—Library Journal (starred review)
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—Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author
“Enchanting…An extraordinary, unputdownable love story.”
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“Thomas makes a dazzling debut with a beautifully written, sizzling, captivating love story…Her compelling tale of love betrayed and then reborn will make you sigh with pleasure.”
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“Deft plotting and sparkling characters…Steamy and smart.”
—Publishers Weekly(starred review)
“Historical romance the way I love it.”
—All About Romance
“Big, dramatic, and romantic.”
—Dear Author
Read on for a sneak peek of the next irresistible romance from Sherry Thomas
Tempting the Bride
PROLOGUE
January 1896
Darkness was like a lover’s embrace, Helena Fitzhugh had heard it said.
Bollocks.
Nothing was like a lover’s embrace, with its warmth, strength, and passionate need. But a lover’s embrace made one look favorably upon the entirety of the universe. As Helena entered her unlit bedroom, surrounded by darkness, she sighed in contentment.
Or rather, as much contentment as possible given that her particular lover’s embrace happened through her chemise and Andrew’s nightshirt. 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 six 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. David Hillsborough, Viscount 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 serious—intimidating—at times, when he was so frivolous a person.
He lit a hand candle. “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 kiss you now, you would taste of pear cake?”
Trust Hastings to always drag a discussion in this particular direction. “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 brother’s 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 what one calls gross misconduct these days? Or is that how one properly refers to the territory inside Mr. Martin’s underlinens?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Should I use the scientific names?”
And wouldn’t he enjoy doing that. But as it was her steadfast 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 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 pound 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 be gone.”
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, I’ll settle for you to kiss me.”
Her, kissing him?
“Ah, I see you were hoping to stand quiescent and think of Christian martyrs mauled by the lions of the coliseum. 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.”