The Right Kind of Rogue
Playful Brides, #8
by Valerie Bowman
October 31st 2017
St. Martin’s Press
Historical Romance
The Book Junkie Reads . . . Review of . . . THE RIGHT KIND OF ROGUE
(Playful Brides, #8) . . . The Playful Brides series has
been fun and light hearted for me. I have found something or another to keep me
coming back and making an excuse to revisit old friends and make new ones. This
time around things have a little turn of events. I loved visiting the old
couples that have come before. Their antics have been fun to watch. Now with
Hart and Meg there seems to be a new precedent set for me. Hart was not just a
reluctant future husband. He was doing all because his friends were married or
marrying starting families.
I had my fun with watching how things would fall in to place since Hart
of course wanted a future wife with money, good family and beautiful. Instead
he finds the one woman that he should probably stay away from. No money. A
family his family has a feud with. She no dogg, but she is on her third season.
Something is not right.
I could not muster the strength to battle my hero through the book. I
got my fun and light hearted read but I did not connect with Hart.
Playful Brides series:
The Unexpected Duchess – Playful Bride,
#1
The Accidental Countess – Playful Bride,
#2
The Unlikely Lady – Playful Bride,
#3
The Irresistible Rogue – Playful Bride,
#4
The Unforgettable Hero – Playful Bride,
#4.5
The Untamed Earl – Playful Bride,
#5
The Legendary Lord – Playful Bride,
#6
Never Trust a Pirate – Playful Bride,
#7
The Right Kind of Rogue – Playful Bride,
#8
BLURB
Can two
star-crossed lovers come together—until death do they part?
Viscount Hart Highgate has decided to put his rakish ways behind him and finally get married. He may adore a good brandy or a high-speed carriage race, but he takes his duties as heir to the earldom seriously. Now all he has to do is find the right kind of woman to be his bride—ideally, one who’s also well-connected and well-funded. . .
Meg Timmons has loved Hart, the brother of her best friend, ever since she was an awkward, blushing schoolgirl. If only she had a large dowry—or anything to her name at all. Instead, she’s from a family that’s been locked in a bitter feud with Hart’s for years. And now she’s approaching her third London season, Meg’s chances with him are slim to none. Unless a surprise encounter on a deep, dark night could be enough to spark a rebellious romance. . .for all time?
Valerie Bowman’s Playful Brides novels are:
Viscount Hart Highgate has decided to put his rakish ways behind him and finally get married. He may adore a good brandy or a high-speed carriage race, but he takes his duties as heir to the earldom seriously. Now all he has to do is find the right kind of woman to be his bride—ideally, one who’s also well-connected and well-funded. . .
Meg Timmons has loved Hart, the brother of her best friend, ever since she was an awkward, blushing schoolgirl. If only she had a large dowry—or anything to her name at all. Instead, she’s from a family that’s been locked in a bitter feud with Hart’s for years. And now she’s approaching her third London season, Meg’s chances with him are slim to none. Unless a surprise encounter on a deep, dark night could be enough to spark a rebellious romance. . .for all time?
Valerie Bowman’s Playful Brides novels are:
“Wholly satisfying.”—USA Today
“Smart and sensual…readers will be captivated.”—RT Book Reviews “Smoldering.” —Booklist
“Smart and sensual…readers will be captivated.”—RT Book Reviews “Smoldering.” —Booklist
Buy Links:
EXCERPT
CHAPTER
TWO
“How in Hades’s name
can you drink at this hour of the morning, Highgate?”
Hart tossed back his
brandy, swallowed, and laughed at his brother-in-law’s words. The two sat
across from each other at Brooks’s gentlemen’s club. It was decidedly before
noon. The only reason Hart was up at this hour was because he’d promised to
meet Lord Christian Berkeley. His brother-in-law rarely asked for favors and
Hart suspected this meeting was his sister Sarah’s doing, but he would humor
the viscount just the same.
“Berkeley, old chap,
you don’t know the half of it.” Hart clapped the viscount on the back. “Helps
with the devil of a head left over from last night, don’t ya know?”
Berkeley lifted his
teacup to his lips. “No. I don’t. But I’ll take your word for it.”
That reply only made
Hart laugh harder, which made his head hurt more. Hart liked his brother-in-law
a great deal, but the man was decidedly humdrum when it came to amusements.
Berkeley rarely drank, rarely smoked, and preferred to spend his time at his
estate in the north of England or his hunting lodge in Scotland. Berkeley
enjoyed quiet pursuits like reading or carving things out of wood much more
than the amusements London had to offer. But Viscount Berkeley was a good man
and one who clearly adored Hart’s sister, and that was what mattered.
The viscount had gone
so far as to dramatically interrupt Sarah’s wedding to a pompous marquess and
claim her for himself, thereby not only proving his commitment to Sarah but
also saving Hart from having the self-involved Marquess of Branford as a
brother-in-law. Overall it had been quite a fortunate turn of events for
everyone. Everyone except Hart and Sarah’s enraged, thwarted parents, that is.
Berkeley tugged at his
cravat. “How are your—ahem— parents getting on?”
Hart cracked a smile.
“Still angry, of course, even after all these months. You and Sarah made a good
decision, staying up north for the winter. Gave Father and Mother time to calm
down.” His father’s anger at having a scandal mar his family name and his
daughter marry a mere viscount as opposed to a marquess who had the ear of the
Prince Regent had barely abated over the winter, but no need to tell Berkeley
as much.
Berkeley leaned back
in his chair and crossed one silk-stockinged ankle over an immaculately creased
knee, his hands lightly clutching the arms of his chair. He shook his head.
“They’re not calmed down, are they?”
“A bit.” Hart stopped
a footman and ordered another brandy. “Don’t worry. They’ll be civil when they
see you. For Sarah’s sake.”
“Well, that’s
something. Are you seriously ordering another drink?”
“Are you seriously
surprised?” Hart scratched his rough cheek. He’d been running late and hadn’t
bothered to ask his usually drunken valet to shave him this morning. For
Christ’s sake, that man drank more than he did. Not exactly someone he wanted
near his throat with a straight razor. “Besides I have quite a good reason to
drink today.”
“Really?” Berkeley
tugged at his cuff. Ever since Sarah had taught him how to dress properly, the
viscount was much more attentive to his clothing. He was downright dapper these
days. “Why is that?”
“I’m getting
married.” Hart emitted a groan to accompany those incomprehensible words.
Berkeley’s brows shot
up. He set down his cup and placed a hand behind his ear. “Pardon? I must have
heard you incorrectly. I thought you said married.”
The footman returned
with the drink and Hart snatched it from the man’s gloved hand and downed
nearly half of it in a single gulp. “I did,” he muttered through clenched
teeth, wincing.
“You? Married?”
Berkeley’s brow remained steadfastly furrowed, and he blinked as if the word
were foreign.
“Me. Married.” Hart
gave a firm nod before taking another fortifying gulp of brandy.
“Ahem, who is the,
uh, fortunate lady?” Berkeley lifted his cup back to his lips and took a long
gulp, as if needing the hot drink to banish his astonishment.
“I haven’t the first
idea.” Hart shook his head. He was giving serious thought to the notion of
ordering a third brandy. Would that be bad form? Probably.
“Now you’re simply
confusing me,” Berkeley said with an unmistakable smile on his face. With his
free hand, he pulled the morning’s copy of the Times from the tabletop next to
him and scanned the headlines.
Hart took another sip
of brandy and savored it this time. “I haven’t made any decisions as to the
chit yet. I’ve merely announced to Father that this is the year I intend to
find a bride. The idea of marriage has always made my stomach turn. After all,
if my parents’ imperfect union is anything by which to gauge the institution,
it’s a bloody nightmare.”
“Why the change of
heart?” Berkeley asked.
Hart scrubbed a hand
through his hair. The truth was, he wasn’t less sickened by the prospect of
marriage these days, but he couldn’t avoid the institution forever. At some
point he’d have to put the parson’s noose firmly around his own throat and
pull. Wives were fickle, and marriages meant little other than the exchange of
money and property. His own father had announced that fact on more than one
occasion. His parents treated each other like unhappy strangers, and his father
had made it clear that they were anything but in love. That, Hart supposed, was
his fate. To live a life as his parents had in the pursuit of procreating and
producing the next future Earl of Highfield. So be it, but was it any wonder
he’d been putting it off?
“Seeing Sarah marry
had more of an effect on me than I expected,” Hart admitted, frowning at his
notquite-empty glass. “And if you ever tell anyone I said that, I’ll call you
out.” He looked at Berkeley and grinned again.
“You have my word,”
Berkeley replied with a nod. “But may I ask how it affected you?”
Hart pushed himself
back in the large leather chair and crossed his booted feet at the ankles. “I
started thinking about it all, you know? Life, marriage, children, family. I
expect you and Sarah will be having a child soon, and by God I’d like my
children to grow up knowing their kin. My cousin Nicole was quite close to
Sarah and me when we were children. Nicole’s marriage isn’t one to emulate,
either. She hasn’t even seen her husband in years. Last I heard, she’s living
somewhere in France, childless. By God, perhaps I should rethink this.” Hart
pulled at his cravat. The bloody thing was nearly choking him what with all of
this talk of marriage.
Berkeley leaned back
in his seat, mirroring Hart. “Perhaps you should focus on the positive aspects
of marriage. I assure you, there are many.”
“Believe me, I’m trying,”
Hart continued, reminding himself for the hundredth time of the reasons why
he’d finally come to this decision. God knew it hadn’t been an easy one.
“Whether I like it or not, it’s time for me to choose a bride. Sarah is my
younger sister. While she wasn’t married, it all seemed like fun and games, but
now, well, seems everyone is tying the proverbial knot these days what with
Owen Monroe and Rafe Cavendish marrying. Even Rafe’s twin, Cade, has fallen to
the parson’s noose.”
Just this morning
when Hart had woken with a splitting head for the dozenth time in as many days,
he’d thought yet again how he needed to stop being so reckless. He wasn’t able
to bounce back from a night of debauchery nearly as quickly as he used to when
he was at university. Seeing Sarah marry had made him consider his duties, his
responsibilities, and his . . . age. For the love of God, he was nearly thirty.
That thought alone was enough to make him want another brandy. It was his duty
to sire the next Earl of Highfield, and duty meant something to him. What else
mattered if he didn’t respect his duty? Hadn’t that been hammered into his head
since birth by his father, along with all the dire warnings not to choose the
wrong wife?
“It’s true that
several marriages have taken place lately in our set of friends,” Berkeley
replied, still leisurely perusing the paper while sipping tea. “But I thought
you were immune to all of that, Highgate.”
“I have been.” Hart
sighed again. “But I’ve finally decided it’s time to get to it.”
Berkeley raised his
teacup in salute. “Here’s to the future Lady Highfield. May she be healthy,
beautiful, and wise.”
“Thank you,” Hart
replied. He tugged at his pythonlike cravat again.
Berkeley regarded
Hart down the length of his nose. “Any ladies catch your fancy?”
Hart shook his head.
He braced an elbow on the table beside them and set his chin on his fist. “No.
That’s the problem. I’m uncertain where to begin.”
Berkeley let the
paper drop to his lap. “What sort of lady are you looking for?”
Hart considered the
question for a moment. What sort of lady, indeed? “She’ll need to be
reasonable, well connected, clever, witty, a happy soul. Someone who is honest,
and forthright, and who isn’t marrying me only for my title. Someone who
doesn’t nag and has an indecently large dowry, of course. Father puts great
stock in such things. Not to mention if I’m going to be legshackled, I might as
well get a new set of horses out of the bargain. I’m thinking a set of matching
grays and a new coach.”
“Oh, that’s not much
of a list,” Berkeley said with a snort. “
I don’t expect the
search to be a simple one, or a quick one.” The truth was Hart had no earthly
idea who he was looking for. He only knew who he wasn’t looking for . . .
someone like his mother. Or the treacherous Annabelle Cardiff. He wanted the
exact opposite.
Berkeley tossed the
paper back onto the tabletop. “Knowing your father’s decided opinions on such
matters, I’m surprised he hasn’t provided you with a list of eligible females
from which you may choose.”
Hart rolled his eyes.
“He has. He’s named half a dozen ladies he would gladly accept.”
Berkeley inclined his
head to the side. “Why don’t you choose one of them then?”
Hart gave his
brother-in-law an are-you-quite-serious look, chin tucked down, head tilted to
the side. “I’m bloody well not about to allow my father to choose a bride for
me. Besides, after seeing you and Sarah, I hold out some hope of finding a lady
with whom I’m actually compatible.”
“Why, Highgate, do
you mean . . . love?” Berkeley grinned and leaned forward in mock astonishment.
“Let’s not go that
far.” Hart took another sip of his quickly dwindling brandy. That’s precisely
what confused him so much. He knew love matches existed. He’d witnessed one in
his sister’s marriage. On the other hand, her choice had so enraged his
parents, they still hadn’t forgiven her. Hart didn’t intend to go about the
business of finding a wife in quite so dramatic a fashion. Love matches
attracted drama. However, his parents’ unhappy union was nothing to aspire to,
and he’d nearly made the mistake of marrying a woman who wanted nothing more
than title and fortune before. It was a tricky business, the marriage mart, but
he’d rather take advice from Sarah and Berkeley than his father. The proof of
the pudding was in the eating, after all.
Berkeley laughed.
“What if you fall madly in love and become a devoted husband? Jealous even.
Now, that would be a sight.”
“Jealous? That’s not
possible.” Hart grinned back at Berkeley. “I’ve never been jealous. Don’t have
it in me. My friends at university used to tease me about it. No ties to any
particular lady. No regrets.” He settled back in his chair and straightened his
cravat, which was tighter than ever.
“We’ll see.” Berkeley
took another sip of tea. His eyes danced with amusement.
“I was hoping you and
Sarah might help me this Season.
Sarah knows most of
the young ladies. She also knows me as well as anyone does. Not to mention, the
two of you seem to have got the thing right.”
Berkeley glanced up.
“Why, Highgate, is that a compliment on our marriage?”
“Take it as you
will.” Hart waved a noncommittal hand in the air. He avoided meeting Berkeley’s
eyes.
Berkeley settled
further into his chair. “I shall take it as a compliment, then. I have a
feeling Sarah would like nothing more than to help you with such an endeavor.
She fancies herself a matchmaker these days.”
“Will you two be
staying in London for the Season?”
“Yes. Sarah wants to
stay and I, of course, will support her, at least as long as I can remain in
the same town as your father without him calling me out.” A smirk settled on
Berkeley’s face.
Hart eyed the
remaining liquid in his glass. “I’ll be happy to play the role of peacemaker to
the best of my ability.”
“I’m glad to hear
that.” Berkeley inclined his head toward his brother-in-law.
“Who else is Sarah
matchmaking for?” Hart sloshed the brandy in the bottom of the glass.
“She’s not merely
matchmaking. No. To hear her tell it, she has an important mission this
Season.”
Hart set down the glass
and pulled another section of the Times off the table and began scanning it.
He’d talked enough about marriage for one day. Odious topic. “A mission? What
mission?” he asked, merely to be polite.
“To find Meg Timmons
a husband.”
Hart startled in surprise,
grasping the paper so tightly it tore in the middle. Tossing it aside, he
reached for his glass and gulped the last of his brandy.
Meg Timmons. He knew
Meg Timmons. She was Sarah’s closest friend, the daughter of his father’s
mortal enemy, and a woman with whom Hart had experienced an incident last
summer that he’d been seriously trying to forget.
Copyright © 2017 by Valerie Bowman and
reprinted by permission of St. Martin’s Paperbacks.
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Author Bio:
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.
Author Links:
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