Donna Hatch is the author of the
best-selling “Rogue Hearts Series,” and a winner of writing awards such as The
Golden Quill and the International Digital Award.
A hopeless romantic and
adventurer at heart, she discovered her writing passion at the tender age of 8
and has been listening to those voices ever since. She has become a
sought-after workshop presenter, and also juggles freelance editing, multiple
volunteer positions, and most of all, her six children (seven, counting her
husband).
A native of Arizona who recently transplanted to the Pacific
Northwest, she and her husband of over twenty years are living proof that there
really is a happily ever after.
The last thing Hannah Palmer wants to
do is flirt with men in a crowded ballroom, but when her sister, the Countess
of Tarrington, throws a Masquerade Ball, Hannah can’t say no to the invitation.
Taking comfort behind her disguise, she dances with a charming masked
gentleman, matching him wit for wit. When the glorious evening culminates in a
kiss, and the two remove their masks, Hannah is horrified to discover the man
she’s been flirting with all night is her most despised neighbor, the Duke of
Suttenberg.
No matter how charming the duke was at the ball, and how wonderful
the kiss, he is the last man she could ever love.
Snippet:
Hannah
turned. Cole and the duke approached, both walking as if they owned the world.
Tongue-tied, Hannah nodded. The duke passed a brief glance over Hannah.
Cole
made a loose gesture. “You remember my wife’s sister, Hannah Palmer, of
course.”
The
duke blinked. “Yes, of course. Good afternoon.” He might as well have said,
“No, I’m sure we’ve never met”; it would have been truthful.
In a
single graceful motion, he swept off his hat, revealing midnight hair and that
distinctive patch of blond on the left side that apparently marked members of
his family for generations. He appeared to be proud of the unusual birthmark
judging by the way he parted his hair in the middle of it. Briefly, he dipped
his chin in a ducal version of a bow when greeting someone of low consequence.
Seething
at his arrogance, Hannah sank into a very proper curtsy. In an act of uncommon
boldness, fueled by ire, she offered a mischievous smile. “Delighted to see you
again, Your Grace. I’m happy you’ve recovered from the strawberry incident.”
There. She’d made her point without revealing any hint of annoyance that he’d
failed to remember her, and she’d even spoken without stammering.
His
gray-green eyes opened wider, and his head jerked back ever so slightly in
carefully controlled surprise. Was that a touch of blush on his finely chiseled
cheekbones? Surely not. The Paragon would do anything so boyish as blush.
“Strawberries.
Yes. I’m careful not to give them the upper hand.” His smooth baritone voice
contained exactly the right amount of humor and arrogant savoir faire.
She
might have been charmed by the almost chagrined smile now curving his beautifully
formed lips if she weren’t chewing on his admission that he refused to allow
anyone, or anything, to best him. Not to mention that he still gave no hint of
remembering her despite them meeting four times—yes, she counted.
Saucily
she tossed her head. “I wish you success in your endeavors to submit all
strawberries to your whim.”
The
duke’s gaze flicked over her face, still showing no sign of recognition, but
every sign of unconcern, although he did seem to study her more closely. “Yes,
well, a pleasure to see you . . . again.” He turned away from her dismissively.
Hannah
marched to the parlor. That duke! Insufferable, rude, arrogant . . . perfect
people at the top of the social pyramid never seemed to have any tolerance for
mere humans, nor would they do anything as lowering as willingly engage them in
a true conversation.
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