Playful Brides #8
By Valerie Bowman
Release Date: October 31st, 2017
St. Martin's Press
Source: ARC provided by Publisher
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?
*ARC provided by the publisher in exchange for an honest and unbiased review*
The Right Kind of Rogue, is basically a book, about falling in love with your best friends brother, but add to that, feuding parents, no dowry, and a scandalous kiss, this book could be set in any time (without the dowry of course), but lucky for me, The Right Kind of Rogue, is a regency romance.
When it came to the characters, welp, it's not always easy to love them, straight out if the gate, and that's kind if how I felt about Hart, he was a sanctimonious man whore, and at times I wanted to reach in the book and smack him. Meg, is overall a nice character, though, I did want to tell her to stand up for herself a bit more. Lucy I loved! seriously, she is a fire cracker! But Hart' father...what a jacka@@! I'm sorry, but he produces such a violent response from me, ugh!
Now on to the basics; the book is well written, but at points it feels long-winded, there are parts that could be easily edited out, without affecting the storyline too much. But I will say, if you are a fan of Regency romances (like me), you will find this book and enjoyable and easy read.
I give The Right Kind of Rogue 4 stars
“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.
VALERIE BOWMANgrew 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.
