by Liz Carlyle
“What’s prostration?”
“Oh, someday you will meet the perfect woman, Teddy,” said Rance, “and then you will surely know. Until then, go, and remain blithe in your ignorance.”
“My, is it really such a misery to be in love?” asked Anisha, grinning up at him when the boys were gone.
Rance set one knee to the bed and leaned over. “Humbling,” he said, lightly kissing her. “Utterly lowering.” He kissed the turn of her throat. “I am your slave, my dear, and entirely without will. Please say that you will have me, and put me out of my misery?”
Anisha ran a hand through his mane of unruly curls. “Very well, I shall have you,” she said lightly, “if you will get a haircut.”
“My God, you are so easy!” he said, settling lightly onto the bed beside her. “Fine, then. A haircut. Here, my girl, I’ve brought you something.”
He laid the green velvet case in her lap, and she gasped with pleasure. “A betrothal gift!” she cried.
He shook his head. “No, actually it was already yours,” he said. “Janet helped me steal it—and I’m glad she isn’t leaving, by the way.”
“Well, I had to double her salary,” said Anisha, “and Chatterjee’s, too, more or less. He’s going to work half days—but at least he’s back.”
Rance grinned. “Just like what’s in this case, my dear,” he said, tapping it with one finger. “Gone but briefly, now home again.”
Her perfectly arched brows snapped together. “How very odd,” she said. “And am I to open it?”
Propped up on one elbow, he lifted his other hand, palm up. “As I say, my dear, it is yours.”
Anisha flicked open the brass clasp, lifted the lid, and gasped. Her mother’s wide kundan choker blinked up at her, newly polished—and just a little different.
“Oh, my heavens!” she cried, gently lifting it out. “It’s . . . altered somehow.”
“Lift up the next layer,” Rance suggested.
“Really?” Setting the choker back in, Anisha lifted the top compartment fully out. A long strand of pearls lay nestled in the bottom of the box. “More pearls?” she said, mystified. “No, wait—that ruby clasp—why, these are Grandmamma Forsythe’s pearls!”
“Yes,” said Rance, “but different. Much shorter, in fact.”
Anisha returned her gaze to the brilliantly hued choker, which now dangled with fat, creamy pearls. Three pearls per strand, all suspended from the last row of gemstones, positioned such that they caught the deep colors of the jewels and reflected them up again in a rich rainbow of sapphire, emerald, and ruby.
At last, recognition dawned. “Oh, my God!” she cried. “You . . . you hung Grandmamma Forsythe’s pearls on Mother’s choker?”
Rance reached out and lightly brushed one with the tip of his finger, setting it ashimmer in the morning light. “I thought Saraswati might approve,” he said softly, “because you are not, my girl, a simple thing. You are deeply complex—like fine jewelry, a precious amalgam of more than one thing. And I love and embrace all that you are. I just . . . well, I guess I just wanted you to be utterly sure of that.”
“Oh, Rance—!” she whispered, eyes aglow. “How perfectly brilliant this is!”
“So now, Nish, your jewelry matches you,” he said. “For you’re perfectly brilliant just as you are—all blended together—and all the more beautiful for it.”
At that, she practically hurled the jewels aside and kissed him long and hard. “Oh!” she whispered a long moment later. “Oh, Rance! When you asked me to marry you, did I remember to say yes?”
“Yes.” He kissed her again, this time cradling her face in his hands. “Yes. You said yes—which is a good thing, since Sutherland is coming in the morning.”
She laughed, and kissed him again.
“However,” he managed to say between kisses, “if I were any sort of gentleman at all, I would write to your brother, plead my case, ask his permission—and his forgiveness—then wait respectfully for his answer.”
Anisha looked up, her eyes dancing—yet glinting a little dangerously, too.
“Rance Welham,” she said firmly, “you haven’t behaved respectfully in the whole of your life. And if you start now—if you postpone for one more day giving me what I want out of some misplaced sense of honor—then I shall respectfully wrap what is left of Grandmamma Forsythe’s pearls round your throat and throttle you with them!”
Don’t miss the next
unforgettably romantic novel
about the men of the St. James Club
and the women who tame them!
by
Liz Carlyle
A BRIDE BY MOONLIGHT
On sale 2/26/13
Also by Liz Carlyle and on sale now!
ONE TOUCH OF SCANDAL
THE BRIDE WORE SCARLET
Available in print and e-book
Only from Avon Books!
www.avonromance.com
www.lizcarlyle.com
About the Author
A lifelong Anglophile, LIZ CARLYLE cut her teeth reading gothic novels under the bedcovers by flashlight. She is the author of eighteen historical romances, including several New York Times bestsellers. Liz travels incessantly, ever in search of the perfect setting for her next book. Along with her genuine romance-hero husband and four very fine felines, she makes her home in North Carolina.
You can contact her via her website at www.lizcarlyle.com.
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By Liz Carlyle
The Bride Wore Pearls
The Bride Wore Scarlet
One Touch of Scandal
Coming Soon
A Bride by Moonlight
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE BRIDE WORE PEARLS. Copyright © 2012 by Susan Woodhouse. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition AUGUST 2012 ISBN: 9780062136428
Print Edition ISBN: 9780061965777
FIRST EDITION
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