Someone Wanton His Way Comes Read online

  Praise for In Bed with the Earl

  “Exceptional . . . This series launch is an intoxicating romp sure to delight fans of historical romance.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Sizzling, witty, passionate . . . perfect!”

  —Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author

  Praise for Christi Caldwell

  “Christi Caldwell writes a gorgeous book!”

  —Sarah MacLean, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author

  “In addition to a strong plot, this story boasts actualized characters whose personal demons are clear and credible. The chemistry between the protagonists is seductive and palpable, with their family history of hatred played against their personal similarities and growing attraction to create an atmospheric and captivating romance.”

  —Publishers Weekly on The Hellion

  “Christi Caldwell is a master of words, and The Hellion is so descriptive and vibrant that she redefines high definition. Readers will be left panting, craving, and rooting for their favorite characters as unexpected lovers find their happy ending.”

  —RT Book Reviews on The Hellion

  “Christi Caldwell’s The Vixen shows readers a darker, grittier version of Regency London than most romance novels . . . Caldwell’s more realistic version of London is a particularly gripping backdrop for this enemies-to-lovers romance, and it’s heartening to read a story where love triumphs even in the darkest places.”

  —NPR on The Vixen

  OTHER TITLES BY CHRISTI CALDWELL

  Lost Lords of London

  In Bed with the Earl

  In the Dark with the Duke

  Undressed with the Marquess

  Sinful Brides

  The Rogue’s Wager

  The Scoundrel’s Honor

  The Lady’s Guard

  The Heiress’s Deception

  Wicked Wallflowers

  The Hellion

  The Vixen

  The Governess

  The Bluestocking

  The Spitfire

  Scandalous Affairs

  A Groom of Her Own

  Heart of a Duke

  In Need of a Duke (A Prequel Novella)

  For Love of the Duke

  More Than a Duke

  The Love of a Rogue

  Loved by a Duke

  To Love a Lord

  The Heart of a Scoundrel

  To Wed His Christmas Lady

  To Trust a Rogue

  The Lure of a Rake

  To Woo a Widow

  To Redeem a Rake

  One Winter with a Baron

  To Enchant a Wicked Duke

  Beguiled by a Baron

  To Tempt a Scoundrel

  To Hold a Lady’s Secret

  The Heart of a Scandal

  In Need of a Knight (A Prequel Novella)

  Schooling the Duke

  A Lady’s Guide to a Gentleman’s Heart

  A Matchmaker for a Marquess

  His Duchess for a Day

  Five Days With a Duke

  Lords of Honor

  Seduced by a Lady’s Heart

  Captivated by a Lady’s Charm

  Rescued by a Lady’s Love

  Tempted by a Lady’s Smile

  Courting Poppy Tidemore

  Scandalous Seasons

  Forever Betrothed, Never the Bride

  Never Courted, Suddenly Wed

  Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous

  Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love

  A Marquess for Christmas

  Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love

  The Theodosia Sword

  Only For His Lady

  Only For Her Honor

  Only For Their Love

  Danby

  Winning a Lady’s Heart

  A Season of Hope

  The Brethren

  The Spy Who Seduced Her

  The Lady Who Loved Him

  The Rogue Who Rescued Her

  The Minx Who Met Her Match

  The Spinster Who Saved a Scoundrel

  Brethren of the Lords

  My Lady of Deception

  Her Duke of Secrets

  Nonfiction Works

  Uninterrupted Joy: A Memoir

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2021 by Christi Caldwell Incorporated

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542021395

  ISBN-10: 1542021391

  Front cover design by Juliana Kolesova

  Back cover design by Ray Lundgren

  To Marietta:

  Thank you for every note you’ve ever written and every story you’ve ever shared in.

  Sylvia and Clayton’s story is for you!

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  About the Author

  Prologue

  1826

  Gentleman Jackson’s

  13 Bond Street

  West End of London

  It took a moment for Clayton Kearsley, Viscount St. John, to register his friend’s words.

  In part because of the din in Gentleman Jackson’s, where too many noblemen had packed into the club to play at being gentlemen gladiators.

  In part because of the casualness with which the words had been delivered.

  And in part because what he’d heard made no sense.

  “Beg pardon?” he blurted.

  And for a moment he thought perhaps he might very well have imagined that question—a request, really, after all. For the Earl of Norfolk, his closest friend since their Eton days, attended to the wraps on his hands with a good deal more focus than he did to Clayton.

  He lifted his right hand up close to his face and angled it back and forth, inspecting his knuckles. “Someone is going to have to look after her,” he finally said, confirming that Clayton’s ears, in fact, hadn’t deceived him. That he’d heard what he thought he had.

  And yet hearing it changed nothing, as Clayton still struggled to process the implications of precisely what his friend was saying. Because there could be no doubt: it was more a statement than a request.

  “You will look after her,” Clayton said slowly, at last finding something meaningful to say. That was, after all, the other man’s responsibility . . . and had been for three years, twelve weeks, and a handful of days. “She is your wife.”

  Norfolk flexed his fingers several times, as if testing the feel of the wraps before setting to work adjusting them once more. When he bothered to lo
ok up at Clayton, he wore a frown. “Have you been listening to anything I’ve been saying?” There was an impatient quality to his question.

  “Have you been listening to anything you are saying?” Clayton countered, loud enough to garner looks from several sets of gentlemen.

  Norfolk’s frown deepened. “Have a care, St. John. Show a little calm, would you?”

  Clayton had long been the equanimous one of seven siblings—the rest being sisters for whom he was responsible. The Kearsleys were a volatile lot, tempests, really, and he the voice of calm and the family member of reason. As such, he drew on the thirty years of inner calm that had prevailed amongst the chaos that was his big, unruly family.

  And yet, all that went out the proverbial window as he finally saw that Norfolk spoke with an absolute seriousness of intent. “Be calm? You’re telling me to be calm?”

  More stares were directed their way. Long, curious looks that could come only at finding one of society’s most even-keeled, scandal-free lords raising his voice—to his best friend, no less.

  “My God, man, you are talking about . . . about . . .” He couldn’t even get out the rest of what his friend intended.

  Grabbing him by the arm, Norfolk forcefully guided Clayton back to the corner of the studio. “Quiet.”

  The moment they had that flimsy privacy, Norfolk resumed speaking, this time in more measured tones. “I am talking about going away with the woman I love.”

  Clayton had known Norman Prescott, the Earl of Norfolk, since they were boys of eight. There’d been times he’d been in awe of Prescott’s ease around people. In awe of his boxing. There’d been times he’d envied him.

  He could count just one time he’d resented him.

  But this? This was the first time he’d ever actually hated the man he’d called a friend.

  “You have a wife, Norfolk.”

  “I don’t love her,” the other man said simply on a little shrug that served only to overemphasize the callousness of his admission.

  A haze of red fell across Clayton’s vision, briefly blinding, but not before he caught the casual way Norfolk went back to tending his hand wraps. That was . . . it? That was all the man would say? He’d just speak of leaving his wife and gallivanting off with his . . . lover?

  “It is a little late on that score,” Clayton gritted out between his clenched teeth, and this time when he looked up, there was something akin to surprise in the other man’s eyes. Yes, but then why should he be anything but shocked at being challenged by the ever affable viscount? “You asked her to marry you.” Just three weeks after meeting her. “You courted her.”

  A sound of impatience escaped Norfolk. “I do not need you to remind me of my courtship with Sylvia. I assure you, I am well aware of it. I did that which was expected of me.”

  Clayton didn’t relent. “The moment you said ‘I do’ and promised to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health? And forsaking all others, keep only to her as long as you both shall live . . .”

  Grief contorted the other man’s face in the first hint that Clayton had managed to break through whatever madness had compelled this reckless, and heartless, thought.

  Sensing that weakening, Clayton put further pressure on him. “You’d just leave her to her own devices?”

  “She is well loved by her family. There’s Waterson.” As in her brother, the Parliamentarian earl, who was known for his devotion to his kin. “He’ll care for her.”

  Clayton tried once more. “But she is your wife.” And when that made no difference in the other man’s implacable features, he appealed to Norfolk’s commitment to his family’s title. “There’s not even an heir.” Even as those words left Clayton’s mouth, he cringed in shame at having spoken them. But if he could get Norfolk to reverse course, god help him, he would.

  The earl spoke in quieter tones. “Sylvia’s maid informed me that my wife missed her menses. As such, I’ve done my duty by the Prendergast line.”

  Hatred tightened Clayton’s gut and seared his veins, threatening to burn him from the inside out in a fiery ball of fury. “I don’t even know you,” he spat. And fearing he’d do something like put his hands around the other man’s neck and choke the life from his blackhearted body, he started from the room. Ignoring the friendly greetings called in his wake, his gaze forward, his intent just one: escape. Flee this thing his friend intended to do. And what Clayton now knew would come.

  He reached the front doors of the posh club, grabbing the handles before the servants stationed there could, and let himself out.

  The London heat, higher than usual, slapped at his face, cloying and clawing, the thickness of it only adding to the nausea that churned in his stomach.

  I am going to be sick.

  With quick steps, Clayton headed for his horse.

  “St. John!”

  That frantic call rose above the hubbub of Bond Street’s bustling thoroughfare, and he whipped around to find the other man rushing over.

  Norfolk stopped before him and tossed his arms up. “What would you have me do, Saint?”

  “I’d have you honor your commitments,” he said, as matter-of-factly as he could manage. “I’d have you be a husband to your wife, and a father to your child.”

  “I can’t do that.” Another would have at least had the grace to show some compunction at that charge. With the rapidity of his response, however, Norfolk didn’t even bother to feign false hesitancy.

  “There is . . . nothing I might say, nothing I can do to convince you to not do this thing you intend to do?” Something. There had to be something. The man Clayton knew . . . would never do this.

  “I tried to play at this life, St. John. I tried to be the dutiful, devoted husband, to the dull and proper lady—”

  “Have a care,” Clayton snapped. “You may regret having wed her, but she is still your wife and as such deserving of, at the very least, your respect.”

  Norfolk’s brows drew together. “I don’t regret marrying Sylvia.”

  That gave Clayton pause. He continued trying to reach his friend. “If you don’t regret it, then you wouldn’t be doing what you”—he glanced about the bustling streets, confirming they were unobserved—“say you intend to do,” he substituted, unwilling to risk uttering the words aloud.

  “You misunderstand me. I don’t regret it, as our marriage served its purpose.” Rage tightened each of Clayton’s muscles, every sinew coiled tense to the point of snapping. “There is a child, a future marquess, and as such, I’ve fulfilled my obligations.”

  And yet . . . what if that was what might delay Norfolk’s flight? Perhaps if Clayton could stall his plans, the other man might see reason. “You don’t know that. Because you have already stated your intention to leave before your own babe is born . . . What if . . . what if it is a girl babe?”

  “Then I’ll return when I must and give her another child until there’s the damned Prendergast hei—”

  Clayton buried the remainder of that vile deliverance with a fist to his lifelong friend’s mouth.

  Norfolk crumpled, landing hard on his arse. He gave his head a dazed shake. “Never felt you deliver a blow like that,” he said, the hand he had pressed to his bruised mouth muffling his words.

  Nay, because there’d never been a reason to, before. Clayton’s knuckles stung, and his heart pounded hard as he stood over his friend. “I don’t even know you.”

  “You know I love her,” Norfolk whispered.

  “I thought she was . . . just your lover.” And even when he thought as much, nearly all his respect for the other man had died, and his resentment had burnt strong.

  “Never. She is my everything, St. John. My everything,” he repeated. “And you don’t know what she’s been through. Hell,” he whispered. “She’s been through hell.” His features were a twisted mask of grief and regret, and it was the first time since the other man had revealed his wishes that Clayton felt a wavering . . . because . . . he did know
about loss.

  The moment proved fleeting.

  For honor meant more.

  “And instead, you’d rather put your wife through hell?” he asked bitterly.

  Norfolk came slowly to his feet. “I never intended for Sylvia to be hurt.”

  But he had no intention of altering course. That truth was clear. “There is nothing I can say?” Clayton asked tiredly. “No way to make you see reason?”

  Color splotched Norfolk’s cheeks, and once more, Clayton thought he might have helped the other man see the wrongness and the madness of what he’d proposed here, with the public just out of earshot from the scandal they now whispered of. That hope proved fleeting.

  Norfolk shook his head, and this time when, with a sound of disgust, Clayton turned to go, the other man rested a hand on his arm. “Can I rely upon you?”

  He shrugged off that touch. “What does that entail? Caring for your wife? Raising the unborn child you are leaving?”

  “Of . . . course not. Just see that they are well. Occasionally check in on them. I know you have your own obligations and responsibilities and— St. John,” Norfolk called after him. “St. John.”

  “Go to hell,” Clayton shouted, ignoring that faint plea. He didn’t look back, just headed to his horse.

  Later that afternoon, he learned it was the last time he’d ever see his friend alive.

  Chapter 1

  London, England

  1829

  The March family wasn’t one that had been left unscathed by tragedy or scandal.

  Quite the opposite, in fact.

  Lady Sylvia Caufield, the Countess of Norfolk, had been made a widow after her husband died from an errant blow on the fighting floor of Gentleman Jackson’s.

  Her sister, Lila, nearly dead on the fields of Peterloo, had lived the life of a recluse after that tragic day, having only recently rejoined the world.

  Then there had been Sylvia’s brother, Henry, the notoriously prim, proper Parliamentarian, the Earl of Waterson, who had been beaten and left for dead in the streets of East London, only to be saved and nursed by a former courtesan whom he’d gone on to marry.

  One would think as such that their mother, the dowager Countess of Waterson, was capable of bravely facing anything where her children were concerned.

  One would be wrong.

  “Wh-wh-wh . . .” The dowager countess wept into her crumpled kerchief.