by Anne Gracie
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Epilogue
“To Catch a Bride is Anne Gracie at her best, with a dark and irresistible hero, a rare and winsome heroine, and a ravishing romance. Catch a copy now! One of the best historical romances I’ve read in ages.”
—Mary Jo Putney, New York Times bestselling author of Loving a Lost Lord
Praise for
His Captive Lady
“With tenderness, compassion, and a deep understanding of the era, Gracie touches readers on many levels with her remarkable characters and intense exploration of their deepest human needs. Gracie is a great storyteller.”
—Romantic Times
“Once again, author Anne Gracie has proven what an exceptionally gifted author is all about . . . She gives life to unforgettable characters and brings her readers along for the ride in what has proven to be an exciting, fun, and heartfelt emotional journey. Absolutely one of the best romances I’ve read this year!”—CK2S Kwips and Kritiques
“Anne Gracie has created a deeply emotional, at times heart-wrenching journey for these two people who must learn to trust one another with their deepest feelings and darkest fears.”—Romance Novel TV
“Anne Gracie at her best, and her best is very good. She has a lyrical writing style reminiscent of Mary Balogh, and the talent to bring readers vibrant characters, potent plots, and sizzling sensuality . . . YUM!”—Reader to Reader Reviews
“A winner . . . A charming, witty, and magical romance . . .
Anne Gracie is a treasure.”—Fresh Fiction continued . . .
“I never miss an Anne Gracie book.”
—New York Times bestselling author Julia Quinn
Praise for
The Stolen Princess
“Gracie begins the Devil Riders series with a fast-paced and enticing tale . . . Captures both the inherent tension of the story and the era with her hallmark charm and graceful prose.”—Romantic Times (4 stars)
“Anne Gracie’s talent is as consistent as it is huge. I highly recommend The Stolen Princess and look forward to the rest of the series.”—Romance Reviews Today
“Anne Gracie always delivers a charming, feel-good story with enchanting characters. I love all of Ms. Gracie’s stories and The Stolen Princess is no exception. It stole my heart, as it will yours.”—Fresh Fiction
Praise for the novels of Anne Gracie
“If you haven’t already discovered the romances of Anne Gracie, search for them. You’ll be so glad you did. She’s a treasure.”—Fresh Fiction
“A powerfully emotional, steal-your-heart story . . . This magical romance not only warms your heart, it raises your temperature, too. Brava!”
—Romantic Times (top pick, 4 - stars)
“Have you ever found an author who makes you happy? Puts a smile on your face as soon as you enter her story world? Anne Gracie has done that for me ever since I read Gallant Waif and through every book thereafter.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“One of the best romances I have read in a long time . . . The Perfect Waltz is the book to share with a friend who has never read a romance novel—consider adding it to your conversion kit.”—All About Romance
“It’s rare to find a novel that’s so moving and entertaining at the same time. I’d give a ten to the whole series if that were possible.”—Romance Reviews Today
“One of those books that needs to be read from beginning to end in one sitting. Honestly, I couldn’t put it down!”
—Romance Reader at Heart
“Romance at its best . . . I was captivated by this story . . . Rush out and pick up this book—you won’t be disappointed.”
—Romance Junkies
Berkley Sensation Titles by Anne Gracie
THE PERFECT RAKE
THE PERFECT WALTZ
THE PERFECT STRANGER
THE PERFECT KISS
THE STOLEN PRINCESS
HIS CAPTIVE LADY
TO CATCH A BRIDE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
TO CATCH A BRIDE
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / September 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Anne Gracie.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-14003-1
BERKLEY® SENSATION
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® SENSATION and the “B” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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With thanks to Anne McAllister and Marion Lennox
for friendship and generous support,
to the Maytoners, one and all for general wonderfulness,
and to the Word Wenches,
who so warmly welcomed me into their blog.
Prologue
England December 1817
Awhip cracked, shattering the stillness of the icy landscape. The thunder of hooves grew louder as the curricles approached the bend, neck and neck. The road was narrow, the bend was sharp but neither curricle slowed.
The horses raced, straining to get ahead, heads outstretched, breath steaming in the frosty chill.
As they hurtled around the bend the wheels of the claret and silver curricle grazed those of the black and yellow curricle.
“For God’s sake, Rafe, show
a little care, if not for yourself or me, for my shiny new curricle,” Luke Ripton, the driver of the black and yellow vehicle, yelled.
For answer, Rafe Ramsey’s whip snaked out over his horses and cracked just above their flanks.
“You’re driving like a lunatic, man, more so than usual.”
“I’ve got a wedding to go to.” Rafe snapped the reins and urged his horses faster.
“You want to get there alive, don’t you?”
Rafe glanced across at his friend. His eyes flashed blue ice.
Seeing that look, Luke had no qualms about easing back to let his friend’s curricle take the lead. He and Rafe raced all the time. Usually it was a joyous madcap experience.
But the mood Rafe was in today . . .
It wasn’t directed at himself, Luke knew. Rafe had arrived at their rendezvous that way. Nothing Luke could say could snap him out of it. Rafe had responded to each sally and quip with a cold, barely restrained politeness, as if politeness could bite.
Luke, knowing the signs of old, gave up trying. Rafe was one of his oldest friends and was usually the coolest, calmest fellow he knew. But on rare occasions he descended into these moods and the only thing to do was to let them burn themselves out.
The cause was always the same: Axebridge.
Rafe rarely took his anger out on his friends—anger in Rafe didn’t show outwardly, it burned him up from within. The war had been a useful outlet. These days he raced.
Today Luke had pressed Rafe harder than ever, hoping that by the time they got to Harry’s wedding, Rafe would have burned away his anger and become his usual charming self again.
Instead Rafe remained wrapped in ice and burning with rage; his eyes held a curious blank expression that told Luke his mind was far away. Luke raced more cautiously, as if he could make up for his friend, who drove like a man possessed.
The entrance to Alverleigh came into sight, the high stone walls of the estate broken by an imposing pair of black wrought-iron gates, supported by two large stone pillars. Today they stood open to admit the earl’s guests on the occasion of his half brother Harry’s wedding to Lady Helen Freymore.
Rafe’s curricle hurtled down the slope toward the gates, the light vehicle swaying and bouncing with every bump and pothole.
He was going far too fast for the freezing conditions, Luke thought. “’Ware ice at the bottom of the hill,” he shouted.
Rafe made no sign. He seemed oblivious, wrapped up in dark thoughts.
Something, some small animal—a fox perhaps—darted across the road in front of the horses. One horse reared and stumbled, the other jostled it, the curricle swayed wildly, hit a patch of dark ice, and began to skid in a slow, inevitable arc toward the stone walls and the iron gate.
“Save yourself,” Luke shouted, certain Rafe was going to smash into the stone walls or be impaled on iron gates. “Jump!”
Rafe hauled on the brake with one hand and the reins with the other, forcing his frightened horses back under control. The brake sharpened the angle of the skid but didn’t slow it; there was no purchase on the ice.
Rafe thrust his team ruthlessly through the gates, hard and fast, and released the brake. The weight of the skidding curricle pulled the horses backward and to the right. They plunged in confusion and terror.
He lashed out with the whip. The horses leapt forward. There was a loud scrape of wood against stone or iron. The curricle lurched, bounced, and tipped sideways, balancing on a single wheel. Another second and it would overturn for sure.
“Jump, you fool, jump!” Luke yelled.
Instead Rafe hurled himself sideways over the edge like a yachtsman, using his weight as a counterbalance. For several endless seconds the curricle teetered on the brink, then lurched back with a loud thump onto both wheels.
He glanced back at Luke, tipped his whip in salute, and raced his sweating horses up the driveway.
Luke arrived as Rafe was instructing the Alverleigh grooms to cool his horses slowly, then give them a good rubdown, a hot mash, and the very best of treatment.
“You maniac,” Luke declared, jumping down from his curricle and tossing the reins to a groom. “You were nearly killed.”
Rafe’s mouth twisted in a mirthless smile. “That would have thrown the cat among the pigeons. The succession plans in ruins.”
“Harry and Nell’s wedding in ruins, more like!” Luke snapped. “I don’t give a hang about the Axebridge succession, either, but you’re among friends now, so get a grip on yourself.”
Rafe blinked and the hard glitter slowly faded from his eyes. In a much calmer voice he said, “You’re quite right, Luke. I wasn’t thinking of Harry and Nell.”
“You weren’t thinking at all,” Luke told him bluntly.
Rafe gave his friend a searching look and gave a rueful sigh. “That bad, was I?”
Luke, relieved the worst was past, relaxed. “Worst I’ve seen in ages. Think we both need a drink.”
“Agreed.” Rafe unknotted his silk scarf and removed his leather driving gloves. “And since I won, you owe me a monkey.”
“I know, blast you,” Luke said as they walked toward the front steps of Alverleigh. “Kills me to admit it, but that was a tidy piece of driving back there. Thought you were going to smash into those pillars. Your horses were magnificent.”
“Grace and courage under fire,” Rafe agreed. “What time is this ceremony? I don’t know if I have the stomach for a wedding just now.”
“You’d better find it, then,” Luke warned him.
Rafe gave him a faint smile. “Don’t worry, I will, for Nell and Harry’s sake. This marriage, at least, is one to celebrate.”
As he spoke, their friend Gabriel Renfrew, brother of the earl and half brother of the groom, strolled lightly down the steps to greet them. “How was your trip?” he asked after the greetings were concluded.
“Bloody hair-raising,” Luke told him.
Gabe raised an eyebrow. “All your races are hair-raising. What made this any different?”
Luke jerked his head at Rafe. “He’s just come from Axebridge.”
Gabe glanced at Rafe. “I see. You’ve finalized the wedding arrangements, I presume?”
Rafe did not reply. A tiny muscle in his jaw twitched.
“A drink,” Gabe decided.
“Several,” Luke agreed. “And make them large ones—he needs it.”
“Nonsense,” Rafe said coolly. “I’m perfectly calm.”
“I know, dear boy,” Gabe said. “That’s the trouble.”
A few hours later Rafe sat in the church pew watching his friend Harry pacing like a caged lion, awaiting his bride.
There was a stir at the entrance of the church. Rafe didn’t need to turn his head to see who had arrived. Harry’s gray eyes, usually so bleak, blazed as he saw his bride. They were so filled with naked emotion that Rafe had to look away.
Rafe heard the quiet certainty and pride in Harry’s voice as he promised to love and cherish his lady.
He caught the fleeting intimate smile Gabe exchanged with
Callie, the princess of his heart, as they remembered their own wedding.
To have and to hold . . . To love and to cherish . . .
Until death us do part.
Rafe felt cold to the marrow.
Could he make promises like that? Not to Lady Lavinia. Not after what he’d learned at Axebridge.
But could he ever?
What did it matter? There was no love in Rafe anyway. There never had been.
He wasn’t like Gabe, who had taken love lightly and often until he’d fallen deeply and irrevocably for Callie.
He wasn’t like Harry, who’d fallen in love twice, the first time so disastrously he hadn’t cared whether he lived or died. Now, truly and deeply in love, he stood at the altar, gazing at his bride, a man transformed.
Rafe hadn’t understood it then and he didn’t now.
He’d never been in love like that, not once in all his twenty-eight
years, not even for an hour, and at his age, he wasn’t likely to start.
Women, yes, but only on the strictest understanding that the relationship was purely physical. He treated them well and was generous in parting. They didn’t seem to mind. None of them had managed to pierce his essential coldness.
In the war the coldness had grown. It was useful, in war, to stay cool and coldly analytical, not to let yourself get carried away by passion. He’d found strength in it, keeping the world at bay, keeping heartache and grief from touching him. People could die of heartache and grief.
He thought he’d reached perfect control, a state where very little could upset him.
And then he’d come home. More accurately, he’d returned to Axebridge.
Rafe’s father, the former Earl of Axebridge, had died while he was at war, so Axebridge was no longer the hostile place it had been when Rafe was a child. And since the current earl, his older brother, had produced no children in ten years of marriage, Rafe understood that it fell now to him to marry and secure the succession. For the first time in his life Rafe was needed by his family, and he was prepared to do his duty.
His brother had even found him a suitable bride. Rafe wasn’t particularly enamoured of her, but he’d found no one himself, and Lady Lavinia Fettiplace was of excellent family—the best bloodlines and breeding in England. She came with a fine fortune and was even pretty.
He could do it, he’d told himself a hundred times.
