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Title: A Radical Arrangement
Author: Jane Ashford
Pubdate: August 4th, 2015
ISBN: 9781492602293
A classic
Regency romance from beloved author Jane Ashford!
Brash and
Handsome
Sir Justin Keighley is all wrong for a proper young lady like Margaret
Mayfield. Everyone knows he is shocking in his opinions, arrogant in his
manner, and completely without respect for the common decencies of civilized
society. Margaret absolutely will not marry him—no matter what her parents say.
Beautiful and
Shy
Margaret was everything Sir Justin detested in a woman—timid, sheltered,
and obedient to a fault. It’s not until she runs away from him that he finds he
must give chase. Margaret is discovering she can be bold and
rebellious—intrepid enough to do what she must, and more exciting than Justin
ever imagined possible. She’s the last woman he would have expected to lead
them both into uncharted territory…
Jane Ashford, a retired teacher and
editor, is now a beloved author of historical and contemporary romances. She
has been published in various parts of the world, including Sweden, Italy,
England, Denmark, France, Russia, Latvia, Spain, and of course the U.S. Jane is
also a two-time RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award nominee. Born in Ohio,
Jane now divides her time between Boston and Los Angeles.
An Excerpt:
Sir Justin Keighley
stood in the doorway, looking them over with a slight, satirical curve of his
lips. He wore, like the other gentlemen, conventional evening dress, but this
superficial similarity was their only common ground. Ralph Mayfìeld, Philip
Manningham, the squire, and John Twitchel were none of them unattractive men or
negligible personalities. Each, in his own sphere, had a certain dignity and
authority, and all had the confidence that respect engendered. Yet somehow, the
moment he entered the room and before he spoke a word, Justin Keighley eclipsed
them. It was not charm. Indeed, the newcomer did not look at all pleasant or
ingratiating. And it was not mere social position. Keighley held an ancient
baronetcy and a substantial fortune, but any of twenty men his hosts were
accustomed to meeting ranked above him. Ralph Mayfield could not have said why
he felt subdued as he came forward to greet his final guest.
The squire’s wife
might have enlightened him. As she had told a friend at a Bath assembly two
years ago, “Justin Keighley is a vastly attractive man, my dear. And not just
to women. All the young men ape him, my son among them. I don’t know just how
it is, but he has a great influence without appearing to seek it in the least.
Indeed, sometimes I think he dislikes the idea. But it goes on. It’s something
in his manner. No doubt you’ve noticed it yourself. He makes you look at him.” Mrs. Camden had been embarrassed by this
speech, but it was quite true. And Keighley’s attraction was the more
mysterious because he was not conventionally handsome. Though tall and well
made, with broad shoulders and a good leg, his features were rough—a jutting nose
and heavy black brows that nearly obscured expressive hazel eyes. And he took
no care with his dress, a rarity in an elegant age. His coats were made so that
he could shrug himself into them without help; his collars did not even
approach his jaw; and he had once been observed in White’s with a distinct
thumb mark on his Hessian boots, giving one of the dandy set what he described
as “a shuddering palpitation.”
But these sartorial
eccentricities were outweighed by Sir Justin’s political influence and sagacity.
He was an intimate of the Prince Regent and Lord Holland, and important in the
Whig Party. These facts did not explain his fascination for a great number of
people, chiefly women, who hadn’t the slightest interest in politics, but they
amply justified the Mayfìelds’ attention and suppressed antipathy.
“Good evening,”
Keighley said to Mr. Mayfield in a deep, resonant voice. “I hope I haven’t kept
you waiting.”
“Not at all, not at
all. Come in. You know everyone, I think.”
Sir Justin bowed his
head with a sardonic smile. He always met precisely the same people at his
yearly dinner with the Mayfields, presumably those they were certain he could
not “corrupt” with his aberrant opinions, and he always felt the same
infuriated boredom. For the fiftieth time he wondered why he came. There was no
hope of amusement or chance of advantage here. The Mayfields and their friends
were just the sort of smug, resolutely conventional people he despised. They
held to the views their fathers had bequeathed them and attacked all others. If
one tried to make them change even a fraction, they shook their heads and
muttered of treason.
He looked around the
room. The only addition this year was the Mayfìelds’ daughter. He had forgotten
her name, but he remembered that she had come out last season. She looked as
one would have expected: a pallid, simpering creature. Keighley shrugged.
Politics forced him to endure fools occasionally. The Prince would want to know
the climate of opinion here in Devon. He supposed he could get through this
evening as he had previous ones, through a combination of stoicism and bitter
inner laughter.
Margaret watched him
with awed apprehension as he settled beside Mrs. Camden and began to chat with
her about London. She had never actually spoken to Sir Justin; her mother had
seen to that. But she had heard him talked of so many times that she felt she
knew what he would say in response to a wide variety of remarks. It would
always be shocking. She gazed at him in an effort to understand how any man
could be so utterly depraved in thought and action, almost expecting his rugged
face to contort in a grimace of malevolence and his chiseled lips to emit some
horrifying revelation.
Suddenly Sir Justin
looked up and met her eyes from across the room. He seemed at first startled to
find her staring, then his mocking smile appeared again, and he raised one
black brow, holding her gaze. Embarrassed, Margaret tried to look away, but
something in his hazel eyes prevented it. A spark glinted there, and she felt a
kind of tremor along her nerves. It was utterly unfamiliar and unsettling, like
a violent thrill of feeling. How could a stranger affect her so? This must be
fear, she thought; I am afraid of him. She began to tremble, but still she
could not turn her head away. He seemed to understand her reaction and, amused,
to prolong the contact on purpose.
Finally Keighley
laughed and bent to answer some question of Mrs. Camden’s. Margaret jerked back
in her chair and clasped her shaking hands so tightly that the knuckles
whitened. He was a dreadful man. She would not speak to him, and if she ever
saw him again, she would run away.
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