Title: Capturing the Bride
Series: The Kidnap Club #1
Author: Samantha Holt
Genre: Regency, Adult
Release Date: April 7, 2020
If one is very, extremely desperate, then one may call on the services of a clandestine group of men.
The Kidnap Club—known to few—specialize in helping women out of difficult situations.
Arranged marriages to awful men, for example.
Miss Grace Beaumont is at her mercy of her uncle who is determined she marry the depraved Mr. Worthington. Desperate times call for…well, the Kidnap Club.
It seems insane. Perhaps it is. But anything is better than being married to that man.
Lord Nash Fitzroy has looked after many a kidnapee over the past few years, but none make him want to break the cardinal rules as much as Grace. Her determined spirit, quick wit, and, let’s be honest, her pretty looks have him struggling to remember his role in this.
Protector, defender, and occasional shoulder to cry on.
His way with women and the almost derelict offerings of his ancestral home as a hideaway make him a perfect pretend kidnapper. He doesn’t much mind the money involved either, seeing as his father cut him off.
Which means, he cannot afford to get this wrong. No matter how tempted he is to show Grace that Worthington is not a prime example of how a man should be and burn the damned rule book.
Capturing the Bride is the first in a steamy new Regency series by USA Today Bestselling author Samantha Holt and can be read as a standalone.
NASH SHOULD HAVE declined. Said no. Told her to scram. Nein. No. Nyet.
It would have been easy enough. But, no, he had to ask her to help and put himself in such a position that he was struggling hard to control his body.
He peered at the top of her head. There was nothing exciting about the top of a head, he told himself. In fact, Grace went out of her way to make the top of her head exceedingly dull. He never once saw her with an elaborate hairstyle or some curls gracefully touching her skin. Her dark, glossy hair remained tied tightly in a no-fuss sort of a knot and a parting down the center, revealing a pale line of scalp.
Exceedingly dull really.
However, being so close to her was anything but dull and no matter how much he considered how unexciting her hair was, his body would not listen.
Drawing in a long breath, he gripped the vine in his gloved hands. He’d had some thoughts that doing a little physical labor might dampen his needs but even after an hour of ripping and pulling at weeds, his desire would not be abated.
And there was no denying it now. Hell, he’d almost kissed her the other night. She’d been ready for it too, eyes closed, lips pursed. It would have been so damned easy to take what he wanted.
“Hold it firmly,” he ordered, groaning inwardly at the image that created. “And give it a little tug at first.”
Good Lord, what the devil was wrong with him?
He closed his mouth and they pulled on the vine together. The stubborn plant refused to give way, so he let go and used his knife to cut away some of the smaller offshoots that clung stubbornly to the window.
“This is harder than I thought,” she commented.
He stared at her.
“What’s wrong?”
Nash shook his head and took up his position behind her again. The woman had no idea what she was doing to him. First, he’d nearly broken his promise to the others that he would never, ever touch any of the women in his protection, and now he had taken up manual labor in some odd bid to impress her. The fact was, her words still grated—the idea that he did nothing aside from sit around and play the country gent.
Of course, her words still grated because they were somewhat true. He did whatever he could for these women and was not unproud of helping them but his role as protector had never meant doing much. He’d certainly never had to worry about awful uncles or violent fiancés potentially chasing them down.
He could not help but wonder if, perhaps, his father had been right too. He hadn’t done much with his life and would have continued to remain aimless had they not fallen out.
It would have been easy enough. But, no, he had to ask her to help and put himself in such a position that he was struggling hard to control his body.
He peered at the top of her head. There was nothing exciting about the top of a head, he told himself. In fact, Grace went out of her way to make the top of her head exceedingly dull. He never once saw her with an elaborate hairstyle or some curls gracefully touching her skin. Her dark, glossy hair remained tied tightly in a no-fuss sort of a knot and a parting down the center, revealing a pale line of scalp.
Exceedingly dull really.
However, being so close to her was anything but dull and no matter how much he considered how unexciting her hair was, his body would not listen.
Drawing in a long breath, he gripped the vine in his gloved hands. He’d had some thoughts that doing a little physical labor might dampen his needs but even after an hour of ripping and pulling at weeds, his desire would not be abated.
And there was no denying it now. Hell, he’d almost kissed her the other night. She’d been ready for it too, eyes closed, lips pursed. It would have been so damned easy to take what he wanted.
“Hold it firmly,” he ordered, groaning inwardly at the image that created. “And give it a little tug at first.”
Good Lord, what the devil was wrong with him?
He closed his mouth and they pulled on the vine together. The stubborn plant refused to give way, so he let go and used his knife to cut away some of the smaller offshoots that clung stubbornly to the window.
“This is harder than I thought,” she commented.
He stared at her.
“What’s wrong?”
Nash shook his head and took up his position behind her again. The woman had no idea what she was doing to him. First, he’d nearly broken his promise to the others that he would never, ever touch any of the women in his protection, and now he had taken up manual labor in some odd bid to impress her. The fact was, her words still grated—the idea that he did nothing aside from sit around and play the country gent.
Of course, her words still grated because they were somewhat true. He did whatever he could for these women and was not unproud of helping them but his role as protector had never meant doing much. He’d certainly never had to worry about awful uncles or violent fiancés potentially chasing them down.
He could not help but wonder if, perhaps, his father had been right too. He hadn’t done much with his life and would have continued to remain aimless had they not fallen out.
Samantha Holt is a USA Today Bestselling author of Regency, Victorian, and medieval romance. When she’s not writing, she’s wrangling her twins and her sausage dog or exploring all the beautiful places in the UK (especially if a hot tub is involved!)
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