Avon
Featuring: Hugh Philemon Ancaster, Duke of Ripley; Olympia
400 pages ISBN: 0062457381 EAN: 9780062457387 Kindle: B06XFCPWZP Mass Market Paperback / e-Book Add to Wish List
Called the "most boring girl of the season" seven years in a
row, Lady
Olympia Hightower, bookish, dedicated wallflower, and
uninterested in
the antics of the ton, somehow finds herself engaged to the
very
wealthy and even more handsome Duke of Ashmont. Determined to
save her father and six brothers from financial ruin,
Olympia goes
forward with the plan to marry Ashmont, one of "Their
Disgraces," three
dukes who have been as thick and thieves since they were
young, and
notorious for devilish good looks, drunken hijinks, and wicked
womanizing. The day of her wedding, however, Olympia,
replete with
nerves and unsure about her future, accidentally gets very
drunk, and
decides to run...
Hugh Ancaster, Duke of Ripley, returning to society after a
year abroad,
agrees to be a groomsman in his dear friend Ashmont's
wedding to of
all people, Olympia. Never thinking either of them would be
the marrying
type, especially to the other, he knows this wedding will be
one to
watch, and has promised Ashmont he will do whatever it takes
to get
him down the aisle. When the bride is nowhere to be found,
Ripley
happens upon her trying to escape out a window, in her
wedding dress,
in the rain. Reluctant to follow, Ripley realizes Olympia
needs help more
than anything, and tries to get her to return to what is
supposed to be
the happiest day of her life. What follows is a hilarious
road trip
romantic comedy, where Ripley discovers Olympia isn't
necessarily the
wallflower she'd have everyone believe, and Olympia
realizes his
"disgrace" isn't as dastardly as she had thought...
A DUKE IN SHINING ARMOR proves once again that Loretta
Chase is a master of witty and heartwarming historical romance!
Olympia and Ripley get themselves into delightfully funny
situations, all
the while finding out the right--and yet, very wrong--person
they've
been searching for has been right in front of them the
entire time. Even
though she's betrothed and literally hours away from
becoming his best
friend's duchess, Ripley has to come to terms with the fact
that Olympia
is completely wrong for Ashmont, and totally right for him!
Olympia, set
on making things better for her family, takes an opportunity
she has to
marry a handsome rich duke, but then spends time in very close
quarters with Ripley, learning more about who he really is
aside from the
carousing man about the town she assumed, and wonders if she
settled
on the wrong duke. They are quick to fall in love over just
a few days,
but Chase manages to give them more than enough time to
fully realize
who they are meant to be with, and their romance doesn't
feel rushed or
inauthentic. The ending is satisfying and very romantic. A
DUKE IN
SHINING ARMOR is a great start to what will surely be a
spunky and fun
new series from fan-favorite Loretta Chase!
Not all dukes are created equal. Most are upstanding
members of Society. And then there’s the trio known as Their
Dis-Graces.
Hugh Philemon Ancaster, seventh Duke of Ripley, will never
win prizes for virtue. But even he draws the line at running
off with his best friend’s bride. All he’s trying to do is
recapture the slightly inebriated Lady Olympia Hightower and
return her to her intended bridegroom.
For reasons that elude her, bookish, bespectacled Olympia is
supposed to marry a gorgeous rake of a duke. The
ton is flabbergasted. Her family’s ecstatic. And
Olympia? She’s climbing out of a window, bent on a getaway.
But tall, dark, and exasperating Ripley is hot on her trail,
determined to bring her back to his friend. For once, the
world-famous hellion is trying to do the honorable thing.
So why does Olympia have to make it so deliciously difficult
for him . . . ?
Excerpt
Newland House, Kensington
Late forenoon of 11 June 1833
If the bride was drunk—which she wasn't—it was on account of
celebrating.
In a very little while, Lady Olympia Hightower was going to
make all of her family's dreams come true.
Hers, too, most of them.
She would become the Duchess of Ashmont.
Teetering on the brink of six and twenty, she ought to thank
her lucky stars she'd won the heart . . . admiration
. . . something . . .
. . . of one of England's three most notorious libertines, a
trio of dukes known as Their Dis-Graces.
She narrowed her eyes at the looking glass. Behind
gold-rimmed spectacles, eyes of a can't-make-up-their-mind
grey-blue-green took a moment to focus on the grandeur that
was her. She. Whatever. Elaborate side curls of a
commonplace brown framed her heart-shaped face. An intricate
arrangement of plaits, topped by a great blossom of pleated
lace adorned with orange blossoms, crowned her head. A blond
lace veil cascaded over her bare shoulders, down over the
full, lace-covered sleeves and on past her waist.
She looked down at herself.
Four knots marched down to the V of the waistline. Below
that swelled full skirts of brocaded silk. A great waste of
money, which would have been better spent on Eton for
Clarence or a cornetcy for Andrew or something for one of
the boys. Apart from his heir—Stephen, Lord Ludford—the Earl
of Gonerby had five sons to support, a subject to which he'd
given no thought whatsoever. His mind, unlike his
daughter's, was not practical.
Thus her present predicament. Which wasn't a predicament at
all. So everybody said. There was nothing predicamental
about being a duchess. In any event, practicality had
nothing to do with this bridal extravaganza. The money must
be thrown away on Olympia, on a single dress, because,
according to Aunt Lavinia, it was an investment in the future.
A duchess-to-be couldn't wear any old thing to her wedding.
The bridal ensemble had to be expensive and fashionable,
though not flamboyantly so, because a duchess-to-be ought to
look expensively fashionable, though not flamboyantly so.
After the wedding was another matter entirely. A duchess
could pour the entire contents of her jewel boxes over
herself and never be overdressed. With a few adjustments, a
different arrangement on her head, and more diamonds or
pearls or both, Olympia would wear the dress to the next
Drawing Room, when her mother or perhaps Aunt Lavinia, the
Marchioness of Newland, would present the new Duchess of
Ashmont to the Queen.
That wasn't all that would happen after the wedding. There
was the wedding night, which, according to Mama, would not
be unpleasant, although she'd been rather vague regarding
details. But after the wedding night came the marriage,
years and years of it. To Ashmont.
The about-to-be Duchess of Ashmont picked up the cup of
brandy-laced tea Lady Newland had brought to steady bridal
nerves. The cup was empty.
"Do not even think of bolting," her aunt had said when she
delivered the doctored tea.
Certainly not. Too late for that, even if Olympia had been
the sort of girl who backed down or ran away from anything,
let alone the chance of a lifetime. She had six brothers.
Being the second eldest child counted for nothing with boys.
It was dominate or be dominated.
Some said she was rather too dominating, for a girl.
But that wouldn't matter when she became a duchess.
She bent and retrieved from under the dressing table the
flask of brandy she'd stolen from Stephen. She unstopped it,
brought it to her mouth, and tipped in what she gauged as a
thimbleful. She stopped it again, set it on the dressing
table, and told herself she was doing the right thing.
What was the alternative? Humiliate the bridegroom, who'd
done nothing—to Olympia, in any event—to deserve it?
Disgrace her family? Face permanent social ruin? And all on
account of what? The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach,
which surely was nothing more than the usual wedding-day
anxiety.
Only a lunatic would run away from becoming the bride of one
of the kingdom's handsomest, richest, most powerful men, she
told herself. That was to say, Ashmont could be powerful, if
he'd bother, but he . . .
She lost her train of thought because somebody tapped at the
door. "Please," she said. "I'm praying."
She'd insisted on time alone. She needed to collect herself
and prepare for this immense change in her life, she'd told
her mother and aunt. They'd looked at each other, then left.
Soon thereafter, Aunt Lavinia had returned with the doctored
tea.
"Ten minutes, dear," came her mother's voice from the corridor.
Ten minutes already?
Olympia unstopped the flask again and took another sip.
Nearly six and twenty, she reminded herself. She'd never get
an offer like this one, ever again. It was a miracle she'd
got this one. And she'd known what she was doing when she
said yes. True, Lucius Wilmot Beckingham, the sixth Duke of
Ashmont, was a bit of an ass, and so immature he made
nine-year-old Clarence look like King Solomon. And yes, it
went without saying that His Grace would be unfaithful.
But Ashmont was handsome, and he could charm a girl witless
when he set his mind to it, and he'd definitely set his mind
to charming her. He seemed to like her. And it wasn't as
though any great shocks were in store for her. His character
was well known to anybody who read the gossipy parts of the
fashionable periodicals.
The important thing was, he'd asked. And she was desperate.
"A duchess," she told the looking glass. "You can
practically change the world, or at least part of it. It's
as close as a woman can come to being a man, unless she
becomes the Queen—and no mere consort either, but Queen in
her own right. Even then . . . Oh, never mind. It's not
going to happen to you, my girl."
Somewhere in Olympia's head or maybe her heart or her
stomach, a snide little voice, exactly like her cousin
Edwina's, said, "The Love of a Lifetime is never going to
happen to you, either. No Prince Charming on his white
charger will come for you. Not even a passionate lord. Or a
shop clerk, for that matter."
She suffocated the voice, as she had wished, many times, to
suffocate Cousin Edwina. The Olympia who'd entertained
fantasies of princes and passionate gentlemen had been a
naive creature, head teeming with novel-fed romantic
fantasies as she embarked on her first London Season. For
seven years, she'd been voted Most Boring Girl of the
Season. In seven years, she'd received not a single offer.
That was to say, she'd received no offer any young lady in
her right mind, no matter how desperate, would accept or, as
had happened in the case of an elderly suitor, would be
allowed to accept. And so, when Ashmont had asked, what
could she say?
She could say no, and face a future as an elderly spinster
dependent on brothers who could barely support themselves
and their own families. Or she could say yes and solve a
great many problems at once. It was as simple as that. No
point in making it complicated.
She took another sip of brandy. And another.
There came louder and more impatient tapping at the door.
"It's the right thing to do and I'm going to do it," she
whispered to her reflection, "because somebody has to."
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