A rogue of one's own /

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

"Dunmore is my new find in historical romance. Her A League of Extraordinary Women series is extraordinary."--Julia Quinn, #1 New York Times bestselling author

"This series balances friendship, politics, history, and romance in just the right mix."--U.S. Representative Katie Porter

An Indie Next/LibraryReads pick!
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A 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.

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.

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.

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...

"Rich with subplot, historical detail and beautifully descriptive writing that keeps the pages turning until the delightfully unconventional happy ending."--NPR

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

Chapter 1         Buckinghamshire, Summer 1865         Young ladies did not lie prone on the rug behind the library's     chesterfield and play chess against themselves. They did not stuff their     cheeks with boiled sweets before breakfast. Lucie knew this. But it was     the summer holidays and the dullest of them yet: Tommy had come home     from Eton a proper prig who wouldn't play with girls anymore; newly     arrived cousin Cecily was the type of child who cried easily; and, at     barely thirteen years of age, Lucie found she was too young to just     decorously die of boredom. Her mother, on the other hand, would probably     consider this quite a noble death. Then again, to the Countess of     Wycliffe, most things were preferable over hoydenish behavior.         The smell of leather and dust was in her nose and the library was     pleasantly silent. Morning sun pooled on the chessboard and made the     white queen shine bright like a beacon. She was in peril--­a rogue knight     had set a trap, and Her Majesty could now choose to sacrifice herself to     protect the king, or to let him fall. Lucie's fingers hovered over the     polished ivory crown, indecisive.         Rapid footsteps echoed in the hallway.         Her mother's delicate heels--­but Mother never ran?         The door flew open.         "How could you? How could you?"         Lucie froze. Her mother's voice was trembling with outrage.         The door slammed shut again and the floor shook from the force of it.         "In front of everyone, the whole ballroom--­"         "Come now, must you carry on so?"         Her stomach felt hollow. It was her father, his tone coldly bored and     cutting.         "Everyone knows, while I'm abed at home, oblivious!"         "Good Gad. Why Rochester's wife calls herself your friend is beyond     me--­she fills your ears with gossip and now look at you, raving like a     madwoman. Why, I should have sent her away last night; it is rather like     her erratic self to invite herself, to arrive late and unannounced--­"         "She stays," snapped Mama. "She must stay--­one honest person in a pit of     snakes."         Her father laughed. "Lady Rochester, honest? Have you seen her son? What     an odd little ginger fellow--­I'd wager a thousand pounds he isn't even     Rochester's spawn--­"         "What about you, Wycliffe? How many have you spawned among your side     pieces?"         "Now. This is below you, wife."         There was a pause, and it stretched and grew heavy like a lead blanket.         Lucie's heart was drumming against her ribs, hard and painful, the thuds     so loud, they had to hear it.         A sob shattered the quiet and it hit her stomach like a punch. Her     mother was crying.         "I beseech you, Thomas. What have I done wrong so you won't even grant     me discretion?"         "Discretion--­madam, your screeching can be heard from miles away!"         "I gave you Tommy," she said between sobs. "I nearly died giving you     Tommy and yet you flaunt that . . . that person--­in front of everyone."         "Saints, grant me patience--­why am I shackled to such an overemotional     female?"         "I love you so, Thomas. Why, why can't you love me?"         A groan, fraught with impatience. "I love you well enough, wife, though     your hysterics do make it a challenge."         "Why must it be so?" Mama keened. "Why am I not enough for you?"         "Because, my dear, I am a man. May I have some peace in my library now,     please."         A hesitation; then, a gasp that sounded like surrender.         The thud of the heavy door falling shut once more came from a distance.     A roar filled Lucie's ears. Her throat was clogged with boiled sweets;     she'd have to breathe through her mouth. But he would hear her.         She could hold out. She would not breathe.         The snick of a lighter. Wycliffe had lit a cigarette. Floorboards     creaked. Leather crunched. He had settled into his armchair.         Her lungs were burning, and her fingers were white as bone, alien and     clawlike against the dizzying swirls of the rug.         Still she lay silent. King and queen blurred before her eyes.         She could hold out.         Black began edging her vision. It was as though she'd never breathe again.         Paper rustled. The earl was reading the morning news.         A mile from the library, deep in the cool green woods of Wycliffe Park,     Tristan Ballentine, the second son of the Earl of Rochester, had just     decided to spend all his future summers at Wycliffe Hall. He might have     to befriend Tommy, Greatest Prig at Eton, to put this plan into     practice, but the morning walks alone would be worth it. Unlike the     estate of his family seat, where every shrub was pruned and accounted     for, Wycliffe Park left nature to its own devices. Trees gnarled.     Shrubbery sprawled. The air was sweet with the fragrance of forest     flowers. And he had found a most suitable place for reading Wordsworth:     a circular clearing at the end of a hollow way. A large standing stone     loomed at its center.         Dew drenched his trouser legs as he circled the monolith. It looked     suspiciously like a fairy stone, weathered and conical, planted here     before all time. Of course, at twelve years of age, he was too old to     believe in fairies and the like. His father had made this abundantly     clear. Poetry, too, was forbidden in Ashdown Castle. Romantic lines ran     counter to the Ballentine motto, "With Valor and Vigor." But here, who     could find him? Who would see? His copy of Wordsworth and Coleridge's     Lyrical Ballads was at the ready.         He shrugged out of his coat and spread it on the grass, then made to     stretch himself out on his belly. The fine fabric of his trousers     promptly grated like chain mail against the broken skin on his backside,     making him hiss in pain. His father drove his lessons home with a cane.     And yesterday, the earl had been overzealous, again. It was why Mama had     grabbed him, Tristan, and he had grabbed his books, and they had taken     off to visit her friend Lady Wycliffe for the summer.         He tried finding a comfortable position, shifting this way and that,     then he gave up, unhooked his braces and began unbuttoning the fall of     the pesky trousers. The next moment, the ground began to shake.         For a beat, he froze.         He snatched his coat and dove behind the standing stone just as a black     horse thundered into view in the hollow-­way. A magnificent animal,     gleaming with sweat, foam flying from its bit. The kind of stallion     kings and heroes rode. It scrambled to a sudden halt on the clearing,     sending lumps of soil flying with plate-­sized hooves.         He gasped with shocked surprise.         The rider was no king. No hero. The rider was not a man at all.         It was a girl.         She wore boots and breeches like a boy and rode astride, but there was     no doubt she was a girl. A coolly shimmering fall of ice-­blond hair     streamed down her back and whirled round her like a silken veil when the     horse pivoted.         He couldn't have moved had he tried. He was stunned, his gaze riveted to     her face--­was she real? Her face . . . was perfect. Delicate and     heart-­shaped, with fine, winged eyebrows and an obstinate, pointy     little chin. A fairy.         But her cheeks were flushed an angry pink and her lips pressed into a     line. She looked ready to ride into battle on the big black beast . . .         She made to slide from the saddle, and he shrank back behind the stone.     He should show himself. His mouth went dry. What would he say? What did     one say to someone so lovely and fierce?         Her boots hit the ground with a light thud. She muttered a few soft     words to the stallion. Then nothing.         He craned his neck. The girl was gone. Quietly, he crept forward. When     he rose to a crouch, he spotted her supine form in the grass, her     slender arms flung wide.         He might have moved a little closer . . . closer, even. He straightened,     peering down.         Her eyes were closed. Her lashes lay dark and straight against her pale     cheeks. The gleaming strands of her hair fanned out around her head like     rays of a white cold winter sun.         His heart was racing. A powerful ache welled from his core, an anxious     urgency, a dread, of sorts--­this was a rare, precious opportunity and he     was woefully unprepared to grasp it. He had not known girls like her     existed, outside the fairy books and the princesses of the Nordic sagas     he had to read in secret . . .         An angry snort tore through the silence. The stallion was approaching,     ears flat and teeth bared.         "Hell," Tristan said.         The girl's eyes snapped open. They stared at each other, her flat on her     back, him looming.         She was on her feet like a shot. "You! You are trespassing."         She had looked petite, but they stood nearly eye to eye.         He felt his face freeze in a dim-­witted grin. "No, I--­"         Stormy gray eyes narrowed at him. "I know who you are. You are Lady     Rochester's son."         He remembered to bow his head. Quite nicely, too. "Tristan Ballentine.     Your servant."         "You were spying on me!"         "No. Yes. Well, a little," he admitted, for he had.         It was the worst moment to remember that the flap of his trousers was     still half undone. Reflexively, he reached for the buttons, and the     girl's gaze followed.         She gasped.         Next he knew, her hand flew up and pain exploded in his left cheek. He     staggered back, disoriented and clutching his face. He half-­expected     his hand to come away smeared with red.         He looked from his palm at her face. "Now that was uncalled for."         A flicker of uncertainty, perhaps contrition, briefly cooled the blaze     in her eyes. Then she raised her hand with renewed determination. "You     have seen nothing yet," she snarled. "Leave me alone, you . . . little     ginger."         His cheeks burned, and not from the slap. He knew he had barely grown an     inch since his birthday, and yes, he worried the famous Ballentine     height was eluding him. The runt, Marcus called him. His hand curled     into a fist. If she were a boy, he'd deck her. But a gentleman never     raised his hand to a girl, even if she made him want to howl. Marcus,     now Marcus would have known how to handle this vicious pixie with     aplomb. Tristan could only beat a hasty retreat, the slap still pulsing     like fire on his cheekbone. The Lyrical Ballads lay forgotten in damp grass. Excerpted from A Rogue of One's Own by Evie Dunmore All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Publishers Weekly Review

All the elements that made Bringing Down the Duke such a delight are present in Dunmore's smart, sexy second League of Extraordinary Women romance, but an unwieldy plot puts a slight damper on the fun. After all the reputable newspapers of Victorian England refuse to publish a report on the horrors wrought by the Married Women's Property Act, firebrand Lady Lucie Tedbury buys shares in a publishing house of her own. Unfortunately, her fellow shareholder reveals himself to be Lord Tristan Ballentine, Lucie's childhood nemesis, now a war hero, celebrated poet, and notorious rake. Tristan needs the income of the publishing house to free himself from his abusive father's financial control, so he's not about to let Lucie sink the business with radical reportage. The war left Tristan hardened, but not so much so that Lucie, his childhood infatuation, doesn't stir him. Their enemies-to-lovers dynamic is electric and steers the book through a pileup of romance tropes, half-baked mysteries, and underdeveloped secondary characters (notably including Tristan's Indian manservant and a spurned gay villain). Still, Dunmore's prose sparkles, the sex scenes sizzle, the heroine stands tall, and historical details and literary allusions (including a cute cameo from Oscar Wilde) add charm. It's a bumpy ride, but there are moments of brilliance. Agent: Kevan Lyon, Marsal Lyon Literary. (Sept.)

Kirkus Book Review

A suffragist and a rogue move from unwilling business partners to lovers in Victorian England. Lady Lucie Tedbury has an ulterior motive for buying half the shares of London Print, a publishing house known for wholesome magazines for women. She and her fellow Oxford suffragist friends are fighting against the Married Women's Property Act. Their plan to publish a report is thwarted when Lucie finds out that Lord Tristan Ballentine, "scoundrel, seducer, bane of her youth," has bought the remaining shares. Tristan cannot let Lucie bring down the publishing house; he needs to make a profitable income so he can free himself and his mother from his horrid father. Although their differing goals for the publisher put Lucie and Tristan at odds, their physical attraction is undeniable. Tristan offers control of the business in exchange for one night in bed together. At first Lucie thinks he's asking too much, but she soon believes it's too little. Like its predecessor, Bringing Down the Duke (2019), this second installment in the A League of Extraordinary Women series delivers a smart, capable heroine finding glorious love in a rich historical setting with plenty of wit and swoons along the way. Convoluted plotting and clichéd side characters make parts of the story drag, but Lucie's consistent characterization pushes through. Her passion and dedication to the cause feel authentic and drive her conflict with the notion of romance. She refuses to lose herself and become a possession, yet she feels the freedom that comes with being loved. A splendid, if uneven, addition to the series. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Author notes provided by Syndetics

Evie Dunmore is the USA Today bestselling author of Bringing Down the Duke. Her 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).