Fortune favors the bold—but is a confirmed spinster daring enough to loosen the reins and accept a favor from the wicked gentleman who haunts her dreams?
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Lily of Ludgate Hill by Mimi Matthews, which is the third installment in the Belles of London series, and releases on January 16th 2024!
Lady Anne Deveril doesn’t spook easily. A woman of lofty social standing known for her glacial beauty and starchy opinions, she’s the unofficial leader of her small group of equestriennes. Since her mother’s devastating plunge into mourning six years ago, Anne voluntarily renounced any fanciful notions of love and marriage. And yet, when fate puts Anne back into the entirely too enticing path of Mr. Felix Hartford, she’s tempted to run…right into his arms.
No one understands why Lady Anne withdrew into the shadows of society, Hart least of all. The youthful torch he once held for her has long since cooled. Or so he keeps telling himself. But now Anne needs a favor to help a friend. Hart will play along with her little ruse—on the condition that Anne attend a holiday house party at his grandfather’s country estate. No more mourning clothes. No more barriers. Only the two of them, unrequited feelings at last laid bare.
Finally free to gallop out on her own, Anne makes the tantalizing discovery that beneath the roguish exterior of her not-so-white knight is a man with hidden depths, scorching passions—and a tender heart.
Excerpt from Chapter Seven
“It appears the rumors are true,” Hart replied gravely. “Goldfinch Hall is a house of great spiritualist significance.”
“Mr. Drinkwater has called it such,” Lady Arundell said.
“Then you can understand the importance of the news in his column. To refrain from going to North Yorkshire at this particular moment would be to miss a rare psychic opportunity.”
“Yes, yes.” Her ladyship wafted her fan with increasing agitation. “A great pity. But it can’t be helped. As I reminded Anne only this morning—ah. Here she is.”
Anne stood in the doorway, a large rosewood writing box cradled in her arms. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion.
Hart was at once on his feet, all thoughts of the idiocy of the situation forgotten. He crossed the room to assist her, his blood warming just as it always did whenever he was in her presence.
“Permit me,” he said, reaching for the box.
She held fast to it for a moment before relinquishing it into his charge. A strand of hair, the color of golden wheat, had worked free from its coil of plaits to curl about her face. She looked adorably flustered—a rarity. Anne wasn’t often out of countenance
“What are you doing here?” she demanded under her breath.
“Satisfying my curiosity,” he whispered back. “What else?”
Lady Arundell’s booming voice put an end to their murmured exchange. “Do sit down, both of you.”
Hart gestured for Anne to precede him. She strode past with a flick of black silk skirts, her tresses shimmering in the sun that streamed through the tall, damask-draped drawing room windows.
He followed her, his smile broadening in spite of himself.
Lady Arundell pointed her fan in the direction of the chair next to Hart’s. Anne obediently sat down, arranging her full skirts all about her.
“Where would you like your writing box, ma’am?” Hart asked.
“On the malachite table,” her ladyship said.
He placed it where she directed, all the while aware of Anne’s sherry-brown gaze burning a hole in his back.
“I was just informing Hartford how disappointed we are that we must miss the opportunity of convening with the spirits in Yorkshire,” Lady Arundell said.
“Yes, very disappointed,” Anne agreed tightly.
Hart looked between Anne and her mother, puzzled, as he resumed his seat. Tension rarely existed between them. Not that he’d observed these half a dozen years and more. “Is there something that prevents you going?”
“We cannot travel such a distance unescorted,” Lady Arundell said.
“You’ve just returned from a lengthy journey,” Hart pointed out.
Lady Arundell and Anne had lately visited Birmingham in company with Miss Maltravers and her uncle, Harris Fielding. They’d gone to investigate the authenticity of a child medium reported to have made contact with the recently deceased Prince Consort.
A ridiculous enterprise, which Hart could only assume had achieved nothing more than exposing Anne to an even greater array of charlatans and their all-too-willing victims.
“We were accompanied by Mr. Fielding,” Lady Arundell said with a touch of irritation. “His presence is beyond reproach.”
The solution seemed obvious enough to Hart. “Perhaps Mr. Fielding might be persuaded to accompany you again?”
Lady Arundell gave an impatient snap of her fan. “If only he could! Alas, he’s suffering the remnants of an indisposition and isn’t sufficiently recovered to leave his rooms.”
Hart glanced at Anne. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap. “A footman, then,” he said. “Many ladies journey in the company of trusted servants. It’s perfectly unobjectionable.”
Lady Arundell waved the suggestion away before Hart had finished uttering it. “On no account. A lady can’t visit a site of spiritualist significance without a gentleman to attend her. Think of the dangers. No, no. We must accept the impossibility of the venture. A great pity, as I said.”
“It is a great pity.” Anne’s words were edged with palpable frustration. “For if we had gone to Goldfinch Hall, I could have seen Miss Wychwood. I could have assured myself of her health and happiness.”
“Miss Wychwood again?” Lady Arundell cast her fan aside in a flare of temper. “The tiresome girl! Will I have no peace now she’s wed?”
“I can have no peace,” Anne said. “I can’t rest until I know she’s all right.” There were shadows under her eyes. A weariness to her features Hart hadn’t seen before.
His chest tightened on a rush of familiar emotion. It was this blasted urge to come to her rescue. To make the way smooth for her, no matter how she might balk at his assistance. He felt it springing to life in him whenever Anne, or anyone dear to her, was in distress.
It was his own personal curse. One that was all tangled up with his sense of lingering resentment at the choices she’d made.
The woman had elected a life as her mother’s shadow over a life with him! It was worse than disappointing. It was downright insulting. Any self-respecting man would have washed his hands of her long ago.
But Hart’s self-respect was of little concern to him at the moment.
By God but it was intolerable to see her looking so worn down and defeated. This wasn’t Anne. Not the Anne he knew. He wanted her to be herself again.
The desire spurred him into action.
“All you lack is a proper escort?” he asked.
“A gentleman,” Lady Arundell reiterated.
Hart’s shoulders set with reckless determination. “If that’s the case . . .”
Don’t say it, his conscience warned. Don’t you dare say it. But what man ever prospered by listening to his conscience in circumstances such as these?
“I’m pleased to volunteer my own services,” he said.
Anne’s head jerked up. “You!”
“You?” Lady Arundell queried at the same time. Her eyes brightened at the possibility.
“Me,” he said. “Am I not a gentleman?”
Anne made a choked noise.
Hart’s mouth ticked up at one corner.
“A tempting offer,” Lady Arundell said. “But you’re a young man,” she added magnanimously. “Not a man of Fielding’s age. And Yorkshire is no small distance. It would be an imposition.”
“Not in the least.” Hart met Anne’s stunned gaze. “This is an occasion not to be missed. I’d be a fool to stay away.”
“You were intending to travel to Yorkshire yourself?” Lady Arundell asked.
“I was. Or rather, I am.” Hart vowed to atone for the falsehood at some point in future. “If you would entrust yourselves to my care, I’d be happy to see to the arrangements.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Lady Arundell said. “Is it not, Anne?”
Anne made no reply. She was still staring at him, eyes wide with both amazement and something very like horror.
“As I say,” her ladyship went on, warming to the idea, “we don’t like to be an imposition, but I suppose, if you’re already making the journey, we might avail ourselves of your escort.”
“It would be my honor, ma’am,” Hart said. “We are, after all, old family friends.”
Excerpted from The Lily of Ludgate Hill by Mimi Matthews Copyright © 2024 by Mimi Matthews. 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.
