Boy Meets Earl (Meets Girl)

By Imogen Markwell-Tweed

In this queer Regency romance, three unlikely lovers find themselves irresistibly drawn to each other and entangled in a scandal that could ruin them all.

It's Miss Miranda Hartler's first season of eligibility for marriage—and she does want to get married, yes, but not to just anyone. She wants to marry for love, and respect, and romance. So when a chance encounter with a taciturn earl gives the haute society the wrong impression and forces them into an unwilling engagement, it's not an optimal situation for either of them.
Lord Marcus, Earl of Cliffshare, has vowed never to marry, since he would never be allowed to settle down with the one person he's ever truly loved: his boyhood friend, Richard. But he can't find it in him to let Miranda's reputation, as well as that of her whole family, be sullied, so he reluctantly agrees to wed her, and writes to let his dear friend know about the surprising development...
When the rakish Richard receives word that the love of his life is being forced into marriage, he hurries to intercept the proceedings. But what he finds when he gets there is the biggest surprise yet: not only does Miss Miranda seem like a wonderful fit for Marcus, but Richard finds himself strangely attracted to her, as well, and as the wedding draws near, it soon becomes clear to all of them that their affections are mutual. Can the lady, the earl, and the rake find a way to forge the relationship they want in a society that would frown on their desires?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Shorts
• Release date: Feb 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781094417530

Imogen Markwell-Tweed

Imogen Markwell-Tweed is a queer romance writer and editor based in St. Louis. When she's not writing or hanging out with her dog, IMT can be found putting her media degrees to use by binge-watching trashy television. All of her stories promise queer protagonists, healthy relationships, and happily ever afters. @unrealimogen on Twitter and Instagram.

Book preview

Chapter One

In many ways, the Earl of Cliffshare was a lonely and solitary man.

There was not any discomfort in this knowledge, at least so far as Lord Cliffshare was concerned. After all, his solitude was an invaluable part of his life, and one he had worked hard to achieve, despite the ever-present insistence from his mother that he marry.

He enjoyed waking to the quiet of the morning, enjoyed taking his meals without the need to converse, enjoyed overseeing his earldom and collecting his taxes with only his thoughts and desires as company. It could make the days drag, of course, as loneliness was often wont to do, but it made him, as he should be, entirely in control. This, above all else, was the thing that Marcus desired most: to never be upseated by the dancing ire of fate again.

Now, nearing his thirty-second year, each one of them unencumbered by the presence of a wife, Marcus was starting to believe he’d never take a bride — which, of course, for a solitary man such as himself, was a wonderful thing.

As such, with no desire to break his solitude for anyone, much less a well-intentioned but otherwise simpering woman who had no higher motivation than to marry him and become the Countess of Cliffshare, Marcus was reluctant to attend Miss Belvedash’s upcoming rout-party.

A horrible affair meant only to intoxicate its guests and fuel the gossip of Miss Belvedash’s bi-weekly teas with her ladies, the rout was an annual occurrence that Marcus no more enjoyed than he did remember. Still, Captain Belvedash never missed one of his sister’s gatherings, and as Earl of Cliffshare, Marcus had to maintain not only a reputation, but an image of social grace. If given the option, Marcus would avoid the whole thing and spend his evening penning his return letter to Sir Richard of Contrell.

Since their time together in boarding school as children, Marcus and Richard had remained close confidants during all their many years of separation. Marcus had not laid eyes on Richard since he was scarcely ten and three, but his most peculiar, familial devotion had never wavered. And, too, Richard’s open affection for Marcus had not been swayed once, by distance or time or disagreement.

Though he often offered Cliffshare for Richard’s visit, the man frequently avoided the entire area. And much like Richard often made up an elaborate excuse to get out of visiting, Marcus never pressed. To see each other was to risk the very foundation of what they had with each other — the loyalty built by years of existing only for and because of these letters. They were both uncertain men, even if they denied it to themselves.

The letters they sent each other remained the best parts of Marcus’s life — the ones filled with humor and levity and tenderness that he would not be comfortable asking of anyone who knew him as earl, and not as Marcus.

He supposed that it was his own fault, building such a singular existence that he was only Marcus here in the strokes of ink that Richard sent to him. He also supposed that he was too old and set in his ways for anything, or anyone, to change that.

Marcus stared at the stock in his hands, frowning. He hated wearing the itching fabric against his throat, the sensitive skin there flushed with the unforgiving weight. If anything, he’d prefer a black cravat to the white stock. But, as it was, Marcus would wear the white stock and the stiff linen shirt beneath it, and he would wear his coat that felt too tight and the boots that pinched his toes. He would accept the decorum of Miss Belvedash’s rout, despite his extreme, and silent, reluctance.

He set the stock back down and decided that attaching it right before leaving would be plenty appropriate.

Marcus crossed to his study, lighting the tall candles as he went. By the time he was seated at his broad oak desk, the room was illuminated with the soft orange glow of candlelight.

Though he had to ready himself for the rout sooner rather than later, this was Marcus’s favorite time of day to write Richard. Just as the sun had fully descended across the horizon, but before the moon could loom large and yearnful in the sky, Marcus always felt this dwindling evening light was where he was seen the clearest.

He folded the paper carefully. Dipping the goose quill in ink, Marcus began to write.

Sir Richard,

Though I am unduly pleased to hear that you have been received well by the Wintersons during your trip, I cannot deny that I wish they had thrown you and your wily horse out of the stables the moment you arrived. For, if my understanding from your previous letter is to be understood, you will be far away from the Contrell Bury for nearly a fortnight, and unable to write or receive any news from me until after your return.

It is not entirely fair of me, I suppose, to begrudge you this time, but I have never supposed myself a fair man. I am selfish.

At least so far as you are concerned, my dearest friend.

In your previous letter, you wrote that you wished to stop in London before your return to the country, to the apartment held there. I implore you to do so, as that is where this letter is headed, for the chance that, perhaps, you will read it. Though it might be foolish, and a waste of paper indeed, to send a letter that is only hoped to be received, I am certain that the call of the city will seduce you as it has before. If I am correct, you shall receive this letter, and be of means to write me back at once. This, my old friend, is what I ask of you now.

Another rout demands my attention. Though I am loath to leave the warmth of the study, you know that I am incapable of withdrawing entirely from society. As it is, I have heard that Lord Hartler will attend with his wife and youngest daughters. Though I hope to avoid them, I cannot risk offending Lord Hartler. He is, you might remember, holding the largest grain estate in the entire countryside. Without a fair partnership between us, I fear a shortage of food for the lower towns of Cliffshare. Therefore, in my best attempt to not offend Captain Belvedash and with my uncertain opinion on Lord Hartler, I will attend with my best stories. And, perhaps, a complaint of an ache that will allow me early leave. I shall not forget anytime soon that ’twas you who first showed me such a trick, to get far away from your lessons. Incorrigible, but a gift for me now.

Thankfully, all the best stories are of you, dear Richard.

Write to me as soon as you arrive in London or, at worst, as soon as you return to Contrell. I must know how your mother’s family reacted to your truly unkempt, rakish ways.

Always your friend,

Lord Cliffshare

Marcus read and then reread the letter. A dot of blackened ink spread like a spot of blood on the upper corner where the thick of his hand had rested. He frowned, considering rewriting it, but a glance toward the candle marks suggested he had less time than he’d thought. It was always like this, writing to Richard — he always lost track of himself, the cadence and gentle presence of Richard’s letters as lulling as any lullaby.

He stood, placing the lid back on his pot of ink, and waited for the letter to dry. Then he folded it carefully, etched the correct address on it, dripped wax on the folded points, and pressed the seal of Cliffshare. He placed it on the edge of his desk, to be sent immediately in the morning light.

Marcus gave the letter one last longing look, wishing he could stay here in the comfort of his study for the rest of the night.

Marcus did not mind his solitude. He did not mind the soft, lapping waters of his loneliness, for they were as comforting as any pond, as familiar as any stretching stream. He had grown to himself in the quiet, surrounded not by the bustling of noise but the softness of birds twittering outside a closed window. But if he’d learned nothing else from his father before his early passing, it was that the Earl of Cliffshare had no room in his life for frivolities. Marcus would not be his father — the first step to that was to not inflict his own aching soul onto another.

With this in mind, Marcus quickly donned his coat and gloves, bidding the stewardess goodnight. Marcus did not require his staff to attend him after a party; too often, exhausted by the socializing, he would merely crawl into his sheets moments after arriving back home. He had no need for the servants to suffer a long night simply because he was forced to.

Ignoring the carriage, even as his butler fretted nervously by the stable doors, Marcus simply readied his horse, Hellion, and reminded the older man to get some rest.

The trip to Miss Belvedash’s was, most upsettingly, a short one. He was barely a half-hour ride from her manor. He thought he could smell the liquor and hear the laughter at half that.

Dread pooled in his stomach. He was certain that this was to be a disastrous affair; surely no one would notice if he escaped after only a short while. Surely, no one would mind if they did.

Many of the eligible young women and their mothers wanted to secure him as a bridegroom before the end of the Season; this was as it had been for years. They would no more succeed today than they had in the past years. And regardless, this was not le bon ton — this was a rout, and a poorly planned one at that, if the lack of space for him to tie Hellion up was any indication.

The moon was wide overhead, a blossomed, white flower in the middle of the sky. Hidden from the servants waiting to greet Miss Belvedash’s guests, Marcus stood beside his horse for a moment longer, staring up at the sky.

He wondered what Richard would do, if he were here.

Well, that was hardly any help. Richard was a rake, and a foolish one at that, and would be eager to be anywhere there was attention and alcohol. Even when they were mere boys, Richard had been like that — the light of every room, drawing everyone to him like moths to a flame, and despite having experienced it even from afar, even from nothing but a page of faded ink, Marcus was not quite capable of recreating the energy.

Poor little rich boy, Richard would tease, with no heat in his voice, if he were here. Poor little Marcus of Cliffshare, too afraid to be besotted with and given a merry time.

Marcus would laugh — not out loud, but that huff of a breath that came straight from his lungs, pushed out far more instinctually than anything else he did — and they would stride in, a pair of handsome devils, and Marcus wouldn’t even mind the eyes on them, because his would be on Richard’s.

It was that Richard would stride in without a thought, that his father would never have arrived in the first place, that he had a deal to acquire with Miss Belvedash’s brother — it was the nervous flickering of the footmen’s eyes over to him, where he hid like a coward behind Hellion, and the cold that was seeping in despite his fitted coat, that eventually led Marcus to place away his concerns, and go to the manor steps.

Marcus gritted his teeth as he was announced, plastering a smile on his face as he accepted Miss Belvedash’s hand and pressed a chaste kiss to her gloved knuckles. She colored immediately, bursting into giggles, and Marcus avoided having to provide any response when the entire Hartler family fell from a carriage right outside the door, stealing the poor hostess’s attention.

Marcus fled immediately. Though he was stopped thrice to greet rosy-cheeked acquaintances, he managed to get to the corner of the drawing room relatively unscathed.

He would stay here — perhaps share a hand or two of cards, if he could be persuaded — and retire right before the drop cakes were brought out. Miss Belvedash’s always tasted strongly of orange and rose, and the scent lingered on his skin for days. He would not put up with this again, consequences of his propriety and reputation be damned.

At least, he thought to himself, I’ll have something to write Richard about.

With a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, Marcus stood in the corner of the room. Reminding himself that he was a solitary man, who did not feel lonely, he waited for the party to end.

Chapter Two

More than anything else in the entire world, Miss Miranda Hartler wanted a singular moment of silence.

Between her four sisters and twice as many cousins,

Reviews for Boy Meets Earl (Meets Girl)

[Djune · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

The premise of an MMF in a historical romance novel was interesting and I wanted to like it but within minutes of meeting the heroine the second male lead was already thinking about how brilliantly amazing she was. Why? Nothing in the book until then made me understand why. I did not think she was all that great. Instead of showing how great the heroine is, we get lots of descriptions and internal monologues telling us how perfect she is. I did not like her character at all. For one thing, she reacted furiously about being compromised and blamed the male lead while he did nothing except rush to her aid when he found her practically unconscious on the floor. I understand that a woman was not to be alone with a man without at least a chaperone in those days but the way she demanded he would marry her while insulting him? It would have been far more believable if she had begged him for help instead of lashing out at him. If I had been the first male lead I would have fled to the continent for a few years rather than marry this woman. I understood the longing and angsty relationship between the two men, but the events leading to them becoming a threesome were rushed and lacked any credibility.

[Liza De Fries · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Sweet but I’m really not a fan of the age difference - Miranda is 18 and the love interests are men in their 30s. Also, did it really have to end with Miranda in childbirth with baby #4 and their eldest is scarcely 5 years old? Poor woman must’ve gotten pregnant every year since they got married.

[karma Chansy · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I liked it, could have done with more smut, but that's just my guilty pleasure ;) I enjoyed the interactions between all.

[Kelsey Laurent · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Polyamory for the win! I love an author that can write a love story that doesn't paint a poly relationship as doomed from the start. <3