Title: To Tempt a Troubled Earl
Series: Regency Rossingley, Book One
Author: Fearne Hill
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: 03/04/2025
Pairing: Male/Male
Length: 77200
Genre: Historical, historical romance, gay, UK, aristocracy, rich man/poor man, enemies to lovers, hurt-comfort, humorous, slow burn, opposites attract, scoundrels
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Description
A chancer and a rogue, Kit Angel is down on his luck. Presenting himself at Rossingley Hall in the dead of night, he begs an audience with the eleventh earl, the most enigmatic nobleman in Regency England.
The visit has purpose. Kit, hungry to ruin the baronet who ruined his sister, believes Rossingley is the only man who can help him.
Lando Duchamps-Avery, Eleventh Earl of Rossingley, doesn’t trust the sinfully handsome stranger one bit. He does not care for the tales he spins, his hot temper, or his thick, ebony curls. And, most definitely, he is not in thrall to the delicious golden hoop dangling from Kit Angel’s left ear. Lando has his own motivations to ruin the same lord, and the two men form an uneasy alliance.
As the dangerous plot they hatch unfurls, the suspicious earl and the shady scoundrel are increasingly thrown together. Whilst the wily earl gradually surrenders to his growing attraction, Kit can’t make up his mind if he wants to swive him, declare undying love for him, or throttle him.
Bit by bit, as mutual desire swells between them, Kit wins over the earl’s body, his passion, and his trust.
But in order to win the earl’s elusive heart? The scoundrel must risk losing everything.
This first book in the new Rossingley Regency romance series introduces Lando Duchamps-Avery, nineteenth-century predecessor to Dr Lucian Avery of the contemporary Rossingley romance series. With Lando’s story, we return to southern England and the Rossingley estate. This book can be read as a standalone.
To Tempt a Troubled Earl
Fearne Hill © 2025
All Rights Reserved
A stable boy sidled in, his expert eye giving Kit’s nag a look drenched in disdain. “Mr Angel?”
“Who’s asking?” Never admit to anything was Kit’s motto. Being chased by a dogged Bow Street runner had taught him that.
“His lordship. And I know it’s you ’cos you’re the only stranger ’ere. An’ they said up at the big ’ouse that you had a shit ’orse.”
Kit gave the old girl a pat. “Not up to Rossingley high standards, is she?”
“Not likely.” From the look in the boy’s eye, Kit had a feeling he wasn’t making the grade either. “His lordship’s waiting for you outside if you wanna see a proper ’un.”
Kit turned back to his very ordinary mount. “Tell his lordship I’m not sure my knees are up to a third pummelling.”
“He doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“No,” mused Kit with a lick of irritation. “Of course he doesn’t.”
Naturally, the earl was astride a horse as noble and untouchable as himself. A full seventeen hands of sleek ebony muscle and taut sinew, the stallion’s bearing was as erect and poised as that of the frosty creature sat atop him. In fact, in profile and with the late afternoon sunlight disappearing behind the inn’s stable block, it was difficult for Kit, from his lowly position on the ground, to see where the majestic beast ended and the earl, clad in an immaculate black riding cape, began. Not habitually prone to self-doubt, Kit became acutely aware of his untidy coat, hair, cravat…everything.
Fortunately, Rossingley didn’t notice, given that he stared rigidly ahead.
“Mr Angel,” he stated, then stopped, pursing his lips.
“Lord Rossingley,” said Kit, puzzled. “Do you come with news of my sister?”
“No, to my knowledge she remains well.”
“So this is a social call.”
“Hmm.” His eyes slid sideways and down to Kit with an expression suggesting the earl didn’t pay social calls to men such as himself. “I rather assumed you might have left Rossingley by now. I happened to be simply passing on my route back to the house.”
Something from his rigid posture told Kit that wasn’t strictly true. “I’m not leaving Rossingley until I have Anne well enough to join me,” he answered. “You have my apologies if that disappoints you, my lord.”
The earl produced another little harrumphing noise, though made no attempt to ride on. Not often having the chance to admire such beautiful horseflesh, Kit stepped closer to the animal’s head and reached out a hand.
“Twilight does not care for petting,” Rossingley snapped. As if to demonstrate, the horse tossed back its mane and pawed the ground.
Kit grinned. “Temperamental beast, is he? Why aren’t I surprised?”
The earl shot him another cool glance, taking in Kit’s dishevelled appearance before his attention returned to a row of beech trees lining the road, already shedding colour. He swallowed as if it pained him to say any more.
“Mr Angel. You…you said you had been at Captain Prosser’s deathbed. So, tell me this; was it…was it quick? In the end?”
Ye gods, how on earth did one answer that? With a lie or the truth? The wasting disease was a punishing master; Kit wished it on no one. His uncle’s death had been slow, painful, and absolute. In his final hours, the pitiful captain had died drowning in his own juices, like every other poor sod. Surely this earl must have realised that?
“Peaceful,” he pronounced with as much conviction as he could muster. Even this cold fish did not deserve the truth. “He did not suffer. Captain Prosser slipped away peacefully in his sleep with Anne tending to him at his bedside.”
“I don’t believe you.” The pale hands gripped the reins tighter. “I believe you to be a liar, Mr Angel.”
“And I believe you’re scared to face the world without him. That you hide from it, here in your private kingdom, untouchable.”
Kit regretted the words as soon as they flew out of his mouth. He was supposed to be winning the man’s support, not riling him further. But there was something about this immaculate earl’s cold-bloodedness that made him want to…heat him up a little.
A pulse ticked in the earl’s jaw. After a drawn-out silence during which the stallion remained as still as his master and sweat broke out across Kit’s brow, Rossingley spoke in a voice made of daggers.
“You tread on thin ice, Angel. Men have been called out and killed for less.”
“But you will not,” declared Kit with much more conviction than he felt. “Granted, I am a thorn in your side, but I am also the blood of your beloved. And hear this; I cared for my uncle very much. As did Anne.”
The earl’s eyes held a coldness Kit felt right to his core. “I don’t think you had as much affection for Captain Prosser or care that he died as much as you pretend. I think you have come to Rossingley with the preposterous idea you can frighten me into exchanging money for your silence by throwing around outlandish accusations regarding the nature of my friendship with the late captain. And I’m here to tell you that you can’t.”
Kit clenched his fists. A vein in his forehead throbbed as red-hot anger swept through him. “Shall I take it that you prefer, my lord, to hear of the messy, cruel indignities, the endless coughing, the bloodied, soiled sheets? Or shall I speak of the consummate terror in his eyes when your lover realised his battle was lost? Even our greatest war heroes are cowards at the end. If that is your desire, then I am more than happy to fill in the…”
Rossingley dismounted with such speed and grace Kit didn’t have time to finish. Before he knew it, one of those slim, pale hands only a second ago gripping the reins now twisted around his cravat. With the element of surprise, the earl’s strong lean body propelled him backwards.
“Call that man a coward again, and you’ll be sorry you ever heard the word Rossingley, Mr Angel. Let alone set foot on my land.” The earl’s pale, silvery eyes flashed with frozen fury. “And if you utter one more whisper regarding my close friendship with Captain Prosser, then you’ll be begging for a messy cruel death yourself.”
A hot burst of agony exploded in Kit’s head as his skull smacked against the stable wall. With Kit momentarily stunned, the earl wedged his thigh in between Kit’s, pinning him between his firm body and unforgiving brick. Teeth bared, Rossingley twisted Kit’s cravat higher. A meteor shower of stars flashed before Kit’s eyes as fresh beads of sweat broke out on his brow. Kit had been in scrapes before, but none like this, none against an opponent so untouchable and so fuelled by rage. As the linen tightened, a panicked gasp escaped his lips.
“Now let’s see who’s cowardly,” spat the earl with a bloodless snarl.
The metallic tang of Kit’s own blood seeped warmly from the gash on his head into his mouth. The hard length of the nobleman’s torso squeezed up against Kit, and with it, an overwhelming rush of clean, citrus cologne and fresh male sweat. Dizzily, his mind spiralled between fear and lust, and with a vicious thrust, the earl pressed home his advantage. For a second, they were as one, eye to eye, chest to chest, hip to hip…groin to groin. Kit let out a cry of…something…as his body reacted to the searing heat in the only way it knew how.
Rossingley relented, but only for a second. He shot Kit a bloodless, thin-lipped smile, then tilted his head closer so that his hot breath puffed across Kit’s cheek. With a roll of his hips, he thrust again.
“Like the feel of that, do you?” Once more, he ground into Kit, his lips brushing Kit’s ear. “Enjoy the feel of an invert like me up against you, do you?”
Without warning, the earl licked a savage stripe across Kit’s earring. Sharp teeth tugged on the gold hoop causing a piercing jolt of pain. A hand snaked between them, and the earl cupped Kit’s balls in a strong grip. Kit gasped, bracing for a sharp knee or a brutal twist that never came. Instead, his attacker’s touch gentled; with a lover’s tenderness, he cradled them in his warm fist.
“You want me, don’t you, my pretty?” Rossingley crooned in a chilling tone. “You can’t help yourself.” His mouth grazed Kit’s jaw, and as the pointed edge of his teeth teased the skin, Kit’s breath caught in his throat.
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Fearne Hill lives deep in the southern British countryside with three untamed sons, varying numbers of hens, a few tortoises, and a beautiful cocker spaniel.
When she is not overseeing her small menagerie, she enjoys writing contemporary romantic fiction. And when she is not doing either of those things, she works as an anaesthesiologist.
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