Nearly a Bride

After more than a decade separated from his home and family, the Earl of Heathbrook returns to his London townhouse to face a new test: reclaiming guardianship of his younger brothers. His reputation as a rakehell, it seems, has followed him from detention inside Napoleon’s France and caused his own father to block Heathbrook’s rightful custody in his will. However, the clever rogue concocts a plan to restore respectability and rescue his siblings ... by finding a “fiancée” with no strings attached.

Giselle Bernard is not looking to wed an earl with a wild past. All she seeks is a connected nobleman who can legally secure her new life in England and head off a mysterious stranger’s threats. Posing as Heathbrook’s bride-to-be would surely benefit them both. But as revelations come to light—the ill-fated young affair that left Heathbrook embittered, and the mademoiselle’s own guarded secrets—their engagement charade may unexpectedly blossom into a promise to love, honor, and cherish...

Giselle Bernard stared down Rupert Oakden, the Earl of Heathbrook. “So, I must keep your secrets, attend a variety of social functions—including this Lord Mayor’s Show—and go to Chancery Court with you. Then what?”

“After I regain custody of my brothers, I’ll take the boys back to Longmead, my estate near Bath.” Lord Heathbrook brightened. “You and your mother can travel with us since you’re going to Bath for her rheumatism anyway. The timing would work.”

She frowned. “Will it? Exactly when is this show?”

“November 9^th.”

Panic seized her. “Ten days from now? How can I prepare for such an event in so short a time? I will need a gown made and shoes to match and—”

“Don’t worry. I’ll provide all of that.”

She drew herself up stiffly. “You will not! I’ll have you know, sir, that my mother and I do possess money.”

He held up his hands. “Forgive me, I wasn’t trying to insult you. I just thought that since you’re doing me a favor—”

“As you are doing one for me,” she said with a sniff. “Therefore, I will buy my own attire, thank you. I will not have you treat me like your kept woman. Bad enough I must pretend to be your fiancée.”

“‘Bad enough’?” He struck his chest playfully with his fist. “Wound me to the heart, why don’t you? Surely playing my fiancée will not be the torture you seem to think.”

He had no idea. Being around him when he was at his most flirtatious? Knowing he would never actually marry a woman like her? Keeping herself aloof so he did not exert himself to charm her?

Not letting her old infatuation with him rear its ugly head? It would be pure misery. “We shall see,” she murmured.

His face lit up. “Does that mean you agree to my proposal?” He approached to take her hands in his. “You’ll play my pretend fiancée, so I can get custody of my brothers?”

“Will you try to acquire legitimate papers for me and Maman to replace the forged ones?”

“Of course. That is the arrangement.”

His gaze was so intense, so devouring that she had to look away, though she still left her hands in his.

She knew she would agree. What choice did she have? She could not risk being thrown out of England and back into the cauldron of torn fealties and confused government that was France at present. She and Maman needed peace.

Even if they had to stay in England to get it. Even if she had to spend far too much time in his company for her sanity.

Reluctantly, she met his gaze once more. “I think your whole plan is mad, and I fear it will suit neither of us and possibly not serve our aims, either. But …”

He caught his breath when she didn’t finish. “But what?”

“Yes. I agree to your preposterous proposal.”

To her shock, he let out a boyish whoop, grabbed her at the waist, and lifted her off her feet to swing her about.

“Lord Heathbrook!” She pushed at his shoulders, which did not seem to faze him. “Put me down at once!”

“Right,” he said, and lowered her, although rather slowly.

Mon Dieu, but he was stronger than she had realized. She could feel his shoulder muscles flex even beneath his coat. By the time her feet touched the floor, her heart was racing, and she could not seem to release his shoulders.

Meanwhile, he kept his hands on her waist. “Forgive me, Miss Bernard,” he said in a husky voice that shook her resolve to resist him. “I got carried away.”

“You seem to make a habit of that,” she managed to murmur, her own voice sounding oddly breathless.

Now they stood so close she could smell his clove-scented cologne. He dropped his gaze to her lips. “Perhaps we should do something to seal our agreement.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Is … is that really necessary?”

“It would make it official.”

“We could shake hands,” she could not help teasing him. “Is that not what gentlemen do?”

His eyes gleamed at her. “Ah, but to seal a betrothal agreement requires something a bit more … personal. A kiss perhaps.”

“I see.” She managed a weak smile. “It is not as if we have not kissed before.”

A harsh breath escaped him. “You remember,” he said in a ragged voice.

How could I not? she nearly said, before catching herself. “So do you.”

“But this would be just a formality. Nothing more.”

Did formalities make a woman shiver and yearn the way she was doing now? She doubted it. “That sounds … harmless enough.”

“Harmless,” he said sarcastically. “Right.” And before she could retort, he pressed his lips to hers.

Had she thought his first kiss was the most perfect of her life? She had been wrong. This was the most perfect of her life, so perfect that she closed her eyes to savor the pure heaven of it.

It was soft and easy and oh so sweet, a dream of a kiss. His mouth slid over hers, tender and searching by turns, coaxing a response she could not help giving. She lifted her head to caress his lips with hers, then slid her hands down from his shoulders to his chest. His broad, firm chest.

But all too soon it was over. He drew back and seemed to shake himself before releasing her… and the moment was unfortunately past.

Unfortunately? She was being absurd again.

Meanwhile, he became suddenly formal and wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Forgive me, Miss Bernard. I swear that will not happen again.”

“That awful, was it?” she joked in a feeble attempt to hide her hurt. It was just like the last time. Once again, he was disappointed.

His gaze shot to her in surprise. “Of course not. But I swore this betrothal would only be pretend, and I don’t mean to make you regret agreeing.”

“I already regret agreeing, my lord,” she muttered.

“Then I’ll have to work harder to put you at ease.” He gave her a small bow. “And you, Miss Bernard, will have to stop calling me ‘my lord.’ No fiancée worth her salt would do so.”

“Oh. Of course.” She frowned. “Then what am I to call you, sir?”

The impish gleam in his eyes returned. “‘Dearest’ will work. ‘My darling.’ Or, if you prefer something in your own language, ‘mon chéri.’”

She cocked her head. “Were you not supposed to be putting me at ease?”

He laughed. “I am. Supposed to be, that is. But I confess you are far too much fun to tease.”

“You have not answered my question,” she pointed out. “What shall I call you?”

He seemed to ponder that a moment. “Call me … Heath.”

“H-Heath?”

“My mother called my father that. Short for Heathbrook.”

“You are not joking again, are you?” she asked warily.  

“Why would I joke about that?”

“I have never heard anyone use ‘Heath’ in speaking to you.”

He smiled faintly. “That’s because before Father died, everyone at Verdun called me Ingram, since I was then the Viscount Ingram.”

“Oh, I have heard you called Ingram. I shall call you that.”

“You can’t. Although I still have that title, now that I’m earl my friends call me by that title, which is Heathbrook.” His eyes twinkled. “When you and I have a son, he will be called Ingram.”

She eyed him askance, and he laughed. Again. She rather preferred the flirtatious, teasing Heathbrook to the sober, controlled lord of the manor.

“Look,” he went on. “It’s not that unusual. Many lords have friends from their childhood and schoolboy days who called them short versions of their titles. Even my brothers called me Ingram. And now they will call me Heathbrook, like my friends from Verdun. So, you must either call me Heathbrook or Heath.”

“‘Heath’ seems too intimate,” she said uncertainly.

“Not for my fiancée,” he said in that smoky tone she found so delicious. “And I should call you Giselle, don’t you think?”

She was about to give him a proper set down for toying with her so, when a tentative knock came at the door behind her.

Instantly, he lost his joking demeanor. “Yes?” he said in that commanding voice lords used with servants.

It was a good reminder to Giselle that he might tease her, but when it came to his responsibilities as earl, he was formal and entirely aware of his proper place as a man of rank. Which she could never be if he ever did make her his bride.

“Miss Bernard’s mother is asking for her, my lord,” Renham said through the door.

Giselle turned around to open it. “Please inform Maman that I will join her in a moment.”

“Very good, Miss,” Renham said, appearing relieved to find her looking exactly as she had when she had entered the study.

Once the butler left, she dropped her voice. “What shall we tell Maman?”

“About what?”

“The betrothal!”

“Oh. Right.” He shrugged. “Tell her the truth.”

She rolled her eyes. “We cannot tell Maman the truth, or she will make a fuss about it, and one of your servants might hear.”

“She barely speaks English.”

“She speaks enough to say, ‘My daughter is not really engaged to the earl,’” she hissed. “She is the one who is not good at keeping secrets, trust me. Besides, plenty of your sort speak French.”

“My sort?”

“Nobility,” she said with a dismissive wave. “You know what I mean.”

“Fine. Then tell her we’re really betrothed.” Irritation crept into his tone. “I don’t see why it matters. You’ll be jilting me in a matter of weeks, in any case.”

“Yes, but she and I came here to gain your help, and without any warning I end up engaged to you. She will find that suspicious.”

“Remind her that you and I met before. That we knew each other for years. That I’m a good friend to your half-sister’s husband. For all she knows, you could have been seeing me every time you went to Falcon House to visit Jon and Tory.”

Giselle bit her lower lip. That was a good point. She hated lying to her mother, but Maman would never approve of her quid pro quo with the earl. “Fine. I shall do as you say.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Should I ask her if I may call her Maman?”

Although she was almost certain he was joking, she sighed. “Why not? You will do as you please, anyway.”

He walked out into the hall, turning serious as he stared down at her. “It really bothers you, doesn’t it? Pretending to be my fiancée.” He looked a bit wounded by that.

Yes. Because standing near you like this sends pleasure careening through me. Because I would give much to be your real fiancée … if your compliments were anything more than flattery. And if I did not have to give up my soul and turn into a woman I do not recognize in order to keep you.

“It merely bothers me that I have no choice in the matter,” she blurted out.

He halted, a stricken look crossing his face. “I see.” After a long pause, he added, “I suppose it is ungentlemanly of me to insist you do something for me in exchange for my help.” He drew in a weary breath. “So, let us start over. I will help you to the best of my ability without expecting anything in return. Is that better?”

She searched his face. “You would do that for me and Maman?”

“I would. It’s hardly fair to expect you to turn your family’s lives upside-down for the benefit of mine.”

The very fact that he would offer such a thing eased her objections. “True. But you were right when you said this faux betrothal would help me as much as you. An English fiancé is bound to improve our situation. So, please ignore my complaints. It was ungenerous of me.”

There was no denying his relieved expression. “Thank you. But you’ve never been ‘ungenerous’ a day in your life, and I’m grateful you’ve chosen to bestow your generosity on me.” He offered her his arm. “Now, shall we go tell your mother?”

She took it and managed a smile. “How do you English put it? ‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’”

And off they went.

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