Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe (Lost Lords Book 2)

  Rescuing Lord Roxwaithe

  Lost Lords, Book 2

  by

  Cassandra Dean

  RESCUING LORD ROXWAITHE

  Copyright © 2019 by Cassandra Dean

  Cover Design: Cassandra Dean

  Interior Book Design: Cassandra Dean

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form by any means, including photocopy, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Contents

  Title Page

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About Cassandra Dean

  An excerpt from FINDING LORD FARLISLE

  Other books by Cassandra Dean

  Connect with Cassandra

  Prologue

  Oliver Malcolm Aloysius Farlisle, Viscount Hudson and heir to the Earl of Roxwaithe, was fourteen years and one week the day he met Lady Lydia Claire Torrence, youngest daughter of the Marquis of Demartine. It was an unimpressive occasion. She was, after all, only three days old.

  “You’re squishing her,” his youngest brother complained. At six, Maxim barely reached Oliver’s chest, but that didn’t stop him from tugging at Oliver’s arm as if the action would somehow rectify the situation.

  “No, I’m not,” he retorted, though he gingerly loosened his hold.

  “If he were squishing her, she would be crying,” Alexandra said. At five, she wasn’t much shorter than Maxim, and, as the baby’s older sister, she would know better than Maxim if Oliver was squishing Lydia.

  Maxim rolled his eyes. “He is too squishing her. Don’t defend him, Alexandra.”

  “I’m not defending him.” Brows drawn, she studied her sister. “She is rather red, though.”

  Oliver loosened his hold even more.

  In the corner, the baby’s other siblings were currently rolling a ball back and forth. Four-year-old Harry’s face was creased in concentration, while at two, George reacted with delight each time he captured the ball.

  Oliver shifted the baby in his arms. Alexandra and Maxim crowded closer to him, as if the baby was the most interesting sight they’d ever beheld. He wasn’t sure why they thought this. The Marquis and Marchioness of Demartine had produced four children thus far, with Lydia being the youngest. One would suppose they would be used to the arrival of a new baby, but instead Lydia’s arrival had been greeted with fascination and—he winced—the stepping on of toes by younger brothers.

  In the armchair placed before the nursery window, his middle brother Stephen stared out, his chin on his updrawn knees. At ten, Stephen kept mostly to himself, even when they were all ensconced in the nursery in Bentley Close.

  Oliver looked down at Lydia. There would be no more siblings for him. Their mother had died giving birth to Maxim and their father seemed uninterested in providing them with a stepmother. In fact, their father preferred to leave the parenting of them to a series of governesses and tutors, and the prospect of a stepmother seemed unlikely.

  The baby shifted in his arms, her small mouth making a moue. In a month, he was to Eton, the first time he’d left Waithe Hall for any length of time since he himself was born. Lydia would change and grow, and the next time he would see her, she would be fat, drooling and healthy, not this wrinkled red thing that had wholly captured the attention of two families.

  The door to the nursery opened. Lady Demartine entered, a harried look on her fine features. “Thank you for holding her, Oliver. I’ll take her now.”

  For some reason, Oliver was loathe to return Lydia to her mother. Lady Demartine didn’t notice, however, taking the baby and expertly swinging her into her arms, wincing a little as the baby pressed against her chest. “You boys should return to Waithe Hall soon. Surely you are expected for dinner.”

  “Mama, Maxim should stay for dinner,” Alexandra said. “And Oliver and Stephen, too.”

  “Alexandra, their father is expecting them.”

  “Father is not there,” Maxim said, his eyes on Lydia, who was gripping his index finger.

  “Where is he?”

  Maxim shrugged.

  Lady Demartine turned blue eyes to Oliver. “Oliver?”

  “I believe he set out for London,” he said.

  Her brows rose. “Again?”

  He resisted the urge to follow Maxim’s example and shrug. Their father was often called to London and seemed to have no compunction leaving his children in the care of his old friends. It was the way of things. Their father went to London and they were left in the care of Lord and Lady Demartine. To speak the truth of it, Oliver preferred staying at Bentley Close. The Torrences were raucous and fun, and sometimes Lady Demartine hugged him.

  Now, Lady Demartine sighed and rang for the butler. “Simmons,” she said once the servant had arrived. “Liaise with the butler and housekeeper at Waithe Hall and organise for Viscount Hudson, Lord Stephen and Lord Maxim to stay with us.”

  “Very good, my lady. And how long will they be staying?”

  “Let us say two weeks, Simmons. They may need to partially shutter the hall. If the servants require direction, we will help with arrangements.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  Once the butler had left, Lady Demartine shook her head before turning to Oliver. “You boys will be comfortable here?”

  “Yes, my lady.” Of course they would be comfortable. Sometimes, he pretended Lord and Lady Demartine were his parents. Sometimes, he pretended he and Stephen and Maxim could stay at Bentley Close always, but he knew it was only pretend. He knew he would one day be the Earl of Roxwaithe, and he had a duty to his ancestors, to his tenants, and to those who would come after him. He could, fleetingly, pretend, but it was always fleeting and he would never, not in a million years, voice his fancies.

  In Lady Demartine’s arms, Lydia opened her eyes, and he was caught by her unblinking stare. An unwilling smile tugged at him and, though he knew she was too young, he could swear she smiled in return.

  ***

  Oliver was eighteen years and two months the summer he finished at Eton. In the autumn, he would begin at Cambridge, but for two months he would return home to Waithe Hall.

  The carriage rumbled along. Bracing his foot on the seat opposite, Oliver stared out the window. They’d left Waithe Village ten minutes ago an
d it would not be long before he would see the turrets of Waithe Hall and, even further in the distance, the chimneys of Bentley Close.

  The carriage turned on the drive leading to Waithe Hall and Oliver grinned broadly. Seated on the stump that marked the beginning of the drive was Lydia Torrence. Every time he came home, he always found her sitting on that stump, waiting for him. She was only four years old, and yet she somehow managed to escape her governess and her nurse with alarming regularity.

  “Myers, slow down,” he called. The coachman obliged, coming to a stop before Lydia. “What are you doing out here?” he asked her.

  She jumped off the stump. “Waiting.”

  Fighting his grin, he asked gravely, “For what?”

  Big hazel eyes met his. “For you.”

  It was a ritual between them. He always asked and she always answered the same. He opened the carriage door for her and she clambered inside, seating opposite him. Her feet dangled over the edge.

  “Are you back?” she asked.

  “For the summer,” he said, knocking the roof. The carriage lurched, and then they continued on.

  Lydia’s small brows drew together. “I don’t like it when you go away.”

  “I don’t like going away.” He glanced out the window. “I miss this.”

  “Do you miss me?”

  “Of course.”

  “When I’m older, we’ll get married, and then you won’t go away.”

  Laughing, he shook his head. She smiled in return, swinging her feet as the carriage rumbled toward Waithe Hall.

  ***

  Oliver was twenty-four years and seven months when Maxim died.

  The rain had cleared that morning, before the service, but the sky was still murky and grey. Dry-eyed, he stared as they lowered the coffin into the earth. The empty coffin, because Maxim had been lost at sea halfway across the world.

  A small hand wormed into his. He glanced down at the top of a strawberry-blonde head. Lydia. The little girl had wormed her way to his side and, though he was loathe to say it, he was glad of her company.

  Opposite, his father stared at the coffin. Oliver watched him stonily. It was because of him his brother had been on that ship, because of an argument their father refused to discuss. Because of him, his brother was dead.

  Beside him stood Stephen, his face wet with tears. Oliver didn’t think his brother even realised he cried. Every so often, their father would throw an impatient look at him, scowling at his middle son’s emotion, because God forbid someone displayed even a modicum of normal human expression—

  Oliver’s chest tightened. Stephen wasn’t the middle son anymore.

  The hand in his squeezed. He felt his lip tremble, felt wetness well in his eyes. Screwing his eyes shut, he willed emotion away. Lydia’s hand was warm, comforting, and he focused on the feel of it, the small shape, the sturdy fingers. He could feel the ragged edges of her nails, because she bit them when she was nervous or upset.

  God. Upset. Of course she was upset. They were all fucking upset.

  Slowly, people filed past him, murmuring condolences, offering platitudes, and the entire time, Lydia’s hand remained in his.

  ***

  Oliver was twenty-five years and five weeks when he became Earl of Roxwaithe.

  Legs sprawled before him, he watched as his father’s valet—no, Bartlett was his valet now—fussed around him, preparing a bowl of hot water, shaving soap and towels. The earl’s chambers in Roxegate, the family’s London townhouse, were his now, as was Waithe Hall, and every one of the properties that comprised the Roxwaithe estate.

  Oliver gripped the arm of the chair, the chair that until very recently had been his father’s. He supposed he felt some grief his father had died. That must be what this emptiness was, though it felt different from when Maxim had died. This grief was more like indifference, and…relief.

  Bartlett mixed the shaving cream, the motions quick and practiced. Oliver rubbed his jaw. Twice a day his father had him shave, and his hair trimmed every Sunday. His clothes were his father’s choice, and now his rooms were his father’s. Everything in his life was his father’s. Nothing was his.

  “I will not need a shave this morning, Bartlett,” he said abruptly

  The valet looked as surprised as Oliver that he’d spoken. “My lord?”

  “Help me dress, Bartlett,” he continued, trying to sound authoritative. It must have worked, because the valet leapt to action.

  Having skipped his morning shave, Oliver’s face felt strange as he made his way to the study. His father had often scoffed at those gentlemen at his club who grew moustaches or sideburns, or whose hair was longer than the earl had deemed appropriate.

  Sitting behind the earl’s desk, he stared at the stacks of paper flanking the blotter that seemed to have multiplied overnight. Roxwaithe owned property in thirteen shires, along with the London town house and the ancestral estates in Northumberland, while the shipping concern sprawled across the globe, with an office in too many ports to count. Keeping the business of Roxwaithe was a job he’d spent his life preparing for but now it had arrived, he knew how woefully inadequate that preparation had been. Some days, it seemed it would never end and he stayed at his desk until the early hours, his eyes gritty as the candle’s burned low.

  His gaze snagged on a particular report. Waithe Hall, the seat of the earldom, was haemorrhaging funds, keeping a full number of staff in preparation for the arrival of an earl who never did. Old pain lanced him at the thought of returning to Northumberland, where every corner held a memory of his youngest brother.

  He rang for his secretary and within moments, Rajitha appeared. Rajitha was not his father’s man, but instead the one choice Oliver had made. Around Oliver’s own age, Rajitha’s dark eyes missed nothing, and he possessed a calm competency Oliver desperately needed.

  “Rajitha, instruct the staff at Waithe Hall to shutter the property and close the house,” he said.

  Rajitha did not react. “Of course, my lord. Do you require anything else?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  After Rajitha left, Oliver exhaled. He rolled his shoulders, feeling as if a weight had been lifted. If he had need to go to Northumberland, he would stay at Bentley Close. Lord Demartine would not object, and thus there was no reason to keep Waithe Hall open. It made economic sense, and the staff stationed there could be better utilised elsewhere. Besides, he was now the earl and he could do whatever he damned well pleased.

  The door to his study burst open. Startled, he watched as Lydia exploded into his study. At eleven years old, she’d shot up in the last few months, such that she almost reached his shoulder if they stood side by side.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. He didn’t ask how she’d got here. Their townhouses bordered each other, and they’d all long ago discovered the common attic.

  “I never see you anymore, so I am here to keep you company.” She dragged an armchair opposite his desk and plonked herself in it.

  He watched her do so without comment. “Aren’t you going to be bored?” he finally asked.

  She held up a book, one he knew to be on architecture because he knew Lydia to be obsessed with architecture. “No.” Settling in to her chair, she opened the book. “Go on with your work,” she said.

  He looked at the paper before him and did as she bid. Every now and then, he’d look up to find her completely absorbed in her book, a lock of hair wound around her finger.

  Smiling, he shook his head and returned to his work.

  ***

  Oliver was twenty-nine years and ten months when Tom Harding beat Anthony Mulgrave by a straight knock out in the grudge match of the century.

  The fight had been the biggest ticket for months. He’d told Lydia yesterday he wouldn’t be working in his study today, and she’d been distinctly amused by his ill-concealed excitement. Wainwright had been the one to source the tickets, and Oliver had met his friend at the public house staging the fight. They’d pro
ceeded to match each other ale for ale as they’d joined the throng cheering on Harding and Mulgrave.

  The door to Roxegate loomed before him. He missed it the first time he’d tried to rap on it. Damn thing wouldn’t stay still. He tried again. His knuckles made contact, but the leather of his gloves made little noise. Squinting, he remembered there was a doorbell. Somewhere. That would probably work better. Bracing himself against the door, he waited until there was only one knocker. Possibly, he may have had a little too much to drink.

  Eventually, he managed to find the doorbell. The thing made the most horrific ring, but the door opened and the dour face of his butler filled his vision. Tugging off his gloves, Oliver stumbled into the townhouse, leaving them where they fell while he tugged at his great coat and then his jacket. He struggled with his waistcoat, though, the buttons stubborn bastards, but he bested them in the end, the waistcoat hanging open as he pulled his shirt from his breeches.

  “My lord, may I suggest you finish disrobing in your chamber?”

  He turned. Arms full of Oliver’s discarded clothes, Hood regarded him without expression.

  “Yes. Good. That’s a good idea.” He put his hand to his head. Damn thing was throbbing.

  “Very good, my lord.” Hood watched him for a moment. “Do you require assistance?”

  “Yes, Hood. Thank you.” He allowed the butler to lead him to his bedchamber and, once Hood had left, Oliver rubbed the strangely dry flesh of his lip as he tried to put his finger on what he was feeling. He was….He was something. His skin felt jumpy, and he wanted…he wanted to tell someone what had happened. It had been the greatest thing he’d ever seen and—

  Lydia. He wanted to tell Lydia. Maxim always used to sneak into Alexandra’s bedroom, so why couldn’t he do the same with Lydia?

  His chest tightened at the thought of his dead brother, but he pushed those feelings aside. Looking down at himself, he saw he still wore his breeches and boots, though his shirt was untucked and his waistcoat hung open. Somewhat presentable.