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Someone Perfect

Someone Perfect

by Mary Balogh

Narrated by Rosalyn Landor

Unabridged — 12 hours, 25 minutes

Mary Balogh
Someone Perfect

Someone Perfect

by Mary Balogh

Narrated by Rosalyn Landor

Unabridged — 12 hours, 25 minutes

Mary Balogh

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Sometimes, just one person can pull a whole family apart. And sometimes, it just takes one person to pull it back together.

In this Westcott family novel, New York Times bestselling Regency Romance author Mary Balogh shows once again how love truly conquers all.

As a young man, Justin Wiley was banished by his father for mysterious reasons, but now his father is dead, and Justin has been Earl of Brandon for six years. A dark, dour man, he nonetheless takes it as his responsibility to care for
his halfsister, Maria, when her mother dies. He travels to her home to fetch her back to the family seat at Everleigh Park.

Although she adored him once, Maria now loathes Justin, and her friend Lady Estelle Lamarr can see immediately how his very name upsets her. When Justin arrives and invites Estelle and her brother to accompany Maria to Everleigh Park
to help with her distress, she begrudgingly agrees for Maria's sake.

As family secrets unravel during Maria's homecoming, Justin discovers his desire for a countess. And while he may believe he's found an obvious candidate in beautiful twenty-five-year-old Lady Estelle, she is most certain that they could never make a match. ¿

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly


Bestseller Balogh keeps her Wescott Family Regency series going strong with a 10th installment (after Someone to Cherish) that is perhaps the best yet. Justin Wiley and his younger half-sister, Maria, were close as children, but haven’t seen each other in the 12 years since Maria and her ailing mother moved from the family estate of Everleigh Park to Prospect Hall, where Maria cared for her mother until her death. Justin, now the Earl of Brandon, becomes 20-year-old Maria’s guardian and invites her to return to Everleigh—but he’s shocked to find her cold, disdainful, and full of resentment toward him. In an effort to ease her transition, Justin hosts a weeks-long house party, inviting relatives from both sides of the family, as well as Maria’s former neighbors, the fiercely independent Lady Estelle Lamarr and her brother, Bertrand. Estelle initially dislikes Justin, having heard Maria’s negative views on the man, but as they become better acquainted, she begins to question the things she’s been told. As the attraction builds between them, Justin works to convince Estelle to consider his suit. Balogh is a master of Regency romance, expertly exploring her characters’ hidden depths and teasing out their carefully guarded secrets while keeping the pace flying. This is a delight. Agent: Maria Carvainis, Maria Carvainis Agency. (Nov.)

From the Publisher

Praise for the novels of Mary Balogh

“One of the best!”—Julia Quinn

"Balogh is today’s superstar heir to the marvelous legacy of Georgette Heyer, (except a lot steamier!)”—Susan Elizabeth Phillips

"With her brilliant, beautiful and emotionally intense writing Mary Balogh sets the gold standard in historical romance."—Jayne Ann Krentz

"When it comes to historical romance, Mary Balogh is one of my favorites!"—Eloisa James

“A superb author whose narrative voice comments on the characters and events of her novel in an ironic tone reminiscent of Jane Austen.”—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

“Mary Balogh just keeps getting better and better…interesting characters and great stories to tell...well worth your time.”—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution 

“I loved this book. I read it in one sitting and it made me smile a lot and cry a little.”—Smart Bitches, Trashy Books

Library Journal


In Balogh's latest Westcott Regency, irascible Justin Wiley, Earl of Brandon, has the decency to take responsibility for half-sister Maria when her mother dies, inviting her friend Lady Estelle Lamarr to accompany Maria to Everleigh Park, where family secrets crack open and the earl finds himself attracted to Someone Perfect: Lady Estelle. In Guild Boss, New York Times best-selling author Castle again escorts us to the earth colony Harmony for another futuristic paranormal romance fling. In Cousens's Just Haven't Met You Yet, Laura picks up the wrong suitcase at the Channel Islands airport while on a business trip, then hunts for the owner with romantic notions—the suitcase included piano music, her favorite book, and a cool fisherman's sweater—with the help of a cranky cabbie who has charms of his own. Evans returns with another Christmas Promise, featuring a love and faith thought lost restored by the true spirit of Christmas (200,000-copy first printing). In the New York Times best-selling Graves's Heard It in a Love Song, newly divorced music teacher Layla recalls her golden days as lead singer of a bar band and falls into happy conversations with the newly separated dad of one of her students, though both are wary of new love (75,000-copy first printing). Next in Ward's "Prison Camp" series, a Black Dagger Brotherhood spin-off set in an underground prison housing murderers and thieves, The Wolf opens with second-in-command Rio saved from death by a lupine creature with golden eyes (150,000-copy first printing). In canine celebrator Wilson A Dog's Chance, Madison helps both her troubled 14-year-old daughter, Abbie, and 75-year-old Arthur by having Abbie help train Arthur's energetic new golden retriever puppy (35,000-copy first printing).

Kirkus Reviews

An unlikely couple is brought together by their similar experiences of flawed parents in this Regency romance that's adjacent to Balogh's Westcott family series.

Lady Estelle Lamarr is content with a life involving her twin brother and their foster parents and cousins now that she and her sibling have reconciled with their once-absentee father, the Marquess of Dorchester. If she thinks of marriage, it’s with someone who has a blithe spirit. When a chance encounter with a dour man on a horse shakes her up, she shrugs it off only to encounter him again at a neighboring friend’s home—he is Justin Wiley, the mysterious Earl of Brandon. Justin has braved the suspicions and innuendos of high society after disappearing for years and then, upon inheriting his title, banishing his stepmother and half sister, Maria, to a smaller estate. With the dowager countess now dead, he wants to ensconce Maria in society and begins by bringing her back to their ancestral seat. Neither Maria nor her friend Estelle are happy with this turn of events, but Maria consents to the journey, with Estelle and her brother going along as moral support. Initially convinced of Justin’s boorishness and arrogance, Estelle reluctantly realizes that Justin is a kind, private man who loves his sister. As more family members congregate, she guesses at the secret that has kept him away and falls in love with his imperfections and virtues. Many of Balogh’s strengths are on display here—there's family drama staged in a nostalgic Regency country-house culture; the characters’ inner selves are carefully revealed through their actions; the reluctant attraction between Estelle and Justin crests as their surface incompatibilities fade; and there's a series of scenes peopled by a wholesome supporting cast. The off notes come from two missteps similar to those she has made in other recent novels: There's a villainous portrait of a woman, which feels retrograde, and a sentimental stereotype of a developmentally disabled character who largely functions to testify to Justin’s goodness.

A poignant look at family lost and love regained.

Product Details

BN ID: 2940176172409
Publisher: Recorded Books, LLC
Publication date: 12/16/2021
Edition description: Unabridged

Read an Excerpt



England was not renowned for long runs of perfect summer days. This year so far even brief runs had been in lamentably short supply. It seemed something of a miracle, then, when the morning had dawned with the promise of being yet another lovely day. The second in a row.


By the middle of the afternoon, the sky was a deep indigo blue and cloudless. The air was hot without being oppressive-the merest hint of a breeze saw to that. It also caused the leaves to flutter on the trees and the water to ripple on the river. The grass on both sides of the river was green and lush after all the rain, and liberally strewn with daisies, buttercups, and clover. Birds trilled from among the thick foliage of the trees, though it was not always easy to see them. Unseen insects whirred and chirped in the grass.


So much life. So much beauty.


Lady Estelle Lamarr had been walking along the riverbank, but she stopped in order to fill all her senses with the perfection of the moment, wild nature at its most profuse and benign. Even the old single-arched stone bridge farther along seemed to be an integral part of the scene rather than a man-made intrusion upon it, just as a bird's nest or an anthill or a beaver dam would be. There surely could not possibly be anything to surpass the loveliness of the English countryside on a summer day. How very privileged she was to live here.


Yesterday she had fretted a little at being kept at home on a similar day by the impending departure of her uncle and aunt and cousin, who had all been staying at Elm Court for the past three weeks. Although Aunt Jane had talked of leaving early, by eight o'clock at the latest, it was actually after three in the afternoon by the time their carriage rolled out of sight down the drive and the chance to enjoy the outdoors had been virtually at an end.


First Uncle Charles had lingered over breakfast as though he had all day, deep in conversation with Bertrand, Estelle's twin brother. Then Ellen, their cousin, had decided she really ought to send a quick note to her fiancé to explain that their return home would be delayed because her mama had decided they must call upon friends who lived not far off their intended route, and those friends were bound to invite them to stay for a few days. The conversation finally at an end and Ellen's letter written, Aunt Jane had been hopeful of a midmorning start. But that hope was dashed when the vicar arrived from the village and was positively delighted to find that he had come in time to send the travelers on their way with a blessing.


The Reverend John Mott, a deeply pious man, was a longtime acquaintance of Aunt Jane's and a great favorite of hers. At her urging, the blessing had developed into extended prayers and scripture readings in the sitting room and had been succeeded by a lengthy discussion, initiated by Aunt Jane, about the deteriorating moral fiber of the nation, especially its heedless youth. And since by then noon was fast approaching, Estelle had invited the vicar to join them all for a light luncheon that she had guessed-correctly-their cook was already preparing with feverish haste for six people instead of the two she had been planning for.


After the dishes had been cleared from the table and their second cup of coffee had been poured, the conversation had turned to a discussion of the uncertain future of the monarchy, since King George IV was in perennial ill health and the only heir closely related to him was a young girl, Victoria, daughter of the Duke of Kent. The other royal dukes had been prolific in the production of children, it was true, but not, unfortunately, of the legitimate variety. It was all quite scandalous, in Aunt Jane's opinion.


The carriage had been outside the door at three o'clock, had been fully loaded with its three passengers by quarter past, and had finally rolled on its way at half past, all the last-minute thanks and well-wishes and reminders to do this and be sure to avoid doing that having been called out the window. By Aunt Jane, of course.


"So much for a perfect summer day," Estelle had said, turning to her brother-but with a twinkle in her eye. For of course she was exceedingly fond of her relatives and had actually enjoyed the day as it unfolded.


"All in a good cause," Bertrand had said. "We will miss them. There will be other lovely days to spend outdoors."


And sure enough, along had come the unexpected gift of today.


When she had left the house earlier, Estelle had intended to walk all the way to Prospect Hall to call upon Maria Wiley. The heat was giving her second thoughts by now, however. The hall was a mile or so beyond the bridge, on the other side of the river, and she had already walked more than a mile. She looked down at the wildflowers at her feet and stooped to rub a hand over the grass. It was dry. And blessedly cool to the touch. She changed her mind about going farther and sat down close to the river's edge. She arranged her skirts neatly about her legs and clasped her arms around her raised knees.


Aunt Jane would have been horrified at such unladylike behavior, especially in a public place where anyone might come along at any moment and see her. Estelle smiled fondly at the thought. Aunt Jane and Uncle Charles had raised Bertrand and her. Their mother had died in a horrible accident before they were even a year old, and their father, overcome with grief and guilt over his conviction that he had caused their mother's death, had effectively disappeared from their lives except for brief, unsatisfactory visits twice a year or so. He had acquired an unsavory reputation as a rake, though they had not known that, of course, until much later.


He was back in their lives now and had been for the past eight years. Estelle loved him dearly, but that did not change the fact that their formative years, from one to seventeen, had been spent in the care of Aunt Jane, their mother's elder sister, and Uncle Charles. And in the company of Oliver and Ellen, their cousins, both older than they.


It had been a strict upbringing, with much emphasis upon duty and moral rectitude and self-discipline and piety. Estelle and Bertrand had also been loved, though. But there had always been a gaping hole in their lives, partly because their mother was dead, though mainly because their father was not. They had longed and yearned for him, watched for him from the attic room of Elm Court, where they had lived through most of those years and lived again now. Yet whenever he had come, they had held themselves aloof from him, waiting and waiting for him to . . . to open his arms and his heart to them. Or give some other sign. Make the first move. Stay.


After he left, usually sooner than he had intended, they had hated him and wept for him-yes, Bertrand had wept too-and resolved to forget all about him, to cut him from their lives. Until, that was, they had found themselves in the attic again, watching for his return. Yearning for him.


Ah. Estelle shook her head. She had not intended to sink into those memories today of all days. Today was for simple enjoyment. Tomorrow there might be clouds and blustery winds and chill temperatures and rain again. Three days in a row was too much to hope for with any confidence this year. Today she was free to do whatever she wished. Much as she had loved having her aunt and uncle and Ellen to stay, she had, as always, felt constrained by their presence. As though she needed to be on her very best behavior every single moment. And to listen meekly to almost daily harangues-though no, that was unfair. Harangues was a negative word. Aunt Jane loved her and wanted the best for her-and of her. She gave suggestions now, and they were often sound advice.


Her aunt did not approve of Estelle's living at Elm Court alone, though Bertrand lived there too and they had always been extraordinarily close despite the fact that they were not, of course, identical twins. Estelle, in Aunt Jane's opinion, really ought to have a female companion living with her-just as Lady Maria Wiley of Prospect Hall did, and very proper too, though one could wish that her companion was a decade or so older than she was. It was bordering upon scandalous that Estelle did not have one at all. Aunt Jane could not understand why the marchioness did not insist upon it. The marchioness was Estelle's stepmother of eight years, her father's second wife. He was the Marquess of Dorchester.


Estelle did not want a companion. Not a female one, anyway. She had Bertrand, and he was enough for her. For a few years, just before their father's marriage to Viola Kingsley and then afterward, they had lived at Redcliffe Court in Northamptonshire, where they had been taken after their father inherited the title and property. Two years ago, however, they had come back to Elm Court, just the two of them, having found themselves overwhelmed by the life of the ton into which they had been thrust-with great success, incidentally, and even some enjoyment, until suddenly it had been enjoyable no longer.


They had been in their twenties when it happened, an age at which Estelle at least ought to have been married, according to conventional wisdom. She had never really been tempted, however, though she liked a number of the eligible men she had met. Instead, she had wanted to . . . to find herself, for want of a clearer way to describe how she had felt. And of course it was how Bertrand had felt too. They so often thought alike about the important things.


So they had come back to Elm Court to live. Oh, not to become hermits. Far from it. Just this year, for example, they had gone to London for a few weeks of the Season and had proceeded from there to Hinsford Manor in Hampshire to celebrate the thirtieth birthday of Harry Westcott, their stepmother's son and therefore their stepbrother. It was a large family party that had turned unexpectedly into a celebration of Harry's wedding to Lydia Tavernor.


All of it had been thoroughly enjoyable-for both Estelle and her twin. But they had come back here well before the end of the Season. Sometimes Estelle wondered if they would grow old together here, to be known as those weird and eccentric twins. But life was ever changing. It was impossible to predict the future. She did not even want to try.


She sat in the sunshine. The heat felt very good. But . . . Well, it was really quite hot, and temptation beckoned in the form of the river. Poor Aunt Jane would have had heart palpitations. But Aunt Jane was not here, was she? And there was no one else in sight to be scandalized. It was why Estelle always loved walking beside the river north of their property, in fact. No one else ever came here. The bridge, sturdy and picturesque though it was, was rarely used these days, now that the main road nearby had been widened and resurfaced and was far more convenient to travelers than the narrow, rutted track that crossed the bridge. Most people would naturally choose convenience and comfort over a scenic route.


Temptation was not to be resisted, Estelle decided at last, perhaps because she did not put up any great fight against it. She pulled off her shoes and set them neatly beside her, peeled off her stockings and pressed them into the shoes so they would not go wafting away in the breeze, folded the lower half of her skirt neatly over her knees so that some remnant of modesty would be preserved, and lowered her feet gingerly into the river. She gasped at the coldness of the water, but she lowered her legs farther, wiggling her toes as she did so, and found that they quickly adapted. And oh goodness, it felt delicious.


She swished her feet and laughed when a few splashes spread into dark circles on her dress and doubtless penetrated each fold of it. One droplet landed on the side of her nose. She brushed it away and dried her hand on her skirt. She felt herself relax as she brought the whole of her attention back to the scene around her-and in her. For of course she was part of the scene, right to the very core of her being. It was not a case of her and it. She actually was it, just as the birds were and the insects and the grass and the daisies, and that butterfly fluttering over a cluster of clover. This, she thought, was contentment. Even happiness. Just this. She wished Bertrand had come with her.


Her bonnet was protecting her head from the full force of the sun. The brim was shading her eyes and preventing her from acquiring a red and shiny nose, which her maid would cluck over with disapproval and Bertrand would laugh at. But just for a couple of minutes she wanted to feel it all-the brightness and the warmth. She pulled loose the ribbons beneath her chin and took off her bonnet. One of her hairpins caught in the bottom edge of it, and while she wrestled to free it a whole hank of hair came tumbling down over her shoulder. Bother! But it served her right. She set the bonnet on the grass, pulled out the rest of her hairpins, and dropped them carefully into the hat. She shook her head and combed her fingers through her hair in the hope of achieving something like smoothness. It was impossible, of course, since she did not have a brush with her, but so what? She had already decided that she would not go visiting.


A sense of delicious freedom welled up in her and spilled over in exuberance. She kicked her feet, careful not to splash herself again. She propped herself up with her hands spread on the grass behind her, tipped back her head so she could feel the sun on her face and cool air on the back of her neck, and closed her eyes.


This was pure bliss.


Until, that was, she became aware of someone panting-someone who was not her. And then she heard low, menacing growls. And then angry barking. Her eyes flew open and she whipped her head about to see a huge monster of a dog dashing toward her across the grass, all bared teeth and ferocity and flying spittle and giant paws. If Estelle had not been half paralyzed with terror, she might well have jumped screaming right into the river. Instead she sat up sharply, spread her hands before her face, palms out, fingers spread, and cried out. Something idiotic like, "Good doggie," she thought afterward. By then she hoped fervently she had not actually said doggie.

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