Belmore Square Series by Jodi Ellen Malpas – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.books2020.com Thu, 20 Jul 2023 19:20:07 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 http://www.books2020.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Belmore Square Series by Jodi Ellen Malpas – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.books2020.com 32 32 A Gentleman Never Tells (Belmore Square #2) Read Online Jodi Ellen Malpas http://www.books2020.com/a-gentleman-never-tells-belmore-square-2-read-online-jodi-ellen-malpas Thu, 20 Jul 2023 19:20:07 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/a-gentleman-never-tells-belmore-square-2-read-online-jodi-ellen-malpas Categories Genre: Historical Fiction Tags Authors: Series: Belmore Square Series by Jodi Ellen Malpas
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Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
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A Gentleman never tells...but some secrets have a way of getting out.

Frank Melrose is on the cusp of taking his father's printing business global—the last thing he needs is the distraction of any woman, let alone the dazzling Taya Winters.

He's under pressure from the newspaper to unmask the mysterious highwayman causing havoc in Belmore Square, but his infuriating clashes with Taya keep slowing him down.

What's more, he's sure that the highwayman is right under their noses—and that exposing their identity will end not only his story, but ruin his family, too.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter 1

I am nose-to-nose with the white stallion. My body as still as can be. But my heart? It thunders in my chest. My pulse? It booms. My God, I am more alive than ever. Whether it be with fear or excitement, I cannot tell. I allow my eyes to slowly travel up the horse’s nose to its rider. The horseman is staring down at me, their eyes hardly visible past their low hat and high scarf and the shadows they cast. Curious eyes, I’m sure, that are slightly narrowed, inspecting me. Then a small sparkle. Smiling?

I inhale and step back, needing to get the horseman in my sights, arms, body, legs and all, for I am certain I am not looking at a horseman at all.

But the impressive stallion moves before I do, rising up on its back legs on a neigh, loud and intimidating as I expect is intended. I stagger back and fall to my backside on the stones, but I somehow succeed in keeping my eyes up. The rider laughs but stops abruptly.

‘My God,’ I whisper, watching as she slides down from her horse and approaches me slowly, despite the warning of her two fellow, male – they’re definitely male – riders, who remain just a few yards away, their horses treading the ground impatiently. She holds out her gloved hand, and I take the dainty thing, getting to my feet. I must be at least a foot taller. She comes closer. Closer. Closer. Reaches up on her tippy toes. I close my eyes and breathe in, holding my breath. The skin of my cheeks heats, feeling her breath on my face from where she’s pulled her scarf down. And then her lips push into my rough cheek.

Magic.

Her face. Does she want me to see it? For she has removed her scarf.

I quickly open my eyes and blink, so very confused, my heartbeat ferocious in its pace, and find nothing before me. At least, no human, but the horse remains, and the rider is still upon its back.

What in the name of God just happened?

I reach for my cheek and feel it, as my sister hurries to my side and helps me to my feet, looking at the impressive white stallion as she does. I spend the few seconds I have before the rider kicks the horse into action committing every detail before me to memory, until all three of them gallop off into the distance, kicking up dirt, making the ground vibrate. I turn on the spot, mesmerised, in a trance, speechless, my head just about ready to explode with the pressure of words swimming around my brain.

I bolt up in bed on a gasp and glance around, a little disorientated, and exhale when I find I am, indeed, in my bed and not at the mercy of the highwayman. Or woman. It has to be a woman. Each time I dream the dream, a little something else is added. This time, a kiss. My God, I am obsessed.

I jump out of bed and go to my writing desk in the window, collecting my quill and dunking it in the pot of ink, not taking a seat – I don’t have time – my mind needing to get the words out. The smell of the horse. The tickle of its coarse hair when we stood nose-to-nose. The gallop of my heart that I’m sure pounded harder than the hooves of the horse at a full canter. I write until my hand aches and I drop my quill, exhaling, running a hand through my hair as I look up out of the window.

I lean forward and pull the half-drawn draperies aside, focused on the floating form of a girl across the cobbles. Lady Taya Winters. Also known as my brother-in-law’s little sister. The woman does not walk but floats. She’s quite a vision, I admit. Her bright green eyes shine, her dark blonde hair is adorably wild, her cheeks blushed, her lips plump, and her lashes long and fluttering.

My God, she is beautiful.

And completely forbidden.

From the day I met her, when she returned to Belmore Square with her mother, Wisteria Winters, and her brother, Lord Sampson Winters, I have been wary of her. I am not without female attention. I am, however, without the thrill one would expect from female attention. That has died a slow, painful death over the course of my time in London – a sign of my overindulgence, I suppose. I cannot tell you whether it be her aloofness or simply her unusual, wild, unconventional beauty, but when Lady Taya Winters glanced at me that fateful day, I felt as though I’d been struck by lightning. Twice. I walked away telling myself I need to keep my distance from Taya Winters, for she is sure to get me into trouble, and I need no trouble, no complications, especially now when I must convince my father to let me publish my story. I have never desired to write for our family newspaper. I have hardly expressed any interest in the operations of our family newspaper, The London Times, doing the bare minimum I could without doing nothing at all. Porter helped run the business with Papa, until, of course, his untimely death, and my sister wrote the most popular stories. I had very little enthusiasm for work or writing, so I made myself useful elsewhere. Usually in a woman’s bed.


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One Night with the Duke (Belmore Square #1) Read Online Jodi Ellen Malpas http://www.books2020.com/one-night-with-the-duke-belmore-square-1-read-online-jodi-ellen-malpas Fri, 26 Aug 2022 19:46:22 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/one-night-with-the-duke-belmore-square-1-read-online-jodi-ellen-malpas Categories Genre: Historical Fiction, Romance Tags Authors: Series: Belmore Square Series by Jodi Ellen Malpas
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Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
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Read Online Books/Novels:

(Belmore Square #1) One Night with the Duke

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Jodi Ellen Malpas
Language:
English
Book Information:

It's 1814 and nineteen-year-old Eliza Melrose, daughter of a printing magnate, is about to be launched into London's high society - much to her distaste, the last thing she wants is a husband.

Eliza's 'misplaced' thirst for adventure, knowledge and the creative word is a bone of contention for her father, who battles endlessly to keep her curiosity and ambitions in check, for women are not meant to ask questions or give opinions in matters of business.

But then she meets the youngest son of the late Duke of Chester, a disgraced nobleman who is shrouded in mystery and proving quite impossible to resist...
Books in Series:

Belmore Square Series by Jodi Ellen Malpas
Books by Author:

Jodi Ellen Malpas


Chapter 1

The view from the drawing room window is not one that I am accustomed to. I don’t see the rolling countryside and crops growing aplenty. My favourite mare, the blackberry bushes, the cowsheds.

The smell.

I sniff, getting a whiff of the new aroma. It isn’t horse manure or grass, but instead an odd earthy smell. Bricks, mortar and paint. It’s the smell of our new house. A grand new house that sits beside many more impressive dwellings, looping the lush green gardens of Belmore Square, where a fountain, a few benches and rose bushes are all closed in by cast-iron railings beyond the cobbled road. There’s not a farmer to be seen for miles. Instead, here in London, we have affluent members of the ton strolling with no urgency, the fancy, gold-trimmed clothes of the gentlemen and the intricate lace-trimmed garments of the ladies providing an eclectic colour palette I’m not used to. Top hats, canes, and carriages. Money leaks from every brick, cobble and pruned bush. It’s another world, one I am not entirely certain I can fit into. Or want to.

It’s the start of a new season, and my very first. The politicians will do their work in Parliament and the businessmen will conduct business, while their wives update their wardrobes and plan their social calendars for the next few months. There will be parties galore, dinners, and gossip to be had. Now, I am a part of the circles I had only ever heard of. Not dreamed about but heard of. Perhaps even dreaded. I can’t say I’m all too keen on what I have experienced of London so far, and, worse, I am without the freedom I was once blessed with in our old life.

I grimace.

And I can hardly breathe in these fancy frocks.

On top of that, my inspiration is lacking, and I have absolutely nothing to write about, unless, of course, I should like to indulge in the unsubstantiated nonsense that father’s new business partner and financial backer, Lymington, Duke of Cornwall, thrives on. Which I don’t, and it is a good job, because I am not allowed to write for father’s newspaper in London.

I pout to myself, remembering the times I would take a story to Papa and he would sit in his chair by the fire smoking a cigarette, humming his interest. And his wry smile when he would say, every time, ‘You know, my dear Eliza, this is really rather good.’ Then he would dip, plant a kiss on my cheek and send me on my way. The fact that each and every story I penned and that was printed in Papa’s newspaper was credited to my brother, Frank, was a small price to pay. Recognition wasn’t something I sought, even if, admittedly, I would have liked it. It was more the freedom to write what I desired and not what I thought people would want to read. I wrote factual, informative pieces meant to educate people with the truth.

Alas, now Father’s newspaper only has space for censored news and advertisements, and Lymington doesn’t mind reminding Father, at any opportunity and sometimes without opportunity, that it is his name and backing that allowed my parents to buy the final plot on Belmore Square and build this sprawling, beautiful cage.

I am surely not the only young lady around these parts that feels suffocated. Or perhaps I am. The residents here are a peculiar bunch of humans, who do not seem to care for the world, but rather their position in it. The men must be successful, wealthy and loud. The women must be compliant, well turned out and unopinionated. Image is everything. Money is power. My father is now a very wealthy man, and, as a consequence, also very powerful. I’m not at all certain that I like power on my father. Being powerful seems to take up all of his time and makes him appear persistently exhausted.


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