Cover art by Mitxeran
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He must marry well, to secure his fortune.
The Honourable Loftus Rivingdon is poised to make his debut into Society. He’s beautiful, charming, and quite the catch of the Season. If only he could find the right hat. With the zealous assistance of his doting mother, Loftus has one ambition only: to meet and marry a wealthy peer. And Loftus knows just the peer—the dauntingly handsome, infinitely fashionable Viscount Soulden. Good thing there’s nothing standing in his way. He must also marry well, to secure his fortune. The Honourable Morgan Notley is poised to make his debut into Society. He’s beautiful, charming, and quite the catch of the Season. And he has just found the perfect hat. With the zealous assistance of his doting mother, Morgan has one ambition only: to meet and marry a wealthy peer. And Morgan knows just the peer—the dauntingly handsome, infinitely fashionable Viscount Soulden. Good thing there’s nothing standing in his w-- Damn it all to hell. Their ambitions collide. When Loftus and Morgan both set their sights on Soulden, the rivalry of the Season begins. Their mutual hatred escalates into spite, sabotage, and scandal, as all of Society eagerly waits to see which diamond of the first water will prevail. Except the course of true loathing, just like true love, never did run smooth. The harder they try to destroy each other, the closer they come to uncovering each other’s deepest vulnerabilities—and the more difficult it becomes to deny the burning attraction between them. A Rival for Rivingdon is the third book in the Lords of Bucknall Club series, where the Regency meets m/m romance. The Lords of Bucknall Club can be read in any order. |
I think this might be my favorite of the series so far! ... Highly recommended for those who love an enemies to lovers with a sweet romance and entertaining characters!
- Love Bytes
"The humour is subtle and witty. It’s fun. As I’ve already mentioned a time or two, A Rival for Rivingdon is adorable. It’s also sweet but not sickly. It has far more depth than you initially might imagine possible. These two MCs are adorable. Utterly adorable. I wanted to gently hug them. The writing is clever and thoughtful and endearing. The ebb and flow is perfect. Rock and Henry write seamlessly together. It’s no fluke either as I’ve previously read other excellent cowrites by them."
- On Top Down Under Reviews
- Love Bytes
"The humour is subtle and witty. It’s fun. As I’ve already mentioned a time or two, A Rival for Rivingdon is adorable. It’s also sweet but not sickly. It has far more depth than you initially might imagine possible. These two MCs are adorable. Utterly adorable. I wanted to gently hug them. The writing is clever and thoughtful and endearing. The ebb and flow is perfect. Rock and Henry write seamlessly together. It’s no fluke either as I’ve previously read other excellent cowrites by them."
- On Top Down Under Reviews
An excerpt from A Rival for Rivingdon:
In the afternoon, Morgan Notley attended Warrington House in St. James’s Square. He still felt a little breathless after his encounter in the tailor’s shop. He had never before understood what all that swooning business was in the book he read in secret at night, but after seeing Lord Soulden today, he was beginning to understand that dizzying sensation of being so entirely overwhelmed that one’s body simply collapsed. Morgan was only on Chapter Two of The Maiden Diaries, and from what he’d heard he had a lot more to anticipate than swooning, but if the rest of the sensations were half as thrilling, he very much looked forward to them.
He was admitted to the house by a footman and left his hat and gloves in the man’s care. Then he hurried along to the small but cosy library.
“Uncle Francis!” he exclaimed in delight.
Francis, Earl Warrington, started, spilled ink all over his blotter, and swore as he dabbed it up with his handkerchief. “Ah, Morgan,” he said. “The...the children are out, I think.” He brightened. “Though Clarence is about somewhere, I expect.”
Morgan laughed and sat himself down at his uncle’s desk. How silly to think that Morgan might want to speak with Cousin Clarence. Clarence was three. “I like visiting with you, Uncle Francis.”
Earl Warrington blinked down at the puddle of ink now seeping through his handkerchief. “Is it...is it about buttons again?”
Morgan gasped. “Do you know, the most abominably rude fellow told me today that my buttons were garish. Garish!”
“Oh dear,” Earl Warrington said softly.
“As though I should even listen to a word he said! He couldn’t even choose a ribbon that matched his eyes!”
“Ah.”
“You don’t think my buttons are garish, do you?” Morgan asked. “They’re ivory.”
“They’re very nice.”
“Thank you, Uncle Francis!” Morgan hadn’t realised how tense he’d been with worry until his uncle’s reassurance, and he sighed and relaxed, leaning back in his chair. “It’s only a week until the first ball of the Season, and it’s of vital importance that I don’t begin to doubt myself now. Everyone is saying that I am the catch of the Season, you know.”
“Yes.” Earl Warrington’s eyelid twitched. “I believe you have mentioned it before.”
“You know, Warry ought to come with me next time I go shopping. He pays so little attention to his wardrobe, and is always reading books. And Becca–” He cut himself off. Becca was twenty-three, and not married yet, which was scandalous. Not scandalous in a thrilling and fun way, but in the sort of way where people were beginning to whisper that there was something wrong. It was the type of thing that could taint an entire family’s reputation, so it was Morgan’s dearest wish that someone—anyone—asked her to marry them this Season. “Well, I’m sure that this year Becca will find a suitor! She’s still quite pretty, after all.”
“She’s twenty-three, Morgan, not eighty-three.”
“Oh, yes,” Morgan agreed hastily, making a mental note to report back to his mother that she was right: Uncle Francis was way too indulgent of Becca’s eccentricities—like not actively seeking a spouse at every opportunity. Morgan’s mother was Uncle Francis’s sister, and she quietly despaired of him. Morgan could see why. Uncle Francis didn’t seem to care that Becca was still unwed, and he was barely even interested in buttons or ribbon! Still, Morgan loved him for all his faults. “Will you be going to Balfour’s ball, sir?”
“I expect so.” Uncle Francis sighed, as if it were a great imposition. “Have you learned all your dance steps yet?”
Morgan gasped. “Certainly! I have been practicing my whole life for my debut into Society!”
“Of course you have.”
“I expect everyone shall want to dance with me.” Morgan chewed his lip for a moment. “Uncle Francis, do you know Lord Soulden?”
Uncle Francis sighed, and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Soulden? Oh, yes. That’d be Philip Winthrop, heir to the Earl of Grantham. I think young Hartwell knows him quite well from that club he goes to.”
“Bucknall’s?” Morgan asked sharply.
“That’s the one. Hartwell’s a decent fellow. He’s sponsoring Warry to join the club, actually.”
The cogs in Morgan’s brain whirred. “If Warry joins, then he could sponsor me.”
“Why d’you want to join Bucknall’s?” Uncle Francis asked. “Hasn’t your father got you into White’s yet?”
“Yes, of course. But Soulden doesn’t go to White’s.”
“Ah.” Uncle Francis sighed.
Morgan sat up straighter. “And do you know Mr. Loftus Rivingdon?”
“Rivingdon,” Uncle Francis mused. “Well, I know Baron Rivingdon. I expect Loftus is one of his sons, is he? I don’t know him though.”
“No, he hasn’t made his debut yet,” Morgan said. “He’s dreadful. He’s the one who said my buttons were garish.”
Uncle Francis pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I expect he and I shall be rivals. I already detest him.”
“Of course you do.”
“My buttons are not garish!”
Uncle Francis blinked at him. “Of course they’re not.”
Morgan fingered his buttons worriedly, and bit his bottom lip. “You don’t think they’re too plain, do you?”
“What? No.” Whatever else Uncle Francis might have been about to say was interrupted by someone rudely shoving the door open and stomping inside. It was Clarence, trailing his leading strings like a horse trailed its reins after tossing its rider. “Ah! Clarence, my fellow!”
Clarence beamed at Morgan and then reached out to him and tried to grip the edge of his tailcoat with his perpetually sticky fingers. Morgan leapt to his feet in horror, backing away from the little menace.
“I think I shall see if Aunt Caroline is in!” he exclaimed, hurrying from the room.
“Good boy,” he thought he heard Uncle Francis murmur fervently behind him. “Excellently done, Clarence!”
Well, that couldn’t have been right, since Clarence had rudely interrupted their conversation. But Morgan thrust that thought behind him and set off into the house to locate his aunt, who, even though she didn’t care at all as much about ribbons and buttons as a woman of her status ought to, was sure to have something wonderfully cutting to say about Loftus Rivingdon’s nose.
In the afternoon, Morgan Notley attended Warrington House in St. James’s Square. He still felt a little breathless after his encounter in the tailor’s shop. He had never before understood what all that swooning business was in the book he read in secret at night, but after seeing Lord Soulden today, he was beginning to understand that dizzying sensation of being so entirely overwhelmed that one’s body simply collapsed. Morgan was only on Chapter Two of The Maiden Diaries, and from what he’d heard he had a lot more to anticipate than swooning, but if the rest of the sensations were half as thrilling, he very much looked forward to them.
He was admitted to the house by a footman and left his hat and gloves in the man’s care. Then he hurried along to the small but cosy library.
“Uncle Francis!” he exclaimed in delight.
Francis, Earl Warrington, started, spilled ink all over his blotter, and swore as he dabbed it up with his handkerchief. “Ah, Morgan,” he said. “The...the children are out, I think.” He brightened. “Though Clarence is about somewhere, I expect.”
Morgan laughed and sat himself down at his uncle’s desk. How silly to think that Morgan might want to speak with Cousin Clarence. Clarence was three. “I like visiting with you, Uncle Francis.”
Earl Warrington blinked down at the puddle of ink now seeping through his handkerchief. “Is it...is it about buttons again?”
Morgan gasped. “Do you know, the most abominably rude fellow told me today that my buttons were garish. Garish!”
“Oh dear,” Earl Warrington said softly.
“As though I should even listen to a word he said! He couldn’t even choose a ribbon that matched his eyes!”
“Ah.”
“You don’t think my buttons are garish, do you?” Morgan asked. “They’re ivory.”
“They’re very nice.”
“Thank you, Uncle Francis!” Morgan hadn’t realised how tense he’d been with worry until his uncle’s reassurance, and he sighed and relaxed, leaning back in his chair. “It’s only a week until the first ball of the Season, and it’s of vital importance that I don’t begin to doubt myself now. Everyone is saying that I am the catch of the Season, you know.”
“Yes.” Earl Warrington’s eyelid twitched. “I believe you have mentioned it before.”
“You know, Warry ought to come with me next time I go shopping. He pays so little attention to his wardrobe, and is always reading books. And Becca–” He cut himself off. Becca was twenty-three, and not married yet, which was scandalous. Not scandalous in a thrilling and fun way, but in the sort of way where people were beginning to whisper that there was something wrong. It was the type of thing that could taint an entire family’s reputation, so it was Morgan’s dearest wish that someone—anyone—asked her to marry them this Season. “Well, I’m sure that this year Becca will find a suitor! She’s still quite pretty, after all.”
“She’s twenty-three, Morgan, not eighty-three.”
“Oh, yes,” Morgan agreed hastily, making a mental note to report back to his mother that she was right: Uncle Francis was way too indulgent of Becca’s eccentricities—like not actively seeking a spouse at every opportunity. Morgan’s mother was Uncle Francis’s sister, and she quietly despaired of him. Morgan could see why. Uncle Francis didn’t seem to care that Becca was still unwed, and he was barely even interested in buttons or ribbon! Still, Morgan loved him for all his faults. “Will you be going to Balfour’s ball, sir?”
“I expect so.” Uncle Francis sighed, as if it were a great imposition. “Have you learned all your dance steps yet?”
Morgan gasped. “Certainly! I have been practicing my whole life for my debut into Society!”
“Of course you have.”
“I expect everyone shall want to dance with me.” Morgan chewed his lip for a moment. “Uncle Francis, do you know Lord Soulden?”
Uncle Francis sighed, and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “Soulden? Oh, yes. That’d be Philip Winthrop, heir to the Earl of Grantham. I think young Hartwell knows him quite well from that club he goes to.”
“Bucknall’s?” Morgan asked sharply.
“That’s the one. Hartwell’s a decent fellow. He’s sponsoring Warry to join the club, actually.”
The cogs in Morgan’s brain whirred. “If Warry joins, then he could sponsor me.”
“Why d’you want to join Bucknall’s?” Uncle Francis asked. “Hasn’t your father got you into White’s yet?”
“Yes, of course. But Soulden doesn’t go to White’s.”
“Ah.” Uncle Francis sighed.
Morgan sat up straighter. “And do you know Mr. Loftus Rivingdon?”
“Rivingdon,” Uncle Francis mused. “Well, I know Baron Rivingdon. I expect Loftus is one of his sons, is he? I don’t know him though.”
“No, he hasn’t made his debut yet,” Morgan said. “He’s dreadful. He’s the one who said my buttons were garish.”
Uncle Francis pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I expect he and I shall be rivals. I already detest him.”
“Of course you do.”
“My buttons are not garish!”
Uncle Francis blinked at him. “Of course they’re not.”
Morgan fingered his buttons worriedly, and bit his bottom lip. “You don’t think they’re too plain, do you?”
“What? No.” Whatever else Uncle Francis might have been about to say was interrupted by someone rudely shoving the door open and stomping inside. It was Clarence, trailing his leading strings like a horse trailed its reins after tossing its rider. “Ah! Clarence, my fellow!”
Clarence beamed at Morgan and then reached out to him and tried to grip the edge of his tailcoat with his perpetually sticky fingers. Morgan leapt to his feet in horror, backing away from the little menace.
“I think I shall see if Aunt Caroline is in!” he exclaimed, hurrying from the room.
“Good boy,” he thought he heard Uncle Francis murmur fervently behind him. “Excellently done, Clarence!”
Well, that couldn’t have been right, since Clarence had rudely interrupted their conversation. But Morgan thrust that thought behind him and set off into the house to locate his aunt, who, even though she didn’t care at all as much about ribbons and buttons as a woman of her status ought to, was sure to have something wonderfully cutting to say about Loftus Rivingdon’s nose.