Bookish suffragist Catriona Campbell is busy: An ailing estate, academic writer’s block, a tense time for England’s women’s rights campaign–the last thing she needs is to be stuck playing host to her father’s distractingly attractive young colleague.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Evie Dunmore’s The Gentleman’s Gambit, which is out December 5th!
Deeply introverted Catriona lives for her work at Oxford and her fight for women’s suffrage. She dreams of romance, too, but since all her attempts at love have ended badly, she now keeps her desires firmly locked inside her head–until she climbs out of a Scottish loch after a good swim and finds herself rather exposed to her new colleague.
Elias Khoury has wheedled his way into Professor Campbell’s circle under false pretenses: he did not come to Oxford to classify ancient artefacts, he is determined to take them back to his homeland in the Middle East. Winning Catriona’s favor could be the key to his success. Unfortunately, seducing the coolly intense lady scholar quickly becomes a mission in itself and his well-laid plans are in danger of derailing…
Forced into close proximity in Oxford’s hallowed halls, two very different people have to face the fact that they might just be a perfect match. Soon, a risky new game begins that asks Catriona one more time to put her heart and wildest dreams at stake.
Context: is there anything worse than your unassuming father sending you on a journey with his handsome new colleague from abroad, who has just seen you climb naked out of a lake?
Wool prices were falling again. Would the land sale indeed be worth it, or just postpone the inevitable? Except for the borderlands, the estate was entailed and there was little more to give. She absently rubbed her throat. Any sensible woman in her position would have laid down her pen a while ago and set out to snare a rich industrialist for a husband. Any sensible father would have long urged her to do so.
The stable doors opened with a squeak, and they all turned to look down the aisle. Mr. Khoury’s well-built figure appeared on the doorsill. Heat scalded her stomach. Her gaze flitted over walls and rafters before settling safely on MacKenzie, who was hard on Mr. Khoury’s heels as he approached.
“You have found our stable,” she said, aware her voice sounded like an automaton’s.
He tilted his head, a faint smile on his lips. “Mrs. MacKenzie was so kind to accompany me every step of the way.”
As any decent chaperone would, sir.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “You have an interest in sheep?”
“In fibers and textiles,” he said smoothly. “My family is in the silk trade.”
“I thought you were a scholar.”
His eyes flicked toward the lambs in the pen. “I suppose I’m the, how do you say, the black sheep of the family,” he said.
Interesting. Such self-deprecation was hardly commonplace in his culture. He must have paid attention to English habits up at Cambridge and now he used it on her.
Mr. Khoury shifted his attention back to her, and his direct gaze sent warmth washing down her legs. These kaleidoscope eyes had seen . . . everything.
“May I touch them?” he asked.
“What?”
He nodded at the pen. “The lambs.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. If they’ll have you.”
He held his hand into the pen and made some quick, soft hissing sounds, bzz bzz bzz. In profile, his features were as appealing to her as in portrait. His strong nose befitted an emperor. His thick dark hair was clipped close to the sides and back of his head but kept longer on top, and a stray curl fell into his brow when he looked down.
“Collins, William,” she said. “Why don’t you go and enjoy your evening.”
The men mumbled their acquiescence and left. MacKenzie visibly dug in her heels; she was here to stay. This was a problem because what Catriona had to say to Elias Khoury was not for a chaperone’s ears. Meanwhile, Mr. Khoury’s strange method had lured a lamb. He was cooing words of praise in Arabic while his tanned fingers expertly scratched the curly coat. Unexpectedly, he looked at Catriona, his eyes gleaming aquamarine with some genuine enthusiasm. Like the sun-kissed surface of the sea. Oddly terrified, she glanced away.
“It’s good wool,” he said in an appraising tone.
Her cheeks were overwarm. He pronounced wool like a Frenchman. He sometimes intoned like one, too; she didn’t need her linguist training to notice. He was too sophisticated to be in her stable, with his proud nose and French vowels and English suit, though his languished posture said he was a man at ease in his body anywhere. It made her acutely conscious of her ugly, thick-soled boots, how awkward her arms felt in any one position; of her monotone voice, the twinge of pain when she tried to hold his gaze. Bloody Spark.
She pulled back her shoulders. “Mr. Khoury. Are you truly a bird-watcher?”
Since there was no escape from MacKenzie, she had addressed him in Arabic.
Mr. Khoury relinquished the lamb and faced her with an alert expression. “Eh.” Yes.
MacKenzie huffed with disapproval at the switch of language.
Catriona ignored it. “So your presence at the lake this afternoon was purely coincidental?”
His dark brows arched high, as if her audacity to mention the unmentionable had shocked him. He raised his hands. “I swear,” he said, “I watch birds of prey.”
“I see. Still. We ought to address our situation.”
Mr. Khoury glanced at MacKenzie, who had resorted to ignoring them, too.
He came a little closer. “I came here to speak to you. I’d spare you this journey if I could.”
His rich scent teased her nose, warm and woodsy like afternoon sunshine on a dry summer day. It had muddled her mind throughout the entire meal earlier.
She adjusted her glasses. “You have seen me in a terribly compromising position,” she said, stating the obvious. “We ought to pretend it never happened, but happened it has, and we both know it. We know it’s an outrageous situation.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up. “Indeed. Where I’m from, we’d be married by now.”
A wheezing sound came from her throat.
He moved his hands in a soothing gesture. “A joke,” he said. “Forgive me.”
His tone was suspiciously light—there was some truth lurking in this joke.
“Luckily, all that is required of us is to journey to Oxford together,” she said coolly, feeling anxious color creep up her neck. “I shall introduce you to relevant places and gentlemen there, and then we shall keep our distance.”
“Of course,” he readily agreed.
“I wish to leave the day after tomorrow.”
He had traveled a week to come to Applecross, but he didn’t blink. “As you wish.”
“Lastly, I would prefer that we travel in separate compartments at all times to avoid the awkwardness of tiptoeing around our situation.” Tiptoeing she said in English.
Mr. Khoury nodded, but now it looked as though he was biting his cheeks to trap a grin.
His debonair demeanor was unsettling. Was she acting overly missish? It was easy for him to feel this way, she supposed. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Was there a Mrs. Khoury back in Mount Lebanon, or was he just a rake? He radiated the vitality of a healthy, active young man, but the fine smile lines around his eyes suggested he was past the age of five-and-twenty. He was likely married, and the thought made her already queasy stomach plummet. Pathetic. As if this man’s marital status made any difference to her. Still, it felt as though his attention remained trained on her back like a poised arrow while she stalked off.
Excerpted from The Gentleman’s Gambit by Evie Dunmore Copyright © 2023 by Evie Dunmore. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
