The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(86)
Alice let out a small laugh. “I wanted you to know that you’ve always been in my heart. Even when you were gone.”
Henderson looked down, overwhelmed by emotion. To have someone love him so was astounding. “And now we have forever.”
“To live happily.” She beamed him a smile.
“Ever.”
She laughed, she just couldn’t stop herself. “After.”
Read on for an excerpt from the next book in Jane Goodger’s charming Brides of St. Ives series.
The Earl Most Likely
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Preface
Long before Augustus Lawton saw Costille House, his ancestral home, he heard it. Loud strains of music flowed in the breeze, distorted and haunting, along with raucous laughter and the occasional delighted scream.
His wife was having a party, apparently. And to think she’d lamented to him in her last letter about how bored she was. How lonely. Her infrequent letters were no more than long lists of complaints that were entirely justified. Unhappy wife, unhappy life. A truer sentiment had never been uttered.
Lenore was deeply, unfathomably unhappy and had been since the day she’d married him. Their wedding night ended with her shouting, “I hate you. If you ever touch me again, I shall kill you.” He’d obliged.
As he turned the bend in the long, tree-lined road that led to Costille, he pulled up short and had the ridiculous urge to double back to be certain he was on the correct lane. It had been nearly three years since he’d been home, after all. But no, that brilliantly lit Medieval castle was Costille, except the last time he’d been home they’d had no gaslights, nothing to modernize the old place, not even water closets. Augustus’s father, the Earl of Berkley, had generously allowed Lenore to stay at Costille in his absence, mostly because he knew she would hate living there (they disliked one another intensely). Her stay was allowed with one caveat: She was to do nothing to change the house.
Trepidation filled Augustus as he urged his horse to move toward Costille, the sounds of the party getting louder the closer he got. Costille was a sprawling Tudor house, an addition to the original Medieval castle, with a square turret that dominated the back of the structure. When he’d been a boy, it had been a source of pride that the turret could be seen from nearly every place in St. Ives. He could never get lost, never lose his way, as long as he could see his home. His father, as strong and indestructible as this castle, shared only one thing with his son—his love of Costille.
Augustus rode his horse slowly beneath a smaller square tower with an arched entry that led to the courtyard just as a drunken reveler spilled from the home’s main door. He was easy to spot because several large gas lanterns hissed in the courtyard, shedding a light so strong, Augustus was tempted to shield his eyes.
“Hey,” the man called. “The stables are in the back, you dumb sod.” He was wearing formal attire, but his tie was askew and his hair a rumpled mess, as though he’d been recently under the covers servicing a lady friend. Augustus wondered, without a hint of jealousy, if it had been his wife.
“As this is my home, I know very well where the stables are, sir.”
The man squinted at him, swaying on his feet. “Lord Berkley?” he asked, clearly confused to see such a young man before him.
“His son, Augustus Lawton, Lord Greenwich.” It felt strange to say his title when for the past three years he’d only been known as Gus. The American West was not a place where a man styled himself higher than another. His gun, his ability to shoot and ride a horse, those were the marks of a man’s worth. When he’d decided to return home, part of him wanted to keep his beard, his long hair, his fringed, leather jacket and thick canvas trousers, just to see his father’s reaction. But when Augustus made the decision to return, he did so wholeheartedly. It was time to grow up, to take his place in society, to try to be some sort of husband to the bride he’d abandoned. Someday he would be the Earl of Berkley and by God, he wanted heirs. Lenore would be horrified to know what had precipitated his return.
When Augustus told the man his title, he straightened and saluted, and Augustus couldn’t help but smile. He wasn’t one to stand on ceremony so wasn’t at all insulted. His drunk friend wandered to the far side of the courtyard and pissed in some bushes as Augustus dismounted and tied his borrowed steed to a post. The noise of the party suddenly got louder, and the courtyard even brighter, and Augustus realized it was because the drunken fool had gone back into the house and left the doors wide open.
That was when Augustus let out a small sound, the type a man makes when he is stabbed or shot. It was difficult to breathe, to stand, to see.
For through that well-lit door, Augustus saw a nightmare. A modern Victorian floral nightmare.
“I’ll bloody kill her.”
Chapter 1
Harriet Anderson had long ago realized she would never light up a room with her bubbly personality, would never make a man’s head turn with her beauty, would never provoke anyone’s interest. She was a dimmer version of her sister, Clara, a shadow in the moonlight, not quite seen.
What a glorious thing that was.
Harriet knew that her friends felt sorry for her. Poor Harriet, so shy, so reserved. So free.
Just that afternoon, her parents and sister had climbed aboard a carriage for a three-hour drive to Plymouth to visit some distant relative who’d mentioned she was hosting Baron Such-and-Such. Harriet had been excused, much to her delight. They would be staying overnight at least, which meant Harriet had more than twenty-four hours of doing whatever she liked. Clara, ever cheerful, scrambled aboard the carriage and waved good-bye, completely oblivious to the unfairness of leaving Harriet behind. Harriet never complained, for the times her parents were gone were perhaps the most wonderful days of the year. Being dragged around whilst they showed off their elder daughter was something Harriet didn’t miss in the least.