The Bride of Larkspear (12 page)

She fastens her eyes to mine. “But darling, don’t you see? That is not my secret weakness. You are—and have been for a while.”

I am overcome. I set her ankles down on the bed and hold her tight, so that truly nothing separates us. We kiss endlessly as our bodies continue to meet in furious passion.

And when she does break the kiss, it is to tell me, again and again, “You are mine now. You are mine now. You are mine now.”

“And you are mine.” I growl when I can no longer withstand the pleasure, the words completely true for the first time in my life.

We come together, clinging to each other, our cries of pleasure rising to the rafters.

A
FTER CAREFUL CONSIDERATION, I HAVE
decided to accept your offer of help on the magazine,” she says much later, her face flushed from the hot steam of the bath.

We are in the tub together. I have been massaging her foot; now I still. “Oh? Do you need an investor?”

“No, an illustrator. And I would not mind if you produce a story once in a while.”

I resume the massage, flattered beyond words. But I tease her, “Because I’m good, or because you plan to pay me nothing at all?”

“Well, if you consider my being on my knees in gratitude nothing at all…”

I grin like an idiot. “It’s not much, but I must start somewhere. Promise you will work me like a dog?”

“I’ll work you hard, then pay you fairly—and often.”

We dissolve into a fit of giggles. I don’t think my heart will ever come down from the sky. How can it, when we are finally making each other laugh?

When she recovers from her mirth, she looks at me curiously, almost shyly. “So what do we do now?”

It is a question I have waited half of my life to answer; I do so without hesitation. “Have tea. Take a walk together. Watch the sunset.”

“Outrageous.“ She caresses my knee, tented just above the water. “Completely outrageous. Normal activities that do not involve bedposts and lubricants?”

I pull her foot toward me and kiss her instep. “Do you think you might be able to enjoy such mundane things?”

She gazes at me a moment and smiles. “Yes, I will enjoy them very well. Very well, indeed.”

About a Gentleman of Indiscretion

A G
ENTLEMAN OF
I
NDISCRETION
is the
nom de plume
of David Hillsborough, Lord Hastings, himself a fictional character created by Sherry Thomas. But fictional characters sometimes do things that surprise even their creators, such as when Lord Hastings walks up to Miss Fitzhugh in the middle of
Ravishing the Heiress
, book 2 of the Fitzhugh Trilogy, and declares that he’d like her to publish his erotic manuscript.
Tempting the Bride
is the book dedicated to their story, but it would not hurt to start from the first book of the trilogy,
Beguiling the Beauty
, to see the full arc of their relationship.

About Sherry Thomas

S
HERRY
T
HOMAS BURST ONTO
the scene with
Private Arrangements,
a
Publishers Weekly
Best Book of 2008. Her sophomore book,
Delicious
, is a
Library Journal
Best Romance of 2008. Her next two books,
Not Quite a Husband
and
His at Night
, are back-to-back winners of Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award for Best Historical Romance in 2010 and 2011. Lisa Kleypas calls her “the most powerfully original historical romance author working today.”

And by the way, English is Sherry’s second language.

To keep in the loop about Sherry’s upcoming books, sign up for her new release e-mail list at
http://www.sherrythomas.com
. You can also find her on twitter at
@sherrythomas
, or like her on Facebook at
http://www.facebook.com/authorsherrythomas
.

Tempting the Bride: Excerpt

January, 1896

A
LOVER’S EMBRACE MADE ONE
look favorably upon the entirety of the universe. As Helena Fitzhugh returned to her empty, unlit bedroom, she sighed in contentment.

Or rather, as much contentment as possible, given that her particular lover’s embrace had happened through her chemise and his nightshirt—Andrew was adamant that they not risk a pregnancy. But still, how new and thrilling it was to kiss and touch in the comfort and privacy of a bed, almost enough to pretend that the past five years never happened and that the only thing that separated them were two layers of thin, soft merino wool.

“Hullo, Miss Fitzhugh,” came a man’s voice out of the darkness.

Her heart stopped. Hastings was her brother Fitz’s best friend—but not exactly a friend to her.

“Mistook my room for one of your paramours’?” She was proud of herself. Her voice sounded even, almost blasé.

“Then I would have greeted you by one of their names, wouldn’t I?” His voice was just as nonchalant as hers.

A match flared, illuminating a pair of stern eyes. It always surprised her that he could look somber—intimidating—at times, when he was so frivolous a person.

He lit a hand candle. The light cast his features into sharp relief; the ends of his hair gleamed bronze. “Where were you, Miss Fitzhugh?”

“I was hungry. I went to the butler’s pantry and found myself a slice of pear cake.”

He blew out the match and tossed it in the grate. “And came back directly?”

“Not that it is any of your concern, but yes.”

“So if I were to kiss you now, you would taste of pear cake?”

Trust Hastings to always drag any discussion into the gutter. “Absolutely. But as your lips will never touch mine, that is a moot point, my lord Hastings.”

He looked at her askance. “You are aware, are you not, that I am one of your brothers’ most trusted friends?”

A friendship she’d never quite understood. “And?”

“And as such, when I become aware of gross misconduct on your part, it behooves me to inform your brother without delay.”

She lifted her chin. “Gross misconduct? Is that what one calls a little foray to the butler’s pantry these days?”

“A little foray to the butler’s pantry, is that how one refers to the territory inside Mr. Martin’s underlinens these days?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Should I use the scientific names?”

And wouldn’t he enjoy doing that. But as it was her policy to never let him enjoy himself at her expense, she declared, “Mr. Martin and I are friends of long standing and nothing more.”

“You and I are friends of long standing and—”

“You and I are acquaintances of long standing, Hastings.”

“Fine. Your sister and I are friends of long standing and yet she has never come to spend hours in my room. Alone. After midnight.”

“I went for a slice of cake.”

He cocked his head. “I saw you go into Mr. Martin’s room at forty minutes past midnight, Miss Fitzhugh. You were still there when I left twenty minutes ago. By the way, I also witnessed the same thing happening for the past two nights. You can accuse me of many things—and you do—but you cannot charge me with drawing conclusions on insufficient evidence. Not in this case, at least.”

She stiffened. She’d underestimated him, it would seem. He’d been his usual flighty, superficial self; she wouldn’t have guessed he had the faintest inkling of her nighttime forays.

“What do you want, Hastings?”

“I want you to mend your ways, my dear Miss Fitzhugh. I understand very well that Mr. Martin should have been yours in an ideal world. I also understand that his wife has been praying for him to take a lover so she could do the same. But none of it will matter should you be found out. So you see, it is my moral obligation to leave at first light and inform your siblings, my dear, dear friends, that their beloved sister is throwing away her life.”

She rolled her eyes. “What do you
want
, Hastings?”

He sighed dramatically. “It wounds me, Miss Fitzhugh. Why do you always suspect me of ulterior motives?”

“Because you always have one. What do I have to do now for your silence?”

“That will not happen.”

“I refuse to think you cannot be bought, Hastings.”

“My, such adamant faith in my corruptibility. I almost hate to disappoint you.”

“Then don’t disappoint me. Name your price.”

His title was quite new—he was only the second Viscount Hastings after his uncle. The family coffer was full to the brim. His price would not be anything denominated in pounds sterling.

“If I say nothing,” he mused, “Fitz will be quite put out with me.”

“If you say nothing, my brother will not know anything.”

“Fitz is a clever man—except when it comes to his wife, perhaps. He will learn sooner or later, somehow.”

“But you are a man who lives in the present, aren’t you?”

He lifted a brow. “That wouldn’t be your way of saying that I am empty–headed and incapable of thinking of the future, would it?”

She didn’t bother with an answer to that question. “It is getting late—not too long now before someone comes to lay a new fire. I don’t want you to be seen in my room.”

“At least I can marry you to salvage your reputation should that happen. Mr. Martin is in no position to do so.”

“That is quite beside the point. Tell me what you want and begone.”

He smiled, a crooked smile full of suggestions. “You know what I want.”

“Please don’t tell me you are still trying to kiss me. Have I not made my lack of interest abundantly clear on this matter?”

“I don’t want to kiss you. However,
you
will need to kiss
me
.”

She, kiss him?

“Ah, I see you were hoping to stand quiescent and think of Christian martyrs mauled by the lions of the Colosseum. But as you always tell me, I am a man of unseemly tastes. So you must be the lion, and I the martyr. I shall expect exceptional aggression, Miss Fitzhugh.”

“If I were a lion, I’d find you a piece of rotten fish, not at all to my taste and hardly edible, whereas I’ve just dined on the finest gazelle in the entire savanna. You will excuse me if I fail to summon any enthusiasm to fall upon you.”