sludge.
But she wouldn’t show it. “I’m glad,” she managed to say without sounding as if her
world were ending.
“I’m done protecting you, remember?” He squinted at her as the sun was behind her
head.
She nodded, hating that he looked so handsome, so rough-and-tumble. “I don’t need
you to protect me anymore, much as I appreciate the sentiment.”
They walked on and on, and it grew harder and harder for Eleanor to breathe.
And then James stopped. “But I wondered something….”
“Yes?” There was a big gust of wind. The leaves on the trees rustled; their branches
swayed. Eleanor’s heart didn’t know how to beat at this point. It simply did. First, fast. And then slow. And then somewhere
in between fast and slow, the longer she looked at James and recognized what a good,
good man he was.
“Would you be interested in protecting me ?” he asked her, and her heart took off again at a ridiculous pace.
“From what?” she asked.
He pulled a strand of hair out of her eyes. “From a broken heart, you see. Because
if you go, Eleanor, I’ll never be happy again.”
A robin swooped down on a nearby branch and flitted off again on another gust of air.
“You won’t?” she whispered.
“I won’t,” he said, and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Not unless you’re with
me. I love you. You’re my heart. And soul.” He kissed her. “Marry me, Eleanor. Please,
my darling.”
She smiled so broadly, she caught another strand of hair, this time in her mouth.
James pulled out the wisp of dark gold and held it to his lips for a kiss of its own.
“Yes, I’ll marry you, James Dawbry,” Eleanor said.
And in his eyes, she saw their story—its beginning, its vast, as-yet-unknown middle
that she longed to write with him, but no ending.
Because love, Eleanor knew, was forever.
Read on for an excerpt from Kieran Kramer’s next book in the House of Brady series
THE EARL IS MINE
Coming in March 2013 from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Chapter 1
For Lady Pippa Harrington, it wasn’t going to be the usual Sunday family dinner at
Uncle Bertie’s. Those were full of ridiculous speeches by her stepfather, Sir Harold
Tavistock, followed by taut silences and the occasional grrr from one of Uncle Bertie’s eight corgis under the table. No, tonight, Pippa’s great-uncle
was celebrating his birthday, and as always, he would have the same guest, his godson
Gregory Sherwood, Lord Westdale, son of the Marquess and Marchioness of Brady—one
of the most eligible bachelors in London and a talented young architect.
An architect! One, by the way, whom Pippa couldn’t bear to see. But that was a story
for another day.
“Pippa, dear?” The timid voice came to her from the kitchen door.
“Yes, Mother?” Pippa looked up from work that was her greatest pleasure. She was attaching
the final miniature crown to a tiny window on a pale silver sugar sculpture she’d
made for Uncle Bertie’s birthday celebration. Hip-to-hip with her at the work table
was Mrs. Dodd, Uncle Bertie’s elderly cook, who was like the grandmother Pippa had
never had.
“Why, hello, Mrs. Dodd.” Mother’s limpid blue gaze took in the pretty disarray of
molds, marzipan, and cutting tools on the table. The aromatic smells of roast beef,
gravy, and various side dishes wafted from the stove and oven. “You’re hard at work,
I see.”
“Good evenin’, my lady.” The cook bobbed a curtsy and smiled. “Lady Pippa’s managing
this evening’s confection without me. I’m merely an onlooker.”
“Mrs. Dodd has prepared a lovely meal, Mother.” Pippa was kitted out in a fashionable
pink satin frock protected, for the most part, by a sunny blue floral apron. “I did
most of the work this morning while you were at the vicar’s tea, but I’m putting the
finishing touches on it now. What do you think?” She spread her arms wide so her mother
could experience the full effect
But she wouldn’t show it. “I’m glad,” she managed to say without sounding as if her
world were ending.
“I’m done protecting you, remember?” He squinted at her as the sun was behind her
head.
She nodded, hating that he looked so handsome, so rough-and-tumble. “I don’t need
you to protect me anymore, much as I appreciate the sentiment.”
They walked on and on, and it grew harder and harder for Eleanor to breathe.
And then James stopped. “But I wondered something….”
“Yes?” There was a big gust of wind. The leaves on the trees rustled; their branches
swayed. Eleanor’s heart didn’t know how to beat at this point. It simply did. First, fast. And then slow. And then somewhere
in between fast and slow, the longer she looked at James and recognized what a good,
good man he was.
“Would you be interested in protecting me ?” he asked her, and her heart took off again at a ridiculous pace.
“From what?” she asked.
He pulled a strand of hair out of her eyes. “From a broken heart, you see. Because
if you go, Eleanor, I’ll never be happy again.”
A robin swooped down on a nearby branch and flitted off again on another gust of air.
“You won’t?” she whispered.
“I won’t,” he said, and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Not unless you’re with
me. I love you. You’re my heart. And soul.” He kissed her. “Marry me, Eleanor. Please,
my darling.”
She smiled so broadly, she caught another strand of hair, this time in her mouth.
James pulled out the wisp of dark gold and held it to his lips for a kiss of its own.
“Yes, I’ll marry you, James Dawbry,” Eleanor said.
And in his eyes, she saw their story—its beginning, its vast, as-yet-unknown middle
that she longed to write with him, but no ending.
Because love, Eleanor knew, was forever.
Read on for an excerpt from Kieran Kramer’s next book in the House of Brady series
THE EARL IS MINE
Coming in March 2013 from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Chapter 1
For Lady Pippa Harrington, it wasn’t going to be the usual Sunday family dinner at
Uncle Bertie’s. Those were full of ridiculous speeches by her stepfather, Sir Harold
Tavistock, followed by taut silences and the occasional grrr from one of Uncle Bertie’s eight corgis under the table. No, tonight, Pippa’s great-uncle
was celebrating his birthday, and as always, he would have the same guest, his godson
Gregory Sherwood, Lord Westdale, son of the Marquess and Marchioness of Brady—one
of the most eligible bachelors in London and a talented young architect.
An architect! One, by the way, whom Pippa couldn’t bear to see. But that was a story
for another day.
“Pippa, dear?” The timid voice came to her from the kitchen door.
“Yes, Mother?” Pippa looked up from work that was her greatest pleasure. She was attaching
the final miniature crown to a tiny window on a pale silver sugar sculpture she’d
made for Uncle Bertie’s birthday celebration. Hip-to-hip with her at the work table
was Mrs. Dodd, Uncle Bertie’s elderly cook, who was like the grandmother Pippa had
never had.
“Why, hello, Mrs. Dodd.” Mother’s limpid blue gaze took in the pretty disarray of
molds, marzipan, and cutting tools on the table. The aromatic smells of roast beef,
gravy, and various side dishes wafted from the stove and oven. “You’re hard at work,
I see.”
“Good evenin’, my lady.” The cook bobbed a curtsy and smiled. “Lady Pippa’s managing
this evening’s confection without me. I’m merely an onlooker.”
“Mrs. Dodd has prepared a lovely meal, Mother.” Pippa was kitted out in a fashionable
pink satin frock protected, for the most part, by a sunny blue floral apron. “I did
most of the work this morning while you were at the vicar’s tea, but I’m putting the
finishing touches on it now. What do you think?” She spread her arms wide so her mother
could experience the full effect
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