Love with a Notorious Rake

Book 3: Men of Wollstonecraft Hall

by Karyn Gerrard

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Victorian Romance

Synopsis

He’s as dangerous as he is irresistible . . . The heir to his family’s fortune, Aidan Wollstonecraft is ready to put his prodigal ways in the past and prove himself worthy of his illustrious name.  Going undercover in a factory to expose the wretched working conditions, Aidan believes his noble act will lead him to a better future. Until he’s reunited with the sweet beauty who saw him through his darkest days. Cristyn Bevan stirs him like no other woman before. Makes him yearn to claim her, despite the damning curse that dooms any Wollstonecraft wife to an all-too-early death . . . To fall for Aidan would be her undoing. Yet, something about the blue-blooded scoundrel draws Cristyn to him like a moth to a deadly flame. Is it a desire to heal him that keeps the lovely nurse close? Or her secret hope that somehow, some way, Aidan can let go of his dark past and see the light—and the love—waiting for him? “Karyn Gerrard writes very enjoyable, richly textured historical romances.” —Kate Pearce, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author

Release date: December 4, 2018

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 226

Sample

Prologue

Standon, Hertfordshire

January 1845

How fortunate that Cristyn could study under her father, Dr. Gethin Bevan, at his private sanatorium. Women could not attend medical school—which was a vile injustice in Cristyn’s mind—so she soaked up everything her father taught her. There was no formal instruction or recognition for nurses, and the positions were often taken by volunteers, for the pay was low. Although much of Cristyn’s work consisted of cleaning and serving meals, there was more involved as her father’s sanatorium treated those suffering from addictions—specifically opium.

Cristyn moved about the clinic’s kitchen, preparing a tray for a patient. She toyed with the idea of a more solid fare, but decided to stay with the broth for the time being. This particular patient had her concerned.

The people—more specifically, men—often arrived with multiple injuries and their health in a precarious state. This meant she was able to utilize her skills to treat wounds and diseases of the mind, which her father vehemently believed—though the medical community did not—was the cause of addiction.

She had managed to remain compassionate toward her patients, but professionally distant.

Until Aidan Black.

Mr. Black had arrived five days ago in dramatic fashion. He was in a ghastly condition: barely conscious, malnourished, dehydrated, in the firm grip of an opium addiction, and quite out of his mind. He had been accompanied by his Uncle Garrett and another man, Edwin Seward, from London.

Mr. Black’s first few nights were harrowing as he experienced the various stages of withdrawal. Cristyn stayed with him every step of the way, cleaning up his vomit and wiping his brow. Try as she might to remain detached, she had been immediately struck by the vulnerability and loneliness that radiated from him. Never had any of the male patients she’d treated affected her this way. It was entirely inappropriate.

Sighing, she ladled the beef broth into a bowl, then placed it on a tray along with a spoon. How could this attraction be happening? Yes, beneath the illness and addiction was a comely man, but it was more than his looks. He touched her heart, burrowed his way in deep. As much as she tried to stay professional and emotionally disconnected outwardly, inside she could not.

Pushing the thoughts from her mind, she carried the tray down the hall, then entered Mr. Black’s room. The curtains were closed to keep out the winter sun. He lay on the bed wearing nothing but his drawers, since he alternated between perspiring and vomiting and had already ruined two nightshirts. Lord above, she should not be staring at him. He was finely made, though far too thin—his ribs were clearly visible. His shoulder blades were barely hidden by thinly stretched skin. How surprising to find that some delineation of lean muscle remained, considering his shocking physical state.

These wayward and inapt thoughts were not worthy of her. Focus on the patient’s needs. Not that she was in a profession acknowledged by men in the medical field, or society as a whole—another entirely unmerited inequality.

Mr. Black’s breathing was ragged, wheezing with every exhale, for he had a chest infection and a low-grade fever to accompany the symptoms of opium egression. Not to mention the flea and rat bites on his hands, arms, and chest, which she had treated the first night; he was covered in gauze dressings.

“Mr. Black,” she called out.

His shallow breathing ceased momentarily, and his glassy eyes tried to focus on her. “No. Leave me be!” he exclaimed in a raspy voice, trailing off with a slight groan, as if the act of speaking was a great effort. With a sweep of his arm, he knocked the tepid broth from her hand, sending it careening across the room, but not before it splashed across her apron and part of her face.

Mr. Black leapt from the bed, but couldn’t stand on his shaking legs and promptly slid to the floor. Cristyn rushed to his side, then fell to her knees, gathering him into her embrace. He was trembling, and she couldn’t tell if it were tears running down his cheeks or beads of perspiration, or perhaps both. “Hush now, it’s all right,” she soothed.

“Let me die,” he whispered. “My angel of mercy—end it.”

His stark, pleading words caused her heart to contract with sympathy. “No, Aidan, you will not die. I won’t allow it.” As she said the words, she gently caressed his forehead, moving his matted hair aside. She had called him by his first name, which was far too familiar; another constraint between a nurse and a patient that should not be ignored. Cristyn didn’t care.

He curled into her embrace, grasped her arm, and rested his head against her chest. “Lost… I’m…lost.”

“I’ve found you, and I will never let you go.”

Aidan began to sob, his shoulders quaking with each mournful lament. The somber sound arrowed straight to her soul. It was utterly improper for her to allow her unfettered emotions to enter this situation—emotions she had never experienced toward any man. The truth? She was attracted to Aidan, and Cristyn would own her feelings and not be ashamed of them, though she would keep them to herself. It was not as if she’d become besotted with every young man who had come through the sanatorium’s doors.

Cristyn held Aidan close, speaking soothing words of comfort. “All will be well, cariad. On this, I vow.”

She was falling for her patient, and had no idea what to do about it.

Chapter 1

From the papers of the Earl of Carnstone, 1704:

Hear ye future men of Wollstonecraft Hall. Misery awaits! For ye shall never find love. We are cursed. If ye marry, she will die. There is only one way for the curse to be broken, affirmed by Morag the Scottish sorceress: only a love bond accepted by all the men of the family alive during a lunar year will break the curse. I pray that somewhere in time, the cycle of grief ends.

Standon, Hertfordshire

Late May 1845

As Aidan Wollstonecraft came to learn, there were consequences for being a notorious rake. There was an exacting penalty for allowing yourself to sink to the lowest depths, wallowing in vice and sin, abandoning all restraints, moderation, and good sense. And he’d had plenty of time to reflect on it. What else could he think about all these hours alone, staring out the window, watching winter turn to spring?

Since early January he’d been at the Standon Sanatorium under the name Aidan Black—no one knew his real identity, except for Dr. Bevan. Aidan had arrived barely conscious, a complete wreck, suffering the ill effects of an opium addiction, accompanied by his uncle, and, he was informed later, Edwin Seward, a private investigator. They had found him in St. Giles, living in absolute squalor in a den of thieves and prostitutes. It was as low as a man could possibly descend.

In the ensuing months, he slowly recovered, thanks to Dr. Bevan’s empathic treatment and Cristyn’s compassionate care. Once he gained control of his emotions he hid them away, protecting them from exposure, though it had become increasingly difficult in Cristyn’s presence. His angel of mercy was a true beauty, inside and out, and he would be wise to keep clear.

As he took his seat in Dr. Bevan’s office, Aidan knew he would have to depart soon. And do what? Go where? An unknown future yawned before him. Damned unsettling. But he’d vowed to be honest in his dealings with the good doctor and remain as unemotional as possible.

Bevan opened the folder before him. “You’ve gained close to ten pounds since January. Excellent.”

Aidan was still far thinner than he had been. Food continued to hold little interest, but perhaps he would feel differently when he returned home, to more sophisticated meals than those served here. If he saw another bowl of stew, he would have what one American acquaintance called a “conniption fit.”

When Aidan did not reply, the doctor continued. “Yesterday afternoon, we were discussing the reasons for your descent into addiction and the accompanying lifestyle. Have you any further insight as to why?”

“I was bored, needed stimulation and excitement. Complete disregard for convention. Contempt for responsibility.”

Dr. Bevan scribbled notes as Aidan spoke. “At what point did it turn into contempt for yourself and complete disregard for your own preservation?” he asked.

Ah. There stood the crux of his downfall. “Perhaps since I’m cursed, I decided to indulge in all manner of sin and vice.”

“Cursed? Truly? How fascinating. Tell me about it,” the doctor asked, pen poised.

Aidan crossed his legs. “It has been in the family for centuries. It’s said that women, either born or married into the family, do not live long. My mother died of a heart infection when I was four—or was I three years of age? I have no memory of it. My grandfather was widowed three times. His own infant daughter did not survive. There is a cemetery on the corner of our property with rows of tombstones of women who dared to love Wollstonecraft men. I admit, when my grandfather first told me of this at the susceptible age of thirteen, it made an impact.”

“In what way?”

“I decided that when old enough, I would partake of pleasure. No curse would touch my life, as I planned to indulge and forego any serious attachments to anyone. Of course, at thirteen, I was not aware of exactly what pleasures were to be had. But I would cause no pain or suffering to anyone but myself.”

Aidan frowned as Dr. Bevan continued to take notes, dipping his pen in the inkwell every so often. Speaking of the family curse would no doubt have the good doctor come to the conclusion that he was completely daft—or he would think that Aidan was making rationalizations for his reckless behavior. In truth, the curse had played a significant part.

He believed in it more than he’d let on to the rest of his family, perhaps almost as much as his uncle. But Garrett had recently tossed aside his solemn oath to never fall in love, which made Aidan wonder if any decisions he’d made in his own life were sound, past or present?

“Can the curse be broken?” the doctor asked.

“I heard that only true love will break the curse; however, my father and grandfather proved that caveat to be untrue.” He stared at the doctor. “You are acting quite blasé about this.”

“It’s not important that I believe it, only that we explore the reasons why you do. Continue, please.”

“Eventually, the ‘serious attachments’ grew to include my family. I became increasingly distant. The complete disregard? The steep decline? I cannot pinpoint the exact moment. Perhaps it occurred when I stopped returning home for the laborious monthly family meetings.”

“Why call them ‘laborious?’”

Aidan snorted derisively. “You know my family name. My grandfather is the Earl of Carnstone; my father is Viscount Tensbridge: progressive heroes of the British Parliament. My perfect schoolmaster brother is a paragon of decency. My uncle… Well, Garrett is a little of all of us mixed together. How could I possibly live up to their exacting high standards? Their lives are consumed by good works. Helping the poor. How tedious, and, for me, meaningless. For I care not.”

Bevan arched an eyebrow. “Are you not the heir apparent?”

“I am the heir, though I loathe being referred to as ‘lord.’ What does that matter?”

“One day you will be in the British Parliament. These good works will become your responsibility.”

Aidan snorted in response.

“You’ve told me more than once that you are proud of your family and their accomplishments,” Bevan said.

“They are not my accomplishments,” Aidan replied, flicking a speck of dust from his shirtsleeve.

“Then perhaps you should select something to focus your attention on instead of indulging in your own gratification.” Aidan rolled his eyes, but Bevan held up a hand. “Before you give me a snide response, hear me out. To keep temptation at bay, you must have an objective, to aspire to something greater than your own ego. Make one of the Wollstonecraft causes yours alone. Not superficially, but truly immerse yourself in it.”

Grudgingly, Aidan admitted there was merit in what the doctor said. After all, he was determined to recover. “I will seriously consider it.”

“Excellent. I believe you will be ready to return home in two weeks. At the end of the first week of June, I imagine.”

Trepidation moved through Aidan as swift as a flash flood. “I thought I would remain here until early autumn.”

Bevan folded his hands on top of the folder. “You’ve already stayed far longer than any other patient.”

“My wealthy family is not paying you enough?” Aidan snapped irritably.

The doctor ignored his outburst and shuffled the papers in the folder. “I wish to discuss the reason Mr. Colm Delaney made an appearance at my clinic to threaten you three months past. We will address this incident today, Aidan. You’ve delayed this discussion for far too long.”

Damn it all. “I am not convinced he came to threaten me. It appears that I inspire passion in certain men as well as women.” Another egotistical statement, but it held a kernel of truth. Delaney claimed he’d come to discuss what happened between them at that blasted, depraved party, but never had a chance to elaborate. Aidan had tried his damnedest to push what little he could remember of his last month of debauchery from the forefront of his mind.

“You always deflect from examining your emotions with sarcastic, self-centered comments. Be honest, Aidan, and tell me what occurred.”

“I sincerely do not remember much of the final month of my decline. I had attended a wild party in Mayfair. It was decided, since I was the prettiest of my filthy crew of thieves and whores—which isn’t saying much—that I would be sold to the highest bidder. We needed the money for opium. And gin.” Aidan paused, and frowned. “I was handed over to some aged peer, who Garrett later informed me was the Marquess of Sutherhorne. He, in turn, gifted me to his man, this Delaney character. I don’t remember much. Blocking it out? Perhaps. For a while, I thought it a recurring nightmare, but…” Aidan’s voice trailed off. Thinking on it made his insides lurch.

“When Delaney showed up here, you realized the nightmare was real,” Bevan interjected.

“Yes. Why he wanted to talk to me hardly matters. He whispered in my ear like a lover might. Offered to care for me, nurse me back to health. Hardly a threat, but I suppose it is how you look at it. I told him our brief encounter meant nothing. And it didn’t. He was a means to an end.” Jesus, talking of this is damned embarrassing. “I have no idea if this man, who is seemingly obsessed with me, will seek me out again. I can only hope he does not. I don’t prefer men—far from it. But I do hold with my family’s progressive view that what people do behind closed doors is no one’s business, which makes me wonder why you insist on discussing this topic. It is rather salacious.”

“It is that. It’s not for me to approve or disapprove. I want to ensure you will no longer be haunted by this episode. You referred to it as a nightmare. Will it impede your libido in any way? Is it disturbing enough for self-loathing to overtake your life to such an extent that you will seek out oblivion again with an opium pipe? Or bottles of cheap gin?”

Impede my libido? No, Doctor, seeing as I lust after your daughter. But he did not dare divulge such information. “No. My first stop before I head to Wollstonecraft Hall will be the Crimson Club in London.”

“Is that wise? Indiscriminant sex is what led you down this destructive path.” Aidan frowned at the doctor’s judgmental tone—or maybe he’d imagined it. “Besides, isn’t the gossip about this Mayfair incident making its way about London?”

“It has been close to four months; I am certain the old hens of society have moved on to other scandalous tattle. Besides, I won’t be in the city long.” Only long enough for a quick rut.

“Do you still crave opium?” Bevan asked.

“I could deceive you and say, ‘Why, no, Doctor, you have cured me of all my vices,’ but it would be false. I do crave it, though not as fervently as I once did.”

“Thank you for your honesty. The cravings will lessen with time. They have for most others.”

Aidan crossed his arms, giving the doctor a dubious look. “But not for all of your patients.”

A sad expression covered Bevan’s features. “Not all. There are no guarantees in life, and certainly not with addiction. The onus for a full recovery will lie with you—hence the reason I suggested you focus your energy elsewhere. Decide on a few of your family’s causes, and we will discuss which one will suit you. Speaking of your family, you’re keeping up with the correspondences?”

When he’d met with Garrett briefly in February, his uncle had dropped off numerous letters from his grandfather, father, and twin brother. It had taken him close to five weeks to even break the seals on the envelopes; it took another two before he responded.

Riordan had married, and his wife, Sabrina, was expecting a child. He would be building a progressive school in Kent as soon as he could arrange it. Garrett had married Abigail Wharton in Scotland last month, and they had a fourteen-year-old daughter from their brief, intense love affair at age eighteen. Aidan’s father was courting a neighbor, Alberta Eaton, and his grandfather was involved with Sabrina’s ex-lady’s maid, Mary Tuttle. From what he could ascertain from the letters, the association was serious. Life had carried on without him. It was rather sobering to discover the world did not revolve around him.

“Yes. I’m answering their letters.”

“It’s imperative at this stage of your recuperation that you allow your family to reenter your life. No more avoidance. If your uncle is any indication, you have a strong support structure in place. Use it. Accept your mistakes, learn from them. Wear them like badges of honor.”

“Oh, come now, Doctor.” Aidan tsked. “Honor?”

“Yes, honor. You have accepted your faults, agreed to treatment, and chosen the path to recovery. It takes fortitude, inner strength, character. Never doubt you have all these—along with honor. Hold your head high, continue to convalesce, and you shall not falter again. I stake my reputation on it.”

A ball of emotion lodged in Aidan’s throat. He was genuinely touched by the words. “Thank you.”

“Take a walk, as it is a lovely spring day. We’re having a special treat for dinner tonight: a crown roast of pork with all the fixings. Join Cristyn and me at seven. I expect you to eat it all.”

Aidan stood, then bowed. “I shall. See you at seven.”

He left the office and sauntered down the hall. It was the first time he’d been invited to the doctor’s home; he must be nearly recovered if he was granted entry. The invitation filled him with elation at the prospect of seeing Cristyn outside the clinic walls, but also trepidation in the fact that he was about to be released. When was the last time he attended any type of proper social event? Could he even remember his manners?

Dr. Bevan and his daughter lived in a small cottage behind the sanatorium. Aidan passed the rooms of other patients, some of whom he had met—two were still in seclusion, and no doubt going through each stage of withdrawal and recovery he had.

Last night he’d heard the agonized cries of a recent inmate in addiction hell. God, had he acted the same when coming off the poison? He could not recall, but what little he remembered chilled his black soul.

He entered his room and stopped short at the sight of Cristyn. She was her father’s most trusted, loyal assistant and nurse. Her presence always caused his heart to skip a beat. It made him fully aware he was a man, and she a woman. Cristyn’s beauty never failed to capture his interest. She had a coal-black shade of hair similar to his, and violet-blue eyes he could happily become lost in. This glorious young lady was far too stunning to be toiling away in a country clinic for addicted reprobates.

Cristyn was making his bed, going about her chores efficiently and cheerfully. Early in his stay, there were times when she had annoyed him with her sunny smile and optimism; then he’d learned to bask in it, savor it. But nothing had prepared him for her touch. Even the lightest brush of her fingers seized his breath. He was shameless, being attracted to her while in such a pathetic state.

Could he be drawn to her because she was the only attractive woman around for months? Perhaps, for surely it could not be more. Despite his poor health, the rake still lurked under the surface. Yet during his horrible first few weeks here, Cristyn had stood at the vanguard, coaxing him to eat and attending to his every need. She’d spoken to him in soft, reassuring tones, all the while acting compassionate and kind and encouraging him to embrace his recovery. My angel. My savior.

One particularly vivid memory recalled him as a crumpled heap of tears and self-pity. Cristyn had held him, speaking soothing words of support. She had called him cariad more than once. Aidan found out later it meant “love” in the Welsh tongue. A term of endearment? Did she refer to all her male patients as cariad in her sensual, musical voice? What made him worthy of her special attention?

Beyond such questions, his blatant display of emotion and weakness embarrassed him the more his condition improved. In increments, he slowly tucked away such vulnerabilities and allowed the old Aidan to emerge, at least in her presence. The cool, detached, I-couldn’t-care-less rake. It was a solid shield to hide behind. You damned coward.

Cristyn turned to face him, gifting him with one of her open and friendly smiles. No matter how standoffish he acted, she still treated him with kindness.

“I could have made the bed,” he said. “Keeping my room neat and tidy is part of the treatment here at the clinic, is it not?”

“I don’t mind helping out. Done with your daily dialogue?”

“Yes. I was ordered by your father to take a walk. I’ve come to fetch my coat. He also informed me that I am to be paroled from this desolate prison in two weeks.”

Her smile faltered. Would she be sorry to see him depart? Strangely, that thought pleased him. “You will be glad to see the back of me, I am quite sure.”

Cristyn met his gaze. “No. Not at all.”

The look that she gave him was heated, and his swift reaction took him by surprise. He must be nearly well if a wave of lustful hunger was tearing through him. He was tempted to pull her into his arms and kiss her. Instead, he gazed at her through half-lidded eyes and said, “Why not join me on my walk?”

“I have my duties to see to.”

“Surely you are able to spare fifteen minutes? I may need your arm to keep me steady.”

“You’re recovered enough to walk under your own steam.”

“Perhaps, or maybe I wish to be alone with you.” What was he doing? One sultry expression from the beautiful nurse and his shield had crumbled into dust.

Color spread across Cristyn’s lustrous cheeks. “Do not tease me,” she replied softly.

The honesty in her lovely eyes made his heart stutter. Damn it all, she did have feelings for him. While the knowledge gave him a jolt of satisfaction, it also filled him with dread. What he’d denied the past several months was crystalline clear: they were fiercely attracted to one another. For weeks, months even, this inappropriate interest had hovered about the edges of every encounter and conversation. Stopping at the Crimson Club took on a fresh urgency—it would banish his inappropriate desire for this young woman.

He couldn’t be with her. Nor could he pursue this passion, even though he was drawn toward her li. . .