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The English Heiress

An Irish rogue and a duke’s daughter have nothing in common but trouble…

The English Heiress

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Release Date : July 10, 2012

ISBN Number : 978-1-61138-153-5


Kindle Reader = Mobi
Others = Epub


Regency Nobles #3

An Irish rogue and a duke’s daughter have nothing in common but trouble…

Lady Blanche Perceval has inherited all the wealth and responsibility of a dukedom, even if it is actually her cousin who bears the title. Beset with men of business she has no expertise in handling, harassed by the duke to marry, she vows to shoot the next man who adds another burden to her weary shoulders.

When the irresistible Michael O’Toole—a man of many names but none his own—reappears in her life to enlist her aid for one of his rescued orphans, Blanche doesn’t know whether to kill him or kiss him.

–Until revolutionaries blow up her carriage and the Irish warrior emerges from behind O’Toole’s charm. Suddenly, she’s not sure if she should run away from or toward him.


“Finally, Michael O’Toole! I’ve been waiting for his story ever since I read Patricia Rice’s The Marquess years ago. Michael and his delicious duke’s granddaughter demonstrate why bad boys are best!”
– Mary Jo Putney, author of No Longer A Gentleman

“Rice entices readers into this delicious romantic adventure that will warm your heart and tickle your funny bone.”
– RT Reviews


With several million books in print and New York Times and USA Today’s lists under her belt, former CPA Patricia Rice is one of romance’s hottest authors. Her emotionally-charged romances have won numerous awards, including the RT Book Reviews Reviewers Choice, and been honored as RITA® finalists in the historical, regency and contemporary categories. To receive news of new releases, sign up for her newsletter.


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England, March, 1819

“Owning the most extensive pistol collection in the world won’t feed your tenants, Aubry.” Bored, Michael O’Toole leaned against a window frame and shifted his attention from Squire Aubry to a lamb gamboling in the field. “Prélat’s newest percussion pistol might kill a man at fifty paces, but it’s useless for shooting fowl.”

“A man has the right to protect himself in these uncertain times!” his portly host blustered as he passed his newly-acquired weapon to a more appreciative guest.

“If a man surrounds himself with friends instead of enemies, he would have no need to protect himself.” Idly, O’Toole juggled silver pieces between his fingers, assuming interest in coins and gamboling lambs.

A smart man would have heeded Michael’s warning rather than his aloofness.

Beyond the high hedge shielding the lambs stood tenant houses with leaking thatch and mildewed walls and children running barefoot wiping runny noses—while the owner of the houses stood in his elegant room, bragging of his expensive weaponry.

O’Toole curled his lip in open derision as one of the guests asked if he might test a fowling piece. Collectors did not use their collections. They merely acquired and admired them. A fourth coin materialized amid the ones spinning between his fingers. He listened to the whispers about him but gave no indication that he heard, or cared.

“The man’s got no title and little name to speak of. Why was he invited?” a particularly loud, querulous baronet asked.

“He’s the brother of a marquess,” the squire whispered back, “Or the adopted brother. I’m not quite clear. Effingham sent him in his place.”

“The Marquess of Effingham? The American? He’s little better than a savage himself,” the baronet replied with scorn.

Savages were more polite than to insult guests, O’Toole mused, unoffended. Which was more unacceptable—being untitled, adopted, or American?

As the squire led his elderly guest away, O’Toole shifted his attention to the weapon cabinet. Simple lock. A thief wouldn’t even need to break the glass.

He spun the coins so they sparkled in the sun while giving due consideration to the cabinet’s contents. Expensive equipment really should be put to good use.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. He’d promised his high-and-mighty noble brother he wouldn’t stir more mischief than necessary if he went in his place. But really, this was an opportunity begging to happen. It couldn’t happen to a more deserving man. The squire could regale his dinner guests with the mournful tale for years to come. He would be doing his otherwise boring host a favor.

Cheerfully, O’Toole pocketed the coins to examine the valuable weaponry. More canny companions would be suspicious of his sudden geniality since it obviously didn’t arise from the rum punch he wasn’t consuming.

A gale of feminine laughter drifted from the hallway following a knock and bustle at the front door. The racket of more trunks and visitors arriving resounded through the hall. The old fellow had managed quite a house party before the Season reached full swing back in the city.

Always attuned to his surroundings, Michael listened to the feminine chatter while admiring a particularly clever pistol. He loved watching women in their frilly gowns, festive colors, and soft curls, loved listening to their cheerfully chirping voices. He’d discovered, however, that they were a serious obstacle to a man of his nature. Women saw men and thought nest. He preferred flight.

“Such an exciting journey we had! Let us freshen up and we’ll tell you all about it. Would you believe….” The feminine voice trailed off as the speaker strolled out of range.

Michael froze and strained for another note of that once-familiar voice. It had been two long years— Maybe, if he eased closer to the door…

He daren’t. Returning the pistol to its place, he eyed the casement overlooking the garden. His host wouldn’t miss him. He had a well-known habit of never staying, one of many habits of which the lady disapproved, and rightfully so, did she know the half of them.

No longer able to hear her lilting voice, he returned to the heavy draperies of the open window.

He had plans for this household. It would be much safer if the gentle Lady Blanche didn’t know of his presence. The wretched woman had the face of an angel and the character to go with it. Angels frowned upon theft.

“Borrowing,” he called it, not theft. Thieves stole for ill-gotten gain. His intentions were as pure as the driven snow. Angels wouldn’t see it that way, and he had no particular desire to waste his days in gaol.

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So begins the story of two people whose lives appear fragmented across alternate realities.