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Fans of Bridgerton will love this “delightful�� Regency romp (Julia Quinn, New York Times bestselling author) in which a proper Society miss recruits a very improper lady investigator in a quest for vengeance, only to find love instead.

As a master of disguise, Thomasina Wynchester can be a polite young lady—or a bawdy old man. She’ll do whatever it takes to solve the cases her family takes on. But when Tommy’s beautiful new client turns out to be the highborn lady she’s secretly smitten with, more than her mission is at stake��

Bluestocking Miss Philippa York doesn’t believe in love. Her heart didn’t pitter-patter when she was betrothed to a duke, nor did it break when he married someone else. All Philippa desires is to decode a centuries-old manuscript to keep a modern-day villain from claiming credit for work that wasn’t his. She hates that she needs a man’s help to do it—so she’s delighted to discover the clever, charming baron at her side is in fact a woman. But as she and Tommy grow closer and the stakes of their discovery higher, more than just their hearts are at risk.

“The holy grail for Regency fans. Like Georgette Heyer, but with sex.�� Publishers Weekly starred review“Completely enchanting. Sapphic bliss.�� Kirkus starred review“Another exquisitely written, utterly transcendent romance.�� BookList starred review

Enjoy an excerpt from The Perks of Loving a Wallflower below!

Damaris burst into the parlor and shut the door behind her. “I’m here!��

Philippa hurried over to stuff a handkerchief in the keyhole before her mother returned to spy on them.

“We’re to speak Welsh, are we?�� quavered Great-Aunt Wynchester.

“Greek,�� said Florentia.

��Ancient Greek,�� corrected Sybil.

“I’ll say this in English,�� Damaris said, “because I don’t care who hears me. My uncle Captain Northrup can go to the devil and take his fancy title with him.��

Philippa frowned. “What happened?��

Sybil leaned closer to Philippa, voice low. “You didn’t hear about �ٲ�����������’s uncle? It was in the morning papers.��

“He’s being ‘honored’—�� Lady Eunice began.

“—for his ‘cleverness’—�� Gracie interrupted.

“—in stealing �ٲ�����������’s ideas,�� Florentia finished.

“Before the first day of the season,�� Sybil said in a rush, “Parliament shall bestow a viscountcy upon Captain Northrup. The Prince Regent will christen a chamber of the Royal Military Academy in Woolwich the ‘Northrup Salon�� to honor Northrup’s entire family.��

“Not his entire family,�� Damaris muttered.

“Only the ‘important�� ones,�� Gracie said.

Over two centuries ago, Sir Reginald Northrup, one of Captain Northrup’s ancestors, had created a semi-popular quartet of illuminated manuscripts, gorgeously hand-lettered on fine paper and decorated with large, intricate initials at the top of the text.

Philippa’s collection contained only one illustrated volume of Sir Reginald’s collected tales of English chivalry. The complete four-book set was rare to find. The binding on the volume Philippa owned was barely hanging on, which was how Damaris had first got the idea to��

“O�� no,�� Philippa breathed. “Not your cipher!��

Damaris nodded miserably. “My cipher.��

Four years ago, Damaris had brought a family heirloom to the reading circle: a bright, colorful volume collecting dust in her uncle’s library. Leaves and pomegranates and flamboyant swirls decorated the gilded cover. The exterior edges of the pages likewise illustrated with half-moons of abstract swirls amid fruits and ivy. The interior was absolutely stunning. Though the style was identical, Philippa’s was a different volume, and in poorer condition.

Damaris created a cipher, using her uncle’s rare manuscript of chivalric tales as a base. She taught the code to the others, only for the group to lose interest when it proved impossible to decipher without having the illuminated manuscript at hand to use as the key.

“When we stopped using the cipher, I hated to see something so elegant fall into disuse. I showed the idea to Uncle Northrup and explained how it was uniquely suited to Sir Reginald’s quartet of chivalric tales, due to their astonishing uniformity, as well as the abundance and variability of—��

“English, you said,�� barked Great-Aunt Wynchester.

“Yes. Thank you. I explained to Uncle Northrup as best I could and said the Crown might be well served by encoding messages in such a fashion. Uncle didn’t seem to think much of my suggestion or my cipher, and that was the last we spoke of it. He left for the battlefield again less than a week later. I forgot all about it until this morning.��

Chloe lifted the lid to the wicker basket dangling from her arm and handed Philippa a folded broadsheet. “This is the article.��

“Front page,�� Philippa said as she unfolded it. “Not the scandal columns.��

���� ought to be a scandal,�� Sybil said fiercely.

Philippa shook out the clipping.

Indeed, CAPTAIN NORTHRUP IS A HERO was printed across the top of the first page.

����’s not fair,�� said Lady Eunice. “He plagiarized his grand idea.��

“Since it was �ٲ�����������’s grand idea,�� said Sybil, “it should be �ٲ�����������’s credit. And viscountcy. And royal celebration on the first day of the season.��

Philippa narrowed her eyes. “We shan’t allow this theft to stand.”��

“Another exquisitely written, utterly transcendent romance.�� BookList starred reviewSigned copies available from THE RIPPED BODICE!“The holy grail for Regency fans. Like Georgette Heyer, but with sex.�� �� Publishers Weekly starred review

Enjoy an excerpt from The Perks of Loving a Wallflower below!

Tommy flashed her eyebrows. “Shall we stroll about the room conspicuously?��

“I thought you’d never ask,�� Philippa whispered.

She rose to her feet, the kitten nestled against her bosom, and made a big show of leading Tommy beneath this ordinary ceiling lunette, then that identical ceiling lunette.

When they reached the farthest point in the room from the chatter of the dining table, Tommy’s eyes glittered wickedly and she pitched her voice low. “Alone at last with my fair maiden. Put down the cat so that I can ravish you.��

“We’re not alone,�� Philippa said, but her pulse skipped anyway. “There won’t be any ravishing.��

“Not tonight,�� Tommy agreed. “Probably. Though I fear it is my sworn duty to change your mind.��

“Your sworn duty, or something you wish to do?��

Tommy’s grin only widened. “Ah. You have seen through me. I wish to ravish you for no other reason than the personal pleasure it would bring both of us.��

Philippa’s cheeks felt strangely flushed. “You needn’t play the rake now, when no one can hear you.��

“You can hear me,�� Tommy said softly.

It was an act. Of course it was an act. But Philippa was reminded of that moment last night in the garden. There had been no music. Just moonlight, and the sound of the wind in the leaves. Tommy had touched Philippa’s hip, just as she had when they were waltzing, and for one dizzy moment Philippa had almost thought��

She cleared her throat. “You’re incorrigible.��

“I’ve been accused of worse,�� Tommy replied, and tucked her hands behind her back.

Was it ridiculous to wish that Tommy had not hidden her hands away? That she might touch Philippa again, on the same sensitive spot on her side, just to see whether it would feel like last night all over again, or whether the magic had been a passing fancy?

“I found a letter in my manuscript,�� Philippa blurted out. Books were a much safer topic.

Tommy gave her all of her attention at once. Or rather, Tommy had already been giving Philippa her full attention, but it sharpened somehow. As though Tommy were a wolf who had just caught the scent of her prey.

“Tell me,�� she commanded.

Philippa explained her discovery in as condensed a manner as she could manage. How the letter had been hidden, that it had been written by one of the real artists of the illuminated manuscript, how all the other copies of the manuscript had been bought up.

“I made a copy of the letter.�� Philippa turned her back toward the table and pulled the kitten from her chest in order to retrieve a folded square of foolscap.

Tommy’s eyes tracked every movement as Philippa’s fingers slid beneath her bodice.

“I’m not an artist like Marjorie.�� Philippa pulled out the copy. “I’m afraid it’s just the text in my ordinary handwriting, with none of the flourishes.��

����’s perfect.�� Tommy reached for the folded square and tucked it inside her coat next to her heart. “Graham shall investigate those names at once. Expect an odious amount of detail in an impressively short period of time.��

“What if there’s no information to find?�� Philippa asked. “Whoever they are, Agnes and Katherine need justice, too. Those poor…women…��

Tommy’s hand was rising toward Philippa’s bodice. Slowly. Affording Philippa time to knock her hand aside or back away. Which she was definitely going to do. Any moment now. Probably.

Before Philippa could make her decision, Tommy’s hand passed Philippa’s bosom and stopped at her shoulder, where Tommy lifted an errant kitten hair and tossed it aside.

Of course. Of course it was that.

Why would it be anything else? What was Philippa thinking? Was she not thinking? All she ever did was think. Why did her best skill fail her so utterly whenever it came to Tommy?

And…what was wrong with Philippa’s breathing? Was her bosom heaving? Was this a heaving bosom? Even her heart was behaving erratically. What was happening?

Tommy arched a brow as if she sensed Philippa’s turmoil and found it amusing. The heavy-lidded expression was similar to the night before, but somehow even more rakish. The slight quirk of Tommy’s lips distracted her in a way she had never been distracted before. She should stop staring at Tommy’s mouth at once.

Why couldn’t she stop staring at Tommy’s mouth?

It felt like Tommy was closer than before. Even closer than they had been in the garden, which was ridiculous because she had been touching Philippa in the garden, and here they were standing a foot apart. That was why she’d had all the time in the world to notice Tommy’s hand rising toward her bosom.

Shoulder. Tommy had plucked cat hair from Philippa’s shoulder.

There was nothing less sensual than that.

And yet it had felt as though the light touch were a mere precursor, a hint of something bigger, better. An appetizer before the main course.

Mayhap that was why Philippa was still staring at Tommy’s parted lips. Even though the moment had stretched on far beyond what was acceptable or explainable.

She wanted Tommy to do it again; to touch her hip, to pluck cat hair from her bosom. She wanted to know if this electricity crackling between them was all in Philippa’s head, or if it was as real as a lightning storm, filling the night with white-hot bursts of power and danger.

Tommy’s fingers moved. On the side hidden from Mother’s guests.

The slender hand was coming not toward her bodice, or even her side, but just enough forward for Tommy to brush her fingertips up the back of Philippa’s hand, from her knuckles to her wrist.

She felt the caress all the way to her toes. In places that weren’t even her toes. Every inch of her body seemed alive to the possibility of Tommy’s touch…and her cold dead heart gave its first unmistakable flutter. Several flutters. Possible apoplexy.

“Philippa!�� Mother called.

“Coming,�� Philippa replied breathlessly.

She did not move. If Tommy had touched her like this last night in the garden, Philippa might have thought she meant to kiss her.

And if that charged moment had felt anything like this one��

Philippa would have wanted it to happen.

Signed copies available from THE RIPPED BODICE!“Another exquisitely written, utterly transcendent romance.�� BookList starred review“The holy grail for Regency fans. Like Georgette Heyer, but with sex.�� �� Publishers Weekly starred review

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from The Perks of Loving a Wallflower below!

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“Absolutely not,�� Tommy said to Jacob and Marjorie the following afternoon at tea. She handed a baby hedgehog back to her brother. “Stop meddling.��

“Is it difficult when you ask the pieman for a pie?�� Jacob pointed out reasonably. “Or when you give your direction to a hackney driver? We call those ‘words.�� Extremely adept practitioners can advance all the way to ‘conversation.�� You and Philippa should try it.��

Marjorie refreshed the tea. “Tommy’s never been in love with a hackney driver or a pieman.��

“I’ve never been in love with any kind of man, no matter how delicious his pies,�� Tommy said. “I would no sooner fall in love with a man than I would the moon. And the moon is much prettier.��

“But not as pretty as Philippa,�� her cursed siblings sang out.

If she had a pie, she’d toss it at them.

“I’m not enamored,�� she grumbled.

She was far past enamored. Tommy’s romantic thoughts had been filled with no one but Philippa almost from the first moment she saw her.

It might have stayed a passing infatuation if she and Chloe hadn’t had to join the reading circle in the course of a prior mission to recover a stolen work of art. In the process, Chloe had fallen in love with conversing with fellow literature enthusiasts—as well as with Philippa’s intended suitor.

And Tommy…had fallen for Philippa.

Jacob produced an ornate snuffbox. “I cannot believe that our happy-go-lucky fearless adventuress is scared to talk to a girl.��

“Woman,�� Marjorie corrected.

“You have the perfect excuse to approach Philippa.�� Jacob opened the snuffbox. It did not contain snuff. “We’re helping her reading circle.��

“I have no reason to talk to her,�� Tommy said. “The next meeting isn’t for a week and we have no news yet anyway.��

Jacob arched a brow. “So you’ll just pine from afar in the meantime?��

“She’s good at it,�� said Marjorie. “She’s been practicing all year.��

“Thank you, Marjorie,�� Tommy murmured.

The truth was, there was no use starting down a path that went nowhere. All good things ended. Especially when it came to people Tommy cared about. She had been orphaned at the age of four. Bean died. Chloe left. It was better to acknowledge relationships were temporary from the start than to get one’s hopes and dreams and feelings tangled up in the matter.

“A simple conversation,�� Jacob insisted. “Not a sonnet about your admiration of her big brain and bigger bosom, but a regular, ordinary, words-and-ideas conversation about something other than the case. If you do that, I promise to stop hounding you.��

Tommy glared at him.

“I promise, too,�� said Marjorie. “I’ll even make the others promise as well. If you talk to Philippa for…fifteen minutes.��

“Twenty,�� Jacob said quickly.

“Talk to Philippa for twenty minutes?�� Tommy burst out. “About what?��

“Take her a kitten,�� Jacob suggested. “She likes Tiglet.��

“Tiglet is a homing kitten,�� Tommy reminded him. “If she sets him down, he’ll run back to Islington.��

“Then you can give him back.�� Jacob tapped her on the nose. “See? He’s a perennial conversation starter.��

“I’m not giving her Tiglet,�� Tommy said firmly.

“You should hurry,�� said Marjorie. “Graham said she’ll be in Hyde Park with her mother within the hour.��

“Graham’s not even here to be part of the conversation. He…�� Tommy narrowed her eyes. “Did he plan this? Did you plan this? Am I under attack?��

“You’re being manipulated into doing the thing you actually want to do,�� Jacob said cheerfully. “You cannot go to your grave without having tried at least once.��

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Fans of Bridgerton will love this “delightful�� Regency romp (Julia Quinn, New York Times bestselling author ) in which a proper Society miss recruits a very improper lady investigator in a quest for vengeance, only to find love instead.

As a master of disguise, Thomasina Wynchester can be a polite young lady—or a bawdy old man. She’ll do whatever it takes to solve the cases her family takes on. But when Tommy’s beautiful new client turns out to be the highborn lady she’s secretly smitten with, more than her mission is at stake��

Bluestocking Miss Philippa York doesn’t believe in love. Her heart didn’t pitter-patter when she was betrothed to a duke, nor did it break when he married someone else. All Philippa desires is to decode a centuries-old manuscript to keep a modern-day villain from claiming credit for work that wasn’t his. She hates that she needs a man’s help to do it—so she’s delighted to discover the clever, charming baron at her side is in fact a woman. But as she and Tommy grow closer and the stakes of their discovery higher, more than just their hearts are at risk.

“Completely enchanting. Sapphic bliss.�� �� Kirkus Starred Review“The holy grail for Regency fans. Like Georgette Heyer, but with sex.�� �� Publishers Weekly starred review“Another exquisitely written, utterly transcendent romance.�� BookList starred review

From four beloved writers—Eloisa James, Christi Caldwell, Janna MacGregor, and Erica Ridley—come four original stories that tell a hilarious tale of a Christmas house party that serves up love and scandal in equal measure!

The Duke of Greystoke’s Christmas Revelry is famous throughout the British Isles for its plays, dancing, magical grotto�� not to mention scandals leading to the marriage licenses he hands out like confetti.

But not everyone welcomes a visit from Cupid.

Lady Cressida, the duke’s daughter, is too busy managing the entertainments—and besides, her own father has called her dowdy. Her cousin, Lady Isabelle Wilkshire, is directing Cinderella and has no interest in marriage. Lady Caroline Whitmore is already (unhappily) married; the fact that she and her estranged husband have to pretend to be together just makes her dread the party all the more.  But not as much as Miss Louisa Harcourt, whose mother bluntly tells her that this is her last chance to escape the horrors of being an old maid.

A house party so large that mothers lose track of their charges leads to a delightful, seductive quartet of stories that you will savor for the Season!

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Rogues to Riches #7
Lord of the Masquerade!

A fun, fast-paced interracial romance full of banter, scandal, and devastating secrets, from a New York Times bestselling author:

Entrepreneur Miss Unity Thorne helped two different men amass their fortunes—only to end up on the street. She’s scraping by at the theatre, but this isn’t the show she plans to star in. The next fortune Unity builds will be hers alone. Her masquerade-themed assembly rooms will rival the ton, but to do so, she’ll have to apprentice the most dangerous rake of all.

The arrogant, sexy-and-he-knows-it Duke of Lambley’s weekly masquerade parties are decadent odes to excess: unlimited food, drink, dancing, romantic gardens, and private pleasure rooms upstairs. Everyone loves his balls, and he likes it that way. He’ll take a wife someday, but it certainly won’t be the pretty termagant who challenges him in the ballroom and the bedroom��

In the Rogues to Riches historical romance series, Cinderella stories aren’t just for princesses!

Rogues to Riches #7
Lord of the Masquerade!

Julian had been about to bite into his second tea cake when Barnaby entered the parlor in a flush.

“You have a visitor,�� his butler announced.

Julian arched a brow.

“I know that you’re busy,�� Barnaby said quickly. “But I did not want to send the young�� er�� person�� away without consulting you. She�� she…�� The butler flushed and placed a calling card on the dining table next to Julian’s tea cup.

She, indeed.

Julian hadn’t thought it possible for his already raised brows to climb even higher, but here he was, staring at an extremely unlikely calling card.

“What does she want?��

“A meeting with you.��

“Obviously. But what does she want?��

“Er…�� The butler coughed into his gloved hand. “She implied the answer to that question is whatever you want, Your Grace.��

An intriguingly indecent offer that Barnaby apparently believed the duke ought to consider taking.

Julian had never and would never employ a mistress, a stance which some courtesans seemed to take as a personal challenge. However, those women tended to already know him and his proclivities. He had never heard of a Unity Thorne.

Something else had brought her here. Money, most likely. 

The promise of luxury was what brought everyone to his door. He could listen to her entreaty, and perhaps give her a banknote or two before sending her on her way. 

Or, if she struck him as the right sort, perhaps he’d invite her to tomorrow’s masquerade instead and allow her to fish in an even deeper pond.

“Show her into the green salon.�� Julian glanced at the tall-case clock. “I will be there in seven and a half minutes.��

Despite his unquenched curiosity, no one controlled the duke’s time but the duke. Tea ended precisely at four o’clock. Miss Thorne had already disrupted Julian’s repast enough.

“I shall see to it, Your Grace.�� Barnaby bowed and closed the door behind him as he left.

Julian returned his attention to his cakes and his newspaper, putting the unusual interruption from his mind. The dining room was perfectly silent. The footmen in the shadows did not speak. His servants were paid to attend their posts, a task they did very well, and for which labor they were rewarded handsomely.

All non-masquerade days were exactly the same. He awoke at a precise hour, bathed and dressed at a precise hour, broke his fast at a precise hour, attended to his correspondence at a precise hour, took his tea at a precise hour, met with his man of business at a precise hour, and so on.

Everything in Julian’s life unfolded just as he planned it. Even the gossip about him was divine. Last week’s masquerade had been phenomenal. People were still whispering allusions to entertainments that could not be spoken aloud.

The notoriety greatly reduced the amount of correspondence the duke must deal with. He received plenty of invitations, although not to any of the truly proper things. Which was too bad, he supposed. He might have liked Almack’s. There were rules there.

The invitations Julian received were to the sorts of unorthodox affairs where anything might happen. He tossed them all into a large basin for his man of business to politely decline, as he had for years.

Julian didn’t want “anything�� to happen. He wanted the things he carefully orchestrated and only the things he carefully orchestrated to occur. 

Such as the business of finding a wife.

This was the last year for masquerades. Julian turned thirty-five next year, and he had long planned to have a wife by that age, and beget his heir by the following spring. It was all there in his journal.

He took his position in the House of Lords seriously and expected his son to do the same. This meant raising his children as part of society, which meant Julian had a reputation to mend�� right after this season. He would make these last masquerades the most memorable of all, and then settle down to the business of selecting a proper, impeccable, predictable wife.

All he had to do was orchestrate the perfect marriage and the perfect heirs and the perfect family just like he structured every other aspect of his life. He could do it.

Not every lady wished for a husband whose name graced the scandal columns as often as Julian’s, but the vast majority of young ladies would overlook quite a bit if it meant nabbing a wealthy duke. All that nonsense about reformed rakes making the best husbands.

Julian had no intention of being a romantic husband. Romance was unpredictable, and he had neither the time nor the patience for such folderol. All he required was a union of convenience. 

What was marriage if not a masquerade? He could design and manage it as well as any other. He’d select a biddable wife, who would bear well-behaved sons, who would take their rightful place in society without disrupting the duke’s life one whit.

This unexciting future was what he would have, because it was all he could have. He was not capable of love, so there was no sense pretending to seek it. 

Julian set down his napkin and rose to his feet. It was time to make sense of the courtesan in his sedate green parlor.

He left the calling card on the table and strode down the corridor and into the drawing room, intending to inform Miss Thorne that��

Well, he wasn’t certain what he might have informed her. He had planned a stern speech. He planned everything. But when he saw her, all of the carefully chosen words evaporated from his head.

She was tall for a woman. Voluptuous. The scarlet opera gown she wore at four o’clock in the afternoon simultaneously hugged every curve whilst also managing to swirl lushly over his understated Axminster carpet.

Her skin was a light golden brown, darker than tea with milk but not quite dark enough as to be chestnut. A great deal of soft skin was on display. Her neck was bare, her arms were bare, and her bodice—well. He could certainly see what had scrambled Barnaby’s brain. Julian’s throat had also gone uncomfortably dry.

Miss Thorne’s full lips were painted as red as her gown, an affectation that was not remotely fashionable, and yet constricted his tight chest further. A beauty spot beckoned just to the left of her mouth. Her nose was wide and pert, her cheekbones high and flushed, and her eyes�� were drinking him in with much the same expression he imagined displayed on his own face.

Her black lashes were long, her eyelids sleepy, but her clear brown eyes were quick and alert. A profusion of black ringlets spilled over her forehead and down her neck from an upswept coiffure dripping with pearls.

�����£�dz� real pearls. Julian could tell the difference from here. Perhaps in the dim light of evening, one would be fooled, but here in his parlor, beneath three enormous windows brimming with bright sunshine, Miss Thorne looked��

Disreputable and utterly ravishing.

“Miss Thorne,�� he said.

He expected her to curtsey. Perhaps to coo or to flutter or whatever she thought would best sell the wares she had on display.

Instead, she attacked him. 

Not physically. She did not move from her position in the center of his parlor. She didn’t have to. She unleashed a whirlwind of words, pelting him at all angles until he squinted against their force like a wanderer lost in a sandstorm.

“Here we are, Your Grace, and I am certain you’re wondering why that would be. Or perhaps you’re not, because you think you know why I’m here, and are eager to get to the business of it, in which case I must swiftly inform you that your access to my body shall be limited to your handsome eyes because I have come for another reason entirely. Your masquerades.��

“My what?�� he said, his tone sharp with warning.

She smiled, not cowed by him in the least, which was unprecedented and infuriating. His ability to command a room just by being in it was a trick he had cultivated into a fine art and had never before failed him.

Rogues to Riches #7
Lord of the Masquerade!

On Monday afternoon, Unity wrangled her voluminous black curls into subdued twists and clothed herself in her finest day dress. She looked more like a governess than a society miss, but she wished to learn from the Duke of Lambley, not waltz with him. 

How many masquerades would he permit her to attend? If she were lucky�� maybe two. It was not at all ideal, but if one was the best she could negotiate, then it would have to do. She’d bring a reticule large enough to hold a journal and several pencils, and take note of absolutely everything. 

Her confidence wavered.

She’d spent years observing her cousin’s operations before attempting to meddle, and months immersed in Sampson’s before daring to make changes. Did she really think a single night hosted by the Duke of Lambley would have the power to��

Yes. She did think. After all, she knew what a masquerade was. She had attended several at Vauxhall and elsewhere. All she was looking for was the special spark that made his so different. 

It couldn’t just be the carnal assignations rumored to proliferate at his parties. London had plenty of brothels and street prostitutes and high class demimondaines for all tastes and pocketbooks. Nor was Lambley the only member of the beau monde to host a masquerade. 

Of course, fine gentlemen weren’t supposed to host parties. There was meant to be a wife or a dowager or an aunt or a sister acting as hostess, to make the gathering respectable. But clearly the duke wasn’t too concerned with conforming to society’s expectations.

That was the only reason Unity might have a chance. She did not match Polite Society’s expectations. To them, she was the wrong color, the wrong class, the wrong everything. But to Lambley, who delighted in being unconventional…��

One night. One invitation. It could happen.

When the hack drew up outside the duke’s grand residence, Unity froze with her gloved fingers against the smudged glass of the small window.

The house was enormous. Three stories tall, and wide enough to fit her cousin’s club and Sampson’s gambling parlor in each wing. What on earth did anyone do with that much house? He could turn the first two floors into a theatre and still have more living space than a normal person would know what to do with.

Perhaps that’s what he was doing. Masquerades were a sort of theatre. Costumes to wear, roles to play. She could not wait to see what the stage looked like up close.

Unity handed the driver a coin and scrambled out of the hackney, then immediately regretted having done so. A lady did not scramble. Not that she was likely to be confused for a lady, but nonetheless, she did not wish to create a poor impression. What if he had seen her ungainly leap to the cobbled street? 

More importantly, how was this street so clean? Did he and his neighbors employ an army of sweepers to dust away every pebble and leaf and horse dropping before it could even land? Did shoe-shiners pop out of the shadows to buff individual cobblestones into gleaming perfection after each carriage passed?

She made her way up the gorgeous, trimmed path to the front door, pausing every few feet to gawk at the size and breadth of his home. 

Only because she was staring slack-jawed and shameless did she see a figure step close enough to one of the enormous windows for his face to be bathed in sunlight.

Three seconds. Maybe four. But that was all it took to burn that patrician profile into Unity’s brain for the rest of time. He was not even the sort of man she liked, and she would no doubt dream of him every night for the next two months.

Tall and wide of shoulder, dressed in the first stare of fashion and all that other twaddle Unity didn’t care about. It should have made him indistinguishable from every other rich, indolent Town buck.

But that face. Those shameless wenches had told her he was attractive, but a mere word could not encapsulate the harsh beauty of his face.

The duke’s visage should not have been handsome at all. Pale, cruel, unyielding. The angles a touch too sharp, the jaw a touch too square�� and yet, touching was indeed what she longed to do. Feel those harsh lines beneath her fingertips. The firm lips of his unsmiling mouth, the dark lashes framing eyes that…��

He had been too far away to gauge their color. His expression had not been angry or pinched or brooding, but rather�� calculating, perhaps. As though when he looked out of his window, he did not see luxurious homes on a fairy-tale-perfect street, but rather the next battle in a war. He was moving chess pieces in his mind, and London’s lords and ladies were his pawns. 

Definitely not an attractive look, she assured herself. He exuded coldness and power and control. A god, dispassionately surveying his creations, and deciding what to toy with next.

By the flutter in Unity’s pulse and the shallowness in her wispy breaths, she had no doubt every woman who crossed his threshold hoped to be the next morsel on the menu.

Indeed, this was the quickest reconnaissance mission she had ever attempted. She hadn’t even made it all the way to the front door, and already she knew exactly why the female half of his guests would strike any bargain required to be allowed through the door. Hell, even some of the male guests likely felt the same way. 

The duke’s magnetism was the sort where you ��Ա��—you ��Ա����he was bad for you in every sense, but it only made you want to press even closer. To be the one that haughty face turned towards, to be the butterfly pinned by those all-knowing eyes.

She swallowed and hastened up the path before she lost her nerve.

A butler opened the door.

Did she curtsey? She curtseyed. Why did she curtsey? Roger had a butler, and she never curtseyed for him. Then again, she’d felt as though they were of the same class. Servants and wards weren’t humans in the eyes of Roger.

This butler, however. He didn’t seem like an employee at all. He seemed regal. A marble statue, like his master. Cold. Dispassionate. Waiting.

“Er,�� Unity said. “I�� came to see�� the duke?��

“Have you an appointment?�� the butler asked in a tone that implied they both knew she did not have an appointment.

Unity fought the urge to fidget, then went ahead and fidgeted. This was her best dress, her best bonnet. Was it the light brown of her skin? Or was “respectable governess�� the mistake? Perhaps the duke had a personal policy never to meet with anyone who could be considered proper.

Or perhaps it was her extended gaping in the front garden that had given her away.

“I’ve no appointment.�� She straightened her pelisse. “I’m here to beg just a moment of His Grace’s time. My name is—��

The butler held out his hand.

Unity stared at it. Was she supposed to shake it? Kiss it? Dance a reel?

The butler’s voice was impassive. “Your calling card, if you please.��

Her calling card. Of course. She would absolutely hand one over, if she’d ever had reason to own such a thing prior to this moment. 

“If you could just�� tell him…�� She trailed off. It was clear that one did not “tell�� His Grace anything. If she were meant to be here, she would have an appointment, and they both knew it.

The butler lowered his hand. “If there’s nothing else?��

“Nothing else,�� Unity mumbled and turned away before he could close the door in her face.

Lambley had won this round, damn him. But the game had just started.

Rogues to Riches #7
Lord of the Masquerade!

A fun, fast-paced interracial romance full of banter, scandal, and devastating secrets, from a New York Times bestselling author:

Entrepreneur Miss Unity Thorne helped two different men amass their fortunes—only to end up on the street. She’s scraping by at the theatre, but this isn’t the show she plans to star in. The next fortune Unity builds will be hers alone. Her masquerade-themed assembly rooms will rival the ton, but to do so, she’ll have to apprentice the most dangerous rake of all.

The arrogant, sexy-and-he-knows-it Duke of Lambley’s weekly masquerade parties are decadent odes to excess: unlimited food, drink, dancing, romantic gardens, and private pleasure rooms upstairs. Everyone loves his balls, and he likes it that way. He’ll take a wife someday, but it certainly won’t be the pretty termagant who challenges him in the ballroom and the bedroom��

In the Rogues to Riches historical romance series, Cinderella stories aren’t just for princesses!