The Substitute Bride

The bridal suite of Thorne Manor on the storm-swept cliffs of Blackwood Bay, Maine, smelled of spilled lilies, crushed lavender, and frantic desperation.

"She's gone! The selfish little bitch packed her jewelry and fled with her tennis instructor at dawn!"

Charles Vance, a patrician patriarch whose shipping empire was balanced on the edge of a seventy-million-dollar financial abyss, hurled a crumpled envelope across the dressing table. He turned his reddened, frantic eyes toward the shadowy corner of the room where twenty-three-year-old Clara sat silently, mending the hem of the cathedral-length lace veil.

"Father, calm down," Clara said softly, her silver-blue eyes calm and steady beneath dark raven lashes. "Call Alistair Thorne. Tell him Victoria ran away. You can renegotiate the debt terms—"

"Renegotiate with Thorne?!" Charles laughed, a sound bordering on hysterical madness. He grabbed Clara’s arm, hauling her to her feet with painful force. "Alistair Thorne controls forty percent of North Atlantic container shipping! He loaned us fifty million dollars on the condition of this marital alliance! If he discovers Victoria bolted two hours before the ceremony, he will call the notes due before sunset. Vance Shipping will be liquidated by tomorrow morning!"

"Then let it be liquidated!" Clara whispered, wincing as his grip tightened on her wrist. "You cannot force a marriage that doesn't exist!"