THE PERKS
OF LOVING A SCOUNDREL
Seduction
Diaries #3
by Jennifer
McQuiston
available
now from Avon Romance
New York Times bestselling author Jennifer
McQuiston continues her enchanting Seduction Diaries series as a bookish
spinster and an unrepentant rogue unite to unmask a traitor.
Every girl dreams of a hero…
No one
loves books more than Miss Mary Channing. Perhaps that’s why she’s reached the
ripe old age of six-and-twenty without ever being kissed. Her future may be as
bland as milk toast, but Mary is content to simply dream about the heroes and
adventures she reads about in her books. That way she won’t end up with a
villain instead.
But sometimes only a scoundrel will do.
When she
unexpectedly finds herself in the arms of Geoffrey Westmore, London’s most
notorious scoundrel, it feels a bit like a plot from one of her favorite
novels. Suddenly, Mary understands why even the smartest heroines can fall prey
to a handsome face. And Westmore’s is more handsome than most. But far worse
than the damage to her reputation, the moment’s indiscretion uncovers an
assassination plot that reaches to the highest levels of society and threatens
the course of the entire country.
When a
tight-laced miss and a scoundrel of epic proportions put their minds together,
nothing can stand in their way. But unless they put their hearts together as
well, a happy ending is anything but assured.
~*~ ~*~
~*~ ~*~
EXCERPT
from THE PERKS OF LOVING A SCOUNDREL:
From the Diary of Miss
Mary Channing
May 24, 1858
Eleanor wrote today. I should have been glad to hear from
her, given that she is my twin sister and I love her dearly, but it would be
untruthful to say the contents of her letter pleased me. Her new husband, Lord
Ashington, has been called away on business and she’s asked me to come to
London to keep her company during the last two months of her confinement.
Can you imagine? Me, in London?
My family says I must get my nose out of my books and begin
to live in the world around me. It is true I’ve never been further afield than
a day trip from home, and that I have never slept a night outside my own bed.
But why would I ever want to leave, when I have my books to keep me company?
And a trip to London is not without its perils. I could very well end up like
one of the characters in my beloved stories, snubbed by the popular crowd.
Whispered about behind lace fans. Or worse...led astray by a handsome
villain and then abandoned to my fate.
Yet, how could I not go? Eleanor is my sister, and she needs
me. So I shall put on a brave face. Pack a trunk. Smile, if I must. But I can’t
help but wonder...which worries me more?
The many things that could happen in London?
Or the thought of seeing Eleanor, with her handsome new
husband, and her shining, lovely life, and everything I am afraid of wanting?
Chapter One
London, May 29, 1858
The smell should have
been worse.
She’d expected something
foul, air made surly by the summer heat. Just last week she’d read about the
Thames, that great, roiling river that carried with it the filth of the entire
city and choked its inhabitants to tears. Her rampant imagination, spurred on
by countless books and newspaper articles, had conjured a city of fetid smells,
each more terrible than the last. But as Miss Mary Channing opened her bedroom
window and breathed in her first London morning, her nose filled with nothing
more offensive than the fragrance of...
Flowers.
Disconcerted, she peeked
out over the sill. Dawn was just breaking over the back of Grosvenor Square.
The gaslights were still burning and the windows of the other houses were dark.
By eight o’clock, she imagined industrious housemaids would be down on their
knees, whiting their masters’ stoops. The central garden would fill with nurses
and their charges, heading west toward Hyde Park.
But for now the city—and
its smells—belonged solely to her.
She breathed in again. Was
she dreaming? Imagining things, as she was often wont to do? She was well over
two hundred miles from home, but it smelled very much like her family’s
ornamental garden in Yorkshire. She didn’t remember seeing a garden last night,
but then, she had arrived quite late, the gaslight shadows obscuring all but
the front steps. She’d been too weary to think, so sickened by the ceaseless
motion of the train that she’d not even been able to read a book, much less
ponder the underpinnings of the air she breathed.
She supposed she might
have missed a garden. Good heavens, she probably would have missed a funeral
parade, complete with an eight-horse coach and a brass band.
After the long, tiresome
journey, she’d only wanted to find a bed.
And yet now...at
five o’clock in the morning...she couldn’t sleep.
Not on a mattress that
felt so strange, and not in a bedroom that wasn’t her own.
Pulling her head back
inside, she eyed the four-poster bed, with its rumpled covers and profusion of
pretty pillows. It was a perfectly nice bed. Her sister, Eleanor, had clearly
put some thought into the choice of fabrics and furniture. Most women would
love such a room. And most women would love such an opportunity—two whole
months in London, with shops and shows and distractions of every flavor at
their fingertips.
But Mary wasn’t most
women. She preferred her distractions in the form of a good book, not shopping
on Regent Street. And these two looming months felt like prison, not paradise.
The scent of roses
lingered in the air, and as she breathed in, her mind settled on a new hope. If
there was a flower garden she might escape to—a place where she might read her
books and write in her journal—perhaps it would not be so terrible?
Picking up the novel she
had not been able to read on the train, Mary slipped out of the strange
bedroom, her bare feet silent on the stairs. She had always been an early
riser, waking before even the most industrious servants back home in Yorkshire.
At home, the cook knew to leave her out a bit of breakfast—bread and cheese
wrapped in a napkin—but no one here would know to do that for her yet.
Ever since she’d been a
young girl, morning had been her own time, quiet hours spent curled up on a
garden bench with a book in her lap, nibbling on her pocket repast, the day
lightening around her. The notion that she might still keep to such a routine
in a place like London gave her hope for the coming two months.
She drifted down the
hallway until she found a doorway that looked promising, solid oak, with a key
still in the lock. With a deep breath, she turned the key and pulled it open.
She braced herself for knife-wielding brigands. Herds of ragged street urchins,
hands rifling through her pockets. The sort of London dangers she’d always read
about.
Instead, the scent of flowers
washed over her like a lovely, welcome tide.
Oh, thank goodness.
She hadn’t been
imagining things after all.
Something hopeful nudged
her over the threshold of the door, then bade her to take one step, then another.
In the thin light of dawn, she saw flowers in every color and fashion: bloodred
rose blooms, a cascade of yellow flowers dripping down the wrought iron fence.
Her fingers loosened over the cover of her book. Oh, but it would be lovely to
read here. She could even hear the light patter of a fountain, beckoning her
deeper.
But then she heard
something else above those pleasant, tinkling notes.
An almost inhuman groan
of pleasure.
With a startled gasp,
she spun around. Her eyes swam through the early morning light to settle on a
gentleman on the street, some ten feet or so away on the other side of the
wrought iron fence. But the fact of their separation did little to relieve her
anxiety, because the street light illuminated him in unfortunate, horrific
clarity.
He was urinating.
Through the fence.
Onto one of her sister’s
rosebushes.
The book fell from
Mary’s hand. In all her imaginings of what dreadful things she might encounter
on the streets of London, she’d never envisioned anything like this. She ought
to bolt. She ought to scream. She ought to...well...she ought to
at least look away.
But as if he was made of
words on a page, her eyes insisted on staying for a proper read. His eyes were
closed, his mouth open in a grimace of relief. Objectively, he was a handsome
mess, lean and long-limbed, a shock of disheveled blond hair peeking out from
his top hat. But handsome was always matter of opinion, and this one
had “villain” stamped on his skin.
As if he could hear her
flailing thoughts, one eye cracked open, then the other. “Oh, ho, would you
look at that, Grant? I’ve an audience, it seems.”
Somewhere down the
street, another voice rang out. “Piss off!” A snigger followed. “Oh, wait, you
already are.”
“Cork it, you sodding
fool!” the blond villain shouted back. “Can’t you see we’re in the presence of
a lady?” He grinned. “Apologies for such language, luv. Though...given the
way you are staring, perhaps you don’t mind?” He rocked back on his heels,
striking a jaunty pose even as the urine rained down. “If you come a little
closer, I’d be happy to give you a better peek.”
Mary’s heart scrambled
against her ribs. She might be a naive thing, fresh from the country, and she
might now be regretting her presumption that it was permissible to read a book
in a London garden in her bare feet, but she wasn’t so unworldly that she
didn’t know this one pertinent fact: she was not—under any circumstances—coming
a little closer.
Or getting a better
peek.
Mortified, she wrapped
her arms about her middle. “I. . .that is. . .couldn’t you manage to hold
it?” she somehow choked out. There. She’d managed a phrase, and it
was a properly scathing one, too. As good as any of her books’ heroines might
have done.
A grin spread across his
face. Much like the puddle at the base of the rosebush. “Well, luv, the thing
is, I’m thinking I’d rather let you hold it.” The stream trickled to
a stop, though he added a few more drips for good measure. He shook himself off
and began to button his trousers. “But alas, it seems you’ve waited too long
for the pleasure.” He tipped a finger to the brim of his top hat in a sort of
salute. “My friend awaits. Perhaps another time?”
Mary gasped. Or rather,
she squeaked.
She could manage little
else.
He chuckled. “It seems
I’ve got a shy little mouse on my hands. Well, squeak squeak, run along then.”
He set off down the street, swaying a bit. “But I’ll leave you with a word of
advice, Miss Mouse,” he tossed back over one shoulder. “You’re a right tempting
sight, standing there in your unutterables. But you might want to wear shoes
the next time you ogle a gentleman’s prick. Never know when you’ll need to
run.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
A
veterinarian and infectious disease researcher by training, Jennifer McQuiston
has always preferred reading romance to scientific textbooks. She resides in
Atlanta, Georgia, with her husband, their two girls, and an odd assortment of
pets, including the pony she promised her children if mommy ever got a book
deal.
Praise for Jennifer
McQuiston and THE PERKS OF LOVING A SCOUNDREL:
“McQuiston’s third
Seduction Diaries novel is to be commended for its complex and unusual plot and
for featuring characters the reader comes to care for. A surprising, readable
story about healing, forgiveness, and trust.” — Kirkus
“The story is equal
parts mystery and romance, and just when readers begin to feel cheated, the
twists and turns navigate to a stunning ending.”— Publishers Weekly
“Pure Escapism. Ms.
Mcquiston created a romance as epic as the characters who lived it. [...] With
easily identifiable main characters and a thrilling story, it was a no brainer
for me to gift this book with 5 stars and a Top Pick.” — Night Owl
Reviews
“McQuiston’s Seduction
Diaries series captivates readers with clever plots and engaging characters.
Incorporating plenty of sexual tension, bantering dialogue and a mystery into
this installment delivers everything fans expect from McQuiston. This is truly
a delightful addition to a reader’s library.”— RT Book Reviews
“THE PERKS OF LOVING A
SCOUNDREL is full of interesting characters and their interactions, especially
those between West and Mary. There is also plenty of suspense concerning the
assassination. The era is also a change from the Regency that so Dominates
British historical romances.”— Romance Reviews Today
“Regency romance fans
will adore this addition to McQuiston’s Seduction Diaries series”— Booklist
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