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Two Weeks With a Stranger

Two Weeks With a Stranger

2.5 7
by Debra Mullins

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Wedded and bedded, Lucy is devastated when she's abandoned by her new husband the very next day. Though it was a marriage of convenience, their heated wedding night gave her hope that it would turn into something more. But she refuses to be the demure bride left behind on a country estate while the stranger she married goes gallivanting about London—even if


Wedded and bedded, Lucy is devastated when she's abandoned by her new husband the very next day. Though it was a marriage of convenience, their heated wedding night gave her hope that it would turn into something more. But she refuses to be the demure bride left behind on a country estate while the stranger she married goes gallivanting about London—even if she has to create a scandal of her own.

Simon, the Earl of Devingham, would prefer his exquisite young bride remain at home where he left her. Instead, she follows him to London . . . seducing him with her fiery kisses, enchanting him with her scorching touches, and awakening in him an insatiable hunger. His duty to the Crown demands that he remain in town, but Lucy has entered a most perilous game—and she will not forfeit without Simon's total surrender.

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Two Weeks With a Stranger

By Debra Mullins

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Copyright © 2007 Debra Mullins
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780060799243

Chapter One

How female mystery lures the mind of man
And shatters logic as no other can . . .

The journals of Simon, Lord Devingham, on the subject of women

Two months later

Simon fingered the pale pink, scented stationery. The elaborate script of Isabella's latest note flirted with him as seductively as the lady herself. If all went well at Creston's ball this evening, he might well be on his way to uncovering the signorina's most intimate secrets.

If all went well.

He tossed the letter on the desk with a snap of his wrist, then leaned back in his chair, folded his hands over his abdomen, and studied the feminine scrap of paper with a frown. Isabella Montelucci was a woman coveted by most men. The dark-haired, dark-eyed temptress moved with a sensuality that naturally drew the male eye. She was an accomplished coquette with a husky voice that hinted of unspoken pleasures, and her seductive laugh caught the attention of every man within hearing distance.

She was female sexuality personified, and it was his job to seduce her.

The mere thought of the task tensed his shoulders and started the vein throbbing at his temple. What were his superiors thinking, charging him with such an undertaking?

Never in his life had he been the sort of man for whom women pined. Oh,he was attractive enough, he supposed, though personally he believed that his past romantic attachments had more to do with his title and fortune than his physical form.

Weapons, he knew--how to care for them and how to fire them, swiftly and with deadly accuracy. He had killed men in the course of duty and walked away without a backward glance. He spoke four languages, and he could slip past Napoleon's army into Paris, pass as a Frenchman, then return to England undetected with the information he gathered.

He enjoyed a good game of chess or a quiet night composing poetry for his own amusement, and he had spent season after season breeding just the right shade of pink for his soon-to-be-famous hybrid rose, the Devingham Star.

He was too private to be a flirt, too tongue-tied around females to be a rake, and too damned bookish to engage in empty prattle. Charming women had always been Fox's forte.

Fox. Guilt swelled, seizing with black, churning power. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, holding steady against the daily struggle. Three years had passed. What was done, was done. His world had changed, as had John Foxworth's. They could only go forward from here.

He opened his eyes again and focused on the familiar sight of his desk. The note from Isabella, pale pink against the dark mahogany wood. The inkwell. His poetry journal, set aside when Dobbins had brought the post. And, on top of the stack of correspondence, a letter bearing the neat, curving slant of his wife's handwriting.

He straightened, lifting the communiqué from the pile. Ah, Lucy. Someone who did not inspire anxiety or despair. He traced a finger along his name, written in her hand. Never had he expected that anything in his work might harm her. But this business with Isabella could, if rumors reached Devingham.

Had that prattlebox, Mrs. Colfax, carried tales home with her after she had seen him flirting with Isabella at the theater last month? What damnable luck that the biggest gossip he knew lived but a stone's throw from his ancestral home, and that she had chosen to visit relatives in London at so inopportune a time. He had considered the possibility that she had gone straight to Lucy with her rumors and innuendos, but the tone of his wife's letters remained unchanged, suggesting that his countess suspected nothing.

That uncomfortable itch between his shoulder blades pricked him yet again. Was it the discomfort of having to portray himself as a rake--as far-fetched as it appeared to him--or was it guilt? Charming Isabella was a necessary evil for the good of all England. Should his wife hear the gossip, she would no doubt be stung by those sharp tongues, but he would think of an explanation that she would accept.

He hoped.

The heaviness in his chest eased somewhat, and he turned his attention to her note. No doubt her missive included the usual chatter about Devingham. Perhaps Lucy's newly betrothed sister, Alice, had set a date for her nuptials. Or maybe the vicar's wife had given birth to her child, or the new groom his steward had hired last month had proven unreliable. He wouldn't know until he read the letter.

As he went to tear through the seal, a familiar scent teased him. He stopped and lifted the missive to his nose. The flowery fragrance of lavender greeted him, and he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. Instantly, he was transported to Devingham. To Lucy and their one night together. To the welcoming sheets of her bed, as soft and warm as her pliant, passionate body, and the sweet smell of lavender flooding his senses as they mated.

He would never again associate that scent with anything but the delicious release to be found in his wife's eager arms. He hadn't wanted to leave her, but the urgent summons from Sir Adrian, his superior, had brooked no argument. He had intended to return to his new bride within a matter of days, but instead, business had kept him tied here to London for the past several weeks. As much as he wanted her company, he had no intention of inviting her to join him, as he couldn't allow Lucy to become embroiled in his affairs here in the city.

When he'd decided to wed, he had deliberately searched out a soothing country miss who would be content to remain at Devingham and raise their children while he tended to important matters in London. A woman whom he didn't feel obliged to impress with clever social chatter or sly on dits. Country-bred Lucy had fit the bill, and her playful spirit had made living up to this particular obligation less onerous than he had expected.


Excerpted from Two Weeks With a Stranger by Debra Mullins Copyright © 2007 by Debra Mullins. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet the Author

Debra Mullins is the author of several historical romances for Avon Books. Her work has been nominated for the Golden Heart and RITA® Awards from Romance Writers of America and the Holt Medallion from Virginia Romance Writers. In 2003, she won the Golden Leaf Award from NJ Romance Writers for her book A Necessary Bride. A native of the east coast, she now lives in California.

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2.6 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 7 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Eating twinkies. This is a twinkie. Even one a day wont hurt you much why not a crisp apple instead new genre the twink most first are disappointing like high hurt heels
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
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Guest More than 1 year ago
By page 11 of TWO WEEKS WITH A STRANGER, I went for my baseball bat. By page 29, the bat was poised and ready for action. The object of my violent fantasies? Simon, the Earl of Devingham, the 'hero' of Ms. Mullins' story. Simon has the dubious honor of being one of the most annoying, clueless, silliest male leads I have had the misfortune to read. Ever. Why, you ask? Well, the bookish, nerdy (I wonder if that word was in the Regency vocabulary?) Simon leaves his new bride following an apparent steamy wedding night, to return to London on an assignment as a secret agent in an agency within the War Office. The note he left his new wife, Lucy, simply says, 'Have returned to London.' Fast forward two months and Simon is still attempting to seduce a French spy into revealing secrets. The bumbling agent enlists his friend and fellow agent, Fox (another silly, annoying male) for lessons on seduction. Now enter Lucy, who has heard of her new husband's 'romancing' and has come to London to seduce Simon away from his love interest. Here is where the clueless part comes in. Simon figures his country-bred wife will not hear of his romantic escapades stuck away on his country estate. For one, London society thrives on gossip, so Simon doesn't think Lucy will not soon hear of his infidelity? Even after a gossipy country neighbor sees him flirting at a social function? Hah! Secondly, it is not considered good ton to so obviously flirt with another woman when a wife is present at the same ball. For a newlywed, the oh-so-proper Simon is courting disaster, with actions bordering on scandalous. Simon doesn't want Lucy in London while he's working his wiles on another woman because he doesn't want her humiliated. Ooooo-kay. And he doesn't think she's not going to be embarrassed if she hears the gossip? The good news is, Simon and Lucy are made for each other. One is about as silly as the other. Lucy is a wishy-washy character, wavering between being spirited and being a submissive doormat. At the same time Simon is humiliating Lucy at a ball by trying to get her to leave (so he can flirt with his target), she still feels a tingle when he touches her. Oh, brother... Both Simon and Lucy would have benefited from a few whacks of my baseball bat. Aside from several steamy love scenes, there really isn't much to recommend TWO WEEKS WITH A STRANGER. The only really likeable character in this story is Gin, the frank-speaking American heiress, who befriends Lucy and fights with the aggravating Fox. Debbie Jett, reviewer romancereaderatheart.com
harstan More than 1 year ago
Lucy and Simon agreed to a marriage of convenience, but their wedding night was so blissful she thought they can make a real go at it. However, the next morning he is off to London leaving his country bride behind to rusticate. Though somewhat hurt by his hasty abandonment, Lucy decides to join her spouse in town using the delivery of letters from a late friend to a daughter as an excuse.------------- The bookworm Simon married a country bumpkin as he assumed she would stay out of London where he works for the War Office. His current assignment is to seduce Isabella Montilucci to give him a list of names that in the wrong hands would expose British agents to Napoleon Isabella¿s former lover, the late assassin Antoine LaRue is rumored to have given her the names. However, he cannot concentrate on his task when Lucy arrives in town and kisses him senseless.--------------- This is a tongue in cheek Regency romance that exaggerates the dilemma between loyalty to the state vs. loyalty to your spouse as the lead male struggles between his assignment and his beloved courageous wife. The story line is fun because of Simon¿s internal skirmish though readers will get somewhat frustrated with him to ¿make up his mind, pick up on one and leave the other behind¿. A late twist and a hint of romance between two secondary characters augment the suspense though the climax is weak.------------- Harriet Klausner