Latest Posts

The Return of the Disappearing Duke by Lara Temple - Book Blitz + Giveaway

By 1:00 AM , , , , , ,

The Return of the Disappearing Duke
A scarred mercenary…Or the Disappearing Duke of Greybourne?

Rafe has spent years running from his true identity. He’s a lone wolf, living far from aristocratic England and his violent father. Then unconventional Cleopatra Osbourne requests his protection as she crosses the Egyptian desert. In Cleo he discovers a fellow outcast—and a fierce desire! Cleo must return to London, and here lies Rafe’s dilemma—because following his heart means claiming the title he’s avoided for so long!

Purchase Links
Amazon US paperback:

ExcerptRafe is used to people’s shocked reaction to his scars, but when Cleo catches him washing by the oasis well with his shirt off he thinks her reaction is due to disgust at his scars.  In this scene Cleo makes is clear it wasn’t disgust that had made her act strangely. Far from it…

‘That’s is not why I looked…however I looked, Rafe. I wasn’t even thinking of your scars…no, that is not quite true. I was thinking of them, but they don’t frighten me. The truth is…’ She came forward and took a deep breath before resting her palm lightly on his scarred neck. ‘I don’t know you very well, but I hate the thought of you being hurt.’
Rafe froze.
I hate the thought of you being hurt…
It meant nothing, nothing at all. He’d seen people react a thousand and one ways to fear and loneliness. It took everyone differently. It clearly took Cleo into unnecessary realms of compassion.
So said his mind. His body, however, already on its knees, dropped at her feet like a panting puppy. There was nothing he could do to stop it marshalling the troops against him. It gathered the feel of her hand on his skin, the warmth of her legs close behind his back. It added images from the long, hot, dusty days—the way she wiped the perspiration from her cheeks or tilted her head back to catch the first breeze of the afternoon, exposing that little dip at the base of her throat where her scent would rise with each beat of her pulse.
He kept still, waiting for his mind to reassert dominion over his body. It was usually faster in coming to his defence, but the heat kept rising like the Egyptian sun—becoming incomprehensibly hotter, spreading from her hand like a curse, seeping through his skin into his veins and skidding along merrily to attack him from within. It bothered him far more than the erection that pulsed into life within seconds of her touching him. This heat felt far more dangerous than a lustful surge—it felt as though it was plotting against him.
What the devil was wrong with her to touch him like that? It would serve her right if he’d do what every base cell in his body ached to do.
He drew away, very carefully, as one might from a poisonous snake.
‘I don’t need pity, Miss Osbourne.’
‘That is good. I haven’t any for you.’
He uncoiled himself and stood. She stepped back and again he saw that same widening of her eyes and pupils. Damn it, he knew fear when he saw it.
‘You tell a fine story, Cleo-Pat, but you have to work on not flinching or blushing with embarrassment.’
She gave a small, strangled laugh, surprising him.
‘I wasn’t flinching and it’s not embarrassment. I’m beginning to think Birdie has grossly exaggerated your knowledge of women, Mr Grey.’
He clasped her arm before his mind even fully registered her meaning. She didn’t pull away, just stood there. He had been right—she looked flushed and flustered. But he had been absolutely, peculiarly wrong—it wasn’t fear, or disgust, or even compassion. The latter had been in her touch and voice, but not in her eyes, at least not now.
She could as easily have looked away, lowered her lashes, anything, but she let him take it in—the almost sleepy look in her eyes, the sultry heat colouring her cheeks, the tension in her parted lips. It wasn’t an invitation; it was an admission. She wanted him to see the truth because she would not allow him to believe the alternative—that his damage either frightened or repelled her.
He had no idea what to do with this gift.
Oh, hell.

Author Bio –
Lara Temple writes strong and sensual Regency romances about complex individuals who give no quarter but do so with plenty of passion. She lives with her husband, two children, and one very fluffy dog and they are all very understanding about her taking over the kitchen table so she can look out over the garden as she writes and dreams up her Happy Ever Afters.

Social Media links
Amazon author page US:
Amazon author page UK:
 Facebook Author Page:
Giveaway to Win 3 x E-copies of The Return of the Disappearing Duke (Open INT)
*Terms and Conditions –Worldwide entries welcome.  Please enter using the Rafflecopter box below.  The winner will be selected at random via Rafflecopter from all valid entries and will be notified by Twitter and/or email. If no response is received within 7 days then Rachel’s Random Resources reserves the right to select an alternative winner. Open to all entrants aged 18 or over.  Any personal data given as part of the competition entry is used for this purpose only and will not be shared with third parties, with the exception of the winners’ information. This will passed to the giveaway organiser and used only for fulfilment of the prize, after which time Rachel’s Random Resources will delete the data.  I am not responsible for despatch or delivery of the prize.

You Might Also Like


Please try not to spam posts with the same comments over and over again. Authors like seeing thoughtful comments about their books, not the same old, "I like the cover" or "sounds good" comments. While that is nice, putting some real thought and effort in is appreciated. Thank you.