"A deliciously sexy Regency romance full of passion and turmoil"
Reviewed by Linda Green
Posted March 21, 2015
Romance Historical
The story begins with Mia Carrington, aged fifteen, hiding
in a library,
listening to Vander Brody and his schoolmates discuss her
looks, her
poetry and her entire life in the most unflattering of
terms. Mia is distraught
as she has loved Vander from afar even though her father
and his mother,
the Duchess, have been having an affair that has been the
talk of society
for many a year. When her morals are questioned, Mia finds
her anger and
her courage, confronting the boys and declaring she would
not marry
Vander if he was the last man on earth.
Fast forward thirteen years and we find Mia, a published
author, arrive at
Vanders residence planning to blackmail him into marrying
her. Mia has lost
her father and her brother, and in order to protect her
sickly nephew, whom
she loves like a son, from the corrupt and vile Sir
Richard, she must marry
a man of substance immediately. She had been engaged to
marry Mr.
Edward Reeve but he abandoned her on the day of their
wedding and now
she is desperate. Understanding what he thinks of her from
their encounter
all those years ago, Mia blackmails Vander, who is now the
Duke, with a
treasonous letter that was written by his father many
years ago. Unable to
tell Vander the real reasons behind her need for a hasty
marriage, the Duke
believes that she is still infatuated with him and
determines to make her
suffer during their marriage, only visiting her bed for
four nights a year to
beget an heir. Mia is disgusted with herself for having to
force the Duke to
marry her, and Vander is angry at having been trapped in
this way. Yet even
in the midst of this mess there is a spark that flares to
life whenever they
are in each other's arms. When the truth is revealed and
Mia explains that
she will set him free, the Duke feels compassion for Mia's
situation and
their passionate encounters take over. Vander doesn't want
a quick divorce
now that Mia's nephew is safe and four nights a year will
definitely not be
enough, but he struggles with how he feels about Mia.
Their parents torrid
relationship is still affecting the way he views love. Mia
knows she is in
danger of losing her heart again to the man, that she
believes, has no
respect for her, and no deep feelings for her. Comparing
the Duke with the
hero in her new novel, Mia is never sure where she stands
with him. With
Sir Richard waiting to pounce, and the return of an ex-
fiancé claiming he
still loves her, will the Duke and the Duchess'
relationship be able to
survive? Or will Vander walk away from the only woman who
has gotten
under his skin?
FOUR NIGHTS WITH THE DUKE by Eloisa James is Regency
romance at
its finest. Full of seduction and adventure, the
characters jump off the page
and into the readers' hearts. Vander is sexy and brooding
but also lost and
we so desperately want him to realise that Mia is what he
needs to make
his life whole. Mia has such confidence as an author but
really believes that
Vander could not truly want her. I enjoyed watching her
discover her own
self-worth. The relationship between the Duke and Mia's
nephew, Charlie,
is heartwarming. With plenty of sizzling moments, and
twists and turns,
FOUR NIGHTS WITH THE DUKE by Eloisa James kept me hooked
from
the start.
SUMMARY
Eloisa James returns with another fabulous romance in her
New York Times bestselling Desperate Duchesses series! As a young girl, Emilia Gwendolyn Carrington told the
annoying future Duke of Pindar that she would marry any
man
in the world before him—so years later she is horrified
to
realize that she has nowhere else to turn. Evander Septimus Brody has his own reasons for agreeing
to
Mia's audacious proposal, but there's one thing he won't
give his inconvenient wife: himself. Instead, he offers Mia a devil's bargain . . . he will
spend
four nights a year with her. Four nights, and nothing
more.
And those only when she begs for them. Which Mia will never do. Now Vander faces the most crucial challenge of his life:
he
must seduce his own wife in order to win her heart—and no
matter what it takes, this is the one battle he can't
afford
to lose.
ExcerptSpring, 1787A Music Recital The Duke of Villiers’s townhouse At fifteen, Emilia Gwendolyn Carrington already had a
pretty good idea of what hell was like. Mia’s governess
had taught her all about Dante’s nine infernal circles. Mia’s first circle had required her to make her debut at
fifteen, under the aegis of a hired chaperone, because
her mother was dead. Her second circle had added a far
worse indignity: her charming, widowed father was
conducting a flagrant affaire with a married duchess that
everyone in the fashionable world knew about. She had entered the third circle over the last year or
so, when against all reason, she had fallen desperately
in love with the same duchess’ son, Vander. He was the
most sensitive, intelligent boy in the world (or so Mia
thought). And he was beautiful too, with a face that
resembled the stone angels that guarded babies’ graves.
The remaining circles of hell? All six? They were revealing themselves in rapid succession. Mia
had begged her father to attend the Villiers’s musicale
on the chance that the object of her adoration, Evander
Septimus Brody, future Duke of Pindar, would be present.
It seemed probable since the Duke of Villiers’s eldest
son, Tobias, was best mates with Vander. As it turned out, the house was indeed overrun with boys
on holiday from Eton and among the horde was Vander, who
roundly ignored her. Mia didn’t mind that: she was happy
worshipping him from afar. He was too godlike for someone
like her. Besides, it wasn’t as if he danced attendance on any
other girl. He and the other Etonians spent their time
swigging brandy although it was not yet noon, cursing
loudly, and generally pretending to be far older than
their fifteen years. Mia finally retreated to the
library, a tranquil room with book-lined walls. She was searching the shelves for anything resembling her
favorite novel, Eliza Heywood’s Love in Excess, when she
heard, to her horror, the sound of boys approaching. Even
worse, she quickly recognized the voices as those of
Vander and his friend Tobias, who seemed to be calling
himself Thorn these days.
The library was at the end of the corridor, so there was
no escape. Panicked, Mia dashed behind the sofa and slid down until
she was entirely concealed. It was only then that she truly understood that she had
entered that final, innermost circle of hell. The boys were discussing a love poem. Not just any love poem, either. They were puzzling over The Love Song of E. Septimus
Brody—in other words, a poem addressed explicitly to
Vander—that Mia herself had written. That she had poured
her heart, her love, and her tears into. It wasn’t very good; none of her poems were very good. Still, it was her poem, and it was supposed to be safely
in her desk back home. Not being bandied about at a
musicale. And definitely not in the hands of the very boy
she’d written it about. Even in the midst of a wave of nausea, Mia guessed what
had happened. Her father had found the poem and thought
it would be amusing to share with his mistress, and his
mistress had in turn shared it with her son. Mia had been
such a fool to give it that title. At least Vander wasn’t howling with laughter, probably
because he couldn’t understand it. He and Thorn were
hardly literary types, if a fifteen-year-old boy could be
such a thing. “Do you suppose the part about how moonbeams kiss the sea
is some sort of innuendo?” Thorn asked. Mia rolled her eyes. What an absurd suggestion. He
probably still moved his lips when he read. “I don’t think so,” Vander answered, rather uncertainly.
“Let’s toss it in the fire. I don’t want anyone to see
it.” She had scarcely breathed a sigh of relief when there was
a clatter of boots and a boy shouted, “I’ve been looking
all over for you fellows. One of the Villiers twins just
threw up from nerves. It stinksdown there!” “I can’t imagine why you were looking for us, Rotter,”
Vander stated, sounding all of a sudden like a future
duke. “We told you last week that we wanted nothing more
to do with you.” “Bloody hell, no need to be nasty,” the boy retorted,
entirely unmoved by this set-down. “What have you got
there?” To Mia’s horror, the question was followed by the
sound of a scuffle and tearing paper. If Dante had conceived of a tenth circle of hell, this
was it. Francis Oakenrott was a boy as rotten as his name
implied. She had met him twice, at house parties her
father dragged her along to. It was a case of mutual
loathing-at-first-sight. “A love poem,” he shouted, clearly delighted. “Don’t tell
me that you’ve taken up with an opera dancer with a
literary bent. The headmaster will have your guts for
garters.” “Give me that,” Vander snarled. But Oakenrott apparently evaded capture. “Blazing hell,
this is utter rubbish!” He broke into an escalating,
barking laugh. Another thump followed. “Oh, for God’s
sake, back off and let me read it. It’s too late to keep
your little secret now. You’d think you were ashamed.” Mia pulled a sofa pillow over her face with a silent
groan. She wanted to die, to fall into a crack in the
floor. “I am mad with love,” Oakenrott recited, in a squeaky
falsetto. “You know, I could see this on the stage. Have
you been hanging about the back door of Drury Lane?”
“She’s definitely cracked,” Thorn said. “Who could fancy
a smelly, sweaty bloke like you?” “You’re just jealous,” Vander retorted. “She’d have to be
barmy to look in your direction. Or Rotter’s.” “So who’s the madwoman?” Oakenrott said, paper rustling
as he turned it over. “Emilia Carrington? You mean the
daughter of your mother’s—” “Don’t,” Vander warned, his voice suddenly dangerous. There was a telling moment of silence. “Right. I’ll just
go back to this literary masterpiece. No one understands
my plight,” he read, his voice squealing even higher. “I
like this part about themoonbeam kissing the sea.
Obviously, you have the moonbeam, and she’s the sea.” He
went into another barking cascade of guffaws. A sob rose
up Mia’s chest, pressing so hard that pain shot through
her breastbone. “You’re such an ass,” Thorn said. “How old is that girl,
anyway?” “The same as me,” Vander replied. “Fifteen.” “In my dreams, you married me,” Oakenrott said, reading
from the beginning of the next stanza. A tear slid down
Mia’s neck. “Your beauty makes me drunk.” Oakenrott hooted. Vander groaned. She heard a hearty slap and then Thorn said, “Look at it
this way, at least you’ve managed to charm a girl who
knows a thing or two about brandy.” “Not as much as you do, after last night!” Vander
retorted. Likely they were all drunken sots. Mia’s governess had
told her that boys pretending to be men drank far too
much. Oakenrott was relentless; he just wouldn’t shut up. “My
room is full of moonlight, and your eyes are like
pearls.” Do you suppose you’re being invited to take your
pearly eyes into her moonlit room?” “I’d have to grope my way,” Vander said, and Mia could
hear the laughter in his voice. “Nobody could see through
pearly eyes.” Mia’s lips involuntarily shaped a curse word that she
would never dare say aloud. Oakenrott whistled. “Pearls? You know what kind of pearls
she’s really talking about, right? Pearl drops! Pearly
potions, like we used to call it back in first form. No—
wasn’t it pearly passion potions? Something like that.
Anyway, this is the first poem I’ve ever read that talked
about love custard!” Suddenly all three boys were laughing hysterically. “Love custard”? Mia hadn’t the faintest idea what that
meant, but she knew instinctively that it was something
disgusting. Boys were disgusting by nature; she’d
temporarily forgotten that while pining for Vander. When
she thought he was god-like. In reality he was a heartless pig. “You haven’t gotten under her skirts, have you?”
Oakenrott sounded gleeful at the prospect. “Her father
could take this line about being lost in your sweetness
and pressure you to make an offer.” “Never!” Vander sounded so appalled that the word slid
over Mia’s skin like a snake. “It’s a little odd to think
that she’s been lusting after me. What sort of fifteen-
year-old girl thinks in these terms? Though I suppose she
is her father’s daughter.” Mia could hardly breathe because she was trying to sob
without noise. He made her sound repulsive, saying that
she was lusting after him. It wasn’t like that. She
wasn’t like that. “Have you ever noticed her staring at you from the side
of the room?” Thorn asked. “Because here it says, Like
the bird that gazes all night at the moon, I gaze at
you.” “Like a bird, or a Bird of Paradise?” Oakenrott put in.
“Maybe she can set herself up as a literary light-skirt.
One sovereign for a poem and two for a you-know-what.” “All I can say is she’s a God-awful poet,” Vander said.
“Even I know that poems are supposed to rhyme.” What an idiot. Mia took a shuddering breath. She had to
escape. She simply could not stand any more of this. “I think you should frame it,” Thorn said, “because I can
tell you right now that no one else will think you’re
pretty enough to rhapsodize about. Especially given the
size of your moonbeam.” That brought on a scuffle and more laughter. At her
expense. Mia could feel the air rattling in her throat.
Likely it was the death rattle. Maybe she would die, and
they’d find her body in this very spot. “You know, I have to warn the fellows,” Oakenrott said.
“Some bloke might be chatting with her right now, having
no idea what a jam tart she is.” Mia stiffened. “If she’s like that at fifteen, what’ll she be like at
twenty?” “Don’t even jest about it. You’d ruin her,” Thorn said
sharply. “You mustn’t say a word.” “The poetry is evidence for the obvious,” Oakenrott
protested. “She’s got a sluttish look about her. It’s all
there. Most girls that age have apple dumplings in front,
but hers are more like cabbages than cherries!” Cabbages? Cabbages? Mia stifled another sob. There was silence for a second,
just long enough so that Mia could imagine Vander
standing up for her, like a knight in shining armor.
Growling, Shut your mouth, Oakenrott. She does not look
sluttish. That didn’t happen. “There’s no need to issue warnings,” Vander said flatly.
“There isn’t a fellow in this house who would bother
speaking to that dumpy little thing. The only reason she
was invited was that my mother brought along her lover,
who dragged along his daughter. She’s a charity case,
that’s what she is.” A charity case. A dumpy one, at that. She loathed him even more because he was right: she was
dumpy. Other girls were tall and willowy, but she was
“petite,” which was just a pretentious way of saying that
she was short. And round. He meant she was fat. He was a beast, a horrid beast. Rage is a useful emotion. Rage burns away sorrow and
disgrace. Rage propelled Mia to her feet, and she came
out from around the sofa with her fists clenched. Even knowing what he thought of her poem, despite her
rage, the sight of Vander slammed into her. She had loved
him too long to be unaffected by seeing him this close. He was already tall and broad-shouldered. You could see
the man he would someday be in the lineaments of his body
and the strength of his jaw. She looked at him up and down, curling her lip, and then
gave his friends the same inspection. Thorn looked horrified, and Oakenrott surprised, but
Vander was utterly expressionless. All the things she’d
thought she’d seen in him, every good characteristic that
she had believed he had, the gentlemanly nature that
seemed an antidote to her father’s indiscretions . . .
well, she must have made those traits up. There was
nothing readable in his face, and clearly she had seen
whatever she longed to find. “So,” she said, thankfully discovering that her voice was
steady. “Three boys whose imaginations are so disgusting
that they can read lechery into a silly love poem.” She
snatched the crumpled page from Thorn’s hand and tore it
in half. The sound seemed very loud in the otherwise
silent room. She tore it again, and again, and dropped
the pieces on the floor. “I may have made a fool of myself by falling in love,”
she told Vander, “but you have no right to ridicule me
for it. Do you know that I was foolish enough to think
you a gentleman, unlike—” She caught herself. Her father
was her father, no matter his sins. “I should have known
better,” she added. “You say I am my father’s daughter.
Well, you, Lord Brody, are obviously your mother’s son.” To her left, Thorn made a protesting movement but she
swept him a glance and he shut his mouth. Vander only stared at her. Why had she never noticed his
beautiful eyes were hard and cold? “I shall now take myself and my cabbages into the drawing
room,” she said, head high, though it took every ounce of
willpower she could summon to hold it there. “If you
would do me the courtesy to remain here for fifteen
minutes, I shall find my father and be gone.” None of them said a word, the pestilent cowards. One more thing occurred to her. “Moreover, I wouldn’t
marry a single one of you,” she said, making her voice as
scathing as she could, “even if I were desperate! Even if
you were the only men left in all England!” Chapter One Thirteen years later From the offices of Brandy, Bucknell & Bendal, Publishers
August 27, 1800 Dear Miss Carrington, I am writing to inquire about the prospect of receiving
your new novel. As you know, we had hoped to receive the
manuscript some six months ago. We are all most
sympathetic as regards the tragic death of your father
and brother a year ago. But I would be remiss not to tell
you that letters begging for Miss Lucibella Delicosa’s
next novel are piling up in our offices. Your title, An
Angel’s Form and a Devil’s Heart, has proved so enticing
that subscriptions already exceed sales of your last two
novels added together. With deep respect, and anticipating a favorable reply, I
remain, William Bucknell, Esq. P.S. I am including Miss Julia Quiplet’s latest novel. I
believe you said that you had not yet read her work, and
we are persuaded that you will find it pleasurable. September 4, 1800 Rutherford Park The Duke of Pindar’s country estate Mia hated to admit it, but she was trembling like one of
her own heroines. She generally put her poor ladies in
Mortal Danger, standing at the brink of icy waters, for
example, pursued by a lustful landlord, knees knocking
pitiably and delicate hands shaking. Her readers expected Mortal Danger. In capital letters. She’d happily choose a plunge over a waterfall to the
humiliation that lay ahead of her. Her own less-than-delicate hands were trembling, so she
curled them into fists, watching as her groom announced
her name. Vander’s butler—or, to be exact, the Duke of
Pindar’s butler—glanced down at her, patently surprised
that a young lady had arrived without a chaperone. Did intense humiliation count as Mortal Danger? No, because if it were possible to die of humiliation,
she would surely be dead by now. After all, she had
survived the mortifying poetry incident in Villiers’s
library all those years ago, then she’d failed on the
marriage market, only to go through an even worse
humiliation: being jilted at the altar a month ago. The truth was that as an author she was always kind to
her characters. Mortal Danger never included jiltings.
What’s more, thanks to her heroines’ thin, wispy bodies,
they always floated safely downstream, too light to sink.
She had never forced any of her heroines to propose
marriage, let alone to a duke. Gentlemen fell at her heroines’ feet, not the other way
around. It was a strict requirement of the genre. Lord
knows, Lucibella Delicosa disappointed her readers at her
own peril: a torrent of indignant letters would pour
through her publisher’s door if she were to shame one of
her heroines the way Mia was about to be shamed. But at least, Mia reminded herself, she was not, in
reality, falling at Vander’s feet. She was in charge. In control. Before she could think better of it, she took a deep
breath, handed her pelisse to the butler, and marched
past him into the morning room. Mia had spent a good deal
of time in the ducal country estate as a young girl,
given the late duchess’ decades-long affaire with her
father, and she knew where she was headed. Even though the principal players in that drama— her
father and Vander’s mother—had passed away, it seemed
nothing had changed in the manor house. Every horizontal
surface was still crowded with animal figurines, evidence
of the late duchess’ fascination with small creatures. She turned to the butler. “Please let His Grace know that
my call shall be quite brief.” “I shall ascertain whether His Grace is receiving,” he
said, and left. Surely Vander would see her? How could he deny her, given
their parents’ relationship? Commonsense reminded her
that he might well deny her for that precise reason. She wandered over to look at the glass menagerie that
resided on the mantelpiece. The unicorn had lost his
horn, but all the animals were still there, silently
poised with a paw up or a tail waving—some with little
animal families, as though they had paired off and
multiplied while the house slept. But she couldn’t concentrate on the little curl of glass,
a tadpole, she picked up. The thought of what lay ahead
of her—the marriage proposal—made her feel dizzy, as if
her corset was constricting her chest and making it hard
to breathe. Years before, when she’d vowed to Vander’s
face never to marry him, a gleam of amusement had sprung
to his eyes. What if he burst out laughing now? She was not exquisitely beautiful, refined, intelligent .
. . and she didn’t even have a fortune. Who ever heard of
a wallflower asking a duke for his hand in marriage? Mia took another deep breath. She wasn’t precisely asking
the duke to marry her. That would be pitiful. She was
blackmailing him, which was altogether different. More swashbuckling. More perilous. More criminal. She should pretend this wasn’t happening to her, but to
one of her heroines, the way she did with almost
everything else. She already had plenty of practice
observing her life as if from outside. She regularly
chatted with patently bored gentlemen, simultaneously
rewriting the conversation in such a way that a
fantastically idealized version of herself left them
dumbstruck with desire. Back home she would jot down the scene precisely as she
had reimagined it—giving herself violet eyes and a slim
waist. Sometimes she stayed up all night describing the
adventures of one of her heroines, a girl so well-
mannered, biddable, and pure of heart that only the most
discerning readers noticed she was quite intelligent. In contrast, men noticed that Mia was intelligent, but it
seemed to put them off. If life imitated one of her novels, Vander would stride
into the room and after one glance begin wooing her with
such passion that the distasteful question of blackmail
would never need be mentioned. His blue eyes would flare with possessive fervor. For the
rest of his life, His Grace would regret thirteen years
he might have spent with her, but had lost due to his
callow and callous blindness as a boy. He would bitterly
reproach himself for his cruel insults. Unfortunately, that was more than unlikely. In Mia’s
experience, people never regretted clever insults, no
matter how much they might sting the recipient. She hated cabbage to this day. As well as Oakenrott. A queer numbness came over her. She, Emilia Gwendolyn
Carrington, was about to coerce a duke into marrying her.
An old maid in her twenties, possessed of neither violet-
colored eyes nor a slender waist, was—This was not a
helpful train of thought. She had to stop trembling. The proposal wasn’t for her
benefit. Nor was it for an extended period of time. She
simply needed Vander to marry her in name only, for a
year at most. It was the only way she could take
guardianship of her nephew, Charles Wallace. Nephew? In all the ways that counted, Charlie was her
son. Her own child. She took a deep breath. Women dove from the decks of tall
ships to save children fallen overboard. They fought
tigers and wild boars. What was a mere duke compared to a man-eating carnivore?
She’d heard some creatures had such large teeth that they
could be hollowed out and used as soup ladles. Right. The tricky part was that Mr. Plummer, her solicitor, had
been adamant that the duke could not be informed of the
reasons for her proposal, or His Grace would almost
certainly say no. By marrying her, the duke not only took on guardianship
of a small boy; he gained control of an extremely large
estate running adjacent to his, which would look highly
suspicious to his peers. Their marriage would be a cause
célèbre without even taking into account the scandals
caused by their parents: Vander would undoubtedly face a
lawsuit charging him with theft of the estate from
Charlie’s uncle on his mother’s side, Sir Richard
Magruder. Vander—His Grace, the Duke of Pindar—was just another
supercilious, privileged, silly man, she reminded
herself. He wasn’t a tiger with soup ladles for teeth. She could do this. She must do this.
What do you think about this review?
Comments
No comments posted.
Registered users may leave comments.
Log in or register now!
|
© 2003-2024 off-the-edge.net
all rights reserved Privacy Policy