Once Upon an Accident 01 - The Accidental Countess

  “The Accidental Countess”

  by Melissa Schroeder

  Being a spinster was much easier than becoming the accidental countess and it definitely didn’t prepare her for falling in love.

  Book One in the Once Upon an Accident series.

  Colleen MacGregor doesn’t like rich men, especially rich titled men. Still, her guilt won’t allow her to leave Sebastian passed out in the snow. Before he can leave, they are caught in a compromising situation. Under an agreement he will leave and never bother her again, Colleen marries a man she barely knows to save her reputation. Before she can really stop anything, she is whisked to London, where she is transformed into an Original and captures the attention of the ton—not to mention her husband.

  Sebastian Ware thinks he’ll never see the sharp-tongued spinster again. He never planned on becoming the next Earl of Penwyth…or on falling in love. But before he can declare his feelings, he must protect her from an enemy who wants them both dead. Racing against the clock, Sebastian strives to save them both so he can turn their accidental love into a love for eternity.

  This book was previously published, but has been substantially revised and re-edited for Samhain Publishing.

  Warning this title contains the following: somewhat explicit love scenes, drunken earls, irritating relatives and bathing activities that leave the floor wet and the hero and heroine exhausted.

  The Accidental Countess

  Melissa Schroeder

  Dedication

  To my parents, Ruth and Steve Bodnar.

  Thank you always for your support and love. You can now say the money you spent on my education is being used for more than beating Les at Trivial Pursuit.

  Love,

  Melissa

  Chapter One

  January 1808, York

  He had to be dead.

  Colleen Macgregor dismounted her mare and peered at the gentleman lying flat on his back. Another gust of chilly wind blew drifts of snow across his ashen face.

  And a gentleman he was, she thought, noting the workmanship of his clothing. They clung to his skin, outlining the shape of his muscles, leaving little doubt to his size. He wore no coat. Strange, a man with obvious means laid out cold, without a coat, in the middle of her field. And just how the bloody hell had he gotten there?

  She looked across the field. No tracks marred the pristine whiteness, but as fast as the snow was falling, it didn’t mean he’d been there that long. The snow that had moved in earlier would have covered any tracks, human or otherwise. Colleen glanced back down at the man.

  As she studied his facial features more closely, her spectacles slipped down her nose, and she pushed them back up with her gloved hand. She squinted. Goodness gracious! His lips were turning blue.

  “Sir.” She nudged his leg with her foot. He groaned, and she jumped at the sound. “Sir?”

  “Mumaphmph.” She leaned down closer, and he coughed, his breath billowing in a misty cloud. The stale scent of whiskey she remembered smelling on her stepfather wafted up, and she straightened. A drunk.

  She nudged him again, not so gently this time.

  “Beatrice, honey, get back in bed,” he mumbled. He reached out, as if looking for a pillow, and not finding one, rolled over. Colleen gasped, jumped back and watched him roll into the ditch. He lay face down in the snow unmoving. After a few seconds, the man began to snore.

  Snoring, passed out in a ditch. Good place for a drunk.

  She looked toward her house, then across the field again. The snow was so heavy she could barely make out the path she’d taken from the village. Her companion Gerty would not be able to make it back from her brother’s house in this. Colleen didn’t fancy the idea of being alone with a strange man, especially with the chance that she wouldn’t see anyone for days.

  No one. Not one person would trek out in this weather. She knew for a fact none of her neighbors would be able to help the man, since the closest was a good twenty-minute walk away. She’d bid the vicar and his wife, Mrs. Temple, goodbye before picking up a few supplies and making her journey home some thirty minutes earlier. The storm blowing through her village would keep the area deserted for days.

  The wind picked up speed, pulling on the unmanageable locks that had escaped her bun. Snowflakes wet her face. She shivered as the dampness sank into her. She looked down at the man again. There was no way he would survive the night. Rotten drunk.

  It shamed her that she wanted to leave him to his destiny. Her conscience wouldn’t allow it. She knew if she left him, he would die in that ditch. And even though he may deserve it—and she wouldn’t doubt he did deserve it—she would not sink to that level. Truthfully, the guilt of leaving him to die, even if he was a rotten stinking drunkard, would eat away at her.

  Eyeing her cottage, she made her decision. She would never forgive herself if he froze to death there on her property when she could have possibly prevented it. She didn’t have much space but she’d forego her bed for him, she thought, frowning. It was going to be a cold, uncomfortable night.

  Before she could change her mind, she mounted her horse and rode to her home. She hooked Bessy up to her dilapidated wagon, the one she used only in emergencies, and hurried back to save the intoxicated stranger.

  *

  Someone who smelled wonderful was carrying him, or trying to carry him. Sebastian Ware’s arm was draped over a shoulder of an individual whose stature was considerably less than his. Silky, wet strands of hair clung to his face so he knew his angel was of the female variety. Or a short man with extremely long hair who smelled like a woman.

  He took another sniff. Something very comforting. Not Beatrice, the buxom widow he met his first day in York at Freddy’s house party. Beatrice tended to gravitate to perfume that reminded him of his mother’s gardens. And not his sister, she usually smelled of roses.

  No, this scent reminded him of sneaking into the kitchen as a young lad, stealing the first sticky buns Cook had pulled from the oven. Cinnamon. That’s what she smelled like. And vanilla. Maybe Cook was helping him up the back stairs so he wouldn’t embarrass his mother once again.

  “Come on, you drunken sod,” the female barked.

  She didn’t have the strong Welsh accent of Cook but upper-crust English. And she wasn’t nice.

  “Listen, if you can’t help at least a little, I’m dropping you back in the ditch where I found you.”

  Impertinent hussy.

  “Lissen here, you,” he said, his tongue as thick as his mother’s favorite Persian rug. “I’m in line to an earldom. I am a lord.”

  The female snorted. “Yes, I just bet you are, Lord of the Drunks. My own mother was married to one of them.”

  She stopped dragging him, and he finally found the strength to lift his head. Streaks of pain radiated from the back of his skull. Bright white lights burst in front of his eyes.

  “Now,” she said, apparently unaware his head had exploded, “all we have to do is get you up these steps. I don’t want any bellyaching. It’s bad enough I’ll sleep in a chair tonight so you can have my bed.” She sighed, and then added, just loud enough for him to hear, “I should just let you sleep on the floor like a dog.”

  He turned his head to look at the sharp-tongued hoyden, but the motion left him dizzy, and his stomach revolted. Dropping his head again, he decided vomiting on the woman would not be in his best interest.

  Colleen dumped the man on her bed with a thud. Her back ached and her head pounded. She took a few deep breaths attempting to regain her strength. She’d never tried to drag a full-grown, drunken man through the snow before, and this one
had lost consciousness halfway to the room.

  She studied the lush she’d rescued from certain death and realized he was actually very attractive, if she ignored his blue lips and red nose. His clothing had been made from very fine cloth and had been tailored to fit his lean, hard body. He definitely had money. Or he’d had money at one time. Harry, her now deceased stepfather, always had money. He just never held on to it longer than it took him to get to a pub.

  Bending at the waist, she picked up his feet and lifted them onto the bed. She would have to get him out of those wet clothes.

  First, she pulled off one Hessian. As she lifted his other foot, he chuckled. Not a normal chuckle, but a devilish, stop-her-heart kind of chuckle. She shuddered as her stomach flip-flopped at the completely masculine sound. Grimacing, she dismissed her reaction, blaming it on her damp clothing.

  Focusing her attention on his face, she took hold of his other boot. The moment she touched him, his lips curved, bringing out the dimple on the side of his cheek. Ignoring her nerves that had started to dance, she dropped the second boot beside the other on the floor, walked to the side of the bed and began to unbutton his shirt. She leaned over him to complete the task when she felt his hand on her bottom. Every muscle in her body froze. She glanced at his face to witness the same stupid, sloppy smile as he had worn earlier. A flush of heat rushed through her as his hand caressed her skin through the wet fabric of her dress.

  Gathering her wits, she stepped away from him and almost laughed at the frown that instantly marred his beautiful face. He looked like a toddler who had been denied a treat. It shouldn’t have been funny, considering she usually condemned such behavior. Once she had his shirt undone, she slowly pulled it from his arms. It was not an easy job as Lord King of the Drunks was a world-class grabber with three sets of hands. When she finally completed the task, she dropped the fine linen shirt beside his boots.

  She studied the man and wondered how she was going to get those pants off him. If she was smart, and she was, she would clobber him on the head just to get him to pass completely out. Knowing her luck, he would die from the blow, and she would have to explain why she had a half-naked dead man in her bedroom.

  He was tall, probably over six feet. The one time he had stood straight, the top of her head reached his chin. Uncommon for her because she usually looked men in the eye. His hair was dark as midnight with a bit of a wave. His skin had a touch of bronze to it, making her think he had not been in this area of the country for long. His nose might have been straight at one time, but it appeared to have been broken recently. A bit of whiskers shadowed his jaw, contributing to his thoroughly disreputable look.

  She glanced at his chest. Heat rushed to her face as her pulse increased. In all her twenty-five years, Colleen had never seen a man without a shirt before. She was certain the man lying on her bed was not an average drunk.

  If he were, the stranger was in better shape than she suspected Harry had ever been. Lean, not thin, with hardened muscles beneath his golden flesh. He moved and she stood mesmerized by the ripple of muscle.

  Licking her lips, she ordered herself to move her attention from his broad shoulders, but only got so far as his nipples, taut from the cold. She shivered as hers tightened in response. Suppressing the urge to cross her arms over her breasts, she shook off her reaction. If she didn’t keep her mind on her task, she would never finish.

  She looked past his chest to his hardened stomach, bisected by a thin line of black hair that disappeared beneath his breeches. Taking a fortifying breath, she grabbed his trousers and undid them. He chuckled again, a deep, rich sound that sent shivers coursing down her spine. She froze the moment she heard him speak.

  “Now, Beatrice, you naughty, naughty wench, there’ll be time for that later.”

  The tone of his voice was at once teasing, flirtatious and completely seductive. Looking up at him, she saw his lips twist, but his eyes remained closed. She released her breath. Dreaming. The lout was dreaming about the same hussy he had been talking about earlier.

  She took hold of the top of his trousers to pull them down. The material, soaking wet and cold, stuck to his skin. She tried working it down, inch by inch. At the rate she was going, it would take her until April to get the buggers off.

  Aggravated, she let go and walked away from the bed. She paced in front of her window, biting on her thumbnail, and decided there was only one way to get the things off him. Well, two, but she didn’t feel like wielding a pair of scissors near him, especially not in his delirious state. She stomped to the foot of the bed, grabbed hold of the end of each leg of his pants and tugged with all her might.

  Slowly, the material slid off as she continued her efforts. The more she tugged the more they stuck to his skin. But, determined to get him out of the wet clothing, she persisted. When she had them around his ankles, she yanked with a strength she didn’t know she possessed, sliding the fabric free of his legs. She lost her balance and fell on her bottom, holding the trousers in her hands.

  Still sitting on the floor, she decided to invade the man’s privacy and look through his pockets. She felt a spark of guilt, but pushed it aside. Other than a pocket watch, she found nothing. The watch itself spoke of his station in life. Gold, with intricate scrollwork, it was inscribed “To my son, Love, Mother”.

  She placed the pocket watch on her bedside table and dropped the pants to the floor. Thank goodness he was wearing drawers, although they were almost transparent from being wet. Grabbing her mother’s favorite quilt from the rocking chair, she hurried over to cover him and tried not to glance lower than his face. She pulled the quilt up to his neck doubting that when her mother had bought the quilt she envisioned such a rake lying beneath the sunny yellow daises embroidered on it.

  “There’s a good girl, Mary. Now don’t tell Mother about Winifred.”

  Beatrice, Winifred, Mary? Good Lord, the man had a whole harem of women. And every one of them most likely was happy to get the minimal attention he gave them.

  She would never understand the attraction of a charmer. Her mother, God rest her soul, fell for Harry Philpot, a seducer and a drunk, after she had spent three years as a lonely widow.

  Looking at Lord Drunk, she knew he was a charmer. His inky hair curled over his forehead, giving him an almost boyish look. She had yet to see his eyes, but given his dark hair and the thick black lashes, she assumed they were brown. She noticed his skin had turned a shade lighter, losing some of its golden hue. Her room had yet to warm up, so she grabbed another quilt from her chest and covered him.

  “Thank you, love,” he mumbled.

  She rolled her eyes. Always the rogue, even when sleeping off an overindulgence. After ensuring he was asleep this time, she rushed outside to get Bessy settled and fed. When she returned, she discovered her own clothes were as wet as the stranger’s. If she didn’t get out of them soon she might end up ill, and that would do her patient no service.

  Colleen chose her navy blue woolen dress. It wasn’t fashionable. Well, most of her clothes weren’t that fashionable, but this gown was her warmest one, and with a night she knew would be spent up watching the stranger, she wanted something comfortable and warm.

  Turning her back to the bed, she began to undress. Her fingers stilled the moment she heard Lord Drunk’s chuckle. She glanced behind her, the bodice of her dress sliding off her shoulders. Her heart bounced against her breast but as she studied his face, she saw no sign he was awake. Still, he could rouse at any moment, so she gathered her dress and hurried out of the room.

  She returned a few minutes later, dressed and warm. She’d brought another quilt and placed it on top of him. Colleen sighed, knowing she needed to get her food stored and the fire going since the cottage was almost as cold as outside. She finished up her chores, her body aching from the task of hauling wood—not to mention her new occupant. She stepped inside her room and found Lord Drunk sitting up in bed, the quilts draped across his waist.

  The soft scra
pe of her shoe against the floor drew his attention. He pinned her with a pair of icy blue eyes. Tiny fingers of fear prickled over her flesh as she stood frozen.

  “Who the hell are you, and where are my bloody clothes?”

  Sebastian Ware studied the woman and inwardly grimaced at her expression. She looked as if she were ready to faint. He hadn’t meant to sound so mean and surly. The tone of his voice had her backing up a step and he regretted his rash question.

  She had spinster written all over her. She wore a morbid woolen dress, faded from many washings and buttoned up to her chin. Her bright red hair had been pulled back in a bun so tight her head probably throbbed. To complete the look, tiny spectacles perched on the bridge of her freckled nose and a cap sat upon her head.

  “Lord Dr…er…sir, I’m Colleen Macgregor.” Warily, she approached him but stopped a few feet short, looking at him as if he would pounce on her at any moment.

  He had awakened a few minutes earlier to find himself stripped out of his clothes and with one hell of a headache. Although he liked a good brandy, he reeked of cheap whiskey, a drink that more often than not made him sick. He had no idea where he was. It was not an odd occurrence for him to wake up in a woman’s bed, but he usually remembered her face. Apparently, this woman had something to do with the removal of his clothes.

  “Well, Miss—and I presume it is Miss Macgregor—I repeat, where are my bloody clothes?”

  She visibly swallowed, and her grey eyes widened behind her lenses. As she took another step back, she reached out in front of her with her hands, as if looking for something—or someone—to protect herself with. After a moment’s hesitation she said, “I-I found you outside. Passed out in the snow.” She swallowed again.

  He studied her and realized she just might be telling the truth. From the innocent expression to the ugly blue dress she wore, she had do-gooder written all over her. He shook his head and another shard of pain shot through it. Closing his eyes, he tried to block out the ache as the room around him spun.