Summary:
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.
Valerie Bowman’s Playful Brides novels are:
“Wholly satisfying.”—USA Today
“Smart and sensual…readers will be captivated.”—RT Book Reviews
"Smoldering.” —Booklist
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.
Valerie Bowman’s Playful Brides novels are:
“Wholly satisfying.”—USA Today
“Smart and sensual…readers will be captivated.”—RT Book Reviews
"Smoldering.” —Booklist
Buy Links:
Excerpt:
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.”
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.”
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 WebsiteTwitter: @Valeriegbowman
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