Page 1 of Earl at First Sight

Part I

“No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.”

~ Elegy IX: The Autumnal – John Donne

“I have to do what?” Alec Thorne, 8th Earl of Ashcroft, demanded in a low snarl, sending a collection of quill pens spilling off the edge of his desk as he surged to his feet and slammed his fists onto the glossy mahogany surface.

Undeterred by the young lord’s temper (Alec may have had bark, but his late father, the 7th Earl of Ashcroft, had possessed a nasty bite), Mr. Beasley, the family’s solicitor for the better part of three decades, cleared his throat and repeated, “Your father’s last will and testament is quite clear, my lord. To receive your inheritance in full, including the London manor that we are currently standing in and the country estate in Wilshire, you must marry before your quarter century birthday.”

Alec’s eyes narrowed to thin slits of frosty gray. “I turn five and twenty in three bloody weeks, Beasley!”

“I am aware, my lord, which is why I thought it prudent to wake you at such an unfortunate hour.”

The hour was unfortunate, Alec agreed silently as his gaze slid past the balding solicitor to the window behind him. Framed with heavy brown drapes, it revealed Hyde Park in the very first glimmers of sunrise. No one was out this early but the squirrels, their red tails on high alert as they dashed along the groomed bridle paths in search of whatever it was squirrels looked for. He hadn’t a damned clue. Apparently, there was a lot he didn’t know. Including the secret clause his father had hidden away in a will that otherwise should have been mind-bogglingly straight forward given Alec was the only child and heir.

Honestly, he really should have expected it. And that infuriated him almost more than this final hoop his father was making him jump through from the grave. The old, rotting curmudgeon was still trying to have his way. Controlling his son in death as he’d fought to control him in life.

The earl may have been under the dirt (thank God for small mercies), but Alec’s mind and body would forever bear the scars of abuse suffered from when his father had both feet planted on top of it. From when he was five and the earl’s backhand had split his cheek open, leaving a long thin mark that had silvered with age, to now, almost twenty years later, when he was forcing him to choose between his freedom…or the wealth he needed to fund his debaucherous lifestyle of gambling, drinking, and horse racing.

Dammit, the money, this house, the country manor, were his. Earned, quite literally, through blood and tears. After all he had endured, he wouldn’t let it slip through his fingers now. To be donated to some orphanage, put up for sale to the highest bidder, or–worst of all–be passed on to his second cousin Eustice.

Bloody Eustice, of all people.

No.

Absolutely not.

Because it wasn’t just the money and the properties. Alec had a clever mind. He could easily turn a rag into riches ten times over. It was the principle of the matter.

He had received the brunt of his father’s brutality. Not the orphans. Not Eustice. Not some American with pockets full of gold.

He had done it.

He had survived it.

He had outlived the bastard.

And he refused to let go of what was rightfully his.

“Is there anything to be done? Any way to change the will?” he asked, his cool, calculating gaze shifting back to Beasley as a muscle ticked high in his jaw. “Inheritance laws are strict by nature. To bend them, let alone break them, would require an iron clause. Particularly when there is a clear, direct line to a male bloodline heir.”

“I am afraid your father was quite thorough, my lord.” Beasley folded his hands behind him. “If brought to court, the order will stand as written. If you do not fulfill the terms of the will, you will lose your inheritance. Aside from your title, of course.”

The title.

What the hell did he care for a title if none of the lands accompanied it?

“How can you be so certain?” he scowled.

The solicitor’s expression remained bland as he replied, “Because I was the one that wrote it.”

A pile of neatly stacked correspondence succumbed to the same fate as the quill pens when Alec sat back down in his chair with a frustrated sweep of his arms before he dug his fingers into the nape of his neck. If what Beasley said was true–and he had no reason to doubt him–then the will was truly ironclad.

Dammit.

Dammit.

Before the late earl had died, he’d made it known–loudly–that he desired to see his only son and heir wed. Not out of some sentimental desire for grandchildren or a larger family (the earl had detested both in equal measure), but because he wanted what every wealthy, arrogant, self-absorbed mortal man wanted: a legacy that would outlive him after his time on earth was through. People that would still praise his name in the decades to follow, for without him, there would be no them. And with this change to the will, he’d ensured his last and final demand would be obeyed, less Alec willingly lose all that which he’d spent his life thus far silently coveting.