Simply Unforgettable

( 32 )

Overview

New York Times bestselling author Mary Balogh returns to the seductive world she knows so well–Regency England–in a new novel filled with her trademark wit, sensuality, and breathtaking storytelling. With this, the first in a dazzling new quartet of novels, Balogh invites us into a special world–a select academy for young ladies–a world of innocence and temptation. Drawing us into the lives of four women, teachers at Miss Martin’s School for Girls, Balogh introduces this novel’s marvelous heroine: music teacher ...
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Overview

New York Times bestselling author Mary Balogh returns to the seductive world she knows so well–Regency England–in a new novel filled with her trademark wit, sensuality, and breathtaking storytelling. With this, the first in a dazzling new quartet of novels, Balogh invites us into a special world–a select academy for young ladies–a world of innocence and temptation. Drawing us into the lives of four women, teachers at Miss Martin’s School for Girls, Balogh introduces this novel’s marvelous heroine: music teacher Frances Allard–and the man who seduces her with a passion no woman could possibly forget.…

They meet in a ferocious snowstorm. She is a young teacher with a secret past. He is the cool, black-caped stranger who unexpectedly comes to her rescue. Between these two unlikely strangers, desire is instantaneous…and utterly impossible to resist. Stranded together in a rustic country inn, Lucius Marshall, who is the Viscount Sinclair, and Frances Allard share a night of glorious, unforgettable passion. But Frances knows her place–and it is far from the privileged world of the sensual aristocrat. Due to begin her teaching position at Miss Martin’s School in Bath, Frances must try to forget that one extraordinary night–and the man who touched her with such exquisite tenderness and abandon.

But Frances cannot hide forever. And when fate once again throws them together, Lucius refuses to take no for an answer. If Frances will not be his wife, he will make her his mistress. So begins an odyssey fraught with intrigue, one that defies propriety and shocks the straitlaced ton. For Lucius’s passionate, single-minded pursuit is about to force Frances to give up all her secrets–except one–to win the heart of the man she already loves.

Once again this incomparable storyteller captures a time and a place like no other. And in Lucius and Frances, Mary Balogh gives us her most unlikely lovers yet–a nobleman in search of the perfect wife and an unconventional woman willing to risk everything for an unforgettable love.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
What happens when a haughty, rakish aristocrat and a prim, beautiful schoolteacher are stranded in a deserted country inn together during a snowstorm? They fall in love, of course. But as all this takes place in fewer than 100 pages-and as this is a fairly conventional Regency-era romance-the story doesn't end so quickly or easily. Instead, Frances Allard denies her feelings, pushes Lucius Marshall away by refusing his offer to join him in London and, when they're coincidentally thrown together again in Bath, attempts to ignore him-all of which makes Lucius try even harder to get her attention. A devastating secret from Frances's past keeps her from giving in, even when Lucius proposes marriage, but this secret turns out to be so unsurprising and so easily surmountable that Lucius's 200 pages of pursuit hardly seems worthwhile. Readers will feel some satisfaction when this well-matched duo eventually come together, and as usual Balogh peppers her tale with vibrant, amiable secondary characters, including a handful of Frances's colorful schoolteacher friends and Lucius's merry sisters. However, this romance, which launches a new series focusing on the young ladies' academy where Frances works, is far more forgettable than Balogh's popular Bedwyn family Regencies. (Apr.) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Stranded in a remote country inn by a blinding snowstorm, music teacher Frances Allard and Lucius Marshall, Viscount Sinclair, give in to one night of unforgettable passion that blossoms into something unexpected-and that Frances knows can never be. A persistent hero who refuses to settle for less than love, a conflicted heroine running from a scandalous past, and a memorable cast of well-defined secondary characters refresh a classic Regency plot with humor, wit, and the sizzling romantic chemistry that one expects from Balogh. Well-written and emotionally complex, this is the first in a projected quartet of novels about four female teachers at a girls' school in Bath. Balogh (Slightly Dangerous), a veteran writer, currently of Regency-set historicals, lives in Canada. Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780440241133
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 7/25/2006
  • Series: Simply Quartet Series , #1
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 448
  • Sales rank: 220,423
  • Product dimensions: 6.70 (w) x 4.24 (h) x 1.23 (d)

Meet the Author

Mary Balough is the New York Times bestselling author of the acclaimed Slightly novels: Slightly Married, Slightly Wicked, Slightly Scandalous, Slightly Tempted, Slightly Sinful, and Slightly Dangerous, as well as the romances No Man’s Mistress, More than a Mistress, and One Night for Love. She is also the author of Simply Magic, Simply Love, and Simply Unforgettable, the first three books in her dazzling quartet of novels set at Miss Martin’s School for Girls. A former teacher herself, she grew up in Wales and now lives in Canada.

From the Hardcover edition.

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

It never snowed for Christmas. It always snowed--if it snowed at all--before Christmas, when people were trying to travel to family gatherings or house parties, or long after Christmas, when it was a mere nuisance to people trying to go about the business of their everyday lives. It never snowed actually on Christmas, when it would have added a picturesque quality and some magic to the celebrations.

Such was the sad reality of living in England.

This year had been no exception. The skies had remained stubbornly gray and heavy with the promise of something dire all over the holiday, and the weather had been chilly and blustery and really not very pleasant at all. But the ground had remained obstinately bare and as drab as the sky.

It had been a rather dreary Christmas, if the truth were told.

Frances Allard, who had made the long day's journey from Bath, where she taught at Miss Martin's School for Girls on Sutton and Daniel streets, in order to spend the holiday with her two great-aunts near the village of Mickledean in Somersetshire, had looked forward to being in rural surroundings. She had dreamed of taking long walks in the crisp winter countryside, blue skies overhead, or else of wading to church and the Assembly Rooms through a soft white fall of snow.

But the wind and the cold devoid of sunshine had forced her to curtail the few walks she had undertaken, and the Assembly Rooms had remained firmly closed, everyone having been content, it seemed, to spend Christmas with family and friends this year rather than with all their neighbors at a communal party or ball.

Frances would have been lying to herself if she had not admitted to feeling just a little disappointment.

Miss Gertrude Driscoll and her widowed sister, Mrs. Martha Melford, Frances's great-aunts, who lived at the dower house in the park of Wimford Grange, had been invited to join Baron Clifton's family at the big house on Christmas Day, the baron being their great-nephew and therefore a cousin of some remove to Frances. Frances had been invited too, of course. They had also all been invited to a few other private parties in the neighborhood. But the great-aunts had sent back polite refusals to them all, declaring themselves too cozy in their own house to venture outdoors in such inclement weather and too contented with the coveted company of their great-niece to bother with any invitations.
They could, after all, visit their great-nephew and his family and their neighbors any day of the year. Besides, Great-Aunt Gertrude had fancied that she was coming down with something, though she had displayed no clearly discernible symptoms, and dared not stray too far from the fireside of her own home.

Frances's wishes had not been consulted.

Only when the holiday was over and they were hugging her and shedding a few tears over her and kissing her good-bye before she stepped up into their rather rickety private carriage, which they had insisted upon sending with her though it did not usually venture beyond a five-mile radius around the village, did it occur to her great-aunts that maybe they had been selfish in remaining at home all over the holiday and ought to have remembered that dear Frances was only three-and-twenty and would perhaps have enjoyed a party or two and the company of other young people to enliven the tedium of a Christmas spent entirely with two old ladies.

She had hugged them in return and shed a few tears of her own and assured them--almost truthfully--that they were all she had needed to make Christmas a wondrously happy occasion after a long term at school, though actually it had been more than one term. She had remained at the school all through last summer, since Miss Martin took in charity girls and it was always necessary to provide for their care and entertainment through the various holidays--and Frances had had nowhere particular to go at the time.

Christmas had, then, been a disappointingly dull holiday. But she really had enjoyed the quiet after the constantly busy bustle of school life. And she was extremely fond of her great-aunts, who had opened their arms and their hearts to her from the moment of her arrival in England as a motherless baby with a French emigre father who had been fleeing the Reign of Terror. She had no memory of that time, of course, but she knew that the aunts would have brought her into the country to live with them if Papa had chosen to let her go. But he had not. He had kept her with him in London, surrounding her with nurses and governesses and singing masters, and lavishing upon her all that money could buy for her comfort and pleasure--and oceans of love besides. She had had a happy, privileged, secure childhood and girlhood--until her father's sudden death when she was only eighteen.

But her aunts had had some role to play in her growing years. They had brought her into the country for holidays and had occasionally gone to London to take her about and buy her gifts and feed her ices and other treats. And ever since she had learned to read and write she had exchanged monthly letters with them. She was inordinately fond of them. It really had been lovely to spend Christmas in their company.

There had been no snow to enliven her Christmas, then.

There was snow, however--and plenty of it--soon after.

It began when the carriage was no more than eight or ten miles from Mickledean, and Frances did consider knocking on the roof panel and suggesting to the elderly coachman that they turn around and go back. But it was not a heavy snow, and she did not really want to delay her journey. It looked more like a white rain for all of the hour after it began. But inevitably--when it really was too late to turn back--the flakes became larger and thicker, and in an alarmingly short time the countryside, which had been looking as if it were rimed with heavy frost rather than with snow itself, began to disappear under a thickening blanket of white.

The carriage moved steadily onward, and Frances assured herself that it was foolish to be nervous, that the road was probably perfectly safe for travel, especially at the plodding speed to which Thomas was keeping the horses. Soon the snow would stop falling and begin to melt, as was always the way with snow in England.

She concentrated her thoughts on the term ahead, planning which pieces of music she would choose for the senior madrigal choir to sing. Something bright and brilliant and Elizabethan, she thought. She wondered if she dared choose something in five parts. The girls had mastered three-part singing and were doing rather well at four-part pieces, though they did sometimes break off in the middle of a phrase to collapse in laughter as they got hopelessly entangled in complex harmonies.

Frances smiled at the thought. She usually laughed with them. It was better--and ultimately more productive--than weeping.

Maybe they would try five parts.

Within another half hour, it was no longer possible to see anything but unrelieved white in any direction--and no longer possible to concentrate upon thoughts of school or anything else. And the snow was still falling so thickly that it dazzled the eyes and made it hard to see any great distance from the windows even if there had been anything to see. When she pressed the side of her face against the glass in order to look ahead, she could not even distinguish the road from the ditches or the fields beyond. And there did not even seem to be any hedgerows on this particular stretch that might have provided some sort of dark border to signify where the road was.

Panic clawed at her stomach.

Could Thomas see the road from his higher perch on the box? But the snow must be blowing into his eyes and half blinding him. And he must be twice as cold as she was. She pressed her hands deeper into the fur muff that Great-Aunt Martha had given her for Christmas. She would pay a fortune for a hot cup of tea, she thought.

So much for wishing for snow. What sage was it who had once said that one should beware of what one wished for lest the wish be granted?

She sat back in her seat, determined to trust Thomas to find the way. After all, he had been her great-aunts' coachman forever and ever, or at least for as far back as she could remember, and she had never heard of his being involved in any sort of accident. But she thought wistfully of the cozy dower house she had left behind and of the bustling school that was her destination. Claudia Martin would be expecting her today. Anne Jewell and Susanna Osbourne, the other resident teachers, would be watching for her arrival. They would all spend the evening together in Claudia's private sitting room, seated cozily about the fire, drinking tea and exchanging reminiscences of Christmas.
She would be able to give them a graphic account of the snowstorm through which she had traveled. She would embellish it and exaggerate the danger and her fears and have them all laughing.

But she was not laughing yet.

And suddenly laughter was as far from her thoughts as flying to the moon would be. The carriage slowed and rocked and slithered, and Frances jerked one hand free of her muff and grabbed for the worn leather strap above her head, convinced that they were about to tip right over at any moment. She waited to see her life flash before her eyes, and mumbled the opening words of the Lord's Prayer rather than scream and startle Thomas into losing the last vestiges of his control. The sound of the horses' hooves seemed deafening even though they were moving over snow and should have been silent. Thomas was shouting enough for ten men.

And then, looking out through the window nearest her rather than clench her eyes tightly shut and not even see the end approaching, she actually saw the horses, and instead of being up ahead pulling the carriage, they were drawing alongside her window and then forging ahead.

She gripped the strap even more tightly and leaned forward. Those were not her horses. Gracious heaven, someone was overtaking them--in these weather conditions.

The box of the overtaking carriage came into view with its coachman looking rather like a hunchbacked snowman bent over the ribbons and spewing hot abuse from his mouth--presumably at poor Thomas.

And then the carriage passed in a flash of blue, and Frances had the merest glimpse of a gentleman with many capes to his greatcoat and a tall beaver hat on his head. He looked back at her with one eyebrow cocked and an expression of supercilious contempt on his face.

He dared to be contemptuous of her?

Within moments the blue carriage was past, her own rocked and slithered some more, and then it appeared to right itself before continuing on its slow, plodding way.

Frances's fears were replaced by a hot fury. She seethed with it. Of all the reckless, inconsiderate, suicidal, homicidal, dangerous, stupid things to do! Goodness gracious, even if she pressed her nose to the window she could not see more than five yards distant, and the falling snow hampered vision even within that five yards. Yet that hunchbacked, foul-mouthed coachman and that contemptuous gentleman with his arrogant eyebrow were in such a hurry that they would endanger life and limb--her own and Thomas's as well as their own--in order to overtake?

But now that the excitement was over, she was suddenly aware again of being all alone in an ocean of whiteness. She felt panic contract her stomach muscles once more and sat back, deliberately letting go of the strap and folding her hands neatly inside her muff again. Panic would get her nowhere. It was altogether more probable that Thomas would get her somewhere.

Poor Thomas. He would be ready for something hot to drink--or more probably something strong and hot--when they arrived at that somewhere. He was by no means a young man.

With the fingers of her right hand she picked out the melody of a William Byrd madrigal on the back of her left hand, as if it were the keyboard of a pianoforte. She hummed the tune aloud.

And then she could feel the carriage rocking and slithering again and grasped for the strap once more. She looked out and ahead, not really expecting to see anything, but actually she could see a dark shape, which appeared to be blocking the way ahead. In one glimpse of near-clarity between snowflakes she saw that it was a carriage and horses. She even thought it might be a blue carriage.

But though the horses pulling her own had drawn to a halt, the carriage itself did not immediately follow suit. It swayed slightly to the left, righted itself, and then slithered more than slightly to the right--and this time it kept going until it reached what must have been the edge of the road, where one wheel caught on something. The conveyance performed a neat half-pirouette and slid gently backward and downward until its back wheels were nestled deep in a snowbank.

Frances, tipped backward and staring at the opposite seat, which was suddenly half above her, could see nothing but solid snow out of the windows on both sides.

And if this was not the outside of enough, she thought with ominous calm, then she did not know what was.

She was aware of a great clamor from somewhere--horses snorting and whinnying, men shouting.

Before she could collect herself sufficiently to extricate herself from her snowy cocoon, the door opened from the outside--not without some considerable assistance from male muscles and shocking male profanities--and an arm and hand clad in a thick and expensive greatcoat and a fine leather glove reached inside to assist her. It was obvious to her that the arm did not belong to Thomas. Neither did the face at the end of it--hazel-eyed, square-jawed, irritated, and frowning.

It was a face Frances had seen briefly less than ten minutes ago.

It was a face--and a person--against whom she had conceived a considerable hostility.

She slapped her hand onto his without a word, intending to use it to assist herself to alight with as much dignity as she could muster. But he hoisted her out from her awkward position as if she were a sack of meal and deposited her on the road, where her half-boots immediately sank out of sight beneath several inches of snow. She could feel all the ferocity of the cold wind and the full onslaught of the snow falling from the sky.

One was supposed to see red when one was furious. But she saw only white.

"You, sir," she said above the noise of the horses and of Thomas and the hunchbacked snowman exchanging vigorous and colorful abuse of each other, "deserve to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. You deserve to be flayed alive. You deserve to be boiled in oil."

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First Chapter

1


It never snowed for Christmas. It always snowed--if it snowed at all--before Christmas, when people were trying to travel to family gatherings or house parties, or long after Christmas, when it was a mere nuisance to people trying to go about the business of their everyday lives. It never snowed actually on Christmas, when it would have added a picturesque quality and some magic to the celebrations.

Such was the sad reality of living in England.

This year had been no exception. The skies had remained stubbornly gray and heavy with the promise of something dire all over the holiday, and the weather had been chilly and blustery and really not very pleasant at all. But the ground had remained obstinately bare and as drab as the sky.

It had been a rather dreary Christmas, if the truth were told.

Frances Allard, who had made the long day's journey from Bath, where she taught at Miss Martin's School for Girls on Sutton and Daniel streets, in order to spend the holiday with her two great-aunts near the village of Mickledean in Somersetshire, had looked forward to being in rural surroundings. She had dreamed of taking long walks in the crisp winter countryside, blue skies overhead, or else of wading to church and the Assembly Rooms through a soft white fall of snow.

But the wind and the cold devoid of sunshine had forced her to curtail the few walks she had undertaken, and the Assembly Rooms had remained firmly closed, everyone having been content, it seemed, to spend Christmas with family and friends this year rather than with all their neighbors at a communal party or ball.

Frances would have been lying to herself if she had notadmitted to feeling just a little disappointment.

Miss Gertrude Driscoll and her widowed sister, Mrs. Martha Melford, Frances's great-aunts, who lived at the dower house in the park of Wimford Grange, had been invited to join Baron Clifton's family at the big house on Christmas Day, the baron being their great-nephew and therefore a cousin of some remove to Frances. Frances had been invited too, of course. They had also all been invited to a few other private parties in the neighborhood. But the great-aunts had sent back polite refusals to them all, declaring themselves too cozy in their own house to venture outdoors in such inclement weather and too contented with the coveted company of their great-niece to bother with any invitations.
They could, after all, visit their great-nephew and his family and their neighbors any day of the year. Besides, Great-Aunt Gertrude had fancied that she was coming down with something, though she had displayed no clearly discernible symptoms, and dared not stray too far from the fireside of her own home.

Frances's wishes had not been consulted.

Only when the holiday was over and they were hugging her and shedding a few tears over her and kissing her good-bye before she stepped up into their rather rickety private carriage, which they had insisted upon sending with her though it did not usually venture beyond a five-mile radius around the village, did it occur to her great-aunts that maybe they had been selfish in remaining at home all over the holiday and ought to have remembered that dear Frances was only three-and-twenty and would perhaps have enjoyed a party or two and the company of other young people to enliven the tedium of a Christmas spent entirely with two old ladies.

She had hugged them in return and shed a few tears of her own and assured them--almost truthfully--that they were all she had needed to make Christmas a wondrously happy occasion after a long term at school, though actually it had been more than one term. She had remained at the school all through last summer, since Miss Martin took in charity girls and it was always necessary to provide for their care and entertainment through the various holidays--and Frances had had nowhere particular to go at the time.

Christmas had, then, been a disappointingly dull holiday. But she really had enjoyed the quiet after the constantly busy bustle of school life. And she was extremely fond of her great-aunts, who had opened their arms and their hearts to her from the moment of her arrival in England as a motherless baby with a French emigre father who had been fleeing the Reign of Terror. She had no memory of that time, of course, but she knew that the aunts would have brought her into the country to live with them if Papa had chosen to let her go. But he had not. He had kept her with him in London, surrounding her with nurses and governesses and singing masters, and lavishing upon her all that money could buy for her comfort and pleasure--and oceans of love besides. She had had a happy, privileged, secure childhood and girlhood--until her father's sudden death when she was only eighteen.

But her aunts had had some role to play in her growing years. They had brought her into the country for holidays and had occasionally gone to London to take her about and buy her gifts and feed her ices and other treats. And ever since she had learned to read and write she had exchanged monthly letters with them. She was inordinately fond of them. It really had been lovely to spend Christmas in their company.

There had been no snow to enliven her Christmas, then.

There was snow, however--and plenty of it--soon after.

It began when the carriage was no more than eight or ten miles from Mickledean, and Frances did consider knocking on the roof panel and suggesting to the elderly coachman that they turn around and go back. But it was not a heavy snow, and she did not really want to delay her journey. It looked more like a white rain for all of the hour after it began. But inevitably--when it really was too late to turn back--the flakes became larger and thicker, and in an alarmingly short time the countryside, which had been looking as if it were rimed with heavy frost rather than with snow itself, began to disappear under a thickening blanket of white.

The carriage moved steadily onward, and Frances assured herself that it was foolish to be nervous, that the road was probably perfectly safe for travel, especially at the plodding speed to which Thomas was keeping the horses. Soon the snow would stop falling and begin to melt, as was always the way with snow in England.

She concentrated her thoughts on the term ahead, planning which pieces of music she would choose for the senior madrigal choir to sing. Something bright and brilliant and Elizabethan, she thought. She wondered if she dared choose something in five parts. The girls had mastered three-part singing and were doing rather well at four-part pieces, though they did sometimes break off in the middle of a phrase to collapse in laughter as they got hopelessly entangled in complex harmonies.

Frances smiled at the thought. She usually laughed with them. It was better--and ultimately more productive--than weeping.

Maybe they would try five parts.

Within another half hour, it was no longer possible to see anything but unrelieved white in any direction--and no longer possible to concentrate upon thoughts of school or anything else. And the snow was still falling so thickly that it dazzled the eyes and made it hard to see any great distance from the windows even if there had been anything to see. When she pressed the side of her face against the glass in order to look ahead, she could not even distinguish the road from the ditches or the fields beyond. And there did not even seem to be any hedgerows on this particular stretch that might have provided some sort of dark border to signify where the road was.

Panic clawed at her stomach.

Could Thomas see the road from his higher perch on the box? But the snow must be blowing into his eyes and half blinding him. And he must be twice as cold as she was. She pressed her hands deeper into the fur muff that Great-Aunt Martha had given her for Christmas. She would pay a fortune for a hot cup of tea, she thought.

So much for wishing for snow. What sage was it who had once said that one should beware of what one wished for lest the wish be granted?

She sat back in her seat, determined to trust Thomas to find the way. After all, he had been her great-aunts' coachman forever and ever, or at least for as far back as she could remember, and she had never heard of his being involved in any sort of accident. But she thought wistfully of the cozy dower house she had left behind and of the bustling school that was her destination. Claudia Martin would be expecting her today. Anne Jewell and Susanna Osbourne, the other resident teachers, would be watching for her arrival. They would all spend the evening together in Claudia's private sitting room, seated cozily about the fire, drinking tea and exchanging reminiscences of Christmas.
She would be able to give them a graphic account of the snowstorm through which she had traveled. She would embellish it and exaggerate the danger and her fears and have them all laughing.

But she was not laughing yet.

And suddenly laughter was as far from her thoughts as flying to the moon would be. The carriage slowed and rocked and slithered, and Frances jerked one hand free of her muff and grabbed for the worn leather strap above her head, convinced that they were about to tip right over at any moment. She waited to see her life flash before her eyes, and mumbled the opening words of the Lord's Prayer rather than scream and startle Thomas into losing the last vestiges of his control. The sound of the horses' hooves seemed deafening even though they were moving over snow and should have been silent. Thomas was shouting enough for ten men.

And then, looking out through the window nearest her rather than clench her eyes tightly shut and not even see the end approaching, she actually saw the horses, and instead of being up ahead pulling the carriage, they were drawing alongside her window and then forging ahead.

She gripped the strap even more tightly and leaned forward. Those were not her horses. Gracious heaven, someone was overtaking them--in these weather conditions.

The box of the overtaking carriage came into view with its coachman looking rather like a hunchbacked snowman bent over the ribbons and spewing hot abuse from his mouth--presumably at poor Thomas.

And then the carriage passed in a flash of blue, and Frances had the merest glimpse of a gentleman with many capes to his greatcoat and a tall beaver hat on his head. He looked back at her with one eyebrow cocked and an expression of supercilious contempt on his face.

He dared to be contemptuous of her?

Within moments the blue carriage was past, her own rocked and slithered some more, and then it appeared to right itself before continuing on its slow, plodding way.

Frances's fears were replaced by a hot fury. She seethed with it. Of all the reckless, inconsiderate, suicidal, homicidal, dangerous, stupid things to do! Goodness gracious, even if she pressed her nose to the window she could not see more than five yards distant, and the falling snow hampered vision even within that five yards. Yet that hunchbacked, foul-mouthed coachman and that contemptuous gentleman with his arrogant eyebrow were in such a hurry that they would endanger life and limb--her own and Thomas's as well as their own--in order to overtake?

But now that the excitement was over, she was suddenly aware again of being all alone in an ocean of whiteness. She felt panic contract her stomach muscles once more and sat back, deliberately letting go of the strap and folding her hands neatly inside her muff again. Panic would get her nowhere. It was altogether more probable that Thomas would get her somewhere.

Poor Thomas. He would be ready for something hot to drink--or more probably something strong and hot--when they arrived at that somewhere. He was by no means a young man.

With the fingers of her right hand she picked out the melody of a William Byrd madrigal on the back of her left hand, as if it were the keyboard of a pianoforte. She hummed the tune aloud.

And then she could feel the carriage rocking and slithering again and grasped for the strap once more. She looked out and ahead, not really expecting to see anything, but actually she could see a dark shape, which appeared to be blocking the way ahead. In one glimpse of near-clarity between snowflakes she saw that it was a carriage and horses. She even thought it might be a blue carriage.

But though the horses pulling her own had drawn to a halt, the carriage itself did not immediately follow suit. It swayed slightly to the left, righted itself, and then slithered more than slightly to the right--and this time it kept going until it reached what must have been the edge of the road, where one wheel caught on something. The conveyance performed a neat half-pirouette and slid gently backward and downward until its back wheels were nestled deep in a snowbank.

Frances, tipped backward and staring at the opposite seat, which was suddenly half above her, could see nothing but solid snow out of the windows on both sides.

And if this was not the outside of enough, she thought with ominous calm, then she did not know what was.

She was aware of a great clamor from somewhere--horses snorting and whinnying, men shouting.

Before she could collect herself sufficiently to extricate herself from her snowy cocoon, the door opened from the outside--not without some considerable assistance from male muscles and shocking male profanities--and an arm and hand clad in a thick and expensive greatcoat and a fine leather glove reached inside to assist her. It was obvious to her that the arm did not belong to Thomas. Neither did the face at the end of it--hazel-eyed, square-jawed, irritated, and frowning.

It was a face Frances had seen briefly less than ten minutes ago.

It was a face--and a person--against whom she had conceived a considerable hostility.

She slapped her hand onto his without a word, intending to use it to assist herself to alight with as much dignity as she could muster. But he hoisted her out from her awkward position as if she were a sack of meal and deposited her on the road, where her half-boots immediately sank out of sight beneath several inches of snow. She could feel all the ferocity of the cold wind and the full onslaught of the snow falling from the sky.

One was supposed to see red when one was furious. But she saw only white.

"You, sir," she said above the noise of the horses and of Thomas and the hunchbacked snowman exchanging vigorous and colorful abuse of each other, "deserve to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. You deserve to be flayed alive. You deserve to be boiled in oil."
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 32 Customer Reviews
  • Posted May 26, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    Stranded Together with a Twist

    Frances Allard is on her way back to Miss Martin's School for girls where she teaches. Frances spent her Christmas break with her two elderly great aunts. The weather is making a turn for the worse when her carriage is over taken by a speeding hellion. Just a short way down the road disaster strikes. The hellion has had to stop and Frances' driver is unable to stop in time. The carriage ends up in a snow drift but Frances is rescued by Lucius Marshall, Viscount Sinclair.

    The turn in weather makes travel impossible so Frances, Lucius and their drivers seek shelter in an inn. The innkeepers are away but they have left behind Wally, a pretty much useless servant. Frances and Lucius spend the next few days bickering, laughing, frolicking, learning each other and loving. Both Frances and Lucius understand that once the weather improves they'll be saying good-bye. It's this knowledge that allows Frances to take the risk and live in the moment.

    When the time comes; however, Lucius doesn't see why saying good-bye is necessary. Frances is an independent woman and won't live as someone's mistress or even as a kept woman. She can only accept marriage and that isn't an option. Lucius must marry by summer's end and is all but betrothed to another. Frances doesn't want to leave Bath or her teaching position. Fate has other ideas and keeps throwing them together.

    Lucius is a strong male role and at times was almost overbearing. Really he was just a determined man who knew his woman was holding back and needed to help fix it. In the end he was a caring man who would do anything to see Frances happy. Frances spends so much time worrying how every thing is going to turn out that she forgets to live. She is content where she is and won't allow herself to reach for happiness, so Lucius reaches for it for both of them. The secondary characters added greatly to the book as well. I found myself wanting to know Lucius' family more. Frances' colleagues were just there enough to make me wonder what secrets their stories hold. I'm looking forward to finding out!

    Simply Unforgettable is the type of book that will ruin all others for awhile after you finish it. It is that good. Balogh takes a standard stranded together themed book and twists and shapes it into something new and stunning. Lucius seems doomed to a marriage with someone else and Frances has a mysterious past that stands between them. I was worried about her past and if it was really as big a deal as we were being led to believe. I wasn't disappointed. It isn't an insurmountable problem but it wasn't a small problem either.

    Simply Unforgettable is great for someone looking to slip to London for a tea or soiree. If you've read the Wallflower series by Lisa Kleypas, I don't doubt for a minute you'll love Simply Unforgettable by Mary Balogh!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 1, 2014

    Excellent

    Met all of my expectations! Ennjoyable as always!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 8, 2012

    Khady

    Perfect read!! Very captivating!!! Could not put the book down!!! A must read!!! :-)

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 26, 2011

    Recommended for fans of the historical romance fiction genre.

    I really enjoy this genre but I am usually put off my those cheesy mass paperback covers. Loved the simplicity of this one! The book was a great romantic escape to another time. Really loved the characters and the plot was fast paced.

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted February 16, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    Actually pretty forgettable

    This book could have been a lot shorter than it was. I also have a difficult time imagining a Viscount continually being rejected by the same woman and not giving up. Thats all.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 9, 2007

    A reviewer

    Part of the reason why I picked this up was because I've read Mary Balogh before and she's never been a disappointment. But this book definitely was. There was a cast of five main characters and none of them were interesting or unique enough for me to be able to tell them apart. As the book went on, the characters became somewhat more realistic. I developed sympathy for James and Madeline because they were far more compelling than the main duo. Edmond and Alexandra were dull and completely unbelievable in the role of lovers. They had no passion between them. Nothing of interest happened in the book, which was far too long anyway. When an author writes her characters well, a reader doesn't care how long the book is so long as they can continue to be inside the heads of such fascinating, exciting and REAL people. And the story doesn't always have to involve an exciting mystery and several dead bodies. It can simply be a tale of two people who manage to find love and happiness together despite the odds. I will say this, though. This is a classic novel that Mary Balogh wrote back in 1989. She has improved significantly since then. Her style has changed so much that she's barely recognizable as the same author. Judith McNaught is the opposite. Some of the books she wrote years ago are much better than the stuff she has out now. Whitney, My Love, a classic that was written in 1985, is one of the most beautiful love stories I've ever read.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 24, 2007

    It is Simply Unforgettable

    I loved loved loved this book. It was the first I have read by this author, and had to go back and read any other book I could get my hands on. It contains so much feeling and emotion between the main characters, that I couldn't put it down.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 23, 2006

    By far the best book I've read all year!!!

    This was a great story it captured me on the first page and held me to the last. I literally could not put it down I pick up this book at 6pm and did not put it down untill I had finished the book at 4am. This is my first Mary Balough and she has found a fan in me...the book was great!!!!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 6, 2006

    Very disappointing

    This is the first and I must say the LAST book by Mary Balogh I will read. I found it to be very boring. It was a chore to finish it, but finish it I did even though it took much longer than usual to complete this reading. There were a few interesting parts but not enough for me to ever recommend it to anyone to read.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 27, 2006

    Not Mary Balogh's best

    I'm a big fan of Mary Balogh, but this one was not my favorite. I thought it started well, but then it just went in rather boring circles for the rest of the book. Hope the others- especially Syd's- are better in this 'simply' series.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 21, 2005

    Entertaining as always

    I'm a devote reader of Mary Balogh, and I do always like her stories. This one wasn't my favorite, but I hope the family line will get better with the next book.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 9, 2005

    Indulge & Be Delighted !!!

    What can I say..but Hurrah !!! Another great story written by Mary Balogh.. As in her Slightly Series of books, involving the Bedwyn family, this tale of Frances Allard (teacher at a school for young ladies),and the totally delicious Lucien Marshall (Viscount Sinclair) is entirely enjoyable, from beginning to end.. and YES, you will find within, a smattering of mention of the Bedwyns.. which to Mary Balogh's loyal readers, will bring a smile of remembrance...of other superb tales.. This story is all things, from funny, to sad, to happy, to loving.. all the requirements one needs... Indulge & Be Delighted...!!!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 31, 2005

    What a Disappointment

    After enjoying many of Mary Balogh's romances through the last few years, I found this hardcover a real disappointment. The characters were flat, uninteresting, and the plot was just plain dumb. If Ms. Balogh doesn't get the muse, this will have been my last purchase of her work.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 1, 2005

    A disappointment from a Master of Historicals

    Mary Balogh has entertained us for years with witty, interesting historicals designed to give the reader the opportunity to escape from the mundane of every day. In the latest book Simply Unforgettable, however, she forgets that her readers turn to the historicals for an escape, not for a poor attempt to put the modern ideal of a male/female relationship into the 1800's. If I was interested in reading about a 'career minded' female and a whimpy near-do-well hero, I would read a 'modern novella' not a historical romance. In addition to poor characters, the plot is not up to Ms. Balogh's usual standards. Frances Allard is a daughter of a French father and an Italian mother, yet she claims to be English and is offended that not everybody sees it her way, somebody needs to teach this girl a bit of geography and the rules of lianage. There are several characters in the book that are mentioned many times and who appear to be central to the plot, yet we never get to meet them or to understand their motivation (the George Ralston character for example, who is he?) The only interesting turns and twists in the plot (one carriage overtaking another and heros being stranded in the snow storm) are recycled from other books by Ms. Balogh (see the 'Matchmaker' and Irresistable (or another book from that series). I fear that this book is quite forgettable despite its title to the countrary.

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  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    A terrific tale

    Frances Allard travels from Miss Martin¿s School for Girls in Bath to spend the Christmas holidays with her beloved great-aunts in Mickledean. However a rare holiday snowstorm strikes; while her coach crawls, Viscount Lucius Marshall goes full speed cuasing a near accident. Her coach is stuck in the drifts and though she the tortoise and he the hare argue he takes her to a nearby inn. Shockingly they share an incredible night of passion................ In the morning light, Frances knows he is way above her station and besides even if she was not her past makes her unsuitable for him; she must move on, but she will never forget the greatest night of her life. Lucius refuses to take no for an answer as he realizes that he has found his soulmate although she is far from the perfect wife, love makes her even better suited for him, but he must persuade her one kiss at a time................... The opening of the ¿Simply¿ delightful Regency series is a reason to rejoice as the great Mary Balogh starts off with a terrific tale of two individuals who by Ton standards could never be together except as his mistress. The story line is character driven as the determined male protagonist knows what his perfect spouse should be, but his ideal wife will share one trait with him: love. Anything less is unacceptable. Frances is his wonderful counterpart who rejects him out of her love for him. The secondary cast adds depth and humor while also deftly introducing us fans to future lead characters. This is no slightly diverging novel as sub-genre readers will simply treasure this unforgettable romance............... Harriet Klausner

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    Posted January 29, 2011

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    Posted November 29, 2009

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    Posted December 7, 2010

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 23, 2011

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    Posted April 23, 2010

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