Secrets of a Runaway Bride (37 page)
They all laughed. “Oh, Frances,” Annie said, laughing through the tears that were now streaming down her face. “Thank you for being happy for me.” She squeezed her friend’s hand. “And I shall arrange an introduction to Mr. Charles Holloway at your earliest convenience.”
“It shall be a beautiful wedding.” Lily sighed. “And Frances, you must help us plan it.”
Frances nodded happily. “I daresay it will be the only wedding in London history to include a dog, a raccoon, and a fox.”
“And the most beautiful bride in the world,” Jordan said, running a hand over Annie’s hair.
“I daresay the most beautiful groom,” Annie replied, and the two of them stared longingly into each other’s eyes.
Devon cleared his throat. “Yes, well, seems the wedding cannot happen soon enough.”
“Agreed,” both Jordan and Annie said simultaneously.
“We must marry as soon as possible,” Jordan said, squeezing Annie’s hand in his.
“Why is that, my lord?” Annie replied with a smile.
“Because, my love, I’m not about to give you the chance to run away again.”
Annie leaned up on tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I am going to be the author of a top-selling pamphlet on the subject.” She winked at him. “But I would never run from you, my lord. Never run from you.”
Read on for an excerpt from Valerie Bowman’s next book
Secrets of a Scandalous Marriage
Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
The Tower of London, December 1816
The large metal door to her cell scraped open and Kate closed her eyes. Then she stepped forward, summoned from one cold dank room into another. She had a visitor. Her first since she’d been taken to the gaol.
She opened her eyes. The harsh winter light filtered through the only window in the antechamber. The yeoman warder wore a blank expression on his face. He and the other guards always gave her the benefit of respect due her title. Whether they liked it or not.
The guard stepped aside, revealing the room’s other occupant. Interesting. Her visitor was a man. She narrowed her eyes on him. Who was he and what did he want with her? He stood with his straight back to her. He was tall, that much she could discern. Tall and cloaked in shadows.
The smell of mold and decay, rife in the Tower, made her stomach clench. The unforgiving winter wind whipped through the eaves, raising gooseflesh across her arms. She shivered and clutched her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
“Ye ’ave ten minutes an’ not a moment more,” the gaoler announced before wrenching open the door and clanging it shut behind him as he left. The loud scrape and subsequent clank sealed Kate and the stranger in the small room together. She took a step back. A small rickety table rested between them. She was glad for that bit of separation at least. Whoever the man was, his clothing marked him a gentleman. He had better behave as one.
The tall man turned to greet her. He doffed his hat, but she still couldn’t make out his face. He wore a dark gray wool overcoat of considerable expense. A stray beam of sunlight floated through the dirty air, let in by the one small window nestled in the stone wall across from them.
He executed a perfect bow. “Your Grace?”
Kate cringed. She detested that title. “Bowing to a prisoner?” she asked in a voice containing a bit of irony. “Aren’t you a gentleman?”
He smiled and a set of perfectly white teeth flashed in the darkness. “You’re still a duchess, Your Grace.”
She pushed the hood from her head and took a tentative step forward. The stranger’s eyes flared for a moment and he sucked in his breath.
Kate’s stomach clenched. No doubt she looked a fright. She hadn’t bathed in days and could only imagine her own smell. Her hair, normally piled properly atop her head, was a mass of tangled red curls around her shoulders. She might be grimy and in trouble, but she wasn’t broken. And she refused to let the stranger see that his reaction affected her. She pushed up her chin and eyed him warily.
He stepped forward then, into the light, and Kate narrowed her eyes on his face, rapidly assessing every detail. She didn’t know him. But whoever he was, the man was handsome. Devastatingly so. Perhaps in his early thirties, he had dark-brown cropped hair, a perfectly straight nose, a square jaw. But his eyes were what truly captivated. Hazel in color, nearly green, assessing, knowing, intelligent eyes. They stole her breath. Lower, the faintest hint of a smile rested upon expertly molded male lips.
“Do you know who I am?” His voice splintered the quiet cold like a hammer hitting ice.
She regarded him with a steady stare. “Are you a barrister? Come for my defense?”
The man furrowed his brow. “You haven’t yet been given access to a barrister?”
She straightened her shoulders. “I’ve been … waiting.”
The stranger’s captivating eyes narrowed on her. “From what I understand, you’ve been in gaol for at least a fortnight. I find it difficult to believe a lady of your station has not yet met with a barrister.”
She lifted her chin. “Be that as it may, I have not.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint, Your Grace, but no, I am no barrister.”
“Not a barrister? Then who are you and why have you come to visit me? Please don’t tell me it’s just to see the spectacle of a duchess accused of murder.”
His gaze remained pinned to her face, his eyes still assessing, wary. “I am here to assist you, Your Grace.”
“Assist me?” she scoffed, stepping forward to get a closer look at the man. “I rather doubt that. Assist yourself perhaps. Tell me, how much did you bribe the gaoler to let you see the infamous duchess who shot her husband?”
The stranger arched a brow. “Did you? Murder your husband?”
She clenched her jaw. Then she laughed. “Oh, but of course. Didn’t you know? My husband, the Duke of Markingham, made it public that he intended to seek a divorce. Being divorced would have caused a horrible scandal. I couldn’t allow that. So, naturally…” She squeezed her fists against the fabric of her shawl, twisting it so tightly that her fingers ached. “Naturally, I decided to shoot him, causing an even worse scandal. Makes perfect sense. Don’t you agree?”
The corner of the stranger’s mouth quirked up. “My apologies, Your Grace. It was not my intention to offend. I assure you, I’m not a common gossipmonger come to witness your degradation. I intend to assist you. And yes, in return, there is something I want.”
She lifted both brows. “So, tell me then. What is it?”
He swept another bow. “I’ve come to make you an offer, Your Grace. One that can benefit us both.”
Pulling her shawl over her shoulders more tightly, Kate crossed her arms over her chest. “Forgive me if I am a bit doubtful, sir. I’ve seen enough deception in my twenty-eight years to be highly skeptical of the promises of men.”
His head quirked to the side and he regarded her with an inquisitive look. Her statement had obviously surprised him. “I understand, Your Grace. And I fully intend to explain. But first, I must ask for your discretion. If we are to help each other, I cannot reveal my identity unless you promise to keep what I am about to tell you entirely secret.”
She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes on him. “Secret? Are you a spy?”
His brow rose, and tension seemed to radiate through his body. “Would you aid me if I were?”
She pointed toward the door. “Get out,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Pardon?”
Her nails dug so hard into her shawl she was certain she would rip the fabric. “I may be accused of a murder I did not commit, but being called a traitor to my homeland is not an insult I will bear. If you are seeking my aid in that manner, you most certainly have come to the wrong person. I am not, and never will be, that desperate.” She turned toward the door to call for the gaoler.
The stranger quickly held up a hand. “I assure you, Your Grace. I am no spy.”
Kate snapped her mouth closed and turned back to him, still eyeing him warily. “Then what exactly do you want from me?”
He nodded slowly. “Your promise, first?”
She watched him, assessing him from the top of his handsome head to the tips of his precisely polished—and obviously expensive—top boots. Apparently, this man was willing or desperate enough to trust an accused murderess, too. Interesting. She had absolutely no reason to trust him, however. Every reason not to, actually. But conversing with a handsome stranger about whatever daft idea he had was preferable to counting the cracks in the walls of her cell or writing letters to … nobody. “Very well, you have my promise. Now tell me, who are you and why are you here?”
The stranger clicked his heels together and bowed again. “James Bancroft, Viscount Medford, at your service.”
She couldn’t help the tiny gasp that escaped her lips. An aristocrat. The man was a peer. Why on earth would a peer pay her a visit? “Why are you here, my lord?”
Brushing back his coat, he pulled papers from an inside pocket and tossed them on the wooden table.
Her eyes still trained on him, Kate stepped forward and picked up the papers. She scanned the first page. It was a pamphlet. She shuffled through the stack. But the pages were blank.
She gestured to the papers with her chin. “What is this?”
His mouth quirked again. Distracting, that. “You might say I have a bit of a hobby on the side. A printing press.”
Her gaze snapped to his face and she stepped back, clutching the pamphlet, genuinely surprised. And a little bit intrigued. “A viscount in trade?”
He grinned. “That’s the secret.” His grin faded and he strode forward. Bracing his hands apart, he leaned across the table. “I offer women in scandalous situations a unique opportunity. This, Your Grace, is a chance to tell your side of the story.…”
“What do you mean … exactly?”
His eyes blazed at her. His jaw tightened. “Write a pamphlet for me. It will be a top seller, I assure you.”
She shook her head. “A pamphlet? Telling my story? What do I stand to gain from it?”
His eyes, dark green now, captured hers. “What do you want?”
Kate spun around, pacing across the small room. A chance to tell her story? A frisson of hope skittered down her spine. Yes. An opportunity to inform the entire city what a hideous husband George had been. To tell the truth. Lord Medford didn’t know it, but he’d just offered her what she truly wanted. She must handle this carefully, however. There was something else she wanted. Well, two things actually. She turned back toward him. “And what exactly will the pamphlet be named, my lord?”
His jaw relaxed and his eyes lost some of their intensity. He stood up again to his full height and regarded her down the length of his nose. “
Secrets of a Scandalous Marriage
.”
ALSO BY VALERIE BOWMAN
Secrets of a Wedding Night
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Valerie Bowman
grew up in Illinois with six sisters (she’s the youngest) and a huge supply of historical romance novels. After a cold and snowy stint earning a degree in English with a minor in history at Smith College, she moved to Florida the first chance she got.
Valerie now lives in Jacksonville with her two rascally dogs. When she’s not writing, she keeps busy reading, traveling, or vacillating between watching crazy reality TV and PBS.
Valerie loves to hear from readers. Find her on Facebook, Twitter, and at
www.ValerieBowmanBooks.com
.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
SECRETS OF A RUNAWAY BRIDE
Copyright © 2013 by Valerie Bowman.
Excerpt from
Secrets of a Scandalous Marriage
copyright © 2013 by Valerie Bowman.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
eISBN: 9781466813205
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / April 2013
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.