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  The Earl’s Desire

  (The Rogue Series: Book One)

  Alexia Praks

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

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  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  PRACHAN PRESS

  The Earl’s Desire

  (The Rogue Series: Book 1)

  Alexia Praks

  Copyright © 2014 by Alexia Praks

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book was self-published by the author Alexia Praks under Prachan Press. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without agreement and written permission of the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  The author can be reached at: www.alexiapraks.com

  Published worldwide by Prachan Press

  The Earl’s Desire

  The Rogue Series: Book One

  ALEXIA PRAKS

  ONE

  England, 1809

  Christine Smith tugged her torn coat over her tiny frame to protect herself against the bitter wind. It didn’t help, and she wondered how much longer she’d last before she collapsed just like some of the children working in the factory. It was only because she was older than most that she was able to endure these harsh conditions. She was considered an adult, after all, at this age of eighteen. Yet in this male outfit with her thick brown tresses securely bound and hidden under a cap, she could pass as a fourteen-year-old boy. Of course, that was the effect her grandparents wanted. They wanted her to be inconspicuous. They wanted her to blend into the background. They wanted her to live her life without trouble. But was her life really trouble-free? When they were always starving and cold? And especially when she was so stubborn and getting herself into different kinds of trouble?

  From the distance, Christine watched the deformed shadows of men, women, and children stagger past, their bodies huddling together to keep the flurry of icy, sharp air at bay. Their chattering voices were almost incoherent in the howling wind, some cursing the foul weather, some moaning about the low state of their pay, and others groaning about the lack of food for their many starving children. They were exhausted after their long day of hard labor, as was she. The thought of sitting by the fireplace with her family, her feet up with a bowl of soup and a piece of bread for supper, was heavenly.

  “You there!” a voice barked. “Come ’ere!”

  Christine jumped at the familiar order. Mr. Brad, the owner of the vase factory, was standing not too far away and was shouting at someone. Curious, she glanced behind her. When she saw no one there, she turned back to look at him in confusion.

  “Take that vase to the storeroom.”

  That was when it sank in. He was barking orders at her. She glanced at the big vase sitting on a two-wheeled cart and then looked over at the departing workers. “But, sir—”

  “You ain’t getting paid to argue. You be careful with it. ’Tis expensive,” he warned, his callous voice echoing for half the town to hear and causing the workers, especially the children, to shudder with fear. Aye, they all knew that he wouldn’t hesitate to use his whip at the slightest disobedience. In fact, he enjoyed using his beloved weapon regardless because of the surge of power it brought him.

  Christine glanced at the tall Wedgwood vase in the gloom and knew Mr. Brad had been to London again and would have bought that vase for one purpose only—to copy the design. He had done that many times before, providing his ignorant customers with cheaper versions of the beautifully designed vase and tableware and, of course, making huge profits in the process.

  “Get on with it,” the man snapped and whacked his thick, black cane on her behind.

  Christine gritted her teeth—not at the intense pain that hateful cane had caused but at the way he was treating her. The bastard, she thought. One day she’d bash his face in. No one had the right to treat other people like that.

  For a moment she stood her ground, refusing to do as she was told. It was, after all, the end of her shift, and everyone had already gone home.

  “What are you waiting for?” he queried, his face red. “You want another whipping?”

  Oh God, how she wanted to really bash his face in. A dangerous desire that, she thought, especially in her lowly circumstance. She needed this job to keep her family from starving, after all. And the bastard knew that and had taken advantage of it.

  She turned to the cart. Goodness, there was no way that cart was going to get through the narrow alleyway leading to the factory. She would somehow have to carry the damn, useless thing. Aye, it was a damn, useless thing, all right, for although it cost more than her life, it was still useless, just sitting there in someone’s home, looking awfully pretty for the eyes.

  As she visualized the procedure of delivering that important package from this side of the narrow alleyway to the other, the snow-covered path seemed to stretch farther, her destination becoming dim and far beyond her reach. She swallowed and turned her attention to the urn. She bent her knees and with a heavy grunt, lifted it up. The thing weighed a ton, and it nearly crushed her to the ground, scrawny as she was. Gritting her teeth, she told herself that the sooner she finished this, the sooner she could go home.

  She started to stumble forward. Her tattered boots were soaking wet from the snow, and her feet were frozen. If she could somehow manage to complete the task without putting a scratch on the urn, what with her shivering like a drowned kitten. If anything went wrong, she’d get the sack. That was something she couldn’t afford.

  Her tired body ached everywhere, and the tiny pieces of oatcake deemed suitable for factory workers didn’t fill even her miniature stomach. Some of the children didn’t even get theirs today because they had run out. Ran out, her backside! Christine knew for certain that Mr. Brad’s wife, a fat woman with fiery red hair and too many freckles to count on her plump face, was scrimping expenses she deemed unnecessary again, and providing oatcakes for workers was deemed one of those expenses indeed.

  As if she hadn’t suffered enough thus far, Christine slipped on a patch of icy concrete and tumbled over. Her backside hit the ground.

  Thump!

  The vase shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

  She closed her eyes and cursed fluently. She wished with all her heart that it was a nightmare. But no nightmare would be as painful as what she was about to experience next. The noise, she was sure, would have reached Mr. Brad’s sharp ears.

  On cue, Mr. Brad appeared. His eyes flared when he saw Christine sprawled on the ground with pieces of china everywhere. He marched toward her, his ears bright red with fury.

  He growled, yanked her up, punched her face—which she expected—and hurled her against the sidewall—she expected that one, too.

  She smacked into the brick barrier and toppled to the ground. Her cape tumbled from her head, releasing a mass of haphazardly cut, short brown curls. Oh, my dear Lord! She was sore.

  “You broke it!” he shouted, pointing a porky finger at her. “I’ve had enough of your silliness. D’you know how much that vase cost? I told you to be careful with it!”

  Christine looked at Mr. Brad, tears in her eyes. Fear loomed close around her, suffocating her. She knew it was coming. The whipping and then—oh God! She was going to die for sure. Who was going to look after the family if she were to die now?

  “Todd!” Mr. Brad shouted.

  The t
hin, pale foreman appeared from the doorway of the factory.

  “Get me the strap,” he ordered.

  “With pleasure,” Todd said, an evil glint in his eyes.

  “I’ll teach you a lesson. I should never have hired the likes of you.” The obese man spat.

  Christine managed to sit up. “Sir, please,” she began.

  “Why didn’t you think about what you were doing before you started?” Mr. Brad sneered. “Todd, where the hell’s the strap?”

  Todd returned and tossed the strap to his boss. Laughter rumbled from within Mr. Brad’s throat. He moved to grab her arm, but Christine scurried to the corner of the wall.

  “You dare to disobey me order? You scum! Todd, help me here,” the man shouted as he tried to hold on to Christine, who began furiously kicking out at him.

  Todd caught Christine’s arm and shoved her to the ground, facedown, and planted a boot on her back. Mr. Brad raised the strap and slashed it down, Todd removing his foot just in time. The swishing sound echoed in the hushed, dark night. The first strike whacked on the thin coat and sliced through skin. Blood seeped out and soaked the dirt-stained coat.

  “This’ll teach your stubborn spirit to obey when you’re supposed to.” Mr. Brad sneered and let the strap slash the small back again. The next strike was sharper, more forceful. Then the next, and the next, and more, and more—swish—swish—swish!

  Christine did not make a sound as tears rolled down her pale cheeks, tasting salty in her mouth. She closed her eyes at the sheer pain that burnt her skin like hot iron. This was it. She knew she was going to die, and she couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  Mr. Brad raised the whip once more in midair. As he was ready to swing it down, a smile formed on his red face for he felt power surging in his blood. The whip was an inch away from striking Christine’s back when he felt an iron hand crushing his wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

  Pain—a sort of sensation Mr. Brad had inflicted on others but had never experienced himself—shot through his arm with a powerful force that made him feel sick, and he wanted to cry. He twisted around, angry with whoever had the guts to interfere and, in the process, hurt him.

  He came to face a shadow wall of overcoat. When he bent his head back and looked up, he could only make out the silhouette of a tall, well-built man. In the gloom, he didn’t see the murderous fury inside those eyes that were glaring down at him, nor did he notice the elegant, well-cut trousers and overcoat or the artfully arranged cravat on the stranger’s person. He did, however, feel terror charging along his spine, lost for a moment as he stared at the gigantic shadow before him. When he shook his senses free from the momentary fear this giant of a man had given him, he started to shove back, expecting the man to fall. The giant didn’t budge, however, and remained standing solid as a rock.

  Angry because he couldn’t intimidate the stranger, Mr. Brad yelled, “What’s this?” and shoved him again.

  The stranger didn’t move.

  “Hey, ’tis none of yer business, so leave. I’m teaching that brat a lesson. If you won’t leave, I’ll do the same to you, you hear? And sack you, too!”

  “I do believe there are other ways to teach that child a lesson,” the stranger retorted coldly, shoving Mr. Brad back.

  “’Tis not your business, so leave it be.” He pointed his thick finger at Christine on the ground. His knees were shaking, and all because there was a devil of a big worker standing up to him. “This brat destroyed one of me precious and most expensive vases. He’s just a slum kid. No use in this world. A nuisance!”

  “This is no way to teach that boy a lesson, do you hear?” the stranger said in a low, heated voice. “Not flogging. Especially not flogging.”

  “It’s none of your business!” Mr. Brad shouted. Then, ignoring the stranger, he turned to the body on the ground and raised his strap again.

  In a flash of shadows, Mr. Brad was seized by the arm and swung around, and a manly knuckle flew forward and smashed his face. His heavy body slammed against the wall and then crashed to the ground next to Christine. At once, Todd rolled up his sleeves and marched toward the stranger.

  “Behind you!” someone shouted from within the darkness.

  The stranger twisted and ducked low, slipped around to Todd’s back, got him by the arm and punched him hard in the face. The skinny man fell to the ground, unconscious. Satisfied, the stranger turned toward the ragged form on the ground. He pulled the body up and gruffly said, “You all right, boy?”

  Christine, awed at the sight before her, nodded. He smashed Mr. Brad’s face! She couldn’t believe it! He had done it! And he had saved her life.

  She struggled to her feet and was about to say thank you when her knees gave out and she collapsed to the ground again.

  In a second flat, the stranger caught her in his strong, powerful arms.

  He was so very warm and so very wonderful, Christine thought, and she just wanted to close her eyes and stay in his arms forever. He smelt beautiful, too—of earth and pinewood and something else. Spice? He smelt delicious. Her stomach growled. Aye, she was hungry.

  Mr. Brad at this moment regained his senses, scrambled up, and barked, “What in hell d’you think you’re doing?”

  “Saving a boy you are trying to kill,” the stranger snapped.

  “Like I said, ’tis none of your business. That bastard destroyed me vase, and he can't pay for it,” he shouted.

  “How much was the vase?”

  “Twenty pounds,” he snapped and took a heavy breath. “You see? That bastard couldn’t pay for me vase if he worked for the rest of ’is life. And the same goes for you!” His small eyes flared as he howled, “You’re fired! You hear? You’re fired!”

  “I don’t give a damn because I don’t work for you,” the stranger retorted.

  Mr. Brad’s mouth hung open for a second in confusion before he recovered himself. “That brat broke me vase. I’ll kill ’im if it pleases me to.”

  The stranger glanced at Christine for a split second and turned his attention to the manager. “What’s your name? So I can pay you.”

  Christine snapped her head up to look at her savior. Her already-pale face turned even paler with horror. All that she could see of him, however, was the shadow of his strong features that, despite this dim light, she rather liked—a lot.

  “Are you serious?” Mr. Brad stammered for he knew no one living in this town was as rich as he was.

  “Does it look like I’m joking?” the stranger said in irritation.

  “No.” Mr. Brad smiled greedily.

  “Jacob, my satchel.”

  Mr. Brad looked confusedly around him in the darkness. At first he saw no one, but then a shadow of a man appeared with a black leather bag.

  The stranger retrieved a wad of pound notes and a heap of sovereigns while Mr. Brad stared as though his very life depended on them. Mr. Brad snatched the pile when the stranger handed it to him and moved to the window to catch light from inside the building. There he started counting the notes and golden coins to make sure they added up to the sum he wanted. His eyes flared with greed when he saw there was extra money—over double the twenty pounds he’d demanded.

  “The rest is for the release of this boy from the contract you made him sign. He is no longer your property, nor will he work for you further. You have no rights from this moment forward in any way over the boy.”

  “My lord, ’tis getting late,” Jacob said.

  Mr. Brad snapped his head up and widened his eyes. “My lord?” he mumbled, and his body shook with uncontrollable cowardice.

  Jacob said, “Aye, he is his lordship, the Earl of Huntingdon.”

  Mr. Brad, paralyzed for only a moment at hearing this powerful title, rushed forward and started to mumble some apology. The earl, however, did not pay any attention to him. He was aware that the youth was getting weaker and leaning farther onto him. Looking down, he noted that the boy had fainted. He picked his survivor up in his arms and carried hi
m toward the barouche.

  * * *

  Merrick William Hasting, the fourteenth Earl of Huntingdon, glanced at the youth lying unconscious on the seat opposite him. The scrawny boy looked malnourished and very dirty, which did not repulse the earl as it would many of his peers. On the contrary, he accepted the youth lying across from him for what he was and pitied the boy with his whole heart. He detested mistreatment toward children, especially in factories, and he could not stand by and watch any child receive abuse. He had, in fact, saved many children from the streets and workhouses. He and his good friend Maximilian Devilyn, the Duke of Lynwood, had a house built especially for them in the country just north of London.

  Merrick took out his handkerchief and cleaned the youth’s face, scrubbing around the cheek and working up toward the forehead. He noted that the boy was starting to regain consciousness.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, wiping the dirt from under the boy’s chin.

  Christine blinked and looked around the interior of the carriage in confusion. The world was spinning, which caused her to feel nauseated. She closed her eyes again to gain her composure. A short moment later, she felt better and lifted her eyelids. She gazed at her savior long and hard. He had dark brown hair that curled at the nape of his muscular neck. His face was strong and very handsome with a straight nose, firm lips, and eyes that were teal blue. Her heart of its own accord started to beat fast. Her body too started to feel warm and weak. It was not the type of weak that one felt when one was exhausted from overwork or from being beaten almost to death but a different type of weak that was rather pleasant.

  Merrick sat back and studied her, his eyes sharp as he took in everything. He noted the violet eyes, the straight nose, the generous lips, and the small chin. Despite the thick smudges of dirt on top of that face, Merrick decided that the boy was pretty. Surely it was very odd indeed for a boy to be pretty.