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  PRAISE FOR THE WICKED WORTHINGTONS SERIES

  “A charming and very romantic story with lots of laughs along the way. The ending puts a perfect cap on the story. I look forward to reading more books in this series to see what happens to some of my favorite supporting characters.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Ah, l’amour. I adored this story and the wonderful hero and heroine, who shed all their inhibitions and fears in order to go on the most powerful journey they ever embarked on . . . falling in love.”

  —Smexy Books

  “An exciting and sweet historical love story. It has everything that I look for in a good fairy-tale retelling while also tying back to Bradley’s earlier books. I am really excited to see more of this series, particularly because of the out-of-control but still entertaining Worthington family.”

  —Feminist Fairy Tale Reviews

  “A laugh-out-loud-funny novel from Celeste Bradley, the third in the Wicked Worthingtons series. Lighthearted but with a few profound moments, it is filled with deception, misunderstanding, exaggeration, cross-dressing, and mistaken identity.”

  —Harlequin Junkie

  The Wicked Worthingtons Series

  WHEN SHE SAID I DO

  AND THEN COMES MARRIAGE

  WITH THIS RING

  I THEE WED

  A JOVE BOOK

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Celeste Bradley

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  A JOVE BOOK and BERKLEY are registered trademarks and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780698197831

  First Edition: May 2017

  Cover art by Alan Ayers

  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.

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  This book is dedicated to my dear friend Susan Donovan.

  Contents

  Praise for the Wicked Worthingtons Series

  Also by Celeste Bradley

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from I Thee Wed

  Acknowledgments

  I am grateful to so many people, I would need pages to acknowledge them all. To my friends, family, true love, leaders, inspirers, healers . . . you keep my world turning!

  Chapter 1

  SO far, Morgan Pryce’s wedding night was going swimmingly.

  The woman on his lap was so soft and sumptuous that he entirely forgot his plans for retribution.

  When he felt the hellfire burning beneath the cool perfection of her skin, he forgot about the salvation of his half brother, Neville. When she dug her fingers into his shoulders, wriggled her delicious bottom against his lap, and opened her hot, sweet mouth to him, he forgot the day of the month. He forgot the year. He forgot his own name.

  In that moment, the honorable part of Morgan Pryce slipped away. Only the bastard remained.

  And the bastard had been at sea a very long time.

  There at the breakfast table of his London row house—more of a way station for a ship’s captain than a true home—Morgan could not have cared less if the woman was wife, maiden, or harlot. She was woman, and he was man. They didn’t need a bed. They didn’t even need the floor. The chair would do just fine.

  He was achingly hard and she was so . . . damned . . . soft.

  “Bloody hell!” The icy prick of a steel blade nicked the tender underside of Morgan’s jaw—his own damned dagger, if he was not mistaken. He dared not move.

  Morgan opened his eyes to the knife-wielding vision of loveliness on his lap. She shook her blond head with prim disapproval, narrowed her blue eyes at him, and said, “Now, sir, while you might make a perfectly serviceable husband for someone, you simply won’t do for me.”

  The captain had heard that marriage was never easy. Perhaps it was true, for his was proving far more challenging than he had predicted only hours before.

  Chapter 2

  LONDON, 1818

  ONLY HOURS BEFORE

  “WHAT about what I want? Always such a good boy. Always doing as I’m told. So bloody careful never to offend!”

  Lord Neville Danton, fourteenth Duke of Camberton, tossed back his whiskey with the awkward flair of the beginning drinker. He raised his arm to throw his fine crystal glass into the hearth, but hesitated at the last second. He placed it on the mantel instead. “Perhaps it’s time someone worried about offending me!”

  Morgan Pryce did not respond to his half brother’s drunken rant. He remained stretched out in the large wingback chair by the hearth, toying with his favorite dagger, watching the firelight play upon the carved blade and jeweled handle.

  Morgan knew Neville was a dedicated gentleman and scholar. The young duke took dutiful care of his lands and his people. He danced well, when he could bring himself to ask someone. He rode well, although horses made him sneeze. He shot well, though he preferred not to kill anything that had big, warm eyes or graceful wings. He spoke three languages and could read several more.

  Poor Neville. He was quite right to itch beneath the burden of his responsibilities. Ever the good lad. Ever the good student.

  Look at him now.

  The thought of defying their uncle’s wishes had driven Neville to seek courage in a bottle of whiskey. He’d found bitterness instead—a well of it, it seemed. It had accumulated over a lifetime of trying to perform beyond the expectations of others.

  Morgan knew that if his half brother wasn’t careful, the resentment would force his hand. It would push him into making a mistake. That, Morgan could not allow.

  Ever since he’d been introduced to four-year-old Neville by their father, Morgan had felt achingly protective of his good-hearted, sensitive half brother. Their father, the duke, was a distant man with little intere
st in his sons. Morgan had needed Neville as much as Neville had needed him. Since the day he’d held that chubby hand as little Neville took him to the stables to show off some fat little birthday pony, the mantle of “big brother” had settled firmly upon Morgan’s larger shoulders.

  Half brother, their father had insisted, when he noticed their bond. “It’s important you remember that, Morgan. He will be duke. You must never presume.”

  Morgan had understood that, had accepted it as only an idealistic youth could have. His role was that of protector, of loyal helper. He was his brother’s keeper, there to help Neville, not the other way around.

  Now Neville pounded his fist upon the mantel, unflinching when his flesh struck the stone. He whirled on his audience of one with fury in his eyes. “Well? Are you going to help me with this Bliss Worthington situation or not?”

  Turning too quickly while drunk was never a good notion. Neville’s face turned white. He staggered, as if he didn’t know whether to stand or sit. The whiskey made the decision for him, and his legs collapsed.

  Morgan put away his dangerous toy, slipping the dagger into a hidden sheath within his right boot. He stood and studied the duke, now sprawled on the carpet.

  Neville blinked up at him. “Your boots are shiny. Did you know that? Shiny and black, with the turned-down top. I wish I were a ship captain and could wear those boots! Or a pirate! I would make a legendary one. Pirates have shiny boots, too, do they not?”

  Although Neville was of matching height, Morgan had little trouble lifting him to his feet. He let the duke fall with somewhat more dignity into the chair by the fire.

  “You came home just in time, you know.” From his somewhat upright position, Neville nodded with satisfaction. “I knew I could count on you, my brother. I knew you would intervene if you understood the situation. You’ll talk to Uncle Oliver, won’t you? You’ll help me with Bliss?”

  Morgan did not answer. He’d already spoken with Oliver. He’d already made plans to intervene, and on this very night. Yes, he would help with Bliss. Yes, he would fix everything. Morgan would do what was best for his half brother in the long run.

  “I can’t do it,” Neville murmured. “I cannot set Bliss Worthington aside just because Uncle Oliver doesn’t approve.” He blinked at the fire, his gaze fixed on the blue and gold flames dancing over the coals. “After all, it isn’t as though there is anything wrong with the Worthington name. I know the family is a little odd. But I cannot help it. Ever since I was introduced to her at her cousin Elektra’s wedding, I think of no one but her. She’s so . . .” Neville trailed off, but then continued, waving his hand. “That golden hair, those eyes of sky, those—”

  Neville’s hands rose to map a figure in the air. His gaze lost focus.

  Morgan lifted a skeptical brow. If those proportions were accurate, Miss Bliss Worthington must indeed be the stuff of a lonely man’s dream.

  Neville, now clearly lost in the feminine hills and valleys contained in the imaginary cartography of his beloved, passed out.

  Morgan observed the unconscious Duke of Camberton for a long moment. His half brother’s limp body slithered down the fine leather, flopping over the chair arm like an unfettered marionette.

  Morgan had been a young man once, too. He had dreamed of unlikely and unattainable things, just as Neville did. But when a man was a bastard instead of an heir, the unlikely remained just that, and the unattainable swung forever just out of reach.

  Until he was needed. Until someone had a mission only a bastard could carry out. Suddenly, he became indispensable.

  • • •

  THE RAIN STRUCK sideways at the rickety Worthington carriage like a wet hand slapping at a pest.

  Bliss Worthington was aware of the vibration of the storm against the elderly lacquered wood surrounding her. A bit of water dripped from the seams of the vehicle. The damp made the horsehair-stuffed cushions smell more mildewed than usual.

  None of these things dug a single furrow into her determination. Not the midnight storm, not the plight of the poor carriage horses, not even concern for the driver up on his seat with only a slicker for protection.

  “‘Wishing clocks more swift,’ dear?”

  Bliss focused her gaze upon her aunt Iris, who sat across from her. Iris Worthington seemed as unperturbed by the horrid London weather as was Bliss. In fact, she seemed to be enjoying it. Iris always did like a bit of theater, even that of a natural variety.

  “That’s from Winter’s Tale, pet. Act one, scene two.”

  “Yes, Aunt Iris. I know.” Dear Iris. Bliss loved her, but if ever there was a more useless woman than Iris Worthington, Bliss had yet to meet her. Iris lived in a world filled with fantasy and drama and foggy perception. William Shakespeare was her constant companion.

  Reality was not.

  Which was precisely why Bliss had selected her dotty auntie as her coconspirator in this little plot.

  To keep their vows hidden from Neville’s uncle, Lord Oliver Danton, they had to keep the nuptials a secret. Aunt Iris did not count, for no one listened to her anymore. Flights of fancy poured from her lips on a daily basis.

  If Lord Oliver learned of Bliss and Neville’s plan to circumvent his silly objections to Bliss’s suitability, he might do something drastic. Neville believed his uncle was only a bit of a snob. Bliss was not so sure. He seemed to be a very obstinate sort of man—one with his own notions of Neville’s future. That future did not include Bliss. Therefore, it was best that they take matters into their own hands and present Lord Oliver with a firmly legal marriage he could do nothing about.

  Hence, the late hour, the remote chapel, the fat bribe to the priest, and the easily influenced witness in Aunt Iris. Bliss had been a very busy bee for the last several weeks. Of course, she had made sure that Neville was fully informed of her plan—their plan!—by means of secret notes passed through a channel of trusted servants. It was a great deal of trouble arranging matters so furtively, but Bliss had always been good at making things just so.

  The old carriage struck a pothole, jarring both ladies. Bliss clasped her gloved hands in her lap. She remained undeterred by the weather, or the time of night, or any other single thing. If the narrow London streets flooded, she would hop from the carriage and swim herself to the chapel.

  After all, she was about to marry the man of her dreams!

  She smiled to herself. Darling Neville. He was handsome, in a youthful, bookish way. He was rich, which would be more pleasant than being poor. He was titled, although Bliss could honestly plead no interest in that.

  No, it was Neville himself she preferred over all other men. At her cousin Elektra’s wedding to Lord Aaron Arbogast, Bliss had picked Neville from the crowd of young, titled gentlemen guests at first look. His clean-cut, handsome appearance had caught her eye, but it was his temperament that had fixed her attention completely. His manner had been so congenial, so eager to please.

  Further acquaintance had proven Bliss’s first impression to be correct. Neville was gentle, and kind, and good-natured, and thoughtful. He was a good and fair master to his dependents and a most diligent landholder of his estates. As the Duke of Camberton, despite his mere twenty-seven years, he was beyond reproach.

  Neville’s scholarly bent did not dismay Bliss. She was quite accustomed to people who studied and read and piled books here, there, and everywhere. Worthington House was a riot of books and brilliance and the occasional accidental explosion. It was an exciting existence.

  However, Bliss was through with excitement. Neville’s propensity toward quiet reading would be positively refreshing.

  Bliss knew that Neville adored her right back. As well he should. Her appearance was quite fetching, she’d been told, and her figure registered on the riveting side of generous. She was fashionable without being intimidating, and her taste was impeccable. She was patient and even-tempered,
yet intelligent. She would make an outstanding duchess and an exemplary wife. These were the simple facts.

  She’d never been terribly romantic, another way she differed from her Worthington cousins. That didn’t mean she minded the notion of pursuing the upcoming pleasures of marriage with her handsome husband.

  With a slight easing of her perfect posture, she leaned back into the musty cushions with a delicate sigh. The storm was slowing her progress toward her future, which was unacceptable. Yet she refused to become frustrated. With each grudging clop of the horses’ hooves, she grew closer to the moment that would change everything.

  Neville had become duke at the age of twelve. The great responsibility had made him dedicated and painstaking, and best of all, predictable.

  In contrast, Bliss grew up in the sheep-infested county of Shropshire in the care of a foster mother. Her parents continued their exciting, separate lives in London. All her life, she had lived day to day, never knowing when her father or mother might come. Weeks or months or years passed before a fine carriage would jingle down the country lane to Mrs. Dalyrymple’s cottage. A footman would leap from the top seat and flip out a small folding step and hand down either a veiled and silk-clad woman or a stout and silk-clad man.

  Mama and Papa were darlings, and of course their lives were busy and important, but to wait, and wait, and ever-loving wait! Then of course, they would arrive while she was elbow-deep in stove black, or disheveled and sticky from berrying, or worse, in the middle of a good book! Very early on, Bliss learned that the best thing was to remain “just so” at all times, always perfectly presentable, just in case.

  In short, she had spent her entire life waiting for someone to come home.

  Now she was in London at last, and had been residing for months with the dear Worthington clan. The family had accepted her easily, had absorbed her into their numbers with careless generosity, then proceeded to go about their business, flowing around her like a river around a stone. Bliss was welcome, but not really necessary to anyone’s happiness.