Emily French

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What the critics had to say about Emily French’s first book
—
CAPTURE
 
“...fast-paced, action-filled, and beautifully romantic...”
—
Affaire de Coeur
 
“Emily French writes of tribal living in primitive North America with starling intensity...The sexual tension never ebbs...”
—
Romantic Times
 
“...a touch of mysticism and spiritualism adds to the eerie feeling that her audience is living this novel.”
—
The Talisman
 
“5
s.”
—
Heartland Critiques
 
“Put
Capture
on your must read list; it is a gripping tale of survival and love.”
—
Rendezvous
“You’re freezing. Come upstairs. I have a fire going in the drawing room.”
Seth Weston just stood there for a moment Doubt crossed his face. In a strange kind of elfin way, Sophy van Houten seemed timid and embarrassed, yet he knew she was playing a game. A dangerous game.
 
Not only was she flirting with her looks, she was dangling her money as bait. She was even breaking conventions and inviting him into her private drawing room. It was incredible what a wealthy woman would do for amusement.
 
He quickly weighed his chances of backing out and laughing the whole mess off as a joke, yet something stopped him. Looking down at her, he realized that Sophy interested him. Her eyes were huge with some carefully concealed emotion. As if it had taken an astonishing amount of nerve to confront him. For the first time in months, genuine delight flared in his blue eyes....
Dear Reader,
 
Emily French’s first book,
Capture,
was released in 1994 during our popular March Madness promotion and earned the author some wonderful reviews.
 
Ms. French’s second book,
Illusion,
is the emotional story of the growing love between a couple drawn into a marriage of convenience that is threatened by embezzlement and extortion. We hope you will enjoy this intriguing story.
 
In
Lion’s Legacy,
the third book of Suzanne Barclay’s Lion Trilogy, a Scottish warrior is hired to protect a tower from English raiders, only to discover that his benefactor has nothing to give him in return for his services but the hand of his unwilling granddaughter.
 
Diamond
is the first in award-winning author Ruth Langan’s new Western series, The Jewels of Texas, which features four sisters who think they are only children until the death of their father brings them all together at his ranch in Texas. And in our fourth book for the month,
Twice Upon Time,
Nina Beaumont’s second Harlequin Historical time-travel novel, the author weaves an exciting tale of an ancient curse and a passion too strong to be denied.
 
Whatever your taste in reading, we hope to keep you coming back for more. Please look for Harlequin Historical novels wherever books are sold.
 
Sincerely,
 
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325. Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
EMILY FRENCH
Illusion
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN
MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
Books by Emily French
 
Harlequin Historicals
 
Capture
#214
Illusion
#306
EMILY FRENCH
A living passion for the past, combined with the sheer joy of writing, has lured Emily French away from the cold ivory tower of factual academia to warm, heartfelt historical romance. She likes her novels to be full of adventure and humor, her heroes to be intelligent and kind, and her heroines to be witty and spirited.
 
Emily lives on the East Coast of Australia with her husband, John. Her interests are listed as everything that doesn’t have to do with a needle and thread.
To Wayne Pierre Beattie and
Thomas Carroll Geoghegan
soldiers both
who saw service in Vietnam and World War II
and to whom freedom owes a debt
What if we fly
on ethereal highs
through cloud-soft illusions!
Our dreams are welded
to burning desires
flares in the mind’s sky
...meteorites!
The author acknowledges kind permission to use the extract from the poem, “being in love,” by Heather Farmer (
Of Dreams and Desires
, 1993)
Chapter One
 
 
Yonkers, New York
—
September, 1865
 
“Did anyone ever tell you, you’re a mighty stubborn woman, Sophy van Houten?”
Taking several deep breaths to choke back the sobs that were threatening to well up in her throat, Sophy focused very hard on the street scene outside the window. She was not one of the indomitable van Houtens for nothing. She would give a good account of herself if she had to. Resist as long as she was able.
The van Houtens had always been proud. Their lineage could be traced to the settlement of Manhattan. As the only child of a wealthy industrialist, she had been given every material advantage, but she was not spoiled.
During the dreadful years of the war, she had put her talents to good use. She was not one of those women who had never faced anything more momentous in her life than a decision of accepting or refusing a proposal of marriage.
Sophy van Houten was known to be extremely fastidious. She had danced and dined her way through New York society without once having been tempted to wed. Now, circumstances beyond her control dictated that she marry, and with no further tarrying.
Her face darkened. “Why should I be forced into a marriage I do not want? They freed the slaves, but not the women!”
“Sophy!”
Shoulders stiff and squared, Sophy wrapped her arms protectively around herself. It was a posture she often adopted when she was upset. “Money! Money! It is not the ‘root of all evil,’ it is the cause of all distraction and worry! I hate men!”
“Nonsense!”
There was a tight feeling in the region of her heart. “It’s true. They’re all the same. Wanting to get their hands on me—or my money.”
“Sophy!”
She scowled. “I have no wish to be a social butterfly, nor am I cut out for constant charitable works. I want to be gainfully employed, using my God-given talents, though I am sure the stuffy old-fashioned financiers in Wall Street would not give me a job,” she added darkly.
Turning, she shot her companion a quick, questioning glance and then smiled crookedly. “A woman must know when to bend, or else she will surely break. I really have no alternative, do I?” Her chin rose defiantly. “I’ll get married, Aunt Ella, but it will be on my terms.”
“Sophy!” The other woman, perched like a nervous bird on the edge of a large wing chair, admonished her again in breathless apprehension. “Even though your father tolerated your idiosyncrasies, and understood your natural reluctance, he still wanted you to marry. The trustees are only doing their duty.”
Sophy spun impatiently and strode toward a large mahogany desk on the other side of the comfortably furnished room, which was lined with books and showed every evidence of luxury and wealth.
“Their idea of duty leads to constraint, and constraint stifles compassion. Have I no duty to myself? Why should I sacrifice my independence, be snared like a silly bird by that reptile word
duty?”
Picking up an embossed letterhead, she marched across the Persian rug toward her aunt and ground out between set teeth, “Listen to this hogwash! ‘After due care and consideration of your proposition, the trustees do not consider your request for funds to be either expedient or for a worthy cause.’ What a load of drivel!”
“Now, Sophy, that is a wicked way to talk.” Ella van Houten could scarcely gasp the words. “Try not to be so...so passionate, dear.” Putting her hand against her chest, as if she feared she might have a heart attack, she said faintly, “You know that your uncle Schuyler and my dear brother, Heinrich, act only in your best interests.”
“Aunt Ella, it’s ridiculous. My uncles’ living will controls Father’s dead one. I am bound hand and foot by invisible threads, a conspiracy of those who profess to love me. You know I always looked after Father’s investments. He trusted me to make good any cash given to ‘worthy causes.’”
“I agree, Sophy, and you never once failed your dear father’s trust,” Ella van Houten replied wearily. Knitting her brow, the elderly woman continued, “Nicholas believed that whatsoever a man sows, that also is what he reaps, for the reaper and the plowman are one.”
Sophy crouched and added a log to the fireplace. “Don’t go all cryptic on me now, Aunt Ella. I know it’s vulgar to talk about money, but you know none of the men who offer for me so ardently would be at all keen if I were not a wealthy heiress,” she retorted, trying to keep her tone light. “I have rejected so many offers I have lost count, but not one heartbroken suitor was among them!”
Her aunt smiled pensively, feeling a tug of affection and appreciation for Sophy’s prosaic attitude. Rich, beautiful, witty but stubborn to a fault, naturally she had admirers in plenty, but so far she had refused to marry any of them. She had never said so, but Ella knew that her niece had hoped to marry for love.
It was a shame that women were so bound and restricted by custom and the laws of society. With her secret core of romance and color, and a lack of convention that distressed only the unimaginative, Sophy had much to offer.
Ella’s eyes softened. Sophy did seem very slender and frail in the firelight. The mass of shining hair, looped in a fashionable swirl, seemed too heavy for the finely molded head.
Yet there was something vital and vibrant in the contours of the face, the straight little nose, the arched eyebrows and generous lips. And the large eyes, dark gray with somehow a tinge of purple in them, were bright and intelligent.
“In that case, there is no reason for you not to marry one of them. Surely you will now take your trustees’ advice as to the eligibility of suitors?” Ella questioned dryly.
“Oh, but I have a plan!” Sophy rose to her feet and danced across the room, merriment in her eyes. The decision made, her spirits rose like bubbles in champagne, sparkling, invigorating.
“Those chauvinistic fuddy-duddies are kindhearted and well-meaning, but they are pigheaded, and confuse logic and emotion. What I intend to do is to have
them
approve someone
I
choose!”
Her aunt’s expression of patient disgust changed to one of suspicion. “What’s going on inside that head of yours, Sophy? What scheme are you cooking up now?”
“I shall travel to New York City tomorrow. If I tell Mr. Tyson that I will transfer the van Houten funds to Pierpont Morgan’s bank when I come of age if he doesn’t cooperate, he will soon produce a desirable suitor.”
Sophy spoke so violently that her aunt winced. Her niece was small and fragile, yet she was stalking the room and snarling like a tigress after its prey.
Ella realized the great mistake Sophy would make if she were allowed to pursue her fantastic scheme. A rare spirit, cursed with a strange uneasy restlessness, difficult to manage at times and unpractical to a degree, the girl needed an outlet for her pent-up passions.
She hesitated, then said in a low voice, “You have always said you had no wish to marry. A man whom you do not know, a fortune hunter, the type who would accept a bribe to marry a girl he has never seen, sounds a terrible risk.”
“Oh, he will be no problem, merely a trifling drawback. I mean to be rid of him,” Sophy replied airily.
“Divorce is not condoned by the church! Would you jeopardize your soul for a whim, Sophy?”
Sophy grinned wickedly, then sighed. “No, Aunt Ella, I would not.” She spoke in the quiet, unhurried tone her aunt was used to hearing. “The idea of being married to a man who wants me only for my money is like living in hell. It betrays everything I believe in, all my dreams, all my ambitions, all the things that I have lived for these past five years.”
She fell on her knees beside her aunt. “But, Aunt, the alternative is even more mortifying.” She smiled a rather wistful smile. “Having a fortune carries a moral obligation to others, and so many people out there need help.”
Ella stared at her niece. “Maybe if you suggest to Mr. Tyson that your preferences lie with someone in need, then he will be more sympathetic.”
Sophy’s head came up and the calculating look reentered her eyes. “Aunt Ella. How clever of you! What a brilliant idea!”
Aunt Ella groaned.
 
“Marry Sophy van Houten!”
The man staring blindly into the rainwashed darkness gave no indication that he had heard the banker’s theatrical statement. Forehead crinkled in thought, he seemed oblivious to his surroundings.
Matt Tyson watched his client’s profile for a moment, took in the tension around the eyes, the grim, set mouth with deep lines at the corners. The sort of face, young yet old, to which he had grown accustomed in the four long years since the start of the War between the States. The genuine concern he felt for his friend gave him courage. He decided to push the point.
“Marry Sophy van Houten! That’s the answer! You’d get voting rights to her railroad stock, plus a wife who’d be no trouble at all. Always dutiful. Pretty manners. Good family.”
The silence in the room was more thunderous than sound. Seth Weston’s face was an unreadable mask; only the angry muscle flexing at the jaw admonished the banker. Minutes lengthened.
Matt tapped the desktop with his fingertips, brows creased in growing consternation. Finally, he sighed and continued. “I’ve known Sophy van Houten for years. Bright girl, no problem to her father. Old Nicholas used to keep her busy looking after...”
Marry Sophy van Houten!
The words ringing in his ears, Seth Weston swallowed hard and tightly clenched his jaw to prevent an outflow of sarcastic words. Outwardly, his calm demeanor showed none of the disquiet he felt. The truth was he felt more than a little disgruntled. He felt off-balance. Marriage! Hell, he’d sooner roast in hell, or face a firing squad, than marry!
True, he could not remember ever having met Sophy van Houten, but the last thing on earth he wanted was a wife. If he needed a woman, he only had to take himself off to Greene Street. No need to saddle himself with a permanent fixture. A wife would demand more of him than he could give.
The war had turned him topsy-turvy. He was drained, an empty vessel. No, not empty. Filled with bitterness, like sour wine. Women were shrews anyway. He had yet to meet a woman who was loyal and loving, tolerant and resourceful, who was neither cold nor subject to fits of jealousy. There was no such creature.
Seth became aware, slowly, that the banker was still talking.
“—and Cornelius Vanderbilt would pay handsomely for that stock. Marry Sophy van Houten and you can clear the mortgage on the factory and introduce those innovations....”
Marry Sophy van Houten!
Seth sucked a strangled breath through his teeth, made an impatient movement of his hand and slowly turned away from the window. With a quick, uneven step he made his way to one of the bentwood chairs flanking the banker’s desk.
“Vanderbilt already has control of the New York and Harlem Railroad,” he cut in curtly. “Moreover, I imagine Miss van Houten would have something to say about marriage to a broken crock of a man who plans to immediately sell off her stock. And besides—” he paused on the excuse of placing his long ebony cane on the desk and lowering himself into a chair “—I don’t think she and I would suit.”
Matt Tyson leaned forward, his face frowning and intent, rested his elbows on the polished mahogany surface and raised an eyebrow. “Why ever not? Told you, Sophy’s a nice girl, sensible, intelligent... and she has lots of other attraction.” He jerked his head meaningfully toward the iron door of the bank’s strong room.
“I’ve nothing against Sophy van Houten,” Seth hastened to assure the banker, a coolness in his voice. “She’s probably all you say, and charming company for a social evening. I simply do not wish to be married.”
Matt gave Seth a considering look. “Don’t misunderstand me, Seth.” He picked up a pen and rolled it round in his fingers. “You need the money Sophy can bring you. Marry her and you’ll retain your empire and your dream. A man with brains could come out of this mess richer than Midas.”
Seth winced, stretched out his legs and wearily leaned his head against the fanned back of his chair. “I know,” he said with a sigh.
The banker moved his head in a gesture of disbelief, and the skeptical look congealed into a baffled frown. “Hell, man, use your gray matter! I’ve known you since school. What’s happened to you?”
“Four years of a damn war that has divided this country so’s I don’t know how the scars’ll ever mend, a factory that leaks profits like a sieve, and a leg that is useless. That’s what’s happened.”
Matt could hear the edge to his friend’s voice, hard and sudden, like fine-honed steel. He knew Seth Weston was consumed with a deep anger. He also knew Seth Weston was no fool.
“You can’t turn back the clock, Seth. Count your blessings and you’ll find you still have more than most. The war’s over. We must repair the fabric of this nation. Even without Lincoln at the helm, I’m confident that Andrew Johnson can create a new and stronger Union.”
Seth’s mouth twisted faintly. “If he doesn’t fall out with Congress first. If he does he’ll limit his tactical choices for reconstruction.”

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