The Runaway Duke
Warner Books/ Warner Forever August 2004
ISBN 0-446-61425-4

No one could ever accuse Rebecca Tremaine of being a proper young lady. She's wretched at needlework, pitiful at the pianoforte, and entirely too informed about the human body, courtesy of her father's scientific journals. So no one is terribly surprised when she manages to get herself compromised by a dandy she despises. When her parents arrange a hasty marriage, there is only one man she can turn to for help: her father's Irish groom, Connor Riordan.

No one knows that Connor Riordan is the fifth Duke of Dunbrooke, "killed" in action at Waterloo, and he wants it to stay that way. But a true gentleman never turns away a damsel in distress. Connor agrees to spirit Rebecca away— bumbling highwaymen, a scheming duchess, and Rebecca's fiancé in hot pursuit.

But time alone with the beautiful and desirable Rebecca jeopardizes Connor's secret every day—and tests his willpower every night. For if ever there was a reason to bring the Duke of Dunbrooke back from the dead, it would be to make Rebecca Tremaine his Duchess!






(Connor and Rebecca have just been waylaid by two highwaymen...or are they horse thieves...or are they both?)

Connor nudged his horse to move alongside Rebecca’s.

“We are going to run,” he hissed into her ear. He could see that she still had the unnaturally blanched skin and hot eyes of the righteously furious. He smiled at her, an enveloping smile of tender reassurance, a teasing warmth kindling his eyes. Rebecca returned his smile with one that was full of the sort of joy most inappropriate to the occasion.

       “Now,” he whispered.

       They kicked hard.  Their horses wheeled briefly in surprise, then stretched out into a blistering run just as the first greasy ruffian made it to saddle.

       Their mounts were swift, but hooves were soon thundering uncomfortably close behind them; Connor glanced back over his shoulder and saw the greasy ruffian riding recklessly, his pistol hand waving free. Sunlight glinted on the barrel of the man’s pistol; it seemed their pursuer meant to have blood for his humiliation. Connor swore savagely, slowing his mount just a little to ensure Rebecca remained in front of him. He had no choice but to shoot. He lifted his musket and turned to aim.

       It was too late. A sudden blow to his arm was already giving way to numbness. he glanced down, watching as though in a dream as the red of his own blood rose up through his shirt. Oh Christ above, oh God, help us, I’ve been shot, he half-thought, half-prayed. That bastard has the luck of the devil; he shot me.

       Connor squeezed off a shot, then watched with both a crisp sense of accomplishment and a sense of despair as the ruffian jerked in his saddle, his hand pressed to his chest, his horse stopping, rearing in sudden confusion beneath him. Connor had so hoped to never take another life, and cursed as he felt his own crystal-edged thoughts dimming as the ragged circle of red on his arm darkened and spread. Pain was yet to come, Connor knew. Pain would be fortunate; it would mean he was still alive.

       Behind them, far behind them, clouds of dust rose in the road. The rest of the men were now following. But Connor knew this country well, and he knew his destination. As long as he could stay lucid, he knew he could lead Rebecca to safety and these men would never find them.

       Rebecca!” he screamed. She glanced over her shoulder and pulled her horse to follow when Connor jerked his horse hard to the right. They galloped off the road, plunging over low fences, through thick stands of trees, the leaves lashing at them, the coats of their gratifyingly game horses blackening with sweat. Connor wove a path from memory, a path that careened through a meadow sprayed in bluebells that gave way to a brief swooping valley which led into a wood that grew more dense and shadowy as the sun slowly dipped lower in the sky. Their hoofbeats were soon muffled by deep layers of soft old leaves.

       After what seemed both an eternity and merely an instant, they came upon it: the hunting box, his father’s rarely used, discreetly located hunting home in the woods. Connor had been certain it would still be here, relatively untouched; these woods had been part of his family’s holdings since Edward the III. He pulled his wet horse to a halt and managed to dismount without stumbling too badly. And then he lifted his pack from his horse with his good arm and stared at the hunting box blankly for a moment, as if trying to remember why he was there.

       Rebecca pulled her heaving mare up next to him and swung herself to the ground. She bent slightly, breathing hard, before straightening herself to look around. She began to smile, but something in Connor’s face stopped her.

       “Connor?” she said, puzzled. And then she saw the blood on his arm.

       There was a buzzing in his ears. He put his hand against the door of the hunting box and it gave, swinging open. He looked out at Rebecca from the doorway, noticing that the light pouring down through the leaves had turned her hair into a soft molten halo. She has lost her cap. “Becca,” he thought he said, for he could not hear his own voice, and then the black came in from the sides of his vision like a curtain pulling closed and he fell.

[back to top]


       “Oh God, Oh God, Oh God,” Rebecca murmured like an incantation over Connor’s fallen body. His head lolled sickeningly against the boards of the floor. She touched his eyes, his brows, as though searching for him, willing him to re-inhabit his face; he was breathing, otherwise he seemed lifeless as an effigy. A haze of panic began to move over her eyes.

       Her vast and unseemly knowledge of bullet wounds and amputations clamored in her head, words like bandages and suppurating and saws and opium and Peruvian bark jigging among all the other learned advice from her father’s scientific journals. She gave her head a rough shake to sort it.  This did the trick; somehow it all fell into place, the things she needed to do in the order she needed to do them.

       She drew in a deep breath to fortify her nerves and pressed two fingers to Connor’s throat. A good pulse thumped there, a bit fast, but strong and even. Rebecca closed her eyes against an almost bruising wave of relief; it meant he had not yet lost a dangerous amount of blood.  Her own short sobbing breaths beat in her ears as she considered the chore of unbuttoning his shirt; how ridiculous, how dangerous, even, all those buttons seemed now. She tore it open instead, sending tiny buttons flying like shrapnel across the room.

       She only needed to lift him a little to peel the shirt completely away from his body, but she could not.  His weight was astonishing; the solidity of his unconscious body as stubborn as gravity itself. It made her absolutely, irrationally furious. She tore at the seams at the shoulder of his shirt, and then lifted the sleeve away from his arm with breathless care. His own blood and sweat matted the hair of his arms, and this made her angrier still; for miles he had bled, leading her to safety. By the time Rebecca confronted her first musket ball wound, a hideous red little crater in the smooth hard muscle of his arm, it had become her mortal enemy, and she would have victory.

       The wound was only oozing now; the bleeding had slowed, the blood was congealing. She delicately touched the edge of it; she could feel the ball move. It was close to the surface of the wound, which meant she had a very good chance of retrieving it whole from his arm.

       Water. Where was his water flask? She plunged her hands into Connor’s pack and began pulling things out of it in a controlled frenzy, a small sheathed knife, needles and thread, a length of rope, a flint, candles, something wrapped in cloth that turned out to be a brush for the horses, something else wrapped in cloth that turned out to be a couple of meat pies from the Thorny Rose Tavern.  All the evidence of Connor’s careful thought and planning, all things she had taken for granted.  But no flask.  She found his fine brown coat folded neatly and began tugging it out of the pack, but something heavy hindered its progress.  Please be the water flask, she thought. Oh please.

       Fumbling among the folds of the coat, she found a flask in the inner pocket.  When she pulled it out, something tumbled out along with it:  a soft copper lock of her own hair.

       She went blank for a moment, thrown oddly off-balance. The things lined up neatly on the floor in front of her were like words to a sentence in a language she had only begun learning, a sentence punctuated poignantly by a copper curl. They told a story Rebecca sensed she already half-knew; she could feel it radiating, increasing in light, on the far reaches of her awareness.

       She gave her head another rough shake. Mulling was a luxury she could not indulge at the moment. She sniffed the flask.  Whisky.  In the absence of water, it would have to do.

       Rebecca spilled a bit of the whisky in her hands and rubbed them together, creating a little puddle of dirt in her palms, and then she rinsed the puddle away with another prodigal splash.  Cleansed as well as she was able, she tugged her shirt out of her pants and using her teeth and fingers, ripped the hem of it into a length of bandage.

       Placing her fingers on either side of the wound she pressed gently, muttering prayers, apologies, vicious imprecations. She felt the ball shift. She pressed again, gritting her teeth, breathing heavily, and this time it surfaced, whole and bloody.  With cool antipathy Rebecca held the thing between two fingers and glared at it, then flung it to the floor with an oath, as though concluding an exorcism.

       She soaked a bit of the bandage in whisky and cautiously, in tiny strokes, swabbed the blood away from the hole torn in Connor’s flesh.  The edges of the wound were thankfully relatively clean, and Rebecca marveled momentarily at how much her life had changed: she had never dreamed that something like a clean-edged musket ball wound could cause her to give thanks.

       She would need to irrigate the wound, she knew, before she bound it up. She took a deep breath before tipping bit of the whisky into it.

       At this Connor moaned, a long sound that writhed up out of him like a hot wind blowing through the caverns of Hell, and he stirred, his legs moving restlessly.  The sound frightened Rebecca nearly witless.  “Dear God,” she whispered, but found herself at a loss for words to include in the prayer; it seemed her vocabulary had abandoned her. Of necessity, for the moment, she had become a creature comprised of instinct and nothing else.

       Rebecca bound the wound neatly, with exquisite gentleness, then sat back on her heels and stared down at him. She placed a tentative hand on his chest over his heart to reassure herself of its steady beating, and after a moment, unable to resist, her fingers curled into the crisp hair there.

       Lord God the man was lovely in a way she had never imagined.  The join of his neck to his shoulders, the taper of his shoulders to his slim waist, the swell of taut muscle above his ribcage, the wondrous texture and temperature and smell of his skin — this hidden beauty made Connor seem a stranger with powerful secrets, like a whole other country with its own laws.  A restless curiosity and delight spiked through her, finding its way even through her fear for him.  Beneath her hand, beneath his skin, his heart beat. She put her other hand on her own heart, to compare.

        “Was it Robbie Denslowe?” 

       Rebecca jumped, jerking her hand away.

        “Robbie Denslowe?” she repeated numbly.

        “Who…who taught you just where to hit a man?”

       Connor’s voice was frayed, dragging, but the sound of it filled Rebecca near to bursting with some nameless emotion. 

        “Yes,” she said, almost a whisper. She sought his eyes. They were dark and glazed with pain, but behind the pain, he was fully there, indomitably amused and warming at the sight of her.  Rebecca uncertainly touched his hand, and his fingers closed over hers tightly.

        “Robby Denslowe should be knighted,” Connor muttered.

       He managed to lift one corner of his mouth in a smile before closing his eyes. His face contracted, the quickening of his breath betrayed his struggle with pain. His thumb began moving in an unconscious stroke across the top of her hand.

        “The horses?”  He asked, after a moment.

        “I will see to them,” Rebecca assured him.

        “My arm—”

        “The bleeding has stopped. I took the ball out, Connor. I took it out whole.”

        “Did ye now?” He smiled again, eyes still closed.  “Oh, but you are a marvel, wee Becca.”  His voice had begun to sound like a sigh.

        “A marvel,” Rebecca repeated softly. It was all she could manage.  It seemed just the appropriate word for everything at the moment.

        “Hmmph,” he said, an ambitious attempt at a laugh.  “Wee Becca, I think I shall need to get very drunk, very soon.  Take…take the musket and knife out with you when you see to the horses. There is a stream nearby…ye can find it by sound.  And put the flask in my hand, if ye will.” 

       He gave her hand a squeeze and released it. His face had retreated from her again, contracting. She folded a blanket in quarters and positioned it under his head, and he accepted her ministrations without a word.  With one more glance down at him, she picked up the horse brush and the sheathed knife and took them outside.

       The horses were nosing about the front of the hunting box quietly, looking for tender grasses. “Come my dears,” Rebecca said softly. “We are sorry to leave you so long, but we had urgent business inside.”  She unsaddled both horses, then unwrapped the brush and gave the mare a rubdown, murmuring to her about her bravery, her speed, her beauty. 

       And then she turned her attention to Connor’s horse, the gray, and he was told how handsome he was, how valiant, how swift. The horses’ ears twitched forward, enjoying the lilting softness of her voice, the smooth sure strokes of her hands.

        “Let us find the stream now, shall we?” She collected the reins of the horses in her hand and shouldered the musket, then stood still, looking up, listening. A breeze shook the dazzling little coin leaves that hung from the aspens; the larger oak leaves waved at her like languid hands, glowing in the lowering sun as if lit from within. Beneath hushed rustle of the leaves she heard it, a soft melodious rushing.  She led the horses toward the sound, stopping every now and then to mark a tree with her knife so she could find her way back to the hunting box.

       The stream was a pretty thing, silver and gilt in the sun, winding among large smooth stones, bridged by slim trees thick with leaves.  When the horses bent their heads to drink, Rebecca pressed her palms against her weary eyes. They smelled of horses and Connor, musk and salt and blood and whisky.  They spoke of the enormous distance she had come. She did not want to wash them just yet.

       Rebecca leaned companionably against her brown mare, then closed her eyes so the remaining warmth of the day could touch her eyelids.  After a space of time she let the sobs take her, surrendering to a tangle of emotions that burned and confused and goaded and excited. The day came back at her in a torrent: The gift of an Herbal, Connor’s hands warm against her back when she thanked him. Pistols pointed at her. The fetid breath of a highwayman on the back of her neck, his hand crawling over her breast.  Connor bleeding, his head lolling against the floor, his dark hair stark against his white face. His heart beating beneath her hand.

       A soft copper lock of her own hair.

       And through it all, through all the chaos and terrible, wonderful newness, a strange blooming elation had buoyed her, a hot bright thing that swelled and pressed at the very seams of her being. It demanded release, demanded something from her. She wasn’t sure yet what to call it, but she had her suspicions.

       She did know it had everything to do with Connor.

       She would happily face a dozen pistols, a dozen highwaymen, without flinching. For Connor.

       When the sobs had run their course, Rebecca felt renewed and absurdly, dizzyingly cheerful. She knelt next to the stream and rinsed her hands, then splashed a little cool water on her face, a baptism, in a way, of her new self. Today she had taken a musket ball out of Connor Riordan, and he had gripped her hand, seeking strength from her and finding it. This did not tilt the balance between them, but righted it momentarily: Rebecca had not fully realized until that moment how much she had wanted, needed, to give something to Connor. One did not need to pose naked on a chaise to feel powerful and womanly, she now understood. One needed only a musket ball wound and the feel of a beautiful man stroking the back of one’s hand.

       The ground felt solid beneath her feet for the first time in days, and Rebecca, relishing her new balance, thrust her arms high into the sky as if trying it on like a coat, and stretched deliciously. Then she turned to lead the horses back to the hunting box, humming a little tune of her own invention.

 ~end of excerpt~

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TOP PICK! 4 1/2 stars!

"Combining the ideal amount of romance, suspense and mystery, Long gives us a marvelous and dazzling debut that overflows with intelligence, wit and warmth. This impossible-to-put-down tale is peopled with unforgettable characters that make it a must-read." —Kathe Robin, Romantic Times BOOKClub Magazine

Connor earned a K.I.S.S. (Knight in Shining Armor) Award, from
Romantic Times BOOKClub Magazine
, too. They had this to say:

"New Author Julie Anne Long lets Roarke Blackburn,
AKA Connor Riordan, steal your hear and run off with it

An "A" from All About Romance:

"The characters in the book are a delight. Every single one of them.... I haven't read a debut this wonderful and charming in some time. I have added Julie Anne Long to my automatic buy list and The Runaway Duke right now is at the top of my list for best romance of 2004. It is a delight in every way. "
--- Ellen D. Micheletti, All About Romance


Four Stars!

Debut author Julie Anne Long proves her mettle with an engaging style of storytelling and plotting in a tender historical romance that’s as sweet as it is sexy. In a narrative that is sensitive without being maudlin, Long unfolds the story of two people who begin as mentor and ward but end up as lovers. Rebecca is a delight with her freshness, curiosity and a most unladylike (for that time period) yearning to become a doctor, something that appalls her socially ambitious mama. Connor is equally interesting with his determination and longing to be his own man.

It is at once hilarious, heartrending and tender as readers see these two embark on a journey of peril, on the way gradually discovering feelings of love and desire for the other and how it fills them with fear, surprise and yearning. There is ample suspense as well, and the various side-plots and romances all come together most satisfyingly in the end. With gypsies, herbal remedies, historical ambiance, wealth, greed, love and ambition, adding color and flavor, Julie Anne Long has a guaranteed winner in
The Runaway Duke.

—Rashni Shrinivas, Curled Up with a Good Book


Four Roses!

"One of the hardest things an author can convey to a reader is a sense of depth and dimension in the characters they create. Too many times good plots and original scenarios fall flat because the characters come across as stiff, cardboard figurines with no personality or sense of realism. Not so, in THE RUNAWAY DUKE. Through the descriptive personal actions of the characters and impressively written dialogue, Ms. Long has given a sense of personality and flesh to both Connor and Rebecca.
Their connection is more than just sexual – it's emotional.
And even though they both fight their feelings at first, there's no long denial or misunderstanding, though at times their relationship seems doomed.

With memorable secondary characters and intelligent dialogue, THE RUNAWAY DUKE proved to be a hard-to-put-down, fast-paced page turner. An impressive, imaginative, charming and tender romance, this is one Regency historical sure to charm even the most finicky of romance readers. I highly recommend it!
— Nancy, Romance Reader at Heart

A Perfect Five!

Filled with wit, humor and a plot that hurtles swiftly along, THE RUNAWAY DUKE is one of the best romances I’ve read all year. Rebecca and Connor will have you cheering for them as they take control of their destiny. Julie Anne Long has written wonderful characters full of heart and passion. Even her secondary characters have motives and interest that are fully developed. I’m not sure if I pity or hate the villain, but I understand her actions, though they are reprehensible. I started reading this novel in the late hours of the night, thinking I’d put it down and finish in the morning. Hours and tired, tearing eyes later, I put down a wonderful romance that I can’t wait to read again. I laughed, cried and smiled as these two lovers took on their world. THE RUNAWAY DUKE is a stunning debut and I cannot wait for the next book from Ms. Long. If it is half as good as this one, it will be a hit!
Nicole Hulst, Romance Junkies


"THE RUNAWAY DUKE is one of the best historicals I've read in a long time. Julie Anne Long manages to successfully infuse humor into historical London in such a way that you're unable to put the book down for even a moment. There's even enough action to satisfy those hesitant to try the genre. Fast-paced and packed with laughs, THE RUNAWAY DUKE will have you begging for more from Julie Anne Long. So run along and get your copy!"
—Tina Burns, The Road to Romance


"A wonderful blend of action and passion, this story is pure delight to read. This is Ms Long's first book, and I can't wait to see more
from her. "

— Tish Glasson, The Best Reviews


Four Hearts and a Plug!

"THE RUNAWAY DUKE is intriguing. It's a story that will keep you entertained from the first page to the last. Filled with laughter, adventure and passion, this is one historical romance you are not going to want to miss."
—Tangela Williams, The Romance Readers Connection


Julie Anne Long makes her writing debut in a most impressive manner with The Runaway Duke. This story combines romance and dangerous intrigue - a winner.

Julie Anne Long's debut novel, THE RUNAWAY DUKE, is a charming tale, filled with entertaining characters and adventure....
with witty dialogue and a fast-moving plot, THE RUNAWAY DUKE is a treat to read.

—Jennifer Bishop, Romance Reviews Today


"A delightful debut—brimful of wit, action, passion and romance!—Mary Balogh, New York Times Bestselling Author


  Where did you get the idea for THE RUNAWAY DUKE?
  Oddly enough, I was in New Mexico quite a few years ago with my sister, and I think we were arguing about something, in the way that only sisters can do. Later that evening, as I was writing in my journal and playing with story ideas, an image formed in my mind: a younger sister crouching down behind a bush to catch her older sister in the midst of a midnight tryst. I had a name—Rebecca—and that's about it. Several years later, that germ of an idea became the beginning of THE RUNAWAY DUKE, and the rest of the story just sort of spiraled from there.

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