THE PERKS
OF LOVING A SCOUNDREL
By Jennifer
McQuiston
Avon
Books
September 27,
2016
ISBN:
9780062335142; $$7.99
E-ISBN
9780062335159; $5.99
About the
Book
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.
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.
Purchase
Here:
THE PERKS OF LOVING A
SCOUNDREL – https://www.harpercollins.com/9780062335142/the-perks-of-loving-a-scoundrel
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.
Connect with Jenny
Colgan
Website - http://www.jenmcquiston.com/
Twitter – https://twitter.com/jenmcqwrites
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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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
1
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.”
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