Never Say Never to an Earl (Heart of Enquiry Book 5) Read online

  Table of 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

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  ~~~

  Never Say Never to an Earl © Grace Callaway, 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-939537-09-6

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  ~~~

  A Wallflower Who Guards Her Secrets

  Miss Polly Kent has no illusions about finding love. Not only is she a wallflower, but her freakish ability to read others’ emotions has led to devastating rejection time and again. When it comes to her future, she knows that a marriage of convenience, one in which she can keep her secret affliction hidden, is the only safe choice. Yet when fate throws her into the path of the ton’s wildest rake, she discovers that desire can jeopardize the most carefully laid plans…

  A Rake Who Makes No Apologies for His Past

  Sinjin Pelham, the Earl of Revelstoke and heir to a duke, has a reputation darker than London’s fog. His exploits have made him the envy of men and the desire of women, but behind his wild and jaded façade lies a painful secret. He knows that no woman can love the devil inside him, yet when he is accused of a ghastly crime, the only one who stands by him is a beautiful virgin, one whose wanton innocence makes him long for the one thing he cannot have…

  When Good and Wicked Make Perfect

  A marriage that begins with smoldering passion soon deepens into something more. All the while, a dangerous enemy lurks, waiting to strike. As Sinjin and Polly untangle the threads of mystery to clear his name, they must confront their greatest fears, risking all for their love—and their very lives.

  ~~~

  Praise for Grace’s Books

  “Her Husband’s Harlot is a pleasing, out of the ordinary read.”—Dear Author

  “Erotic historical romance isn’t as plentiful as many would think, but here you have a very well-written example of this genre. It’s entertaining and fun and a darn good read.”—The Book Binge

  “I devoured this book in a couple of hours!…. If you love a story with a heroine who is a wallflower with a backbone of steel or a damaged hero then you will love this one too.”—5 star review from Love Romance Passion on Her Wanton Wager

  “I found this to be an exceptional novel. I recommend it to anyone who wants to get lost in a good book, because I certainly was.”—A Top Pick from Night Owl Reviews

  “I thoroughly enjoyed this story. Grace Callaway is a remarkable writer.”—Love Romance Passion on Her Prodigal Passion

  "The depth of the characters was wonderful and I was immediately cheering for both of them."—Buried Under Romance

  ~~~

  Explore other books by Grace:

  HEART OF ENQUIRY

  The Widow Vanishes

  The Duke Who Knew Too Much

  M is for Marquess

  The Lady Who Came in from the Cold

  The Viscount Always Knocks Twice

  Never Say Never to an Earl

  The Gentleman Who Loved Me (2017)

  MAYHEM IN MAYFAIR

  Her Husband's Harlot

  Her Wanton Wager

  Her Protector's Pleasure

  Her Prodigal Passion

  CHRONICLES OF ABIGAIL JONES

  Abigail Jones

  Abigail Jones and the Asylum of Secrets (2017)

  ~~~

  Prologue

  Floating on happiness, Miss Polly Kent decided to risk the censure of her chaperone and headed back through the dark garden in search of her lost slipper ribbon. She retraced her earlier steps, the gardenia-scented air wafting against her heated skin, the stars a scatter of diamonds overhead. She had a mad desire to skip along the winding maze of hedges.

  Tonight, Lord Thomas Brockhurst had kissed her. Not only that, but she’d told him her secret—and although he’d been shocked, he hadn’t pushed her away.

  Can he truly accept me? Joyful heat nudged behind her eyes.

  She still couldn’t believe that Lord Brockhurst had any interest in her at all. She was a plain wallflower whilst he was a handsome, sought after young buck. Last month, when he’d first approached her as she stood at her usual place at the back of the ballroom, she’d been flummoxed. In fact, she’d looked left and right to be sure that he meant to ask her to dance and not someone else. Only when he’d asked again had she unknotted her tongue enough to say “yes.”

  Since then, he’d paid her attention—nothing to raise brows—but tonight he’d taken things a step further. He’d suggested that they meet out in the garden. And there, sheltered by flowering hedges, she’d received her first kiss.

  Her heart sighed. It had been beautiful.

  What was more beautiful was that he’d felt their connection, too. Polly wouldn’t have believed this but for the fact that she could see his attraction to her… literally. For she had a strange and inexplicable acuity when it came to the feelings of others, a sort of sixth sense. When she was in close proximity to a person, she perceived a subtle glow around them. The aura—a play of color, texture, and light—revealed their emotional state.

  Polly’s perceptions had first begun after an accident at age five. Trying to follow her older (and more agile) sister Violet up a tree, she’d slipped, plunging head first to the ground. When she’d regained consciousness, she’d found herself in bed, her family gathered around her, and, to her dazed eyes, they’d literally glowed with relief.

  Although her family accepted her odd new ability (they loved her unconditionally after all), they’d cautioned her not to disclose the fact of it to others who might not understand. Polly had promptly forgotten their advice and confided in her best friend at the time. The news of her freakishness had spread like wildfire through the village. Even now, her throat tightened as the childish jeers rang in her head.

  Watch out for Peculiar Polly,

  or she’ll see what’s in your head,

  Steer clear of Peculiar Polly,

  or she’ll curse you in your bed.

  No matter how she�
��d tried to explain that she couldn’t read thoughts and certainly didn’t have any magical powers—that all she could see were auras of emotions—the damage couldn’t be undone. Peculiar Polly she was, and Peculiar Polly she’d remained.

  An object of ridicule. An outcast.

  By the time her family had moved to London five years ago, she’d long since adopted the habit of hiding her abnormality—and herself. She avoided attracting attention as much as possible. She’d succeeded too… until that ball when Lord Brockhurst had taken notice of her.

  He’s a miracle, she thought giddily.

  Not just because of his handsome looks and polished manners, but because he’d listened without judgement as she’d falteringly confessed her dreadful affliction. Even though she’d been terrified of his rejection, her sense of honor made her tell him. Being a Kent, she believed that honesty and love went hand in hand, and since Lord Brockhurst had kissed her (which clearly indicated that he meant to court her), he deserved to know the truth.

  Although his aura had reflected shock and disbelief, he hadn’t rebuffed her. Relief had flooded her as he’d thanked her for telling the truth, kissed her hand, and told her, “Go in before anyone catches us. I promise to call on you tomorrow.”

  Now, as she turned the corner, she spied her red ribbon lying on the graveled path just ahead. It really is my lucky night, she thought with a smile. As she went over to retrieve the frippery, the murmur of conversation filtered through from the other side of the hedge. Her pulse gave a wayward leap at Lord Brockhurst’s familiar tones—so cultured and smooth. She heard two other voices as well, which she identified as belonging to his cronies, Mr. Severton and Lord Eghart.

  “It appears you’ve won the wager, Brockhurst,” Severton’s distinctively nasal voice pronounced. “I’ll admit I didn’t think you could peel that paltry bloom off the wall, but I was wrong. I’ll have your blunt on the morrow.”

  The ribbon crumpled in Polly’s fist, a cold seed planting in her belly.

  “You’d have to pay me more than a hundred quid to consort with that quiz of a female.” Lord Eghart gave a braying laugh. “Do tell, Brockhurst, what was it like? Was her kiss as odd as the rest of her—or do still waters run deep, eh?”

  Icy vines twisted over Polly’s insides.

  “A gentleman does not kiss and tell,” Brockhurst replied.

  “What are a few details amongst friends?” Severton wheedled.

  “My lips are sealed.”

  Numbness spread and spread. Dazed, Polly didn’t know whether to be grateful for Lord Brockhurst’s discretion or to weep at his betrayal. He kissed me to win a wager. I’m the biggest fool…

  “Your lips are—but were hers?” Eghart sniggered.

  Nausea surged, and Polly wished for the ground beneath her feet to open up and swallow her whole. The earth tremored; for a feverish instant, she thought her prayer had been granted. But no, it was merely the approach of newcomers on the other side of the leafy partition. She knew she should make her escape, yet her limbs remained paralyzed.

  Severton’s voice went from haughty to toadying. “I say, well met, Lord Revelstoke.”

  Despite her tumultuous state, Polly started at the name. What was the Earl of Revelstoke doing here? According to her sister Rosie, an expert in ton gossip, he was the most eligible bachelor in London, despite his marked disdain for polite society. It was a strange social paradox that the less he cared about the opinions of others, the more they revered him. Wherever he went, it was said that ladies pursued him and gentlemen wanted to be him.

  In other words, Revelstoke was the polar opposite of Polly. He topped the social ladder whilst her place was on the bottom rung. In the special section reserved for feather-wits who deluded themselves into thinking that they could win a gentleman’s love… when all they’d ever have was his scorn. Her throat swelled. How could I have been so stupid?

  “Gentlemen.” Revelstoke’s deep, gravelly voice was impatient. “I believe you know Lady Langley?”

  Hasty greetings followed, to which a languid female voice replied, “The Kitburns ought to be congratulated on their consistency, if not talent. Their affairs are always the biggest bore.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Which is why we’ve had to concoct our own amusement,” Severton said smugly. “A little wager, if you will.”

  “Oh, do tell,” Lady Langley said.

  Within her gloves, Polly’s hands grew clammy.

  “Severton,” Lord Brockhurst said in warning tones.

  “Don’t be modest, Brockhurst. You won, after all. You succeeded in luring the most awkward chit of the Season into the garden and getting a kiss from her,” Severton gloated.

  “How naughty, Lord Brockhurst.” Lady Langley’s sultry laugh belied her reprimand. “With such exploits, you may give the God of Revelry here a run for his money.”

  “What do you say, Revelstoke?” Lord Eghart said eagerly. “Prime prank, eh?”

  There was a pause, as if everyone was awaiting the earl’s judgement on the matter of Polly’s humiliation. Her fingers curled; her breath stuck in her throat.

  “You’d do as well to kick a half-dead mongrel.” Revelstoke’s voice dripped with contempt. “Seducing a wallflower—what’s the sport in that?”

  The words branded themselves on Polly’s brain, waves of pain and anger scorching through her. To be compared to a mongrel—a half-dead one—was the final straw. Revelstoke had reduced her shattered hopes to naught but sport… and not even a worthy competition at that. Right then, she didn’t give a damn if he was the most popular rake in all of Christendom—she hated him. Despised the earl and his ilk with every part of her shamed and bleeding soul.

  If only I could hate Lord Brockhurst, too. A sob rose suddenly in her throat; she pressed both hands over her mouth to contain it.

  Lady Langley purred into the tense silence, “You have no interest in virgins, darling?”

  “If I did, would I be with you tonight?” came Revelstoke’s cool reply.

  The ensuing titters and guffaws finally penetrated Polly’s shock. She jerked back from the hedge. Cheeks wet, clutching her red ribbon, she dashed out of the maze, leaving the ashes of her dreams behind.

  Chapter One

  A year later

  As the carriage passed through the ironwork gates, Polly peered out the window. The rolling lawns and flowering hedges were pristine, stately elms lining the drive that led toward the main house. Fluffy clouds decorated the blue sky. If Mrs. Barlow’s property had been the subject of a painting, Polly mused, it could have been entitled Pastoral Picturesque—as long as one didn’t know about the purpose of the establishment.

  “Isn’t this place perfect? It’s exactly as I imagined it.”

  At the bright tones, Polly turned from the window and smiled at Primrose, who occupied the squabs next to her. Known as Rosie to intimates, the beautiful blonde was two-and-twenty, the age Polly would be in two weeks’ time. Although the girls were as different as night and day in looks and temperament, they were bosom companions and sisters in spirit—and nearly in blood, too, for Rosie’s mama was wed to Polly’s eldest brother Ambrose.

  “I wasn’t certain how a madhouse would look,” Polly said honestly.

  “Mrs. Barlow’s isn’t a madhouse, silly—it’s a retreat,” Rosie corrected. “The crème de la crème come here to take the waters. Why, with its Roman springs, it’s practically a spa.”

  Despite the rather euphemistic description, Polly saw that the blonde’s sunny aura was muddied by swirling nervousness. Polly exchanged a look with her older sister Dorothea, the carriage’s third occupant and the girls’ chaperone for the outing. Thea, whose glow was the soft, comforting white of fresh linens, regarded Rosie with gentle eyes.

  “Having second thoughts about this visit, dear?” she said.

  “Perhaps.” Sighing, Rosie said, “I wish I had your charitable natures. You’re both so kind to everyone. And Polly—you’re a natural with those foundli
ngs of yours.”

  Soon after her arrival in London, Polly had begun visiting the Hunt Academy, a unique school for foundlings. She adored working with the children, many of whom had once existed on the fringes of society. Through pure grit and pluck, they’d survived the harsh realities of the rookery, and at the school they were learning invaluable skills that would earn them a better lot in life. In truth, the academy was an oasis not only for them but her as well: it was the rare place where she felt a sense of belonging and purpose.

  “I’m not sure who benefits more from my visits—me or the children,” she said earnestly.

  “Mayhap I ought to have stayed on with the foundlings myself, but children are so sticky.” Rosie wrinkled her nose. “I do hope the lunatics have a better sense of hygiene.”

  Polly shook her head because the comment was just so… Rosie. People who didn’t know the girl oft made the mistake of believing that flippancy was the beginning and end of her when, in fact, she possessed keen intelligence and a loyal heart.

  “Instead of lunatics, it might help to think of them as people with ailments,” Thea said mildly. “Folk who are doing their best to cope with a difficult illness.”

  Thea spoke with an empathy borne of experience. Once an invalid, she’d fought an uphill battle to live a normal life, and her perseverance had paid off. Not only had her health improved, but she’d married her love, the Marquess of Tremont, and was the proud mama to a stepson and a pair of toddler twins.

  Polly admired Thea’s determination. At the same time, she felt a pang of longing. Unlike Thea, she couldn’t rid herself of her affliction—which meant she’d never find love.

  The memory of Lord Brockhurst wrung her heart like a wet rag. The only person she’d shared the experience with was Rosie, and she’d left out the part involving Revelstoke. That humiliation was too much to speak of to anyone. Being the object of a nasty wager was bad enough, but to be judged so unworthy…

  For reasons she didn’t fully fathom, Revelstoke’s contempt clung to her like wet mud, harder to shake off than even the cruelty of Brockhurst’s prank. Seducing a wallflower—where’s the sport in that? Revelstoke’s words had sunk into her, their fine grit settling uncomfortably into the crevices of her soul.