"A witty and exciting romance in a series readers will love"
Reviewed by Lee Erin Berryhill
Posted May 15, 2017
Robert Gresham agrees to attend a friend's house party in
Northumberland to hopefully get a certain woman off his
mind. However, Flora Jennings has been invited as well, and
the party seems to be pushing them closer together. While,
realizing he is starting to have feelings for Miss Jennings,
an enemy from the past arrives and threatens their newfound
relationship. Now Robert must decide whether to save the
woman he loves or learn to let her save herself.
NOTHING LIKE A DUKE is the fourth book in Jane Ashford's The
Duke's Sons series. The first three books in the
fantastic, and Ashford did not disappoint with this new
installment. Robert is mentioned in all the previous books,
so it is wonderful to finally read his story. While, first
appearing shallow and a bit of a dandy, readers soon
discover Robert is so much more. Intelligent, caring, and
humorous he quickly becomes a hero readers will love. He is
the perfect match for the heroine, Flora, and knows when to
step in to aid her, and when to let her rescue herself.
Flora is independent, smart, and has a backstory that causes
some vulnerabilities. She knows how to rescue herself, and
learns when to ask for help. Her character has great growth
throughout the story, and her romance with Robert is
The setting, a house party in Northumberland, is charming
and pictureseque, while the escapades the guests get into
are hilarious and fun. Victoria and her brother Phillip are
especially delightful secondary characters who help to add
conflict and humor to the story. The villain is cunning and
nasty, and helps to add some excitement and danger to
NOTHING LIKE A DUKE. The plot moves along at a great pace,
and readers will never be bored with Robert and Flora's
romance. The addition of Robert's brother, Randolph, seems
to set the stage for the next book, which I can't wait to
read. NOTHING LIKE A DUKE is a filled with wit and charm,
and is a romance I highly recommend.
How does a gentleman rescue a lady?
Lord Robert Gresham has given up all hope that the
and independent Flora Jennings will ever take him
He heads to an exclusive country house party to forget
the beauty haunting his thoughts. When Flora shows up,
Robert is nothing short of shocked.
When she insists on saving herself?
While Flora hates the expectations of fashionable
she finds the annoyingly charming Lord Robert hard to
resist. But while their attraction flares, someone much
sinister arrives and threatens Flora. Every fiber of
Robert's being says to step in and save her...but some
damsels in distress insist on saving themselves.
ExcerptIn Nothing Like a Duke, number four in my Duke’s Sons
series, highjinks at a houseparty end in literal and
metaphorical fireworks as Lord Robert Gresham finds out
how not to rescue a lady. Here’s an excerpt
There, concealed behind a ruffle of coverlet, sat a small
wooden chest, about the length of her forearm and half as
wide. Flora might have thought it belonged to the house,
but Durand’s initials were inlaid into the top. She
knelt, slid it out, and tried the lid. It was securely
locked. Here, then, were any secrets he wished to keep.
She pulled at the lid again, but the chest was sturdily
constructed, and the mechanism didn’t appear simple.
Flora gazed at the small box. If this were a boys’
adventure story, she thought, she would pluck a pin from
her hair and pick the lock with a few deft movements.
Shrugging, she tried it. Her hairpin rattled
ineffectually in the keyhole. It didn’t catch on
anything. Papa had neglected to include any such skills
in her education. Flora looked around. She’d seen no keys
in the room. Undoubtedly Durand kept this one with him.
For now, his hidden possessions were out of her reach.
The door handle rattled and started to turn.
Heart suddenly pounding, Flora shoved the chest back into
place, sprang up, and ran to the glass doors. She stepped
behind the long drapery at the side, making certain the
fall of cloth concealed her skirts. The curtain stopped a
half inch above the floor. Her feet would be visible in
the shadows if anyone looked closely.
The door opened. Someone came in. The door shut. The
hunting party couldn’t have returned so soon. Perhaps it
was Durand’s valet, Flora thought with a sinking heart.
Who knew how long he might linger at his duties?
And then she heard the distinctive sound of the wooden
chest sliding along the floor.
Pulse racing, Flora risked a peek through a chink in the
draperies. Lydia Fotheringay knelt as she herself had a
moment ago, with the chest before her. Lydia was trying a
key in the lock. When it didn’t turn, she muttered a
curse and set the key aside. From a small cloth bag at
her side, she took another. Clearly, she’d come prepared.
She tried the second key, without success, laid it by the
first, and repeated the action. By the fifth attempt, she
was obviously frustrated. She threw that key down. Metal
rang against the wood of the floor.
Mrs. Fotheringay went very still. She waited. When
nothing happened, she sighed. She started to reach into
the bag, then hesitated and looked around the room. “Is
Flora shifted very slightly behind the curtain. Often,
people could tell they were being watched. If she stopped
looking, would Mrs. Fotheringay’s suspicions subside? It
was agony not to be able to see what was happening. The
older woman might be walking softly toward her right now.
The sound of another key rattling in the lock reassured
Flora. But she still fervently wished herself elsewhere.
How many keys had the woman brought?
Flora’s gaze lit on the bolt that secured the glass
Beyond the drapery, Lydia Fotheringay cursed colorfully.
Flora dared a quick look. Her fellow intruder was glaring
at the chest, muttering. She snatched another key from
Under cover of the metallic sound as she rattled it in
the lock, Flora pushed at the bolt. It slid back easily.
Before she could change her mind, she opened the outer
door, slid through, and closed it silently behind her.
She blessed the efficient caretakers of Salbridge Great
Hall, who saw to it that hinges did not creak. With
nowhere to hide, she waited with pulse pounding and
fingers crossed. The door remained closed. Lydia
Fotheringay did not rush out and discover her.
Flora breathed again. She stood in a narrow space behind
the ornate stone balustrade. It was purely decorative,
not a proper balcony, but a narrow ledge extending along
the side of the house past several rooms. There was
barely room to stand between the coping and the wall of
A cold wind tugged at Flora’s skirts. Her gown was no
protection at all. The weather had worsened since early
morning and would probably cut the hunting short. Flora
debated whether to wait where she was—surely Mrs.
Fotheringay would be on her way soon—or to risk entry
through one of the other bedchambers. Neither option was
Three rooms down from where she stood, another set of
glass doors clicked and opened a crack. A familiar small
dog emerged. Plato turned and looked directly at her, as
if he’d fully expected to find a young lady huddled
against the house. He trotted toward her.
“Plato,” came a familiar voice from inside. “Where do you
think you’re going?” Robert leaned out of the open door.
“Come in at once, sir,” he commanded. He saw Flora.
One problem solved by another, Flora thought as she moved
quickly along the narrow passage. At least she didn’t
have to pass Durand’s window. She didn’t look to see if
any of the other rooms were occupied. Best to move by
very fast; an observer might think he’d imagined her.
Flora reached Robert and slipped past him into his room,
Plato at her heels.
Robert followed. He closed the glass door and shot the
bolt. “What on Earth are you doing?”
“Getting in out of the cold.” Flora rubbed the goose
bumps on her arms and went to stand near the fire. “I
should have brought a shawl, but I didn’t think I’d...”
“Yes?” he said when she broke off. “Didn’t think you’d
Robert wore only a shirt, half unbuttoned, and breeches.
His feet were bare. Flora couldn’t take her eyes off him.
He looked so unlike his customary polished self.
Disheveled, she thought, or tousled or disarrayed.
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