Blurb:
The right man doesn’t
know she’s alive. The wrong man’s out to change that.
Coralie Busche can
only admire Kenneth Rainier from afar. He’s a most handsome philosopher of the
Romantic movement and for months she’s eavesdropped on his conversations at the
coffee house. If only she had the courage to join his debates… and perhaps
more. Her feminine education of singing and sewing could be of no interest to
such a man — but then that vexing rake, the Duke of Cumberland, brings her to
Rainier’s attention and she can’t hide any longer.
Rainier has lived with
his mercenary sisters for too long to suffer any illusions about women. They
value money, position, and precedence, not life’s important things such as
poetry or painting, and only very lucky men find true love. But when he notices
Cumberland staring at a dark-eyed beauty hiding in the coffee house’s corner,
Rainier is smitten. Perhaps there’s a chance he could be one of those lucky
men.
Cinderella meets Romeo
and Juliet with a gorgeous gown, an unusual ducal matchmaker with motives of
his own, and two cynical, jealous sisters. With All Hallow’s Eve approaching,
tempers flaring, and a duelist’s challenge thrown down, how can His Grace, the
Scoundrel of Mayfair, teach some loving sense to two soaring sensibilities?
Author:
Vivian Roycroft is a
pseudonym for historical fiction and adventure writer J. Gunnar Grey. And if
she's not careful, her pseudonymous pseudonym will have its own pseudonym soon,
too. Plus an e-reader, a yarn stash, an old Hermès hunt saddle, and a turtle
sundae at Culver's.
You can find Vivian
and her writing compadre, J.L. Salter, at their shared blog, www.TakeTwoOnRomance.Weebly.com,
or follow her on Twitter as @VivianRoycroft.
Excerpt:
Chapter One
Thursday, October 14,
1813
Strong sunlight poured
between the pretentious columns fronting the Olympic Pavilion. Beneath the
portico moved shadows not cast by the neoclassical architecture, shadows of
completely the wrong shapes and sizes; and, when His Grace approached to a
sufficient proximity, shadows creating noises both indiscreet and inappropriate
for a public street. A flash of copper curls and a clashing maroon sleeve caught
his eye, and surely only one couple in all of Mayfair would dare sport such an
unfortunate combination of colors. Deliberately he clumped on the pavement,
announcing his presence. The shadows whipped behind their sheltering column and
the salacious noises ceased.
But as he passed, a
calculated glance back proved his theory correct. Mrs. Beryl Fitzwilliam, née
Wentworth, stood on her tiptoes and peered over her new husband’s shoulder. The
Duke of Cumberland, His Grace, Ernst Anton Oldenburg, gave her a victorious
grin; her bewitching green eyes lit with glee and she wrinkled her nose at him.
Satisfied, he resumed his more usual manner of walking and continued on his
way, permitting them to resume — well. Perhaps better not to pursue that
thought.
Enchanting Beryl’s
adventure was complete, her dreams now reality.
Leaving him free to
acquire a new target.
Who unknowingly
awaited his tender attentions within Trent’s coffee house, beyond the Temple
Bar on Fleet Street, where he’d first laid siege to delicious Anne Kirkhoven,
now Mrs. Frederick Shaw, a woman delighted with her husband’s literary success
and essaying upon a few attempts of her own.
As His Grace crossed
the coffee house’s threshold into its shadowy, happy clutter, a hush descended
upon the crowded patrons, heads swiveling in tribute to his entrance. He’d long
ago become accustomed to such moments and let his lips curl into a rogue’s
smile in greeting, doffing his beaver, tucking it beneath his elbow, and
tugging off his gloves.
There they sat, at a
table near the yellow-curtained casement windows, three elegant gentlemen of
the ton staring at his entrance. They all wore similar expressions of
eyebrow-arching recognition, although George Anson’s little smile seemed tinged
with a certain amount of relief, as well. Whatever topic they had under
discussion, perhaps it was more beyond his reach than usual. Not that Anson was
stupid, not at all; merely limited in his understanding of deeper subjects,
such as anything beyond Goodwood, sporting life, and Gentleman Jackson’s saloon
on Bond Street.
But his manners
remained impeccable. “Well met, your grace. Won’t you join us?”
“It would be entirely
my pleasure, Mr. Anson. Thank you.”
Surprise joined
Anson’s relief. Well, if the subject was that deep, the invitation might be his
first contribution to the discussion since sitting down.
They made room for
him, Henry Culver and Kenneth Rainier scooting their chairs to the sides.
Round-faced Trent brought a steaming pot and matching cup — his best, the ivory
with blue and white flowers — sans any cream or sugar; only lesser mortals
doctored Trent’s invigorating brew. Preparations complete, His Grace leaned
back, cradling the cup, and inhaled the coffee’s essence. The aroma alone was
sufficient to wake half the ton at dawn and keep them that way for days.
Deliberately, and with
malice aforethought, His Grace stared even more pointedly than normal at Miss
Coralie Busche, who hid in the shadows beside the dark paneling.
