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For readers of Regency romance by Julia Quinn, Lisa Kleypas, and Madeline Hunter, New York Times bestselling author Sabrina Jeffries debuts a brand new series in trade paperback in which a lord, detained in France during the Napoleonic war, returns home to find he’s inherited a dukedom and vows to make a match for his deceased mentor’s daughter.

Napoleon’s war has ended, and English captives detained for years in a French fortress are finally released. Returning to a London he no longer recognizes, and facing astonishing changes in his own family, Lord Jonathan Leighton learns he has inherited a dukedom. But the new nobleman carries the guilt of having wronged his late mentor. Now, he vows to fulfill his promise to find a suitable match for the man’s daughter, Victoria—even if it takes offering a nonexistent dowry to spark her interest in matrimony . . .

Sharp-witted Victoria would just as soon sculpt the Greek god who has come to take charge of her future. In fact, she has her sights set on founding a school for women artists. As Jonathan matches wits with the talented beauty, revelations from his past—and their connection to her father’s demise—threaten to unveil both of their closely held secrets and thrust them into a danger they can only escape together.

Excerpt

Tory and the Duke of Falconridge continued around the gallery as she pointed out various sculptures that provoked thought. They were about to leave the room, when a certain booming voice assaulted her ears.

She froze. Of all the people to show up here . . . Mr. Dixon. Why, she barely saw him in her neighborhood, much less out in town. “This way,” she hissed and tried to tug the duke through some curtains covering a doorway that led to an upcoming exhibit.

He resisted. “What are you doing?” he asked, at least having the good sense to whisper.

“I can’t encounter that fellow entering the gallery. Please . . .”

Letting her pull him through the curtains, Falconridge slipped with her into a small, unlit room where sculptures lay under drop cloths.

They could hear Mr. Dixon’s voice even in there. “This is the famous Bust of Clytie,” Mr. Dixon announced in his pompous voice. “Note her petulant expression, typical of a woman who couldn’t get her way and instead chose to pout about it.”

While his companions laughed, Tory bristled at the man’s flippant characterization, even though there was some truth to it.

Falconridge bent to whisper in her ear, “Who is this arse?”

“A neighbor who once taught me about sculpture,” she breathed, drawing him deeper into the little room. Did she imagine that he stiffened a bit?

“A friend?” he asked.

“Until he forced a kiss on me,” she muttered.

Even in the dimness, she could see his outraged expression. “Forced a—”

She covered his mouth with her hand. “He must not discover us in here.”

When he nodded, she removed her hand, but not before the warmth of his breath on her palm sent a strange excitement down her spine. Heavens.

Meanwhile, Mr. Dixon droned on. “I used to know a sculptress in my neighborhood who fancied me in much the same fashion as Clytie did Helios.”

What?? The audacity of the man!

She lunged forward, ready to throttle him for lying, but Falconridge drew her back against him and held her still.

To her mortification, Mr. Dixon went on. “I had to be firm with her, explain that my wife needed me.”

The duke’s arm tightened about her waist. “He was married, for God’s sake?” he hissed in her ear.

“Shh!” she said, a bit too loudly.

Mr. Dixon quieted. “Did you hear something?”

The chorus of voices that answered him in the negative made her groan inwardly. He was telling this fairy tale to all of them!

Fortunately, the group moved on down the gallery as Mr. Dixon continued spouting his ridiculous opinions about art and sculpture and women. She and Falconridge stood motionless until the voices faded enough to convince her that they’d passed into the next gallery.

She slipped from the duke’s arms. “How I loathe that man,” she grumbled.

“I couldn’t tell.”

Her gaze flew to him. “You didn’t believe him, did you? About me having a fancy for him?”

“I expect you have better taste in gentlemen. Besides, the men who brag the most about their conquests are generally the ones with the least to brag about.” He eyed her closely. “But I must ask—is he the reason you don’t wish to marry?”

“Of course not!”

He arched an eyebrow.

“All right. Partly.”

“Because he forced a kiss on you,” the duke said.

“He didn’t do it right off, mind you. To be honest, when I met him initially, I was a bit star-struck. After all, he has exhibited at the Royal Academy more than once. So, I thought him very kind because he deigned to explain aspects of sculpting to me.”

“Did you know then that he was married?”

“Certainly. As I said, he—and his wife—lived in the neighborhood. I had already met her—she was expecting, I should point out. My previous encounters with him had been perfectly innocent. So when he. . . er . . . insisted on kissing me in his workroom, he utterly shocked me.”

Falconridge’s intent gaze was fixed on her face. “What did you do?”

“I resisted, of course, but he was very strong. Fortunately, nearby sat a bucket of soapy water he was using to wash the marble dust from his latest work.” She tipped up her chin. “I . . . um . . . grabbed it and poured it over his head, then shoved him off me.”

The duke laughed. “Of course you did.”

His laughter provoked her own. At the time, she hadn’t been amused one whit, especially since the soapy water splashed on her, too, but now that she remembered it without her haze of anger, Mr. Dixon had looked rather comical with marble dust all over him.

After a moment, the duke asked, “Was it his lack of fidelity to his wife that put you off of marriage or was it the kiss itself?”

Strangely enough, in this dim and secretive little room full of covered sculptures, it seemed somehow natural to be honest. “Both, I suppose. Still, I’ve been kissed a few times since, and I don’t understand the appeal.”

He looked astounded. “You’re basing your opinion on a handful of kisses? Perhaps you haven’t been kissed by the right man. Or at least not by one who knew what he was doing. You might be swearing off marriage for no good reason.”

Since her lack of enthusiasm for kissing wasn’t her main reason for not marrying—which she also couldn’t tell him—she could hardly argue his point. “What do you suggest, Your Grace?” she snapped. “That I kiss every man I meet until I have sufficient experience to confirm my opinion?”

“Why not? I’d be happy to offer my services.” Then he grimaced. “God, I can’t believe I said that aloud.”

She chuckled. “I can. It’s the sort of thing you seem to say. Fortunately for you, I know you didn’t mean it, and—”

His sudden kiss took her by surprise. But not the way Mr. Dixon’s had. The duke’s felt non-threatening, as if he were giving her a chance to protest at any moment.

Yet he kissed her unlike any man had done before. His kiss was soft but direct, gentle but surprisingly thrilling, too. None of the other men’s kisses had been thrilling. Then again, she hadn’t liked the men very well, either. She rather liked Falconridge. When he wasn’t being officious and overbearing, that is.

Once he drew back, far too quickly, she touched her fingers to her lips where they tingled. Like other places in her body just now. That made no sense. Why him? Why did it have to be him—a man so far beyond her station—who did this to her?

“Well?” he asked in a rumbling voice that resonated throughout her body. She instantly forgot he could be officious and overbearing.

“That was hardly long enough for me to form an opinion,” she said truthfully.

He narrowed his gaze on her. “I can remedy that, if you wish.”

Without thinking, she said, “Can you, indeed?”

Apparently, he took that for a sort of challenge, because to her surprise—and secret delight—he caught her to him with one hand, while his other cupped her chin so he could kiss her again.

This kiss wasn’t quick. Or direct. It was more . . . sensual. He was tender and rough by turns, his lips playing with hers, then seizing hers, then doing both all over again.

She couldn’t breathe, yet the scent of his spicy cologne engulfed her. Couldn’t catch her bearings, yet his arm around her made her feel safe.

What a heady sensation. She slipped her arms about his waist and leaned up against his solid chest. Apparently taking that as encouragement, he angled his mouth over hers and delved between her lips lightly with his tongue.

Oh, dear Lord, how that made her blood roar in her ears. No one had ever kissed her that way. It both shocked and emboldened her. She touched her tongue with his, and with a groan, he caught her head between his large hands and began to kiss her in the most erotic fashion she’d ever encountered.

So, with her heart doing flips in her chest, she gave herself up to it.

 

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