When the was Mine by
Caroline Linden
On Sale: September 24, 2019
ISBN: 9780062913593
E-ISBN: 9780062913609
Digital Audio ISBN: 9780062963123
About the Book:
In the game of love…
Georgiana Lucas despises the arrogant
and cruel Marquess of Westmorland even before learning that he’s won the deed
to her friend Kitty’s home in a card game. Still, Georgiana assures Kitty the
marquess wouldn’t possibly come all the way to Derbyshire to throw them
out—until he shows up, bloody and unconscious. Fearing that Kitty would rather
see him die, Georgiana blurts out that he’s her fiancé. She’ll nurse the
hateful man back to health and make him vow to leave and never return. The man
who wakes up, though, is nothing like the heartless rogue Georgiana thought she
knew…
You have to risk it all
He wakes up with no memory of being
assaulted—or of who he is. The bewitching beauty tending him so devotedly calls
him Rob and claims she’s his fiancée even as she avoids his touch. Though he
can’t remember how he won her hand, he’s now determined to win her heart. But
as his memory returns and the truth is revealed, Rob must decide if the game is
up—or if he’ll take a chance on a love that defies all odds.
Buy Links:
Excerpt:
Chapter
One
1819
It
was to be a bacchanal for the ages.
As
Heathercote remarked, a man only turned twenty-nine once. Marlow pointed out
that a man also only turned twenty-eight, or thirty, once as well, but they
were well used to ignoring Marlow’s odd points of reason, and this one was
promptly forgotten.
Heathercote
planned the entire affair, inviting the most dashing, daring rogues and
scoundrels in London. He declared it to be the invitation of the month, and
that he’d turned away several fellows for lacking wit, style, or both. “You
mean they aren’t up to your standard of mayhem,” said Westmorland, whose
birthday it was, to which Heathercote mimed tipping his hat in acknowledgment.
After
a raucous dinner at White’s, they decamped for the theater. The production was
well under way when they invaded the pit in search of amusement. By the time
the show ended, they had drunk a great deal of brandy, thrown oranges at the
stage, and lost Clifton to the company of a prostitute.
Everyone’s
memories ran a bit ragged after that, with vague recollections of singing in
the streets and Marlow casting up his accounts somewhere in Westminster, but
eventually they settled at the Vega Club. It was so late, the manager tried to
dissuade them from play. Mr. Forbes knew every one of them could wager for
hours, and the Vega Club closed its doors at dawn.
But
Heathercote persuaded him to let them in and to give them the whist salon all
to themselves. “We’ll leave by noon,” he promised, patting Forbes on the chest
as he slid a handful of notes into the man’s hand. His words were remarkably
steady for a man who’d been drinking for eight hours. Grim-faced, Forbes let
them in, where they commandeered the main table and called for yet more wine.
A
few intrepid souls followed them from the club proper. Forbes tried to stop
them at the door, but Forester recognized one and waved them in. “We don’t mind
winning their money,” he said with a hiccup.
They
played whist, then switched to loo. One loser was dared to drink off the
contents of his full flask in one go, which he did. The room filled with cigar
smoke and ribald language, and the wagers grew extravagant. Marlow won a prize
colt off Forester. Heathercote wagered his new phaeton and ended up with
someone’s barouche. Sackville won the largest pot of the night, and everyone
pelted him with markers.
And
then one of the hangers-on spoiled it. He had the look of a country fellow new
to London, with an arrogant bluster that was initially amusing but eventually
turned annoying. He’d played well enough, winning a bit and losing with
colorful curses that made the rest of them roar with laughter. But it became
abruptly clear that Sir Charles Winston was in over his head when he wagered
his house.
Marlow
laughed. Heathercote picked up the scribbled note Winston had put forth and
read it with one brow arched. “Can’t wager property, Winslow.”
The
man was already ruddy from drink, and now he turned scarlet. “Can so! Your
fellow wagered a horse.”
“Horses
are portable,” said Forester, his Liverpool accent bleeding through. “Houses
are not.”
“Houses
are worth more!”
“Aye,
too much more.” Heathercote flicked the note back across the table. “Markers.”
“I
haven’t got any more markers,” muttered the younger man. For a moment everyone
focused in surprised silence on the empty space in front of him. None of them
had run out.
“Then
fold your hand,” Forester told him. “You’re out!”
Winston’s
chin set stubbornly. His mate tried to slide some markers toward him, but he
angrily shoved them back. “Give me a chance to win it back.”
“All
the more reason to walk away, if you’ve lost ‘em all.” Marlow waved one hand,
nearly toppling out of his seat. Mr. Forbes, watching grimly from the corner,
came forward. “Forbes, Windermere is done.”
“Sir
Charles,” murmured the manager. “Perhaps it’s time to go.”
“Not
yet!” Winston scowled at them all, shaking off his friend’s quiet attempts to
get him to fold. “Not now, Farley! They got a chance to turn their luck. Why
shouldn’t I?”
“Luck
is like the wind,” said a new voice. Nicholas Dashwood, the owner of the Vega
Club, stepped out of the shadows. “It rarely turns propitiously.”
Winston
stubbornly sank lower in his seat. “I deserve ‘nother chance.”
Heathercote
slung his arms over the back of his chair. “Well, West? What say you? Shall we
let him stay and wager away everything he’s got?”
Lounging
in his seat, the Marquess of Westmorland looked up in irritation. “Really ought
to go, Winsmore.”
“Wins-less,
more like,” snickered Marlow.
Winston
sat up straighter in his seat. “Please, my lord.”
“Oh,
let him ruin himself,” muttered Forester, shuffling his cards restlessly.
The
marquess lifted one shoulder. “Damned if I care.”
“Sir
Charles,” said Dashwood evenly, “do not wager what you cannot afford to lose.”
Winston
scooped up the scribbled paper and added a line, signing his name with a
flourish. “I won’t, sir.”
But
he did. Within four hands, he’d won a bit and then lost it all—including the
deed. Suddenly he did not look so belligerent or so stubborn. He looked young
and quite literally green, staring at the winning hand, lying on the table.
“Should
have listened,” said the unsympathetic Heathercote. “Should have left.”
Winston
puffed up furiously. “Should have known better than to play with the likes of
you!”
“Di’n’t
y’know that before you sa’ down?” Marlow’s words slurred together. “Stupid
bloody fool!”
“That’s
my home!”
“And
you risked it at loo!” Heath made a derisive noise. “Idiot.”
Winston
was the color of beets. “Don’t call me that.”
Sackville raised one brow. “No? ’S not your home anymore.” He reached out and plucked the
scrawled paper from the pile of markers and examined it, although his eyes
never quite managed to focus on it. “It ‘pears to be West’s.”
His
friends howled with laughter. “He doesn’t need it,” cried Winston. He made a
convulsive grab for the paper before his lone remaining friend caught his arm.
“He’s got a dozen houses!”
“Set
it up as a brothel, West,” suggested Forester. “And give all your mates
discounted fees.”
“Free!”
yelped Marlow with a wheezing laugh.
Winston
drew a furious breath, but instead of continuing the fight he turned and rushed
from the room, rather unsteadily; he wrestled with the door, and then almost
tripped on his way out, causing more howls of laughter from the table. His
friend helped him back onto his feet before the door closed on them both.
“Who
invited him?” asked Heathercote in disdain.
“Marlow.”
“Ballocks,”
mumbled Marlow, putting his head down on the table. “Never did. Was Forester.”
Forester
made a rude gesture. “I vouched for the other man, Farley.”
“Your friends are all bad ton,” said Sackville.
Forester’s
face tightened. He rose and swung his wineglass into the air in a toast,
spilling some. “Thank you all for a most exciting evening, gentlemen.”
Pointedly he bowed only to Viscount Heathercote and Lord Westmorland. Sackville
repaid him with a rude gesture at Forester’s back.
Heathercote
protested, but Forester waved him off and left. With Marlow asleep on the table
and Sackville still giggling drunkenly to himself, Westmorland placed his hands
on the table, hesitated as if gathering strength, then heaved himself to his
feet. “The carriages, Dashwood.”
Stone-faced,
the owner left. Westmorland surveyed the table. “Did I win the last?”
“Aye,”
said Heathercote with a wide yawn.
“Credit
it all, Forbes,” said the marquess. “God above, I’m tired.”
As
expressionless as his employer, the manager stepped forward. With an air of
distaste, he picked up the deed promise and held it out. “I cannot credit this,
my lord.”
West
stared at it. “Damn. Right.” He stuffed it into the pocket of his jacket and
staggered out into the morning sunlight with Heathercote, never guessing the
trouble that wagered deed was about to cause him.
Huge 5 Steamy, Steeping Teacups for thew newest by Caroline Linden! When the Marquess Was Mine, the latest in the Wagers of Sin series is sure to be a bestseller! I absolutely loved this tale and Linden is truly one of the best in Historical Romance, she knows the craft and the period so well one might think she truly has lived in the Regency period. Not going to give you any spoiler's but you are going to love, Georgiana, Kitty and "Rob" The Marquess of Westmorland! This tale just takes the reader on an amazing ride of deep passion, love and lots of surprises at the turn of the page! I most highly recommend this book for any die-hard historical romance fan!
About Caroline Linden
Caroline
Linden was born a reader, not a writer. She earned a math degree from Harvard
College and wrote computer software before turning to fiction. Since then the
Red Sox have won the World Series four times, which is probably not related but
still worth mentioning. Her books have won the NJRW Golden Leaf Award, the
Daphne du Maurier Award, and RWA's RITA Award, and been translated into
seventeen languages.
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