Gabrielle's fast-paced second Daring Ladies Regency (after One Night with an Earl) pairs a stoic white duke and the strong-willed, mixed-race daughter of an earl. Fans of the fake relationship trope and anyone looking for diverse historical romance should check this out. Publisher's Weekly on “How Not to Marry a Duke”

A great stand-alone addition to the "Daring Ladies" series in which the romance sizzles...An enjoyable read with a great dynamic between the two main characters and a refreshing blend of cultures rarely seen in historical romances. Library Journal on “How Not to Marry a Duke”

“The characters had really good depth and we got plenty of backstory from both of them. It was a hard one to put down.” -Sarah’s Bookish Reviews on “Make Mine a Marquess”

“Make Mine a Marquess is a historical romance novel filled with revenge and steam. If you’re a fan of historical romance, I recommend picking up this book!” -Commuting Reads

“I absolutely adored this book!” -Mommas All Booked

“This is a quick and easy read. I really liked Robert and Pheobe’s chemistry and connection.” -Jacklyn’s Book Nook

“A lovely mix of mystery, revenge and romance; Make Mine a Marquess is a historical fiction that will keep you engaged from start to finish.” -Space on the Bookcase

“‘Make Mine A Marquess’ is one of those comforting reads. It is a tale of relentless passion and formidable vengeance, and Robert and Phoebe’s journey is as intoxicating as it is dangerous.” -The Jinxed Library

“I loved this fast-paced historical romance. It's the kind of book you find hard to put down not because you love the story but because you love the characters and want to know what happens to them. It's a perfect read for romance lovers.” -The Pages Of

Chapter One

Hertfordshire, July 1827

His enemy was close.

Standing in the shadows of the garden, Robert Kirkian, Marquess of Landon glanced inside the ballroom. Strains from the orchestra reached him as masked couples danced by the open French doors. He spotted the baron, his cousin, Lord Willard. He wore a King Henry VIII costume, complete with a rose velvet doublet and cap with a white feather. Unlike the other guests, he was unmasked.

Landon’s gut clenched, longing for revenge. He exhaled slowly, calming his hammering heart.

As he watched, Lord Willard escorted a blond woman onto the terrace, then down the stairs into the gardens. With her gold half mask, Landon couldn’t see her face, but her figure was tall and willowy.

Landon pressed his back against the stone wall as they walked past then stopped at a stone bench by an old oak tree.

Spying on the pair, Landon moved behind a nearby hedgerow. A full moon and a single torch by the bench illuminated the couple. The lady’s fair hair was stylishly fashioned in a crown of curls, a heavy mass shimmering from the glow of the torch like molten gold.

“You look lovely this evening, Miss Dawson,” Willard said.

“Thank you, my lord.” She was dressed like the goddess Diana with a white dress and a small, decorative quiver of arrows strapped to her back.

From his distance, Landon couldn’t make out her eye color. She smiled, her teeth even and straight. His thoughts raced dangerously. This was the woman betrothed to the baron, a dastardly man.

His cousin took her slender hand. “Miss Dawson, there is no mistaking my feelings.”

Her lips parted. “Lord Willard, I—”

“Your father gave his blessing.” He stepped closer. “There is no reason for shyness between us.” He pulled her into his arms and lowered his head.

The lady pressed a hand against his chest, holding him off. “I mean to wait, my lord.”

The baron kept his hold around her waist. “Even for a kiss?”

She stepped out of his embrace and smoothed her skirts. “A kiss can lead to much more. The house party has just begun, and I have hopes we can learn more about each other.”

Willard hesitated, and Landon wondered if he would force a kiss upon her. His muscles tensed, and he was ready to burst forth from behind the hedgerow without a thought about his well-laid plans.

His cousin gave her a crocodile smile. “You are right, my dear. The ball is just the beginning of the house party. We will have opportunity to spend more time together.” He raised her gloved hand and pressed a kiss against the satin, his dark gaze never leaving her face. “I look forward to every moment.” He turned away, then glanced back. “Before I leave, would you like me to send your cousin or mother?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ll be along in a moment.”

“As you wish.” He bowed, then departed.

The lady let out a loud sigh, then sat on the stone bench and slipped her quiver of arrows from her shoulders. Her brows drew together as her left gloved hand rubbed where Lord Willard had kissed her. Then, reaching behind her head, she untied the gold half mask, removed it, and set it beside her.

The moon shifted from behind a cloud, and Landon’s breath stalled in his chest at the sight of her unmasked face. The rumors of her beauty had not done her justice. She had a heart-shaped face, a slender nose, and a porcelain complexion. Thick dark lashes framed deep blue eyes. Her blond hair was lustrous beneath the moonlight. After investigating, he’d learned the baron’s betrothed’s name was Phoebe Dawson, properly addressed as Miss Dawson.

Seizing the opportunity, Landon stepped into view. “Lady Diana, you look lonely.” He’d addressed her as she was costumed, not her real name.

The lady jumped to her feet to face him. Her blue eyes widened, and her gaze traveled from his face, taking in his costume—black half mask, black shirt, black breeches, and boots—before meeting his eyes. “Do I know you, sir?”

“Not yet.”

Her brow creased and she glanced back at the house. “Then it’s not proper for us to be alone.” She turned to leave.

He wanted her to stay, to engage her, to plant the seed for his plans. “A goddess would never forget her quiver of arrows.”

Her eyes sparked with annoyance. “I do not need an arrow to defend myself from a pirate.”

Landon had chosen the pirate costume in case he was spotted slipping in through the back doors of the mansion. If discovered, he could pretend to be a drunken, wayward guest.

He opened his hands wide. He did not wish to appear threatening. At least not to her. “I would not harm you.”

She eyed him warily. “Says the rogue to the lady.”

“What makes you believe I’m a rogue?”

She shook her head, as if the question wasn’t worth answering. “Feminine instinct.”

He flashed her a wolfish grin. “Who am I to argue with such intuition?”

She tilted her head to the side and studied him for a moment. “I did not see a pirate inside the ballroom.”

She was observant. He made a mental note of it. “Perhaps you missed me in the crush.”

She let out an unladylike laugh. “I doubt that.”

“Please tell me you have a weakness for pirates.” Before she could answer, he took a daring step closer until he was an arm’s length from her. She did not back away, and her perfume wafted to him, a delicate lavender, not the cloying scent of many of the other ladies he’d known. This close, her eyes were like the Mediterranean Sea on a warm summer day. The water could be deceptive—lovely and calm on the surface, a dangerous undertow beneath.

“You have an inflated sense of self-worth, lord pirate,” she said.

“I don’t deny it.” He dared to reach out to touch a fat blond lock that had escaped her pins to curve around her cheek. “Perhaps you are right, and you should be wary.”

Pursing her pink lips, she arched a delicate eyebrow. “Why? Will you toss me over your shoulder like a pirate would his booty?”

The image made his cock twitch in his trousers. He was momentarily at a loss for words. Frustration tightened his chest. He’d wanted to fluster her. Instead, she was turning the tables.

A flash of disapproval crossed her face—her lips thinned, and her brows drew slightly together. Had he not been watching her as closely as he was, he would have missed it. “Do not worry,” she said. “I have more sense than to fall beneath your rakish spell.”

She spoke like she’d once been a fallen woman. His curiosity was piqued. Stepping back, the curl slipped from his fingers to bounce upon her smooth cheek.

“It’s been interesting, lord pirate.” She slipped her mask back on, and without a backward glance, she picked up her quiver of arrows from the stone bench, and walked away, leaving him in the moonlit gardens. He watched as her white-clad figure ascended the terrace steps and disappeared into the ballroom.

The baron’s betrothed was no wallflower. She was unexpected, a challenge, and if he wasn’t careful, she could throw him completely off his course of revenge.

“Who are you searching for?”

Phoebe Dawson was aware of her cousin and friend, Beatrice Stanwell, standing beside her in the ballroom. “No one.”

“Liar,” Beatrice said. “You’re flustered and have been vigorously fluttering your fan since your return from the gardens.”

“I am not vigorously fluttering. It’s warm in here.” She refused to admit her cousin was right. She was looking for someone.

“Hmm. It’s been warm since we’ve arrived. Was it Lord Willard? I saw him escort you to the terrace. What happened?” Beatrice tucked a wisp of red hair into her chignon. Her jade dress emphasized her green eyes and the spattering of freckles across her nose.

Phoebe shook her head. “It’s not Lord Willard.”

Beatrice nodded once. “I didn’t think so.”

Phoebe wrinkled her nose. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I’ve known you since we were children playing hoops in the garden. It’s not too late to tell your mother.”

“Tell her what?”

“That you do not want to marry the baron.”

Phoebe shifted from foot to foot. “Why would I do that? Our families have agreed. My father gave his consent.”

“But you do not love him,” Beatrice said in a low, troubled voice.

A heaviness centered in Phoebe’s chest. The goddess costume itched her skin, and she wanted to take off the quiver of arrows which suddenly seemed too tight strapped to her shoulders. “I care for him. Love is not everything.”

Beatrice’s disapproval was as loud as a trumpet blast. “Is your insistence to go along with your family’s wishes because of…of…”

“It is not.” Phoebe felt her face grow warm, and a stifling sensation clawed at her throat. A different tenseness enveloped her limbs. She refused to talk of her past. No sense would come of it now. She’d been fortunate, lucky, blessed. Her youthful mistakes were as much a part of her as the air she breathed.

She’d only been sixteen when she’d met Philip, a young stable boy in her family’s country home. She’d loved to ride, and he’d readied her mount every afternoon. Philip was two years older and handsome with a swath of blond curls. They’d flirted for a full year and, one sunny afternoon, he’d proclaimed his love in a field of sunflowers. They’d made love in the stables. She’d loved him with all her youthful heart, and they’d intended to run away and wed, so she’d packed a bag to start a new life, only to learn that he’d left without a word.

Heartache had caused despair. How could she have been such a fool? Philip had used her. Lied to her. She’d felt as if her heart had been hollowed out with a dull spoon. But things had gotten worse. Much worse. As the days passed and her menses had not started, she’d grown more and more desperate. Thirty long days and nights of worry had eaten away at her like pestilence. Sheer panic had set in.

If she’d told her mother, she’d have been sent off to the country to have the baby, only to have it given away to another family to raise. Then she’d be sent home and expected to behave as if nothing had happened. She wouldn’t have survived it. She’d heard whispers of a woman in St Giles who’d get rid of unwanted pregnancies. Some of the women didn’t survive. Before she’d had to make the difficult choice or flee, she’d bled.

A decade had passed, and she still mistrusted rogues. Especially liars. She swore never again to be fooled by a handsome face and smooth talk.

Then why was she searching the costumed men for a black-clad pirate? Maybe she had a weakness for rogues, especially handsome ones.

And he was handsome.

The half-masked pirate had bronzed skin, darker than any Englishman she knew. Hair as black as coal. Eyes as dark as she preferred her morning chocolate. And when he’d intently watched her in the gardens, a shiver had traveled down her spine. Even now, the memory was vivid. He was more than six feet tall, and he moved like an athlete, all muscle and sinew. He was different than most other men in the ballroom. Scintillating. Exciting.

The type of male the mamas of the ton would warn their daughters to avoid. The type of male she’d sworn to avoid.

“Here comes your mother. I’ll make my escape for the refreshment table. If you need me, shut your fan.” Beatrice hurried away.

Phoebe could not blame Beatrice for her quick escape. She wanted to grasp her cousin’s hand to keep her close.

Coward.

Hillary Dawson was an imposing woman with a spine of steel, the iron-clad ambition of a member of the House of Lords intent on arguing a bill, and the determination of a terrier. Her sole goal was to increase her social standing. The wife of a wealthy merchant, she had more money than many of the beau monde but lacked the requisite title and bloodline and therefore would never be fully accepted.

Her daughter, however, if she had any say, would have a prized title.

Mrs. Dawson had instructed her husband to bestow a fat dowry upon their daughter to entice the baron, Lord Willard, to offer for her. Phoebe knew that after her wedding, her mother would get social standing as mother-in-law to a titled baron, potential marquess, if rumors were true. Invitations to ton affairs would most likely follow, along with prestige for her father’s coal mining business.

“Phoebe, darling, please smile,” her mother instructed. “It’s the first day of the house party, and the guest list includes the countess of Delmont, with whom I wish to become acquainted. Lord Willard has spared no expense and ensured an exciting array of entertainment.”

Phoebe knew Lord Willard tended to throw lavish parties. He’d been rumored to be in financial trouble until his cousin, the Marquess of Landon, had been lost at sea during a business venture. By law, the baron could not inherit his cousin’s title until there was proof of death, but Willard had become the trustee of the marquess’s vast lands and rich coffers. If her parents feared the spendthrift baron would quickly spend her dowry, her father—the shrewd businessman he was—was planning on providing for an ample marriage settlement for his only daughter and child.

“Ah. Here he is now,” her mother said, a look of intense satisfaction crossing her features.

Lord Willard halted before them and bowed. “Are you enjoying yourselves, ladies?” His face was flushed from the heat of the ballroom, and beads of perspiration dotted his brow.

With his fair hair and green eyes, many ladies found him gallant and handsome. Phoebe did not find him attractive.

Which made him perfect.

Nevertheless, he’d been attentive and had courted her, bringing flowers and chocolates at her home, and had visited precisely three times, during which they were chaperoned by her maid. Thereafter, he’d asked her father’s permission for her hand. He was nothing but proper. In turn, her father had promptly approved. Her mother was joyous.

Phoebe would not let them down.

Not again. She was no longer a gullible sixteen-year-old.

“Is it true you have retained a mesmerist for the house party, my lord?” her mother asked. “It’s all the talk of the ladies.”

Lord Willard smiled. “I would not want to disappoint anyone.”

Just then the orchestra began a waltz. He turned to Phoebe and extended his hand. “Will you do me the honor of this dance, Miss Dawson?”

Beneath her mother’s watchful gaze, Phoebe rested her hand on the baron’s arm as he escorted her to the dance floor.

Phoebe would curb her inclinations. Not repeat history. Do her duty.

As they spun on the dance floor, she was powerless to prevent her gaze from traveling over the guests.

Where the devil is the pirate?

Landon kept to the shadows of the mansion. It had been five years, but he recalled every dip in the soft earth, every flower bed and bush. The sound of a lively country dance grew fainter as he made his way farther from the ballroom. Beneath the light of the moon, he made out the shape of the conservatory which provided flowers year-round for the vestibule and the dining room. Next came the orangery, which produced oranges and pomegranates throughout the long winter months.

He approached the large French doors that led into the mansion’s study. He touched the handle, expecting the doors to be locked. Unless Willard had fired all the staff, they’d been diligent and had always ensured each casement and outside door was secure at the end of the day. Landon reached into his pocket and withdrew his lockpicks. He’d picked up more useful skills in his time away than he’d ever learned from his years at university.

In less than five minutes, he was inside the study. He lit a lantern, keeping the light low. Willard was his first cousin. He was also his enemy. But this time, Landon had the advantage. Willard had no idea Landon knew of his betrayal.

So where would he hide any incriminating documents?

The desk would be too easy. Still, Landon opened the drawers, unwilling to overlook the obvious. He found unpaid invoices from dozens of vendors. Several tailors. Hatmakers. Bootmakers. Furnishings. Even a catered cake from Gunther’s. Good God, he’d known his cousin was a spendthrift, but his spending was worse than he’d recalled. Of course, the bastard wasn’t wasting his own money.

It was Landon’s coin. All part of the marquess’s estates. Willard had completely neglected the East Wing after a tree struck by lightning had damaged a parapet and had left it crumbling rather than spend money to repair and maintain the mansion. Even more devastating was the lack of care for his tenants and servants. Landon had always made sure that his tenants’ roofs never leaked and they had ample supplies, heat, and food, especially during the chilly winters. Dozens of people relied on him, and he cared for all of them.

It appeared that in the years of Landon’s absence, his cousin had neglected the tenants’ needs and mistreated the servants.

A venomous hatred bloomed in his chest.

Landon clenched his teeth and resumed his search. His fingertips traced the ledges of a bookshelf, searching for a loose book or hiding place. His frustration mounted when voices could be heard outside the study. His time was limited.

Tomorrow he’d have more opportunity. He’d thirsted for vengeance for so long. A vision flashed in his mind of fair hair, smooth skin, and watchful blue eyes.

Tomorrow. He couldn’t wait.