Excerpt of Bride Finder by Susan Carroll

"My lord--" Fitzleger tried to interrupt again, but this time Anatole refused to let him.

"And I don't want any woman with flame-colored hair. It can be black, brown, blond, even gray. Anything but red."

"But, my lord--"

"She shouldn't be delicate. I prefer a full-figured woman, a little plump with wide hips and ample breasts."

"Shall I take a string with me to measure?" Fitzleger managed to break in at last. His soft laughter irritated Anatole. "My lord, this is not how it works."

"Then, would you mind explaining to me just how the devil it does work?"

"I work by an instinct as unexplainable as your own abilities. When I am in the presence of your bride, I will just know her. Like the magic of a divining rod being attracted to a precious metal."

"My own divining rod has attracted me to the beds of some of the wenches in the village. But that doesn't mean any of them would make me a suitable wife."

"That is lust, my lord. We are talking something far different here, and you know that. You must place your trust in me. I will find you your one true bride."

"If she is my true bride, she will be all the things I listed off for you."

"That's as may be, my lord."

"That's as it will be, curse it!" Anatole smacked his fist against his palm. "I am free to choose the horse, the gun, even the dog that suits me. Am I to have no say in the selection of my wife? Damnation!"

"I understand how hard this must be," Fitzleger soothed. "To relinquish control of such a personal matter to another man. But I have done well for your family in the past. I found your grandmother for your grandfather when I was scarce more thana lad. And they enjoyed a long, happy union. Likewise your uncles and cousins. The only bride in this family I did not select was--"

Fitzleger broke off. Looking uncomfortable, he cleared his throat.

"You did not select my mother," Anatole finished for him. "I need no reminder of that."

The image of his mother was indelibly burned in his mind even though it had been nineteen years since her death. He could still clearly see her pale face with its fine bone structure, her faery gold hair, but it was her eyes that he thought would haunt him forever.

A boy should see only love in his mother's eyes, not terror.

"I am sorry, my lord." Fitzleger's voice snapped Anatole back to the present. "I did not mean to distress you by raising up ghosts from the past."

"No one has to raise the ghosts around here, Fitzleger. They manage quite well on their own."

Anatole forced his mind back to the subject at hand. "There has to be more than one woman in England that comes close to meeting the requirements I listed for you. I see no reason you can't confine your divining amongst them."

"But, my lord--" Fitzleger shot Anatole a pained glance, though he seemed to realize the futility of further argument. Heaving a long sigh, he said, "Very well, my lord. I shall do the best I can to find you such a woman."

"Good. When will you commence your search? I want this matter settled before next summer is out."

"My lord is that eager?"

"No, my lord merely doesn't want to be plagued with a wedding when the shooting is good."

Fitzleger's mouth quirked in a wry smile. "Of course not. One would not wish your lordship to be inconvenienced. I can see I'd best commence my search immediately. I shall set out for London tomorrow."

"London!" Anatole fairly spat the word. "You'll find no bride for me there! Amongst a parcel of town-bred chits who want to do nothing but shop and gossip the livelong day."

"I am sure there are women of good sense to be found in London as well as anywhere else, and that is where my instinct tells me to go." Setting aside his wineglass, Fitzleger struggled to his feet. "Fortunately my eldest daughter is married to a city merchant. I will stay with her while I seek out your bride. Then when I have found her, I will send for you."

"That you bloody well won't. I've never set foot in London, and I don't intend to. That city has always proved a curse to St. Legers."

"It is true that unfortunate things have happened to some of your ancestors--"

"Our ancestors," Anatole reminded him with a certain grim relish.

Fitzleger's gaze shifted involuntarily to the portrait of Lord Prospero, as did Anatole's. The old rogue seemed to smirk at them, and both men were quick to look away.

"But I don't believe in any sort of a London curse," Fitzleger continued. "If you don't come to the city, how will you court your bride?"

"You woo her for me. We can have the wedding by proxy."

"What!" Fitzleger's jaw dropped open in dismay.

"If I don't get to select the blasted chit, I don't see any reason why I should court her."

"My lord, you cannot possibly mean to marry without meeting the lady first."

"Why not? You said I could place all my trust in you, Bride Finder."

"Yes, but--but--"

"Besides, I'm not a man formed by nature or temperament for wooing."

"But, my lord, these are not medieval times. No gently bred lady of good family will consent to marry you, sight unseen."

"Why not, if she is already destined to be my bride?"

"Even destiny must be helped along a little, my son."

"That is your task, is it not? I don't doubt you'll wax eloquent enough on my behalf, and I am prepared to offer a very generous settlement."

Fitzleger looked shocked. "You cannot buy a wife, my lord."

"Of course you can. It is done all the time. Just find some female of little fortune, and you can dazzle her with the size of my estates and income. You may even appall her with a description of my appearance and delightful disposition. But there is one thing you will not tell her."

"And what is that, my lord?"

"Anything about my rather unique heritage."

"Do you think such concealment wise, my lord? I mean--" Fitzleger hesitated, then said diffidently, "I fear that is the same mistake your father made."

"No, my father was very frank with my mother before they wed. Since my father possessed so little of the family gifts, I believe my mother found the whole St. Leger history rather romantic ... at least until I was born.

"But we aren't discussing my mother. We are talking about my own wife. Do you think any woman in her right mind would marry me, knowing who and what I am? No! My bride shall remain in ignorance until I determine the best time to enlighten her."

"But how will you keep such a secret? She will be bound to hear some rumors from people in the village or your own servants."

"None will dare if I command otherwise," Anatole said fiercely.

"But there is one here that you don't command." Fitzleger gestured uneasily toward the portrait that dominated the hall.

Anatole grimaced. "Yes, well, fortunately that one will confine his whispering to this part of the castle. I will simply forbid my bride ever to come here."

"My lord, this is not good. To begin a marriage cloaked in such secrecy."

"Nonetheless it shall be as I say." Anatole folded his arms across his chest. "We do it my way, or we don't do it at all."

Anatole had rarely seen signs of distress in the placid Fitzleger. But now the little clergyman raked his hands back through his snowy tufts of hair. When he tried to don his cloak, he appeared so agitated, Anatole had to move to help him.

"Not good. Not good," Fitzleger murmured over and over again. "These are hard conditions you set, my lord. Very hard. I don't even know how I shall remember all your instructions."

"Ah, that is why I had the forethought to set them down on paper." Bending down, Anatole reached inside his boot and produced the small roll of parchment he had tucked there hours before.

Unfurling it, he checked it himself one last time before handing it over to Fitzleger. Of course, since he had inked out his commands earlier that afternoon, it said nothing about his ban against the chit having red hair. But Fitzleger could surely remember that much.

The rest was all there ... the sturdy limbs, the ample bosom, the good horsemanship, the plain face, the practical mind, the courage. Yes, most of all the courage.

Lest she be frightened to death.

The thought no sooner entered Anatole's mind than, as if on cue, a chill passed through him, an icy blast of air that caused the candles to flicker.

The parchment flew out of his hand, snatched away by invisible fingers. Anatole heard a soft mocking laugh. He tensed for a moment, then cursed. Pursuing the fluttering paper, he tromped down upon it with his boot just in time to save it from being whisked into the blazing hearth.

As suddenly as it had come, the wind stopped. The candles resumed their normal, steady glow. Compressing his lips together, Anatole bent down to retrieve the parchment.

He straightened to find Fitzleger staring about him with wide eyes. The old man did not look frightened, only a little unnerved.

"Was that him?" he asked in hushed tones.

"That devil Prospero. Who else?" Anatole glared at the rogue's portrait. Prospero's black eyes mocked him back. Anatole let out a mouth-filling oath. "It would be a wonderful thing, Fitzleger. To have ancestors that when one bid them 'rest in peace,' they had the courtesy to do so."

That silky taunting laughter echoed through the hall again.

Fitzleger sighed and laid his hand upon Anatole's sleeve. "My poor boy. You are the one I wish I could offer some peace from all of this."

"Peace?" Anatole gave a bitter laugh. "I don't expect that until I die. And given that I'm a St. Leger, probably not even then."

Taking Fitzleger's hand, he upended the clergyman's palm and slapped the parchment into it. "No, old man. There's only one thing you can do for me."

With a single flash of his eyes, Anatole opened the cloister door.

"Go," he commanded. "Find me a bride."