Kat Martin - The Handmaiden's Necklace

“Fast-paced…sizzling love scenes…[Martin has] a well-honed ability to deliver spicy romance.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Kat Martin captivates readers within the first three pages of the story. This book was pure sensational joy…with all the right elements that make this book a non-stop read full of passionate love.”

—Coffee Time Romance

“The sexual tension between Rafael and Danielle was so thick you could cut it with a knife.”

—Romance Reader at Heart

“A dazzling conclusion to The Bride’s Necklace trilogy. I could not put this book down. If you haven’t experienced this trilogy yet, I urge you to run to your nearest bookstore and get it. You won’t regret a minute of it.”

—Fresh Fiction

“A heartwrenching and beautiful love story. You’ll be utterly captivated at Martin’s talent for creating a masterful, emotional and unforgettable experience.”

—RT Book Reviews

To my husband, Larry.

My true life hero.

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

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Epilogue

Author’s Note

London, England

June 1806

“’Tis a shame, is what it is.” Cornelia Thorne, Lady Brookfield, stood near the center of the ballroom. “Just look at him out there dancing…so completely bored. Him a duke and her such a mousy little thing, completely terrified of the man, I’ll wager.”

The Duchess of Sheffield, Miriam Saunders, raised her quizzing glass to peer at her son, Rafael, Duke of Sheffield. Miriam and her sister, Cornelia, were attending a charity ball along with Rafael and his betrothed, Lady Mary Rose Montague. The evening, a benefit for the London Widows and Orphans Society, was being held in the magnificent ballroom of the Chesterfield Hotel.

“The girl is actually quite lovely,” the duchess defended, “so blond and petite, just a bit shy, is all.” Unlike her son, the duke, who was tall and dark, with eyes even bluer than her own. And there was Rafe, himself, a strong, incredibly handsome man whose powerful presence seemed to overshadow the young woman he had chosen to be his future bride.

“I’ll grant, she is pretty,” Cornelia said, “in a rather white-washed sort of way. Still, it seems a shame.”

“Rafael is finally doing his duty. It is past time he took a wife. Perhaps they don’t suit as well as I would have liked, but the girl is young and strong, and she will bear him healthy sons.” And yet, as her sister had said, Miriam couldn’t miss the bland, bored expression on her son’s very handsome face.

“Rafael was always so dashing,” Cornelia said a bit wistfully. “Do you not remember the way he was before? So full of fire, so passionate about life in those days. Now…well, he is always so restrained. I do miss the vibrant young man he used to be.”

“People change, Cornelia. Rafe learned the hard way where those sorts of emotions can lead.”

Cornelia grunted. “You’re talking about The Scandal.” Thin and gray-haired, she was older than the duchess by nearly six years. “How could anyone forget Danielle…? Now, there was a woman Rafael’s equal. ’Tis a shame she turned out to be such a disappointment.”

The duchess cast her sister a glance, not wanting a reminder of the terrible scandal they had suffered because of Rafe’s former betrothed, Danielle Duval.

The dance ended and the couples began dispersing from the dance floor. “Hush,” Miriam warned. “Rafe and Mary Rose are coming this way.” The girl was nearly a foot shorter than the duke, blond, blue-eyed and fair, the perfect picture of English femininity. She was also the daughter of an earl, with a very sizable dowry. Miriam prayed her son would find at least some measure of happiness with the girl.

Rafe made a polite, formal bow. “Good evening, Mother. Aunt Cornelia.”

Miriam smiled. “You’re both looking quite splendid tonight.” And they did. Rafe in dove-gray breeches and a navy-blue tailcoat that set off the blue of his eyes, and Mary Rose in a gown of white silk trimmed with delicate pink roses.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” said the girl, with a very proper curtsy.

Miriam frowned. Was her hand trembling where it rested on the sleeve of Rafe’s coat? Dear God, the child would soon be a duchess. Miriam fervently prayed she would manage to infuse a bit of backbone into her spine as the months went along.

“Would you care to dance, Mother?” Rafe asked politely.

“Later, perhaps.”

“Aunt Cornelia?”

But Cornelia was staring at the doorway, her mind a thousand miles away. Miriam followed her gaze, as did Rafael and his betrothed.

“Speak of the devil…” Cornelia whispered beneath her breath.

Miriam’s eyes widened and her heartbeat quickened, turned wildly erratic. She recognized the short, plump little woman entering the ballroom, Flora Chamberlain, Dowager Countess Wycombe. And she also knew the tall, slender, red-haired woman who was the countess’s niece.

Miriam’s mouth thinned into a hostile line. A few feet away, her son’s expression shifted from incredulity to anger, deepening the slight cleft in his chin.

Cornelia continued to stare. “Of all the nerve!”

A muscle tightened along Rafe’s jaw, but he didn’t say a word.

“Who is that?” asked Mary Rose.

Rafe ignored her. His gaze remained locked on the elegant creature entering the ballroom behind her aunt. Danielle Duval had been living in the country for the past five years. After The Scandal, she had been banished, shamed into leaving the city. Since her father was dead and her mother had disowned her for what she had done, she had moved in with her aunt, Flora Duval Chamberlain. Until tonight, she had remained in the country.

The duchess couldn’t imagine what Danielle was doing back in London, or what had possessed her to come to a place where she was so obviously not welcome.

“Rafael…?” Lady Mary Rose looked up at him with a worried expression. “What is it?”

Rafe’s gaze never wavered. Something flashed in his intense blue eyes, something hot and wild Miriam hadn’t seen there in nearly five years. Anger tightened the skin across his cheekbones. He took a steadying breath and fought to bring himself under control.

Looking down at Mary Rose, he managed a smile. “Nothing to be concerned about, sweeting. Nothing at all.” He took her gloved hand and rested it once more on the sleeve of his coat. “I believe they are playing a rondele. Shall we dance?”

He led her away without waiting for an answer. Miriam imagined it would always be that way—Rafe commanding, Mary Rose obeying like a good little girl.

The duchess turned back to Danielle Duval, watched her moving along behind her rotund, silver-haired aunt, head held high, ignoring the whispers, the stares, walking with the grace of the duchess she should have been.