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About the Book:
After the death of her beloved guardian, Miss Felicity Fields is left adrift, her future uncertain. Grief-stricken, she launches a plan to use the ancient art of alchemy to bring back to life the woman who was like a mother to her. The last thing this blunt bluestocking needs is the return of Nicholas Harding, the Duke of Wycliffe and rightful owner of her home on the wild coast of Cornwall. He stirs an unexpected passion within her, and Felicity has had enough change in her life.
When they were children, Nicholas never understood his aunt's brilliant but unemotional ward, or her many strange scientific studies. He ought to take her back to London, so she can make a proper society match--except he can't stop thinking about her. But with the line between life and death blurred by Felicity's experiments, can he convince her that she's no longer alone, and her proper place is by his side?
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Excerpt:She spun on her heel so jerkily, yet with such speed, it was as if an unknown hand had pulled her strings. He was used to those quick, shaky movements; struggling to make sense of her, his juvenile mind had often compared her to a marionette. Yet he was not used to what came next—the flash of ire in her eyes, the angry flaring of her nostrils. He could not remember when he had seen Felicity impassioned.
“What would you, Duke, know about not getting what you want?” Each word hit him
like an arrow to the chest, so absolute was her aim.
She’d always been able to cut him to
the quick, she who always told the brutal, unflinching truth—the words he did
not want to hear, because they revealed just how little he truly knew about
himself.
When they’d been younger, he’d been
able to feign amusement. She hated being laughed at, above all other things,
and so he did it often because it was the swiftest way to make her hurt the way
he did. He was not proud of that, but he’d been a boy, unable to fathom why
this flat, unemotional girl affected him so.
He still did not know.
He stood up straighter, peering down
his nose autocratically at her, but he could not summon up the energy to laugh.
He was too tired—from the journey, he told himself, and not from pretending all
of his bloody life to be someone he was not.
After all, as Felicity had reminded
him, he was Duke.
That
should be enough. It had to be enough.
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