{"product_id":"a-rogue-of-ones-own-isbn-9781984805706","title":"A Rogue of One's Own","description":"\u003cb\u003e“Dunmore is my new find in historical romance. Her A League of Extraordinary Women series is extraordinary.”—Julia Quinn, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This series balances friendship, politics, history, and romance in just the right mix.”—U.S. Representative Katie Porter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn Indie Next\/LibraryReads pick!\u003cbr\u003eAn Apple Must Listen Audiobook for September!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA lady must have money and an army of her own if she is to win a revolution—but first, she must pit her wits against the wiles of an irresistible rogue bent on wrecking her plans…and her heart. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Lady Lucie is fuming. She and her band of Oxford suffragists have finally scraped together enough capital to control one of London’s major publishing houses, with one purpose: to use it in a coup against Parliament. But who could have predicted that the one person standing between her and success is her old nemesis and London’s undisputed lord of sin, Lord Ballentine? Or that he would be willing to hand over the reins for an outrageous price—a night in her bed. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Lucie tempts Tristan like no other woman, burning him up with her fierceness and determination every time they clash. But as their battle of wills and words fans the flames of long-smoldering devotion, the silver-tongued seducer runs the risk of becoming caught in his own snare. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e As Lucie tries to out-maneuver Tristan in the boardroom and the bedchamber, she soon discovers there’s truth in what the poets say: all is fair in love and war…\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\"Rich with subplot, historical detail and beautifully descriptive writing that keeps the pages turning until the delightfully unconventional happy ending.\"—NPR\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for Evie Dunmore and\u003ci\u003e A Rogue of One's Own\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \"With her smart, well-researched stories and wildly appealing characters, Evie Dunmore has a unique ability to write historical romance for the modern reader. Evie Dunmore is my favorite new historical romance author!\"\u003cb\u003e—Lisa Kleypas, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Miss Dunmore is a literary force to be reckoned with. She’s single handedly forging a new historical romance era and I am here. For. It.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Rachel Van Dyken, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A swoonworthy romance fueled by electric chemistry.”\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Chanel Cleeton, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Dunmore creates pure magic with this charming, romantic novel featuring a strong, stubborn heroine and a sexy, slightly-broken hero. Full of romance, humor, and heart, all revolving around the fascinating dynamics of the suffragist movement, it’s one of my favorite novels of 2020!”\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Jennifer Probst, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"There are few things I love more than a committed rogue…and better yet, his delicious comeuppance at the hands of the only woman who could ever possibly tame him! What a marvelous ride!\"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Megan Crane, \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eUSA Today \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003ebestselling author\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"A truly delightful historical romance, with oodles of period detail and lots of laugh out loud moments. Evie Dunmore is an author to watch, and this book will delight fans of Tessa Dare, Eva Leigh and Julia Quinn.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Historical Novel Society\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"With a whip-smart suffragist heroine and a charming scoundrel of a leading man, this fresh take on historical romance is definitely one of my favorite reads of the year!\"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Stephanie Marie Thornton, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Evie Dunmore is a phenomenon!...Breathtaking, high stakes romance, with one of the loveliest endings I’ve read in years.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Anna Campbell, author of the bestselling Dashing Widows series\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“The perfect intersection of fierce feminism and swoon-worthy romance.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Eva Leigh, author of \u003ci\u003eMy Fake Rake\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"A modern romance in a Victorian dress, sans the corset.\"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Amy E. Reichert, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Coincidence of Coconut Cake\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eEvie Dunmore\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eBringing Down the Duke. \u003c\/i\u003eHer League of Extraordinary Women series is inspired by her passion for romance, women pioneers, and all things Victorian. In her civilian life, she is a consultant with a M.Sc. in Diplomacy from Oxford. Evie lives in Berlin and pours her fascination with 19th century Britain into her writing. She is a member of the British Romantic Novelists' Association (RNA).Chapter 1\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Buckinghamshire, Summer 1865\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Young ladies did not lie prone on the rug behind the library’s\u003cbr\u003e    chesterfield and play chess against themselves. They did not stuff their\u003cbr\u003e    cheeks with boiled sweets before breakfast. Lucie knew this. But it was\u003cbr\u003e    the summer holidays and the dullest of them yet: Tommy had come home\u003cbr\u003e    from Eton a proper prig who wouldn’t play with girls anymore; newly\u003cbr\u003e    arrived cousin Cecily was the type of child who cried easily; and, at\u003cbr\u003e    barely thirteen years of age, Lucie found she was too young to just\u003cbr\u003e    decorously die of boredom. Her mother, on the other hand, would probably\u003cbr\u003e    consider this quite a noble death. Then again, to the Countess of\u003cbr\u003e    Wycliffe, most things were preferable over hoydenish behavior.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    The smell of leather and dust was in her nose and the library was\u003cbr\u003e    pleasantly silent. Morning sun pooled on the chessboard and made the\u003cbr\u003e    white queen shine bright like a beacon. She was in peril—­a rogue knight\u003cbr\u003e    had set a trap, and Her Majesty could now choose to sacrifice herself to\u003cbr\u003e    protect the king, or to let him fall. Lucie’s fingers hovered over the\u003cbr\u003e    polished ivory crown, indecisive.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Rapid footsteps echoed in the hallway.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Her mother’s delicate heels—­but Mother never ran?\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    The door flew open.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “How could you? How could you?”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Lucie froze. Her mother’s voice was trembling with outrage.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    The door slammed shut again and the floor shook from the force of it.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “In front of everyone, the whole ballroom—­”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “Come now, must you carry on so?”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Her stomach felt hollow. It was her father, his tone coldly bored and\u003cbr\u003e    cutting.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “Everyone knows, while I’m abed at home, oblivious!”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “Good Gad. Why Rochester’s wife calls herself your friend is beyond\u003cbr\u003e    me—­she fills your ears with gossip and now look at you, raving like a\u003cbr\u003e    madwoman. Why, I should have sent her away last night; it is rather like\u003cbr\u003e    her erratic self to invite herself, to arrive late and unannounced—­”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “She stays,” snapped Mama. “She must stay—­one honest person in a pit of\u003cbr\u003e    snakes.”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Her father laughed. “Lady Rochester, honest? Have you seen her son? What\u003cbr\u003e    an odd little ginger fellow—­I’d wager a thousand pounds he isn’t even\u003cbr\u003e    Rochester’s spawn—­”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “What about you, Wycliffe? How many have you spawned among your side\u003cbr\u003e    pieces?”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “Now. This is below you, wife.”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    There was a pause, and it stretched and grew heavy like a lead blanket.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Lucie’s heart was drumming against her ribs, hard and painful, the thuds\u003cbr\u003e    so loud, they had to hear it.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    A sob shattered the quiet and it hit her stomach like a punch. Her\u003cbr\u003e    mother was crying.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “I beseech you, Thomas. What have I done wrong so you won’t even grant\u003cbr\u003e    me discretion?”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “Discretion—­madam, your screeching can be heard from miles away!”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “I gave you Tommy,” she said between sobs. “I nearly died giving you\u003cbr\u003e    Tommy and yet you flaunt that . . . that person—­in front of everyone.”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “Saints, grant me patience—­why am I shackled to such an overemotional\u003cbr\u003e    female?”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “I love you so, Thomas. Why, why can’t you love me?”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    A groan, fraught with impatience. “I love you well enough, wife, though\u003cbr\u003e    your hysterics do make it a challenge.”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “Why must it be so?” Mama keened. “Why am I not enough for you?”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “Because, my dear, I am a man. May I have some peace in my library now,\u003cbr\u003e    please.”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    A hesitation; then, a gasp that sounded like surrender.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    The thud of the heavy door falling shut once more came from a distance.\u003cbr\u003e    A roar filled Lucie’s ears. Her throat was clogged with boiled sweets;\u003cbr\u003e    she’d have to breathe through her mouth. But he would hear her.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    She could hold out. She would not breathe.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    The snick of a lighter. Wycliffe had lit a cigarette. Floorboards\u003cbr\u003e    creaked. Leather crunched. He had settled into his armchair.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Her lungs were burning, and her fingers were white as bone, alien and\u003cbr\u003e    clawlike against the dizzying swirls of the rug.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Still she lay silent. King and queen blurred before her eyes.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    She could hold out.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Black began edging her vision. It was as though she’d never breathe again.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Paper rustled. The earl was reading the morning news.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    A mile from the library, deep in the cool green woods of Wycliffe Park,\u003cbr\u003e    Tristan Ballentine, the second son of the Earl of Rochester, had just\u003cbr\u003e    decided to spend all his future summers at Wycliffe Hall. He might have\u003cbr\u003e    to befriend Tommy, Greatest Prig at Eton, to put this plan into\u003cbr\u003e    practice, but the morning walks alone would be worth it. Unlike the\u003cbr\u003e    estate of his family seat, where every shrub was pruned and accounted\u003cbr\u003e    for, Wycliffe Park left nature to its own devices. Trees gnarled.\u003cbr\u003e    Shrubbery sprawled. The air was sweet with the fragrance of forest\u003cbr\u003e    flowers. And he had found a most suitable place for reading Wordsworth:\u003cbr\u003e    a circular clearing at the end of a hollow way. A large standing stone\u003cbr\u003e    loomed at its center.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Dew drenched his trouser legs as he circled the monolith. It looked\u003cbr\u003e    suspiciously like a fairy stone, weathered and conical, planted here\u003cbr\u003e    before all time. Of course, at twelve years of age, he was too old to\u003cbr\u003e    believe in fairies and the like. His father had made this abundantly\u003cbr\u003e    clear. Poetry, too, was forbidden in Ashdown Castle. Romantic lines ran\u003cbr\u003e    counter to the Ballentine motto, “With Valor and Vigor.” But here, who\u003cbr\u003e    could find him? Who would see? His copy of Wordsworth and Coleridge’s\u003cbr\u003e    Lyrical Ballads was at the ready.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    He shrugged out of his coat and spread it on the grass, then made to\u003cbr\u003e    stretch himself out on his belly. The fine fabric of his trousers\u003cbr\u003e    promptly grated like chain mail against the broken skin on his backside,\u003cbr\u003e    making him hiss in pain. His father drove his lessons home with a cane.\u003cbr\u003e    And yesterday, the earl had been overzealous, again. It was why Mama had\u003cbr\u003e    grabbed him, Tristan, and he had grabbed his books, and they had taken\u003cbr\u003e    off to visit her friend Lady Wycliffe for the summer.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    He tried finding a comfortable position, shifting this way and that,\u003cbr\u003e    then he gave up, unhooked his braces and began unbuttoning the fall of\u003cbr\u003e    the pesky trousers. The next moment, the ground began to shake.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    For a beat, he froze.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    He snatched his coat and dove behind the standing stone just as a black\u003cbr\u003e    horse thundered into view in the hollow-­way. A magnificent animal,\u003cbr\u003e    gleaming with sweat, foam flying from its bit. The kind of stallion\u003cbr\u003e    kings and heroes rode. It scrambled to a sudden halt on the clearing,\u003cbr\u003e    sending lumps of soil flying with plate-­sized hooves.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    He gasped with shocked surprise.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    The rider was no king. No hero. The rider was not a man at all.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    It was a girl.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    She wore boots and breeches like a boy and rode astride, but there was\u003cbr\u003e    no doubt she was a girl. A coolly shimmering fall of ice-­blond hair\u003cbr\u003e    streamed down her back and whirled round her like a silken veil when the\u003cbr\u003e    horse pivoted.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    He couldn’t have moved had he tried. He was stunned, his gaze riveted to\u003cbr\u003e    her face—­was she real? Her face . . . was perfect. Delicate and\u003cbr\u003e    heart-­shaped, with fine, winged eyebrows and an obstinate, pointy\u003cbr\u003e    little chin. A fairy.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    But her cheeks were flushed an angry pink and her lips pressed into a\u003cbr\u003e    line. She looked ready to ride into battle on the big black beast . . .\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    She made to slide from the saddle, and he shrank back behind the stone.\u003cbr\u003e    He should show himself. His mouth went dry. What would he say? What did\u003cbr\u003e    one say to someone so lovely and fierce?\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Her boots hit the ground with a light thud. She muttered a few soft\u003cbr\u003e    words to the stallion. Then nothing.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    He craned his neck. The girl was gone. Quietly, he crept forward. When\u003cbr\u003e    he rose to a crouch, he spotted her supine form in the grass, her\u003cbr\u003e    slender arms flung wide.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    He might have moved a little closer . . . closer, even. He straightened,\u003cbr\u003e    peering down.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Her eyes were closed. Her lashes lay dark and straight against her pale\u003cbr\u003e    cheeks. The gleaming strands of her hair fanned out around her head like\u003cbr\u003e    rays of a white cold winter sun.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    His heart was racing. A powerful ache welled from his core, an anxious\u003cbr\u003e    urgency, a dread, of sorts—­this was a rare, precious opportunity and he\u003cbr\u003e    was woefully unprepared to grasp it. He had not known girls like her\u003cbr\u003e    existed, outside the fairy books and the princesses of the Nordic sagas\u003cbr\u003e    he had to read in secret . . .\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    An angry snort tore through the silence. The stallion was approaching,\u003cbr\u003e    ears flat and teeth bared.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “Hell,” Tristan said.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    The girl’s eyes snapped open. They stared at each other, her flat on her\u003cbr\u003e    back, him looming.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    She was on her feet like a shot. “You! You are trespassing.”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    She had looked petite, but they stood nearly eye to eye.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    He felt his face freeze in a dim-­witted grin. “No, I—­”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Stormy gray eyes narrowed at him. “I know who you are. You are Lady\u003cbr\u003e    Rochester’s son.”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    He remembered to bow his head. Quite nicely, too. “Tristan Ballentine.\u003cbr\u003e    Your servant.”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “You were spying on me!”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    “No. Yes. Well, a little,” he admitted, for he had.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    It was the worst moment to remember that the flap of his trousers was\u003cbr\u003e    still half undone. Reflexively, he reached for the buttons, and the\u003cbr\u003e    girl’s gaze followed.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    She gasped.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    Next he knew, her hand flew up and pain exploded in his left cheek. He\u003cbr\u003e    staggered back, disoriented and clutching his face. He half-­expected\u003cbr\u003e    his hand to come away smeared with red.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    He looked from his palm at her face. “Now that was uncalled for.”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    A flicker of uncertainty, perhaps contrition, briefly cooled the blaze\u003cbr\u003e    in her eyes. Then she raised her hand with renewed determination. “You\u003cbr\u003e    have seen nothing yet,” she snarled. “Leave me alone, you . . . little\u003cbr\u003e    ginger.”\u003cbr\u003e   \u003cbr\u003e    His cheeks burned, and not from the slap. He knew he had barely grown an\u003cbr\u003e    inch since his birthday, and yes, he worried the famous Ballentine\u003cbr\u003e    height was eluding him. The runt, Marcus called him. His hand curled\u003cbr\u003e    into a fist. If she were a boy, he’d deck her. But a gentleman never\u003cbr\u003e    raised his hand to a girl, even if she made him want to howl. Marcus,\u003cbr\u003e    now Marcus would have known how to handle this vicious pixie with\u003cbr\u003e    aplomb. Tristan could only beat a hasty retreat, the slap still pulsing\u003cbr\u003e    like fire on his cheekbone. The Lyrical Ballads lay forgotten in damp grass.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304926400741,"sku":"NP9781984805706","price":19.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781984805706.jpg?v=1767720765","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/a-rogue-of-ones-own-isbn-9781984805706","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}