Mad About the Duke
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“Mad about the Duke is a rollicking good romp, filled with mischief and mayhem and delicious characters.”
Rita Award-winner, USA Today and New York Times bestseller Elizabeth Boyle delights once more with Mad About the Duke, the second book in her wonderfully creative, wickedly fun Widows of Standon historical romance series. It is a delectable tale of an intrepid young woman who employs an incognito duke—whom she mistakenly believes to be a common solicitor—in her quest to land a titled second husband. Featuring characters from her popular Bachelor Chronicles, Boyle proves once again to be one of today’s most imaginative writers of romantic fiction. Fans of the sensual, fast-paced historical romance of Lisa Kleypas and Christina Dodd will, likewise, be Mad About the Duke.
edged closer together. Elinor couldn’t understand it, but she was completely drawn to him, pulled toward St. Maur. This arrogant, smugly handsome, wretchedly perfect man. Around them, the crowded marketplace swirled into the background. Far from Mayfair, far from prying eyes, where there was no one to see them if they just happened to… Even as she looked up at him, considered the impossible, kissing him yet again, he backed away just a step, and the distance yawned like a canyon. “If you
Winston said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Oh, he’s alive alright,” Fawley said with a huffy smirk. Mrs. Oxton’s sharp ears caught the hint right off. “What do you mean by that?” “When I came to fetch him like he’d asked, I found him and her—” Fawley shook his head. “Found them what?” Richards asked, oblivious to what the others already suspected. “Oh, saints above,” Mrs. Oxton gasped. No one needed to spell out to her why the man was whistling like a May-smitten rogue. Fawley’s brows rose.
was anxious to hear from him. From St. Maur. There hadn’t been a single note from the man, and here it was Friday already. Nary a word from him since their trip into the country three days earlier. Since they’d made love. Was he dismayed by her wanton behavior? Repulsed at a lady who all but threw herself into his arms? “Do I have to go?” Tia asked. “Minerva promised to show me how to knit the lace pattern she used in her shawl.” “Yes, you do have to go,” Elinor told her, tugging at her own
couldn’t quite shake the murderous glare in her eyes. So he stood there beside his co-conspirator and watched her stomp across the meadow. “She’s rather mad,” he demurred. “She’s furious with you,” the boy said, getting straight to the point. Ah, youth. There was no mincing words with them. “Yes, quite,” James agreed. Actually, watching her stalk away was rather fascinating, for he couldn’t help think of his brother’s delight at having Miranda in high dudgeons. Elinor, it seemed, had much
got back to business. “Dogs, sir. Have you any experience with dogs?” “Yes, of course,” he said in that haughty manner of his. She paused and waited for him, like Sir Galahad, to leap to her aid. Hadn’t he been listening? Was he going to make her ask? Apparently so. Then again, she’d seen from that paltry bow he’d offered that his manners were utterly lacking. “Would you mind assisting us?” she asked. “This is Isidore’s first litter and she’s one of the finest greyhounds I’ve ever owned.” “I