The Perfect Bride - By Kerry Connor Page 0,4

you to your room?” Meredith suggested. “I know you’ve been traveling all day and might want to get settled in a bit before we jump in to the wedding preparations.”

“That sounds great,” Jillian said, meaning it. After flying in from San Francisco, she’d had to drive over an hour to reach the small town of Hawthorne, Vermont, at the base of the mountain before continuing on to the manor. As eager as she was to begin asking questions and feeling her way around here, having a moment to take a breath and get her bearings would be more than welcome.

“Right this way.”

They walked down the long red carpet in the middle of the marble floor toward the stairs, allowing Jillian a better view of something she’d noticed from the far side of the foyer, but had been unable to examine closely. A portrait hung at the juncture of the staircase where it split in separate directions. A man and woman in wedding attire—clearly a bride and groom—posing in this very hall. They were smiling, understandably enough, and the artist had managed to capture the glow of happiness on their faces so well Jillian could hardly imagine a photograph showing it better.

Judging from the style of the wedding dress, which was pretty but of a fashion several decades older, the portrait had clearly been hanging there for some time. Seeing it, Jillian had no trouble understanding why Meredith had been inspired to open the place for weddings.

Then she thought of Courtney and Eric and how happy they had been, how happy they would have been on their wedding day, one that would never take place.

“This is the last owner of Sutton Hall, Jacob Sutton, and his wife, Kathleen, on their wedding day,” Meredith explained, a touch of wistfulness in her voice.

“What happened to them?” Jillian asked. This was one area she didn’t know much about, not having done much research on the previous owners.

“Sadly she passed away five years later. A car accident. The vehicle she was driving went off the road on the way up the mountain during a storm.”

Looking at the woman’s smiling face, Jillian felt a twinge of sadness. She’d been so happy. She’d had no idea what the future held for her. Just like Courtney.

“And him?”

“He continued living here at Sutton Hall the rest of his life. He never remarried, never really got over losing her. Right, Grace?”

The woman didn’t respond, and Jillian wondered if she was even there anymore. She glanced back to find the housekeeper standing a few yards behind them, her steady gaze fixed on the portrait.

No, Jillian thought, not just on the portrait, but on the face of Jacob Sutton, her eyes burning with an unreadable, but intense look.

As if realizing that she hadn’t answered—or that Jillian was watching her—Grace met Jillian’s gaze before slowly lowering her eyes. “That’s right.”

Returning her attention to the painting, Meredith let out a little sigh. “They may have only had five years together, but evidently they were happy ones. And afterward, he loved her so much he never thought of being with anyone else.”

How sad, Jillian thought at the idea of the man living alone in this massive house for all those years. Though from the way Meredith had told the story, she had the feeling that wasn’t the response she was supposed to have. She managed to say, “How romantic.”

“Or depressing.”

The comment echoing her own thoughts was the last thing Jillian expected to hear, and she turned her head in surprise. The statement hadn’t come from Meredith, but from a masculine voice above them.

A man was striding down the stairs toward them, his eyes unmistakably pinned on her. He walked with an easy, confident grace, taking his time in both his approach and his study of her. He moved like he owned the place, very “Lord of the Manor.”

Which was exactly who he was, of course.

Adam Sutton.

Jillian recognized him, too. But like the mansion he and his sister owned, the man made a much larger impression in person than his photographs could begin to show.

He was a tall man in his mid-thirties, his body demonstrating a muscled leanness beneath the black pullover and slacks he wore. He was undeniably good-looking, with thick black hair and high cheekbones, though perhaps not conventionally handsome. His features were too hard, too sharp, too intense. But more than that, there was something utterly compelling about him that immediately grabbed her attention and refused to let go, every instinct in her