Tempting the Bride - By Sherry Thomas Page 0,3

stripped bare at once. She would lift one fine brow and laugh at the futility of his desires.

She walked past him. He blinked, disoriented by the abrupt evaporation of what had promised to be an eventful confrontation. She hadn’t come for him; she was going for a snack, perhaps, or another book. But she did not even have a hand candle to illuminate her way. It was as if she didn’t want anyone to see her—or where she was going.

He might not have been able to follow her had it been summer—she’d have heard his footsteps on the echoing floor. But it was winter and a thick carpet had been laid down. He walked soundlessly, keeping to the walls.

She approached the stairs. If she were headed for the warming kitchen or the library, she would go down the steps. She didn’t: She climbed up. Most of the guests had been placed on the same floor, the unmarried ladies and gentlemen put into separate wings. Above, in this wing, at least, were only the guests who’d arrived late—and Mr. Andrew Martin.

An airless sensation overtook him. He could not possibly be correct in his suspicions. She was far too clear-thinking a woman to visit the room of any man, let alone a married man, at this hour of the night.

On the next floor there was only one door with light still underneath. And when she approached, the door opened from inside. In the gap stood Andrew Martin, smiling.

She slipped in. The door closed. Hastings remained numbly in place.

She wasn’t just Martin’s friend and publisher. She was his lover.

He found himself seated on the floor—his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. She stayed in Martin’s room for two hours, leaving as quietly as she’d arrived, slipping down the stairs like a phantom of the night. Hastings did not return to his own room until almost dawn.

She had no obligation to care for his sentiments, but did she not care about her own future? What she had done was utter madness. Had she slipped into the room of a bachelor, Hastings would be no less annihilated, but at least then her lover could marry her, should the worst happen.

With Andrew Martin there was no such last resort.

Late the next morning he came across the two of them in the library, reading in two adjacent chairs. She radiated satisfaction. He turned around and walked out.

That night she visited Martin again. Hastings stood guard near the stairs, trying, unsuccessfully, to not imagine what might be taking place inside Martin’s room.

He spent his second sleepless night.

The following night, he sat on the carpeted steps, his head resting against the cold banister. He had to leave in the morning—he never remained away from his daughter for longer than three days. On his way home, should he stop by Fitz’s estate and gently break the news of Miss Fitzhugh’s misbehavior? He might be nothing and no one to Helena Fitzhugh, but her twin brother, Fitz, was his best friend.

Would she ever forgive him if he did?

He sat up straight. A pair of giggling guests were coming up the stairs. He recognized their whispering voices: a man and a woman, married, but not to each other.

They sounded more than a little drunk.

His heart pounding, he coughed loudly. The would-be adulterers fell silent. After a few seconds there came a hushed exchange. They turned around and descended.

It was several minutes before he could unclench his fingers from around the banister.

Not that those two were certain to have tried Martin’s door. Not that Martin’s door wouldn’t have already been securely locked, with a chair wedged beneath the door handle as an additional bulwark against intruders. But if this continued, someday, somewhere, someone would open a door that hadn’t been properly secured.

He slowly rose to his feet, leaning on the balustrade. He knew her. It was easier to pull a lion’s teeth than to change her mind. She would barrel down this path, refusing to be diverted, until she crashed into the limit of society’s tolerance.

And he, as much as even now he still wanted to, could not always protect her.

A lover’s embrace made one look favorably upon the entirety of the universe. As Helena Fitzhugh returned to her empty, unlit bedroom, she sighed in contentment.

Or rather, as much contentment as possible, given that her particular lover’s embrace had happened through her chemise and his nightshirt—Andrew was adamant that they not risk a pregnancy. But still, how new and thrilling