A
Radical Arrangement
by 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…
An Excerpt:
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.
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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.
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