A Husband for Hartwell by J.A. Rock EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
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- Author: J.A. Rock
- Language: English
- Genre: Regency Historical Romance
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
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William Hartwell, arguably London’s most eligible bachelor
and certainly London’s most melancholy marquess, was not
entirely surprised to find a frog down the back of his shirt.
Perhaps he should have been. Nobody had put a frog down his shirt in a
very long time. But once he’d shot to his feet, tugging his shirt free from his
trousers in a flurry of panic, he heard Lady Rebecca Warrington’s musical
laugh behind him.
“Gentle!” she chided. “It is not the frog’s fault. It is mine. I couldn’t
resist.”
He turned to face his truest friend. As he did, the frog slid down his
back and out the bottom of his shirt. It sat for a moment on the grass, its
vocal sac inflating and deflating, and then it hopped away.
“Whatever possessed you?” he asked brusquely, seating himself again
with what he hoped was a modicum of dignity.
She gazed at him for a long moment, the light catching in her golden
curls. Hartwell could not read her expression. The early spring grass was
warm under his palms, reigniting his irritation at the unseasonably sunny
day. What right had the weather to be so fair when his mood was so foul?
From several feet behind them came a cough, which only rendered
Hartwell’s countenance darker. He missed his childhood days when he and
Becca could sit on her lawn without a chaperone.
“I could not stand to see your long face,” she replied at last. Her creamcoloured afternoon dress had a grass stain near one knee, and her shawl lay
discarded nearby.
“Put your shawl on. You’ll catch cold.”
“William Hartwell.” Her low, lovely voice had sharpened significantly.
“Do not harry me as though I am a child and you are my nursemaid. I am
your oldest friend and confidante. I have been assaulting you with frogs
since we were in leading strings, and I implore you to tell me what’s wrong.
Is it what my father said?”
It most certainly was, and her acuity pierced between his ribs with a
keenness that lingered.
William, Marquess of Hartwell, was three-and-twenty years old and the
only son of the Duke of Ancaster. He was more than aware that his dark
eyes, chiselled features, artfully tumbled black curls and tall, muscular body
—not to mention his vast wealth—attracted not only the, wholly welcome,
attention of other sons of the nobility, but the sharp interest of aristocratic
daughters and their parents. He was also aware that his parents were
growing impatient for him to marry. He’d managed to fend off his mother’s
unsubtle hints last Season, but now they weren’t so much hints as a
battering ram taken to his—if his mother was to be believed—incomparably
thick skull. The Hartwells needed an heir. Which meant William Hartwell,
an only son, needed a wife.
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