A Valentine Wedding   (eBook - Adobe EPUB) (eBook)

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Dear Reader,

In celebration of true love, here's a Valentine's Day treat--the tale of two star-crossed lovers who can't see that they're perfect for each other....

Lady Emma Beaumont and Lord Alasdair Chase were once inseparable childhood friends, then betrothed lovers. But something went dreadfully awry, and Emma left Alasdair practically at the altar.

Now, two years later, Emma has inherited a substantial fortune...but there's one small string attached: until the day she weds, Emma cannot spend a farthing without Alasdair's consent.

The thought of having to go to Alasdair, with his mocking smile and derisive eyes, every time she needs money is not to be borne. Emma swears to Alasdair that she'll have both a husband--and a lover--by St. Valentine's Day.

Alasdair vows she won't--unless he himself becomes both her lover and her husband. In fact, he's looking forward to employing every form of sensual persuasion he dares to convince his passionate, headstrong Emma that she'd rather have him than any other man.

Will he succeed?...or will Emma get her way?

Warmest wishes,

Jane Feather

P.S. In summer '99, look for The Accidental Bride, the next volume in my Brides trilogy, which began with The Hostage Bride. Three unconventional young women vow never to marry, only to be overtaken by destiny.... In The Accidental Bride, Phoebe, the "awkward" one, stumbles into romance, adventure, and passion....

From the Paperback edition.

Excerpts:
From the book
Grantley Manor, EnglandDecember, 1810

"It's outrageous! Insufferable! I absolutely will not tolerate it." Emma Beaumont tore at the lace-edged handkerchief between her hands as she paced the elegant salon. The flounced hem of her gown of dove gray crepe swung with every step.

"Oh, Emma, dearest, you cannot talk so," declared a middle-aged lady in a round gown of dark silk. The lappets of her cap trembled against her cheek as she shook her head decisively.

"Oh, can I not, Maria?" exclaimed the infuriated Lady Emma. "Mr. Critchley, something must be done about this. I insist upon it. I cannot imagine what Ned can have been thinking."

An embarrassed silence followed her declaration. Mr. Critchley coughed behind his hand and rustled his lawyer's papers. The middle-aged lady plied her fan vigorously. An elderly couple seated side by side on a sofa with guilded scroll ends stared into space. The man thumped his cane on the Aubusson carpet with monotonous thuds, while his spouse pursed her lips and gave a sour little nod, as if vindicated in some way.

"Emma . . . Emma!" a voice drawled from the far side of the room. "You're putting everyone to the blush." Alasdair Chase was leaning against the wall of bookshelves, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his buckskin britches. His mud-splashed topboots gave evidence of a day's hunting. There was a wicked glimmer in his green eyes, a sardonic quirk to his mouth.

Emma spun around on the speaker. "All but you, Alasdair, I daresay," she said with the same bitter fury as before. "Just what arguments did you use with Ned to get him to agree to this . . . this intolerable insult?"

The tapping of the cane grew more pronounced; the elderly gentleman coughed vigorously against his hand.

"Emma!" moaned Maria from behind her fan. "Only think what you're saying."

"Yes, indeed, Lady Emma . . . only consider," murmured the distressed lawyer.

Emma flushed and pressed her palms to her cheeks. "I did not mean . . ."

"If you must rail at me, Emma, then do so in private." Alasdair pushed himself away from the wall and crossed the room toward her. He moved with a lithe step; his slender body was supple as a rapier, giving the impression of sinew and speed rather than muscular power. A hand cupped her elbow. "Come," he said in soft command, and drew her toward a door in the far wall.

Emma went with him without protest. Her color was still high, her fingers still ripped at the now ragged handkerchief, but she was in control of herself again, aware once more of her audience and the impropriety of her words.

Alasdair closed the door behind them. They were in a small music room containing a handsome pianoforte and a gilded harp. He went to the piano, raised the cover, and played a scale, a vibrant ripple of notes that filled the small chamber.

Emma walked to the window. The winter afternoon was drawing in, the stark leafless trees bending against a sharp northeasterly wind coming off the Solent.

The notes faded and she heard the soft thud as the lid of the piano was replaced. She turned around. Alasdair stood with his back to the instrument, his hands resting on the smooth cherrywood cover behind him.

"So . . ." he invited with a lifted eyebrow. "Between ourselves, you may say what you please. I shall not take offence."

"It would ill become you to do so," Emma...

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