by Evie Dunmore
PRAISE FOR
Bringing Down the Duke
“There is nothing quite so satisfying as seeing such a man brought to his knees by a beautiful woman with nothing to her name except an inviolable sense of her own self-worth.”
—NPR
“Dunmore captures the spirit of the era with a sparkling effervescence, plowing through staid stereotypes of Victorian England to give us a group of extraordinary women refusing to live as bystanders in their own lives. . . . A delightful new entry in the historical romance genre that works to both uphold the best of its traditions while pushing it into new frontiers and deepening its ties to history.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Evie Dunmore’s debut is a marvel. Set against the backdrop of the British suffrage movement, Bringing Down the Duke is a witty, richly detailed, historically significant, and achingly romantic celebration of the power of love and the passionate fight for women’s rights. A stunning blend of history and romance that will enchant readers.”
—New York Times bestselling author Chanel Cleeton
“Evie Dunmore’s Bringing Down the Duke dazzles and reminds us all why we fell in love with historical romance.”
—New York Times bestselling author Julia London
“Brilliant and enchanting! Miss Dunmore is about to take the historical world by storm!”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Rachel Van Dyken
“Simply superb! Evie Dunmore will wow you.”
—New York Times bestselling author Gaelen Foley
“One of my all-time favorite historicals.”
—New York Times bestselling author Maisey Yates
“Bringing Down the Duke is one of the best books I’ve ever read—absolutely adored it. Dunmore had me in tears, had me holding my breath . . . the emotion and passion made the book ache and sing.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jane Porter
“Charming, sexy, and thoroughly transportive, this is historical romance done right.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Funny, smart, and a fantastic read! Bringing Down the Duke is absolutely brilliant!”
—New York Times bestselling author Corinne Michaels
“Full of witty banter and swoonworthy moments. . . . A deliciously delightful romance.”
—Woman’s World
“Dunmore’s beautifully written debut perfectly balances history, sexual tension, romantic yearning, and the constant struggle smart women have in finding and maintaining their places and voices in life and love, with the added message that finding the right person brings true happiness and being with them is worth any price. A brilliant debut.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Chock-full of verve, history, and passion.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Full of witty banter, rich historical detail, and a fantastic group of female friends, the first installment in Dunmore’s League of Extraordinary Women series starts with fireworks as Annabelle and Montgomery try to find a path to happiness despite past mistakes and their vastly different places in society. Dunmore’s strong debut is sure to earn her legions of fans.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“What an absolutely stunning, riveting, painfully gorgeous book! It’s going straight to my keeper shelf, and I will be buying a copy the moment it comes out to reread again and again. It’s not only the best historical romance I’ve read in a long, long time, it’s one of the best books I’ve ever read! I adored it!”
—USA Today bestselling author Megan Crane
“Evie Dunmore has written a story we need right now—strong, smart, and passionate, featuring a heroine who won’t settle for less than what she deserves and a swoony hero who learns to fight for what really matters. With her debut novel, Dunmore has instantly become a must-read for me.”
—Lyssa Kay Adams, author of The Bromance Book Club
“Bringing Down the Duke is the best historical romance I’ve read all year. I was spellbound by this story of forbidden love between a spirited, clever suffragette heroine and her straitlaced duke, a man who proves that fire burns hottest when it’s under ice. Evie Dunmore is a marvelous, fresh new voice in romance who is sure to go far. Don’t miss her brilliant debut!”
—Anna Campbell, bestselling author of the Dashing Widows series
“With just the right blend of history and romance (and a healthy dash of pride from the British suffragists that would make Jane Austen proud), I was hooked on Annabelle and Sebastian’s story from the very first page. I can’t wait for the rest of the League of Extraordinary Women novels!”
—USA Today bestselling author Stephanie Thornton
“Evie Dunmore’s Bringing Down the Duke delivers the best of two worlds—a steamy romance coupled with the heft of a meticulously researched historical novel. . . . Readers will be entranced watching Annabelle, a woman ahead of her time, bring the sexy duke to his knees.”
—Renée Rosen, author of Park Avenue Summer
“I have read the future of historical romance, and it’s Evie Dunmore.”
—Eva Leigh, author of Dare to Love a Duke
“Evie Dunmore’s debut novel Bringing Down the Duke is about personal growth, leaving preconceived notions behind, and the long hard fight for women’s rights. The novel is hilarious in many parts, but it also provides more serious lessons for the reader. Best of all it has a Happily Ever After.”
—Historical Novel Society
“A deliciously original debut featuring a fiercely passionate suffragette who melts an icy duke’s heart. Set against the backdrop of the fight for women’s rights, Bringing Down the Duke is the perfect blend of romance and history.”
—Diana Quincy, author of The Rebellious Brides series
ALSO BY EVIE DUNMORE
Bringing Down the Duke
A JOVE BOOK
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2020 by Evie Dunmore
Readers Guide copyright © 2020 by Evie Dunmore
Excerpt copyright © 2020 by Evie Dunmore
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Dunmore, Evie, author.
Title: A rogue of one’s own / Evie Dunmore.
Description: First Edition. | New York : Jove, 2020. | Series: A league of extraordinary women; 2
Identifiers: LCCN 2020004978 | ISBN 9781984805706 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781984805713 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Love stories.
Classification: LCC PR9110.9.D86 R64 2020 | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020004978
First Edition: September 2020
Cover design and art composition by Farjana Yasmin
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Cover
Praise for Evie Dunmore
Also by Evie Dunmore
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
Excerpt
About the Author
To Brad and Judy,
the most genuinely good people
who always bring out the best in me.
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 s
tone 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.