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Read Book Three in the Dangerous Lords series – spies and danger make strange, but passionate, bedfellows!

When a widow must fight for herself… and her love.

A widow in dire circumstances, Lady Althea Brookwood fights to hang on to the one thing left to her, Owltree Cottage. When faced with a ruthless enemy, she must turn to a man for help. But her former life with her cruel husband has made her distrust men. When a gentleman she seeks assistance from is murdered, Althea finds herself caught up in a conspiracy. Unfortunately, she must turn to the last man on earth she would trust with her virtue….

Leaving behind his sad past in Ireland, Keiran Flynn, Viscount Montsimon, has become a renowned diplomat and close confidant of King George IV. A handsome rake many women of the ton wish to take to their beds, Flynn treats women lightly until he meets a lady who resists his charm. When the king sends Flynn on a secret mission, he finds that this lady, Lady Brookwood, is in some way involved. It is a puzzling situation as well as a dangerous one. He is determined to protect her even though the stubborn lady resists him at every turn.

Althea and Flynn find themselves thrust into the midst of a hazardous intrigue while fighting an attraction which could cause them to lose focus and possibly their lives.

Books in the Dangerous Lords series:
The Marquess Meets His Match
The Baron’s Betrothal
Seducing the Earl
The Viscount’s Widowed Lady

Governess to the Duke’s Heir

Eleanor Fitzherbert’s Christmas Miracle


We have met Montsimon and Althea as secondary characters in the previous book , but this, the 3rd in the series is all about them .
The author has a wonderful gift of slowly building the tension between these two , and building the relationship, that he’s been after for a long while and she keeps rebuffing.
He’s a rake , a Spy , a diplomat.
She’s a widow, badly treated in her marriage .
But surely they are made for each other , a wonderful romance that has you hooked beginning to end.

Maggie Whitworth

out of 5 stars Masterfully written Dangerous Lords Book 3
One person found this helpful
5.0 out of 5 stars
Real Love


As soon as the bewildered footman opened the front door, Althea breathlessly instructed him over her shoulder to make her apologies to his mistress. A megrim had forced her to return home. She stumbled down the steps to the gravel drive, cursing her flimsy footwear. Her evening cape was fur-lined, but her thin dress clung to her legs and was hardly fit for walking about in the night air. A glaze of frost whitened the grass. It would be a vigorous hike to Owltree Cottage even in good weather, and she could hardly cut across the muddy fields in the dark. When she passed the last of the braziers lighting the carriageway, the night would close in, and every rock and pothole would trip her up.

She was striding alone, the gates still quite a distance, when hoof beats and the clatter of a vehicle sounded on the gravel behind her. Did Sir Horace pursue her? Her pulse quickened. She spun to face him, then slumped with relief. Lord Montsimon drove toward her in a sporty phaeton. He reined in the matched pair of thoroughbreds and placed the whip in the whip holder beside the seat.

He leaned down. “May I escort you home?”

Close to tears, she was in no mood for another unwelcome tête-à-tête. She shook her head and continued walking. “No thank you.”

“It’s a devilishly chilly night.” He slapped the reins, and the phaeton jingled and rattled alongside her. “Surely you don’t intend to walk home,” he called. “By the look of the weather it won’t be a pleasant trip.”

“I shall manage.”

She dropped her gaze to the shadowy way ahead and marched on, attempting to ignore her freezing feet. He made no move to drive past her. The golden light from the lamps strung on the vehicle lighted her way down the drive. She cursed under her breath when a drop of rain splattered on her cheek.

“It’s raining,” Lord Montsimon said, stating the obvious.

“Merely a shower.” She grimaced. Her expensive evening cloak would be ruined, and she couldn’t afford to replace it.

The few drops were quickly followed by several more. Heavier, with the icy touch of sleet. Althea hesitated, seeing the sense of it. If seen riding off with him alone, she would be the subject of talk, but that hardly mattered. If Lady Crowthorne learned of her husband’s desires, a far bigger scandal would erupt. She stopped. “It might be best if you did drive me home.”

“A sensible decision.” He secured the reins and leapt down.

She backed away as he approached her.

“My, you are jumpy. I was merely going to assist you.”

“Very well. You may do so,” Althea said ungraciously.

Montsimon placed his hands at her waist and hoisted her up onto the high seat with astonishing ease. She arranged her skirts with a sidelong glance at his muscular shoulders as he climbed in beside her.

When Montsimon pulled up the hood, sudden doggy breath warmed her cheek. Althea glanced behind her. A rather ugly terrier sat scratching an ear. The ear looked slightly chewed.

“Do sit down, Spot,” Montsimon said with a grimace.

“So, this is Spot,” Althea said politely. Montsimon’s description of the dog was apt. It was hardly the progeny of careful breeding.

“Yes, that’s Spot,” Montsimon said heavily as he wrestled a fur-lined travel rug from where Spot had been sitting. He spread it over her knees. “I do hope this doesn’t have fleas.”

“It’s most welcome, nonetheless.” The thick blanket was warm, and she tamped down the urge to pull it up to her chest. Maybe the warmth would stop her infernal shivering, although, whether that was caused by the weather, Sir Horace’s proposition, or Montsimon’s proximity, she couldn’t be sure.

“We can’t have you getting ill, can we?” He slapped the reins and urged the horses to walk on. “Owltree Cottage, I believe?”

She stared at his profile in the lamplight, reluctantly admitting it was a fine one. “You know where I live?”

“Your husband once offered to sell Owltree Cottage to me.”

“He did what!”

Montsimon gazed at her apologetically before turning back to watch the road. “He was in his cups and losing at cards at the time.”

“Oh.” Surely he hadn’t meant it.

“Of course, the cottage would be of little use to me. I seldom come to this part of the world.”

“He couldn’t have sold it to you. It belongs to me.” She bit her lip, wondering if Sir Horace had been bluffing.

“Don’t all properties revert to the husband on marriage?”

Althea stiffened, overwhelmed by anger that as a female, she was subject to men’s outrageous whims. “It was not part of my dower. My uncle made sure of that in his will.” But it in no way protected the property from an unscrupulous husband.

At the bitter tone in her voice, Montsimon gave her a sidelong glance, but said nothing. The patter of rain increased on the hood and dripped down all around them.

She clutched the rug to her, glad of it in spite of possible bugs. “You’re a friend of Sir Horace’s?” she asked, suddenly curious.

“The evening was more business than pleasure.” He bit the words off with a ring of finality. She was not to ask more. He was an important diplomat. A man with powerful friends. Powerful enemies, too, perhaps.

She was grateful when he didn’t attempt to flirt with her. He seemed more thoughtful, and the excuse she gave the footman was now true, as her head ached intolerably.

Montsimon drove the dangerous high perch phaeton with skill, rounding bends at a clip. She hung on to the seat, glad of his expertise. “I believe your estate is in Ireland, my lord.”

“Indeed. County Wicklow.”

“Do you not intend to return there to live?”

“Settle down to domestic life? It doesn’t appeal.”

His life in England and the Continent working for the foreign office would be far too exciting to exchange for a country estate in Ireland, she supposed. She had never been there and was suddenly curious. “Is it a pretty place?”

He huffed out a short laugh. “No one would call the house pretty, but it’s beautiful country. And not far from the sea.”

They approached her house where lamplight in the downstairs windows flickered a welcome. Montsimon drove into the carriageway and pulled up the horses. He leaped to the ground and held out his arms to assist her down. Althea placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned into him, held for a moment against his hard body before he politely released her. She stepped back, suffering the urge to throw herself upon his chest again and sob out her sorry tale. The notion was so ridiculous she almost laughed. Out of the frying pan, into the fire. She was very grateful that he’d come along when he had. “Thank you, my lord. You have saved me from a long, wet walk.”

“I should not have liked to learn you became ill from an inflammation of the lungs.” He replaced his hat and leapt back into the phaeton, his long legs making the action appear easy.

“You are driving all the way back to London tonight?” she asked, wishing to extend the conversation. “In this vehicle?”

“Not likely.” He grinned. “I plan to stay with a friend, Viscount Warren. He has a country house in Biddlesden, Aylesbury Vale.”

The heavens opened with a deluge. Althea hurried to shelter on the porch as he drove away, carriage lights fading into the mist. She remained staring into the dark, her worries returning in full force. What was she to do?