“You know, Hester, once you have reached the stage of sitting on a gentleman’s knee, I do feel the time for formality is past.
“Will you not call me Guy?”
She looked startled, producing yet another shade of gold in those fascinating eyes. “I could not possibly!”
“Well, you are sitting on my lap. I think calling me by my given name is a minor informality compared to that.”
“So I am! My lord…Guy…please let me go.”
“But of course.” He opened his arms wide and added wickedly, “A pity. I was enjoying it.”
The Earl’s Intended Wife
“…well-developed characters…an appealing sensual
and emotionally rich love story.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“If you’ve a yen for an enjoyable Regency-set
romance that takes place somewhere other than London,
pick up The Earl’s Intended Wife. Louise Allen
has a treat in store for you, and a hero and heroine
you’ll take to your heart.”
—The Romance Reader
“I liked the unusual location of Malta in this sweet book.
I look forward to what Ms. Allen will write next.”
—Rakehell
“A sweet romance and an engaging story…the sort
of book to get lost in on a lazy afternoon.”
—All About Romance
December 4th 1814
The inhabitants of Winterbourne St Swithin prided themselves upon their village. It was no mere rural backwater, no sleepy hamlet full of rustics and yeomen whose social hierarchy was topped off by a red-faced squire and whose amenities consisted of the church and a tavern or two.
Theirs, they boasted, was a bustling community straddling the post road to Aylesbury with a glimpse over the meadows to the waters of the new canal ordered by the crazy old Duke of Bridgewater, up in his mansion on the Chiltern crest. There was the Bird in Hand, a large coaching inn, to serve the stage and the mail and the carriages of the gentry going to and from London and Oxford. There was the fine Winterbourne Hall with the Nugents to preside over local society and half a dozen gentry houses in the vicinity to fill the pews of the grey stone church with the living, and the marble monuments with the dead.
And there was even a shop, a superior emporium selling haberdashery and lengths of cloth, the London and Oxford papers a day late and snuff, tea and Hungary water.
The life of the village centred around the church, the Bird in Hand and the Green, the grassy heart of the community with its duck pond, decaying stocks, venerable oak tree and ring of fine houses and half-timbered cottages.
On a raw, damp Thursday morning three respectable housewives made their way around the Green, deep in discussion of new and fascinating intelligence. It seemed there was no doubt that the gentleman who had taken the Old Manor—the one architectural blot upon the village centre—was none other than an earl.
‘Or, as it might be, a duke,’ Mrs Thorne hazarded hopefully, lifting her skirts to negotiate a puddle. ‘Whichever, ’tis a fine thing for Winterbourne. He’ll bring down all his society friends, you mark my words, and he’ll be hiring on staff and wanting eggs and milk and bacon.’
‘If he wanted his society friends, what’s he doing in Winterbourne in December?’ her bosom enemy Widow Clare enquired tartly. ‘The nobs are all off visiting, or at their big country houses. What’s an earl doing hiring that old barn of a place? Outrunning
