“THOMAS…HAS MADE A NAME FOR HERSELF WITH HER EXQUISITE USE OF LANGUAGE.”
—Library Journal
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF SHERRY THOMAS
“Ravishingly sinful, intelligent, and addictive. An amazing debut.”
—Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author
“Enchanting…An extraordinary, unputdownable love story.”
—Jane Feather, New York Times bestselling author
“Sublime…An irresistible literary treat.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Sherry Thomas’s captivating debut novel will leave readers breathless. Intelligent, witty, sexy, and peopled with wonderful characters…and sharp, clever dialogue.”
—The Romance Reader
“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.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Deft plotting and sparkling characters…Steamy and smart.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Thomas tantalizes readers…An enchanting, thought-provoking story of love lost and ultimately reclaimed. Lively banter, electric sexual tension, and an unusual premise make this stunning debut all the more refreshing.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Historical romance the way I love it.”
—All About Romance
“Big, dramatic, and romantic.”
—Dear Author
Berkley Sensation Titles by Sherry Thomas
BEGUILING THE BEAUTY
RAVISHING THE HEIRESS
TEMPTING THE BRIDE
Tempting
the Bride
SHERRY THOMAS
BERKLEY SENSATION, NEW YORK
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.
TEMPTING THE BRIDE
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / October 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Sherry Thomas.
Excerpt from Beguiling the Beauty by Sherry Thomas copyright © 2012 by Sherry Thomas.
Cover art by Gregg Gulbronson. Hand lettering by Ron Zinn.
Cover design by George Long.
Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.
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,
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-61148-7
BERKLEY SENSATION®
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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BERKLEY SENSATION® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
To Ivy Adams,
for your limitless generosity and awesomeness
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Wendy McCurdy, for her patience and insight.
Katherine Pelz, for making everything easier.
Kristin Nelson and everyone at the Nelson Literary Agency, for their unparalleled dedication and competence.
Janine Ballard, for boldly going where all great critique partners do—right to the crux of the problem.
Shellee Roberts, for her concurring opinion that kicked my ass back into gear.
Tiffany Yates Martin of FoxPrint Editorial, for always helping me out when I really need it.
Margaret Toscano, for generously sharing her knowledge of Latin and the classics.
My family, especially my husband, for shouldering nearly the entirety of our move while I was hunched over my laptop, desperately trying to figure out what to do, and my mother, for all the food, which is nothing but love.
And as always, if you are reading this, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Beguiling the Beauty
PROLOGUE
January 1896
David Hillsborough, Viscount Hastings, had never been in love. And he had most certainly never been in unrequited love. Why, his was a heart buoyantly and blissfully unattached, while he devoted himself to sampling all the charms life had to offer a young, wealthy, and handsome bachelor.
This was, in any case, his official position.
He suspected that several of those closest to him had guessed the truth—possibly a long time ago, as his particular instance of unrequited love had lasted nearly half of his life. But he took comfort in the fact that she hadn’t the slightest idea. And, God willing, she never would.
For he would be in hell if she ever learned.
Not that he was very far from it at the moment, watching the girl of his dreams, Miss Helena Fitzhugh, gazing at another man with adoration. Her elder sister was the acknowledged Great Beauty of their time, but it was always Miss Fitzhugh from whom he couldn’t look away. Her flame-bright hair, her luminous skin, her clever, wicked eyes.
He did not begrudge her falling in love with another. After all, if he refused to participate in the contest, he could not complain when
someone else won the prize. But he did mind, very much, that this man on whom she lavished her attention did not deserve it in the least.
Years ago, Andrew Martin had had the opportunity to marry her. But his mother had expected him to marry someone else in order to unite two adjacent properties. Lacking the courage to defy the elder Mrs. Martin, he’d married that someone else.
Even in a land full of cold, formal marriages, Mr. Martin’s marriage stood out for its coldness and formality. Husband and wife dined at different times, moved in different circles, and communicated almost entirely via written notices.
None of it mattered. Happy or otherwise, a married man was a married man, and a respectable young lady ought to search elsewhere for fulfillment.
Miss Fitzhugh was a rule breaker. Until now, however, those she’d trampled had not been so much rules as recommendations. When she became the only one of her siblings to pursue a university education, it was looked upon as an eccentricity. And when, upon coming into her small inheritance, she’d used the funds as capital for a publishing firm that she ran herself, the venture was dismissed as simply another idiosyncrasy in the family—after all, her brother, Earl Fitzhugh, managed the tinneries his heiress wife had inherited.
But indulging in a close friendship with a married man pushed the boundaries of acceptable behavior. She needed not commit any actual sins; the appearance of impropriety would be quite enough to wound her.
The drawing room at Lord Wrenworth’s country estate was awash in laughter and good cheer. Mrs. Denbigh, Miss Fitzhugh’s married friend who was her chaperone at the Wrenworth house party, was all too busy amusing herself. Hastings waited for a natural pause in the conversation in which he’d been taking part, excused himself, and crossed the room to where Miss Fitzhugh and Martin sat on a chaise longue, their bodies turned toward each other, effectively blocking anyone else from joining their tête-à-tête.
“Mr. Martin, what are you still doing here?” Hastings asked. “Haven’t you your new great tome to write?”
Miss Fitzhugh answered for Martin. “But he is working. He is conferring with his publisher.”
“And he has been conferring with his publisher since morning, if I’m not mistaken. A cook can confer with the mistress of the house all day long, but that doesn’t put dinner on the table. Mr. Martin would quite deprive his readers of his next excellent volume of history were he to spend all his hours talking about it and none setting the actual words to paper.”
Martin reddened. “You have a point, Lord Hastings.”
“I always have a point. I understand that you are here to work and that you’ve asked Lord Wrenworth to put a nice, quiet room at your disposal. You haven’t put that room to use, have you?”
Martin reddened further. “Ah—”
“I personally cannot wait for the next appearance of Offa of Mercia.”
“You’ve read the book?”
“Of course. Why do you look so surprised? Did I not display a ferocious intelligence and a wide-ranging curiosity when I was at university?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then consider yourself honored to count me among your readership. Now off you go. Write deep into the night. And stop monopolizing Miss Fitzhugh. You are a married man, remember?”
Martin chuckled uneasily and rose. Miss Fitzhugh shot Hastings an icy look. He ignored it, shooed Martin away, and took the spot on the chaise the latter had vacated.
“I don’t believe you read Mr. Martin’s book.”
Hastings read every book she published from cover to cover, even the ones she took on purely for financial gain. “First page and last page—and did I not sound impressive discussing it?”
Her gaze brimmed with disdain. “You sounded pompous and overbearing, Hastings. And to dismiss my friend from my presence? Truly, I expected better, even of you.”
He leaned back against the armrest of the chaise. “Let us spend no more words on Mr. Martin, who is surely beneath your notice. I’d much prefer to speak of how delicious you look tonight, my dear Miss Fitzhugh.”
He was not subtle about where his gaze dropped: directly into her décolletage. He’d loved her since before she’d sprouted breasts, and felt no compunction in enjoying the sight of them anytime her neckline allowed.
In reaction she snapped open her fan and neatly blocked his view of her bosom. “Don’t let me keep you, Hastings. Mrs. Ponsonby is trying to get your attention, if I’m not mistaken.”
“You are not mistaken,” he murmured. “They are all trying to get my attention, all the women I’ve ever met.”
“I know how this goes. You want me to protest that I’ve never wanted your attention. Then you’d counter that I’ve only ever pretended to ignore you, and that all along my indifference was my pitiful attempt to pique your curiosity.”
She sounded half-bored. He used to be able to anger her to a greater intensity, and for longer duration. More than even her scorn he feared her apathy—the opposite of love was not hate, but indifference: to exist in such proximity to her, yet make no impression upon her awareness, upon her soul.
He tsked. “Miss Fitzhugh, I am never that unoriginal. Of course you want my attention, but it is only so you can toss it back into my face. You take great pleasure in thwarting me, my dear.”
A spark flashed in her eyes—gone almost before he’d perceived it. He lived for those moments—moments when she was forced to look at him as who he was, instead of who she believed him to be.
The worst thing about falling in love with her so early in life was that he’d been an absolute snot at fourteen, at once arrogant and self-pitying. Almost as bad was the fact that he’d been nearly half a foot shorter than she at their first meeting—she’d been five foot nine, and he barely five foot four. Though she was only a few weeks older than he was, she’d looked upon him as a child—while he broiled with the heat and anguish of first love.
When nothing else garnered him her attention, he turned horrid. She was disgusted by this midget who tried to trick her into broom closets to steal kisses, and he was at once miserable and thrilled. Disgust was better than indifference; anything was better than indifference.
By the time his height at last exceeded hers—six foot two to her five foot eleven—and his baby fat melted away to reveal cheekbones sharp enough to cut diamonds, her opinion was firmly set against him. And he, no longer self-pitying but prouder than ever, refused to humble himself and ask for a fresh chance.
Not that he didn’t want to. Every time he came across her, with her perfect assurance, her winsome face, her lithe, sylphlike figure, he meant to repent aloud of all his past stupidity.
Yet all he ever did was further his record of obnoxiousness. A women’s college, is that what they call a hotbed of lesbianism these days? Becoming a publisher—so you think there still aren’t enough bad books to be had? That is a ravishing dress, my dear, dear Miss Fitzhugh; a shame you can’t fill it out with a few more curves—or any, for that matter.
Her ripostes always set his heart aflame. I knew I chose a women’s college for all the right reasons, but a hotbed of lesbianism—my goodness—that is like discovering a vein of gold on the land you’ve just bought, isn’t it? Of course, you would find the vast majority of books taxing, given your trouble with basic literacy—rest assured I will publish a few picture books just for you.
And his favorite, in response to his slur against her figure: My dear Lord Hastings, I’m afraid I didn’t quite hear you. You are mumbling. Is your mouth full of—why, it is!—indeed, a whole cluster of sour grapes. With the tip of her index finger, she’d drawn a line from her chin to just beneath the top of her neckline, cast him a look of pure derision, and swept off. And he’d never been more hopelessly in love.
“You are staring at me, Hastings,” said the present-day Miss Fitzhugh, an edge to her voice.
“Yes, I know, grieving over your soon-to-come deterioration—of course, you are still comely, but age will inexorably catch up with you. You
really aren’t getting any younger, Miss Fitzhugh.”
She fluttered her fan. “And do you know what they say of women of a certain age, what they want above all?”
Desire simmered in him at her not-quite smile. “Do tell.”
“To be rid of you, Hastings. So that they don’t have to waste what remains of their precious few years suffering your lecherous looks.”
“If I stopped looking at you lecherously, you’d miss it.”
“Why don’t we test that hypothesis? You stop and I’ll tell you after ten years or so whether I miss it.”
He gazed at her a little longer. He could watch her all night—in fact, he would watch her all night, from wherever he was in Lord Wrenworth’s drawing room—but the time had come for him to depart her chaise before she forcibly evicted him.
He rose and bowed slightly. “You wouldn’t last two weeks, Miss Fitzhugh.”
The ladies retired by half past ten. The gentlemen smoked a few cigars, played a few hands of cards and a few games of snooker. At half past twelve, Hastings was the last person to head up.
Except he didn’t go directly to his room. Instead he took himself to an alcove that allowed him a limited view of her room—unrequited love meant staring at closed doors, imagining otherwise. A faint light still shone under her door; she was probably reading in bed.
Just a few more pages.
Hampton House, her childhood home, had been of a modest size. When he’d visited, he’d had a room three doors down from hers. Every night, her governess would come around and urge her to turn off her lamp. Invariably she would answer, Just a few more pages.
And when the governess had left, he would slip out of his own room and peer at her door until her light was extinguished at last, before he returned to bed to stew anew in lust and yearning.
A habit that he’d kept to this day, whenever they happened to be under the same roof.
Her light turned off. He sighed. How long would he keep at this? Soon he would be twenty-seven. Did he still plan to stand in a dark passage in the middle of the night and gaze upon her door when he was thirty-seven? Forty-seven? Ninety-seven?
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