Genre: Adult Fiction (Historical Fiction/Romance)
Date Published: November 24, 2018
Publisher: HEA Publishing
Abigail Nash leads a lonely existence. Her mother died giving birth to her, her father’s business dealings took him away more often than not, and her ailing great-aunt, unable to provide much in the way of companionship, was a lack-luster guardian at best. So when her dear friends offered to launch her into London society, it appeared Abby’s life was taking a turn for the better, with suitors and social engagements aplenty. When she marries a proclaimed darling of the ton, it seems she will at last settle into the life of her dreams.
But appearances aren’t always what they seem, and dreams often become disappointments.
Just months into her marriage, Abby finds herself widowed, penniless, increasing, and determined to never hope again. But when her late husband’s brother, the Earl of Brigston, attempts to thaw the numbness surrounding her heart, Abby must decide if she has it in her to risk another chance at happiness, knowing the odds are not in her favor.
My Brother's Bride is the second book in the Serendipity series by Rachael Anderson. I haven't read the first book yet, and I really need to, because this is one of my favorite authors. However, this story stands alone just fine. There is a little mystery surrounding Abby and her husband, as you don't really know what brought this unlikely couple together. The story really pulls you in as you get to know its characters and all the things that brought them to where they are now. This was definitely a hard one to put down!
When Brigston entered the kitchen, Abby’s back was partially to him, so she didn’t immediately see him. Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she whipped something in a bowl. She paused to lift the spoon, only to frown at the white liquid dripping from it.
“Are you certain this will thicken into a cream?” she asked.
A flash of irritation crossed Monsieur Roch’s face until he spotted Morgan and seemed to think better of it. He managed a patient tone in his accented French. “It takes time, my lady.”
Morgan stifled a chuckle as Abby examined another spoonful of the liquid. “I’ve been whipping it for several minutes, but it doesn’t seem even a little thicker to me. Have I forgotten to add something?”
“No,” said the cook in clipped tones.
Morgan stepped forward and leaned in close. “If your arm is tired—”
Abby jumped, and what liquid remained on the spoon splattered across Morgan’s face. She spun around, her eyes growing wide with horror when she saw what she’d done.
He wiped a dab from his nose and tasted it. “A little more sugar, perhaps?”
“Brigston! I’m so dreadfully sorry.” She dropped the spoon into the bowl and grabbed a rag from a nearby wash basin, dabbing it across his face.
“Not that rag!” cried the cook. “It was only just used to mop the floors.”
Abby dropped it as though it had burned her, and Morgan tried not to cringe at the thought of filthy water coating his face.
Monsieur Roch retrieved a clean rag and held it out to him, appearing apologetic. He flicked another irritated glance at Abby before returning to his work.
As Morgan wiped the cream from his face, he wondered what Abby would do or say next. Offer another fumbled apology? Make her excuses and flee? Pretend the incident never happened and return to her labors? He never knew what to expect from her.
Her face scarlet, she cleared her throat and lifted her adorably determined chin. “You are most welcome, my lord.”
He raised a brow. “For what, my lady?”
“I have heard that cream does wonders for one’s complexion, and it seems the rumors are correct. Your skin appears much . . . creamier.”
“Are you certain this will thicken into a cream?” she asked.
A flash of irritation crossed Monsieur Roch’s face until he spotted Morgan and seemed to think better of it. He managed a patient tone in his accented French. “It takes time, my lady.”
Morgan stifled a chuckle as Abby examined another spoonful of the liquid. “I’ve been whipping it for several minutes, but it doesn’t seem even a little thicker to me. Have I forgotten to add something?”
“No,” said the cook in clipped tones.
Morgan stepped forward and leaned in close. “If your arm is tired—”
Abby jumped, and what liquid remained on the spoon splattered across Morgan’s face. She spun around, her eyes growing wide with horror when she saw what she’d done.
He wiped a dab from his nose and tasted it. “A little more sugar, perhaps?”
“Brigston! I’m so dreadfully sorry.” She dropped the spoon into the bowl and grabbed a rag from a nearby wash basin, dabbing it across his face.
“Not that rag!” cried the cook. “It was only just used to mop the floors.”
Abby dropped it as though it had burned her, and Morgan tried not to cringe at the thought of filthy water coating his face.
Monsieur Roch retrieved a clean rag and held it out to him, appearing apologetic. He flicked another irritated glance at Abby before returning to his work.
As Morgan wiped the cream from his face, he wondered what Abby would do or say next. Offer another fumbled apology? Make her excuses and flee? Pretend the incident never happened and return to her labors? He never knew what to expect from her.
Her face scarlet, she cleared her throat and lifted her adorably determined chin. “You are most welcome, my lord.”
He raised a brow. “For what, my lady?”
“I have heard that cream does wonders for one’s complexion, and it seems the rumors are correct. Your skin appears much . . . creamier.”
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Ends 4/22/18
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