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A Dandy in Disguise

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Blurb

Can he lose the disguise... and find himself?

St. John Fotheringay-Phipps has nearly forgotten who he truly is. As the dashing, amusing dandy known to all in society as Fungy, he has hidden behind a mask of merriment. But he is reminded that there are pleasures beyond society -- when he finds himself feeling responsible for the innocently lovely and fiercely intellectual Rose, the daughter of a famed archaeologist, and her charming, if socially inept, family.

Rose Grace knows that she cannot gamble with her future. She has suddenly been thrust into the role of mother to her two young sisters, companion to her brilliant, distracted father --and family savior. She needs to do the right thing -- to forget her own desires and quickly find a wealthy husband before the creditors come beating at their door. Then why is she distracted by the foppishly handsome Fungy, who seems so very irresponsible and pleasure-loving? Surely he"s the last person whose advice she should follow!

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Prologue
PrologueApril, 1802 Sated after a delicious morning of lovemaking, St. John lifted himself up to rest on one elbow and looked into Georgiana’s heavy—lidded eyes. Life could not get any better than this. “Nunc scio quid sit amor, ” he said, smiling at her, knowing how much it bothered her when he quoted the classics. She scowled at him and waited for the translation. “Now I know what love is,” he explained, running his hand down her n***d body. He loved that every curve of her soft velvety skin was as familiar to him as his own body. “St. John…” Georgiana began. “Georgiana…” St. John began at exactly the same time. They both stopped and laughed. But Georgiana stopped laughing a bit too quickly. Looking away from him, she got up and pulled on her shift. He hated this part of their time together, when she dressed herself. He so enjoyed seeing her, feeling her, being with her. Inevitably, though, she reached for her corset “St. John, you may congratulate me. I have accepted a proposal of marriage,” she said abruptly St. John’s breathing stopped. His heart stopped. He looked up at her to read her face, to see if perhaps she was teasing him, but her back was still toward him. Finally, he took a deep breath to try to dispel the tightness that had formed in his chest. Perhaps it was better that she was still turned away. She wouldn’t see the pain he was certain was painting his face. He took another breath and tried to erase the shock from his eyes. Heedless of his nudity, he got out of bed, gently turning Georgiana to face him. “I don’t understand. I thought you loved me.” She gave him a sad smile and ran her hands up his chest. “You are so beautifully formed, just like one of those pictures you showed me in your book.” He caught her hands with one of his own and brought her chin up with the other, so that she was forced to look him in the eye. “I love you,” he said, letting the words come up from deep within his soul—to reverberate, hopefully, within hers. Her eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t want you to—didn’t ask you to.” “But I do.” He paused, trying to keep the pain from his voice. “And I thought you loved me.” “Marriage is not always about love, St. John. Sometimes it’s about money or social position.” “I have money. Not a lot, but enough.” “Yes. But you do not have a position in society, and you never will.” She pulled away from him, and said quietly, “And you are only nineteen.” Not quietly enough. “And how old is he?” he asked, failing to keep the bitterness from his voice. “Please, don’t be that way.” “It’s an honest question. “ She turned away, shrugging, “Older.” Giving one last longing look at his body over her shoulder, she turned to finish dressing. “You should get dressed,” she said quietly. St. John just stood there for a minute, letting the pain cut through his heart. “If I had a place in society, would you love me?” he asked, impetuously. “I do love you, St. John, but I need to marry.” She handed him his breeches and shirt from the floor. “What do I need to do?” “You need to get dressed,” she said, smiling at him as he stood holding his clothes, but making no move to put them on. “That’s not what I meant.” “I know,” she laughed. She had a beautiful laugh and he enjoyed making it bubble from her throat. But now was not a time for laughter. Now he needed answers. Now he needed to know what he had to do to make her love him as much as he loved her. He slipped on his breeches. “Georgiana, please, what can I do?” He pulled his shirt over his head and hastily tucked it in while reaching for his neckcloth. “There is nothing you can do, St. John. Lord Mirthwood has proposed and I have accepted. That’s all there is to it.” “But surely… what if I gained a position in society? I can, you know, easily. My cousin is the Marquis of Merrick. He can help…” She smiled and turned to help him tie his neckcloth. She always did a much better job of it than he ever did. “Well, if you want to join the beau monde, you should start by caring a bit more about your clothes and how you wear them.” “My clothes are quite fashionable! Why, I bought this waistcoat only last season—and I was assured that it was all the crack.” “Yes,” she said slowly, concentrating on what she was doing. “But that was last season. Now the styles are different. You’ve got to keep up with the times, St. John.” She reached for his ‘fashionable’ waistcoat and helped him into it. “And really, my dear, all this Latin and Greek… well, whoever heard of anyone in society quoting the classics? It just is not done, St. John. If you must read it, for God’s sake, don’t let anyone know!” He struggled into his coat, once again with her help. Smoothing out the wrinkles, she told him, “You are an amazingly handsome man. If you dressed well and made some effort to be fashionable…” “You want me to be a dandy?” he sneered, but the hurt in his voice was close to the surface. “No, but you asked how you could gain a position in society, and I’m telling you.” She reached up and, with tender fingers, brushed back his dark blond hair as it fell over his forehead and into his eyes. Gently kissing his cheek, she said, “Good-bye, St. John. Lord Mirthwood and I shall be leaving for America within a few weeks. You won’t see me again. Keep well and be happy.” St. John just stood looking at her, memorizing every nuance of her face, every movement of her body, even her scent, an unusual musky tone of rose. He caressed her velvety cheek and the thick hair that fell in long chestnut waves around her shoulders. He feathered his lips across hers ever so gently. “Adieu, then, my lady fair. Keep my heart well, for it goes with you.” Georgiana’s quick answering smile, tinged with regret, lingered with him as he turned and made his way out the door of her bedroom. He worked to keep his shoulders straight as he ran down the stairs. But by the time he reached the still-dark early morning street, his back straightened of its own accord as clear, cleansing resolution flooded him. He would make himself worthy of her love. He would become just what she wanted him to be. She was marrying an older man, she’d said. In no more than five years—an old man wouldn’t last long in such a barbaric place as America—she would be back. In no more than five years, he would be all that she wanted and more. Then she would marry him.  

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