Past the Countess of Inverness smiling contentedly. Past Aunt Augusta, who slipped into the pew with the countess, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

“Just as you are,” Aunt Augusta whispered, as Hamish swept Elspeth past on the way to the altar, where a rosy-cheeked rector peered down his glasses at her.

“We’re all assembled then?” the white-robed cleric asked. “Are we ready to begin?”

“Elspeth?” Hamish finally spoke. “Are we ready?”

“Nay.”

“Elspeth—”

“What of your Miss Lorimer and her brewery?” she demanded.

“A misunderstanding. A great, unnecessary misunderstanding that has delayed my making you my wife.”

“Nay. Not until you propose to me. Properly. On one knee before everyone and God, the way you ought to have done at the start.”

“I couldn’t have done so at the start, as I hardly knew you.”

“You know what I mean.” She held her ground. “I want a proper declaration of love from you, Hamish Cathcart. And I want it now, or we go no further.”

If anything, Hamish’s smile grew wider, spilling across his face with reckless abandon. “Then you shall have it. My darling Miss Otis,” he began, going down on the cold, slate floor on one bare knee. “I beg you to make me the happiest of men, by doing me the honor of accepting my unworthy proposal for your hand.”

It was a pretty enough start. But not enough. “Why?”

“Because without you, my life and my world would be a poorer place.”

Elspeth was about to object—this was no time for the man to talk of money—but she saw the mischievous twinkle in his eye, and knew he was teasing her. Which was a good sign, she thought. A person couldn’t tease someone who wasn’t their equal.

“Because I love you with all my heart and all my mind and all my soul, and I do not want to face another dawn of waking up without you.”

“That’s better.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Nay, it’s an aye.”

The rector cleared his throat and began, “Dearly beloved brethren, we are here gathered together in the sight of God, and in the face of His congregation to knit and join these parties together in the honorable estate of matrimony—”

Epilogue

He took her home to Cathcart Lodge, of course. There was nowhere else where she would feel so at home but in her native country. And yet the quiet lodge was still private enough that they would not have to see anyone from the village for a week if they so chose. And they did not so choose.

They chose to lie naked hour after hour in a soft, comfortable bed, with the windows wide open to the fragrant summer air. They made love through rainstorms and sun squalls, through chilly mornings and warm afternoons. They talked and ate and loved and rewrote her father’s book without ever leaving the bed.

And Elspeth had never, ever been happier. “Have I thanked you properly?”

“For what,” he asked, pulling her closer to lie atop his lovely naked chest.

“For making me write books, and marrying me, and making me so happy.”

“We make ourselves happy, my darling heart, when we are true to ourselves.” He kissed her forehead. “And it was really your Aunt Augusta who made you write books.”

“Aunt Augusta and, perhaps, the ghost of my father.”

“Pray don’t talk of fathers, my sweet, when I am intent upon ravishing his daughter.”

Elspeth felt her smile spread across her face until it became a laugh. “I think my father, of all men, would approve.”

“And I approve of his daughter, most heartily.”

“Love me, Hamish Cathcart. Give me another one of your lessons in kissing.”

He rolled her onto her back, and gave her that smile that said he would lead her into mischief. “Oh, Elspeth. Wouldn’t you prefer a lesson in a great deal more?”

She did. And she always would. It was in her blissfully tainted blood.


Acknowledgements

To my sisters of the pen, Christi Caldwell, Eva Devon, Anthea Lawson and Erica Ridley: what a pleasure it is to be included in your company.

And for Delilah Marvelle, whose generosity was the catalyst for this book.

More from Elizabeth Essex

Want to Read More from Elizabeth Essex?

Highland Brides

Mad for Love

Mad About the Marquess

Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Marry

Mad Dogs and Englishwomen

The Haunting of Castle Keyvnor

Vexed

Dartmouth Brides

The Pursuit of Pleasure

A Sense of Sin

The Danger of Desire

Reckless Brides

Almost a Scandal

A Breath of Scandal

Scandal in the Night

The Scandal Before Christmas

After the Scandal

A Scandal to Remember


About the Author

Elizabeth Essex is the award-winning author of critically acclaimed historical romance including the Reckless Brides and her new Highland Brides series. Her books have been nominated for numerous awards, including the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence, the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award and Seal of Excellence Award, and RWA’s prestigious RITA Award. The Reckless Brides Series has also made Top-Ten lists from Romantic Times, The Romance Reviews and Affaire de Coeur Magazine, and Desert Isle Keeper status at All About Romance. Her fifth book, A BREATH OF SCANDAL, was awarded Best Historical in the Reader’s Crown 2013. When not rereading Jane Austen, mucking about in her garden or simply messing about with boats, Elizabeth can be always be found with her laptop, making up stories about heroes and heroines who live far more exciting lives than she. It wasn’t always so. Long before she ever set pen to paper, Elizabeth graduated from Hollins College with a BA in Classics and Art History, and then earned her MA in Nautical Archaeology from Texas A&M University. While she loved the life of an underwater archaeologist, she has found her true calling writing lush, lyrical historical romance full of passion, daring and adventure.

Elizabeth lives in Texas with her husband, the indispensable Mr. Essex, and her active and exuberant family in an old house filled to the brim with books.

Elizabeth loves to hear from readers, so please feel free to contact her at the following places:

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A LADY’S CHOICE

By Anthea Lawson




Copyright 2016 by Anthea Lawson. All rights reserved. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is strictly coincidental. Please do not copy or share without the author’s permission.

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QUALITY CONTROL: This book has been professionally edited, however, an occasional typo may have slipped through. If you find one, please contact anthea@anthealawson.com so that we may correct it in future editions. Thank you!

Chapter 1

London, July 1847

“Lady Sara, a letter from your mother.” The butler deposited a cream-colored envelope beside Lady Sara Ashford’s breakfast plate.

“Thank you, Mr. Carlisle,” Sara said, though she was not actually grateful for the correspondence. A letter from Mama was something to be wary of.

She did not pick it up right away, but instead took another sip of tea from her gold-rimmed cup and studied the envelope. The heavy paper was slightly crumpled along one edge, and an array of colorful postage stamps decorated the upper right-hand corner. The flourishes and colors were distinctly non-European.

Sara’s Aunt Eugenie, seated at the head of the table, gave her a pointed glance and then transferred her gaze to the letter, brows raised. Sara brushed the envelope with her index finger, wondering what Mama was up to. Having the notorious Marchioness of Fulton as a relative was not an easy thing, but lucky Aunt Eugenie was only related by marriage. It was worse for Sara, being the woman’s daughter.

“Blood will tell,” the gossips murmured at balls and parties, giving Sara sidelong glances over their fans. “She’ll be as wild as her mother any day now, you’ll see.”

To their disappointment, however, Sara had reached the venerable age of one-and-twenty without doing anything remotely scandalous. Speculation about her had almost entirely trickled away, now that she was no longer seen as competition for the most eligible gentlemen. After all, she was practically on the shelf.

The thought made her chest tighten. It was true: her prospects of making a match were beginning to wane. But she and Aunt Eugenie had a plan.

“I wonder where your mother is now.” Aunt Eugenie continued to stare at the envelope. “Still in Persia?”

Sara nudged her plate aside and pulled the letter in front of her. “No—she was in Egypt last time, don’t you remember?”

Her aunt frowned. “Without a map, I find it difficult to keep your mother’s wanderings in my memory.”

Sara did not have that problem. When she was younger, she’d spent hours studying the globe in the library, running her fingers over the bumps of mountains and smooth dips of lakes until she’d memorized the entire world.

That was before she understood that gallivanting about the globe was not an option for a young lady of good breeding. Not if she wanted to preserve her reputation. When her father died and Aunt Eugenie had taken over Sara’s upbringing, that fact was made quite clear.

“It’s all very well for your mother to hare off to those exotic destinations,” her aunt had explained when ten-year-old Sara had voiced her hopes of joining Mama on her travels. “She is a rich widow and can afford to raise eyebrows if she pleases. But she was wise to leave you in my care now that your father has gone to his eternal reward, God rest his soul.”