Will he take control of
His Independent Bride?
Three exhilarating, compelling romances from three favourite Mills & Boon authors!
In April 2010 Mills & Boon bring you two classic collections, each featuring three favourite romances by our bestselling authors
HIRED: MISTRESS
Wanted: Mistress and Mother by Carol Marinelli His Private Mistress by Chantelle Shaw The Millionaire’s Secret Mistress by Kathryn Ross
HIS INDEPENDENT BRIDE
Wife Against Her Will by Sara Craven The Wedlocked Wife by Maggie Cox Bertoluzzi’s Heiress Bride by Catherine Spencer
His Independent Bride
Sara Craven
Maggie Cox
Catherine Spencer
Wife Against Her Will
By
Sara Craven was born in South Devon and grew up in a house full of books. She worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders, and started writing for Mills & Boon in 1975. When not writing, she enjoys films, music, theatre, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives near her family in Warwickshire. Sara has appeared as a contestant on the former Channel Four game show Fifteen to One and in 1997 was the UK television Mastermind champion. In 2005 she was a member of the Romantic Novelists’ team on University Challenge—the Professionals.
Don’t miss Sara Craven’s exciting new novel, His Untamed Innocent, available in July 2010 from Mills & Boon® Modern™.
PROLOGUE
IT WAS raining heavily, but the girl paying off the taxi did not turn up her coat collar, or try to avoid the rivulets of water running across the pavement. She seemed oblivious to the wet chill of the evening, pausing under a street lamp to check the address on the scrap of paper clutched in her hand.
It was just one of a number of similar tall houses in the terrace, its neat front door reached by a short flight of railed steps. There was a polished brass plaque by the entrance, and an equally burnished doorbell beneath it.
She touched the button, but it was damp and her fingers slipped. Or was she beginning to lose her nerve? She took a deep, steadying breath, then pressed the bell again, more firmly.
Her ring was answered promptly by a man in a porter’s uniform.
‘May I help you, miss?’ His tone was civil but guarded.
She said, ‘I’d like to speak to one of your members—a Mr Harry Metcalfe.’
His brows lifted, and she found herself being closely scrutinised.
‘Mr Metcalfe is attending a private party, miss. I don’t think he would wish to be disturbed. But I could take a message, if you like.’
‘I’m afraid that won’t do.’ She lifted her chin. Returned his stare. ‘I need to talk to Mr Metcalfe myself. It’s—urgent. So will you get him, please?’
For a moment she wondered blankly what she would do if he simply denied her Harry again and shut the door in her face. But, grudgingly, he stood aside, and she walked into a large square hallway panelled in dark wood.
Straight ahead a wide flight of stairs, carpeted in deep crimson, curved away to the upper floors. On her right was a desk, with two telephones, and the club’s registration book with a pen tray beside it. There was also a newspaper folded at the crossword and a mug of tea, half-drunk, beside it.
And on the other side of the hall was a series of doors, all closed.
Behind one of them, she supposed, was Harry, centre of attention at his private party. But which one?
The porter opened the nearest door, motioning her to precede him into the room beyond. He pressed a switch, bringing two heavily shaded wall lights into service.
‘If you’ll wait here in the reading room, miss, I’ll see what I can do.’ He added dourly, ‘But I can’t promise.’
Reading room? she thought as the door closed behind him. It was so dim in here, you’d probably go blind.
As she unfastened her damp trench coat, she looked around at the formal groups of hard leather armchairs and the table in the centre with magazines and periodicals arranged in regimented rows. They looked as if their cover stories might relate to Queen Victoria’s jubilee, she thought, her mouth twisting.
Stationed round the walls were several glass-fronted bookcases with elaborate locks, but no keys, as if to discourage any attempt to open them, let alone prise out one of the rigid leather-bound volumes they contained.
The whole room seemed as if it had been frozen in time—or was that only because she felt the same? Numb, as if the world had stopped six hours ago when she’d looked at a line on a plastic tube, and seen it turn blue.
‘Harry.’ She whispered the name into the emptiness. ‘Harry, you’ve got to help me. I don’t know what to do.’
She heard the door open behind her and spun round in instinctive relief. But it was short-lived. Because the newcomer wasn’t Harry. It was someone she’d never seen before. Someone taller, and much darker than Harry, but by no means as handsome, she thought, apprehension uncurling inside her. Harry had charm, and a smile that could melt icebergs. This man’s mouth looked as if it had been forged from steel.
In addition, he had hair as black as a witch’s cat, and the coldest blue eyes she’d ever seen. Which were currently looking her over with unconcealed exasperation.
‘Oh, God.’ His voice was low-pitched with a faint drawl. Perhaps a trace of an accent too. ‘Who had the bright idea of inviting you, sweetheart? Because I’ll wring his bloody neck.’
Jolted, she stared back at him. She said, ‘I think there’s some mistake. I’m here to see Harry Metcalfe.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ he said. ‘But Harry’s enjoying a bachelor dinner with some friends and relations, including his future father-in-law,’ he added with a touch of grimness. ‘So you can see that your intrusion would be completely inappropriate.’ He reached into the jacket of his elegant suit and took out his wallet. ‘How much to make you disappear?’
Her
