Good Duke Gone Cold | Paperback

Lady Mary finds London society and its rules crushing. She wants to be her own woman, as one of the ton’s first female playwrights. Yet it’s more than a little tricky to be that person when she gets stuck in a closet, pressed against a hot, brooding duke who just so happens to be her best friend’s brother.

Reeling from damage, Gregory, the grumpy Duke of Wellingford, spent years on the continent mourning his father. To rebuild himself, he needs two things: to find a biddable bride and to protect his heart from any more loss. But when an old friend turns into a flame, the calm he’s struggling to construct may shatter.

She’s there to build a thrilling future. He came back to forge a calm life. Will an all-consuming passion see both of their dreams destroyed?

If you like witty banter, character growth, and sweet & spicy reads, then you’ll adore Eliana Piers’ regency romance stories about The Good Dukes.

Read Good Duke Gone Cold if you want a book to melt your heart with a steamy happily ever after.

The Good Dukes series (All standalone novels)
Good Duke Gone Cold
Good Duke Gone Hard
Good Duke Gone Bad
Good Duke Gone Low
Good Duke Gone Far
Good Duke Gone Rogue

What Readers are Saying:
"Deliciously Good!" -Reviewer

"The perfect start to this amazing series" -Reviewer

"This is the kind of story I wish would go on and on" -Reviewer

1815, England
A GIRL NEVER KNOWS where her husband might come from. He could be the neighbor next door. Down the street. He could be her father’s friend. A distant cousin twice removed. He could be an earl, a viscount, a prince. He could be the man she just waltzed with or the one waiting behind the fern working up the nerve to ask for the next dance. Or. Or just maybe he could be the clothesless, dripping wet adonis right in front of her.

The memory was so vivid, it felt like he was right in front of her. But where had that memory come from just now? Maybe it was the rain sluicing down the window. That must be it. Mary shook her head. Now was not the time for that memory.

Now was the time to focus on herself and being more than just a woman waiting for a husband. Now was the time to focus on her desires, namely, writing her first play to be performed in front of an audience other than friends and family.

The blank pages rested heavily on her lap. It was strangely warm and comforting, despite its emptiness. This was the year. No, this was the summer she would finish this play. It’s going to happen. It has to happen. Lady Mary Edwards consoled herself as she brushed a loose cinnamon coloured tendril behind her ear. She would be more than just a woman pursuing fleeting beauty and a faulty husband. There must be more. And this play was it.

Her legs were bent as her back rested against the window frame. She was cozy as her slight frame was hidden behind the drapes. Surrounded by books and feeling the faint flickers from the fire soothed her soul into a state of meditation. This was the place to think. To feel inspired. To express all her pent up passions and let all the words flow into glorious being and insurmountable greatness. To look down at a blank page. Well, yes. All in good time. The play was half written but something was missing. If only she could–

Mary shook her head and peered out the window. She didn’t stare at the perfectly manicured trees in the shapes of exotic animals in front of her, or even the fountain full of cherubs. Her mind’s eye wandered across the ducal fields of her best friend’s family home and onward to her own less opulent estates hidden from view, where neither her father nor mother, in fact no family, was currently in residence. Father and mother had left again. This time to excavate the latest Egyptian treasures. Last time was Morocco. The time before that was Tunisia, or was it India? Every few months took them to a new place with the hollow platitude that she would be fine, if not happier, at her best friend’s nearly palatial estates. Two is more fun than one, they’d say. We’ll see you soon, have fun with Margaret. Be good. Oh what are we saying, of course you’ll be good. Try to keep Margaret in line. Her parents love your influence. See, it’s a win-win for everyone.

Mary didn’t mind. Too much. It was better with two. And Margaret was her best friend. Always had been. Ever since Margaret literally ran into Mary in the fields one day with the biggest grin and wildest eyes she had ever seen. The tenacious memory forced its way back to Mary’s mind.

She could still remember the cool breeze on her cheeks. Standing in the middle of a pathway, forgetting to take the next step, she lost her thoughts in the clouds. There were shapes of animals and boats scudding across the sky, morphing into flowers and trees. What made the clouds move? Did others see the same shapes? What would it be like to rest on one of those clouds for a day?

Then, thwack! Something, no, someone, had just run into her shoulder.

Without even taking time to introduce herself, the girl–later found out to be Margaret–yelled, “Run! They’re coming!” Mary didn’t hesitate. This was not a time to consider the pros and cons or the risks of what might be coming out of the bushes. She picked up her skirts and tried to run after the spritely blonde girl who was still shrieking like a banshee.

Unfortunately, Mary was not made for such impulsive moments as this. Lost in the hysterics, she didn’t notice the girl in front of her flinging up an armful of clothing. Instead of the odds of just one item hitting Mary, it seemed like all thirteen items hit her right in the face and caused her to trip over a root and fall face first in the dirt.

Her heart was pounding. She heard footsteps racing toward her. What was coming from behind the hill? How many were there? Who had that girl angered? How angry were they? Mary’s palms were clammy. She rolled over, getting tangled in the clothing and was pulling pieces of clothing from her eyes as quickly as she could. And then, in an indelible instant, she wished she could put everything back over her eyes.

Looking up, her eyes beheld the wettest, most heart-throttling sight she had ever seen. Water sluiced down the carefully crafted body right before her eyes. Before her own very eyes.

She should have closed them. She should have put her head back under the loose clothing. Every admonishment and warning ever prevailed upon her reminded her to be genteel. A woman was to be prim and proper, yet every fiber in her body refused to obey. Her eyes took their fill. By Jupiter, he was everything her mind could have thought up to be the embodiment of what a man should be. He lifted one of his large hands to push back his luscious raven hair, just long enough to brush the tops of his ears. The action exposed his thickly arched eyebrows that framed piercing azure eyes, an aquiline nose, and a strong sharp jaw.

Her embarrassingly evident perusal was interrupted with an abrupt demand, “Where is she?” Spoken with such aplomb, Mary hardly believed he knew he had one hand covering his, um, other areas. Oh did I actually look that far down. It’s not possible. I am a lady. Well, ten is almost an adolescent and that’s nearly an adult. But I am proper.

“Uh–”

“You don’t look familiar. I suppose you don’t even know her, do you? Her being Lady Campbell, or Margaret, in light of the forced intimacy of this acquaintance. Well, all in good time. Perhaps you’d like to grace us with our belongings currently entangling you?”

At that moment a second rustling in the bushes and a calm, “Jonathon, just wait there for a moment, please,” led her to turn on her stomach and rest her closed eyes on her forearm.

Oh please let this be over soon. Please. Please. Please. Please don’t tell my mother and father about this. Just let this be a nightmare.

If only Mary knew what a recurring dream this nightmare would turn into, she might have put a little more effort into listening to those clamoring voices earlier, reminding her to be proper and not continue looking in the first place.

“Well, alright. On your stomach then. If you can’t see me, then I’m sure I’m not here. Just stay put. I’ll reach around you and grab our clothes. We’ll dress quickly and this will all feel like a dream.”

Nightmare. Dream. Really, what’s the difference besides the untrustworthy emotions they evoke.