Jane Feather - [V Series]

by Violet

  “Lord St. Simon couldn’t imagine a more perfect wife,” he repeated with mock solemnity.

  Tamsyn opened her arms. “As it happens, Lady St. Simon couldn’t imagine another husband. And at the moment she is very very hungry for love, mi esposo.”

  He smiled, and the teasing light was gone from his eyes as he came down onto the bed beside her. “You will never go hungry for my love, querida.“

  “A love for all life,” she declared, tracing his mouth with her fingertip.

  “Is there another kind?” He clasped her wrist and sucked her fingertip between his lips, his teeth lightly grazing the pad.

  “The baron and Cecile didn’t think so.” She smiled, her eyes growing languid under the sensual caress.

  “Sensible pair, your parents,” he observed judiciously, turning her hand and kissing her palm. “A love for all life, sweetheart, and no holds barred.” His tongue stroked over her palm, darted between her fingers.

  “No holds barred,” Tamsyn murmured, savoring the promise behind the laughter in his bright-blue gaze. “Now, that sounds most enticing, milord brigadier.”

  “We aim to please, ma’am.”

  About the Author

  JANE FEATHER is the New York Times bestselling, award-winning author of The Emerald Swan, The Silver Rose, The Diamond Slipper, Vanity, Vice, Violet, and many more historical romances. She was born in Cairo, Egypt, and grew up in the New Forest, in the south of England. She began her writing career after she and her family moved to Washington, D.C., in 1981. She now has over six million books in print.

  The Brides trilogy, which started with

  The Hostage Bride, continues with …

  The Accidental Bride

  by Jane Feather

  Three unconventional young women vow never to get married, only to be overtaken by destiny. In The Accidental Bride, Phoebe—the “awkward” one—stumbles into passion, intrigue, and the romance of a lifetime.

  Read on for an excerpt of this captivating love story from the New York Times bestselling Jane Feather …

  The Accidental Bride

  WOODSTOCK, OXFORD, FEBRUARY, 1646

  Lady Phoebe Carlton lay very still listening to her bedmate’s even breathing. Olivia was a very light sleeper and woke at the slightest sound. And tonight, Olivia mustn’t know what Phoebe was about. They never had secrets from each other and were as close if not closer than sisters. But Phoebe couldn’t afford for her dearest friend to know about her present enterprise.

  Phoebe pushed aside the coverlet and slipped to the floor. Olivia stirred and turned over. Phoebe froze. The fire in the grate was almost out and it was so cold in the chamber that her breath formed a pale fog in the dim light from the guttering candle on the mantel. Olivia was afraid of the dark and they always kept a candle burning until she was asleep.

  Olivia’s even breathing resumed and Phoebe tiptoed across the chamber to the armoire. She had left it partly open so it wouldn’t squeak. She took out the bundle of clothes and the small cloakbag and crept on her freezing bare feet to the door. She lifted the latch and opened it just wide enough for her to slide side-ways through and into the dark passage beyond.

  Shivering, she scrambled into her clothes over her nightshift. There were no candles in the sconces in the passage and it was pitchdark, but Phoebe found the darkness comforting. If she could see no one, then no one could see her.

  The house was silent but for the usual nighttime creaks of old wood settling. She dragged on her woolen stockings, and carrying her boots and the cloakbag, crept down the corridor toward the wide staircase leading down to the great hall.

  The hall was in shadow, lit only by the still glowing embers in the vast fireplace at the far end. The great roofbeams were a dark and heavy presence above her head as she tiptoed in her stockinged feet down the stairs. It was a mad, crazy thing she was doing, but Phoebe could see no alternative. She would not be sold into marriage, sold like a prize pig at the fair, to a man who had no real interest in her, except as a breeding cow.

  Phoebe grimaced at her mixed metaphors, but they both nevertheless struck her as accurate descriptions of her situation. She wasn’t living in the middle ages. It should not be possible to compel someone into a distasteful marriage, and yet, if she didn’t take drastic action, that was exactly what was going to happen. Her father refused to listen to reason; he saw only his own advantage and had every intention of disposing of his only remaining daughter to suit himself.

  Phoebe muttered under her breath as she crossed the hall, the cold from the flagstones striking up through her stockings. Reminding herself of her father’s intractable selfishness buoyed her up. She was terrified of what she was about to do. It was absolute madness to attempt such a flight, but she would not marry a man who barely noticed her existence.

  The great oak door was bolted and barred. She set down her boots and cloakbag and lifted the iron bar. It was heavy but she managed to set it back into the brackets at the side of the door. She reached up and drew the first bolt, then bent to draw the second at the base of the door. She was breathing quickly and, despite the cold, beads of sweat gathered between her breasts. She was aware of nothing but the door, its massive solidity in front of her filling her vision, both interior and exterior.

  Slowly, she pulled the door open. A blast of frigid air struck her like a blow. She took a deep breath …

  And then the door was suddenly banged closed again. An arm had reached over her shoulder; a flat hand rested against the door jamb. Phoebe stared at the hand … at the arm … in total stupefaction. Where had it come from? She felt the warmth of the body at her back, a large presence that was blocking her retreat just as the now closed door prevented her advance.

  She turned her head, raised her eyes, and met the puzzled and distinctly irritated gaze of her intended bridegroom.

  Cato, Marquis of Granville, regarded her in silence for a minute. When he spoke it was an almost shocking sound after the dark silence. “What in God’s name are you doing, Phoebe?”

  His voice, rich and tawny, as always these days sent a little shiver down her spine. For a moment she was at a loss for words and stood staring, slack-jawed and dumb as any village idiot—not even acute dismay could prevent the cross comparison.

  “I was going for a walk, sir,” she said finally and absurdly.

  Cato looked at her incredulously. “At three o’clock in the morning. Don’t be ridiculous.” His gaze sharpened, the brown eyes, so dark as to be almost black in the shadowy dimness of the hall, narrowed. He glanced down at the cloakbag and her boots, standing neatly side by side.

  “A walk, eh?” he queried with undisguised sarcasm. “In your stockinged feet, no less.” He put his hands on her shoulders and moved her aside, then shot the bolts on the door again and dropped the bar back in place. It fell with a heavy clang that sounded to Phoebe in her present melodramatic mood like a veritable death knell.

  He bent to pick up the cloakbag and with a curt, “Come,” moved away toward the door at the rear of the hall that opened onto his study.

  Phoebe glanced at her boots, then shrugged with dull resignation and left them where they were. She followed the marquis’s broad back, noticing despite herself how the rich velvet of his nightrobe caressed his wide powerful shoulders, fell to his booted ankles in elegant black folds. Had he been about to go up to bed? How could she possibly have been so stupid as not to have noticed the yellow line of that candlelight beneath his door. But it hadn’t occurred to her anyone would still be up and about at this ungodly hour.

  Cato stalked into his study and dropped the cloakbag on the table with a gesture that struck Phoebe as contemptuous. Then he turned back to her, the fur-trimmed robe swinging around his ankles. “Close the door. There’s no reason why anyone else should be forced into this vigil.”

  Phoebe closed the door and stood with her back against it. Cato’s study was warm, the fire well built and blazing, but there was little warmth in the marquis’s gaze as
he regarded her in frowning silence. Then he turned back to the bag on the table.

  “So,” he began in a conversational tone, “You were going for a walk, were you?” He unclasped the bag and drew out Phoebe’s best cloak. He laid it over a chair and continued to remove the contents of the bag one by one. His eyes beneath sardonically raised brows never left her face as he shook out her clean linen, her shifts and stockings and chemises, laying them with exaggerated care over the chair. Lastly he placed her hairbrushes on the table with the little packet of hair pins and ribbons.

  “Strange baggage to accompany a walk,” he observed. “But then anyone choosing to go for a walk at three in the morning in the middle of January is probably capable of any oddity, wouldn’t you think?”

  Phoebe wanted to throw something at him. Instead she went over to the table and began stolidly to replace the pathetic assortment of her worldly goods in the bag. “I’ll go back to bed now,” she said colorlessly.

  “Not quite yet.” Cato put a hand on her arm. “I’m afraid you owe me an explanation. For the last two years you’ve been living, I assume contentedly, under my roof. And now it appears you’re intending to flit away by moonlight without a word to anyone … Or is Olivia a part of this?” His voice had sharpened.

  “Olivia doesn’t know anything, my lord,” Phoebe stated. “This is not her fault.”

  Olivia’s father merely nodded. “So, an explanation, if you please.”

  How could he not know? How could she possibly be so drawn to this man … find him so impossibly attractive … when as far as he was concerned she was of no more importance than an ant … merely a convenient means to an end. He hadn’t looked at her properly once in the two years she’d been living under his roof. She was certain the idea for this marriage had come from her father, and Cato had simply seen the advantages.

  His wife, Diana, Phoebe’s sister, had died eight months earlier. It was common practice for a widower to marry his sister-in-law. It kept dowries in the family and maintained the original alliance between the two families. Of course it was to Cato’s advantage. Of course he’d agreed.

  No one had consulted Phoebe. They hadn’t thought it necessary. There had been not even the semblance of courtship …

  Cato continued to frown at her. Absently he noticed that the buttons of her jacket were done up wrongly, as if she’d dressed in haste and in the dark. Her thick, light brown hair, incompetently dragged into a knot on the top of her head, was flying loose in every direction. The clasp of her cloak was hanging by a thread. She was very untidy, he caught himself thinking. He realized that he’d noticed it often before. He remembered now that Diana had complained about it constantly.

  “Phoebe …” he prompted with an edge of impatience.

  Phoebe took a deep breath and said in a rush, “I do not wish to be married, sir. I’ve never wished to be married. I won’t be married.”

  It seemed that she had silenced the marquis. His frown deepened. He ran a hand through his close-cropped thatch of dark brown hair back from the pronounced widow’s peak to his nape. It was a gesture with which Phoebe was achingly familiar. It was something he did whenever he was deep in thought, distracted by some detail or contemplating some plan of action. And these days it never failed to turn her knees to water.

  Cato turned and went over to a massive mahogany sideboard. He poured wine from a silver decanter into a pewter cup, took a thoughtful sip, and then turned back to Phoebe.

  “Let me understand this. Do you not wish to marry me in particular … or do you have a generalized dislike of the marital state?” His voice had lost its edge and sounded merely curious.

  If I thought there was the slightest chance you might pay me as much attention as you pay your horses, or find me as interesting as politics and this godforsaken war, I would marry you like a shot, Phoebe thought bitterly.

  She said, “I’m not interested in marrying anyone, Lord Granville. I don’t see the advantages in it … or at least not for me.”

  It was such an extraordinary, ridiculous, statement that Cato laughed. “My dear girl, you cannot live without a husband. Who’s to put a roof over your head? Food in your belly? Clothes on your back?”

  The laughter faded from his eyes as he saw her wide generous mouth take a stubborn turn. He said brusquely, “I doubt your father will continue to support an undutiful and ungrateful daughter.”

  “Would you refuse to support Olivia in such a situation?” Phoebe demanded.

  Cato responded curtly, “That is not to the point.”

  It was to the point since Olivia had even less intention than Phoebe of submitting to the dictates of a husband but Phoebe held her tongue. It was not for her to say.

  “So rather than find yourself the Marchioness of Granville, living in comfort and security, you choose to fly off into the night, into a war-torn countryside infested with roaming soldiers who would rape and murder you as soon as look at you?” The sardonic note was back in his voice. He took another sip of wine and regarded her over the lip of his cup.

  Phoebe, never one to beat around the bush, asked bluntly, “Lord Granville, would you please tell my father that you don’t wish to marry me after all?”

  “No!” Cato declared with a degree of force. “I will tell him no such thing. If you held me in distaste, then I would do so, but since your reasons for disliking this marriage are utterly without merit … the mere whims of a foolish girl … I will do no such thing.”

  “I am not foolish,” Phoebe said in a low voice. “I am surely entitled to my opinions, sir.”

  “Sensible opinions, yes,” he snapped. Then his expression softened somewhat. Although she was the same age as her sister Diana had been at her marriage, Phoebe was somehow less protected, he thought. She had fewer defenses. Diana had never exhibited the slightest vulnerability. She had moved through life, beautiful and perhaps as brittle as the finest porcelain. Graceful and regal as any swan. Cato didn’t think she had ever questioned herself, or her entitlement. She knew who she was and what she was.

  Diana’s rounded, tangled little sister was a bird of a rather different feather, he thought. A rather ragged robin. The comparison surprised him into a fleeting smile.

  Phoebe caught the flicker of the smile. It was surprising coming after that uncompromising statement. But then it had disappeared and she thought she’d been mistaken. Why would he smile in this horrible situation? Why would anybody smile?

  “Go back to bed,” Cato said. He handed her the cloakbag. “I’ll not mention this to your father.”

  That was a concession. Phoebe understood that he was in duty bound to tell Lord Carlton of his daughter’s outrageous conduct. And with another father, it might have been no bad thing. But Lord Carlton would not consider that desperation could have fueled his daughter’s actions. He would see only intolerable disrespect and would act accordingly.

  But she couldn’t quite bring herself to thank the marquise. The fact that he had the power to make her life miserable and chose not to exercise it didn’t strike her as a matter for congratulation. She sketched a curtsy and left his study, making her way back to bed.

  She undressed in the passage again, as anxious not to awaken Olivia as she’d been before. But for different reasons. Before, Olivia’s ignorance would have protected her from any accusations of implication in Phoebe’s flight. But now, the flight in ruins, if Olivia awoke Phoebe would have to tell her everything. And she had no idea how to explain this bolt from the blue that had felled her just before Christmas.

  She’d been sitting in the apple loft, overlooking the stableyard, wrestling with a recalcitrant stanza of a poem she was writing, when Cato had ridden in with a troop of Roundhead cavalry. For two years Phoebe had seen the marquis of Granville go about his daily business and he’d barely impinged on her consciousness. And she’d known she hadn’t impinged on his. But that crisp December day something very strange happened.

  Once more in her shift, Phoebe crept into bed beside O
livia. Her side of the bed was cold now and she inched closer to Olivia. She was wide awake and lay looking up at the dark shape of the tapestry tester, idly picturing the bucolic scene of a May Day celebration that was depicted above her.

  But her mind wouldn’t let go of the memory of that moment before Christmas when she’d fallen in love … or lust … or whatever this hideous inconvenience was … with Cato, Marquis of Granville.

  She’d watched him ride into the yard on his bay charger—something she’d seen many times. He’d been at the head of the troop, but when he’d drawn rein, Giles Crampton, his lieutenant, had come up beside him. Cato had leaned sideways to talk to him.

  He was bareheaded and Phoebe had noticed how in the sunlight his dark brown hair had a flicker of gold running through it. He’d moved a gauntletted hand in a gesture to Giles, and Phoebe’s heart had seemed to turn over. This kind of thing happened in poetry all the time. But, poet though she was, Phoebe was rarely plagued by an excess of sentiment and she had never imagined that verse was a veritable expression of reality.

  And yet she’d sat in the apple loft, her quill dripping ink on her precious vellum, her apple halfway to her mouth, while the entire surface of her skin had grown hotter and hotter.

  He’d dismounted and she’d gazed, transfixed, at the power behind his agile movements. She’d gazed at his profile, noticing for the first time the slight bump at the bridge of his long nose, the square jut of his chin, the fine, straight line of his mouth.

  Phoebe grimaced fiercely in the darkness. It should have gone away … should have been a moment of angelic lunacy. But it hadn’t gone away. She heard his voice, his foot on the stair, and she was rendered weak as a kitten. When he walked into a room, she had to leave or sit down before her knees betrayed her.

  It was absurd. Yet she could do nothing about it. For a rational being, it was the ultimate injustice. And then two days ago her father had informed her that she was to replace her dead sister as Lord Granville’s wife. For a moment the world had spun on its axis. The glorious prospect of achieving her heart’s desire lay before her. Love and lust with the man whose simple presence was enough to set her heart beating like a drum.