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Tempting the Bride

This novel delves into the complexities of a marriage of convenience, exploring themes of desire, deception, and the transformative power of love. more

Author

Sherry Thomas
Sherry Thomas

Sherry Thomas, born in 1975, is an enigmatic author whose unique writing style has won the hearts of readers. more

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“The worst thing about falling in love with her so early in life was that he’d been an absolute snot at fourteen, at once arrogant and self-pitying. Almost as bad was the fact that he’d been nearly half a foot shorter than she at their first meeting —she’d been five foot nine, and he barely five foot four. Though she was only a few weeks older than he was, she’d looked upon him as a child—while he broiled with the heat and anguish of first love. When nothing else garnered him her attention, he turned horrid. She was disgusted by this midget who tried to trick her into broom closets to steal kisses, and he was at once miserable and thrilled. Disgust was better than indifference; anything was better than indifference.”

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“What did you do to your hair? I don’t like it as much.” His brow knitted. “How do you like it?” “I prefer the curls.” He looked as if she’d told him she preferred him with three eyes. “You used to make fun of them. You told me that if Bo Peep had a child with one of her sheep it would have hair like mine.” She burst out laughing—and gasped at the pain that shot through her scalp. “You are not making it up, are you? Did I really say that?” “Sometimes you called me Goldilocks.” She had to remind herself not to laugh again. “And you married me? I sound like a very odious sort of girl.” “I was a very odious sort of boy, so you might say we were evenly matched.” She didn’t know enough to comment upon that, but when he was near, she was… happier.”

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“She fluttered her fan. “And do you know what they say of women of a certain age, what they want above all?” Desire simmered in him at her not quite smile. “Do tell.” “To be rid of you, Hastings. So that they don’t have to waste what remains of their precious few years suffering your lecherous looks.” “If I stopped looking at you lecherously, you’d miss it.” “Why don’t we test that hypothesis? You stop and I’ll tell you after ten years or so whether I miss it.” .... He rose and bowed slightly. “You wouldn’t last two weeks, Miss Fitzhugh.”

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“And when the governess had left, he would slip out of his own room and peer at her door until her light was extinguished at last, before he returned to bed to stew anew in lust and yearning. A habit that he’d kept to this day, whenever they happened to be under the same roof. Her light turned off. He sighed. How long would he keep at this? Soon he would be twenty-seven. Did he still plan to stand in a dark passage in the middle of the night and gaze upon her door when he was thirty-seven? Forty-seven? Ninetyseven?”

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“Her hand reached up and took a strand of his hair between her fingers. “Simple as that.” She gently pulled on that curl and let it go. “It’s so springy.” They’d barely grazed at the truth, but I she was satisfied—and distracted. By his hair, of all things. “I feel like a sheep that has been overlooked during spring shearing,” he murmured. “Yes, adorably fluffy.” Another time he might have protested the use of that adjective. But now he was all too relieved. “Would you like me to pull my chair closer, so you may fondle my hair with greater ease?” he asked. She beamed at him. “Why, yes, I’d like exactly that.”

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