrilled to be part of the inner circle of the notorious Flighty Felicia.

  Great-Aunt Aurore beamed. A proper chaperone would be frowning and ahem-ing and changing the subject abruptly. Instead, her aunt merely raised her eyebrows, as if to say, “What could it hurt to regale them with a few tales?”

  Felicia agreed. It was not as though she was ashamed of her quest to find her one true love.

  However, the ton knew nothing of the family curse that drove her. They had seen Felicia eloping at least once a fortnight, and after gossiping and speculating about her behavior, they had dubbed her “Flighty Felicia”.

  Instead of becoming a pariah—thanks to being the sister of a very eligible Duke—she had turned into a darling of Society. Everywhere she went, crowds of young women clamored to hear more of her escapades.

  Felicia was more than happy to satisfy their curiosity.

  “All I wanted was a husband with a sense of humor,” she began cheerfully, “which is what Lord…Thus-and-such possessed. But then our carriage broke down in the midst of a dreadful storm and we waited in a nearby inn before the wheel could be repaired. It was abundantly clear his sense of humor was only available during Society events.”

  The misses tittered and fluttered their fans.

  “I also like a man with a strong sense of style, and Lord D. certainly had that.” She frowned. “At least until he insisted on bringing his valet along on our elopement, because he had no idea what waistcoat should be paired with which pant
aloons, at least not without constant guidance.”

  One of the girls choked, while another hid her amusement behind her gloved hand. Great-Aunt Aurore’s expression was a bit more compassionate. She was the only one who knew just how disappointed Felicia was at not discovering the man she would love the rest of her life.

  “Being a good conversationalist has always been of prime importance,” Felicia continued. “Unfortunately, during our race to the Scottish border, Lord M. prosed on and on about the pitfalls of tree blight, never realizing I had not spoken a word.” She chuckled. “I doubt he realized it even after I sneaked away at the last post inn to ask for assistance in returning home.”

  This latest failure had nearly made Felicia wish she had never heard of the family curse. But then she remembered the “stirrings” her newly-wed friend Georgiana had described so rapturously, something Felicia was intent on experiencing with her own husband one day…

  The frustrated sigh escaped before she could stop it.

  “Has Flighty Felicia’s reign come to an end?” one miss asked, clearly stricken by such a notion.

  Several of the women eyed Felicia with disbelief. Others showed their deep concern at being required to transfer their affections to a new cause célèbre.

  “There is a dearth of eligible bachelors just now,” Felicia replied. “At least, ones I have not eloped with previously.”

  It had not escaped her notice that many of the unmarried men that evening had assiduously avoided looking her direction, for fear she might successfully tempt one of them into an illfated elopement.

  “You could extend your search into the next shire,” a young woman suggested quite earnestly. “That would increase the number of eligible males considerably.”