Cover art by Mixteran
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He must marry, or risk his fortune.
The whole of London Society has long assumed Lord William Hartwell will marry his childhood best friend, Lady Rebecca Warrington. After two Seasons, Hartwell remains quite content with bachelorhood--his parents do not. When Hartwell learns they intend to cut his purse strings unless he makes a match this Season, he resigns himself to a marriage of convenience with Becca, and yet he can't help but be drawn to her younger brother, Warry. He must marry, or risk his sister's ruin. The Viscount "Warry" Warrington is used to being viewed as the tagalong little brother. Now a grown man about to enter his second Season, Warry is desperate to be seen. When Lord Balfour, a handsome older peer, takes Warry under his wing, Warry thinks his dream is finally coming true. Until Balfour reveals his true intent--to make public a letter that will destroy Becca's reputation, unless Warry agrees to marry him. Time is running out for both of them. When an injury forces Warry to recover at Hartwell House, the two succumb to a secret flirtation. But Warry's sudden announcement of his engagement to Balfour drives Hartwell near mad with jealousy--and right into Becca's arms. With the clock ticking for Warry to save his sister, will Hartwell discover the truth of Warry's feelings before it's too late? A Husband for Hartwell is the first book in the Lords of Bucknall Club series, where the Regency meets m/m romance. |
What a rollicking romance it is. Lusty, entertaining, full of moments of sheer anticipation and angst. Plus those elements of humor I’ve come to expect from Henry and Rock. Just a outstanding combination.
- Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words
These folks are honest, real, and raw; you weren’t expecting something run of the mill from a J.A. Rock and Lisa Henry, were you?
- Kimmer's Erotic Book Banter
- Scattered Thoughts and Rogue Words
These folks are honest, real, and raw; you weren’t expecting something run of the mill from a J.A. Rock and Lisa Henry, were you?
- Kimmer's Erotic Book Banter
An excerpt from A Husband for Hartwell:
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 cream-coloured 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 five-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.
Of course, Becca’s parents would think him the logical choice for their daughter. His own parents thought the same. Their families had teased them about their future wedding throughout the whole of their childhood, prompting squeals of “Ugh!” and “Never!” from both. And yet, hearing the suggestion spoken aloud by Earl Warrington in utter seriousness had made everything feel so horribly real. Hartwell hadn’t fully realised until Earl Warrington’s rant last night that he and Becca were in danger of souring like milk left out too long. Or perhaps he’d always known but had done his best to ignore it.
“It is not the worst idea I’ve heard, William,” Becca said softly. “I’ve no wish to marry, but if I must, I’d rather it be to you than to…well, anyone who made conversation with me last Season. Or the Season before.”
He made no answer.
“There are worse fates, one supposes, than signing the paper and satisfying our families.” She gave a wry twist of her mouth. “And in our future home, we will be as we are now. Friends. Frog catchers. Free to pursue our own lives as long as we employ some measure of discretion.”
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 cream-coloured 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 five-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.
Of course, Becca’s parents would think him the logical choice for their daughter. His own parents thought the same. Their families had teased them about their future wedding throughout the whole of their childhood, prompting squeals of “Ugh!” and “Never!” from both. And yet, hearing the suggestion spoken aloud by Earl Warrington in utter seriousness had made everything feel so horribly real. Hartwell hadn’t fully realised until Earl Warrington’s rant last night that he and Becca were in danger of souring like milk left out too long. Or perhaps he’d always known but had done his best to ignore it.
“It is not the worst idea I’ve heard, William,” Becca said softly. “I’ve no wish to marry, but if I must, I’d rather it be to you than to…well, anyone who made conversation with me last Season. Or the Season before.”
He made no answer.
“There are worse fates, one supposes, than signing the paper and satisfying our families.” She gave a wry twist of her mouth. “And in our future home, we will be as we are now. Friends. Frog catchers. Free to pursue our own lives as long as we employ some measure of discretion.”