Title: To Beguile a Banished Lord
Series: Regency Rossingley, Book Three
Author: Fearne Hill
Cover Artist: Mandy Porto
Publisher: NineStar Press
Release Date: 11/11/2025
Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex
Pairing: Male/Male
Length: 294
Genre: Historical, historical romance/British Regency, gay, bisexual, age-gap, humorous, sunny/grumpy, hurt-comfort, humorous
Add to Goodreads
Description
Rollo Duchamps-Avery, the high-spirited second son of the eleventh Earl of Rossingley, is not in his father’s best books. After one misdemeanour too many, the earl ruins Rollo’s idyllic summer by packing him off to the wilds of rural Norfolk, arranging for him to stay with the Duke of Ashington’s loathsome brother.
Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons has an aversion to houseguests. Shunned by polite society for crimes far wickeder than anything Rollo could dream up, all Fitzsimmons wants is to drink himself into a stupor, tend his beloved hydrangeas, and take potshots at tin soldiers.
If only his inquisitive young visitor, with his pretty little head of wispy blond hair, his stupidly coltish legs, and his knack of always being where Fitzsimmons would rather him not, would leave him in peace.
This third book in the Rossingley Regency romance series features the fourteenth Earl of Rossingley’s lively second son, Rollo, and the Duke of Ashington’s disgraced brother, Lord Lyndon Fitzsimmons. This book can be read as a standalone.
To Beguile a Banished Lord
Fearne Hill © 2025
All Rights Reserved
“You’re here again.”
“I am, my lord. Like a bad penny.”
Under beetling brows, Lord Lyndon scowled at his canvas. “Why, may I ask?”
Rollo sauntered towards the open window, pausing on the way to peek around his lordship’s broad shoulder at his latest oeuvre, Pointless House of Worship. He’d visited the nursery every day for a week, and his lordship’s artistry hadn’t improved. That Lord Lyndon cared not, was rather winning.
“You said I could have the run of the house,” Rollo observed. “The air today is humid beyond all human endurance, and this double aspect room up here at the very top, with the breeze wafting through, is by far the coolest. My need for cold air surpasses even my fear of heights.”
“Stupid thing to be scared of,” sniped Lyndon.
Duchamps-Avery held aloft a slim novel. “Your concern is touching. But as long as I don’t look down at the ground, I’m perfectly fine. I shall read this on the window seat. As noiselessly as a fieldmouse. You’ll hardly know I’m here.”
Fitzsimmons harrumphed as Rollo brought his legs up from the floor, crossed his ankles, and settled in. Finally, he’d discovered the newer section of Goule Hall library and found it to be stocked with a surprisingly sophisticated collection of barbarous gothic novels, which he was steadily devouring. His current volume took place in a remote Italian castle, whereupon a brooding aristocratic villain threatened a resourceful, trapped heroine with an unspeakable fate.
Putting a finger on the page to keep his place, Rollo flicked his eyes up to his own brooding aristocrat. Lord Lyndon’s looks tended more towards villain than hero too. His lordship wasn’t darkly handsome in the classical sense, unlike Papa’s lover, Kit, for instance. Fitz’s nose was too proudly hooked, his bottom lip too obstinate. His bearing was much less elegant than that of his twin brother, more…threatening. Of course, no commentary on the man was complete without mention of that untamed coppery mane. Today, it fell freely to his shoulders, swirling like the violent shades of red in his painting, suggestive of all kinds of wicked fires burning beneath. Rollo pictured himself, Icarus-like, standing far too close to them, being gathered up, subsumed, and then spirited away to a high stone tower cresting an Italian hilltop, whereupon the dastardly lord flung him down onto a four-poster and—
“You’re breathing,” Lord Lyndon griped. “Through your mouth. Do stop. I’m trying to concentrate.”
“It’s because I’ve reached a terribly exciting chapter,” Rollo lied. “The dishonourable Count Rodolfo is ravaging his young, naïve houseguest, whose whimpers for mercy are unheeded—there is no one within shouting distance. He is determined to have his wicked way over and over—
“Fantastical gothic tales are artificial literary structures combined with an unhealthy excess of blood and dusty cobwebs. Purposefully designed to contest upstanding Christian morals and to titillate feeble, susceptible minds.”
“From that precis, I can only surmise you’ve read all of them,” Rollo deadpanned.
“I most certainly have not.”
“The spine of this one was cracked.” Rollo held it aloft. “And a couple of pages are turned down at the corners. Are you suggesting that old Berridge holds a secret tendre for our dastardly Count?”
The lord wiggled his fearsome brows in a way that made Rollo wanted to press his mouth against them. He wondered how they’d feel on his lips. Soft or coarse?
“Now be quiet, pup. Blending the perfect shade of ochre for the chapel roof requires the entirety of my focus.”
“The chapel roof? I could have sworn you were painting the cows in the field yonder.” Rollo shrugged. “My mistake.”
Chortling, Rollo resumed the twin pleasures of Count Rodolfo’s lustful pursuits and casting frequent glances in Lord Lyndon’s direction. As was the nature of a window seat, he was positioned directly inside the window bay. Thus, by necessity, Lord Lyndon also had to glance in Rollo’s direction in order to paint the distant chapel roof.
“You can’t even read quietly,” he muttered after ten minutes of Rollo returning each of his glances with a sweet smile and Lord Lyndon baring his teeth in exchange. “Each page turn sounds like a slap to my cheek.”
Rollo produced an extra sugary smile. “If that is something you favour, my lord, then I’m sure it could be arranged.”
A low rumbling sounded from within the lord’s chest. A splash of blue paint had found its way onto his nose, to which Rollo had no intention of drawing his notice. Instead, he studied the room.
“You must have had some marvellous playtimes up here,” he remarked. “If, that is, you spent much time at this house as a child? Or indeed, were ever a child?”
“Huh,” the lord responded, which Rollo took as confirmation. “Every summer,” he then offered, unbidden. “My grandfather and father liked to come here to fish. Bream and pike, mostly. Some trout.”
Goodness, the man had volunteered information! Only dull fishing information, but still. With heavy-booted optimism, Rollo probed deeper.
“And whilst he was occupied fishing, you, the future Duke of Ashington, and your youngest brother, Lord Francis, ran riot up here?”
Lord Lyndon shot him a withering look. “Francis was too small to play games with. And Benedict has never been inclined to run riot anywhere.” He prodded at his palette. “No. I played with a chum, mostly. One of the local farmer’s sons. His family used to farm the Ashington land around Goule.”
Rollo noted the past tense. “But not now?”
“No,” answered Fitzsimmons, his lips thinning. “Not now.”
Rollo had the distinct impression a story hid behind that firmly closed mouth. He hesitated, unsure whether to push further. “This chum, was…was it Will Elliot?”
Fitzsimmons’s brush briefly froze. “Yes.”
Something in his tone told Rollo it was time to leave well alone, despite wanting to keep his lordship talking. Gazing around for conversational inspiration, his eyes landed on a wooden rocking horse, partially covered by a dust sheet.
“Did you and your friend play on that?” he asked, pointing.
Lord Lyndon shook his head, relaxing a fraction. “No. That was Francis’s pride and joy, and before that, Benedict’s. Naturally, he wasn’t permitted to drag his ponies into the house with him, so old Dobbin was the next best thing. Will and I preferred…more rambunctious games. Especially as older schoolboys. Pirates, highwaymen, you know. Clashing swords and the like.”
Rollo smirked. “Clashing swords, eh? What fun.”
“That sweet, innocent face of yours hides a commonplace mind,” his lordship reprimanded. “You know exactly what I was implying—blunted, wooden swords, beloved of boys everywhere.” He frowned. “Berridge carved them for us. They’re probably still lying around here somewhere.”
“In that old toy chest under the bookcase, I’ll be bound,” cried Rollo, leaping up. He adored toy boxes. Riffling through them generally stirred up all kinds of memories, and one never knew what old treasures hid inside. This one was huge. The clasp fell apart easily enough, but the lid was heavy and stuck as though it hadn’t been opened in years. Legs apart, he braced himself to try again.
“That doesn’t look very much like reading,” Lord Lyndon observed. “You are very much a fidget.”
Over his shoulder, Rollo shot him a quick grin. Fitzsimmons’s hand holding the paint brush had paused halfway to the canvas as though forgotten. His dark eyes stared at Rollo intently, though not at his face.
“And you seem to be admiring my derrière bent over this treasure chest.” Rollo gave it a little wiggle. “A much more favourable subject than the roof of a boring old chapel. Wouldn’t you agree, Lord Lyndon?”
Purchase
NineStar Press | Books2Read
Amazon
Fearne Hill is a British writer of queer romance and the winner of the 2025 Lambda Literary Award for LGBTQ Romance. When she’s not crafting characters who fall hard and kiss slowly, she works as an anaesthesiologist. She lives in the deepest Dorset countryside with her beloved spaniels.
Website | Facebook | X | Instagram
