Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (The Burgundy Club, by Miranda Neville

By Miranda Neville

"They couldn't be extra different—but there's something they agree on . . .

In London after a two-year exile, Lord Blakeney plans to chop a swathe during the bedchambers of the demimonde. Marriage isn't on his time table, particularly to an stressful chit like Minerva Montrose, along with her more suitable perspective and a bent to get into difficulty. and definitely the *last* guy Minerva wishes is Blake, a clumsy wastrel with no inspiration in his good-looking head.

The lighting fixtures and din of her debutante ball set Minerva's enamel on facet. without doubt a moment's leisure may do no damage . . . till Blake error her for an additional girl, leaving Minerva'sguests to seize them in a really compromising place. To her horror, the scandal will strength them to do the unthinkable: marry. Their mutual loathing blazes into unforeseen ardour yet Blake is still far-off, wanting to cover a shameful mystery. Minerva's by no means been a girl to take issues mendacity down, and she'll permit not anything cease her from profitable his belief . . . and his heart.

**
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Additional resources for Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (The Burgundy Club, Book 4)

Example text

This seemed logical enough to me. It would be my first bona fide experience tracking game, and at least would be a good way to get warm. As I later realized, it would also change me in a decisive, if barely discernable and perhaps not altogether logical, way. I had always imagined animal tracks as rather like an Ariadne's thread, leading unerringly to the heart of some mystery. Yet had Ariadne's thread been so tangled as the trail we were following now, Theseus might never Page 15 have found his way out of that maze.

The idea of thus easing oneself into killing troubles me. It implies a hierarchy of values that makes the death of a rabbit or squirrel somehow less significant than that of an elk or a bear. I cannot watch the death-arrested flight of a duck or a pheasant without an inner pang. Should the day come when I could, I would never shoulder a shotgun again. My first kill was a mule deer buck. It had seemed a long time coming. Because it would be a year or two before I had a rifle of my own, Doug and I shared a gunhis Browning semi-auto.

I doubt you're going to get another shot like that one, though. " I collected myself and, resigned to failure, trudged toward the top of the rise. We stood there, glassing the area, seeing no movement anywhere. Then Doug, who was standing nearer the edge than I, eased back and wordlessly pointed straight down. I crept up and peered over the rock ledge. There, fifty or so yards directly below, were a buck and a doe. They may or may not have been the ones we had been stalking. They were completely unaware of us.

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