The Perfect Princess (The Men from Special Branch, Band 3) - Softcover

Buch 3 von 5: The Men from Special Branch

Thornton, Elizabeth

 
9780553581232: The Perfect Princess (The Men from Special Branch, Band 3)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0553581236 ISBN 13: 9780553581232
Verlag: Bantam, 2001

Inhaltsangabe

Nationally bestselling author of Princess Charming

Elizabeth Thornton has created one of her most thrilling and sensuous novels ever — the story of a woman who’s nearly given up her hope of finding a noble hero...until fate throws her unexpectedly into a breathtaking plot to save a scoundrel.

Lady Rosamund Devere has no interest in becoming the wife of a dull prince, no matter how perfect the newspapers think she is for that role. But not even the unconventional Rosamund could imagine the headline the papers will soon be running: the one where she is the willing hostage of a condemned murderer.

Yet Richard Maitland is no ordinary criminal. Steely-eyed, arrogant, and dangerously attractive, the ex-chief of His Majesty’s Secret Service is also, as far as Rosamund is concerned, guilty as sin.

Caught up in his daring escape on the eve of his execution, Rosamund, who can handle a gun as well as any man and is not afraid to use it, soon finds herself in every bit as much danger as Richard. For the more she learns about this mysterious lone wolf of a man, the more determined she is to help him clear his name.

But even more perilous than the conspiracy surrounding Richard is the passion that ignites between them — a passion that is rash, reckless, and impossible to resist.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Elizabeth Thornton was born and educated in Aberdeen, Scotland, where she taught school for a number of years.

She is the author of five Regency Romances and fifteen historical romances. She has been nominated for and received many awards including the Romantic Times Trophy Award for the best New Historical Regency Author and Best Historical Regency. Her books have appeared on best-selling lists and have been translated into many languages.

Von der hinteren Coverseite

Nationally bestselling author of Princess Charming
Elizabeth Thornton has created one of her most thrilling and sensuous novels ever -- the story of a woman who's nearly given up her hope of finding a noble hero...until fate throws her unexpectedly into a breathtaking plot to save a scoundrel.
Lady Rosamund Devere has no interest in becoming the wife of a dull prince, no matter how perfect the newspapers think she is for that role. But not even the unconventional Rosamund could imagine the headline the papers will soon be running: the one where she is the willing hostage of a condemned murderer.
Yet Richard Maitland is no ordinary criminal. Steely-eyed, arrogant, and dangerously attractive, the ex-chief of His Majesty's Secret Service is also, as far as Rosamund is concerned, guilty as sin.
Caught up in his daring escape on the eve of his execution, Rosamund, who can handle a gun as well as any man and is not afraid to use it, soon finds herself in every bit as much danger as Richard. For the more she learns about this mysterious lone wolf of a man, the more determined she is to help him clear his name.
But even more perilous than the conspiracy surrounding Richard is the passion that ignites between them -- a passion that is rash, reckless, and impossible to resist.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

“Why do you want to marry me, Michael?”

She immediately regretted asking the question. She knew she was going to refuse him. Now she would have to appear interested in his answer.

“Prince Michael,” he corrected automatically. “Because, Lady Rosamund, I think you’ll make a perfect princess.”

A perfect princess. The words grated on Rosamund. That’s what they were calling her in the newspapers, ever since Prince Michael of the diminutive principality of Kolnbourg had made her the object of his attentions. And the depressing truth was, she probably would make a perfect princess.

She was the daughter of a duke. She’d led a sheltered existence. From the day of her birth, she’d been trained in all the feminine arts, the ones that were essential for the wife of some gentleman from her own sphere. She’d never been to school like other girls, or had beaux, or been kissed or had adventures.

If only she’d been born a boy, things would have been so different! She had two brothers, Caspar, the elder, and Justin, who was three years younger than she. They’d done exciting things such as having a Grand Tour, and fighting for king and country. They’d also done other exciting things she wasn’t supposed to know about ... La Contessa was what everyone was calling Caspar’s latest mistress, who was haughty, expensive, and had the temper of a tigress.

Rosamund’s smile was fleeting. La Contessa’s temperament would never do for a duke’s daughter, of course. She’d been raised to be polite to everyone from His Majesty down to the lowest menial. She knew the rules of protocol back to front and inside out. She always knew where to sit at the dinner table, or to whom she should curtsy and whom she should not. Small talk was her forte, except when her mind wandered, as it did from time to time, and she forgot where she was. If she had to describe herself in one word, it would be ... bland.

Bland. It was a word that had stuck in her mind ever since Lady Townsend’s ball, where she’d overheard some of the younger women discussing her character. No one could possibly dislike her, someone said, because she was as bland as a blancmange. And everyone laughed.

Her mother had been anything but bland. By all accounts, Elizabeth Devere had been impatient with the constraints her exalted position had placed on her, and saw no reason to follow them slavishly. In the end it was her downfall. She’d gone out riding alone and had taken a tumble while jumping a fence. It wasn’t the accident that killed her, but the fact that she hadn’t been found till the following morning. She’d come down with a fever and had quietly slipped away.

Maybe if her mother had lived, her grief-stricken father wouldn’t have been so strict with his only daughter. And maybe, if her mother had lived, his only daughter wouldn’t be feeling so restless right now.

All that happened twenty years ago, but she still missed her. She wondered what her mother would think of the way her daughter had turned out if she could see her now.

“Lady Rosamund?”

Uh-oh. She’d done it again, forgotten where she was.

She looked at Prince Michael and sighed. There must be something wrong with her, she thought. Prince Michael of Kolnbourg was tall, dark, and handsome. He was also titled and legions of women had tried to lead him to the altar. Then why didn’t he appeal to her?

Perhaps because she, too, was tall, dark, and handsome as well as titled. She was also wealthy in her own right and no fool. It didn’t take much intelligence to deduce that this was why Prince Michael had chosen to court her. Meanwhile, next month, she would turn twenty-seven, and she knew her father was becoming desperate for her to accept one of her suitors.

What she wanted, however, was a beau, not a suitor, someone who would like her for herself. Suitors, in her experience, were bookkeepers — every asset was noted in their mental ledgers before they made an offer.

Michael, Prince Michael, was definitely a suitor. He was only fourth in line to the throne and hadn’t a sou to his name, a tragic circumstance when one considered his expensive tastes. Marriage to her would solve all his problems.

They were in the conservatory of Twickenham House, the ducal mansion in Twickenham, just outside of London, and Rosamund took a moment or two to set the mood by staring at the vista through one of the windows. Autumn was ripe and mellow, and the trees were ablaze with color.

“I’m an English girl,” she said. “I could never be happy transplanted to a foreign shore.”

She looked over her shoulder and caught him in the act of studying his watch. Evidently, she bored him as much as he bored her! It didn’t surprise her: Lady Rosamund Devere was a boring sort of person. As a duke’s daughter she’d been raised to be as bland as a blancmange. Which was exactly the kind of wife Prince Michael wanted.

The perfect princess, the bland blancmange, who could be counted on never to put a foot wrong, say a wrong word, or have an original thought.

Without awkwardness or embarrassment, Prince Michael slipped his watch inside his vest pocket and gave her one of his engaging smiles. “I have no objection to your remaining in England after we are wed,” he said. “In fact, I may decide to make England my home. The climate agrees with me.”

So did the actresses, but she wasn’t supposed to know about them. She gave him one of her own engaging smiles. “I’m almost tempted, but...”

“But?”

“Well, you can’t play chess, Your Highness. You see, I could never marry a man who cannot play chess.”

Mrs. Calliope Tracey put the teapot down with a thump. “Chess?” she said. “What has chess to do with anything?”

Rosamund gazed at her friend over the rim of her teacup.

Last night, she’d put up at the Clarendon, where she normally stayed whenever she came up to town to do a little shopping or escape her father’s temper. The duke, her father, had not been amused when she’d told him that she and Prince Michael would not suit. There had been a scene, if one person ranting and raving could be called a scene. And her brothers had not got off scot-free either. It seemed that His Grace had raised three thankless children, if persons of their advanced years could possibly be called children. Not one of them was married. At this rate, their line would die out. Then where would they be?

As usual, she and her brothers had listened to Papa in sympathetic silence, then made their escape to do precisely what they wanted to do. With Justin, it would be chasing petticoats, racing his curricle to Brighton, dueling, gaming, or whiling the hours away with friends. With Caspar, it would no doubt be La Contessa. There wasn’t much a duke’s daughter could escape to, but she could always count on her one and only friend to lend a sympathetic ear. So here she was, in the breakfast room of Callie’s house in Manchester Square.

That was another consequence of being a duke’s daughter. She had legions of acquaintances, both male and female, but they were not friends. They were so intimidated by her rank that they treated her with a deference that made her squirm. They never contradicted anything she said. Whatever she suggested was always accepted without argument. It was such a bore.

Callie was the exception. Her late father, a widower, had been the duke’s steward, and he and Callie arrived at Castle Devere, the principal residence of the Duke of...

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Verlag
Bantam
Erscheinungsdatum
2001
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0553581236
ISBN 13 
9780553581232
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
368
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Nicht verfügbar

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