The Making of a Gentleman

The Making of a Gentleman

by Shana Galen
The Making of a Gentleman

The Making of a Gentleman

by Shana Galen


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Twelve years in prison has stripped him of his humanity…Saving him is her only chance to escape a terrible fate

Armand, Comte de Valère has lost the ability to interact with polite society, until his family hires him a beautiful tutor, and he starts to come alive again.

Felicity Bennett vows she'll do whatever it takes to help Armand fight back the demons that have held him captive for so long.

With Felicity's help, Armand begins to heal, until a buried secret threatens to destroy their growing passion.

Equal parts action and desire, fans of Sabrina Jefferies and Stephanie Laurens will be sucked in by this heart wrenching tale of family, intrigue, and learning what it means to love.

The second in RITA nominee Shana Galen's Regency romance trilogy about three brothers struggling to reconnect and restore their noble heritage in the aftermath of the French Revolution, each losing his heart along the way.

Sons of the Revolution Trilogy:

The Making of a Duchess (Book 1)

The Making of a Gentleman (Book 2)

The Rogue Pirate's Bride (Book 3)

Praise for Bestselling Author Shana Galen:

"Galen's signature sense of humor, expertly blended with deep emotions, will hold readers captive right to the end."—Romantic Times

"Lively dialogue, breakneck pace and a great sense of fun."—Publishers Weekly

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781402258039
Publisher: Sourcebooks
Publication date: 10/01/2010
Series: Sons of the Revolution , #2
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: eBook
Pages: 384
Sales rank: 421,522
File size: 892 KB

About the Author

Shana Galen is the author of 5 Regency romances and 2 light women's fiction novels. She is a three-time Rita Award finalist (RWA's most prestigious award for published romance fiction). Shana teaches 7th grade English, is active in RWA, and lives with her family in Houston, Texas.

Shana Galen is three-time Rita award nominee and the bestselling author of passionate Regency romps, including the RT Reviewers' Choice The Making of a Gentleman. Kirkus says of her books, "The road to happily-ever-after is intense, conflicted, suspenseful and fun," and RT Bookreviews calls her books “lighthearted yet poignant, humorous yet touching." She taught English at the middle and high school level off and on for eleven years. Most of those years were spent working in Houston's inner city. Now she writes full time. She's happily married and has a daughter who is most definitely a romance heroine in the making.

Read an Excerpt

"Your aunt is the particular friend of a woman who is like a mother to me. When she recommended you, I knew we must hire you. And it was fortunate for us that you could arrive on such short notice. We want you to get started imme-What is it Grimsby?"

Felicity turned to see the taciturn butler standing in the doorway. "A question for you, Your Grace."

"What is it?"

"I am afraid it is from the workmen in the nursery."

"Ah. Can you tell them to wait?"

"Yes, Your Grace." The butler took a step backward and then paused. "Though they did say it was a matter of some urgency."

The duchesse sighed loudly and rose to her feet. Felicity quickly followed, noting as she did, the slight rounding revealed when the duchesse's gown had tightened over her belly. The duchesse was expecting. "I'm sorry." The duchesse spread her arms sympathetically.

"I'm sure this will take only a moment or two."

"Of course." Felicity took her seat on the sofa again and tried to sip her tea. It was very good, much better than what she had been used to at home. Of course, she and her father were lucky to have tea, she reminded herself. Her aunt Robbins had six children, and with eight mouths to feed, tea was the last thing her cousins worried about.

Felicity smiled, thinking about her aunt and uncle and their big happy family. When Felicity's father passed away, her aunt had offered her a place in their home, but Felicity did not want to be a burden. And then when Charles appeared, waving that marriage agreement, her options became even more limited. Nothing but money would make him and that loathsome document quietly disappear. Oh, she could refuse to marry him, but then she would be in a worse predicament than she was now. How would she survive? No respectable man would marry a woman so scandalized. And who would hire one with such a reputation? Her aunt, seeing Felicity's dire situation, had helped her secure this position. Felicity looked about the drawing room again, marveling. Who would have thought she would end up here?

She allowed her eyes to rest on some of the impressive paintings and ran her hand over the expensive fabric on the sofa. But what she really wanted to do was to play that beautiful pianoforte. And, coincidentally, here she was, all alone. And there it was, waiting to be played.

She angled her body so she could better admire the instrument. It was very fine-definitely much better than any she had ever played before. Far better than the one she had learned on-an ancient instrument that had been her mother's.

Her mother had been her teacher, as well. But that was years ago. Now both her mother and the pianoforte were no more. Her mother had died of consumption, while the pianoforte was sold two years ago to cover some debt or other.

The clock on the mantel ticked away, and still the duchesse did not return. The longer Felicity sat staring at that pianoforte, the more her fingers itched. Surely it would not hurt anything to study the pianoforte more closely.

Felicity rose, one eye on the drawing-room doors and one eye on the pianoforte. When she was beside it, she reached out gingerly and brushed her fingers along the spine and the raised fallboard. The wood was smooth and cool to her touch. When she pulled her fingers away, not a speck of dust lingered.

Cautiously, Felicity circled the instrument, admiring it but watching the drawing-room doors. She did not think the duchesse would mind if she simply looked at the instrument.

But playing-well, that was something else entirely, Felicity thought, even as she sat on the plush bench before the black-and-white keys. It was considered quite ill-mannered to play someone else's instrument without first asking permission.

Felicity stroked the keys, caressing them individually. In her mind, she heard the sound each would make, and still, without pushing down the keys, she began to play her favorite sonata. She was not even certain of the title of the piece. It was something her mother had loved to play and something Felicity had not heard in a long time.

Gently, Felicity increased her pressure on the keys until the music was more than just a figment of her imagination. She pressed lightly, dampening the tones she heard, but it did not matter. The music was beautiful. She closed her eyes and pictured her mother's hands on the worn keys of their instrument at home. She pictured her mother's face as she played each measure of the piece.

Here was a difficult section. Her mother's brow furrowed in concentration.

Here was a lively section. Her mother smiled, and her fingers seemed to fly over the keys.

Felicity's own fingers flew over the keys, as well. She was vaguely aware she was playing the instrument at full volume now. She was aware, but she no longer cared. Whatever scolding she might receive was secondary to the music. She could think of little else. The very notes themselves snared her and held her captive. She must finish the sonata. She could not breathe if she did not hear the next note and then the one after that.

She played with her eyes closed, knowing the sonata so well she did not need to look at her racing fingers. Even after all this time, she made no mistakes. Once she heard a piece, she rarely did. And then when the piece was almost complete, her back prickled. She opened her eyes and stared straight ahead.

A man stared back at her. He stood just inside the door of the drawing room, his hands fisted at his sides. His shirt and breeches were of the latest fashion, but he wore no tailcoat or waistcoat, and his shirt was open at the throat. Even more surprising, he wore no stockings or shoes. His clothing was clean and neat, but his hair was in disarray. It was long and free of any binding. The brown locks were clean, though, and they fell over his shoulders.

It was his eyes that stilled her fingers. They were the deepest and darkest blue she had ever seen and framed by long, thick lashes and a dark slash of brows. There was something in those eyes that sent a shock straight through her.

Not a shock of fear, though the man was big enough and powerful enough to be a threat, if he chose that course.

The shock was that of recognition. This man loved music as much as she. Felicity could see it in his face, in his eyes. And the shock of seeing her own passion reflected back at her froze her hands.

Suddenly, the music ceased, and silence washed over the room.

Felicity stared at the man, and he stared back. And then he began to howl.

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