"Emotions run rampant in Thomas's latest novel"
Reviewed by Annie Tegelan
Posted November 14, 2012
Romance Historical
Sherry Thomas's writing is exquisite and it is always the
main reason why I pick up one of her books. However, in the
third installment of the Fitzhugh Trilogy, I found that
despite the stellar writing, I could not believe in the
romance this time around.
Helena Fitzhugh has been having a heated affair though she
knows the great consequences of her actions. So when she is
nearly caught, she seeks the help of David Hillsborough,
Viscount Hastings and he agrees to elope with her in a
last ditch attempt to save her reputation.
Despite the fact that Helena has harbored ill feelings
towards Hastings since she was young, she knows that her
life will be destroyed if anyone were to find out about her
illicit affairs. On the other hand, Hastings has always
loved Helena but has always tried to keep that fact to
himself. However, when an accident occurs that steals
Helena's memory, Hasting is hoping that that blank slate
will give him the chance to show Helena that his love for
her is real.
As I mentioned earlier, Thomas's writing is so eloquent and
free-flowing that it is so easy to get lost in one of her
books. However, the romance in this particular one didn't
feel organic to me. The amnesia storyline made it hard for
me to really sink into the story. The accident and the
subsequent loss of memory felt like it was a convenient
solution to Helena's hatred. If it weren't for the
accident, I doubt the relationship would have bloomed at
all.
However, that is not to say that I didn't enjoy the other
parts of TEMPTING THE BRIDE. Thomas writes incredibly lovely
character depictions and dialogue that brings the book to
life. The emotions run rampant in TEMPTING THE BRIDE and
despite the
fact that the romance wasn't as believable this time
around, I still found plenty to keep me reading. Thomas is
always a pleasure to read, even if this particular title
wasn't my favorite of hers.
SUMMARY
Helena Fitzhugh understands perfectly well that she would be
ruined should her secret love affair be discovered. So when
a rendezvous goes wrong and she is about to be caught in the
act, it is with the greatest reluctance that she accepts
help from David Hillsborough, Viscount Hastings, and elopes
with him to save her reputation.
Helena has despised David since they were children—the
notorious rake has tormented her all her life. David, on the
other hand, has always loved Helena, but his pride will
never let him admit the secrets of his heart.
A carriage accident the day after their elopement, however,
robs Helena of her memory—the slate is wiped clean. At last
David dares to reveal his love, and she finds him both
fascinating and desirable. But what will happen when her
memory returns and she realizes she has fallen for a man she
has sworn never to trust?
ExcerptPrologue
David Hillsborough, Viscount Hastings, had never been in
love. And he had most certainly never been in
unrequited love. Why, his was a heart buoyantly and
blissfully unattached, while he devoted himself to sample
all the charms life had to offer a young, wealthy, and
handsome bachelor.
This was, in any case, his official position.
He suspected that several of those closest to him had
guessed the truth—possibly a long time ago, as his
particular instance of unrequited love had lasted nearly
half of his life. But he took comfort in the fact that
she hadn’t the slightest idea. And, God
willing, she never would.
For he would be in hell if she ever learned.
Not that he was very far from it at the moment, watching
the girl of his dreams, Miss Helena Fitzhugh, gazing at
another man with adoration. Her elder sister was the
acknowledged Great Beauty of their time, but it was always
Miss Fitzhugh from whom he couldn’t look away. Her
flame–bright hair, her luminous skin, her clever,
wicked eyes.
He did not begrudge her falling in love with another.
After all, if he refused to participate in the contest, he
could not complain when someone else won the prize. But he
did mind, very much, that this man on whom she lavished her
attention did not deserve it in the least.
Years ago, Andrew Martin had had the opportunity to marry
her. But his mother had expected him to marry someone else
in order to unite two adjacent properties. Lacking the
courage to defy the elder Mrs. Martin, he’d married
that someone else.
Even in a land full of cold, formal marriages, Mr.
Martin’s marriage stood out for its coldness and
formality. Husband and wife dined at different times, moved
in different circles, and communicated almost entirely via
written notices.
None of it mattered. Happy or otherwise, a married man
was a married man, and a respectable young lady ought to
search elsewhere for fulfillment.
Miss Fitzhugh was a rule breaker. Until now, however,
those she’d trampled had not been so much rules as
recommendations. When she became the only one of her
siblings to pursue a university education, it was looked
upon as an eccentricity. And when, upon coming into her
small inheritance, she’d used the funds as capital for
a publishing firm that she ran herself, the venture was
dismissed as simply another idiosyncrasy in the
family—after all, her brother, Earl Fitzhugh, managed
the tinneries his heiress wife had inherited.
But indulging in a close friendship with a married man
pushed boundaries of acceptable behavior. She needed not
commit any actual sins; the appearance of impropriety
would be quite enough to wound her.
The drawing room at Lord Wrenworth’s country estate
was awash in laughter and good cheer. Mrs. Denbigh, Miss
Fitzhugh’s married friend who was her chaperone at the
Wrenworth house party, was all too busy amusing herself.
Hastings waited for a natural pause in the conversation in
which he’d been taking part, excused himself, and
crossed the room to where Miss Fitzhugh and Martin sat on a
chaise longue, their bodies turned toward each other,
effectively blocking anyone else from joining their
conversation.
“Mr. Martin, what are you still doing here?”
Hastings asked. “Haven’t you your next great
tome to write?”
Miss Fitzhugh answered for Martin. “But he
is working. He is conferring with his
publisher.”
“And he has been conferring with his publisher
since morning, if I’m not mistaken. A cook can confer
with the mistress of the house all day long, but that
doesn’t put dinner on the table. Mr. Martin would
quite deprive his readers of his next excellent volume of
history were he to spend all his hours talking about it and
none setting the actual words to paper.”
Martin reddened. “You have a point, Lord
Hastings.”
“I always have a point. I understand that you are
here to work and that you’ve asked Lord Wrenworth to
put a nice, quiet room at your disposal. You haven’t
put that room to use, have you?”
Martin reddened further. “Ah—”
“I, personally, cannot wait for the next appearance
of Offa of Mercia.”
“You’ve read the book?”
“Of course. Why do you look so surprised? Did I
not display a ferocious intelligence and a
wide–ranging curiosity when I was at
university?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then consider yourself honored to count me among
your readership. Now off you go. Write deep into the
night. And stop monopolizing Miss Fitzhugh. You are a
married man, remember?”
Martin chuckled uneasily and rose. Miss Fitzhugh shot
Hastings an icy look. He ignored it, shooed Martin away,
and took the spot on the chaise he’d vacated.
“I don’t believe you read Mr. Martin’s
book.”
He read every book she published from cover to cover,
even the ones she took on purely for financial gain.
“First page and last page—and did I not sound
impressive discussing it?”
Her gaze brimmed with disdain. “You sounded
pompous and overbearing, Hastings. And to dismiss my friend
from my presence? Truly, I expected better, even of
you.”
He leaned back against the armrest of the chaise.
“Let us spend no more words on Mr. Martin, who is
surely beneath your notice. I’d much prefer to speak
of how delicious you look tonight, my dear Miss
Fitzhugh.”
He was not subtle about where his gaze dropped: directly
into her décolletage. He’d loved her since
before she’d sprouted breasts and felt no compunction
in enjoying the sight of them anytime her neckline allowed.
In reaction she snapped open her fan and neatly blocked
his view of her bosom. “Don’t let me keep you,
Hastings. Mrs. Ponsonby is trying to get your attention, if
I’m not mistaken.”
“You are not mistaken,” he murmured.
“They are all trying to get my attention, all the
women I’ve ever met.”
“I know how this goes. You want me to protest that
I’ve never wanted your attention. Then you’d
counter that I’ve only ever pretended to ignore you,
and that all along my indifference was my pitiful attempt to
pique your curiosity.”
She sounded half–bored. He used to be able to
anger her to a greater intensity, and for a longer duration.
More than even her scorn he feared her apathy—the
opposite of love was not hate, but indifference; to exist in
such proximity to her yet make no impression upon her
awareness, upon her soul.
He tsked. “Miss Fitzhugh, I am never that
unoriginal. Of course you want my attention, but it is only
so you can toss it back into my face. You take great
pleasure in thwarting me, my dear.”
A spark flashed in her eyes—gone almost before
he’d perceived it. He lived for those moments,
moments when she was forced to look at him as who he was,
instead of who she believed him to be.
The worst thing about falling in love with her so early
in life was that he’d been an absolute snot at
fourteen, at once arrogant and self–pitying. Almost
as bad was the fact that he’d been nearly half a foot
shorter than she at their first meeting—she’d
been five foot nine, and he barely five foot four. Though
she was only a few weeks older than he was, she’d
looked upon him as a child—while he broiled with the
heat and anguish of first love.
When nothing else garnered him her attention, he turned
horrid. She was disgusted by this midget who tried to trick
her into broom closets to steal kisses, and he was at once
miserable and thrilled. Disgust was better than
indifference; anything was better than indifference.
By the time his height at last exceeded hers—six
foot two to her five foot eleven—and his baby fat
melted away to reveal cheekbones sharp enough to cut
diamonds, her opinion was firmly set against him. And he,
no longer self–pitying but proud as ever, refused to
humble himself and ask for a fresh chance.
Not that he didn’t want to. Every time he came
across her, with her perfect assurance, her winsome face,
her lithe, sylphlike figure, he meant to repent aloud all
his past stupidity.
Yet all he ever did was further his record of
obnoxiousness. A women’s college, is that what they
call a hotbed of lesbianism these days? Becoming a
publisher—so you think there still aren’t enough
bad books to be had? That is a ravishing dress, my dear,
dear Miss Fitzhugh; a shame you can’t fill it out with
a few more curves—or any, for that matter.
Her ripostes always set his heart aflame. I knew I
chose a women’s college for all the right reasons, but
a hotbed of lesbianism—my goodness—that is like
discovering a vein of gold on the land you’ve just
bought, isn’t it? Of course you would find the vast
majority of books taxing, given your trouble with basic
literacy—rest assured I will publish a few picture
books just for you.
And his favorite, in response to his slur against her
figure: My dear Lord Hastings, I’m afraid I
didn’t quite hear you. You are mumbling. Is your
mouth full of—why, it is!—indeed, a whole
cluster of sour grapes. With the tip of her index
finger, she’d drawn a line from her chin to just
beneath the top of her neckline, cast him a look of pure
derision, and swept off. And he’d never been more
hopelessly in love.
“You are staring at me, Hastings,” said the
present–day Miss Fitzhugh, an edge to her voice.
“Yes, I know, grieving over your
soon–to–come deterioration—of course, you
are still comely, but age will inexorably catch up with you.
You really aren’t getting any younger, Miss
Fitzhugh.”
She fluttered her fan. “And do you know what they
say of women of a certain age, what they want above
all?”
Desire simmered in him at her
not–quite–smile. “Do tell.”
“To be rid of you, Hastings. So that they
don’t have to waste what remains of their precious few
years suffering your lecherous looks.”
“If I stopped looking at you lecherously,
you’d miss it.”
“Why don’t we test that hypothesis? You stop
and I’ll tell you after ten years or so whether I miss
it.”
He gazed at her a little longer. He could watch her all
night—in fact, he would watch her all night, from
wherever he was in Lord Wrenworth’s drawing
room—but the time had come for him to depart her
chaise before she forcibly evicted him.
He rose and bowed slightly. “You wouldn’t
last two weeks, Miss Fitzhugh.”
* * *
The ladies retired by half past ten. The gentlemen
smoked a few cigars, played a few hands of cards and a few
games of snooker. At half past twelve, Hastings was the
last person to head up.
Except he didn’t go directly to his room. Instead
he took himself to an alcove that allowed him a limited view
of her room—unrequited love meant staring at closed
doors, imagining otherwise. A faint light still shone under
her door; she was probably reading in bed.
Just a few more pages.
Hampton House, her childhood home, had been of a modest
size. When he’d visited, he’d had a room three
doors down from hers. Every night, her governess would come
around and urge her to turn off her lamp. Invariably she
would answer, Just a few more pages.
And when the governess had left, he would slip out of
his own room and peer at her door until her light was
extinguished at last, before he returned to bed to stew anew
in lust and yearning.
A habit that he’d kept to this day, whenever they
happened to be under the same roof.
Her light turned off. He sighed. How long would he keep
at this? Soon he would be twenty–seven. Did he still
plan to stand in a dark passage in the middle of the night
and gaze upon her door when he was thirty–seven?
Forty–seven? Ninety–seven?
He ran his hand through his hair. Time for his lonely
bed, which he could have filled with women, but for his
reluctance to sleep with anyone else when Miss Fitzhugh was
in the vicinity. Perhaps it was some hidden wellspring of
gentlemanliness protesting this act of hypocrisy, or perhaps
it was merely him being superstitious, afraid that such an
infraction would destroy what slender hope he still had.
Her door opened.
He sucked in a breath. Had she sensed him? He pressed
his back into the curved inside of the alcove. It was too
dark to see well, but she seemed to be poised on the
threshold. Was she searching for him?
The door closed softly. He let out the breath he
held—she must have returned to her room.
Suddenly she was before him, a disturbance in the air.
His heart leaped to the roof of his mouth; endless
disastrous possibilities flashed across his mind, all his
years of careful pretenses stripped bare at once. She would
lift one fine brow and laugh at the futility of his desires.
She walked past him. He blinked, disoriented by the
abrupt evaporation of what had promised to be an eventful
confrontation. She hadn’t come for him; she was going
for a snack, perhaps, or another book. But she did not even
have a hand candle to illuminate her way. It was as if she
didn’t want anyone to see her—or where she was
going.
He might not have been able to follow her had it been
summer—she’d have heard his footsteps on the
echoing floor. But it was winter and a thick carpet had
been laid down. He walked soundlessly, keeping to the
walls.
She approached the stairs. If she were headed for the
warming kitchen or the library, she would go down the steps.
She didn’t: She climbed up. Most of the guests had
been placed on the same floor, the unmarried ladies and
gentlemen put into separate wings. Above, in this wing, at
least, were only the guests who’d arrived
late—and Mr. Andrew Martin.
An airless sensation overtook him. He could not possibly
be correct in his suspicions. She was far too
clear–thinking a woman to visit the room of any man,
let alone a married man, at this hour of the night.
On the next floor there was only one door with light
still underneath. And when she approached, the door opened
from inside. In the gap stood Andrew Martin, smiling.
She slipped in. The door closed. Hastings remained
numbly in place.
She wasn’t just Martin’s friend and
publisher. She was his lover.
* * *
He found himself seated on the floor—his elbows on
his knees, his head in his hands. She stayed in
Martin’s room for two hours, leaving as quietly as
she’d arrived, slipping down the stairs like a phantom
of the night. Hastings did not return to his own room until
almost dawn.
She had no obligation to care for his sentiments, but did
she not care about her own future? What she had done was
utter madness. Had she slipped into the room of a bachelor,
Hastings would be no less annihilated, but at least then her
lover could marry her, should the worst happen.
With Andrew Martin there was no such last resort.
Late the next morning he came across the two of them in
the library, reading in two adjacent chairs. She radiated
satisfaction. He turned around and walked out.
That night she visited Martin again. Hastings stood
guard near the stairs, trying, unsuccessfully, to not
imagine what might be taking place inside Martin’s
room.
He spent his second sleepless night.
The following night, he sat on the carpeted steps, his
head resting against the cold banister. He had to leave in
the morning—he never remained away from his daughter
for longer than three days. On his way home, should he stop
by Fitz’s estate and gently break the news of Miss
Fitzhugh’s misbehavior? He might be nothing and no
one to Helena Fitzhugh, but her twin brother, Fitz, was his
best friend.
Would she ever forgive him if he did?
He sat up straight. A pair of giggling guests were coming
up the stairs. He recognized their whispering voices: a man
and a woman, married, but not to each other.
They sounded more than a little drunk.
His heart pounding, he coughed loudly. The
would–be adulterers fell silent. After a few seconds
there came a hushed exchange. They turned around and
descended.
It was several minutes before he could unclench his
fingers from around the banister.
Not that those two were certain to have tried
Martin’s door. Not that Martin’s door
wouldn’t have already been securely locked, with a
chair wedged beneath the door handle as an additional
bulwark against intruders. But if this continued, someday,
somewhere, someone would open a door that hadn’t been
properly secured.
He slowly rose to his feet, leaning on the balustrade. He
knew her. It was easier to pull a lion’s teeth than
to change her mind. She would barrel down this path,
refusing to be diverted, until she crashed into the limit of
society’s tolerance.
And he, as much as even now he still wanted to, could not
always protect her.
* * *
A lover’s embrace made one look favorably upon the
entirety of the universe. As Helena Fitzhugh returned to her
empty, unlit bedroom, she sighed in contentment.
Or rather, as much contentment as possible, given that
her particular lover’s embrace had happened through
her chemise and his nightshirt—Andrew was adamant that
they not risk a pregnancy. But still, how new and thrilling
it was to kiss and touch in the comfort and privacy of a
bed, almost enough to pretend that the past five years never
happened and that the only thing that separated them were
two layers of thin, soft merino wool.
“Hullo, Miss Fitzhugh,” came a man’s
voice out of the darkness.
Her heart stopped. Hastings was her brother Fitz’s
best friend—but not exactly a friend to her.
“Mistook my room for one of your
paramours’?” She was proud of herself. Her
voice sounded even, almost blasé.
“Then I would have greeted you by one of their
names, wouldn’t I?” His voice was just as
nonchalant as hers.
A match flared, illuminating a pair of stern eyes. It
always surprised her that he could look
somber—intimidating—at times, when he was so
frivolous a person.
He lit a hand candle. The light cast his features into
sharp relief; the ends of his hair gleamed bronze.
“Where were you, Miss Fitzhugh?”
“I was hungry. I went to the butler’s pantry
and found myself a slice of pear cake.”
He blew out the match and tossed it in the grate.
“And came back directly?”
“Not that it is any of your concern, but
yes.”
“So if I were to kiss you now, you would taste of
pear cake?”
Trust Hastings to always drag any discussion into the
gutter. “Absolutely. But as your lips will never
touch mine, that is a moot point, my lord Hastings.”
He looked at her askance. “You are aware, are you
not, that I am one of your brothers’ most trusted
friends?”
A friendship she’d never quite understood.
“And?”
“And as such, when I become aware of gross
misconduct on your part, it behooves me to inform your
brother without delay.”
She lifted her chin. “Gross misconduct? Is that
what one calls a little foray to the butler’s pantry
these days?”
“A little foray to the butler’s pantry, is
that how one refers to the territory inside Mr.
Martin’s underlinens these days?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Should I use the scientific names?”
And wouldn’t he enjoy doing that. But as it was
her policy to never let him enjoy himself at her expense,
she declared, “Mr. Martin and I are friends of long
standing and nothing more.”
“You and I are friends of long standing
and—”
“You and I are acquaintances of long standing,
Hastings.”
“Fine. Your sister and I are friends of long
standing and yet she has never come to spend hours in my
room. Alone. After midnight.”
“I went for a slice of cake.”
He cocked his head. “I saw you go into Mr.
Martin’s room at forty minutes past midnight, Miss
Fitzhugh. You were still there when I left twenty minutes
ago. By the way, I also witnessed the same thing happening
for the past two nights. You can accuse me of many
things—and you do—but you cannot charge me with
drawing conclusions on insufficient evidence. Not in this
case, at least.”
She stiffened. She’d underestimated him, it would
seem. He’d been his usual flighty, superficial self;
she wouldn’t have guessed he had the faintest inkling
of her nighttime forays.
“What do you want, Hastings?”
“I want you to mend your ways, my dear Miss
Fitzhugh. I understand very well that Mr. Martin should
have been yours in an ideal world. I also understand that
his wife has been praying for him to take a lover so she
could do the same. But none of it will matter should you be
found out. So you see, it is my moral obligation to leave
at first light and inform your siblings, my dear, dear
friends, that their beloved sister is throwing away her
life.”
She rolled her eyes. “What do you want,
Hastings?”
He sighed dramatically. “It wounds me, Miss
Fitzhugh. Why do you always suspect me of ulterior
motives?”
“Because you always have one. What do I have to do
now for your silence?”
“That will not happen.”
“I refuse to think you cannot be bought,
Hastings.”
“My, such adamant faith in my corruptibility. I
almost hate to disappoint you.”
“Then don’t disappoint me. Name your
price.”
His title was quite new—he was only the second
Viscount Hastings after his uncle. The family coffer was
full to the brim. His price would not be anything
denominated in pounds sterling.
“If I say nothing,” he mused, “Fitz
will be quite put out with me.”
“If you say nothing, my brother will not know
anything.”
“Fitz is a clever man—except when it comes to
his wife, perhaps. He will learn sooner or later,
somehow.”
“But you are a man who lives in the present,
aren’t you?”
He lifted a brow. “That wouldn’t be your way
of saying that I am empty–headed and incapable of
thinking of the future, would it?”
She didn’t bother with an answer to that question.
“It is getting late—not too long now before
someone comes to lay a new fire. I don’t want you to
be seen in my room.”
“At least I can marry you to salvage your
reputation should that happen. Mr. Martin is in no position
to do so.”
“That is quite beside the point. Tell me what you
want and begone.”
He smiled, a crooked smile full of suggestions.
“You know what I want.”
“Please don’t tell me you are still trying to
kiss me. Have I not made my lack of interest abundantly
clear on this matter?”
“I don’t want to kiss you. However,
you will need to kiss me.”
She, kiss him?
“Ah, I see you were hoping to stand quiescent and
think of Christian martyrs mauled by the lions of the
Colosseum. But as you always tell me, I am a man of
unseemly tastes. So you must be the lion, and I the martyr.
I shall expect exceptional aggression, Miss
Fitzhugh.”
“If I were a lion, I’d find you a piece of
rotten fish, not at all to my taste and hardly edible,
whereas I’ve just dined on the finest gazelle in the
entire savanna. You will excuse me if I fail to summon any
enthusiasm to fall upon you.”
“Quite the contrary. I cannot excuse such failure.
Not in the least. You will somehow summon the enthusiasm
or I shall be on the earliest train headed south.”
“And if I do manufacture enough false zeal to
satisfy you?”
“Then I shall say nothing to anyone of Mr.
Martin.”
“Your word?”
“Your word that the kiss will be more debauched
than any you’ve pressed upon Mr. Martin.”
“You are a pervert, Hastings.”
He smiled again. “And you are just the sort of
woman to appreciate one, Miss Fitzhugh, whether you realize
it or not. Now, here is what I want you to do. You will
seize me by the shoulders, push me against the wall, reach
your hand under my jacket—“
“I feel my bile rising.”
“Then you are ready. Onward. I await your
assault.”
She grimaced. “How I hate to spoil a perfect
record of repelling you.”
“Nothing lasts forever, my dear Miss Fitzhugh. And
remember, kiss me passionately. Or you’ll have to do
it again.”
She might as well get it over with.
She closed the space that separated them in two big
strides and gripped him by the sleeves of his dressing gown.
Instead of pushing him backward as he’d
instructed—as if she’d allow him to dictate the
specifics of her ordeal—she yanked him toward her,
fastened her mouth to his, and imagined herself a shark with
hundreds of razor–sharp teeth.
Or perhaps she was a minion of the underworld, her mouth
a welter of burning acid and sulfur fumes, devouring his
soul, savoring all the idle immoralities he’d
committed in his lifetime as a palate cleanser between
courses of more substantial sins.
Or a Venus flytrap, full of delicious nectar, but woe was
he who thought he could dip a proboscis inside and sample
her charms. Instead, she would digest him in place, stupid sod.
Vaguely she sensed something hard and smooth against her
shoulder blades. They’d been in the middle of her
room; why was she being pressed into a wall? And why, all
of a sudden, was she the one being devoured?
The muscles of his arms were tight and hard beneath her
hands. His person was as tall and solid as a castle gate.
His mouth, instead of tasting like a furnace of greedy lust,
was cool and delicious, as if he’d just downed a long
draft of well water.
She shoved him away and wiped her lips. She was panting.
She didn’t know why she ought to be.
“My,” he murmured. “As ferocious as
anything I’ve ever imagined. I was right. You do
want me.”
She ignored him. “Your word.”
“I will say nothing of Andrew Martin to anyone.
You may depend on that.”
“Leave.”
“Gladly, now that I have what I came for.” He
smirked. “Good night, my dear. You were well worth
the wait.”
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