Capturing the Bride
The Kidnap Club
Samantha Holt
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
© 2019 Samantha Holt
All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
Edited by Dom’s Proofreading
Proofed by Destini Reece and Em Petrova
Cover art by Midnight Muse Designs
Chapter One
A silent scream built inside Grace.
She clasped her hands tightly together and glanced down at her blanching knuckles. Her heart throbbed hard in her chest. One more month and she would be independent.
No. She would have been independent.
And she would have taken her inheritance, whisked her aunt away from the vile man that was her husband, and they could have lived in peace for the rest of their days.
Now she had mere days before that dream was shattered.
She glanced down at where her fingers pinched into the backs of her hands and she spied little red marks forming around each fingertip, yet she could not release them, or she might really scream.
What would happen if she unleashed it upon the man who had been her guardian for so many years? Would he even notice her? Uncle Charlie had always done his best to avoid her, even when she had arrived here, an orphaned child of just eight years old. Had it not been for her wonderful aunt—her father’s sister—life would have been miserable indeed.
Of course, once the terms of her inheritance had been revealed, he’d paid a little more attention. Grace knew exactly why her uncle was trying to marry her off before her twenty-first birthday.
Especially to a man like Mr. Worthington.
She snorted to herself. Worthy, he was not. In fact, he was downright terrifying.
Shooting her gaze from man to man, she could not see a single positive trait in either of them whilst they discussed Grace’s future as though she were not even in the room.
Uncle Charlie had always suffered a sallow complexion, with deep hollowed eyes. His cold gaze never warmed, not even upon viewing his wife or something that would thaw the heart of the coldest man. No kittens or children playing, or beautiful sunsets could reach his frozen heart as far as she was concerned.
It was likely shielded behind a thick wall of greed, built from the coin he scrabbled for then spent so frivolously. Her poor aunt had been forced to make excuses for many a debt and sell off most of her jewelry and fine clothing.
Meanwhile, Uncle Charlie dressed as finely as ever, only wearing the best fabrics and latest fashions.
Grace wrinkled her nose. Not that it helped him as he aged. His hair had thinned at a rapid rate, leaving a few thick, dark strands clinging to the shiny dome of his head, and a strip of shorter hair curving around the back of his head. He was growing smaller too but still stood tall over Grace which frustrated her to no end. How she wished she could rise from this chair, look down her nose at him, and tell him in no uncertain terms that she refused to marry Mr. Worthington.
She tried to eye him dispassionately, and not through the veil of fear that seeped inside her every time he stepped in the room but failed. She loathed to be one to fall for rumors but as soon as she met Mr. Worthington, she knew them to be true.
If her uncle’s eyes appeared cold, Mr. Worthington’s pale blue ones were downright ice. Combined with that constant curve at the corners of his lips that told her here was a man who was used to getting everything he wanted in life—whether it via force or coercion—the man who was to be her husband left her more than empty inside.
While she had never enjoyed sweeping dreams of love as some girls did, she certainly didn’t imagine marrying a man twenty years her senior who had only recently buried his wife after she had been found sprawled at the bottom of the stairs.
And everyone knew why.
Good God, she couldn’t marry the man. But what could she do? Even if she did rise from her seat, and try to scream as loud as she could, her uncle was her guardian until her twenty-first birthday. It was impossible to defy him. If only she could get him to delay the marriage somehow. Or she could run away and hide for a while. But how? And where? She didn’t even like visiting new houses let alone dashing off to goodness knows where—alone—and hoping she did not get hurt.
Which was highly likely.
Not only was she ignorant to the world, she was small—too small. Her tiny frame and small stature had always made her vulnerable.
How she loathed it. If only she were tall and commanding and able to tell her uncle in no uncertain terms that she would not marry a man like Mr. Worthington—or any man for that matter—and she would be taking her father’s money thank you very much, and moving somewhere peaceful and quiet, and surrounding herself with all the things she loved.
Mr. Worthington glanced her way. Only briefly, mind, as though she were of no consequence. As though their discussion of her wedding day had nothing to do with her. Of course, it was mostly to do with her inheritance, so she supposed it did not really. The fact he had to take her as his wife meant little if he could lay claim to her money.
Grace lifted her gaze to the ceiling, eyeing the grand, plaster rose that circled a small chandelier. Why could her father not have willed the money directly to her? Why did he think she might wish to marry? Surly he knew his eloquent, bookish daughter would never want a man?
She sighed. Her father had been trying to look after her with his terms, she knew that. By ensuring her money would go to her husband upon her marriage, regardless of her age, he was making sure she was an attractive prospect and that no financial worries would put off a potential suitor.
He did not, however, expect her uncle to make some sordid deal with a man like Worthington, just so he could take a share of said money once it was in her husband’s hands.
The scream began building again, filling her lungs and making her throat hot. Except she knew if she even tried to unleash it, it would come out as a mere squeak, just like when Freddy Porter pinned her against the church door and kissed her or when Eliza McConnell made fun of her lack of curves when all the other girls were growing into women.
She’d tried to scream and shout and stamp her feet but there was nothing intimidating or scary about a slight woman like her throwing a strop and they simply laughed at her.
Mr. Worthington caught her eye and the corners of his lips fell back into a smug smirk. Though he was not ugly for his age, she saw straight through his thick, gray-black hair, strong jaw, a
nd refined nose.
She saw straight to the core of him, even if he tried to keep it hidden—which he had initially when he’d made noises about courting her. She ignored him. Her inheritance was not public knowledge, for which she was grateful. Otherwise she might have been forced to ignore more suitors. But her quiet temperament and scrawny body kept them at bay regardless.
Until horrible, horrible Mr. Worthington.
Oh, he’d tried to charm her. Tried to flatter her vanity. Well, more fool him. She had no vanity. She might have had the odd pang of envy at Eliza McConnell’s curves, but her father had taught her better than that. A woman should be more than the sum of her looks.
Thus, Mr. Worthington found his overtures flatly ignored. Why should she give up her hope of independence for a flirtatious smile and a few flattering words? No, she was determined she would never marry and certainly never hand over her father’s hard-earned fortune to her husband.
If only her uncle felt the same.
Mr. Worthington rose, and Grace realized they’d finished their discussion of her and the plans for their wedding. Just the thought made her want to vomit right here, in front of Mr. Worthington. If she did so, would he run away scared perhaps? She glanced up at him as she rose from her seat. No, he’d take her, vomit and all, just for her fortune, and then she would be trapped in an awful situation like his last wife.
How long would it be until she was a pile of broken bones at the bottom of the stairs?
God, she had to escape somehow.
“Well, I shall call upon you again next week.” Mr. Worthington took her hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. She flinched but he kept her hand held firm while her stomach hurt so much, she wanted to fold in two. His grin widened at her reaction. “I cannot wait to make you my wife,” he murmured.
Grace didn’t reply. What could she say? I’d rather die first?
Perhaps, but she would far rather survive and make her father proud. If only there were some easy way to escape, some forgotten cousin somewhere who would give her shelter. But it was only her and her aunt and how could she leave Aunt Elsie alone with awful Uncle Charlie? He’d no doubt blame her for Grace’s disappearance and, though he was not inclined to use his fists like everyone said Mr. Worthington did, he could make her miserable enough.
Her uncle closed the door behind Mr. Worthington and folded his arms across a broad, slightly rotund chest. “You would do well to be pleasant to him, Grace. He will make you a fine husband.”
“How so, Uncle?”
“He’s attractive, well-connected...” His brow furrowed. “For God’s sakes, girl. This is the first offer you’ve had. You should be grateful.”
It was so tempting to unleash that scream now. Or shout at him. Tell him she knew he was selling her off. But her fate was in his hands. Perhaps if she was polite...
“Please do not make me marry him,” she begged, disliking how strangled her voice was. It only made her more vulnerable. Lord, how she hated it. “He shall hurt me, you know he shall,” she added when his expression remained unchanged.
He waved a hand. “He will do no such thing.” A finger thrust toward her and she stared at the slightly ink-stained tip as it wavered in front of her. “Whoever put about those rumors was simply trying to hurt Mr. Worthington’s fine reputation. I have only ever found him to be the most pleasing of men. Besides, why would a good-looking, charming chap like Worthington need to hurt a woman? No doubt he gave his wife a good spanking every now and then but what woman hasn’t needed a spanking?”
She hadn’t. Her father would never do such a thing, nor would he have done it to her mother, she knew that much. He spoke many times of the mutual respect they had for one another and the importance of proper discourse when one disagreed with the other. But there would be no proper discourse with her uncle, of that she was certain.
“You would sell me off, Uncle, regardless,” she muttered.
“Pardon?” he barked.
She shook her head and eyed the blood red carpet, weaved with gold and green patterns. How she hated this carpet. Hated this room with all its masculine overtones of dark mahogany and flecks of gold. She preferred her aunt’s threadbare parlor with its soft, pale laces and plump cushions and pretty sceneries thrifted from goodness knows where.
How she hated that her uncle sat in luxury every day while his wife was neglected and left with nothing and she tried to pay off the debts her uncle constantly accrued. All the best jewelry and gowns were gone, all the family heirlooms. All so her uncle could live in his bubble of luxury and pretend he was important.
How she hated him.
“Be gone with you,” Uncle Charlie said, pinching the bridge of his nose “You are giving me a headache.”
Considering she had hardly uttered a word, she wasn’t certain how she had managed that, but she scurried away anyway, stepping through the hallway and straight into the snug comfort of her aunt’s room. A fire offered fingers of warmth and she stepped gratefully toward it, spreading her palms out with the hope the heat could chase away the chill that interactions with her uncle and Mr. Worthington left her with.
The door opened behind her and she spun and clamped her hands behind her back, feeling as though she had been caught doing something naughty. Of course, it was her aunt and not her uncle. Who else would it be? Grace relaxed her posture and dashed toward her.
Aunt Elsie was only slightly taller than her but softer, and oh so, comforting. Since she’d come here at the age of eight, her aunt’s embrace had always helped soothe away any troubles.
Except there was nothing a comforting embrace could do now.
“I was listening at the door,” her aunt told her, her voice low.
Grace eased away so she could view her aunt’s worried expression. Aunt Elsie reminded her of her father with faded red hair and a clear emerald gaze. She even had the same strong eyebrows. Her patient and calm temperament had been shared by Grace’s father too.
“You know they want me to marry him before my birthday then.”
Aunt Elsie nodded. “But we shall not let that happen.”
“How? I cannot even think—”
Her aunt clasped her arms. “Shh.” She glanced around the room. “I have a plan. It is a little wild, but it shall work. I promise.”
Chapter Two
“Dash it all.” Nash rubbed the sore spot on his head that would likely be bruised by tomorrow. He glared at the low beam responsible for his injury then ducked into the cramped front room of the cottage. At least a fire was roaring in the grate, popping and spitting its warmth into a room too small for three grown men.
Nevertheless, they were all standing in it, looking like giants inside a child’s doll’s house. He swore, once he got his fortune from his father, he was going to spend money on a new meeting place for them—some cottage elsewhere with generous rooms and no bloody beams.
“Every time,” said Guy with a smirk.
“I’m going to carve a hole out of that beam,” Nash threatened, gesturing to the offending bit of wood.
Hawthorne Cottage had been their meeting place for nigh on two years owing to its isolated state and relative proximity to his Shropshire estate.
Though, estate was putting it kindly. When one mentioned an estate, one thought of sweeping fields, pristine lawns, maybe a few deer sheltering under trees. Guildham House was far from that.
He’d change that too once he got his money. Just like he’d always dreamed.
“Firstly, I think Mrs. Heath would be none too happy if you did such a thing and, secondly, I’m fairly certain you’d bring the ceiling down upon us.” The Earl of Henleigh jabbed the ceiling above and a little plaster came away.
“I don’t think one beam is holding this ceiling up.” Nash grimaced as he glanced at the water-stained, patchy ceiling. “In fact, I’m not certain anything is holding it up.” He flung himself into the threadbare armchair that was nestled in one corner of the room, close enough to the fire that h
e could prop his feet on the tiles surrounding it and dry his damp boots. “We should find a new meeting place,” he declared.
Russell shook his head and remained standing while Guy followed Nash’s suit and settled on the other armchair. Marcus Russell was the tallest of them all and practically had to stoop to be standing in this room.
“This house is just fine.” Russell tugged off his gloves and laid them across his lap. “Cheap, good location, and far from prying eyes.”
“Not to mention, completely unconnected to us,” Guy pointed out.
Nash waved a hand. “There must be hundreds of isolated cottages for let. I do not see why we can’t maintain our privacy in a more comfortable location.”
Guy lifted a dark brow. The marquis had likely perfected that look and used it to his advantage many a time, but Nash ignored it. If he was one to be cowed by a mere eyebrow, he’d have rolled over and played dead years ago when his father threatened to cut him off. “I thought you were all for ensuring we make as much profit out of this venture as possible.”
“I have my needs, I will admit.” Nash eyed his fingernails and frowned at the ragged appearance of his ring finger. Not the fingers of a viscount-to-be.
No. An eventual viscount-to-be.
A viscount-to-be who would likely be waiting another twenty years. Which meant, in the meantime, he needed coin, and he had no desire to make his nails any more ragged than they already were. His venture with Russell and Guy was a perfect way to ensure he could survive until such a day that he inherited the title and all the entailed estates.
He sighed. “Fine, I shall tolerate this cottage a little longer.”
“How lucky we are,” Guy said with a wry grin.
“You damn well are lucky. Without me, you’d have nowhere to stash the girls.”
“We’d manage,” muttered Russell.
“And no one to look after them.” Nash pointed to Guy. “You are far too busy with all your earl-ish business to spend weeks caring for poor, weeping, heartbroken women. And you,” he thrust a finger at Russell, “wouldn’t know what to do with a crying woman. He’d probably make her cry more,” he said to Guy.
Capturing the Bride (The Kidnap Club Book 1) Page 1