Book Description
Lady Clara Harkhams wasn't a great beauty, but men clamored for her hand. She practiced the art of flirting with gay abandon, but she'd long ago given her body and soul to Lucien Bryland, the viscount she was promised to at birth. Now, after years abroad, Lucien returned a different man: dark, brooding, his piercing gaze setting her afire. His lips possessed her, his strong arms claimed her even as she refused to marry the stranger he'd become.
Lucien knew he could never trust the coquette. But he planned the ultimate revenge--in marriage. Soon, he was sure Clara would be pregnant and tucked away in the country as he returned to London, his mistress, and the ton. So he'd wagered at White's. But the woman he tried to hate obsessed him. He had set out to enslave her, to make her want him as he wanted her. Yet the opposite seemed to be happening. Clara was an opiate and he was completely addicted. He could compel her to marry him--but he would have to win her love once again....
Lucien knew he could never trust the coquette. But he planned the ultimate revenge--in marriage. Soon, he was sure Clara would be pregnant and tucked away in the country as he returned to London, his mistress, and the ton. So he'd wagered at White's. But the woman he tried to hate obsessed him. He had set out to enslave her, to make her want him as he wanted her. Yet the opposite seemed to be happening. Clara was an opiate and he was completely addicted. He could compel her to marry him--but he would have to win her love once again....
From the Publisher
"What a wonderful story, so beautifully told. Everyone will surely love it and want to read it time and again."
--Romance Reviews
"Mary Spencer is a wonder!"
--Romantic Times
Praise for the previous novels of Mary Spencer:
"Resounding with chivalry, oftentimes humorous and heartwrenchingly realistic, Honor showcases Ms. Spencer's skill in portraying the innermost depths of humanity with vivid prose."
--Romantic Times
"With humor, poignancy, plentiful adventure and sweet love scenes, The Vow could end up as a 'keeper.'"
--Romantic Times
"Fire and Water is a heartwarming, hilarious tale of two souls destined for one another. Ms. Spencer has created a delightful cast of characters that is sure to win your heart and have you laughing out loud at their antics."
--Romantic Times
--Romance Reviews
"Mary Spencer is a wonder!"
--Romantic Times
Praise for the previous novels of Mary Spencer:
"Resounding with chivalry, oftentimes humorous and heartwrenchingly realistic, Honor showcases Ms. Spencer's skill in portraying the innermost depths of humanity with vivid prose."
--Romantic Times
"With humor, poignancy, plentiful adventure and sweet love scenes, The Vow could end up as a 'keeper.'"
--Romantic Times
"Fire and Water is a heartwarming, hilarious tale of two souls destined for one another. Ms. Spencer has created a delightful cast of characters that is sure to win your heart and have you laughing out loud at their antics."
--Romantic Times
About the Author
Mary Spencer lives in the foothills of the San Gabriel mountains in southern California. She and her husband, Paul, have two beautiful daughters, Carolyn and Kelly, and are presently awaiting the arrival of their third child. She loves hearing from readers: If you'd like to write her, please send an SASE to Mary Spencer, P.O. Box 1203, Duarte, CA 91009-4203.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
"Come," he said, stopping near the closest door and taking her by the elbow to lead her out onto the terrace. She didn't resist, even as he guided her down the stairs to the garden below.
He took her to the darkest part of the walled courtyard, to a bench hidden within an alcove of bushes. Nearby, a splashing fountain mixed with the now dim music of the ballroom.
"I don't believe we should continue this pretense," he said, attempting to seat her on the bench. She jerked free of his touch, instead, and gave him her back. "It's utter nonsense." He raked a hand through his hair in exasperation. "I know you don't love me, Clara, and that you don't particularly wish to marry me. There's no need for you to behave as if you care for either my good opinion or my devotion."
"I wish to be set free," she said unsteadily, her voice thick with tears. "I thought I could bear it, but I'm beginning to think it's impossible. We're not even wed and you already accuse me of adultery!" She sniffled loudly and lifted a hand to wipe her face.
He touched her arm and she moved away, saying, angrily, "You're ill, Lucien. Ill in your mind. How could you think that I would ever--" She broke off, weeping.
At the sound of it--the deep pain of it--Lucien felt utterly stricken. Clara was crying. Because of him. Because he had wanted to hurt her, always wanted to hurt her, and tried to do so at every opportunity. The very woman whose love he craved more than life itself--perhaps he was mad. But if he was, then she was the one who made him so.
It was impossible to believe in her. She flirted with every man she met, and had done so since he'd known her. Even his own friends found her charming, wonderful, enchanting . . . marvelous. If he trusted her with his heart, she would destroy him. He would be even more of a fool than his father had been to give credence to anything she said.
"Clara," he said, moving to stand in front of her. She tried to turn away, but he stopped her, and when she put her hands over her face and wept, he enfolded her in his arms and held her tightly. He understood her upset for what it was, and the deeper tension behind it. These were her last few hours of freedom. After tomorrow, she would be irrevocably beneath his hand.
"Don't cry," he murmured. "Please. Clara, don't cry."
He kissed the top of her head and gently stroked her hair.
"I want to believe you," he said. "But it's hard for me to do. I've never trusted any woman. Perhaps it is a . . . sickness with me. Just as you said."
"Wou-would you t-trust me if I vowed"--she sniffled and shuddered--"to be f-faithful?"
"My mother vowed to be faithful to my father." He stroked her back now, letting his fingers trail downward from the bare neck he had earlier admired. "Every woman who's cheated on her husband has made the same promise. It's worthless."
"I don't mean in our wedding ceremony," she said, drawing in a shaking breath. "I mean if I make such a promise here and now. In the garden."
His hand stilled mid-air. "I don't know. Would you do such a thing?"
She nodded against his shoulder. "If you would make a vow, as well."
"For what?"
"To trust me, or at least to make the attempt. To give me a chance to prove that I mean to be a faithful wife in every way. If you would only give me some time, Lucien, before condemning me. Even a few months."
A few months. In six months or less she'd be put away at Pearwood. Alone. Lucien thought of the wager he'd made with a stab of guilt.
"And what will your vow be, Clara?"
She pulled away and looked at him, her face puffy and tear-stained. She had never looked less attractive, and yet his heart contracted with an undefinable ache of longing. She was Clara, to whom he had given his heart, and nothing could change that for him, or change the allure that she alone held.
"That you are the only man I will know in the future," she murmured, "and that I have known no other man in the past."
He took her face in his hands and held her very still, gazing into her eyes.
"Is it true, Clara? Are you a virgin?"
She strove not to gasp, but made a small, shocked, breathy sound despite herself.
"Of course I am!"
He could see the fury starting up in her again, and said, "If you want plain speaking between us, Clara, then I will admit that I never considered you might be. I've been led down the garden path before, only to find that it had been well tilled before me."
Even in the darkness, he could see her cheeks flaming red. "I see," she said, and swallowed heavily.
She was either the greatest actress the world had ever known, Lucien decided, or as innocent as she claimed. But she must be. She knew that he'd discover the truth on the morrow, and she wasn't such a fool as to lie to him about anything so important.
"Clara," he whispered, afraid for himself for all he felt, afraid for her because he knew how badly he was capable of wounding her. He pushed his fingers into the rich warmth of her hair and tilted her face farther up to his. "If I'm the first to know you, then I'm very glad, but I would have married you anywise and not cared overmuch. You know what I've told you of my mother, you know how Robby suffered after your aunt deserted him for another man."
"She didn't--" Clara began, but Lucien kissed her to make her be silent. By the time he lifted his head, they had both calmed.
"He suffered, Clara. You can't begin to know how much. I traveled half the world seeing him live every moment of his pain. Because of her. Don't ask me to try to understand her side of the matter, because I can't. Robby's all I have in the world, and it isn't in me to give a damn about any one else's feelings."
She set a hand against one of his. Her fingers were cool and feminine, her touch one of gentle sympathy.
"I know that, Lucien."
"For the sake of our marriage--and for both of our sakes--I'm willing to do what you ask. I'll attempt to trust you. Attempt, Clara. Understand that I can promise no more. My experience with women has not been such that trust will come easily for me. But for the next few months, I'll try."
He meant what he said. If there was any chance that he and Clara might find some measure of happiness together, then he'd gladly concede the wager he'd made and pay Kerlain off. Clara need never even know about it.
"Lucien," she whispered, and the next moment she threw her arms about his neck and hugged him. "Thank you."
His hands slid over her shoulders, down to the curve of her waist and hips, and he thought of how long he had waited to make her his own, and that soon, in only another day, he would take her to his bed and be one with her.
She lifted her head and gazed at him, her eyes still damp from tears, a pretty smile on her lips. He smiled in turn, slightly, and then lowered his mouth. She was the only woman he'd ever wanted to kiss, and kissing her was nothing short of an epiphany. He and Pamela never touched lips if they could avoid doing so, and he'd never engaged in kissing with the many women he'd taken in past years. It was an intimacy he wasn't willing to share lightly.
But with Clara, it was different. Everything was different. She lay relaxed in his arms, following his lead, clearly enjoying the embrace as fully as he. Her lips were moist and warm, and they parted beneath his tongue's gentle coaxing to allow him entrance beyond. He had kissed her this way before in anger, meaning to punish. Now he stroked and teased, pleasuring her until, with a little moan, she began to return the caresses, tentatively at first, and then with a growing boldness that seduced him almost beyond sense. It was a beautiful dance, and they were perfectly matched. He felt as if he could stand there forever, loving her, joined with her.&#...
He took her to the darkest part of the walled courtyard, to a bench hidden within an alcove of bushes. Nearby, a splashing fountain mixed with the now dim music of the ballroom.
"I don't believe we should continue this pretense," he said, attempting to seat her on the bench. She jerked free of his touch, instead, and gave him her back. "It's utter nonsense." He raked a hand through his hair in exasperation. "I know you don't love me, Clara, and that you don't particularly wish to marry me. There's no need for you to behave as if you care for either my good opinion or my devotion."
"I wish to be set free," she said unsteadily, her voice thick with tears. "I thought I could bear it, but I'm beginning to think it's impossible. We're not even wed and you already accuse me of adultery!" She sniffled loudly and lifted a hand to wipe her face.
He touched her arm and she moved away, saying, angrily, "You're ill, Lucien. Ill in your mind. How could you think that I would ever--" She broke off, weeping.
At the sound of it--the deep pain of it--Lucien felt utterly stricken. Clara was crying. Because of him. Because he had wanted to hurt her, always wanted to hurt her, and tried to do so at every opportunity. The very woman whose love he craved more than life itself--perhaps he was mad. But if he was, then she was the one who made him so.
It was impossible to believe in her. She flirted with every man she met, and had done so since he'd known her. Even his own friends found her charming, wonderful, enchanting . . . marvelous. If he trusted her with his heart, she would destroy him. He would be even more of a fool than his father had been to give credence to anything she said.
"Clara," he said, moving to stand in front of her. She tried to turn away, but he stopped her, and when she put her hands over her face and wept, he enfolded her in his arms and held her tightly. He understood her upset for what it was, and the deeper tension behind it. These were her last few hours of freedom. After tomorrow, she would be irrevocably beneath his hand.
"Don't cry," he murmured. "Please. Clara, don't cry."
He kissed the top of her head and gently stroked her hair.
"I want to believe you," he said. "But it's hard for me to do. I've never trusted any woman. Perhaps it is a . . . sickness with me. Just as you said."
"Wou-would you t-trust me if I vowed"--she sniffled and shuddered--"to be f-faithful?"
"My mother vowed to be faithful to my father." He stroked her back now, letting his fingers trail downward from the bare neck he had earlier admired. "Every woman who's cheated on her husband has made the same promise. It's worthless."
"I don't mean in our wedding ceremony," she said, drawing in a shaking breath. "I mean if I make such a promise here and now. In the garden."
His hand stilled mid-air. "I don't know. Would you do such a thing?"
She nodded against his shoulder. "If you would make a vow, as well."
"For what?"
"To trust me, or at least to make the attempt. To give me a chance to prove that I mean to be a faithful wife in every way. If you would only give me some time, Lucien, before condemning me. Even a few months."
A few months. In six months or less she'd be put away at Pearwood. Alone. Lucien thought of the wager he'd made with a stab of guilt.
"And what will your vow be, Clara?"
She pulled away and looked at him, her face puffy and tear-stained. She had never looked less attractive, and yet his heart contracted with an undefinable ache of longing. She was Clara, to whom he had given his heart, and nothing could change that for him, or change the allure that she alone held.
"That you are the only man I will know in the future," she murmured, "and that I have known no other man in the past."
He took her face in his hands and held her very still, gazing into her eyes.
"Is it true, Clara? Are you a virgin?"
She strove not to gasp, but made a small, shocked, breathy sound despite herself.
"Of course I am!"
He could see the fury starting up in her again, and said, "If you want plain speaking between us, Clara, then I will admit that I never considered you might be. I've been led down the garden path before, only to find that it had been well tilled before me."
Even in the darkness, he could see her cheeks flaming red. "I see," she said, and swallowed heavily.
She was either the greatest actress the world had ever known, Lucien decided, or as innocent as she claimed. But she must be. She knew that he'd discover the truth on the morrow, and she wasn't such a fool as to lie to him about anything so important.
"Clara," he whispered, afraid for himself for all he felt, afraid for her because he knew how badly he was capable of wounding her. He pushed his fingers into the rich warmth of her hair and tilted her face farther up to his. "If I'm the first to know you, then I'm very glad, but I would have married you anywise and not cared overmuch. You know what I've told you of my mother, you know how Robby suffered after your aunt deserted him for another man."
"She didn't--" Clara began, but Lucien kissed her to make her be silent. By the time he lifted his head, they had both calmed.
"He suffered, Clara. You can't begin to know how much. I traveled half the world seeing him live every moment of his pain. Because of her. Don't ask me to try to understand her side of the matter, because I can't. Robby's all I have in the world, and it isn't in me to give a damn about any one else's feelings."
She set a hand against one of his. Her fingers were cool and feminine, her touch one of gentle sympathy.
"I know that, Lucien."
"For the sake of our marriage--and for both of our sakes--I'm willing to do what you ask. I'll attempt to trust you. Attempt, Clara. Understand that I can promise no more. My experience with women has not been such that trust will come easily for me. But for the next few months, I'll try."
He meant what he said. If there was any chance that he and Clara might find some measure of happiness together, then he'd gladly concede the wager he'd made and pay Kerlain off. Clara need never even know about it.
"Lucien," she whispered, and the next moment she threw her arms about his neck and hugged him. "Thank you."
His hands slid over her shoulders, down to the curve of her waist and hips, and he thought of how long he had waited to make her his own, and that soon, in only another day, he would take her to his bed and be one with her.
She lifted her head and gazed at him, her eyes still damp from tears, a pretty smile on her lips. He smiled in turn, slightly, and then lowered his mouth. She was the only woman he'd ever wanted to kiss, and kissing her was nothing short of an epiphany. He and Pamela never touched lips if they could avoid doing so, and he'd never engaged in kissing with the many women he'd taken in past years. It was an intimacy he wasn't willing to share lightly.
But with Clara, it was different. Everything was different. She lay relaxed in his arms, following his lead, clearly enjoying the embrace as fully as he. Her lips were moist and warm, and they parted beneath his tongue's gentle coaxing to allow him entrance beyond. He had kissed her this way before in anger, meaning to punish. Now he stroked and teased, pleasuring her until, with a little moan, she began to return the caresses, tentatively at first, and then with a growing boldness that seduced him almost beyond sense. It was a beautiful dance, and they were perfectly matched. He felt as if he could stand there forever, loving her, joined with her.&#...
