Synopsis from Amazon Canada:A young society dame with a flair for matchmaking does whatever it takes to ensure her eclectic family's well-being in Boyle's latest Regency romance. After four years of corresponding with her nearly betrothed, the beautiful and resourceful Miss Felicity Langley is poised finally to meet Aubrey, the newly titled duke of Hollingsworth—and gain the wealth to take care of her family's financial woes. What Felicity doesn't know is that her pen pal all along has actually been Aubrey's scheming, ruthless grandfather; the real Aubrey, meanwhile, has been serving as an army captain under the name Thatcher, having denounced his inheritance a dozen years before. Returning to Sussex, Aubrey learns of the duke's arrangement with Felicity and decides to break all ties with her. But when he meets her, as Thatcher, setting off immediate sparks, both face a secret dilemma: Aubrey torn between taking a stand and giving in to love, and Felicity between overwhelming passion and the long-distance relationship she believes will save her family.
My rating: 4 stars
Excerpt: [Prologue]
June 4, 1810
The Most Hon. the Marquess of Standon
Bythorne Castle, Westmoreland
My Lord Marquess,
If you would but spare me a moment of patience and allow me to introduce myself, I think you will find my forthcoming proposition quite amenable. My name is Miss Felicity Langley and I will graduate in a year from Miss Emery’s Establishment for the Education of Genteel Ladies. A mutual friend of ours, Lord John Tremont, suggested I write to you and propose that we consider uniting in marriage—that is, once I’ve finished a brilliant Season. You see, I have every intention of marrying a duke, and Jack thought you might prove a likely candidate despite the fact that you have yet to inherit from your grandfather. Speaking of your esteemed grandsire, how is his health…?
—An extract from Felicity Langley’s correspondence to the Marquess of Standon
The Duke of Hollindrake’s secretary laughed out loud.
This was notable for two reasons: No one ever laughed in front of the imposing and impossibly ill-tempered duke, and, who would have ever thought that his straight-backed, pinched-nosed, impeccably mannered secretary, Mr. Gibbens, even knew how?
And then he laughed again. Guffawed, really. Out loud and much to his employer’s chagrin.
“Whatever has come over you, Gibbens? Have you gone mad?” the duke barked across the wide desk separating them. “Control yourself this instant!”
Gibbens struggled to do just that, but it was of no use. His gaze slipped once again to the last line of the letter he’d been reading and he broke out in a loud gale of laughter and continued until tears ran down his cheeks. It wasn’t until he set aside the well-traveled post to retrieve a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and had a chance to wipe his eyes that he recovered enough to answer. “My deepest apologies, Your Grace. It is just that—” And then he started to stammer again, his eyes crinkling in the corners and his lips twitching rebelliously. He shook his head and pointed like a guilty child at the letter.
“Harrumph! Whatever nonsense is this?” the duke asked as he reached for it.
“A letter, Your Grace,” Gibbens managed. “To your grandson.”
“Standon? Whyever would someone be writing him, least of all have the nerve to send it here?” He eyed the missive in his hand as if it carried plague. “Owes more money, does he? Well, I’m not paying his debts. I’m not, I say.”
Standon and his grandfather had never seen eye-to-eye, having argued years earlier, resulting in the younger Sterling leaving England and his family, without ever looking back.
Of course that had been well and good with the duke, for his miscreant grandson had been the third son of a third son, so far removed from inheriting that his foibles and follies had been nothing more than a continuing annoyance rather than any grave concern. That is, until fate intervened—and now the young buck who’d driven his family mad with his exploits and then disappeared was the heir.
So even as the old duke made his strident declaration, to anyone who knew him, there was an odd wistful note behind his words. Regret, even.
“It isn’t about debts, Your Grace,” Gibbens explained. “Rather, the letter is from a young lady—”
“Got himself into that sort of trouble, eh? Not going to have some wench thinking she can wrangle a fortune—”
“No, Your Grace, it isn’t that sort of, um, well, difficulty,” Gibbens managed, for he was a lifelong bachelor and carried an unholy fear of the female sex. “Rather it is from a lady. A proper one.”
“A proper one, you say?” Hollindrake brought the letter up for a closer examination. “And from Bath it appears,” he said, looking at the directions. “What the devil is this Miss Emery’s?”
“A school, Your Grace. I believe it teaches deportment and other such qualities.”
“Churning out qualified flirts and silly chits, most likely,” the old man said with a snort. Yet there was a glint of curiosity in his old rheumy dark eyes. He looked up and pinned a glance on his secretary. “And what the devil did you find so amusing?”
Gibbens choked and stammered. “Miss Langley writes to ask, that is, she is under the impression that, well, apparently—”
“Out with it, man,” Hollindrake barked.
The poor man took a deep breath, screwed up every bit of courage he possessed and managed to get it all out in one sentence. “This Miss Langley is proposing that Lord Standon consider her hand in marriage.” Gibbens then closed his eyes and braced himself for the pending explosion.
None came. And after an indecent amount of silence, he peeked out through his lashes and discovered the old duke engrossed in reading the letter for himself.
Then the second noteworthy event occurred that day.
The duke laughed.
“Some cheek!” he said, once he gathered his wits about him. “She has the audacity to inquire about the state of my health. Probably be demmed disappointed to find me fit and hardy, I wager.” He set the letter down on his desk and laughed again.
“Yes, Your Grace,” his secretary agreed. “Quite presumptuous.”
“Exactly!” the duke declared. “Which is why we are going to answer it.”
“Answer it, Your Grace?” A sense of foreboding ran down the secretary’s spine.
“Of course! Why, I suspect any chit with this much brass would make a most excellent duchess. And further, I’d wager she’d bring that rapscallion grandson of mine to heel.”
Gibbens’ lips flapped like a fish out of water. “You mean to accept her proposal? But, Your Grace, you can hardly accept a proposal for your grandson on a matter such as this, why it’s—”
“I can and I will!” the old man said, sitting up straight and looking younger than he had in years. “So we will answer this Miss Langley—and court her in his name. One day Standon will thank me.”
And eventually he did.
But not at first.
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