Title: Nothing Like a Duke
Author: Jane
Ashford
Series: The
Duke’s Sons, #4
ISBN:
9781492621652
Pub date: May
2, 2017
Genre:
Historical Romance
He wants her.
She has no
intention of wanting him.
But even Flora
has to admit…
There’s nothing
like a Duke.
Lord Robert Gresham has given up all
hope that the beautiful and independent Flora Jennings will ever take him
seriously. He heads to an exclusive country house party to forget about the
beauty haunting his thoughts.
Too bad the lady in question has no intention
of being forgotten.
JANE ASHFORD,
a beloved author of historical romances, has been published in Sweden, Italy,
England, Denmark, France, Russia, Latvia, and Spain, as well as the United
States. Jane has been nominated for a Career Achievement Award by RT Book
Reviews. She lives in Los Angeles, California.
Social Networking
Links
Website: http://www.janeashford.com/
Buy the Book
Excerpt
A protruding bit of bramble caught the side of Flora’s pelisse. She
twisted to reach for it, and a whole raft of briars shifted with her,
entangling the other side of her skirts, her right arm, and the brim of her
bonnet. If she pulled away, it would rip the cloth. She struggled a little;
more thorns dug in. “Blast it, I suppose you were right, you wretched dog,” she
exclaimed, and discovered that Plato was gone.
Flora lifted a hand to free her hat. The movement tipped another part of
the bush, which swayed and seemed to grab at her. A second branch lodged in her
bonnet. She felt several claw at her back. A stem lashed across her neck. That
one drew blood. She tried to step back, and was pricked by more thorns, through
her clothes, from all directions.
Flora went very still. She saw that the path petered out just ahead. Or
perhaps this hadn’t been a path at all, but merely a deceptive opening in the
vegetation. She hadn’t been paying attention. She tried again to move. She was
trapped in a sea of briars. The thorns were long and wickedly barbed. They
pricked the skin of her neck, her arm, her back, her side.
She became aware of a rustling in the leaves near her feet. What next?
The badgers? Snakes? No, of course not snakes. It was far too cold.
A small black-furred head poked through an opening at the base of the
briars. Evading the thorns with no visible effort, Plato emerged and stared up
at her. “Oh, you’re back, are you?” said Flora. He sat down at her feet. “Come
to gloat? Point out that if I’d followed you, I wouldn’t be in this predicament?”
Plato looked at her. Not judgmentally, because that was impossible.
“Go fetch
help,” commanded Flora. The dog didn’t move. “Some clever gardeners. A footman
from the house. Anyone. Go!”
“Plato? Where are you, you dratted animal?” called a voice nearby.
“Lord Robert?” she called.
There was a short silence. “Flora?”
“Yes. I’ve, ah, become entangled in some brambles. Plato doesn’t appear
to care in the least. Or, actually, he’s staring at me as if it was all my
fault.” She frowned down at the dog. “Does he ever blink? He’s really a bit
uncanny, don’t you—”
Robert appeared on the path. “Good God!” He started forward.
“Be careful! It’s very easy to get caught. If you touch one branch, the
whole mass moves.”
“I see.” He examined the arching stems. “You really are caught,
aren’t you?” His lips twitched.
“If you laugh, I’ll...make you sorry,” Flora promised. Plato made one of
his odd grumpy gargling sounds. “And you! I’ll find a badger and hand
you over to him.”
Robert choked. “So, would you say you’re in need of rescue?”
“Just get me out!”
Robert moved a few steps closer. He could see that the thorns had barbs
like fishhooks, ready to rip and tear if not removed very carefully. There was
a trickle of blood on Flora’s neck. After a moment of calculation, he eeled
between two branches. He had to stop once and detach thorns from his sleeve
before he reached her side.
“These things are diabolical,” she said. “When I turned to pull loose,
they seemed to...sort of lunge at me.”
“Stay very still.”
“I know!” She let out a huff of breath. “I beg your pardon. This
is...rather irritating.” She smiled an apology.
Robert felt a catch in his chest, as if his heart had stumbled briefly.
“Right then. Move back, Plato,” he said. For once, the little dog obeyed him,
slipping easily out to a more open spot.
He began on the closest branch, embedded in the skirts of Flora’s
pelisse. He had to kneel to reach it properly. His knife was small for the
tough fibers. The bush swayed as he sawed at the branch. A spray of thorns
rasped across his hair, but didn’t catch hold.
Robert soon pricked his skin. There was no way to hold the branch still
without being stuck, and he’d left his gloves indoors when he’d seen Plato
shoot wildly out of the bushes and then go haring off again.
Blood made the blasted thing slippery. Robert got out his handkerchief,
used it to wrap the branch, and went back to work. At last, he was through. The
severed stem sprang back a little, he was glad to see, giving him a few inches
of working room. He looked up. “One down,” he said with a smile.
The heated gaze he encountered went through him like a thunderbolt. He
was suddenly acutely aware of his position, right in among her skirts. His
shoulder rested against her thigh. The scent of her—flowery perfume and sheer
female—enveloped him.
“You’ve hurt yourself,” she said.
“It’s nothing.” Intensely aroused, Robert eased to his feet. Flora smiled
at him again. Her fierce blue eyes raked him. He knew, absolutely, that she was
remembering their kisses.
The next branch was wrapped around her far sleeve. He had to press close
to her to avoid the briars at his back as he reached for it. And stay there
while he cut through the stringy fiber of the bramble. The feel of her—curve of
breast and hip, her cheek resting on his chest—made him clumsier. At one point
a thorn drove deep into the pad of his index finger, and he stifled an oath.
Flora was having trouble breathing. She could feel his heartbeat, so near
her ear, accelerating in tandem with her own. She could feel his muscles shift
against her as he cut at the brambles. If she looked up, carefully, she could
see his face—handsome, intent. The lips that had thrilled her were only inches
away. But she couldn’t move enough to offer her own again. She had to remain
very still, plastered against him.
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