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  Books by Alexandra Ivy

  Guardians of Eternity

  WHEN DARKNESS COMES

  EMBRACE THE DARNKESS

  DARKNESS EVERLASTING

  DARKNESS REVEALED

  DARKNESS UNLEASHED

  BEYOND THE DARKNESS

  DEVOURED BY DARKNESS

  BOUND BY DARKNESS

  FEAR THE DARKNESS

  DARKNESS AVENGED

  HUNT THE DARKNESS

  WHEN DARKNESS ENDS

  The Immortal Rogues

  MY LORD VAMPIRE

  MY LORD ETERNITY

  MY LORD IMMORTALITY

  The Sentinels

  BORN IN BLOOD

  BLOOD ASSASSIN

  BLOOD LUST

  Ares Security

  KILL WITHOUT MERCY

  KILL WITHOUT SHAME

  Historical Romance

  SOME LIKE IT WICKED

  SOME LIKE IT SINFUL

  SOME LIKE IT BRAZEN

  And don’t miss these Guardians of Eternity novellas

  TAKEN BY DARKNESS in YOURS FOR ETERNITY

  DARKNESS ETERNAL in SUPERNATURAL

  WHERE DARKNESS LIVES in THE REAL WEREWIVES OF VAMPIRE

  COUNTY

  LEVET (ebook only)

  A VERY LEVET CHRISTMAS (ebook only)

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  OUT OF CONTROL

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  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Here Comes the Bride

  Alexandra Ivy

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Books by Alexandra Ivy

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  A BRIDE FOR LORD CHALLMOND

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  A Bride for Lord Wickton

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  A Bride for Lord Brasleigh

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Epilogue

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL PRESS BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2017 by Alexandra Ivy

  A Bride for Lord Challmond © 2001 by Debbie Raleigh

  A Bride for Lord Brasleigh © 2001 by Debbie Raleigh

  A Bride for Lord Wickton © 2001 by Debbie Raleigh

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Lyrical Press and Lyrical Press logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: May 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-6018-3853-7

  TO THE HEROES IN MY LIFE

  DAVID, CHANCE, ALEXANDER AND DON

  AND TO

  MOM AND DAD

  WHO ALWAYS BELIEVED

  A BRIDE FOR LORD CHALLMOND

  Prologue

  The three dashing gentlemen attracted more than their share of attention as they rode through the Italian countryside. Tall, handsome, and in possession of that rare arrogance that comes from wealth and position, they were the darlings of the small British society that had recently flocked to Rome.

  It was a position they relished after the brutal hardship of war. Forming a select guard that had escorted the Pope in his return to the Vatican, they had lingered into the summer months, enjoying the splendid entertainments and luscious local ladies. And in truth, none of the three was in any hurry to return to England despite the fact they had sold out their commissions.

  Time enough to return to the responsibilities that awaited them at home. For now they wished only to rejoice in the pleasure of being alive.

  Simon Townsled, seventh Earl of Challmond, sucked in a deep breath of the scented air. Overhead, the impossibly blue sky shimmered with the summer heat. It was a heat he welcomed. Since being wounded several weeks before, he often battled a persistent chill.

  Now he lifted his dark, aquiline countenance to the sunshine. In the distance he could hear the echo of angry shouts, but it was not until a sharp scream pierced the air that he was shaken from his pleasant daydreams.

  Pulling the large mount to a halt, he turned to regard his companions with a startled expression.

  “What the devil?”

  “Damn,” Barth Juston, Lord Wickton, cursed as he pointed toward the nearby field.

  Simon shifted in his saddle to view the half dozen roughly dressed men that appeared to be circling a—by gads, it appeared to be an old woman.

  Realization hit the same moment another scream echoed through the air. A fierce scowl marred the elegant beauty of Philip Marrow, Lord Brasleigh’s, features. “Come,” he commanded as he urged his stallion into a full gallop.

  Simon and Barth were not far behind. Together they plunged through the overgrown field toward the small crowd. At a signal from Philip the three split apart, rounding the unaware men and approaching from different angles. It was a tactic they had used in battle, and not surprisingly they easily managed to charge through the crowd and place themselves between the men and the elderly woman now huddled beside a large rock.

  Simon withdrew a pistol and shot it into the air, hoping to frighten the men off. Although he was an excellent marksman, he dearly hoped he would have no need to defend himself. He had seen enough blood for a lifetime.

  “Move along,” he commanded in stern tones. “Find your sport elsewhere.”

  For a moment the men glared at the intruders, clearly debating whether to challenge the mounted gentlemen. Then, noting the hard expressions and military bearing, they reluctantly began backing away.

  Simon held his breath as more than one raised a fist to shake it in his direction, but realizing their sport was at an end, they retreated toward a nearby village.

  Barth was already off his horse and helping the shaken woman to her feet. Simon and Philip dismounted to join him, exchanging a silent glance as they recognized the tattered clothing of a Gypsy.

  That certainly explained the reason for the attack, Simon thought with a sigh. Locals often blamed their troubles on the Gypsies. Old customs and superstitions died hard.

  “Are you hurt?” Barth demanded, his rakish countenance uncommonly somber as he gently helped the old woman to her feet.

  “No.” The woman offered them a tentative smile as she brushed the twigs and dirt from her skirt. “Graz
ie.”

  Still on alert, Philip glanced toward the cluster of buildings atop the nearby hill.

  “We should get her away from the village.”

  Barth gave a sharp nod of his head. “Can you lead us to your home?”

  The woman’s smile widened. “Sí. I lead.” She turned and began making her way toward the thicket of woods, and after a pause the three men collected their horses and followed behind. None of them needed Philip’s signal to keep their guards up as they entered the fringe of trees. Only a fool would not suspect that this all had been a clever trap.

  Moving through the dappled shadows, the three kept the woman in sight as she easily slipped through the trees. Bringing up the rear, Simon ensured there were no unpleasant surprises from behind. So intent on his watch, it came as a distinct surprise when they rounded a corner and abruptly landed in the midst of a large camp.

  The three gentlemen held their pistols ready as a dozen men and women poured from the covered wagon to gather about the elderly woman. For a tense moment Simon held himself at alert, but as their chatter filled the air, he at last accepted they had all but been forgotten by the Gypsies. With a signal from Philip, Simon and his companions backed toward the edge of the small glade.

  “I believe this is home,” Barth murmured.

  Simon nodded. “Shall we go?”

  “There is little use in remaining,” Philip decided. “It is getting late and I have a particularly enticing widow awaiting my attention in Rome.”

  “Not as enticing as my barmaid, I’ll wager,” Barth teased.

  “Wait. Please.” Without warning, a young, decidedly lovely woman with dark hair and flashing eyes appeared before them. “Grandmother wishes to thank you.”

  “There is no need,” Philip retorted. “Please.” She smiled, her hands waving toward a fallen tree. “Have a seat.”

  The three glanced at one another before giving a rueful shrug and settling themselves on the log. Simon was as eager as his friends to return to Rome and the delights of a willing upstairs maid, but he had no wish to offend the old woman, who had already suffered enough for one afternoon. With a sigh he impatiently awaited the dead lizard that was supposedly a lucky charm or the Gypsy cards that would foretell their future. Within moments the old woman returned, but surprisingly she carried a perfect red rose clutched in her gnarled hands.

  Simon lifted his brows as she approached each one of them, brushing the velvet bloom over their foreheads and muttering words in a strange language. At last done, she stepped back and offered them a wide smile.

  Philip frowned toward the young woman standing to one side.

  “What is this?”

  “A blessing.”

  “What did she say?” Barth demanded.

  “She says:

  A love that is true

  A heart that is steady

  A wounded soul healed

  A spirit made ready.

  Three women will come

  As the seasons will turn

  And lning true love to each

  Before the summer again burns .

  You are very fortunate. Grandmother has blessed you with the gift of true love.”

  An explosive silence followed the softly spoken words. Then, almost as one, the three gentlemen burst into disbelieving laughter.

  * * *

  Although it was only mid-February, the discreet London gambling establishment was filled with elegant gentlemen. Seated in a distant corner, Philip, Barth, and Simon shared their second decanter of brandy. By the end of the month Simon would be in Devonshire and Barth would be in Kent. They intended to enjoy the brief time they had left together.

  Simon filled his glass and lifted it in mockingsalute.

  “What shall we drink to?”

  “Lovely ladies,” Barth retorted, no doubt thinking of the opera dancer awaiting him across town.

  “The more the merrier,” Philip added.

  “So much for the Gypsy’s blessing.” Simon took a large drink of the amber liquid. “Blessing?” Barth snorted. “Curse more like it.” “Ah, but the heat of summer has not yet come,” Philip drawled. Barth gave a startled blink. Of the three of them, Philip was by far the most cynical.

  “You do not believe in such nonsense?”

  “True love?” Philip’s handsome features twisted. “Fah.”

  “I do not know. I loved Fiona this afternoon.” Simon gave a low chuckle as he recalled his beautiful mistress and her reaction to his confession he was leaving for Devonshire. She possessed little sympathy for his odd ache to return to his vast estate. “Until she threw that vase at my head.“

  Barth refilled his glass. “Casanova had the right of it. Love is meant to be shared with as many willing beauties as possible.”

  Philip abruptly rose to his feet. “Let us make a wager.”

  “A wager?” Simon demanded.

  “Let us say . . . a thousand pounds and a red rose to be paid the first day of June to the fool who succumbs to the Gypsy’s curse.”

  “A thousand pounds?” Barth growled.

  Philip eyed him with a twisted smile. “Not frightened that you might succumb to the wiles of a mere female, are you, Barth?”

  “You forget, I am about to be wed. How can a gentleman find true love when he is shackled to necessity?”

  “Simon?”

  Simon shrugged. Even if he believed in the fable of true love, he was hardly likely to discover it in the wilds of Devonshire.

  “I have no fear.”

  “Then we shall meet here the first day of June.” Philip waited for Simon and Barth to rise to their feet and touch their glass to his own. “To the Casanova Club. Long may it prosper.”

  One

  Cresting the edge of the hill, the two gentlemen pulled their mounts to a halt. Below them the stately manor house consumed an awe-inspiring amount of the pristine parkland with stark lines and sweeping wings. Only the balustrades with fluted columns and Ionic portico provided relief from the classic simplicity. It was an overwhelming view. Even Simon Townsled, seventh Earl of Challmond, who had resided at the Devonshire estate since he was a lad of twelve, found his breath catching in his throat.

  How long had it been since he had lived at Westwood Park? Oh, not the dutiful appearances to visit his elderly cousin or, since the sixth earl’s death, the flamboyant hunting parties he had hosted. But to actually reside at the estate? It had been years.

  But oddly, during the ·heat of battle it had been this place he had longed to see.

  The magnificent black stallion shifted with a restless dissatisfaction at having his gallop interrupted, and Simon allowed a sudden smile to slash across his thin countenance. Although not a precisely handsome gentleman, there was a decided charm to his tousled auburn locks and emerald eyes sprinkled with gold. And more than one lover had claimed there was the devil’s own charm in his flashing dimples. He was uncertain what odd compulsion had urged him to Devonshire, but he had arrived and he intended to make the best of his visit.

  “There you are, Locky.” He shifted to regard the short, bluntly built gentleman at his side. Unlike Simon’s own elegant breeches and fitted coat, Mr. James Lockmeade’s outfit consisted of plain buckskins with boots that had seen better days. It would be hard to determine from his appearance that his grandfather was one of the wealthiest merchants in all of England, or that his mother was the daughter of an earl. He was a plain-spoken man with few airs and a decided lack of pretensions. Simon had met Locky when he had joined his regiment. While others had dismissed the large man’s abrupt speech and methodical manner as a sign of his unsavory connections to the shop, Simon had been immediately impressed with the young man’s unwavering courage. When far more nobly born men had fled in panic, Locky had stood as firm as a mountain, and it had been only his staunch nerve that had saved Simon when he had been wounded during a skirmish with the Frenchies. Nearly unconscious, Simon had been unable to stand or defend himself as his commander had called for a retreat.
It had been Locky who had slung him over his shoulder as Lord Wickton and Lord Brasleigh had carved a path through the battle lines to freedom. Without the three of them Simon would have been just another peer sacrificed for duty and Crown. “Westwood Park, county seat to the earls of Challmond for the past one hundred years.”

  The square, ruddy-tinted countenance grimaced. “Good God,” he at last pronounced.

  Simon gave a pleased chuckle. There were few not overwhelmed by the grandeur of Westwood Park.

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “The devil take it, Simon,” Locky growled, “I shall feel a fool rattling about like a bloody nob.”

  Simon shrugged. Although Locky had never spoken much of his past, he had suspected the young man was much like himself. A puppet torn between two worlds and never quite fitting into either one.

  “You shall soon become accustomed.”

  “Aye.” Locky appeared far from convinced.

  Simon gave another laugh. “In any event, we shall devote ourselves to thinning the local trout population.”

  “See that we do,” Locky muttered darkly.

  “Come.” Loosening his grip on his reins, Simon allowed his mount to continue his gallop through the meadow to the waiting stable below. Handing the reins to a wide-eyed lad, he led the way to the main house. Despite the fact he had given no warning of his impending arrival the door was pulled open by his impeccably attired butler. Simon had never doubted for a moment the estate would be in pristine condition. The previous earl had demanded total devotion from his large staff and would tolerate nothing less than perfection. “Ah, Calvert.”

  The tall, gaunt-faced servant with silver hair performed a crisp bow.