A Scoundrel of Her Own Read online

  Praise for Stacy Reid

  “An entertaining romance nicely balanced between hot-and-bothered lust and droll dramedy of manners.”

  —Kirkus Reviews on My Darling Duke

  “Lush, beautifully written, and deeply romantic, My Darling Duke will sweep you off your feet. My heart was lost to this couple from the very start.”

  —Amalie Howard, author of The Beast of Beswick

  “A flirty historical romance.”

  —Kirkus Reviews on Her Wicked Marquess

  “A stay-up-all-night sexy romp that Regency readers will devour.”

  —Eva Devon, USA Today bestselling author, on Her Wicked Marquess

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

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

  Copyright © 2021 by Stacy Reid. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  10940 S Parker Road

  Suite 327

  Parker, CO 80134

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Stacy Abrams and Lydia Sharp

  Cover design by Bree Archer

  Photography by Chris Cocozza and Period Images,

  Malkovstock/Gettyimages, Kodochigov/Gettyimages

  Interior design by Toni Kerr

  Print ISBN 978-1-64063-768-9

  ebook ISBN 978-1-64063-769-6

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition January 2022

  Also by Stacy Reid

  Sinful Wallflowers series

  My Darling Duke

  Her Wicked Marquess

  A Scoundrel of Her Own

  Rebellious Desires series

  Duchess by Day, Mistress by Night

  The Earl in my Bed

  Wedded by Scandal series

  Accidentally Compromising the Duke

  Wicked in His Arms

  How to Marry a Marquess

  When the Earl Met His Match

  Scandalous House of Calydon series

  The Duke’s Shotgun Wedding

  The Irresistible Miss Peppiwell

  Sins of a Duke

  The Royal Conquest

  Du’Sean, always and forever.

  At Entangled, we want our readers to be well-informed. If you would like to know if this book contains any elements that might be of concern for you, please check the book’s webpage.

  https://www.entangledpublishing.com/books/a-scoundrel-of-her-own

  Prologue

  Lynmouth, 1807

  Someone was carrying her.

  An exceedingly small someone, perhaps as small as herself, Ophelia thought groggily, her brain numbed and tired from the biting cold. Something important niggled in her thoughts but eluded her whenever she tried to catch hold of it. The person beneath her grunted, pausing for a few seconds before resuming their determined trek.

  “Am I not too heavy?” she murmured into the crook of the person’s neck, which smelled odd, almost like horses or wet puppies. Her hands around the neck felt heavy, the exertion to clasp them tremendous.

  “Yer no more than…than a sack of potatoes, me gather,” a little boy’s voice replied in a sweetly lyrical accent she’d never heard before. “But do not let me go. Hold on tight.”

  She wanted to part her lips and reply, but the effort felt enormous, and her heart fluttered in panic. Her thoughts drifted hazily along, a heavy weight seemingly dragging her down. A whimper tore from her throat.

  “I’ve got you,” the little voice said, strain evident in the tone.

  I’m freezing, she wanted to cry, but her mouth felt too numb. She wanted to stir, but there was a cold in her bones that felt like fire. It made no sense. How could she be cold but also hot?

  The boy grunted, stopped, and heaved several harsh breaths. “I can make it,” he muttered, stooping even lower and jostling her weight higher onto his back and shoulders.

  Pain rushed through her limbs, and a great shiver racked her frame. He held her tightly, muttering what sounded like a curse or perhaps a prayer. Then onward he trudged. A light misting rain fell, and thunder rumbled in the darkened sky, a warning that more precipitation was on the horizon.

  “I can make it,” he whispered. “I can make it. I must make it.”

  He stumbled, then quickly righted himself, once again heaving her up higher onto his back. Ophelia grew aware of the breath sawing from the boy’s throat and the sweat trickling down his face. She didn’t fully understand, but the need to reassure this stranger welled inside. Though her throat felt raw, as if she had been screaming, she pushed out the words with great effort. “You can make it. I know you can.”

  Ophelia gasped, a black fright sweeping over her as the memory of her carriage crashing into a swollen river rose in her mind. She recalled her governess, Miss Kinney, saying the bridge that led to her parents’ country estate was old and needed repairs, then the ominous sound of creaking wood cracking. The water had churned with fury and had dragged her along with the currents at a terrifying pace. She didn’t recall much other than the screams of Miss Kinney and the footmen’s and coachman’s desperate attempts to reach Ophelia.

  Frightened by the memory, she clung to him longer. She could not say how long the little boy trudged with her, but it felt like forever. Thankfully, the sun peeked from bloated clouds, and some of the terrible cold in her body eased.

  “We are here,” he said, panting with great effort.

  He stooped very low, and Ophelia slithered off him, muffling her cry at the way her bones hurt. She stood, wobbling only slightly. The boy remained bent, as if he lacked the strength to stand.

  She touched his shoulder tentatively. “Are you well?”

  It took him a moment, but he finally said, “Yes.”

  Pushing to his feet, he faced her. The boy was rather small, bony even, and perhaps about her age—Ophelia had only turned eight years last month. His black hair was pasted to his forehead, and rivulets of water trickled down his hollow cheekbones. His body shook, and he clenched his fists at his sides as if to steady himself against the trembling. Sympathy squeezed her heart. “You are cold, too,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her body tightly.

  A faraway look entered his dark green eyes. “You were in the river, and it was taking you away. I jumped in after you.”

  Ophelia had never seen eyes so vivid and lovely.

  He shifted on his feet, and a pained grimace crossed his
dirt-streaked face. “I might have worried me ma. I could hear her screaming as the water took us away.”

  “You are hurt.”

  “Just me back a little, and one of me foot. It’ll get better.”

  “You should not have carried me; you are so very small,” she murmured, hating that her lips trembled. “Though I am incredibly grateful. I shall repay your kindness, I promise.”

  His little chest puffed out. “I’m twelve. I ain’t small.”

  “You are my size,” she refuted. “And I am eight.”

  He scoffed, clearly affronted. “I am taller.”

  Barely, but she did not point that out, since it seemed to reassure him to think he was large and well-built. He shuffled around, and it was then she noted he stared at a cottage. It was very plain and had a thatched roof. With a sense of alarm, Ophelia also realized they were deep in the middle of a forest. She slowly turned, yet all she could see for miles was woodland. Why would this cottage be here in the middle of nowhere? “Is this your home?”

  He gave her an incredulous look. “No. Our cottage is not this big.”

  She blinked, looking once more at the tiny hovel. He lived somewhere smaller and with his mama and papa? The idea was inconceivable. “How did you find it?” she asked, walking to stand beside him.

  “By luck. I grabbed on to a branch and pulled us from the river. Then I hoisted you on my back and walked upstream. I canna tell how long I walked for, but my feet hurt.”

  He advanced on the cottage, and Ophelia followed. The door was locked, but he was very enterprising, for he went around to a small window that was opened, wiggled through, and unlocked the door from the inside.

  “Come on in,” he cried with a wave of his hand. “There is no one about.”

  Ophelia took her time and clambered up the few front steps, then entered the cottage. It was very tidy, with everything seemingly to be in one space. A kitchen, a fireplace, and a lone sofa that appeared sunken, as if the cushions were worn out. Then there was a bed to the far left, near the small window.

  “Who do you think lives here?” she whispered.

  He did not look up from where he was busy lighting the fireplace. “Maybe a gamekeeper.”

  Ophelia nodded, then coughed several times, rubbing her aching chest.

  The boy glanced around with a frown. “Are ye getting sick?”

  “I feel tired,” she replied and shuffled over to the sofa. It proved to be surprisingly comfortable, and with a start of guilt, she realized her damp clothes wetted the fabric.

  “Go to sleep,” his voice said from far away. “I’ll take care of you.”

  Trusting him, Ophelia nodded. Her lids were heavy, and with a yawn, she slid into a deep sleep.

  …

  Sometime later, she jolted awake to the scent of something deliciously redolent in the air. The boy was not in the cottage, and Ophelia had a blanket over her body. Now she was warm and toasty. Pushing it off, she stood, swaying slightly. Hurrying to the door, she opened it and paused. The boy was in a clearing, something was spitted on a stick, and he was turning it over the fire. Whatever it was smelled wonderful, and her belly grumbled. She went over and sat on a log before him. “What is it?”

  “A rabbit.”

  “You killed it?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  Oh! She didn’t know what to say to that. “Were you afraid?”

  “Of killing the rabbit?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.” He seemed to think about this. “Why would I be afraid?”

  “Killing is bad and seems frightening.”

  He smiled, and she thought him a very pretty boy, even with all the dirt and grime on his face. “Not when it is to fill our bellies.”

  The boy jumped to his feet, ran back inside, and returned with the thin blanket. He wrapped it over her shoulders and then handed her a cup of water. Ophelia stared at the dented cup, never having seen a thing like this in her life. How utterly unusual. She took the cup and downed the water greedily. “Thank you—I was so very thirsty.”

  Mortifyingly, her belly rumbled.

  “And hungry, too,” he said with another broad smile. “That is why I hunted while ye were sleeping.”

  Ophelia smiled and tugged the blanket around her body, watching the rabbit turn over the fire and anticipating when she could eat it, thinking what a strange little boy he was. He knew how to light a fire, he was not afraid to kill rabbits, he could cook them, too, and he was only twelve.

  How utterly extraordinary.

  …

  She was like a fairy in the stories his da had told him. Niall had never seen a little lady so beautiful.

  Her skin was pale and soft, her eyes a deep golden brown, her cheeks dimpled when she smiled, and her hair black like raven feathers. It hung limply over her shoulders and down her back to her hips in a riot of curls. The mass of hair seemed too heavy for her body, but she tilted her head with elegance and smiled at him.

  “What is your name?”

  He cleared his throat. “Niall.”

  Her cupid mouth shaped his name. “Niall sounds perfectly lovely and special.”

  Something warm shifted inside him. “My grandmother named me. What is your name?”

  Her little nose wrinkled. “It isn’t anything special. It is Ophelia.”

  Niall frowned, not liking that she thought something about her was ordinary. Fairies were never ordinary. “We could make it special. Though Ophelia sounds beautiful to me.”

  Her golden-brown eyes glowed. “Special how?”

  He thought for a minute. “I could call you…Fifi,” Niall murmured, reaching out to tenderly brush a wisp of hair behind her ear, mildly surprised he was being so familiar with her.

  Her eyes lit up with pleasure. “Fifi! I love it!”

  Fifi it is, then.

  Niall ensured she ate, and while she slept that night, he rested comfortably on the sofa, wondering how he would keep her protected or see her home to her family. He had no notion of where they were, and he had a cut under his foot that hurt like the devil. His ma, pa, and two younger sisters would be awfully worried. His ma’s scream when he jumped into the water still lingered in his mind, the fright and pain in the sound haunting him.

  Niall had to get back to his family soon, but he also had to protect Fifi.

  “I’ll find a way to take you home,” he whispered in the silence of the cottage, dropping his head back onto the cushions of the sofa and closing his eyes.

  …

  The very next day, he took Fifi to a river so she could bathe with the rough bar of soap he’d found in the cabin. At first, she had colored violently and refused, but when he promised to turn his back and keep watch, so no one approached, Fifi waded to the shallow area and did her best. It had stunned him when she revealed that she did not bathe herself at home, and the entire experience had been oddly thrilling.

  Niall walked as far as he could in one direction, hoping to see someone who could help them. There were no other houses, nor did he see the main house the cottage might belong to. One day turned into two, then into three, and now it was day five, and they were still together.

  Niall was getting worried. His ma and da and his sisters must be worried. Fifi’s parents must be just as anxious. And the bottom of his foot hurt more and more with each passing day.

  They had just eaten roasted quail, and she yawned contentedly. Dusk arrived, painting the sky in vivid shades of amber. “I do not wish to return inside,” she said a bit worriedly, scanning the forest.

  “We do not have to.”

  She beamed. “Truly?”

  “We can stay a few minutes longer.”

  Her richly colored eyes gleamed with delight, and she nodded happily. The chill evening air cut through her dirty gown, making her shiver. Niall removed hi
s threadbare jacket and placed it over her small shoulders.

  She wrinkled her tiny nose. “Your jacket smells weird.”

  He flushed as shame filled him. He did not wash as often as she did—perhaps once a week, sometimes longer in between. Niall bet at her home she washed daily and with rose-scented soap. His ma and da said there were people out there in the world who could afford such luxuries.

  Something hot and burning curdled in his belly. “I will go for the blanket,” he mumbled.

  Her hands reached out and twined with his. “It also smells like you.”

  “Stink?”

  Her eyes widened. “No. Like oakmoss. Like the woods we played in today.”

  Niall did not know what that scent was, but he liked how it sounded. She was also not pushing his jacket off her body but holding it close. Thankfully, it hung below her knees, protecting her from the elements. The cold bit at his bones, but he inhaled steadily, bearing it for as long as she needed to remain outside. The grass waved idly in the light wind, and against the pale night sky, the trees etched themselves in sharp silhouette.

  “I have never been outside like this before,” she whispered. “It is very dark…and beautiful. It’s all perfectly wonderful, even though it is a little frightening. Imagine the creatures in the woods staring at us now!”

  “Don’t worry. I will protect you.”

  She lifted her face to him and smiled. “I know.”

  Niall’s heart clenched at the surety of her response. I’ll always protect you.

  Her face scrunched in a tight frown. “You are cold, Niall.” Ophelia scuttled closer to him on the log. “We can share. It is really big.”

  “My da gave it to me,” he said softly, inching over to meet her.

  They sat on the log, and she removed one of her spindly arms from the jacket. Somehow he wriggled a bit of himself into the jacket, too, and warmth and her unique scent of berries enveloped him. They stayed huddled like that, and despite worrying about his family, Niall felt an unusual happiness seep into his bones. Fifi started to hum softly under her breath, staring up at the velvet beauty of the night sky.

  “Wot is that ye humming?”