Karen Hawkins The Prince Who Loved Me Free Download
PRAISE FOR THE DUCHESS DIARIES SERIES
HOW TO ENTICE AN ENCHANTRESS
"This fairy tale gone awry is just unlike enough, just quirky enough, and just wonderful enough to take readers sighing with pleasance."
—RT Book Reviews (4½ stars)
"Doesn't disappoint on whatever level. There'southward heat, humor, misunderstandings, and finally, honey."
—Tampa Bay Books Examiner (5 stars)
"A quick, funny, and light read."
—Literati Literature Lovers
HOW TO PURSUE A PRINCESS
"Sparkling, witty repartee and centre-tugging emotions. With a wonderful romantic story, this volume is pure, unadulterated Hawkins."
—RT Book Reviews (4½ stars, Elevation Option)
"Incredibly witty and sweetness with the kind of fairy-tale charm that cannot aid but remind u.s.a. of our own babyhood dreams of handsome princes and happily ever after."
—Novels Live.Idiot box
"Karen Hawkins puts a sensual spin on Little Red Riding Hood."
—Joyfully Reviewed
HOW TO CAPTURE A COUNTESS
"A delightful, sprightly romp is what Hawkins does best, and when she sets her witty tale in Scotland and adds a mannerly castle and an engaging cast of characters, readers take the beginning of an appealing new series."
—RT Volume Reviews (4 stars)
"A fabulous read."
—Nether the Covers
"A fast-paced, robust historical novel filled with wit and romance!"
—Night Owl Reviews
"A beautifully written romance filled with passion, zest, and humor."
—Addicted to Romance
"Spiced by a chemical science that practically leaps off the pages. Readers will be thrilled to every witty repartee between these reluctant lovers."
—Coffee Fourth dimension Romance & More
PRINCESS IN DISGUISE
"Karen Hawkins delivers warmth, humor, romance, and a bear on of heartache. . . . A not bad story to gyre up with on a cold winter's eve."
—Joyfully Reviewed
"Karen Hawkins has . . . appealing characters, an center for particular, a talent for bringing historical events from the past to life, and wickedly entertaining plots."
—Romance Junkies
PRAISE FOR THE HURST AMULET SERIES
"Delightfully humorous, poignant, and satisfying. . . . Memorable characters, witty and humorous dialogue, and sizzling sensuality."
—RT Book Reviews (4½ stars, Top Pick)
"An entertaining romantic boxing of wits."
—Chicago Tribune
"A lively romp."
—Booklist
"Charming and witty."
—Publishers Weekly
"Fast-paced adventure, genuine emotion . . . plenty of humor, and some of the best banter between a hero and heroine that I've read in a while."
—The Romance Dish
"An entertaining, romantic jewel of a book!"
—Joyfully Reviewed
"Filled with laughter, passion, and emotion . . . mystery, threats, and plenty of sexual tension."
—Unmarried Titles
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To my beloved husband HOT COP,
for auspicious me on every twenty-four hours,
making me smile when I'm not,
bringing me java when I'm dragging,
and especially for rarely getting grumpy
when I inquire him for the fortieth time
to spell something that "doesn't look correct."
You are the best writer's married man ever.
Dear Reader,
In The Prince Who Loved Me, our heroine is reading a fictional book written by an equally fictional authoress of the Regency era, Miss Mary Edgeworth. My fictional authoress was inspired by a real authoress during this fourth dimension, Maria Edgeworth. The real Miss Edgeworth wrote both children's books and adult novels, but with a far higher purpose in mind than my fictional author. Miss Edgeworth oftentimes explored such lofty topics as land direction practices, anti-Semitism, and morality. Similar the heroine of this book, Bronwyn Murdoch, Maria lived with her father, who was an inventor as well as a writer, and helped raised her stepsisters and stepbrothers.
You might besides be interested in knowing that Bronwyn'southward father is loosely based upon William Murdoch, a Scottish inventor and engineer. Murdoch has been credited with a wide number of of import inventions, from steam engines to gas lighting.
More information most both of these interesting people from history can exist establish on my website. Just visit Hawkins Manor and enter the Oxenburg Library.
Savour!
Karen
Gentle reader, our innocent heroine, gilded-haired Lucinda Wellville, is in grave danger. Unbeknownst to her, evil Sir Mordred has slipped into her sleeping room whilst she was dancing at her uncle's ball, and is even now subconscious behind the silk bed curtains, a knife clutched in his gnarled manus. . . .
—The Black Knuckles by Miss Mary Edgeworth
Sitting nether the shade of her favorite tree, the scent of damp grass and leaves tickling her olfactory organ, Bronwyn Murdoch turned the well-baked vellum page and tried non to grimace. Somewhere effectually chapter seven she had started wondering if Lucinda, the annoyingly incompetent heroine of The Black Knuckles, truly deserved to live. The chit was forever whining about her life, while refusing to practise anything about it. "I daresay once Sir Mordred flashes his villainous knife, you'll scream and run away. Although knowing you, you'll trip on your skirts on your style out the door and someone will have to rescue you."
Bronwyn looked over her spectacles at her audition, two huge deerhounds she'd had since they were pups. "Shall I read aloud for a scrap?"
Walter, his large head in her lap, opened one sleepy center and wagged his tail, while Scott yawned so widely she could see all of his teeth.
"I'll take that as a yea." She settled against the huge tree trunk, the thick grass a soft cushion beneath her. "Lucinda reached the sanctuary of her sleeping accommodation and closed the door, leaning upon information technology, grateful for the peaceful silence that awaited her. All evening long, she'd been paraded past her uncle earlier a horde of determined suitors who'd watched her similar a set of hungry wolves eyeing a particularly plump duckling."
Bronwyn looked down at Walter. "I would be quite upset if someone eyed me similar a plump duckling."
He blinked sleepily but looked every bit if he agreed.
"I'm glad Papa has no wish to marry me off," she told the sleepy dogs. Bronwyn'due south stepmother had been some other story. The youngest daughter of an earl and far more concerned with societal advancement than either Bronwyn or her begetter, Mama had attempted far besides hard to procure an advantageous match for Bronwyn during her disastrous first flavor, one marred by Bronwyn's inexperience with lodge and her natural tendency toward solitude. Later on the debacle, Bronwyn had refused to repeat the performance, which had caused Mama to become into a bluster until Male parent had stepped in and demanded the topic be dropped. A solitary human himself, he understood Bronwyn's distress all likewise well.
Bronwyn couldn't assist but be glad; ane season had been plenty, thank yous very much. Fortunately, as the years passed, Mama's attending had thankfully shifted to Bronwyn's stepsister Sorcha, who would be making her debut in London next season. Sorcha 50
iked balls and dressing up and couldn't expect to be presented on the marriage mart.
"But non me." Bronwyn kicked off her slippers and curled her toes in the thick, absurd grass earlier sinking back into the heady pages of her book. "Lucinda pressed her easily to her chirapsia heart and hung her head, her composure slowly returning. Some of the suitors had been handsome, some wealthy, and some charming, but none had made her feel the way Roland did, he of the steely blue optics and glinting smile."
Bronwyn snorted. "You already had the chance to run off with him, you spineless fool, but instead you wept similar a broken cup, sniffling virtually how you'd miss your sisters too much to leave. You lot don't deserve Roland."
Roland was brave and romantic, and his spoken communication imploring Lucinda to flee with him had filled Bronwyn's eyes with tears. "I wish I knew a Roland."
During her unpleasant season, she'd come to realize that the world was woefully short of Rolands. That suspicion had been confirmed as the days later her flavor had ticked by into pleasant weeks, and then decorated and blurry years. Now, at the ripe old age of 20-iv, Bronwyn was firmly on the shelf. But as long as that shelf held plenty of books, her beloved family, and her lovely dogs, she was quite content.
She turned the folio and continued to read. "Backside Lucinda, the defunction stirred every bit a hand holding a knife appeared. With a harsh weep, Sir Mordred leapt from behind the curtains and plunged the knife toward Lucinda." Bronwyn gulped. "Time froze. The youthful innocent stared in horror as the pocketknife seemed to slowly arc toward her pure, untouched heart! And in that second, balanced so precariously between life and death, she thought of the 1 man who held that very heart, though he might not know information technology—brave Roland."
"Thinking of him is the least y'all can do, you lot spalpeen ninny," Bronwyn told Lucinda. "Specially when one considers how you left him at the altar at the stop of chapter eighteen."
Walter sighed gustily.
"I know. She'south a fool." Bronwyn shook her caput. " 'Oh, Roland,' Lucinda whispered, remembering how he'd claimed her innocent lips with his in the tenderest of caresses. 'Oh, Roland!' "
"Ha! Y'all're four chapters as well tardily, woman." Bronwyn turned the page. "Unable to watch the pocketknife enter her tender skin, Lucinda closed her optics tightly as— Oh!" Bronwyn lowered the book every bit Scott looked at her with concern. "Why would you close your eyes? Yous should fight, not just stand in that location like a— Argh! If I wasn't sure Roland was about to go far, I'd stop reading right hither." Sighing, she returned to the book. "Lucinda airtight her eyes tightly but equally the door outburst open. Roland, handsome and stalwart Roland, had come!" Bronwyn nodded with satisfaction. "Of course he did. He always does, whether Lucinda deserves him or non."
Scott barked in agreement and Bronwyn rubbed his ear.
"Without hesitation, the dauntless young lord lifted his sword and struck the knife from the evil hand. Not to be denied, Mordred drew his own sword and, with a hideous cry, attacked, raining blows upon the younger man. Roland met the onslaught stroke for stroke, sparks flashing equally metallic chinked metal. Furious blades struck again and again, only Lord Mordred was no friction match for Roland.
"Blow past accident, Roland fought back his foe until the sword was struck from Mordred's paw. Red-faced and furious, the evil lord bankrupt free. Seeing the fury in Roland's fine optics, Mordred knew his life was in danger. With a final, evil glare at Lucinda, the craven lord ran from the room, his desperate footsteps echoing in the marble-floored hallway. Instantly, Lucinda fell to the floor in a swoon—" Bronwyn groaned. "Non again!"
Walter sneezed, looking bored.
"I know. That's exactly what I recall." Bronwyn smoothed the page. "—Lucinda fell to the flooring in a swoon as pale as death. Roland gave a mad cry every bit he rushed to her side. Seeing her pulse beating speedily under her fair peel, he lifted her in his strong artillery and placed a tender buss upon her soft lips."
Of a sudden she couldn't read fast plenty. "Love chosen. Beckoned from her sleep, Lucinda sighed awake. Her eyes fluttered open up and she gave a glad weep upon seeing her beloved Roland. Grin, he held her to his broad chest and proclaimed his dear."
Bronwyn hugged the book and sighed deeply. "Love chosen. I wish I knew what love calling sounds like."
Walter licked her elbow.
She smiled at him. "Roland is wondrous, isn't he? But Lucinda should have helped him! If I'd been there, I'd have whacked Mordred over the head with a candlestick, or used a drape tassel to trip him, or blimp a pillow over his knife blade, or—oh, a thousand things! But Lucinda simply stood at that place like a lump, and and then she fainted." Bronwyn flicked the volume with impatient fingers. "I don't know why Roland even wants to kiss her. I'd be far more than likely to smack her—though Roland would never do such a affair, for he's far as well noble."
What would it be like to be kissed? Really kissed. And by a homo like Roland. "Therein lies the rub, eh?" she told the book that now rested in her lap. If she just wanted to be kissed, there was the butcher's son, and Lord Durning's nephew, who was often drunkard in front of the baker's shop, and several others. But finding a man, a existent man, one who liked a skilful volume besides as a game of chess, who could hash out favorite authors and current events, heady new inventions, and—oh, then many things—that was the truly difficult part. During her London Season the men she'd met had been interested simply in current gossip, horses, gambling, and the latest fashion. None of them had possessed even a rudimentary interest in books or history or any of the things she lo—
Walter and Scott divisional to their feet, staring into the woods, heads lowered, teeth bared.
Bronwyn scrambled up, her book left open up in the grass near her abandoned slippers. Her heart thudding, she peered over their heads.
A faint rustle shook a bush.
The deerhounds growled louder, Scott creeping frontward as if ready to charge.
A shrub to her side rustled loudly and she whirled to face the new danger, hands fisted. A furry flash of white and pink burst from the shrubs, and a small dog bounded out, took i look at Bronwyn, and, with a wag of its tail, threw itself into her artillery.
She gaped at the beast as, tail nonetheless wagging, it growled fiercely down at the bewildered deerhounds. It was the tiniest canis familiaris she'd ever seen, and the most ridiculous. Its long hair fanned over oddly upward-pointed ears, until information technology appeared to exist wearing a large, butterfly-shaped chapeau that framed its dark eyes and pointy muzzle. That very muzzle was at present parted in a grimacing snarl at Scott and Walter.
"Stop that," Bronwyn admonished, trying not to giggle as the little intruder licked her face. A huge pinkish bedraggled bow hung about its cervix.
Scott came to sniff at the dog.
The picayune dog instantly snarled, and Bronwyn tapped a finger on its head. "I said, stop that."
The dog gave a last bawl at Walter and Scott, who were plainly confused by the tiny warrior, then settled into Bronwyn's arms with an air of finality.
Bronwyn smothered a laugh equally she bent to kiss the dog's head. "Exist nice, lilliputian one."
The canis familiaris wagged its tail and licked her ear, knocking her spectacles to ane side. She straightened them as Scott cautiously approached over again and sniffed the little dog's human foot. The tiny dog bent down to sniff back and their noses touched, both of their tails wagging cautiously.
"Yep, that's more like information technology."
"How-do-you-do." A deep voice, rich and smoky, filled the modest immigration.
Bronwyn and the dogs turned toward the sound. There, on the far edge of the clearing, stood a man Bronwyn had only seen in her imagination. A homo far handsomer than whatever she'd e'er met. A human being who must—merely must—love poetry and kindness and long kisses.
"Roland," she whispered.
What was information technology about Roland? Lucinda wondered as she watched the gentleman pass past during the dance. What fabricated Roland superior to all other men? Was it his sense of honor, his innate kindness, the forcefulness of his arms, or something as simple every bit the strong line
of his jaw? She didn't know. All she knew was that in her world, there was Roland . . . or there was nothing.
—The Black Duke by Miss Mary Edgeworth
She couldn't wait abroad. Foreign men—peculiarly alpine, handsome ones who looked like the heroes of novels—never came to Dingwall.
Never. Always.
And in her mind'south heart, Roland had been exactly such a human as this—tall, dark, foreboding even, with a strong jaw that bespoke a character worth knowing, and intelligence agleam in his eyes. As if to reaffirm her imagination, the sun bankrupt through the copse to limn his wide shoulders with gold. By Zeus, what did one say to a god walking among mortals?
"What are you doing here?" she asked, wincing inwardly at the abruptness of her tone.
He smiled. "I am looking back at you lot."
He was indeed examining her only as thoroughly as she'd been examining him, though his gaze lingered in places hers had never dared.
Face heated, she asked, "Who are you? Why are you hither?"
The stranger's smile widened into a grin, his teeth flashing white. His bold jaw, forged of raw masculinity and shadowed by the lack of a shave, indicated a adamant character, confirmed by the olfactory organ of a caesar. High cheekbones slanted beneath eyes that held the hint of an exotic flare, and his skin was the golden hue of someone who'd spent many hours outdoors.
And now this paragon was walking toward her, oblivious to the growls from her deerhounds. Her gaze couldn't help but follow the line of his broad shoulders as they converged with his muscled breast before tapering downwards to a narrow waist. He moved gracefully, but with a raw power, rather like a boxer she'd in one case seen at a fair.
Unsure what she should do—run or stay and slake her called-for curiosity—Bronwyn held the niggling white dog closer as the man reached the edge of the immigration and and then parted the shrubs and stepped onto the thick grass.
Walter and Scott moved to stand before her, their teeth in white-fanged snarls.
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