My Favorite Bride by Christina Dodd

Author:Christina Dodd [Dodd, Christina]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Historical Romance, Erotic, Adult
ISBN: 9780060092641
Google: 3Cb_oFGJQkAC
Amazon: 0060092645
Barnesnoble: 0060092645
Goodreads: 490430
Publisher: Avon
Published: 2002-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

At Maitland Manor, the Featherstonebaugh servants rose and fell in a wave of obeisance. Usually Valda enjoyed the sight, but now, livid with rage, she swept up the steps and past the line of servants without looking at any of them.

She heard the gasps and titters from the maids as Rupert tottered in behind her, pinching their cheeks—and lower.

Her eyes narrowed. The stupid old fool had even tried his moves on her, and she, like an idiot, had succumbed. Then, while she slept, he had attempted to sneak out and escape from her. He still didn’t believe they were in danger. If only he didn’t know so much, she would kill him.

She would enjoy killing him.

As she stepped inside, the butler followed and took her coat and hat. “My lady, we didn’t know when to expect you.”

She glanced around. Maitland was a beautiful home, a glorious eighteenth-century manor set in a jewellike valley, stocked full of great works of art and valuable knickknacks, and she would have to leave it all. It made her sick. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.” Except for the map she’d stolen on her way here. A cretin named Captain Farwell had left it locked in his trunk, and while she didn’t usually take things so easily traced, it no longer mattered if Captain Farwell knew where his map had gone, because she was taking transport to Ireland, and then on to Italy, and no one could trace her there.

The map showed the location and number of every English spy in Russia. She would sell it for a tidy sum, and that would be a kind of insurance in case something went wrong. It was just her old sense of caution flaring up; except for Rupert and his stupid antics, since they’d left Blythe Manor, everything had gone absolutely right.

It was enough to frighten a woman to death.

The butler continued, “But your guest did warn us you would be coming, so—”

She swung on him. “My guest?” The back of her neck prickled. “Who would that be?”

The voice she wanted least to hear—an accented voice, an elegant voice—echoed through the foyer. “Me, of course. Your dear friend, Count Gayeff Fiers Pashenka.”

Unhurriedly, she turned back to face him.

Tall, handsome, austere, he stood with a pistol concealed—although not well—in his pocket. A pistol pointed right at her heart.

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