THE BRIDE'S NECKLACE.

by KAT MARTIN.

SUMMARY: The "New York Times" bestselling author begins a new romantic trilogy about the women who possess an heirloom necklace, believed to hold the power to bring great happiness or terrible tragedy.

REVIEW: After Victoria rescues her younger sister, Claire, from their molesting stepfather, Baron Harwood, she takes the legendary family heirloom, the pearl-and-diamond Bride's Necklace, to finance their getaway. But they still need to find work. Victoria, or Tory, is hired as a housekeeper, and Claire as a chambermaid, by Cord, the Earl of Brant, who is surprised to find himself attracted to practical Tory, then shocked to discover that by deflowering her he has bedded the daughter of a peer. Cord outmaneuvers Harwood to keep Claire safe and marry Tory, but that isn't enough for a happily ever after. Tory is obsessed with finding her late mother's journal, which she thinks will prove that the current Baron Harwood was responsible for the murder of her father. Martin's s.e.xy Regency-era romance, the first in a new trilogy, is full of adventure, misunderstandings, and honorable but misunderstood characters as well as a couple of villains with no redemptive qualities.

-Diana Tixier Herald.

"My study," he commanded. "Now!"

Tory bit her lip, lifted her skirts and hurried down the hall in front of him. Cord followed her into the study and slammed the door.

"Sit down."

She dropped into the nearest chair as if her legs had been severed at. the knee and forced herself to look up at him. He seemed even taller than he usually did, his eyes fierce and dark.

"I think it's time we talked about the necklace. The one you and your sister stole from Baron Harwood."

Her head swam and her palms went damp. She smoothed them over her crisp black taffeta skirt. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you? I think you know exactly what I'm talking about. I'm speaking of the very valuable necklace that was stolen from Harwood Hall." His jaw hardened. "And there is also the not insignificant crime of the attempted murder of the baron."

Tory swallowed, tried to look calm even when her insides were quaking. "I don't know a Baron Harwood," she lied.

He didn't believe her. She could see it in his face. Dear G.o.d, she wanted to tell him the truth more than anything in the world. But if she did, if she told him she and Claire were Harwood's stepdaughters, he would be honor bound to send them back. She couldn't let that happen. She and Claire would have to run again, leave London and find someplace new to hide.

To my great friends Meryl Sawyer, Ciji Ware and Gloria Dale Skinner for their help.

on this trilogy. Love you guys!.

Prologue.

England, 1804.

A soft creak in the hallway awakened her. Victoria Temple Whiting sat upright in bed, straining toward the sound. The faint noise came again, footsteps pa.s.sing her bedchamber, continuing down the hall, pausing in front of the door to her sister's room.

Tory swung her legs to the side of the bed. her heart racing now, pounding in her ears. There was no lock on Claire's door. Their stepfather, the baron, wouldn't allow it. Tory heard the click of the silver k.n.o.b turning, then the soft glide of shoes on carpet as someone walked into the room.

She knew who it was. She had known this day would come, known the baron would finally act on the l.u.s.t he felt for Claire. Desperate to protect her sister, Tory rose quickly, grabbed her blue quilted wrapper off the foot of the bed and raced out into the hall. Claire's room was two doors down. She made her way there as quietly as possible, legs trembling, her palms so slick she could barely turn the doork.n.o.b.

She wiped her hands on her wrapper and tried again, successful this time, opening the door and stepping silently into the darkness of the room. Her stepfather stood next to the bed, a long, shadowy figure in the dim light coming in through the mullioned window. Tory stiffened at his low-murmured words, the fear she heard in Claire's voice.

"Stay away from me," Claire pleaded.

"I won't hurt you. Just lie still and let me do what I want."

"No. I w-want you to get out of my room."

"Be quiet," the baron said more sharply. "Unless you want your sister to awaken. I think you can guess what will happen to her if she comes in here."

Claire whimpered. "Please don't hurt Tory." But both of them knew he would. Her back still carried the marks of an earlier caning, the punishment her stepfather, Miles Whiting, Baron Harwood, had delivered for some minor infraction she could now scarcely recall.

"Do as I say then and just lie still."

Claire made a sound in her throat and Tory fought down a wave of fury. Slipping around behind the baron, her nails digging into the palms of her hands, she inched closer. She knew what her stepfather meant to do, knew that if she tried to stop him, she would suffer another beating and sooner or later he would still hurt Claire.

Tory bit her lip, forcing down her anger, trying to think what she should do. She had to stop him. No matter what happened, she couldn't let him touch her sister.

Then her gaze lit on the bra.s.s bed warmer next to the hearth. The coals inside had long grown cold, but the bowl was heavy with the ashes left inside. She reached down and gripped the wooden handle, silently lifting the instrument up off the hearth.

Claire made another whimpering sound. Tory took two steps closer to where the baron leaned over Claire and swung the heavy bra.s.s bed warmer. Harwood made a sort of grunting noise and toppled over onto the floor.

Her hands shook. The bed warmer hit the floor with a soft clunk, spilling spent coals and black ash all over the Aubusson carpet. Claire leaped up from the bed and started running toward her, threw herself into Tory's arms.

"He was...he kept touching me." She made a funny little choking noise and held on tighter. "Oh, Tory, you came just in time."

"It's all right, darling. You're safe now. I won't let him hurt you again."

Trembling all over, Claire turned toward the man lying on the rug, a dark streak of blood running from the gash at his temple. "Did you...did you kill him?"

Tory gazed at the baron's still form and swayed a little on her feet. She took a breath to steady herself. It was dark in the room, but a sliver of moonlight slanted in through the mullioned window. She could see the scarlet stain spreading beneath Harwood's head. His chest didn't seem to be moving, but she couldn't tell for sure.

"We have to get out of here," she said, fighting an urge to run. "Put on your wrapper and get your satchel out from under the bed. I'll go get mine and meet you at the bottom of the servants' stairs."

"I-I need to change out of my bedclothes."

"There isn't time. We'll change somewhere along the road."

The journey wasn't unexpected. They had each packed a satchel three days ago, the night of Claire's seventeenth birthday. Since that night, the l.u.s.t in the baron's dark eyes had grown every time he looked at her. They had begun making plans that very evening. They would leave Harwood Hall at the first opportunity.

But tonight fate had taken a hand. They couldn't wait a moment longer.

"What about the necklace?" Claire asked.

Stealing the baron's most prized possession had always been part of their plan. They needed money to get to London. The beautiful diamond-and-pearl necklace was worth a small fortune and was the only thing of value they could easily carry with them.

"I'll get it. Try to be quiet. I'll join you as quickly as I can."

Claire rushed out the door and headed down the hall. Tony cast a last glance at her stepfather and raced out behind her. Sweet G.o.d, don't let him be dead, she thought, sickened to think she might actually have killed him.

Tory shuddered as she hurried away.

Chapter One.

London.

Two months later.

Perhaps it was the necklace. Tory had never believed in the curse, but everyone for miles around the tiny village of Harwood knew the legend of the beautiful diamond-and-pearl necklace. People whispered about it, feared it, coveted and revered the magnificent piece of jewelry crafted in the thirteenth century for the bride of Lord Fallon. It was said the necklace-The Bride's Necklace-could bring its owner untold happiness, or unbearable tragedy.

That hadn't kept Tory from stealing it. Or selling it to a moneylender in Dartfield for enough coin that she and Claire could finally escape.

But that had been nearly two months ago, before the two of them had reached London and the ridiculously small amount of money Tory had been forced to accept for the very valuable necklace had nearly run out.

In the beginning, she had been certain she could find a job as a governess for some nice, respectable family, but so far she had failed. The few clothes she and Claire had been able to take along the night they had fled were fashionable, but Tory's cuffs had begun to fray, and faint stains appeared on the hem of Claire's apricot muslin gown. Though their education and speech were that of the upper cla.s.ses, Tory didn't have a single solitary reference, and without one, she had been turned away again and again.

She was becoming nearly as desperate as she had been before she left Harwood Hall.

"What are we going to do, Tory?" Her sister's voice cut through the self-pity rising like a dark tide inside her. "Mr. Jennings says if we can't pay our rent by the end of the week, he is going to throw us out."

Tory shuddered at the thought. She had seen things in London she wished she could forget, homeless children picking food sc.r.a.ps out of the gutter, women selling their frail bodies for coin enough to last another bitter day. The thought of being tossed out of their last place of refuge, a small garret above a hatmaker's shop, into the company of the riffraff and blacklegs in the street was more than she could bear.

"It's all right, dearest, you mustn't worry," she said, putting on a brave face once more. "Everything has a way of working out." Though Tory was truly beginning to doubt it.

Claire managed a trembly smile. "I know you'll think of something. You always do." At just-turned-seventeen, Claire Whiting was two years younger but several inches taller than Tory, whose build was more pet.i.te.

Both girls were slender, but it was Claire who had inherited their mother's stunning good looks.

She had wavy silver-blond hair that reached nearly to her waist and skin as smooth and pale as an alabaster Venus. Her eyes were so blue they put a clear, Kentish sky to shame. If an angel dressed up in apricot muslin and donned a warm pelisse, she would look like Claire Whiting.

Tory thought of herself as a more durable sort, with heavy chestnut-brown hair that often curled when she least desired it, clear green eyes and a smattering of freckles. But it wasn't just their looks that set them apart.

Claire was simply different. She always had been. She inhabited a world mere mortals could not see. Tory always regarded her sister as ethereal, the kind of girl who played with fairies and talked to gnomes.

Not that she really did those things. It just seemed as if she could.

What Claire couldn't seem to do was take care of herself in any responsible fashion, so Tory did it for her.

Which was why they had fled their stepfather, made their way to London and now faced the threat of being cast out into the street.

To say nothing of being wanted for the theft of the valuable necklace-and perhaps even murder.

A soft August breeze blew in off the Thames, cooling the heat rising up from the cobbled streets. Comfortable in a big four-poster bed, Cordell Easton, fifth earl of Brant, lounged back against the carved wooden headboard. Across from him, Olivia Landers, Viscountess Westland, sat naked on a stool in front of her mirror, slowly pulling a silver-backed hairbrush through her long, straight raven-black hair.

"Why don't you put down that brush and come back to bed?" Cord drawled. "Once I get through with you, you'll only have to comb it again."

She turned on the stool and a seductive smile curved her ruby lips. "I thought perhaps you wouldn't be interested again quite so soon." Her eyes ran over his body, sweeping the muscles across his chest, following the thin line of dark hair arrowing down his stomach, coming to rest on his s.e.x. Her eyes widened as she realized he was fully aroused. "Amazing how wrong a woman can be."

Leaving the stool, she walked toward him, long black hair swinging forward, the only thing hiding her very seductive body, making him harder than he was already.

Olivia was a widow-a very young and tasty widow whom Cord had been seeing for the past several months-but she was spoiled and selfish and she was fast becoming more trouble than she was worth. Cord had begun to think of ending the affair.

Not today, however.

Today he had stolen a couple of hours away from the stack of papers he had been poring over, badly in need of a diversion. Livy was good for that if nothing more.

She tossed her black hair over her shoulder as she climbed up onto the deep feather mattress. "I want to be on top," she purred. "I want to make you squirm."

What she wanted was the same thing she always demanded, rough, hard-pounding s.e.x, and he was just in the mood to give it to her. The problem was, once they were finished, he had begun to feel oddly dissatisfied.

He told himself he should cast about for some new female companionship. That always raised his spirits- among other parts of his body. But lately, he simply couldn't get into the thrill of the hunt.

"Cord, you aren't listening." She tugged on a tuft of curly brown chest hair.

"Sorry, sweeting." But he wasn't really contrite, since he was certain nothing she had to say would interest him in the least. "I was distracted by your very lovely b.r.e.a.s.t.s." To which he directed his full attention, taking one of them into his mouth as he lifted her astride him and slid her luscious body the length of his powerful erection.

Olivia moaned and began to move and Cord lost himself in the sweet charms of her body. Livy peaked and Cord followed, then the pleasure began to fade, disappearing as if it had never existed.

As Livy climbed from the bed, the thought he'd been having of late began to creep in. Surely there is more than just this.

Cord shoved the thought beneath the dozens of other problems he had been facing since his father had died and he had inherited the Brant t.i.tle and fortune. Following Olivia out of bed, he began to pull on his clothes. There were a thousand things he needed to do-investments he needed to consider, accounts he needed to review, tenant complaints and shipping invoices.

And there was his ongoing worry about his cousin. Ethan Sharpe had been missing for nearly a year and Cord was determined to find him.

Still, no matter how busy he was, he always found time for his single great vice-women.

Convinced a new mistress was the answer to his recent bout of gloom, Cord vowed to begin his search.

"What if it's the curse?" Claire looked at Tory with big blue worried eyes. "You know what people say- Mama told us a dozen times. She said the necklace could bring very bad fortune to the person who owned it."

"You're being ridiculous, Claire. There is no such thing as a curse. Besides, we don't own it. We just borrowed it for a while."

But it had certainly brought misfortune to her stepfather. Tory gnawed her bottom lip as she remembered the baron lying on the floor next to the bureau in Claire's bedchamber, a trickle of blood running from the gash in the side of his head. Dear G.o.d, she had prayed every night since it happened that she had not killed him.

Not that he didn't deserve to die for what he had tried to do.

"Besides, if you remember the story correctly," Tory added, "it can also bring the owner good fortune."

"If the person's heart is pure," Claire put in.

"That's right."