{"product_id":"the-duke-isbn-9780449006368","title":"The Duke","description":"\u003cb\u003eIn this dazzling first novel featuring the Knight family, bestselling author Gaelen Foley writes an elegant, emotional story that touches the heart and soul.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDriven to uncover the truth about the mysterious death of his ladylove, the Duke of Hawkscliffe will go to any lengths to unmask a murderer. Even if it means jeopardizing his reputation by engaging in a scandalous affair with London's most provocative courtesan—the desirable but aloof Belinda Hamilton.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBel has used her intelligence and wit to charm the city's titled gentlemen, while struggling to put the pieces of her life back together. She needs a protector, so she accepts Hawk's invitation to become his mistress in name only. He asks nothing of her body, but seeks her help in snaring the same man who shattered her virtue. Together they tempt the unforgiving wrath of society—until their risky charade turns into a dangerous attraction, and Bel must make a devastating decision that could ruin her last chance at love. . . .“Gaelen Foley . . . is destined to captivate readers.”\u003cb\u003e—Romantic Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Romance is the literature of possibility,\" states award-winning author Gaelen Foley. \"Romance celebrates the richness and beauty of living and reaffirms the eternal truth that love is the glue that holds the universe together. And, of course, it's wicked fun!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter earning her B.A. in literature from the State University of New York at Fredonia, Gaelen moonlighted as a waitress for nearly five years while devoting her daylight hours to honing her craft. Her first book, The Pirate Prince, won the Romantic Times Reviewer's Choice Award for Best First Historical Romance, and was nominated for the Holt Medallion for Best First Book. She is also the author of Princess and Prince Charming.\u003ci\u003eLondon, 1814\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMany years ago, as a curly-headed youth on grand tour,\u003cbr\u003ehe had fallen madly in love with beauty and so had stopped\u003cbr\u003ein Florence to take drafting lessons from a bonafide Italian\u003cbr\u003emaster. Starry-eyed and romantical, he had followed the\u003cbr\u003elight-winged muses south to the Bay of Sorrento, where he\u003cbr\u003ehad first heard the ancient Italian proverb \"Revenge is a\u003cbr\u003edish best served cold.\" He was an old man now, without illusions,\u003cbr\u003ecold and canny as a scheming pope. Beauty had\u003cbr\u003ebetrayed him, but decades later, oddly enough, here on this\u003cbr\u003egray English day, the Sicilian proverb held true.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA neat, slight-framed man, James Breckinridge, the earl\u003cbr\u003eof Coldfell, gripped the ivory head of his walking stick in\u003cbr\u003egnarled fingers that ached with the needling April rain. He\u003cbr\u003epermitted his footman to assist him down from his luxurious\u003cbr\u003eblack town coach while another held an umbrella\u003cbr\u003eover him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe slumbrous quiet in this place was like a church, but\u003cbr\u003efor the pattering of the rain. He turned slowly, looked past\u003cbr\u003ethe servants' blanked faces, past the jagged wrought-iron\u003cbr\u003efence, into St. George's Burying Ground on the Uxbridge\u003cbr\u003eRoad, just north of Hyde Park. Three weeks ago, he had\u003cbr\u003eburied his young bride here. Under a chilly gray drizzle,\u003cbr\u003ewhere the hill curved green, her marble monument rose\u003cbr\u003elike an angry needle to the smoke-colored sky. Beneath it,\u003cbr\u003ejust where Coldfell had expected to find him, stood the\u003cbr\u003etall, powerful, brooding silhouette of a man; wind-blown\u003cbr\u003eand lost, the wide shoulders slumped as the gusty rain\u003cbr\u003eblew his black greatcoat around him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHawkscliffe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eColdfell's mouth flattened into a thin line. He took the\u003cbr\u003eumbrella from the footman. \"I shan't be long.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes, my lord.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLeaning on his walking stick, he began the slow ascent\u003cbr\u003eup the graveled path.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe thirty-five-year-old Robert Knight, ninth duke of\u003cbr\u003eHawkscliffe, appeared unaware of his approach, stony and\u003cbr\u003eimmobile as the monument. He stood in bleak granite stillness,\u003cbr\u003ethe rain plastering his wavy black hair to his forehead,\u003cbr\u003erunning in chilly rivulets down the stark planes of his cheeks,\u003cbr\u003eand dripping off his rugged profile as he stared down at the\u003cbr\u003eyellow daffodils that had been planted on her grave.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eColdfell winced at the ungentlemanly intrusion he was\u003cbr\u003eabout to make on the other man's grief. Hawkscliffe was,\u003cbr\u003eafter all, the only one of the younger generation he respected.\u003cbr\u003eSome of the old-school pigtail Tories found the\u003cbr\u003eyoung magnate's views alarmingly Whiggish, but none\u003cbr\u003ecould deny that Hawkscliffe was twice the man his weak-willed\u003cbr\u003efather had been.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy, Coldfell reflected as he hobbled up the path, he\u003cbr\u003ehad seen Robert become a duke at the age of seventeen,\u003cbr\u003emanaging three vast estates and raising four wild younger\u003cbr\u003ebrothers and a little sister practically single-handedly.\u003cbr\u003eMore recently, he had heard him deliver speeches in the\u003cbr\u003eLords with a cool force and eloquence that had brought the\u003cbr\u003ewhole house to its feet. Hawkscliffe's integrity was unquestioned;\u003cbr\u003ehis honor rang true as a bell of finest sterling.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMany of the younger set, like Coldfell's own idiot nephew\u003cbr\u003eand heir, Sir Dolph Breckinridge, considered the so-called \u003cbr\u003eparagon duke a rigid high stickler, but to wiser heads,\u003cbr\u003eHawkscliffe was, in a word, impeccable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was pitiful to see what Lucy's death had done to him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAh, well.\u003c\/i\u003e Men would see in a woman what they wanted\u003cbr\u003eto see.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eColdfell cleared his throat. Startled, Hawkscliffe jerked\u003cbr\u003eat the noise and spun around. Tumultuous emotion blazed\u003cbr\u003ein his dark eyes. Seeing Coldfell, his dazed expression of\u003cbr\u003epain took on a stab of guilt. With his honorable nature, it\u003cbr\u003ehad no doubt tormented the duke to have wanted an old\u003cbr\u003efriend's wife. Himself, he had never been that chivalrous.\u003cbr\u003eJames nodded to him. \"Hawkscliffe.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Beg your pardon, my lord, I was just leaving,\" he\u003cbr\u003emumbled, lowering his head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Stay, Your Grace, by all means,\" Coldfell answered,\u003cbr\u003ewaving off the awkwardness. \"Keep an old man company\u003cbr\u003eon this dreary day.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"As you wish, sir.\" Narrowing his eyes against the rain,\u003cbr\u003eHawkscliffe looked away uncomfortably, surveying the\u003cbr\u003ejagged horizon of tombstones.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eColdfell hobbled to the brim of the grave, cursing his\u003cbr\u003eaching joints. When the weather was fine, he could hunt all\u003cbr\u003eday without tiring. But he had not been energetic enough\u003cbr\u003efor Lucy, had he?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWell, she had had her fashionable London burial, just as\u003cbr\u003eshe would have liked. Having died at his house just outside\u003cbr\u003eLondon, she had a spot in the most exclusive cemetery in\u003cbr\u003ethe city, complete with a Flaxman funerary monument, the\u003cbr\u003eheight of good taste, sparing no expense. And well he should\u003cbr\u003ehave to pay for this most expensive mistake--an old man's\u003cbr\u003efolly, he thought bitterly. Beauty indeed was his weakness.\u003cbr\u003eWith nothing to recommend her but a magnificent mane of\u003cbr\u003eflame-colored hair and the most luscious thighs in Christendom,\u003cbr\u003ethe twenty-six-year-old Lucy O'Malley had been an\u003cbr\u003eartist's model in Sheffield before she had bewitched him\u003cbr\u003einto making her his second countess. He had sworn her to\u003cbr\u003ekeep quiet about her background, devising a false one for\u003cbr\u003eher. At least she had given that pledge sincerely, eager as\u003cbr\u003eshe had been to join the ton.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eColdfell was merely glad he had not been forced to bury\u003cbr\u003eLucy next to Margaret, his first wife, who was reverently\u003cbr\u003eenshrined at Seven Oaks, the ancestral pile in Leicestershire.\u003cbr\u003eAh, wise Margaret, his heart's mate, whose only\u003cbr\u003efault had been her failure to give him a son.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I am--very sorry for your loss, my lord,\" Hawkscliffe\u003cbr\u003esaid stiffly, avoiding his gaze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eColdfell slid a furtive glance at the duke, then sighed,\u003cbr\u003enodding. \"It's hard to believe she's really gone. So young.\u003cbr\u003eSo full of life.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"What will you do now?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I leave for Leicestershire tomorrow. A few weeks in\u003cbr\u003ethe country will help, I warrant.\" A visit to Seven Oaks\u003cbr\u003ewould also take him out of the way of suspicion when this\u003cbr\u003eman carried out the deed for him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm sure you will find it soothing,\" Hawkscliffe said--\u003cbr\u003epolite, automatic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey were both silent for a long moment, Hawkscliffe\u003cbr\u003ebrooding, Coldfell reflecting on the uneasiness of living\u003cbr\u003eanymore in his elegant villa in South Kensington with its\u003cbr\u003efour pretty acres of sculpted gardens--the site of Lucy's\u003cbr\u003edeath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\" 'Lay her in the earth. And from her fair and unpolluted\u003cbr\u003eflesh may violets spring,' \" Hawkscliffe quoted barely\u003cbr\u003eaudibly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eColdfell looked at him in pity. \"Laertes' speech on\u003cbr\u003eOphelia's grave.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe duke said nothing, merely stared at the carven letters\u003cbr\u003eon the monument: Lucy's name, her date of birth and\u003cbr\u003edeath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I never touched her,\" he choked out abruptly, turning to \u003cbr\u003eColdfell in impetuous anguish. \"You have my word as a\u003cbr\u003egentleman. She never betrayed you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEvenly, Coldfell held his gaze, then nodded as though\u003cbr\u003esatisfied, but of course he had already known.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ah, Robert,\" he said heavily after a long moment, \"it is\u003cbr\u003eso strange, the way they found her. She went out to our\u003cbr\u003epond every day to sketch the swans. How could she have\u003cbr\u003eslipped? Perhaps my brain is muddled with grief, but it\u003cbr\u003emakes no sense to me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"She could never slip,\" he said vehemently. \"She was\u003cbr\u003egraceful . . . so graceful.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eColdfell was taken aback by his ferocity. This was going\u003cbr\u003eto be easier than he'd hoped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Did your servants report anything strange that day, my\u003cbr\u003elord, if I may presume to ask?\" pursued the duke.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Nothing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Did anyone see anything? Hear anything? She was in\u003cbr\u003eearshot of the house. Could they not hear her cries for\u003cbr\u003ehelp?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Perhaps she had no time to cry out before she fell beneath\u003cbr\u003ethe water.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHawkscliffe turned away again, his firm mouth grimly\u003cbr\u003epursed. \"My lord, I have the blackest suspicions.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eColdfell paused, watching him. \"I wish that I could put\u003cbr\u003eyour mind at ease, but I'm afraid that I, too, am haunted by\u003cbr\u003esevere doubts.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHawkscliffe turned and stared penetratingly at him. His\u003cbr\u003edark eyes glowed like hellfire. \"Go on.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It doesn't add up. There was no blood on the rock\u003cbr\u003ewhere they said she . . . struck her head. What am I to do? I\u003cbr\u003eam an old man. These sore limbs are weak. I haven't the\u003cbr\u003estrength,\" he said slowly, emphatically, \"to do what a husband\u003cbr\u003eshould.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I do,\" vowed Hawkscliffe.","brand":"Ivy Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302698602725,"sku":"NP9780449006368","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780449006368.jpg?v=1767739094","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-duke-isbn-9780449006368","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}