First comes love, then comes marriage. Unless it’s the other way around.
. .
General Mark Grimaldi has sacrificed everything for his military career, working his way through the ranks without the benefit of a nobleman’s title. Now, his years of dedication are about to pay off—with an offer for a prestigious promotion to Home Secretary. There’s only one condition: Mark must be married. Aside from the small matter of not actually wanting to be wed, Mark faces another troubling problem: he already has a wife.
Nicole Huntington Grimaldi has spent ten contented years in France without her husband—and without regret. When Mark asks her to return to London and play the part of his beloved wife, she sees her chance. But neither of them is prepared for news that will throw Mark’s future into chaos…nor the undeniable desire they’ve rekindled. Maybe happily-ever-after can happen the second time around in A Duke Like No Other, the next Regency romance from Valerie Bowman.
CHAPTER
THREE
Mark
quirked his mouth into a half smile. Nicole had always been direct. It was one
of the things that had first drawn him to her. She wasn’t about to let him get
away with arriving unannounced without admitting that he wanted something. Good,
because he liked to be direct too. “You’re right. I do want something from
you.”
“Say
it.” She crossed one leg over the other and for the life of him he couldn’t
stop staring at how those breeches hugged her long legs. Outside, he’d been
slightly obsessed with how they hugged another part of her anatomy. And that
shirt . . . the one that was exposing her chest in a way that made the back of
his neck sweat. Leave it to Nicole to have her hair down and to be wearing
breeches while riding around a French château on a horse named Atalanta. She’d
been besting the comte in the race they’d been engaged in. That
was also like her. She adored competition and hated to lose at anything. If he
had any hope of her saying yes to his proposal, he needed to make certain he
didn’t become her adversary . . . again.
He
glanced around the drawing room. Outfitted in rose and cream silks with the
occasional hint of green, the room was tastefully decorated. The château itself
was large and well appointed without being ostentatious. She had access to his
money but had never spent a shilling of it. No, this was all a result of her
own money or her family’s.
He
spread his arms wide along the back of the settee. “No reminiscing? No catching
up? No discussing the good times?”
Her dark
red eyebrow inched even higher. “Were there good times? I seem to recall those
being few and far between.”
“There were a few.” In bed. He tugged at his collar.
She
poked at the chignon on the back of her head. Only she could make a quickly
put-together hair arrangement look effortlessly gorgeous. Several tendrils of
the long red locks fell to frame her face, which wore a decidedly disgruntled
look. “Out with it. I’m quite busy. I’m attending a dinner party this evening
and I must dress.”
Mark
bit the inside of his cheek but ultimately he couldn’t keep the comment that
had sprung to his lips to himself. “A cleaner pair of breeches?” Damn, she
looked good in those breeches. She looked good altogether. Better than good.
The years had been kind to her. The fresh-faced plumpness of her cheeks had
given way to a slenderness that made her cheekbones prominent. Her lips were
still full and pink and inviting. Her hair luxurious, soft and smooth. Her eyes
looked more world-weary, to be sure, but their sea-foam-green depths were still
astute and intelligent. Her body was still trim and fit. Her thighs looked even
fitter, probably from riding astride. Ahem. What he wouldn’t give to see those
thighs once more, to have them wrapped tightly around his—
“Despite
my present appearance, I do own a gown or two.” Her words snapped him out of
his indecent line of thought. She gave him another tight smile.
He
stood, crossed to the nearby sideboard, and poured himself a brandy. “Going to
meet the comte again?”
“Careful,”
came her throaty voice from the settee. “It’s nearly sounding as if you’re
jealous.”
Still
facing the sideboard, he cocked his head to the side. “Jealous? Whatever does
that word mean?”
“The comte
is
a friend, nothing more.” Her voice sounded dismissive. He didn’t believe her,
however.
Mark
splashed more brandy into his glass. “I’m certain you’d
tell me if he weren’t.”
“I’m certain
you’d
care.”
Mark
turned back toward her and took a healthy swig of his drink. “A man doesn’t
like to think of his wife in the bed of another.”
She
actually rolled her eyes at that comment. “Oh, you’ve been
celibate all these years then?” she countered, her voice dripping with
skepticism.
He
had been, but he’d die a slow death back in the French prison camp before he
told her that. However, he wasn’t so unrealistic as to think Nicole would have
remained untouched. They had agreed to part ways, hadn’t seen each other in ten
years. She was a beautiful woman in the prime of her life. Still, the notion of
punching the comte dead in the face held a great deal of
appeal at the moment. “I’ve never been one to kiss and tell, love.”
She
gave him a tight smile, which clearly indicated she didn’t believe him, either.
“You’re a general now?” she asked abruptly, clearly ready to change the
subject.
“I am.”
He moved to the window and looked out across the lavender fields, one arm held
behind his ramrod-straight back as if he were surveying a battlefield. The
stance was still comfortable for him even after all these years of working for
the Home Office.
“I
suppose congratulations are in order.” The tea arrived and Nicole poured a cup
for herself and splashed in a liberal amount of cream. He remembered that about
her. She took her tea with no sugar, just cream.
“No
congratulations needed,” he intoned, taking another swig of brandy.
The
silver spoon she used to stir her tea clinked against the delicate china
teacup. “I must admit, I’ve often wondered when I’d get a missive that you’d
been killed.”
His
chuckle was humorless. He turned to face her. “Such little faith in me? Or
wishful thinking?”
“Neither,”
she replied, lifting the cup to her pink lips. “Just a profound knowledge of
how reckless you are.”
He
inclined his head. “Used to be.”
“Really?”
She raised a brow. “Is that why you’ve come? To tell me you’ve changed?”
He
chuckled. “I haven’t changed that much.”
“I’m
not surprised.” She set down her teacup and crossed her arms over her chest. “Tell
me, Mark, why have you come?”
He
saluted her with his glass, the amber-colored liquid shining in the afternoon sunlight.
“You were right. I need a favor from you.”
She
didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. “Of course you do. What’s the favor?” She
picked up her cup once more and took a sip.
He
downed the final splash of brandy and met her gaze. “I need you to return to
England with me for a few months and pretend to be my loving wife.”
Copyright © 2018 by Valerie Bowman in A Duke Like No Other and reprinted by
permission of St. Martin’s Paperbacks.
VALERIE BOWMAN grew up in Illinois with six sisters
(she’s number seven) and a huge supply of historical romance novels. After a
cold and snowy stint earning a degree in English with a minor in history at
Smith College, she moved to Florida the first chance she got. Valerie now lives
in Jacksonville with her family including her mini-schnauzer, Huckleberry. When
she’s not writing, she keeps busy reading, traveling, or vacillating between
watching crazy reality TV and PBS. She is the author of the Secret Brides and Playful Brides series.
Twitter @Valeriegbowman
Facebook @ValerieBowmanAuthor
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