Margo Maguire - His Lady Fair

While Maria was still recovering from the shock of seeing him, he pulled her close and claimed her lips with his own. He savored the spicy taste of her, the scent and texture of her hair as he cupped her head, the lush curves of her body as he pressed the length of her body to his own.

Nothing mattered but this.

He would have devoured her completely if he could, but the indignant shrieks of a nearby woman eventually penetrated his consciousness. At the same time, he felt Maria’s hands against his chest, actually pushing him away.

“My Lord!” the older woman cried. “Unhand Lady Maria this instant!”

Nick kept his eyes locked on Maria’s. All he could see reflected in those glorious irises was panic.

Her lips were swollen by his kiss, but they were trembling. She took a step back—And slapped him…!

Dryden’s Bride

“Exquisitely detailed…an entrancing tale that will enchant and envelop you as love conquers all.”

—Rendezvous

“A warm-hearted tale…Ms. Maguire skillfully draws the reader into her deftly woven tale.”

—Romantic Times

The Bride of Windermere

“Packed with action…fast, humorous, and familiar…The Bride of Windermere will fit into your weekend just right.”

—Romantic Times

#595 CARPETBAGGER’S WIFE

Deborah Hale

#597 THE DOCTOR’S HOMECOMING

Kate Bridges

#598 WICKED

Beth Henderson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Available from Harlequin Historicals and

MARGO MAGUIRE

The Bride of Windermere #453

Dryden’s Bride #529

Celtic Bride #572

His Lady Fair #596

This book is for Mike.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Alderton Keep. Early Spring, 1429

Ria stole into the buttery and smoothed the wrinkles from the front of her new gown. Not that the gown was truly new, for it had belonged to Cecilia Morley, Ria’s sophisticated, young, legitimate cousin. But even if it was not a perfect fit, the elegant castoff, once a lovely blue silk dress, was a decided improvement over the threadbare gown Ria had been wearing these last few years.

Ria allowed herself a moment to savor the sensation of the fine silk against her skin. She was glad Cecilia had had the fur lining removed. Ria had no use for it. Nor had she any use for the jeweled collar that had once adorned the neckline. With the hard work that was required of her, Ria knew those fineries would quickly be ruined.

Besides, she had her own jewelry, a precious locket—a bauble of gold with a secret latch that held a lock of her mother’s golden hair within. Ria always carried it with her, though she kept it tied up in a square of linen so that no one would ever see it. And take it from her.

She spun around and gave herself leave to imagine that, just this once, she was dressed in the glorious gown before its lining and jeweled collar had been ripped from it. She could almost feel the weight of the gems, and dream she was tall and slender and lovely like Cecilia, making heads turn and eyes glitter with envy.

’Twas a foolish fancy, Ria knew, but her little dreams made life at Alderton Keep bearable. Her life had always been harsh, and it seemed to grow worse with every passing year.

Her aunt Olivia had made it quite clear that Ria would never be recognized as a member of the family. The Morleys would provide her a roof, food for her belly and the occasional bit of cast-off clothing. But Ria would be required to work for it.

The bastard daughter of Lady Sarah Morley deserved no better.

“Ria!” Cook’s harsh voice interrupted her wandering thoughts. Ria quickly tied a scratchy woolen shawl ’round her shoulders—more to cover up the shortcomings of Cecilia’s dress than for warmth—and flew out of the buttery, into the kitchen.

“Where’ve yer been, girl?” Cook demanded.

“I—I’ve just—”

“Get the pot out of the fire fer me now,” the sour-tempered cook ordered, “then give it a good stir.”

Ria lifted the heavy cauldron from its hook in the huge blackened fireplace and carried it to a sturdy wooden table in the center of the kitchen.

“Ye slopped some of m’ stew over the side, ye beef-witted dewberry!” Cook screeched at her, cuffing the side of her head and nearly knocking Ria down as she struggled with the heavy pot. “Now wipe up the mess ye made!”

“It wouldn’t have sloshed if you’d put it in two smaller pots like I told you before,” Ria retorted just as Cook cuffed her again.

She knew better than to sass Cook, but it went against her nature to keep silent over unfair criticism. Ria rubbed the bruised spot on the side of her head and picked up a rag. She said nothing more, but began cleaning up the spill.

“When yer done there, yer to take this tray up to Lady Olivia’s solar,” Cook said. “She’s got a guest wi’ her, so try not to splash or spill while yer up there.”

Ria glanced up to see a large wooden tray laden with ale and other refreshments. She was bone weary, but it did not matter. She would take the tray to her aunt Olivia, then await further orders. Just as she always did, and always would.

Within the warmth and comfort of her solar, with its thick walls and narrow windows, its warm fire and colorful tapestries, Olivia Morley poured warm wine for her visitor from London, a justice from the high court, and tried to conceal her agitation.

The widow of Jerrold Morley, Olivia was still a comely woman, with nary a gray hair in her thick sable mane—at least none that had a chance to flourish before being plucked out. Her eyes were of the same soft brown as her hair, though their softness was deceiving. Her vision and acuity were as sharp as ever.

“No, my lord,” Olivia Morley said to the visitor. “There never was a child. And even if Sarah’s issue had survived, she would not, could not have inherited Rockbury.” She maintained an even, well-modulated tone as she spoke to Lord Roland, as distinguished a gentleman as she’d ever encountered. Not the slightest hint of Olivia’s discomposure showed as she lied.

“But my lady, the property is en—”

“I care not how the property is entailed,” Olivia continued in a haughty tone, “or who wrote Sarah Morley’s will.”

“Sarah Burton.”

Olivia shrugged indifferently. “I will not allow my husband’s property to go to the child of a harlot!”