The Wife He Always Wanted

PRAISE FOR THE

SCHOOL FOR BRIDES ROMANCES

A Convenient Bride

“Cheryl Ann Smith surprises readers with a multilayered storyline. Beautifully romantic with a touch of mystery,
A
Convenient Bride
is a rare gem among historical romance novels.”

—
Fresh Fiction

“I enjoyed reading it very much and found it hard to put down.”

—
Night Owl Reviews

The Scarlet Bride

“The School for Brides has a new resident, allowing Smith to add another strong, resilient heroine to her feminist series. It’s wonderful to get reacquainted with past characters, and the connection between them, as the plot—complete with suspense, murder, and passion—unfolds.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“A very well-written novel and one that is full of the realities of life in that time period . . . Both a very good love story as well as a well-written mystery.”

—
The Book Binge

“The heroine is a courageous person who suffered terrible abuse but never lost her spirit, while the lead male is a strong person . . . Fans will appreciate this investigative historical thriller.”

—
Genre Go Round Reviews

The Accidental Courtesan

“A fast-paced, amusing, romantic historical filled with fun, and a delight to read.”

—
Fresh Fiction

“With a dash of humor, plenty of sensuality, and a fast pace, Smith’s second School for Brides novel is a pure delight. Readers will enjoy the charming cast of secondary characters and the mystery.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“A charming story with characters that engage you from the first sentence. Truly a joy!”

—
Night Owl Reviews

The School for Brides

“Chockablock with plot twists . . . Plenty of passion and intrigue.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Smith makes a dazzling entrance to the romance community with a charming, sexy, innovative tale that sparks the imagination. There’s a bright future ahead of Smith.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“An unusual premise and an interesting story . . . Readers are in for a treat . . . It has . . . everything readers want in a romance.”

—
Romance Reviews Today

“Delightful . . . And I loved the twists.”

—
The Romance Dish

“A warm gender-war historical romance . . . Fans will cheer.”

—Midwest Book Review

Berkley Sensation titles by Cheryl Ann Smith

THE SCHOOL FOR BRIDES

THE ACCIDENTAL COURTESAN

THE SCARLET BRIDE

A CONVENIENT BRIDE

THE WIFE HE ALWAYS WANTED

The Wife He Always Wanted

CHERYL ANN SMITH

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA)

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

THE WIFE HE ALWAYS WANTED

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2013 by Cheryl Ann Smith.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

BERKLEY SENSATION
^®
is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA)

The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA)

For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Group (USA)

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62503-3

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / September 2013

Cover art by Jim Griffin.

Cover design by George Long.

Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

For Ethan.

The only twelve-year-old boy who actually wants to see his name in a romance novel.

Chapter One

S
arah dropped the scrawny chicken into the pot, atop the few chunks of floating parsnips, and then sighed as she rubbed her hands off on her apron. To stretch the stew out for several days, she added more water, well knowing that the thin broth would be barely palatable and not enough to satisfy the emptiness in her rumbling stomach.

Still, it was something, and she silently thanked Mrs. Croswell for her generous gift of the chicken.

While the pot steamed over the fire, she took a seat at the table. Weary under the weight of the desperate desire to survive, her back ached and she twisted this way and that to ease the pressure on her spine.

“Who knew nineteen would feel like ninety,” she said to the empty room. Even her cat had gone off weeks ago to seek out better accommodations and more plentiful scraps.

Once the stew began to boil, she covered the pot and tidied the kitchen. Once upon a time, she’d had her aunt for company. After her death two years previous, her visitors were mostly limited to Mrs. Croswell, and occasionally the parson’s wife, whom Sarah thought dutifully visited to make certain she was still among the living.

She gave the stew one last stir, collected a basket filled with damp sheets, and went outside. She’d just begun to hang them to dry when the hairs on the back of her neck prickled and she whirled around to the sound of boot steps stopping behind her.

Standing a few paces away was The Widower, Jasper Campbell, his dark, intense eyes staring at her from beneath his hat with a less than casual bent.

Her stomach soured. His pursuit was becoming worrisome. He refused to consider that she did not want to wed him.

“Miss Palmer.”

“Mister Campbell.”

Almost thrice her age and three times her girth, his penchant for fighting, his six unruly children, and a thorough avoidance of soap and water made him an unacceptable suitor. All these, added to the unsettling feeling she had when he looked at her, solidified her determination to free herself of his unwanted presence.

Just yesterday morning she’d chased him off again, when the anger and impatience in his eyes had sent a shiver of alarm through her. How long would he allow her refusals before he took what he wanted by force?

He snatched the dusty hat off his head. “I have come to see if ye’ve given further consideration to me proposal.”

How could she not? He was relentless. “As I have said previously, we would never suit, Mister Campbell. I think it best if you turn your attention elsewhere.”

His heavy lids narrowed. “Ye think ye are too good to be a smithy’s wife.”

With her gaze unwavering and locked onto his, she picked up the basket and clutched it to her chest. “I think it’s time for you to leave.” Without hesitation, she walked briskly toward the door and hurried inside, throwing the bolt behind her and falling back against the panel.

“Oh dear.” The palatable rage she’d seen in the instant of her refusal caused her heart to race. She pushed away from the panel and ran through the house to lock the front door. Once the cottage was secure, she hurried back through it to the kitchen window then peeked outside between the curtains. He stood in the same spot, watching the house for several minutes, before returning to his horse and riding away.

Relief flooded through her. Deep inside she knew he’d be back for her, and next time the choice to wed him or not would no longer be hers to make.

What to do? She had no means, no family to shelter her, no way to escape. For a woman in her situation, her choices were limited, and had been so for a very long time.

If she accepted Mister Campbell’s proposal and wed him, she’d have food, clothing, and a life of abject misery. If she stayed here, she would likely starve. Unfortunately, she saw the latter as the more palatable option to bedding the beast.

Sarah slumped against the wall and closed her eyes. Certainly a life of suffering and loss had earned her one favor from above. So she dropped her head into her hands and said a little prayer for guidance.

A knock on the front door brought her head up and a twist in her stomach. Certainly Mister Campbell had not returned so quickly?

With a second pass through the cottage, she tiptoed to the front window. Careful to keep hidden, she glanced out in the direction of the stoop to see the back of a man loitering outside the door. From the angle and limited view, she could tell he was not the blacksmith. Thank goodness.

But who was he? She glanced around the overgrown yard and spotted his horse filling its belly on weeds and grass. By the looks of the fine chestnut steed, the stranger was no common vagrant. This eased her concerns a bit.

“There is only one way to find out what he wants,” she muttered. She tugged off her apron as she crossed to the door, swept a stray lock behind her ear, and opened the panel. Her eyes opened wide and she squelched the shriek racing up the back of her throat.

The man standing before her in the open doorway was unshaven, dressed in some sort of fringed garment, and was so dusty that he looked as if bathing was an unknown concept for him. However, what truly made her knees knock and her body tremble with terror was his size and menacing scowl.

The man could easily crush her with his two hands alone. What a mistake to have opened the door without serious contemplation of the consequences!

Unfortunately, it was too late for regrets. She instinctively knew to show no fear. Alone in the cottage with neighbors too distant for help-summoning, she’d be vulnerable should he attempt something nefarious. So, as calmly as she could manage, Sarah reached to the hook beside the door, where she’d hung her hat, and fingered the item until she found the hatpin. Then very carefully, to not give away her intention, she clasped it between her thumb and forefinger. She was about to slide the weapon free, when he spoke again.

“
Are you
Sarah Louise Palmer?” he asked, the harsh timbre of his voice giving her no ease. When she did not, or rather, could not, answer, he stared. “Albert did not tell me you were mute.”

Albert? Her lips parted and what came out was a breathless gasp. Knowing that she’d just all but confirmed his assessment that she
was
mute, she shook her head to clear her mind and regain some control of herself.

“How do you know my brother?” she asked, slowly releasing the hatpin. She could not imagine that any circles of Albert’s and this man’s would ever converge.

He pulled off his rumpled hat and ran a hand through his abused brown locks. “We are, were, friends.” He twisted the hat in his hands. “It is sad tidings I bring you, Miss Palmer. Your brother is dead.”

Sarah frowned and her heart lurched painfully. “You are a bit late with the news, sir.” She tried to picture her brother being friendly with this unkempt savage. The idea was absurd. “I have known of his death for over a year.”

“How? I came here straightaway.”

“By way of the moon?” she asked, sharper than she intended. The pain of her brother’s death was still fresh, despite the passage of so many months. “He has been dead since a year ago last January.” She scanned his bearded face. “I thank you for coming to tell me this, and I do not mean to be rude, sir, but I have a pot of stew on the stove and I fear it may be burning.”

She intended to close and lock the door, but a scuffed boot stopped the panel in mid-swing.

“Your stew will wait. I have come a long way,” he said and placed a hand flat on the wood. With a firm push, he slowly eased the door wide open.

Heart thudding, Sarah stepped back and darted a quick glance at the hatpin. It was still within reach.

Thankfully, he remained planted on the stoop.

“There is more for us to discuss than Albert’s death. You see, as he lay dying, he made me promise to take care of you. That is a vow I intend to keep.”

Sarah stared. “My brother has been away for ten years, with only a few letters to assure me he was alive. Now he decides on his deathbed that he should show me some brotherly concern?” Her sadness dissipated and a fire burned in her chest. She’d loved her brother dearly, but he had not been the best caretaker for her. “I release you from your vow, Mister—?”

“Harrington. Gabriel Harrington.”

“Mister Harrington.” She stepped fully into the opening, lest he see how shabby her living conditions were. After her aunt died two years ago and her tiny pension ended, Sarah’s funds had dwindled down to an alarming degree. She was within weeks of being penniless. Still, her pride would not accept assistance from this stranger. “I am quite capable of seeing to my own needs.”

“As I can see,” he said, peering over her head.

Sarah’s spine straightened and her neck prickled. “I do not care if you and Albert were as close as brothers; I do not need your help. Please go.”

He grumbled under his breath and his face became a blank mask, as if he was pondering his next argument. He took half a step forward, his expression one of defeat. “I am more than Albert’s friend.” He sighed deeply. “I am your fiancé.”

* * *

G
abriel watched her pretty mouth pop open. As quickly as he’d spoken the lie, he wished he could take it back. He’d impulsively offered to forever shackle himself to Albert’s sister. What in the hell was he thinking?

The image of Albert’s face as he lay dying, a fever ravaging his body, and the partial responsibility Gabe felt over his death were surely what caused this misstep. Or perhaps it was the desperation in her violet eyes that changed him from irresponsible rogue to damsel-saving warrior.

Guilt raced through his bones, and he felt the thickness of the mire he’d just stepped into on his boots. He
had
promised to take care of the chit. He had not promised to marry her.

Find her a vicar or farmer to marry her, Gabe
, Albert had said.
Give her a life that keeps her safe and hidden from the danger that I fear still haunts our family. She deserves a far better life than what I have provided.

A second wave of guilt followed. Albert had been correct. Gabe
was
a woman-loving, adventure-seeking, irresponsible rogue without the stability to care for a wife. He was wrong to offer to marry Sarah just to keep her from kicking him out on his arse. Albert would never allow the wedding if he were alive. In fact, he was probably cursing from the heavens.

Hell, if she’d not been so eager to see him gone, he’d have asked her to come with him to London and leave her in the care of his mother. However, the girl appeared to teeter on the edge of desperation, and from the looks of her, starvation. He could not leave Albert’s beloved and prideful sister to such a fate.

Gabe could not save Albert, but he could save Sarah.

He bit back a curse as his freedom vanished and an invisible and weighted chain circled his neck. All he could do now was make the best of his situation.

Perhaps she’d refuse him and free them both. One could hope.

“We are betrothed?” Her face went white. He reached to take her arm, fearful she’d faint at his feet, but she brushed him away and whispered, “I cannot believe Albert would marry me off to a barbarian.” She turned and wobbled toward the nearest chair, dropping down onto the frayed surface.

Taken aback by her insult, Gabe stepped into the cottage. The top of his head brushed the doorframe of the low door.

“A barbarian?” He looked down. His shirt and buckskin breeches were dirty, streaked with salt and dust and who-knows-what from his trip from America. He’d intended to change into suitable clothing after he boarded the London-bound ship in New York, but his trunk had disappeared somewhere between the wharf and the
Lady Hope
. By the time he noticed it missing, they had left port.

This left him in buckskin, a second shirt from his pack, and the kindness of a fellow traveler, Mrs. Johnson, and her lye washing soap to keep him from smelling most foul.

No wonder Sarah though him barbaric. He did look rather fierce. “Sadly, I spent all but my last few coins on the horse. The journey here was long, and I thought a sturdy gelding a more worthy purchase than clothing.”

Clearly, she did not share the same notion. She could not pull her eyes away from the colorful beaded necklace that dangled to the middle of his chest.

Chuckling softly under his breath, he examined her from her frayed gray hem up to her stricken face. The girl was not unpleasant to look at, somewhat pretty, really, albeit too thin for his taste. She was dressed in the severe manner of a spinster, though he knew she wasn’t yet old enough to wear that title. Still, he could do worse in a wife. And since it was too late to withdraw the lie and the damage already done, he silently vowed to do his best to give her the comfortable life his wealth could provide. And once they tired of each other, he could always take a mistress.

Men still did take mistresses, did they not?

Hell. He’d been away from society so long that he wasn’t entirely certain of the rules. Until a few minutes ago, he’d carefully avoided the marriage trap.

The chain tightened around his throat. He urgently needed a brandy. He doubted her meager stores included that spirit.