Bridegroom on Approval

by Day Leclaire

  “May I tell you something, Mr. Salvatore?” She linked arms with him, her smile restored. “The woman you marry will be very lucky.”

  He returned his attention to the festivities far below... and to a certain striking redhead surrounded by a group of eager admirers. “No, my sweet. Finding such a love would make me a very lucky man.”

  Hanna smiled into yet another friendly face, but her enthusiasm had started to flag. She’d met so many men and had enjoyed talking to each and every one of them. She’d determinedly been herself since it seemed only fair—slipping cautiously from beneath the tight yoke of control that so often governed her actions and allowing a more natural vivaciousness to take hold. It had worked too well. She’d had her pick of men—young, old, smart, less-than-brilliant. She only had to select one that met her lengthy list of criteria and she’d have what she’d always wanted. A husband to come home to when the days were long and the nights unbearably lonely.

  Only one thing stopped her.

  The process seemed so cold. Despite telling herself she didn’t want emotion intruding on a companionable relationship, she also couldn’t see any of the men she’d met so far sitting in her living room, let alone tucked up in her bed. In fact, the idea of any of them touching her in an intimate manner filled her with such nervous dread, it was a wonder she could string two coherent words together.

  All around her the party glittered, the laughter bright and merry. But behind her mask, an inescapable pain and longing took hold. Pru had meant well. But clearly, it wasn’t meant to be. Hanna wasn’t Cinderella destined to find her prince. At least, not this night.

  “Excuse me,” she finally murmured to the men surrounding her. “I’ll return in a few minutes.” Before anyone could stop her, she darted through a narrow opening in her circle of admirers and escaped into the crowd.

  Somewhere nearby the clock struck midnight and Hanna couldn’t suppress a smile at the irony. She felt like Cinderella fleeing the ball, turning from a beautiful princess back into a common cinder girl. Or in her case, from a mysterious swan princess into a simple duckling.

  She left the ballroom and headed downstairs. One of the rooms offered a huge banquet with every conceivable delicacy available, but she wasn’t in the least hungry. Beyond a set of French doors the gardens beckoned, offering peace and quiet and a welcoming solitude. She followed the pathways until she found a bench beneath a large tree, one mercifully absent of fairy lights. Taking a seat, she tucked her knees close against her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs.

  “This was a big mistake,” she announced to the world at large. Then to her horror, she did something she couldn’t remember ever doing before.

  She burst into tears.

  Marc watched his pretty redhead flee her circle of admirers. They might not realize she was running away, but he knew it with a bone-deep certainty. He didn’t hesitate. Snatching up the belt and sword Shayne had provided, he secured it to his waist. He took the stairs leading from the balcony to the ballroom floor, arriving in time to see his swan princess dart down the next flight of stairs leading toward the dining area. A woman dressed in a stunning black gown blocked his path. He couldn’t quite place which romantic figure she represented, but it didn’t matter. She had something he needed.

  For the first time, he blessed his father for the Italian lessons Dom had insisted were a vital part of his sons’ education. “Signorina,” he said, executing a graceful bow. “I believe your costume is the most beautiful I’ve seen so far tonight.”

  The accent worked like a charm. She blushed, deep dimples flickering to life in her cheeks. “If I hadn’t already found the perfect man, I’d ask you to dance.”

  “A shame. For if I had not found the perfect woman, I’d have happily accepted.” He hesitated. “May I make one small suggestion in regard to your dress?”

  A tiny frown puckered her brow. “Well... sure.”

  He caught the end of the black scarf encircling her neck and gently pulled the strip of silk. It slipped along her throat like a lover’s caress. “This is an unnecessary distraction. You should not hide such a neck and shoulders.”

  She swallowed. “Do you really think so?”

  “Senza dubbio. Without doubt.” Actually, it was the absolute truth, or he’d never have said such a thing. “Would you mind if I kept your scarf?” He shrugged. “I’d claim I wanted it for a memento, but the truth is, I wish to use it as a mask for the ball.”

  She offered him a sympathetic smile. “Did you forget yours?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Take it. I’m happy to help.” She turned to go, then hesitated. “Oh! And good luck with your lady.”

  Marc smiled. “And you with your man.”

  He didn’t waste any more time, but darted down the steps to the banquet room. A quick scan of the crowd confirmed that his little redhead wasn’t among the diners. Selecting a steak knife from one of the tables, he swiftly slit holes in the scarf and tied it around his head. Simple, but effective, he decided. Between the mask and the sword Shayne had provided, he could pass as Zorro or some similar type romantic swashbuckler.

  Now to find his swan princess.

  It had gotten late enough that the gardens were fairly deserted. He roamed the paths with swift efficiency, finally slipping up on a splash of white silk and feathers on a bench tucked well beneath a large sycamore tree. She was crying, he realized in alarm. Nothing bothered him quite as much as a woman in distress and for some odd reason this woman’s distress disturbed him more than was normal. No doubt it had something to do with his attraction for her. But he also sensed this wasn’t a woman easily reduced to tears. Not giving himself time to think, he slipped to the far side of the tree, grasped the lowest branch and swung himself upward.

  Easing the sword from its scabbard, he grasped one of the trailing ends of his black scarf and sliced off a square. To his amusement, he noticed that a bit of dainty lace decorated the end. Perfect. Skewering the improvised handkerchief on the tip of the sword, he slowly lowered it toward his weeping princess.

  “For you, Signorina,” he said quietly, hoping he wouldn’t startle her too badly.

  Her head jerked up and her breath hitched in surprise. “Who’s there?” she demanded.

  “No one of importance,” he said with a shrug, flavoring his words with the gentlest of Italian accents. “Just a man sitting in a tree watching a beautiful swan leak tears all over her feathers.”

  A smile trembled on her lips and she reached for the scrap of silk and lace. “Thank you, but I’m not crying,” she lied with a blatancy that defied argument. “I never cry.”

  She fell silent for a minute, no doubt struggling to regain her composure and control her nonexistent tears. He didn’t mind. He was a patient man, one of the few Salvatores who could claim such a virtue. A good thing. He sensed he’d stumbled across a woman who found control a vital component when confronting those entering her world.

  “Why are you sitting in that tree?” she finally asked.

  He’d been right. Gone was the vulnerable woman of moments before and in her place was a woman of strength and determination. It made for an interesting contrast. “I quite like trees,” he said after a moment’s contemplation. “I always have. They make excellent places from which to swoop.”

  A smile flirted with her mouth again. “Swoop?”

  “Yes, swoop. Shall I demonstrate?”

  Securing his sword, he grasped one of the larger branches and swung high over her bench. At the last instant, he released his grasp and executed a quick midair somersault, dropping lightly in a crouch beside her. It was a maneuver that would have done Errol Flynn proud. It was also a maneuver that had broken his arm when he’d worked on perfecting it at the great age of ten.

  She looked appropriately impressed. “You like how I swoop?” he asked, keeping his Italian accent intact.

  “Very impressive.”

  He continued to crouch beside her, balancing easi
ly on the balls of his feet. “So tell me what has made you cry, Signorina. Perhaps I can help.”

  She shook her head. “Thank you, but I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do for me.”

  “You must have thought a husband and marriage would help or you wouldn’t be here,” he argued logically. “Now, why would someone as beautiful as you need to come to a Cinderella Ball to find a husband? I would think you’d have men lined up at your door.”

  Apparently, he’d said the wrong thing. She withdrew into herself, her back stiff, her chin elevated, her eyes behind the feathered mask flashing a warning even the darkness couldn’t conceal. “What makes you think I’m beautiful?”

  “You may wish you were not, carissima, but you can’t hide it.” Ever so gently he reached out and plucked the flamboyant mask from her face. “Not even with this.”

  She was as lovely as he remembered. It was almost too dark now to see the exact shade of her eyes, but he recalled they were an intriguing combination of green and gold and glittered with intelligence and character. Her character was also expressed in the clean, strong lines of her face. Her nose was straight, her jaw firm, her cheekbones high and broad. In the absence of light, her ivory dress and pale skin had a translucent glow, like the rich texture of a black-and-white movie, her hair and lips glimmering with the only hint of color, a vibrant red that even the darkness couldn’t subdue.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” she informed him in a steely voice.

  Did she think he’d find her tone intimidating? She had a lot to learn. But she would... he’d see to it. Personally. “Why not? It’s after midnight.” He fixed her with a steady regard. “I suspect the time for fun and games is past. Don’t you?”

  “I was never very good at games.” She shrugged. “At least, not the kind men and women play.”

  “Why don’t we dispense with the games?” He dropped his accent, a fact she acknowledged with an uplifted eyebrow. Straddling the bench, he asked, “Why are you here?”

  “To find a husband.”

  “I assumed as much.” He put a hint of steel in his own voice. “You’re evading the question, though. Why did you come here to do your husband-hunting?”

  “The usual reasons, I guess.”

  “Ah, cara,” he murmured. “If you play games, so shall I.”

  She held up her hands. “Okay, okay. You can drop the phony accent.”

  “It’s not so phony. I’m first generation American, raised to take pride in my Italian heritage.” Unable to resist touching her, he hooked her chin and tipped her face up to his. “You strike me as a direct sort of woman. Tell me why you’re really here.”

  “To find a husband...”

  “And?”

  “Look... Maybe this would be easier if we knew each other’s names.” She offered her hand, forcing him to release her chin. “I’m Hanna Tyler.”

  He took her hand in his, not in the least surprised by the firmness of her grip. “Marc Salvatore.”

  “Learning your name was supposed to make me feel more comfortable.” Her mouth tilted to one side. “For some reason it doesn’t.”

  “It’s the forced intimacy of the situation. You have one night to find a partner. You arrived masked so the participants aren’t distracted by appearance and can find personalities that mesh, rather than relying on physical appeal alone. On top of that you’re expected to expose your most secret longings to complete strangers. Somehow I suspect you’re not comfortable with that.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “It is to me.” He frowned m thought. “I’ll tell you what... I’ll leave my mask on for now and you tell me why you’ve come and the sort of man you hoped to find.”

  “That hardly seems fair,” she commented drily. “You know what I look like, but I’m left in the dark.”

  He smiled at her inadvertent pun. “If we’re able to reach an understanding, I’ll take it off and we’ll go from there. But if at any point you want to end the conversation, say the word and I’ll walk away. You’ve opened up to a stranger, someone you’ll never see again and who will never reveal a word of what you’ve said. You can’t even be embarrassed if our paths should cross, since you won’t know it’s me. Perhaps it’ll be easier that way.”

  She gave his suggestion careful consideration. “So I’m supposed to tell you my life story?”

  “No strings attached. No judgements. No expectations. You’re in complete control.”

  She looked directly at him and in that moment Marc knew that he’d lied to his brothers. He had found love. He’d found it where he’d least expected and least wanted to find it. But he was a Salvatore, destined to love only one woman for the duration of his life. And because of that, he’d do something he’d never thought a sane man would do.

  He’d meet and marry a woman all in one night.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “I’M IN COMPLETE CONTROL?” Hanna asked, her wariness clear.

  “Absolutely,” Marc assured. “I’m not here to give you a hard time. I’m here to help.”

  “Help?” A tiny frown formed between her brows. “Why? What’s in it for you?”

  It was a telling question and one that saddened him. Did most people she dealt with have an ulterior motive? She obviously didn’t have the love and support of a family like the Salvatores or she wouldn’t ask such a question. “That’s up to you. For now I plan to enjoy a pleasant hour talking to you. Just easy, casual conversation.”

  She sighed. “Not so casual if I dump my life story on you.”

  “Then it won’t be casual,” he said with a shrug. “My shoulders can carry quite a load. Feel free to dump away” That won a smile. “So you’re here to find a husband. Mind if I ask why?”

  “The usual reasons.”

  Did she realize how evasive she sounded? “What are the usual reasons?” he prompted.

  Her control slipped and she spun from her seat in a swirl of feathers. “I’m tired of being alone. I’d like companionship, someone who has the same interests.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Is that too much to ask?”

  Too much? “If anything, it’s too little,” he replied. “Do you just want a husband with the same interests?” He followed her into the darkness, aware that the night bound them together, cloaking them from the rest of the world and intensifying their reaction to one another. “Sounds boring. Don’t you also want someone who shares your most private thoughts? Someone with whom you can express your hopes and fears, knowing that person will be there for you?”

  She paused, slowly turning to face him. Her gaze reflected a deep yearning, a longing he doubted she even realized she felt. “Possibly,” she admitted. “In time. If our relationship is successful.”

  He’d never met a woman so tightly furled, so afraid to reach out to a fellow human being. No doubt she’d been badly burned in the past, like Shayne. And while he hadn’t been able to help Rafe’s sister or offer the comfort she so badly needed, he sure as hell could help Hanna. In fact, he’d be only too happy to make it his life’s work. “If you married, your husband would expect a certain level of intimacy. And I don’t just mean in your bed. I mean in your life.”

  Her feathers exploded into motion as she resumed her pacing. “Yes, I know.”

  “Do you?” He suspected she wasn’t being honest with him. Hell, he doubted she was being honest with herself. He caught her arm, forcing her to face him again while at the same time forcing her to face his questions. “Are you willing to offer that?”

  “If I trusted him.”

  Another telling remark. “So you came here hoping to find a man who could provide this companionship?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you find anyone capable of that?” he questioned gently. “There are plenty of men to choose from.”

  “None were right.”

  “And what would make them right for you?”

  She moistened her lips, a movement he found so erotic, it took every ounce of s
elf-control to refrain from kissing her. She must have realized how much she’d given away with her nervous pacing, for she resumed her seat on the bench, perching on the edge as though prepared to take flight at the first hint of danger. “He’d need to be intelligent.”

  “A man who could conduct a rational conversation. Makes sense to me.” The ringlets surrounding her face beckoned. Considering he was a mere man, how could he resist? He sat next to her, snaring the teasing curls with a finger, smiling when they coiled tightly around him. The entrapper became the entrapped. “What more would you want in a man, swan princess?”

  Her hazel eyes were so pale and clear they reflected every thought and emotion for the world to see. It was a contradiction that appealed, her extreme caution at odds with what he hoped was a more natural candor. No doubt if she were aware of the transparency of her gaze, she’d find a way to shield it. For what those lovely eyes betrayed was the unmistakable flicker of desire. It provided an irresistible allure. Marc leaned forward and captured her mouth in a fleeting kiss. Her gasp of protest rippled through him before dying a welcome death. Then her lips softened and parted, offering a brief taste of unbearable sweetness.

  Far, far too brief a taste.

  Hanna’s breath caught and she attempted to pull back. Not that she retreated far. He still held her secure in his hands, her curls resisting her efforts to free herself. “Please, let go,” she whispered.

  He carefully slipped his fingers from their silken snares. “Is physical attraction on your list?” he asked. “Because I’d say we had that base covered, as well.”

  She didn’t bother with false denials, he gave her credit for that. But her mouth firmed and she gathered her impressive control around her with such swift ease, he knew it had to be a natural defense mechanism. His princess hid within a heavily guarded fortress, one that would take all his skill and determination to breach. “That still leaves one more element,” she stated.