I received this book for free from in exchange for an honest review. This does not affect my opinion of the book or the content of my review.Dukes Prefer Blondes by Loretta Chase
Published by Harper Collins on December 29th 2015
Genres: Fiction, Romance, Historical, General
Purchase Links: Amazon | iBooks | Kobo | IndieBound
ADD TO GOODREADS:
Lady Clara, the fan-favorite character from Loretta Chase’s New York Times and USA Today bestselling Dressmakers series, finally gets her own happily ever after!
Convenient marriages are rarely so…exciting. Can society’s most adored heiress and London’s most difficult bachelor fall victim to their own unruly desires?
Biweekly marriage proposals from men who can’t see beyond her (admittedly breathtaking) looks are starting to get on Lady Clara Fairfax’s nerves. Desperate to be something more than ornamental, she escapes to her favorite charity. When a child goes missing, she turns to Oliver Radford—a handsome, brilliant, excessively conceited barrister.
Having unexpectedly found himself in line to inherit a dukedom, Radford needs a bride who can navigate the Society he’s never been part of. If he can find one without having to set foot in a ballroom, so much the better. Clara—blonde, blue-eyed, and he must admit, not entirely bereft of brains—will do. As long as he can woo her, wed her—and not, like every other sapskull in London, lose his head over her…
Rare is the book that tics all the boxes on my wish list for a great read: realistic dialogue, witty banter, proper pacing, intricate plotting, interesting characters and somewhat educational. Add in a healthy dose of well-written passion and we have a winner. In this instance, the winner is Dukes Prefer Blondes by Loretta Chase.
One need not be familiar with Ms. Chase’s Dressmaker series to enjoy this fourth installment. While the achingly lovely Lady Clara Fairfax may have appeared in earlier books in the series, her vivacious personality takes centerstage here. Readers are treated to a fully developed female character who offers an in depth look beyond the fripperies and flounces of a wealthy young lady in pre-Victorian London. Used to being desired for how she looks rather than what she thinks, Lady Clara doesn’t know what to make of the austere barrister Oliver “Raven” Radford, who seems to not even notice her appearance.
Oh, but Raven notices, he’s just trained himself to compartmentalize so well that he gives no outward evidence of his appreciation for Clara’s beauty. Besides, he figures, why should it matter what concoction she wears on her head when she has such a lively and clever mind underneath it. All her life Clara wanted adventure and to be not only seen for herself, but heard as well. Raven is the first man, indeed the first person, to ever truly see her, hear her and most of all respect her for her wit and intelligence.
Together Clara and Raven face police raids, assassination plots, life threatening illness, and, their biggest hurdle, parental disapproval. The phrase “together” is key to what makes Clara and Raven such a compelling couple. No obstacle facing this couple is contrived or of their own making. Raven respects Clara and supports her quest for agency in her own life. In return, Clara does not seek to change Oliver’s personality or position in society. She is proud of his success as a barrister, as well as fascinated by his work and desire for justice. Through all this, the wit and banter between the two is unparalleled. Separately they are likable characters, together they are force to be reckoned with.
While a lot happens to Clara and Raven in this book, the pacing never seems rushed. The detailed plotting lends itself to the overall sense of place and time. Ms. Chase does a fabulous job bringing the period to life, while providing information on such varied subjects as medical treatment and threats, schooling for pauper children, legal procedures and courtroom antics.
Dukes Prefer Blondes is like Hepburn and Tracy meets Law and Order in pre-Victorian London.
Sounds like a perfect read to me!
Excerpt from Dukes Prefer Blondes
A short time later
“Look out! Are you blind? Get out of the way!”
Clara hadn’t time to see what she was in the way of when an arm snaked about her waist and yanked her back from the curb. Then she saw the black and yellow gig hurtling toward her.
At the last minute, it swerved away, toward the watermen and boys clustered about the statue of King Charles I. Then once more it veered abruptly off course. It nicked a passing omnibus, struck a limping dog, and swung into St. Martin’s Lane, leaving pandemonium in its wake.
Some inches above her head—and plainly audible above the bystanders’ shouts and shrieks and the noise of carriages, horses, and dogs—a deep, cultivated voice uttered an oath. The muscular arm came away from her waist and the arm’s owner stepped back a pace. She looked up at him, more up than she was accustomed to.
His face seemed familiar, though her brain couldn’t find a name to attach to it. Under his hat brim, a single black curl fell against his right temple. Below the dark, sharply angled eyebrows, a pair of cool grey eyes regarded her. Her own gaze moved swiftly from his uncomfortably sharp scrutiny down his long nose and firmly chiseled mouth and chin.
The day was warm, but the warmth she felt started on the inside.
“I daresay you noticed nothing about him?” he said. “But why do I ask a pointless question? Everybody flies into a panic and nobody pays attention. The correct question is, Does it matter?” He shrugged. “Only to the dog, perhaps. And in that regard one may say that the driver simply put the wretched brute out of its misery. Let’s call it an act of mercy. Well, then. Not injured, my lady? No swooning? No tears? Excellent. Good day.”
He touched the brim of his hat and started away.
“A man and a boy in a black Stanhope gig trimmed in yellow,” she said to his back. Clara was aware of the tall, black-garbed figure pausing, but she was concentrating, to hold the fleeting image in her mind. “Carriage freshly painted. Blood bay mare. White stripe. White sock . . . off hind leg. No tiger. The boy . . . I’ve seen him before, near Covent Garden. Red hair. Square face. Spotty. Garish yellow coat. Cheap hat. The driver had a face like a whippet. His coat . . . a better one but not right. Not a gentleman.”
Her rescuer slowly turned back to her, one dark eyebrow upraised. “Face like a whippet?”
“A narrow, elongated face,” she said. With one gloved hand, whose tremor was barely noticeable, she made a lengthening gesture over her own face. “Sharp features. He drives to an inch. He might have spared the dog.”
Her rescuer looked her up and down, so briefly Clara wasn’t altogether sure he’d done it. But then his expression became acutely intent.
She kept her sigh to herself and her chin upraised, and waited for the wall to go up.
“You’re certain,” he said.
Why should I be certain? she thought. I’m only a woman and so of course I have no brain to speak of.
She said, more impatiently than she ought to, “I could see the dog was barely alive. No doubt boys would have tortured him or a horse would have kicked him or a cart would have rolled over him soon enough. But that driver knew what he was doing. He struck the animal on purpose.”
The stranger’s keen gaze shifted away from her to scan the square.
“What an idiot,” he said. “Making a spectacle of himself. Killing the dog was meant as a warning to me, obviously. A master of subtlety he is not.” When his gaze returned to her, he said, “A whippet, you say.”
“Well done,” he said.
For an instant Clara thought he’d pat her on the head, as one would a puppy who’d learned a new trick. But he only stood there, alternately looking at her then looking about him. His mouth twitched a little, as though he meant to smile, but he didn’t.
“That man, whoever he is, is a public menace,” she said. “I have an appointment or I should report the incident to the police.” She had no appointment. Her visit to the Milliners’ Society was a spur-of-the-moment decision. But a lady was not to have anything to do with the police. Even if she got murdered, she ought to do it discreetly. “I must leave the matter to you.”
“Firstly, nobody was injured but a dog it’s obvious nobody cared about,” the gentleman said. “Otherwise the creature would have been a degree more alive to begin with. Secondly, one doesn’t pester the police about the demise, violent or otherwise, of a mere canine unless its owner is an aristocrat. Thirdly, it’s now clear the fellow was aiming for me when you stepped in the way. I couldn’t see him clearly through the”—he gestured at her hat, his mouth twitching again—“the whatnot rising from your head. But Whippet Face . . .” Now he smiled. It wasn’t much of a smile, being small and quick, but it changed his face, and her heart gave a short, surprised thump. “He’s been trying to kill me this age. He’s not the only one. Hardly worth troubling the constabulary.”
He gave her the briefest nod, then turned and strode away.
Clara stood staring after him.
Tall, lean, and self-assured, he moved with swift purpose through the sea of people surging over the streets converging on Trafalgar Square. Even after he entered the Strand, he didn’t disappear from sight for a while. His hat and broad shoulders remained visible above the mass of humanity until he reached Clevedon House, when a passing coach blocked her view.
He never looked back.
He never looked back.
About Author Loretta Chase
Loretta Chase has worked in academe, retail, and the visual arts, as well as on the streets-as a meter maid-and in video, as a scriptwriter. She might have developed an excitingly checkered career had her spouse not nagged her into writing fiction. Her bestselling historical romances, set in the Regency and Romantic eras of the early 19th century, have won a number of awards, including the Romance Writers of America’s Rita. For more about her past, her books, and what she does and doesn’t do on social media, please visit her website www.LorettaChase.com.