Sara Craven - The Right Bride? - Bride of Desire / The English Aristocrat's Bride / Vacancy - Wife of Convenience

He’s determined to claim her as his but is she

The Right Bride?

Three absolute classic, contemporary romances from three favourite Mills & Boon authors!

THE ITALIAN’S BABY OF PASSION

The Italian’s Secret Baby by Kim Lawrence One-Night Baby by Susan Stephens The Italian’s Secret Child by Catherine Spencer

THE RIGHT BRIDE?

Bride of Desire by Sara Craven The English Aristocrat’s Bride

by Sandra Field

Vacancy: Wife of Convenience

by Jessica Steele

www.millsandboon.co.uk

By

Sara Cravenwas born in South Devon and grew up in a house full of books. She worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, and started writing for Mills & Boon in 1975. When not writing, she enjoys films, music, theatre, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives near her family in Warwickshire. Sara has appeared as a contestant on the former Channel Four game show Fifteen to One and in 1997 was the UK television Mastermind champion. In 2005 she was a member of the Romantic Novelists’ team on University Challenge – the Professionals.

Don’t miss Sara Craven’s exciting new novel, His Untamed Innocent, available in July 2010 from Mills & Boon® Modern™.

IT WAS always the same dream. A long, deserted beach, stretching out into infinity. Straight, firm sand under her bare feet. No twists, no turns. No rocks or other place of concealment anywhere. Near at hand, the hiss and whisper of the sea’s rising tide.

And suddenly, behind her, the steady drumming of a horse’s hooves, pursuing her. Drawing closer all the time, relentless—inescapable. Preparing to ride her down…

Not daring to look over her shoulder, she began to run, going faster and faster, yet knowing as she did so that there was no escape. That her pursuer would follow her always.

She awoke gasping, sitting bolt upright in the big bed as she stared into the darkness, dry-mouthed, her heart pounding to the point of suffocation and her thin nightdress sticking to her sweat-dampened body.

And then she heard it—the low growl of thunder almost overhead, and the slam of rain against her window. No tidal race or galloping hoof-beats, she recognised shakily. Just a storm in the night—the inevitable climax of the miniheatwave of the past few days.

She sagged back against the mound of pillows, suppressing a sob.

A dream, she told herself. Triggered by the weather. Nothing more. Only a dream. And one day—one night soon—it would let her go. He would let her go. And she would know some peace at last. Surely…

AS ALLIE came down the broad curving staircase, she paused for a moment to look at the view from the big casement window on the half-landing.

There was nothing new to see. Just the grounds of Marchington Hall in all their formal splendour, unfolding over immaculately kept lawns down to the gleam of the lake in the distance. To her right, she could just glimpse the mellow brick walls of the Fountain Court, while to the left dark green cypresses sheltered the Italian Garden.

But on a day like this, when the air seemed to sparkle after the rain in the night, the vista made her heart lift. It even made her feel that being forced to deal with all the petty restrictions and irritations of life at the Hall might be worth it, after all.

Worth it for Tom’s sake anyway, she thought. I have to believe that. I must. Because there is nothing else…

Her throat tightened suddenly, uncontrollably, and she made to turn away. As she did so, she caught sight of her own reflection, and paused again. She looked like a ghost, she thought soberly. A pale, hollow-eyed, fair-haired phantom, without life or substance. And as tense as if she was stretched on wire.

Part of that, of course, was down to last night’s storm. Part, but not all.

Because it also had to do with the ongoing battle over the upbringing of her fourteen-month-old son, which, in spite of her best efforts, seemed to be turning into a war of attrition.

She’d just been to visit him in his nursery, to make sure that he hadn’t been woken by the thunder, but had been faced by the usual confrontation with Nanny, looking disapproving over this disruption to Tom’s routine.

‘He’s having his breakfast, Lady Marchington.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ Allie had returned, counting to ten under her breath. ‘In fact, I’d like to help feed him. I’ve said so many times.’

‘We prefer to have as few distractions at mealtimes as possible,’ Nanny returned with regal finality.

And if I had the guts of a worm, Allie thought grimly, I’d stand up to the boot-faced old bag.

But behind Nanny’s portly and commanding frame, she knew, stood the outwardly frail figure of Grace, the Dowager Lady Marchington, her mother-in-law, known irreverently in the village as the Tungsten Tartar.

Any overt clash with Nanny led straight to ‘an atmosphere’ in the nursery, and also resulted in Allie becoming the target of the elder Lady Marchington’s icy displeasure. An experience to be avoided.

Anything for a quiet life, she’d told herself as she’d left the nursery, closing the door behind her. And, my God, was this ever a quiet life.

She supposed that for Tom’s sake she wouldn’t have it any other way. He was Hugo’s heir, she reminded herself stonily, so she should have known what to expect.

Besides, on the surface at least, the Hall had all the necessary elements to supply him with an idyllic childhood.

But I’d just like to be able to enjoy it with him, she thought rebelliously. Without Nanny standing guard as if I was a potential kidnapper instead of his mother.

He said his first word to her, not me. And it wasn’t Mama either, which hurt. And I missed the moment he took his first step, too. It’s as if I don’t feature in the scheme of things at all. I gave him birth, and now I’m being sidelined. It’s a ludicrous situation to be in.

Most of her friends were young marrieds, struggling to cope with child-rearing alongside the demands of their careers. They must think that, apart from the tragedy of being widowed at twenty-one, she’d pretty much fallen on her feet.

After all, she had a large house to live in, a staff to run it, and no money or childcare problems.

Besides, some of them clearly thought that the premature end of her marriage was a blessing in disguise too, although they never said so openly.

And if they did, Allie thought, sighing, could I really deny it?

She walked slowly across the hall and, drawing a deep breath, entered the dining room. Grace Marchington was seated at the head of the table—although ‘enthroned’ might be a better description, Allie thought as she fielded the disparaging glance aimed at her denim skirt and white cheesecloth blouse, closely followed, as usual, by the glance at the watch—just pointed enough to be noticeable.

‘Good morning, Alice. Did you sleep well?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but picked up the small brass bell beside her place and rang it sharply. ‘I’ll ask Mrs Windom to bring some fresh toast.’