Vows Made in Secret. Louise Fuller
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‘I honoured you with a gift. The most important gift a man can give to a woman. I made you my wife and you threw it in my face.’
Prudence gaped at him, shock washing over her in waves. She opened her mouth to deny his claim but the words clogged her throat. His wife? Surely he didn’t really think that they were actually married? Her heart was pounding and the palms of her hands felt suddenly damp. Married? That was ridiculous! Insane!
Dazedly she thought back to that day when she’d been led, giggling and blindfolded, to his great-uncle’s trailer. Laszlo had been waiting for her. She felt a shiver run down her spine at the memory, for he’d looked heartbreakingly handsome and so serious she had wanted to cry. They’d sworn their love and commitment to one another and his great-uncle had spoken some words in Romany, and then they had eaten some bread and some salt.
Her pulse was fluttering, and despite her best efforts her voice sounded high and jerky. ‘We’re not married,’ she said tightly. ‘Marriages are more than just words and kisses. This is just another of your lies …’
Her voice trailed off at the expression of derision on his face.
‘You’re going off topic, pireni. We’re still married. I’m still your husband. And you’re my wife.’
LOUISE FULLER was a tomboy who hated pink and always wanted to be the prince—not the princess! Now she enjoys creating heroines who aren’t pretty pushovers but are strong, believable women. Before writing for Mills & Boon® she studied literature and philosophy at university and then worked as a reporter on her local newspaper. She lives in Tunbridge Wells with her impossibly handsome husband, Patrick, and their six children.
Vows Made in Secret
Louise Fuller
MILLS & BOON
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To my husband, Patrick, who provided inspiration not just for the love scenes but the emotional conflict!
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Extract from Tycoon's Delicious Debt by Susanna Carr
SCOWLING, A LOCK of dark hair falling onto his forehead, Laszlo Cziffra de Zsadany stared at the young woman with smooth fair hair. His jaw tightened involuntarily as he studied her face in silence, noting the contrast between the innocence of the soft grey eyes and the passionate promise of her full mouth.
She was beautiful. So beautiful that it was impossible not to stand and stare. Such beauty could seduce and enslave. For such a woman a man would relinquish his throne, betray his country and lose his sanity.
Laszlo smiled grimly. He might even get married!
His smile faded and, feeling restless and on edge, he leant forward and squinted at the cramped, curled inscription at the bottom of the painting. Katalina Csesnek de Veszprem. But even though his eyes were fixed intently on the writing his mind kept drifting back to the face of the sitter. He gritted his teeth. What was it about this painting that he found so unsettling? But even as he asked himself the question he shrank from acknowledging the answer.
Anger jostled with misery as he stared at the face, seeing not Katalina but another, whose name was never spoken for to do so would burn his lips. Of course it wasn’t so very like her; there were similarities, in colouring and the shape of her jaw, but that was all.
Disconcerted by the intense and unwelcome emotions stirred up by a pair of grey eyes, he glanced longingly out of the window at the Hungarian countryside. And then he froze as he heard an unmistakable hooting. It was bad luck to hear an owl’s cry in daylight and his golden eyes narrowed as he uneasily searched the pale blue sky for the bird.
From behind him there was a thump as Besnik, his lurcher, sat down heavily on the stone floor. Sighing, Laszlo reached down and rubbed the dog’s silky ears between his thumb and forefinger.
‘I know,’ he murmured softly. ‘You’re right. I need some air. Come.’ Standing up straight, he clicked his fingers so that the dog leapt lightly to its feet. ‘Let’s go! Before I start counting magpies.’
He wandered slowly through the castle’s corridors. The wood panelling on the walls gleamed under the low lights, and the familiar smell of beeswax and lavender calmed him as he walked down the stairs. Passing his grandfather’s study, he noticed that the door was ajar and, glancing inside, he saw with some surprise that the room wasn’t empty; his grandfather, Janos, was sitting at his desk.
Laszlo felt his chest tighten as he took in how small and frail Janos appeared to be. Even now, more than six years after his wife Annuska’s death, his grandfather still seemed to bear the burden of her loss. For a moment he hesitated. And then, softly, he closed the door. There had been an almost meditative quality to his grandfather’s stillness and he sensed that Janos needed to be alone.
He wondered why his grandfather was up so early. And then he remembered. Of course. Seymour was arriving today!
No wonder Janos had been unable to sleep. Collecting art had been his hobby for over thirty years: a personal, private obsession. But today, for the first time ever, he would reveal that collection to a stranger—this expert, Edmund Seymour, who