E-Book, Englisch, 400 Seiten
Vasti Ne'er Duke Well
Main
ISBN: 978-1-80546-137-1
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
The ultimate swoony, witty, feminist Regency romance, perfect for Tessa Dare fans from bestselling author Alexandra Vasti
E-Book, Englisch, 400 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-80546-137-1
Verlag: Corvus
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Alexandra Vasti loves coffee, beignets, and books, in no particular order. She is the author of the Halifax Hellions series. In between writing swoony Regency romances with hijinks and heart, she teaches British and Caribbean literature in New Orleans.
Autoren/Hrsg.
Weitere Infos & Material
Selina settled her poke bonnet firmly onto her head, ducked out of the back alley behind her publisher’s office, and emerged into the sunshine of Bond Street.
It was extremely large, the bonnet, its brim jutting out past her face like a green silk prow. It clashed horribly with the pink pelisse she wore knotted over her yellow-striped, outrageously flounced walking gown, and if she kept her head tilted downward, her face was almost entirely obscured.
She wasn’t disguised. She hadn’t needed to wear the rough serge servant’s dress she’d kept stuffed in the bottom of her wardrobe for well over a year, a fact that struck Selina as something of a relief.
If Lady Selina Ravenscroft, younger sister of the Duke of Rowland, were to be caught wandering about London in servant’s garb, the scandal sheets would be wild with it by morning.
But in this—a shockingly out-of-fashion outfit, her hair tucked away beneath the bonnet and her face shaded by its outlandish brim—she wasn’t precisely in disguise. She was simply barely recognizable, which was exactly how she preferred it.
And if she to be recognized in this ridiculous ensemble, that wouldn’t be enough to engender a scandal. Well, perhaps a very mild one, given that she was walking about without a chaperone or maid. But she need only cross two streets to where the Rowland carriage waited—her delightfully bribable maid Emmie snugged inside—and then she’d be safe. No scandal today.
No scandal so far.
Of course, it was only a matter of time before someone found out the truth about Lady Selina Ravenscroft.
She angled a glance back at the office of Jean Laventille—the radical Trinidadian immigrant who was both her publisher and her only confidant. It was, decidedly, a mistake. Because with the poke bonnet’s brim blocking her vision and the flounces dancing around her body, she didn’t see the little boy who darted across her path until it was too late.
They collided with a , and Selina felt the breath rush out of her. She tried to stop herself from kicking the boy in the calf and overbalanced instead.
“Hell’s bells!” said the child, voice sweet, dark-fringed eyes wide as saucers.
And Selina flung her hands out in front of her, her mind busily registering a series of facts:
One, the child was, perhaps, a boy.
Two, Selina’s face was about to make a very abrupt acquaintance with a cobblestone.
And three, these gloves were going to be ruined, and she really these gloves—
And then she was caught around the chest by one strong masculine arm and set, cautiously, back on her feet.
“Good God, Lu,” said the owner of the arm. “You’re lucky I didn’t accidentally stab this woman, because even peers of the realm aren’t exempt from the legal consequences of murder.”
And—
Oh.
Oh .
Selina knew that lightly accented voice. She knew the owner of the arm. She knew that particular brand of easy words and nonsensical charm, and she knew without looking that the expression on the man’s face would be a slightly feral grin.
Peter bloody Kent.
She couldn’t look up. She couldn’t turn her gaze even one fraction, because then the brim would reveal her face, and he would recognize her. And she really, really didn’t want him to recognize her.
She was alone, not that Peter would care. But he might wonder what she was doing out here on Bond Street by herself. He might ask. He might have seen her come out of Laventille’s office, for heaven’s sake. She couldn’t be connected to the publisher, because then she might be connected to Belvoir’s, and then she would be so thoroughly entangled in the web of deception she’d crafted that she might never find her way out.
Also, he’d practically rescued her, which was mortifying.
And, God, she was wearing this patently absurd costume.
Not that she cared what he thought of her costume. Not that she thought about Peter Kent like .
Or at all. Ever.
“Beg pardon,” she mumbled, sidling away, eyes downcast and fixed on his dusty boots. She couldn’t look up. She thought maybe there was another child somewhere to his other side, but she dared not turn her head to check.
But then, horror of horrors . . .
He recognized her anyway.
“Selina?”
Oh .
She tipped her head back to meet his gaze. And then back, and back farther. The bonnet, which had been quite superb at disguising her appearance, was remarkably poor at allowing for normal social congress.
Finally she found his face.
Yes, it was Peter Kent—, she reminded herself, he was the Duke of Stanhope now—and yes, he was grinning bemusedly down at her.
She was tall, but he was taller. His bright brown eyes were lit with warmth and the comfortable, irrepressible familiarity that had him addressing her without her proper title. His dark curls were artfully mussed—she wondered if he had his valet form them with hot tongs. His fair skin was gold-burnished from the Louisiana sun, and his lips were almost insultingly lush for a man, and—
This. This was why, in the two years since she had met him and he’d tossed her into a mud puddle, she did not think about Peter Kent.
Selina dropped into a practiced curtsy, polite but not deferential. “Your Grace. What a pleasant surprise.”
Peter’s grin widened. “You wouldn’t say that if I’d stabbed you with Lu’s rapier.”
She had no idea what he was talking about, as usual. She didn’t even a rapier.
Peter turned and gestured to the slightly smaller of the two children at his side. “Come on, Freddie, hand it over before Lu steals it and skewers someone.”
“I thought it was blunted,” said the boy, sounding scandalized. “You said it was for .”
“Lu could skewer someone with a spoon.”
The boy—Freddie, evidently—produced what appeared to be a toy fencing foil from behind his back and handed it to Peter.
Peter’s large palm practically enveloped the thing. It looked ridiculous.
He turned back to Selina. “Now that the weapons are safely stowed—”
She arched an eyebrow. Stowed, was it? He more or less held the small sword aloft.
He caught her look and ignored it utterly. “Lady Selina, allow me to present to you my siblings. Lady Selina Ravenscroft, this is Miss Lucinda Nash”—he used the foil to gesture to the taller of the two children—“and Master Frederick Nash.”
Master Frederick Nash gave her a polite bow.
Miss Lucinda Nash swept her flat cap from her head, setting free a tumble of shining chocolate curls, and bowed so low she was nearly prostrate on the ground. Then she stood, regarding Selina with bright, fierce green eyes, as if daring Selina to comment on her boy’s garb.
Well, Selina supposed that she had no room to criticize anyone for what they were wearing this afternoon.
“Miss Nash,” she said, inclining her head in greeting. “Master Nash. It’s my pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Lu,” said the girl furiously. “Not Lucinda. Lu.”
“Lu,” whispered Freddie, looking pained. “You’re not supposed to correct the duke in public—”
“Freddie, shut , they can hear you—”
Selina bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. God, she would have hated to be laughed at when she was that age.
“My brother Nicholas is a duke as well,” she offered instead. “I assure you, I correct him in public frequently.”
Lu’s eyes sparked with interest.
“No, please,” said Peter. “Please do not encourage her.”
“And is your brother the duke this stodgy?” asked Lu, as if Peter hadn’t spoken.
Goodness, wasn’t exactly the word that came to mind when she considered Peter. maybe.
Not that she thought about him, of course.
“Yes, my brother the duke is stodgy indeed.” She sent an apologetic thought in the direction of Rowland House. Nicholas wasn’t precisely stodgy, but when she’d been a child, he certainly had seemed rather staid. Perhaps a bit overly aristocratic.
Stodgy, in a word.
“And is your brother the duke also so ?”
Oh mercy, how could she not laugh?
“Why yes,” Selina said. “Similarly, er, decrepit.”
Peter made a choked sound.
“And is your—”
“Thank you, Lu,” said Peter, slinging an arm companionably about the girl’s small shoulders. “That’s probably enough character assassination for one day.”
“Fine,” said Lu. “Pardon me for...
