Regency Bestsellers Collection
The Governess Game
Tessa Dare
Society’s Beauties
Sophia James
Rebellious Rakes
Bronwyn Scott
The Designs of Lord Randolph Cavanaugh
Stephanie Laurens
Tessa Dare
For my children, the Darelings,
because apparently I have a trend with this
series—dedicating
books to people I hope will
never read them.
My daughter served as a
brilliant consultant on Rosamund and Daisy’s
characters, and my ever-clever
son taught me that some kids learn best in unconventional ways.
Darelings, I love you both. I promise that
out of all my books, this is the one and
only page I’ll ever force you to read.
(Bonus: I’ve now embarrassed you
in front of thousands of strangers.
Mom achievement unlocked!)
Alexandra Mountbatten had common sense. That’s what her friends believed.
The truth was, Alex had no sense at all—at least, not when it came to charming gentlemen with roguish green eyes. If she possessed any wisp of rationality, she wouldn’t have made such a fool of herself with the Bookshop Rake.
Even now, more than half a year later, she could revisit the embarrassing scene and watch it unfolding, as though she were attending a play.
The setting: Hatchard’s bookshop.
The date: a Wednesday afternoon in November.
The personages: Alexandra, of course. Her three closest friends: Nicola Teague, Lady Penelope Campion, and Emma Pembrooke, the Duchess of Ashbury. And, making his first appearance in a starring role (trumpet fanfare, please)—the Bookshop Rake.
The scene proceeded thusly:
Alexandra had been juggling a tower of Nicola’s books in one arm and reading her own book with her free hand. A copy of Messier’s Catalogue of Star Clusters and Nebulae, which she’d plucked like a pearl from the used-book section. She’d been searching for a secondhand copy for ages. She couldn’t afford to buy it new.
One moment, she’d been blissfully paging through descriptions of astronomical nebulae, and the next . . .
Bang. A collision of cosmic proportions.
The cause remained unclear. Perhaps she’d taken a step in reverse, or maybe he’d turned without looking. It didn’t matter. Whosoever’s elbow jostled the other’s arm, the laws of physics demanded an equal and opposite reaction. From there, the rest was gravity. All her books fell to the floor, and when she looked up from the heap—there he was.
Ruffled brown hair, fashionable attire, cologne that smelled like bottled sin—and a smile no doubt honed from boyhood as a means to make women forgive him anything.
With affable charm, he’d gathered up the books. She’d been no help at all.
He’d inquired after her name; she’d stammered.
He’d asked her to recommend a book—a gift, he said, for two young girls. In response, she’d stammered yet more.
He’d