Bride for a Night

Still attired in her ruby satin dinner gown trimmed with French pearls at the plunging neckline and white roses along the cap sleeves, Talia sat in front of the satinwood dresser pulling a brush through her thick curls.

It had been over a week since her arrival at the palace, and while Jacques had been a charming companion when he was not meeting with the various guests who routinely traveled from Paris to speak with him, she was growing frustrated with her elegant prison.

As she should be, she acknowledged, tossing aside the brush and rising to her feet.

After accepting that she could not escape, she had instead turned her thoughts to the looming disaster awaiting General Wellesley’s troops.

But despite her efforts, she had yet to find the means to send a warning to those poor men who were about to march directly into an ambush. And she’d had even less luck in discovering the sort of secret information that might be used to England’s advantage once Jacques returned her to Devonshire.

She was proving to be as much a failure at being a daring adventuress as she was a society debutante.

Talia

paced out the French doors that led to the balcony. She was leaning against the stone balustrade gazing at the moon-drenched garden when she caught the unmistakable sound of a soft footfall behind her.

“Jacques?” she called, a frown marring her brow. Until this moment she had never felt uneasy in these private chambers, despite being a prisoner. The various guards who roamed the palace and surrounding grounds had treated her with a wary respect that assured her that Jacques had left strict orders that she was not to be bothered. Now she realized just how vulnerable she truly was. “Who is there?”

A large, distinctly male form stepped onto the balcony.

“It most certainly is not Jacques,” a familiar voice growled.

“Gabriel?” Talia gasped in shock, half suspecting this must be a dream. It certainly would not be the first time she’d imagined her husband magically appearing to sweep her back to England. Of course, in her dreams he had spoken sweet words of regret. His sharp retort assured her that she was very much awake. “Dear God. What are you doing here?”

He prowled forward, his golden hair shimmering in the moonlight and his eyes a pure silver.

Talia shivered at the sudden danger that filled the air. How ironic that she felt perfectly comfortable with the man who had taken her captive, while her husband—the one man she should trust above all others—made her tremble with uncertainty.

“I should think that is obvious.” His hooded gaze skimmed over her stiff form, lingering on her tumble of loose curls that spilled over her shoulders and down her back. “I have come to collect my wayward wife.”

A breathless, aching sensation raced through Talia, making her acutely conscious of the vast amount of bare skin revealed by her gown and the manner in which it clung to her generous curves.

“How in heaven’s name did you find me?” she rasped.

He halted a mere breath from her, the scent of his warm male skin teasing at her nose.

“I am not without skills.”

“But…”

“Why did you assume another man would be entering your chambers?” he roughly interrupted.

Sudden fear that they would be overheard by the guards in the garden below jolted Talia out of her lingering sense of disbelief.

“Shh.” She lifted a hand to press her fingers to his lips. “Someone will hear you.”

He grabbed her wrist, his touch sending a sizzle of heat through her blood even as his eyes flashed with anger.

“Answer the question, Talia. Who is Jacques?”

She frowned in confusion. “He is…or was your vicar until he revealed himself as a traitor and kidnapped me.”

“Jacques…Jack,” he breathed in sudden comprehension. “Of course.”

“Yes, Jack Gerard.”

“And he is a frequent visitor?”

“I do not understand.”