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…
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About the Author:
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 from A Radical Arrangement:
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.
