Not Another Romance Blog

Author (Video) Spotlight: Amanda Scott and Rexanne Becnel

2013-05-17T09:00:00.000-04:00

Check out some awesome videos featuring historical romance author Amanda Scott and historical romance and contemporary mainstream author Rexanne Becnel. Get the inside look as Scott talks us through the importance of history to her work and Becnel describes how she creates her feisty heroines!

Meet Amanda:

Amanda's Latest:

Can two passionate people stop fighting long enough to admit their love for each other?

After spirited Lady Sybilla Calverton discovers her husband , the Earl of Ramsbury, in an embrace with the notorious Lady Fanny Mandeville, she returns to her father’s home in Bath determined to match the wayward Ramsbury scandal for scandal. When the Earl learns that his wife has stirred gossip by being seen too often with elegant collector Sidney St. Denis, he hastens to Bath to see if the gossip is true—and to reinsert himself into Sybilla’s affairs. Quarrels immediately reignite between them—and so does their passion. But are their strong wills the only threat to their love, or is someone deliberately trying to destroy their tempestuous marriage?

*Book 1 in the Bath Trilogy

Get Your Copy Today:

Amazon (Kindle) | Barnes & Noble (Nook)

Meet Rexanne:

Rexanne's Latest:

A maiden’s self-imposed isolation makes her the seductive prize in a royal battle for power

Lady Joanna Preston lives cloistered behind the walls of a nunnery, sealed away from a world of savagery and sorrow. As heir to the sought-after Oxwich Castle, Joanna has vowed never to love or take a husband, denying herself the passion she has secretly dreamed of. When Sir Rylan Kempe, Lord of Blaecston, a fierce yet noble warrior-knight locked in a vengeful battle with a royal enemy, comes to claim her and her castle in the name of ultimate revenge, Joanna is intent on defying the commanding knight at every turn. Yet soon the treachery of kings binds them together in unholy union and soul-deep desire, and Rylan must choose between his consuming love for Joanna and the treacherous game to which he has pledged his life.

Get Your Copy Today:

Amazon (Kindle) | Barnes & Noble (Nook)

LIVE Interview with Historical Romance Author Kate Noble (+Giveaway) | Starts @ 6:30EST

2013-04-16T15:23:00.003-04:00

Today I am excited to be interviewing historical romance author Kate Noble. Kate will be talking all about her latest novel, Let It Be Me (available now) and answering all of your questions!

The chat room will open at 6 EST and we will go live at 6:30!

Below is the video player where the live feed will be streaming!

About the Author:

Kate Noble love books. Romances especially. But, being born into a family of doctors, scientists, and mathematicians, she didn't discover she was adept at writing until, oh, about junior year of high school. Which came as something of a relief, as she was hopeless at memorizing the Latin names for all the bones in the human body. The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle eludes her to this day. Kate lives in Los Angeles.

About the Book:

Bridget longs to meet a gentleman who doesn't mention her beautiful sister upon shaking her hand. But since being branded a shrew after a disastrous social season, Bridget knows she's lucky to even have a man come near her. It's enough to make a lady flee the country…

So Bridget heads to Venice for music lessons with the renowned Italian composer Vincenzo Carpenini, with whom she's been corresponding. But not only is Carpenini not expecting her, he doesn't even remember her! His friend, theater owner Oliver Merrick, does, though. And one look into her tantalizing green eyes has him cursing his impulsive letter-writing, which brought her across the continent. Yet before Merrick can apologize, Carpenini has ordered her away.

Little does either man know that they will soon be embroiled in a wager that will require the beautiful Miss Forrester's help—or that there'll be far more at stake in this gamble than money…

Tech Stuff:
Some of you may be unfamiliar with the Vokle platform on which the interview will be held. It's fairly simple to get the hang of and joining the event will allow you to participate directly with me and the author as well as be eligible for the giveaway. Just click the red "Join Event" button on the player and you can choose to either sign in with a Twitter or Facebook account, or make a Vokle account.
Once you're logged in, you will see the chat room and can interact with other viewers as well as myself and the author. Click the red "Ask A Question" button and you can either send in a text question or follow the prompts to ask a question in person live with your web cam (please use earphones to eliminate echo). All questions submitted this way can and will (if appropriate) be answered on air- so you are encouraged to ask away! (No limit)

The Giveaway:
I enjoyed Kate's book SO much that I want to give one of you the chance to read it and fall in love too! If you Join the Event and participate in some way (whether it be in the chat, asking a question, or tweeting about the interview) I'll enter you in the giveaway and at the end of the interview I'll announce who wins. The winner will get their choice of either ebook or paperback format. I can gift a copy of the book to Amazon, Nook, or Kobo users or have the book shipped to you from The Book Depository. This is open to any and all who can receive books in the aforementioned ways. Good luck!

A Historical Christmas Eve with Carrie Lofty (+Giveaway)

2012-12-23T17:45:00.001-05:00

A Historical Christmas Eve
with Carrie Lofty

About the Author:

Carrie Lofty holds a Masters degree in history, which she puts to good use as a historical romance writer and lecturer on the craft of writing. Active within the Romance Writers of America, she also weight trains and soaks up movie trivia like a sponge. She lives in the Chicago area with her husband and two daughters.
Co-writing as Ellen Connor, Carrie's RITA™ nominated NIGHTFALL, from the "Dark Age Dawning" trilogy, won RT's Reviewers' Choice Best Futuristic Romance of 2011.
And as Katie Porter, Carrie and her long-time friend and critique partner, Lorelie Brown, write contemporary erotic romance. Their "Vegas Top Guns" series debuted July 31 with DOUBLE DOWN.

Find Carrie Online: Website | Goodreads | Facebook | Twitter

Joe Weber returned to the United States after having served as a paratrooper. He dropped into Normandy and the Netherlands, and barely survived a brutal winter in camped in Belgium just outside the German border. Letters from the complicated, unconventional woman he loved kept him strong. Lulu Davies emigrated from England months after the war's conclusion to be reunited with her husband. Here I present their first Christmas Eve together, as well as a glimpse into their future together.-Carrie

Home For Christmas

by Carrie Lofty

A rush of nervous excitement mixed with her abject happiness. She still hoped he would accept her desire to keep flying. Reclining on the sofa, Lulu reminded herself to stop underestimating him. He wasn’t the same man she’d first met, when he’d been so certain about the world and where men and women fit within it. The war had altered them both down to their bones.

Joe hadn’t refastened the buttons during his brief trip to their bedroom. Lulu watched him return to the sofa, as thoughts of presents were replaced with the familiar, heady urge to undress and explore.

Soon, his eyes promised, as if he’d been thinking the same thing. Not surprising. They were newlyweds. Wartime newlyweds. Insatiable hardly began to describe their hunger.

Settled with Lulu in his lap once again, Joe handed her a thin square package wrapped in white butcher paper. “It’s not much.”

She frowned slightly. Surely…

Opening the 78 of Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” only deepened her frown. “Joe, we don’t own a photograph.”

“So smart, Miss Know-It-All.”

“Mrs. Know-It-All.”

“No, ma’am,” he said, standing and sweeping her up into his arms. “You are definitely Mrs. Weber.”

He gave her ribs a quick tickle as he carried her to their bedroom. In the corner was an unfamiliar piece of furniture covered in a bed sheet. A silk ribbon tied into the shape of a bow the size of an apple sat on its top.

“You daft man. That’s not…”

She wiggled out of his arms and drew back the sheet, revealing a beautiful Silvertone phonograph. Lulu whispered his name. Another dozen 78s waited in one of the cabinet’s compartment, including her latest favorite, Frank Sinatra’s “Oh What It Seemed To Be.”

“How?”

“It’s used.” The wide blue and white stripes of his pajamas shifted as he shrugged. “And I’ve been saving up.”

“It’s…”

She was rarely at a loss for words, much to Joe’s chagrin, but Lulu could only shake her head. Could there be such a thing as too much happiness?

Her hands were trembling so badly that she couldn’t start the phonograph. Joe came up behind her, his arms bracketing her body, and placed the needle on the record’s outer groove. The sounds of a soft piano and a swirling orchestra began, followed by Bing Crosby’s crooning, melodic voice.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I don’t know what else to say. Really Joe, it’s too much.”

“Only you follow up ‘I don’t know what else to say’ with another sentence.”

“I mean it!”

“Then you’re really going to flip when you see the Studebaker parked downstairs.”

“The Studebaker…?”

“I’ve been patching it together for a couple months in my spare time, down at the garage. It’s a good machine. I like it.” He kissed her temple and whispered, “I promise it can get us to Miami.”

Now Lulu was really, truly, never-going-to-speak again speechless. She turned and he pulled her body flush against his. She could only look into his eyes, those beautiful, telling eyes, and read the truth.

“You deserve that job offer,” he said with film assurance. “Nobody flies better than my Lulu. And that’s not flattery, doll. That’s plain truth. It just took me a while to figure out it wasn’t a bad thing.”

“You’d need to leave your position at Hersh’s.”

“They’ll give me a referral. Finding another job as a mechanic shouldn’t be any harder in Florida than in New York. Besides, you’ve come all this way to be with me.” His voice thickened with surprising emotion. “I know you’ll never stop missing England.”

Lulu ducked her head. Blinking back her tears was becoming impossible. “I didn’t think it showed.”

“Doesn’t have to. Just trust I’ve been paying attention. I think I’ve learned a little about you.”

Her laugh was half of a joyful sob. “You believe so, do you?”

“I do.”

“I’ll never get tired of thinking about those two words. I do. Getting married in a hospital ward did nothing to diminish what they meant to me.”

“Same here, honey.” He petted her upper back and nape, sending shivers of happy heat down her spine with every pass. “For better for worse. We’re in this together. That means making the most of a great opportunity. We’d be… What do you call it? Barmy? For passing it up.”

“The boy from Indiana using Cockney slang. Worlds have collided.” Tears wet her cheeks and his half-bared chest as she clung to him. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Lulu. Merry Christmas.”

“But…” she said on a hiccupping giggle. “But I only got you a hat.”

“Oh, go ahead and spoil it for me.”

Once again he swept her into his arms. This time he placed her on the bed they shared. Old mattress springs squeaked. They laughed as one, pressing their foreheads together. His warm smile brushed hers.

Lulu ran her fingers from his chest to his scalp, indulging in his thick, sandy brown hair. “If I give you a present tonight, would you forgive me too?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice turning rough and primal. “Yes, I would.”

He levered over her body. One eager hand found the hem of her nightgown and pushed beneath it, palming her thigh. She shivered. She sighed. She counted a hundred blessings. Some day soon, they’d drive to Miami. And she’d keep flying. His faith and pride left her as breathless as the kissed his trailed between her bared breasts.

The music stopped and the radiator rattled to life, but Lulu barely noticed. On that night, on their first of many Christmas Eves together, she only wanted Joe. Having her husband in her arms, safe and forever, was a miracle—the most perfect present she would ever hold.

*Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Part 1 of Carrie Lofty's Scene*

This year has been a blast! In addition to HIS VERY OWN GIRL, my three Christie Family [http://carrielofty.com/Books.html] romances are available now from Pocket. FLAWLESS kicked it off with a tale of an estranged couple's search for love. The 99¢ tie-in novella, "A LITTLE MORE SCANDAL" follows two aspiring lovers to London. And the Scottish-set second novel, STARLIGHT, was an RT BookReviews 4½ Star Top Pick. "Richly nuanced characters and a superbly realized Victorian setting come together brilliantly." ~ The Chicago Tribune

I've also launched a co-written pseudonym, Katie Porter [http://www.katieporterbooks.com], with my long-time friend and critique partner, Lorelie Brown. RT BookReviews said of our "Vegas Top Guns" series of contemporary erotic romances from Samhain: "This racy, raunchy, hella good read…will move Fifty Shades of Grey to the children's section of the bookstore."

Happy holidays to you from the shores of Lake Michigan. My family, my cats, and the nice men who plow the snow at our condo wish you the best for 2013--and so do I!- Carrie

Available Now:

After war took the lives of Lulu Davies's parents and her fiancé, she promised herself she would guard her heart carefully and concentrate on her great love--flying the biggest and best airplanes as a British civilian pilot.

Brawny, quiet American medic Joe Weber signed up with the paratroopers to escape his checkered past. The first test of his medical skill takes place when he rushes to the scene of a plane crash. He's stunned to come face-to-face with a spirited, dark-haired beauty.

Their flirtation breaks all of Lulu's rules, but dance by dance, she falls in love with this honest, vulnerable man on the run from his demons. Only time and hope will prove whether they can overcome their pasts, survive the war, and forge a beautiful life in peace-time.

Get Your Copy Today:

Amazon (Kindle) | B&N (Nook)

Carrie is giving away 2 ecopies of her book, His Very Own Girl, to two lucky commenters (open to all with ereading capabilities)! Make sure to leave a meaningful comment below AND fill out the rafflecopter.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

And don't forget to enter the Grand Prize Giveaway

Saving a Lady... with Nicola Cornick (+Giveaway)

2012-12-22T09:02:00.003-05:00

Saving a Lady
on Christmas Eve with Nicola Cornick

About the Author:

Bestselling British author Nicola Cornick writes historical romance for Harlequin HQN Books in the US and MIRA Books UK. She was born in Yorkshire and studied history at London University and Ruskin College, Oxford. Nicola is also a historian working for the National Trust at the seventeenth century hunting lodge, Ashdown House. A triple nominee for the Romance Writers of America RITA award, Nicola has been described by Publisher’s Weekly as “a rising star of the Regency genre.”

Find Nicola Online: Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter

A number of years ago I wrote a series of books, the Bluestocking Brides, set in Suffolk and featuring the rakish Kestrel brothers. At the end of the series the youngest brother, Lord Stephen Kestrel, was the only one who was unmarried and lots of readers asked me if Stephen would ever have his own story.

My most recent series has been The Scandalous Women of the Ton. In book 4, NOTORIOUS, Miss Francesca Devlin marries the dissolute Marquis of Alton. Later in the series it comes out that she has been widowed and in book 6 she receives a proposal of marriage from Lord Stephen Kestrel.

This is what happened in between…- Nicola

Lady Alton's Adventure

by Nicola Cornick

The Midwinter Village, Suffolk, 1816

Francesca Alton wanted an adventure. A big adventure. She wanted smugglers, highwaymen and pirates, action and romance. She felt that she deserved some excitement in her life. Unfortunately all she had instead was a walk of two miles through the snow to the nearest inn. Her boots were already soaking and her feet were frozen. Hunger gnawed at her stomach.

It was typical of the Duke and Duchess to throw her out of the house on Christmas Eve and before dinner. They had only invited her to Midwinter Hall because they thought she might be carrying the heir to the Alton dukedom. It was the sole reason they had continued to acknowledge her after the death of their son Fitz four months earlier.

Chessie was not pregnant but she had had no intention of telling the Duke and Duchess. She knew that once they had no further use for her, she would be thrown out in the street without a penny. The Duke and Duchess had detested her from the start. The feeling was mutual.

Unfortunately her maid was not discreet. And so it was that shortly before dinner on Christmas Eve the Duchess had come to her and told her that she was no longer welcome at Midwinter Hall. She should not trouble to pack a bag because they had paid for everything she possessed and although they would permit her to keep the clothes she stood up in, she could take nothing else.

For the first mile of the walk to the Midwinter Inn Chessie had tried to keep her spirits up by imagining all the adventures she might have. She had heard that the Midwinter villages were the haunt of smugglers and pirates. But as the empty road wound ahead and the snow dripped from the brim of her hat down her neck and the outline of the trees beside the road started to blur into darkness, she could no longer pretend. She had no money and no prospect of any, she would not be able to pay her shot at the inn let alone the cost of the coach to London and there would be no excitement in her life ever again.

The road passed through a thick copse where the trees drew close overhead. The bitter wind whirled the snow in Chessie’s face, blinding her. She shivered deep within her thin cloak. Then she heard the chink of a harness and the muffled clop of hooves in the snow, and a dark figure reared up out of the darkness ahead. In the same moment, someone clapped a gloved hand over her mouth. She could not draw breath to scream. Nor could she struggle because a very strong arm was clamped about her waist and she was dragged under the cover of the trees and held still against a hard masculine body.

“Quiet!” Her captor growled in her ear.

She could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back. His breath stirred her hair. He smelled of cold air and leather and lemon cologne, and his grip on her was very sure. It was entirely delightful when it should have been frightening. Chessie gave a little wayward shiver of pleasure. The Duchess had always claimed she had no breeding and no decorum, and clearly it was true if she could tremble with enjoyment in a smuggler’s arms.

Yet there was something familiar about this smuggler. She could not see his face nor identify him in any way and yet instinctively she recognised him.

Gradually the clop of the hooves and the jingle of harness died away and her captor’s hand fell from her lips. Chessie drew in a deep breath.

“Lord Stephen!” She said.

He was still holding her with an arm about her waist and now she felt the jolt of surprise go through him. He released her, turning her around to face him. It was very dark under the trees. She could see nothing of him other than as a tall shadow against darker shadows.

“Do I know you, ma’am?” His voice was smooth and deep, with a hint of amusement. Definitely Lord Stephen Kestrel. When they had met three years before she had noticed straight away how mellow his voice was. Some men, she had thought, could seduce with their voice alone and this was one of them. The fact that he was also tall and dark and sinfully good looking was, of course, an added benefit. There had been a time when she had been a little bit in love Stephen Kestrel. If only he had not been a younger son with his way to make in the world and if only she had not been so foolishly in love with the undeserving Fitz…

She felt a strange pang of loss.

“We met in London a few years ago,” Chessie said. “I don’t suppose you remember. I am Francesca Alton.” She almost offered him her hand, which, she realised, would be a ridiculously formal thing to do in a snowy wood in the middle of nowhere.

“Lady Alton!” Lord Stephen sounded taken aback now. “I do apologise for grabbing you in such an ill-mannered way. I was trying to ensure that Old Jeb did not shoot you. He is as deaf as a post and trigger-happy with that blunderbuss.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Chessie said. “I had no notion I would run into smugglers on Christmas Eve.”

“You did not, ma’am.” Lord Stephen’s voice was dry. “Jeb Hartley is the gamekeeper on my brother’s estate here and he is out tonight to ensure none of the local poachers are looking to supplement their Christmas table with some of our game.”

“Oh, I see.” Chessie could feel herself blushing. Lord Stephen had taken her arm and was leading her back onto the road. Out here in the fading daylight she could see him clearly; the tousled dark hair in which snowflakes were settling, the dark eyes, the chiselled planes of his face, the broad shoulders encased in a many-caped coat of superfine. He looked every inch the younger brother of the Duke of Kestrel whilst she probably looked like something the cat would refuse to drag in.

“All self-respecting smugglers are likely to be tucked up in front of the fire on such an inclement day drinking their contraband brandy,” he said.

“Of course,” Chessie said. “Of course they are.”

So much for her foolish dreams of adventure.

“Not that there are many in these parts any more,” Lord Stephen continued. “Nor highwaymen, nor pirates, should you be wondering.”

“Of course I was not wondering,” Chessie said sharply. “How absurd.”

“The Midwinter villages,” Lord Stephen said, “have something of a reputation for criminality.”

“Quite unwarranted, I am sure,” Chessie said.

“Quite.” His voice changed. His gaze appraised her keenly. There was a slight frown between his dark brows now. “May I escort you back to Midwinter Hall, Lady Alton? It is a bad night to be out.”

“You could,” Chessie said, “but then you would put the Duke and Duchess to the trouble of throwing me out again.”

His frown deepened. “They have cast you out on Christmas Eve?”

“I fear so,” Chessie said. “I am heading for the Midwinter Inn. I need to get a coach back to London.” She shivered as a cascade of snow slid from one of the branches and tumbled down her neck. If she spent much longer standing here she would not be able to feel her feet, they were so cold.

Lord Stephen muttered something uncomplimentary about the Duke and Duchess of Alton. She did not quite catch what it was which was perhaps a good thing. “The inn is only a few hundred yards further,” he said briefly. “I’ll walk with you.”

Chessie felt a little frisson of something that was definitely not cold tickle her spine.

“I would not dream of putting you to the trouble-” She began.

“It is no trouble.”

He offered her his arm and adapted his long stride to suit her shorter one and within five minutes they came round a bend in the road and Chessie saw the lights of the Midwinter Inn gleaming through the dusk.

“Thank goodness,” she said, through chattering teeth. “Any longer and I would have frozen to the spot.”

Lord Stephen hustled her through the doorway and into the warmth. A fire blazed in the hearth. Lanterns cast a warm golden light. The ancient beams glowed with sprigs of red holly berries and rich green boughs. There was the most marvellous smell of roasting meat. Chessie’s stomach gave and enormous rumble.

“A private parlour, please, Hartigan,” Lord Stephen said, as the landlord came hurrying forward to greet them. “And two glasses of mulled wine and some hot food.”

“Oh no,” Chessie said. “Please, I can’t-”

I can’t afford any food.

She bit her lip. She had too much pride to finish the sentence.

“I was only hoping to wait in the warmth until the coach for London arrived,” she said.

“That would be next Wednesday, ma’am,” the landlord said.

That was the moment when Chessie thought that she might just cry but instead she raised her chin and said:

“In that case…” But then she stopped because she did not know what to do in that case.

“In that case,” Lord Stephen said, “we’ll take the private parlour, the mulled wine and the hot food, thank you, Hartigan,” and he guided Chessie into the parlour and helped her out of her soaking wet cloak. As he put back the hood his fingers brushed her cheek and her startled gaze flew to meet his. Their eyes held for a long moment and Chessie felt a flare of heat start at her toes and sweep through her whole body.

Oh dear. She really should learn not to be so susceptible to handsome men. Marriage to Fitz should have taught her to value character over looks. Not that Lord Stephen Kestrel was anything like her late and unlamented husband but she had heard he had been a shocking rake when he was younger and she had always been attracted to men with a dangerous reputation.

To cover her confusion she picked up the glass of mulled wine that the landlord had brought and drank half of it down in one gulp. It was delicious, warm and richly flavoured, tasting of fruit and spices. She finished the glass and accepted another. The food arrived, fragrant beef and potato pie with a crisp pastry crust. Lord Stephen kept up an easy flow of conversation and soon she found that they were chatting away like old friends, discussing her experiences of London and Lord Stephen’s travels on the continent. They laughed a lot and Chessie’s head spun and her elbow slid off the table and she felt drowsy and happy and ever so slightly drunk.

And then Lord Stephen leaned forward and said:

“How did you know that it was me earlier? You could not see me, so how did you know?”

“I recognised you,” Chessie said. “I knew your touch.”

As soon as the words were out she felt embarrassed and pressed her fingers to her lips. “I beg your pardon,” she whispered. “I think I may have had too much mulled wine. I meant that we have danced together several times and I recognised the fit of your body against mine.”

That was even worse. She was ready to sink with humiliation now. But then she looked up into his face and forgot her mortification because there was a flash of something bright and elemental in Lord Stephen’s dark eyes that made her heart race and a curl of heat unfurl deep in the pit of her stomach. His hand covered hers where it rested on the table.

“Why did you marry Alton?” He asked softly. “He was the most frightful cad.”

“I know,” Chessie said. “He was mean and vicious but I didn’t realise until it was too late. I thought I was in love with him. It was a terrible mistake. And now I am completely ruined because I have no money and have been cast out by Fitz’s family there is no coach to take me back to London to my friends, and even if there was I could not afford it, and I cannot pay you for the meal or the wine-” She stopped abruptly as Lord Stephen pulled her to her feet and kissed her. He tasted of wine and spices and the kiss was sweet and tender and made her head spin. It was so delicious, in fact, that she found herself winding her arms about his neck and kissing him with so much fervour that he kissed her again, a great deal less gently this time.

Oh dear. So that was the way it was going to be. He was going to demand payment of another sort. It was explicitly clear in the way he was holding her and his impressive state of arousal. Chessie supposed that if she was going to embark a career as a courtesan, and really what other course was open to her now with no money and no other talents, then it might be rather pleasant to start with Lord Stephen. In fact it would be more than pleasant. She felt a very wicked spark of pleasure flare inside her.

“I would be very happy to be your mistress,” she whispered, playing with the buttons on his jacket because she was too shy to look him in the eye as she made her declaration, “only my brother must never know. He would not approve. Fortunately he lives in Scotland so if we are discreet he need not find out.”

It was a moment later that she realised that the tremor in Lord Stephen’s chest came from the fact that he was laughing at her.

“I’ve heard about your brother,” Lord Stephen said, “and I would not wish to get on the wrong side of him. I am afraid it is out of the question.”

So that was that. She had been mistaken. He did not find her in the least attractive and had no desire to bed her. She would have to find another way to raise funds. Chessie felt quite downcast. She was also starting to realise that she had taken quite a lot of the mulled wine and would probably have a headache and quite a lot of regrets in the morning.

“This is what we are going to do,” Lord Stephen said softly. “Since I cannot invite you to stay with me at Midwinter Manor without ruining your reputation, I am going to pay for you to stay here until the coaches to London resume next week. I will come to see you each day, very formally and very properly. Then when you return to London I will come to call on you, very formally and very properly. And in a little while I will make you a very formal and proper offer of marriage.”

“Oh!” Chessie said. “But-”

“I have been in love with you for years,” Lord Stephen said, and suddenly his arms were about her very tightly. “I left London when you chose Fitz rather than me. I’ve stayed away ever since. I only came to Midwinter for Christmas in the hope of seeing you. I knew it was too soon-”

Chessie pressed her fingers to his lips. “It’s not too soon,” she whispered. “I loved you too but I was foolish; I valued Fitz’s fortune and title too highly and learned too late that other qualities are of far greater worth.” She smiled radiantly. “You rescued me from frozen feet and starvation on Christmas Eve, Stephen. A lady could not ask for more from her hero.”

*Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Lorraine Heath's Scene*

Available Now:

As maid to some of the most wanton ladies of the ton, Margery Mallon lives within the boundaries of any sensible servant. Entanglements with gentlemen are taboo. Wild adventures are for the Gothic novels she secretly reads. Then an intriguing stranger named Mr. Ward offers her a taste of passion, and suddenly the wicked possibilities are too tempting to resist….

Henry Atticus Richard Ward is no ordinary gentleman. He's Lord Wardeaux and he is determined to unite Margery with her newfound inheritance by any means—including seduction and deception. But when the ton condemns the scandalous servant-turned-countess and an unknown danger prepares to strike, will Margery accept Henry's protection in exchange for her trust?

Get Your Copy Today:

Amazon (Print) | Amazon (Kindle)

Barnes&Noble (Print) | B&N (Nook)

Nicola is giving away a copy of her Christmas anthology, Mischief and Mistletoe and a velvet Regency style scarf , to one lucky commenter (INT)! Make sure to leave a meaningful comment below AND fill out the rafflecopter.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

And don't forget to enter the Grand Prize Giveaway

Sharing a First Kiss...with Cheryl Hoyt (+Giveaway)

2012-12-21T10:19:00.002-05:00

Sharing a First Kiss
on Christmas Eve with Cheryl Holt

About the Author:

CHERYL HOLT is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over thirty novels.

She’s also a lawyer and mom, and at age forty, with two babies at home, she started a new career as a commercial fiction writer. She’d hoped to be a suspense novelist, but couldn’t sell any of her manuscripts, so she ended up taking a detour into romance where she was stunned to discover that she has a knack for writing some of the world’s greatest love stories.

Her books have been released to wide acclaim, and she has won or been nominated for many national awards. She is particularly proud to have been named “Best Storyteller of the Year” by the trade magazine Romantic Times BOOK Reviews.

She lives and writes in Hollywood, California, and she loves to hear from fans. Visit her website at www.cherylholt.com.

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I’m so excited to be included in this year’s Christmas event. For my scene, I have chosen to feature Miss Clarinda Dudley and Captain Aiden Bramwell. They have appeared as secondary characters in several of my books.
Clarinda Dudley is a recurring character in the three novels of my “Spinster’s Cure” trilogy that was released in 2010. She is a healer and white witch who travels with her brother, Phillip Dudley (aka Philippe Dubois). He is a smooth-talking con artist and swindler who sells fake love potions and tonics to unsuspecting women. Throughout Clarinda’s life, her main tasks were to keep him out of trouble, out of jail, and to curb his worst schemes. The last time readers saw Clarinda, she had parted with her brother and was house-sitting for her friend, Captain Tristan Odell, at his lovely manor house in rural Scotland.
Aiden Bramwell is the younger brother of the earl of Roxbury. He is an experienced sea captain who—much to his family’s horror—is engaged in trade. He owns several ships and is using them to build his own fortune so, when he marries, he can do so as a rich man without having to beg his older brother for money. His family is very stuffy, very snobbish, with annoying opinions about class and status and how the nobility shouldn’t interact with commoners. So Clarinda is the exact opposite of the woman he would deem suitable for anything. He made a cameo appearance in my book, DREAMS OF DESIRE, and will also appear in my long-lost book, LOVE’S PRICE, coming in 2013.
Clarinda and Aiden come from very different backgrounds and have very different personalities, which is a set up that produces a terrific hero and heroine. I’ve always thought they should cross paths and end up together with their own story and their own book. But I simply haven’t had time to write it.
In this short scene, I decided to see how they fit together as a couple. They are both in Scotland, with Clarinda living there and Aiden on holiday. They meet on Christmas Eve when he’s had a bit too much to drink and has been in a fight in a taproom.
Merry Christmas Clarinda and Aiden! - Cheryl

First Kiss on Christmas Eve

by Cheryl Holt

Clarinda Dudley stared up at the night sky, peering at the clouds that floated over the moon. A few snowflakes drifted down. Her cheeks and nose were red from the cold, her fingers, too, where they gripped the carriage reins.

It was Christmas Eve, and the entire world was locked in, sequestered around their fires. She was the only one foolish enough to be out and about.

“Duty always calls,” she murmured to the silent woods.

She’d been invited to several parties, but she’d shunned the festivities, telling herself that she was happy to spend the holiday in her own parlor, by her own roaring fire. In light of the itinerant life she’d led, traipsing after her brother, she’d thought she would enjoy the novel experience of celebrating Christmas—for the very first time—under her very own roof.

But the house was so large, the rooms so big and empty. The servants were her sole company, and while she’d never fancied herself as being very far above any of them, she currently was. If she tried to engage them in friendly conversation, they gaped at her as if she’d grown a second head.

Even in her little corner of rural Scotland, boundaries had to be maintained. She was their mistress, and the servants wouldn’t let her forget it.

When a knock had sounded at the door, she’d been pacing and bored out of her mind. It had been a relief to be summoned by a neighbor. She’d lived in the area for six months, and her reputation as a healer and apothecary had quickly spread. She was constantly sought after to tend fevers or stitch wounds.

And she always agreed to help. She’d never been idle and had no idea how gently-bred young ladies could stomach their leisure hours. Sloth drove her mad. She liked to work and be useful, and she wouldn’t apologize for her skills or her delight in practical endeavor.

She wondered what time it was, if it wasn’t already Christmas Day. She wasn’t in any hurry to arrive at home. There was naught to do but stroll through the quiet salons, listening to her footsteps echo off the high ceilings.

She missed her brother and was thinking about him so intently that she wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings. She’d just rounded a bend, when her horse snorted and reared slightly. His sudden movement nearly yanked her off the seat, giving her the fright of her life.

A man was walking down the center of the road, and she pulled on the reins and steered to a stop.

“Oh, hello,” he said, as if they were on a busy street on a sunny afternoon, instead of the middle of nowhere on a snowy winter night.

“Hello,” she said, too. “You’re lucky I didn’t run you over. Didn’t you hear me approaching?”

“No. I’m a bit…distracted.”

“Are you all right?”

“Do you mean besides my horse being stolen, my very likely having some broken ribs, and my almost getting stabbed?”

“Stabbed!”

“Yes—with a fat, rusty knife.”

“My goodness. Are you injured?”

“Only my pride. I had a…misunderstanding at the taproom in the village.”

Clarinda chuckled. “If only your pride is bruised, I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“I’m sure I will, too.”

“Seriously, though. Are you all right?”

He glanced down his torso. “I appear to be.”

“Would you like a ride?” she asked.

“That depends on where you’re going.”

“I’m for home—over the next hill. Where are you going?”

“Home, too, a few hills beyond you.”

Mentally, she counted the properties down the valley, mildly curious as to which grand manor he was headed. Several prominent families had opened their mansions for the holiday season, and with her being a friend of British sea captain, Tristan Odell, Clarinda was invited to their suppers and dances and card parties.

When she’d initially arrived in Scotland, she’d attended every soiree, but the glamour had swiftly faded. She didn’t like rich people, couldn’t abide their snobbish, superior ways. She’d always lived by her wits and cunning, and she’d rapidly lost the patience required to tolerate their kind of nonsense.

In her view, wealth and foolishness went hand in hand.

“Who is your host?” she inquired. “Lord Roxbury?”

“His mother.”

“Poor thing,” she tutted. The Bramwells were the worst of the lot and the earl’s mother a vicious shrew. “I’ve heard she can be quite vexing.”

“Vexing does not begin to describe her.”

“How about that ride?” she asked again as a cold blast of wind whipped at her coat. “You can drop me off, then proceed on to Roxbury’s. I trust you to return my horse and vehicle tomorrow. If you don’t, I’ll know where to find you.”

“Aren’t you afraid of me? You’re a woman alone on a dark road and you’re…” His voice trailed off, and he scowled. “Why are you out here all alone?”

“I was called out on business.”

“On Christmas Eve?”

“I’m a healer. I had to sew up a drunkard.”

“So? Why isn’t there a footman with you?”

“I’m not some fussy London debutante in need of a chaperone. I told all my footmen to go to bed—where any sane person should be at this hour.”

“What are you implying about the two of us?” he mockingly huffed. “I believe you’ve defamed us both.”

“I believe I have.”

“Why would anyone be discourteous enough to drag you out on Christmas Eve?”

“Bad behavior can happen at any time. You’d be surprised at the trouble people can get up to in the middle of the night.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I was just in a fight in a taproom, remember?” He gestured to the empty spot next to her. “What if I’m a brigand? What if I take advantage of you?”

“In your most recent quarrel, you were nearly stabbed.” She reached under her skirt and retrieved the small pistol she carried. She pointed it at him, letting him have a good look down the barrel. “If you try anything funny with me, I’ll shoot you right between the eyes. Now are you coming with me or not?”

“How can a fellow pass up an invitation like that?” He frowned at her pistol. “Put that away, would you? I’d hate to have it go off by accident.”

“If it fires, it will be because I pulled the trigger.”

“Still, if you killed me, how would my reputation survive it?”

“Oh, climb up,” she snapped.

Her firm command did the trick. He grabbed the box and heaved himself up, wincing in pain as he settled on the narrow seat.

He was a large man, with wide shoulders and a broad chest, and he simply took up too much space. There was nowhere to move where she wasn’t touching him. Arms, hips, thighs, they were forged fast all the way down.

“You’re favoring your side,” she said.

“I told you: I think I broke a rib or two.”

“In the fight?”

“Yes.”

“Did you lose?”

“Me? Lose? Never.”

“If you won, why are your ribs broken?”

“You should have seen the other guy.”

“Yes, yes, my brawny warrior. I’m sure you beat him to a pulp.”

“Three of them, actually. They’ll be sorry in the morning.”

“So will you, I’m betting.”

“You could be correct.”

Grinning, he shifted toward her, just as the clouds glided away from the moon. Silvery light shone down, casting them in a magical glow. She could note details that hadn’t been apparent when he was standing on the ground.

He was very handsome, which she detested. Handsome men were too vain, too confident of their impact. Her brother, Phillip, was the prime example of a male using his attractiveness to overwhelm a female’s common sense.

Early on, Clarinda had learned to be wary. Yet here she was, all alone and pressed together with a rogue whose face probably had women sighing all over the kingdom.

His hair was dark, too long and tied back in a ponytail with a strip of leather. His eyes were very blue, and they twinkled with mischief. She could feel his body’s heat, could smell masculine odors of tobacco and brandy, making her aware of him in a manner she didn’t care to be.

“You’ve been drinking,” she mentioned.

“Yes, and I might have had a little too much.”

“You certainly did if it drove you to fight with three men.”

“I was defending a woman’s honor—I think.”

“Who was it? A customer in the taproom?”

“Yes, her name was Mary, I believe.”

“Mary Malone?”

“Yes, that’s it.” Clarinda laughed, and he asked, “What’s so funny?”

“She’s a trollop. Everyone knows it. She had no honor to defend.”

“Drat it,” he muttered, and he held out his hand. “Aiden Bramwell. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She groaned. “Bramwell?”

“Yes.”

“Brother to the earl?”

“The very one.”

“You stood there and let me insult your mother.”

“I’ll get over it.”

“Clarinda Dudley.” She clasped his hand, and he winced again as she gave it a firm shake.

“You hurt your hand?” she inquired.

“My knuckles. I have a mean right hook.”

“You’re a mess.”

“Yes, I am.”

She was wearing gloves, and stupidly, it crossed her mind that she wished she could have touched him skin to skin. She had the Sight, and through physical contact, she could often discern all sorts of things she shouldn’t know.

In a previous age, she’d probably have been burned as a witch.

“You’re Captain Odell’s friend,” he said.

“Yes. Are you acquainted?”

“Casually. You’re staying at his house.”

“Yes.”

“You’re the rude scamp who refused my mother’s invitation to supper.”

“Well, yes, I am.” Clarinda could have offered a dozen excuses, but she bit her tongue.

“She was incensed by your discourtesy.” He stuck his nose in the air, as if imitating the old hag. “She claims you’re an ungrateful hussy who’s been lifted up above her station. You’ve forgotten how you should act toward your betters.”

“I’ve never spent much time around my betters, so I was never told how I should act.”

He studied her in a manner that made her uncomfortable. He seemed to see more than he should, and she glanced away.

“You don’t like her,” he murmured, as if it had never occurred to him that someone could not like his mother. Sounding stunned, he repeated, “You don’t like my mother!”

“No, sorry,” she admitted. She’d once nursed a Bramwell housemaid after his mother had had her whipped for insubordination.

He nodded. “If you don’t like my mother, and you’re bold enough to say so aloud, you might be the smartest and bravest individual who ever lived.”

“I’m sure I am.” She laughed again.

“You’re really a healer? You…work?”

At the prospect, he was aghast, and she rolled her eyes. Gad, but weren’t rich people a pain in the backside?

“Yes, I work. Shocking, but true.”

“But you’re female,” he complained. “It’s against the natural order. You should have a man guiding and protecting you.”

“In the past, I had my brother, but if you’d ever met him, you’d soon learn that I’m better off guiding and protecting myself.”

“So you’re free and independent in your habits?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’ll kill my mother with your modern ways.”

“I’ll try not to.” She motioned to his side. “Would you like me to look at your wounds? It’s the least I can do for insulting her.”

He hemmed and hawed, then said, “Let me think about it. I’ll see how I’m faring when we arrive at your door.”

She picked up the reins, clicking them to urge the horse forward, and the animal took off at a slow trot.

“Would you like me to drive?” he asked.

“You’ve been drinking. No.”

“I’m a man, and you’re a woman. Even foxed, I’m a better driver than you are.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffed. “Be silent, and let me get us home in peace.”

He surprised her by obeying, and she was amazed to find that a Bramwell could be so compliant and complacent. There were three brothers, all of them brash and rude and having been reared in such posh circumstances that they felt they owned the whole bloody world. And they did. Sort of.

What would it be like to be him? She’d started out with a mother who—depending on her brother’s story on any given day—had been a Russian princess or a British debutante or a traveling Gypsy.

Her father had been an Italian count or a British earl or the Russian princess’s groom or a swashbuckling pirate or whatever fellow fit her brother’s fancy.

She didn’t remember her mother or how they wound up on London’s cruel streets. Phillip would never truthfully say, but they’d been shrewd and smart, and through Phillip’s conniving, they’d survived and thrived.

She wondered what Aiden Bramwell would think of her past. She wondered which one of them had been more content as a child. She suspected she’d had the best life.

They turned at the gate that led to her house. The servants had left a lamp burning for her. It was such a welcoming sight that tears welled in her eyes. She’d never previously lived anywhere permanent, and the notion gave her unexpected joy.

She pulled the horse to a halt and tied the reins. Mr. Bramwell shifted as if to climb down, but she jumped out first and marched around to stop him.

“Don’t you move,” she scolded.

“Why not?”

“I’ll help you down. I want to get you inside and feel those ribs of yours.”

She hadn’t realized how salacious her comment would sound, and he grinned a naughty grin.

“By all means, let’s have you feel my ribs. While we’re at it, is there anywhere else you’re dying to touch? I’m amenable.”

He was gazing down at her, appearing so dashing and handsome that she could barely stand to look at him. If she’d been the type of woman who could be charmed by a rogue—which she wasn’t—she might have been weak in the knees.

Her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. “I’m an experienced apothecary,” she insisted. “If I touch you, it’s all part of my job.”

“Sure it is,” he mused. “I’m positive it has nothing to do with my manly physique.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“If I’d known the end result of my fight would be your tender ministrations, I’d have allowed those brigands to land a few more punches.”

“You’re insane,” she muttered.

Behind her, the door opened and a footman, John, stepped out. When she went out at odd hours, someone always waited up.

“I’ve brought a patient,” she explained, as she waved John over. “Can you lift him down?”

“Certainly, Miss Dudley.”

He came and extended a hand to Bramwell. Bramwell grabbed hold and was eased to the ground. They both staggered slightly, and evidently, John had been drinking, too. Was there anyone in Scotland who wasn’t intoxicated?

“Captain Bramwell!” John beamed. “How nice to see you again.”

“Hello, John,” Bramwell replied. “Nice to see you, too.”

“Are you visiting with your mother?”

“For the entire holiday.”

John was gaping as if Bramwell walked on water, as if he was the king’s champion.

“Shall I help you in, Captain?” he inquired.

“In Miss Dudley’s infinite medical wisdom,” Bramwell smirked, “she has declared that just my pride is bruised. I should be able to drag myself in without assistance.”

“He was fighting,” Clarinda said. “In the taproom in the village.”

“Fighting!” John chuckled. “Then he had a better Christmas Eve than I.”

“Only a man would think so,” Clarinda grumbled.

“She claims she’s skilled at doctoring,” Bramwell said to John. “Is she?”

“She washes her instruments,” John answered, “and she doesn’t bite.”

“High praise, indeed,” Bramwell snickered.

“Stable the horse,” Clarinda told John, disgusted with both of them, “then head for your bed.”

“You won’t need me for anything else?”

“No. Bramwell insists he’s fit to drive. I expect he can get himself to his mother’s once I’m through with him.”

Bramwell asked John, “Has Miss Dudley a private doctoring room?”

“No, she uses the front parlor, Captain.”

“So I’ll have her all to myself in the front parlor!” Bramwell leaned to John and, in a conspiratorial tone, whispered, “She wants to look at my ribs.”

“Shut up, Bramwell!” Clarinda pushed him toward the door.

He strutted inside as if he owned the place, and she closed the door behind him.

As they were stomping snow off their boots and shedding their mufflers and coats, she said, “John called you Captain Bramwell. What are you a captain of? Are you in the army?”

“No, I’m a seafaring man. I have my own ships.”

“Ships, plural?”

“Yes.”

“And you sail the seas? Which ones?”

“As many as I can.”

“How lucky for you.”

“Yes, I have been lucky,” he agreed.

In the salon off to the left, a fire burned in the grate, the air cozy and warm, the servants keeping the space prepared for her return. She’d gone overboard with her decorations, so it was strewn with holly and ribbons and candles. The sight cheered her enormously.

“Why are you smiling?” he asked, watching her.

“Because this room is so festive. I’m happy.”

“To be home?”

“And to live here and be out of the cold and to have a safe spot to come back to when it’s late and I’m tired.”

He frowned as if he might request that she expound. Her bald statement had hinted at a rough history, but he was too polite to question her. She wouldn’t have responded truthfully anyway.

She was trying to fit in in the neighborhood, but her medicinal ability had promptly set her apart. Her past was nobody’s business but her own.

They stepped into the parlor, and as they did, he glanced up at the garland winding around the doorframe. There was a sprig of mistletoe at the top, and he pointed to it and grinned.

“We’re standing under the mistletoe, Miss Dudley.”

“Yes, we are.”

“You know what that means, don’t you?”

“That you think you’re supposed to kiss me?”

“Yes.”

“In your dreams. I still have my pistol. It’s loaded, remember?”

She spun to him, glowering, but her stern glare quickly faded.

Out on the road, she’d realized he was handsome, but she hadn’t recognized just how handsome. With all that long black hair and those magnificent blue eyes, he was like an angel painted on a church ceiling. Or no. He was a devil, all dark and dashing and dangerous. A god’s nemesis. An angel’s enemy.

He leaned in, pressing himself to her, but not in a forceful or frightening way. She could have scolded and pushed him off, but to her eternal disgust, she didn’t want to.

It was a rare occasion that she let a man get so close. When she was younger, her brother had been hideously protective, so no one had pestered her. But as she’d matured, she’d observed too many scoundrels, had learned their heartless penchant for cruelty and vice, so she wasn’t interested in male attention.

Yet for some reason, Bramwell inspired emotions she didn’t care to suffer.

She could feel every inch of him, his broad chest, his belly and thighs and shins and feet. She was eager to lean into him, too, to be nearer and more tightly connected. She gripped the doorframe with her fingers, holding herself still lest she rub against him like a contented cat.

“Would you…ah…sit on the sofa for me?” Her voice was soft and breathless and nothing like her own.

“I’m happy right where I am.” His smile was open and inviting, tempting her to trouble. “How about you? Are you happy right where you are?”

“No.”

“Liar. You’re intrigued by me. You’re wondering what I’ll dare. You’re wondering if you’ll like it.”

“You are so vain.”

“I admit it. I definitely am.”

“I bet you’ve kissed girls all the way from here to China.”

“Well, to the West Indies, at least.”

“And all the way back?”

“Of course.”

She scoffed. “Libertine.”

“Yes,” he admitted again, almost boasting. “Guilty as charged.”

“Did they all love you when you were through?”

“Yes, each and every one. How could they not?”

“Why should I let you do what you’ve done with every girl in the world?”

“Because you’ll like it?”

“I doubt it.”

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

“Let’s not.”

“It’s Christmas, Miss Dudley. Live a little.”

“I don’t need to live quite that much, thank you.”

“Consider it a Christmas gift—from me to you.”

“I never accept gifts from strangers.”

“Maybe you should start.”

“Or maybe not.”

He studied her modest grey dress, her tidy brown hair pulled into a functional chignon.

Slyly, he said, “You’ve never been kissed, have you?”

“I’ve been kissed hundreds of times,” she haughtily bragged.

“Hundreds. Really.”

“Yes. Men can’t resist me.”

He laughed and laughed. “You’re a vixen, are you? If I kiss you, I’ll never be the same?”

“Never.”

“How can I walk away from a challenge like that?”

“How can any man?”

It dawned on her that she was flirting, when she’d had no idea that she knew how. It had to be instinctual, an inborn feminine trait that all women possessed.

He lowered his gaze, his hot attention focused on her mouth. His concentration was so riveting that her innards clenched. She was holding her breath, absolutely on pins and needles. Would he kiss her? Would she let him?

They were under the mistletoe, and as he’d mentioned, it was Christmas. He was so forward, so persuasive, and he was begging her to be indiscreet.

Wasn’t this every girl’s dream? She felt as if she’d been born old. She’d never had a childhood, had never been a girl.

Why not proceed? Why not misbehave under the mistletoe?

“You’re very pretty, Clarinda,” he murmured.

“How kind of you to say so.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?” she obstinately inquired.

“You know why.”

He slipped his palms to her waist and rested them on the flare of her hips. Almost against her will, her eyelids fluttered down.

She’d expected him to grab and maul her, to boldly roam his hands across her person. But the touch—when it came—was soft and gentle and unbearably sweet.

Light as a butterfly, he pressed his lips to her own, and the sensation was indescribable. She couldn’t explain it, but could only revel in the moment and wish for it to never end.

Loneliness and regret bubbled up as she recalled her prior Christmases. There’d been no holiday table, set with the fine china. No aunts and uncles and hoards of teasing cousins. No Christmas goose or pudding or carols sung ‘round the tree.

There had just been her and her brother, two siblings battling the whole world. Why had she accepted that choice? She could have wed and built a family for herself. Why hadn’t she?

Much too quickly, the embrace concluded, and he drew away.

He was smiling at her with such affection that she yearned to clasp his lapels, to shake him and plead, Don’t ever leave me! Promise you won’t!

She occasionally cast spells and practiced magic, but she performed it for others, to make them happy. She never applied any magic to herself, yet she perceived a connection to him that was so great she seemed to have been bewitched.

What was wrong with her? How could a single kiss be so stirring? How could he have had such a potent effect?

“What do you say, Miss Dudley? How was your first kiss—on Christmas Eve no less?”

“It wasn’t horrid,” she blithely claimed, desperate to compose herself, to reassert her typical aplomb.

“You minx! You’re supposed to gush and tell me what a manly fellow I am.”

“Never in a thousand years, you bounder. You’re too vain by half.”

“How will my poor ego survive our acquaintance?”

“It probably won’t.”

He was peering at her so intently that she could read his troubled thoughts. Suddenly, she could see the parlor in his brother’s mansion, could see his bitter, caustic mother angry and shouting.

“You fought at home,” she blurted out, “with your mother. That’s why you were at the taproom. The two of you argued, and you stomped out.”

“How did you know?” he asked, unnerved by her prescience, and she was a bit unsettled, herself. She never allowed others to discern her most carefully shielded skill.

She shrugged. “I can …hear it emanating from you.”

“Hear it? Are you a witch?”

“What if I am?”

“Could you give me a charm that would change my fate?”

“Your fate seems quite grand to me. You’re rich and powerful and entitled. Why would you change anything?”

“What if I wanted to be happy, too?”

“Being rich and powerful isn’t enough?”

He sighed. “I used to think so, but I’m not sure anymore.”

A poignant silence fell. They were on the verge of sharing stories and secrets, of becoming close in ways that could never occur between them.

She waved him to the sofa.

“Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll tend your injuries?”

“Ha!” He preened. “One kiss and you can’t wait for me to remove my shirt.”

“Yes, please let me touch those ribs of yours.”

“I am at your service, my lady. Let’s see how fast I can undress.”

He went to the sofa and eased himself down, and though he was laughing and half-intoxicated and trying to act as if he was fine, he couldn’t hide another wince of pain.

She didn’t imagine he needed more alcohol, but if stitches were required, an extra tipple couldn’t hurt.

“Are you a brandy drinker, Captain Bramwell?”

“Whiskey, if you have it.”

She proceeded to the sideboard, thankful for the chance to dawdle while she poured him a glass. To her surprise, she was trembling, clear evidence of how he’d rattled her. She poured her own glass and downed it in a single shot.

“If your mother told you to marry someone you despised,” he pensively inquired, “would you do it?”

She glanced over at him. “Is that why you were quarreling?”

“Yes. She’s picked a perfectly suitable, perfectly horrid girl and demanded I propose. Would you keep the peace and agree?”

“I don’t have a mother,” she said, “but if she was still with me, I suppose I wouldn’t oblige her. I’ve never been good at obeying silly orders. I hope she’d understand.”

“I’ve always obeyed her. How do I start to disobey when I’m thirty years old?”

“You just…change,” she said.

She put his whiskey on a tray, then turned to carry it over to him.

But the oaf had dozed off, the liquor and fighting and cold weather combining to take its toll. He’d toppled to the side, his head resting on the arm of the sofa. Though he snored lightly, he looked young and innocent, and she could picture how he must have appeared as a boy.

She left the tray on a nearby table, then approached him.

“Captain Bramwell,” she murmured, a hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t stir. She called his name again, but received no response.

She grabbed a knitted throw and covered him with it. Then she linked their fingers and gave his a squeeze.

“My dashing captain,” she whispered. “Merry Christmas to you.”

The notion of caring for him all night, of watching over him as he slept, was inordinately thrilling. She poured herself another whiskey, then went to the window to gaze out at the snowflakes drifting down.

*Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Stefanie Sloane's Scene*

Available Now:

The three Merriweather siblings—Lucas, Dustin, and Brittney—think they have it all. As the heirs of the Merriweather gold dynasty, they grew up rich, spoiled and entitled. Yet all the money in the world hasn’t bought them love or happiness. They lead lonely, isolated lives.
But that’s about to change. As they meet the most unlikely trio of characters—a con artist, a nosy reporter, and a wounded vet—they learn that even the most carefully-constructed world can be turned upside down. By the right person. Passion, friendship, and everlasting love can strike in the oddest places, and dreams really do come true.
Originally released as three separate novellas, Ms. Holt has bundled them under one beautiful cover for readers to cherish.
Three great stories. One great book. Seduce Me, Kiss Me, Love Me…MARRY ME!

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Caught in a Snowstorm...with Valerie Bowman (+Giveaway)

2012-12-20T08:00:00.000-05:00

Caught in a Snowstorm
on Christmas Eve with Valerie Bowman

About the Author:

Valerie Bowman writes Racy Regency Romps with a focus on sharp dialogue, engaging storylines, and heroines who take matters into their own hands! Publishers Weekly calls Secrets of a Wedding Night, an “enchanting, engaging debut that will have readers seeking future installments” and Romantic Times Book Reviews says, “This fast-paced, charming debut, sparkling with witty dialogue and engaging characters, marks Bowman for stardom.” It has been nominated for Best Historical Debut of 2012 by RT. Booklist gave Secrets of a Wedding Night a starred review! You can find Valerie on the web atwww.ValerieBowmanBooks.com and on Facebook and Twitter.

Find Valerie Online: Website | Blog- The Dashing Duchesses | Facebook | Twitter

I was so excited when I was given the theme of ‘Caught in a Snowstorm on Christmas Eve.” Why? Well, not only is it a fantastic set up…it just so happens to be the set up of a pivotal scene in my third novel, Secrets of a Scandalous Marriage (St. Martin’s Press, October 2013). The hero, James Bancroft, Viscount Medford, has risked his reputation and his life to save the heroine, Kate, Duchess of Markingham, from being put to death for the murder of her hideous husband. Medford has commissioned Kate to write the most scandalous pamphlet to date…Secrets of a Scandalous Marriage.

This is an exclusive sneak-peek of the scene in which Kate and Medford are reunited on a snowy Christmas Eve at Lily and Devon’s country estate. They haven’t seen each other in days and were unsure they’d ever see each other again. Their friends conspired to get them together in the middle of a snowstorm on Christmas Eve. And who doesn’t like a little holiday angst?

- Valerie

Caught in a Snowstorm on Christmas Eve

by Valerie Bowman

The music room was on the first floor at the end of a long hallway. James made his way toward it, each step making him more sure that he didn’t know what he would say once he saw her. But Kate was here. Kate. Surely, he’d think of something—the right thing—when he came face-to-face with her.

He stopped several paces from the door. The strains of Moonlight Sonata floated out of the room. She was playing the pianoforte again. She loved that piece.

Taking a deep breath, James opened the door without knocking. He stepped inside the darkened room. The music stopped. Only a single candelabra burned on top of the instrument.

Kate glanced up at him, her blue eyes wide.

“James.”

He expelled his breath. He’d thought it might be a dream, her being here, some cruel joke Lily had played on him. But there Kate was, sitting on the piano stool, across from the French doors, wearing a ruby red gown that made him shudder. She looked like a dream come to life. He squinted. The firelight bounced off her silken hair. He longed to run his fingers through it.

“Kate,” he breathed.

She shook her head a bit and her red-gold curls bounced. “Lily and Annie told you I was here?”

“Yes.” Affecting a nonchalance he didn’t feel, James pushed his hands into his pockets and made his way over to the pianoforte.

Kate stood, pushing out the stool with the backs of her knees. She wrung her hands. She stepped toward him, slowly. They were only a pace apart. He could smell her perfume. The hint of strawberries. His mouth watered.

“James, are you…angry?”

He furrowed his brow. “Angry? Why would I be angry?”

“That I’m here. These are your friends, and I’m intruding.” She glanced away. “I don’t belong here.”

He had to struggle to keep his hands in his pockets. He wanted to reach out and…touch her, pull her into his arms.

“No, Kate. I’m not angry with you. I’m glad you’re here.”

She tentatively raised her gaze to his. It was pitch black outside but the candlelight illuminated a bit of the outdoors. The snow fell steadily beyond the windows.

“Are you?” she breathed.

“I wanted to visit you, Kate. I wanted to tell you how glad I was that you were freed.”

She expelled her breath and met his eyes. “I’m sorry I returned the money. But I just couldn’t take it. Not after…your house.”

“That money belongs to you.”

“I don’t care about the money.” She closed her eyes briefly. “James, may I ask you a question?”

He smiled at that. “You know you can.”

“Why haven’t you published the pamphlet yet?”

He shook his head. “Let’s not talk about the pamphlet, Kate. The pamphlet doesn’t matter.”

Her brow furrowed. “But…why? I’d expect it would be more popular than ever now that my name is cleared. It would sell wonderfully, pay for the repairs to your house, the money you spent for Mr. Abernathy, Mr. Horton.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” James ground out.

Kate let her hand drop to her side. “I don’t understand.”

James paced away, toward the French doors. “Damn it, Kate. Publishing for me has always been a drive. A need. My father was always so blasted frightened of any hint of scandal. But now…I don’t care about it anymore. You were right. I should use the press for good. Expose the real truth about things going on, the wrongly accused, the poor.”

She closed her eyes. “James, don’t do that just because of me.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but she put up a hand to stop him. “Wait, first, I must thank you. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have had a defense. Wouldn’t have hired Mr. Abernathy. Wouldn’t have had a runner investigating my case. I wouldn’t be free right now.” She paused, looking down at her feet. “I owe you my life.”

His voice was raw. “You owe me nothing, Kate.”

She walked past him, trembling, and his fingers ached to reach out and stroke her cheek.

“You didn’t let me finish,” she said. “I owe you my life, and I don’t want you think I’m ungrateful, but I’m leaving. I’m going to the Continent. My reputation is still in shreds here. There’s nothing I can do about it. I must leave. But I’ll always be thankful to you-” She turned back to face him, pushing up her chin.

James scrubbed his hand through his hair. He cursed violently under his breath. “I can make this right, Kate. I can fix your reputation-”

She whipped her head around to face him, her curls falling enchantingly over one shoulder. “No, you can’t, James. You know that. Even you can’t fix this.”

He clenched his jaw and met her eyes. “How do you intend to live on the Continent?”

“I’ll have my dower money. I can make a life…”

“The money from the pamphlet is still yours, Kate. You should take it.”

Her jaw tightened and an angry look came into her eyes. She turned on her heel, ran over to the double doors, and pushed them open. A blast of cold air shot through the room, and she ran out, into the black, freezing night. Into the snowflakes.

James followed her, stalking out into the snow behind her. “What do you think you are doing?”

She turned on him, her eyes flashing blue fire. The snowflakes floated down her alabaster cheeks. She turned in a circle, around and around, and breathed in the cold air. Her breath came in short puffs. Then she took two very deep breaths and exhaled slowly. “I’m feeling James. Feeling. Feeling this air. Feeling the snow. I never knew if I’d feel this again.”

“What does that have to do with the money?”

She turned on him, eyes still flashing. “I don’t want your money, James. I never wanted it.”

James had to stop himself from reaching for her. Instead, he clenched his fists at his sides. “What do you want then? Say the word. I have friends. I have money. We can make the blasted ton accept you again.”

She advanced on him, pointing a finger at his chest, and he retreated, slowly, shuffling backward through the snow, the cold wetness seeping through the legs of his breeches.

“You’re always trying to fix everything,” she said. “Always trying to make things right. That’s why you hired a runner for me, and that’s why you’re doing this now. But my reputation is another thing altogether. Even with my name cleared I’ve been involved in a scandal I will never live down. Even if George hadn’t been murdered, I was already accused of adultery. My husband was going to divorce me. None of that has changed. God, James, don’t you know by now that not everything can be fixed?”

James closed his eyes. He was helpless. Helpless. The one thing he wanted to fix more than all the others was standing here in the snow looking more beautiful than he’d even seen her, and telling him he was a failure.

“I can fix this,” he growled through clenched teeth. “I’ll publish whatever you want me to, use the printing press to save your reputation. You’re a duchess—”

She whirled on him, her scarlet gown flaring around her ankles looking blood red against the pure white snow. The flakes that still clung to her impossibly long lashes were illuminated like sparking diamonds by the candlelight that filtered from the windows of the house. “No!” she cried. “Don’t you understand? I don’t want to be a duchess. I never wanted that.”

James clenched his fists. “What is it you want, Kate. Tell me. I’ll make it happen. I swear it.”

She bowed her head. “No. I can’t.”

He took two steps forward and grabbed her shoulders. “Tell me,” he demanded. They were close enough for the little puffs of her warm breath to evaporate against his chest.

She looked up at him, trembling. Her eyes locked with his. “I want to spend the night with you.”

*Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Anne Barton's Scene*

Available Now:

HOW TO STOP A WEDDING
Young, widowed, and penniless, Lily Andrews, the Countess of Merrill, has strong opinions on marriage. When she spots a certain engagement announcement in The Times, she decides to take action. She will not allow another hapless girl to fall prey to a man—particularly the scoundrel who broke her heart five years ago. Anonymously she writes and distributes a pamphlet entitled “Secrets of a Wedding Night,” knowing it will find its way into his intended’s innocent hands…

HOW TO SEDUCE A WIDOW
Devon Morgan, the Marquis of Colton, desires a good wife and mother to his son—someone completely unlike Lily Andrews, the heartless beauty who led him on a merry chase five years ago only to reject him. When Devon’s new fiancée cries off after reading a certain scandalous pamphlet, he vows to track down the author and make her pay. But when he learns it’s his former fiancée Lily, he issues a challenge: write a retraction—or prepare to be seduced—to find out how wonderful a wedding night can be…

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An Unexpected Guest...with Vanessa Kelly (+Giveaway)

2012-12-19T08:00:00.000-05:00

An Unexpected Guest
on Christmas Eve with Vanessa Kelly

About the Author:

Vanessa Kelly was named by Booklist, the review journal of the American Library Association, as one of the “New Stars of Historical Romance.” Her Regency-set historical romances have been nominated for awards in a number of contests, and her second book, Sex and The Single Earl, won the prestigious Maggie Medallion for Best Historical Romance. Vanessa also writes contemporary romance with her husband under the name of V.K. Sykes. You can find her on the web at www.vanessakellyauthor.com or at www.vksykes.com.

Find Vanessa Online: Website | Blog | Twitter | Facebook

I always enjoy taking a peek into the future to see how my characters are faring. John and Bathsheba, the hero and heroine of my third book, My Favorite Countess, are on their way to a party on Christmas Eve. It will turn out to be special evening for both of them, one that fulfils a long-held dream for Bathsheba. And isn’t that one of the fantastic things about the holiday season? That sense of wonderful possibilities is so much a part of Christmas Eve! - Vanessa

An Unexpected Guest on Christmas Eve

by Vanessa Kelly

Yorkshire

Christmas Eve, 1818

Bathsheba Blackmore pressed a hand against the carriage window, peering out at the frigid Yorkshire dales. The view, flat and dreary at this time of year, was fading into ghostly oblivion under a gentle but steady snowfall. After glancing uneasily at her husband, she fussed with her velvet muff, rearranged her lap blanket, and silently scolded herself for being a nervous ninny.

John set aside the small book on blood disorders he’d been reading and cocked an enquiring eyebrow. “Is something wrong, my dear? You seem a trifle anxious.”

“Heavens, no,” she responded instantly. John rarely displayed even the slightest hint of nerves. A physician and scientist, he approached every problem with a steady calm and an incisive intellect. The only thing he ever truly worried about was her, and Bathsheba hated that. Before their marriage she’d caused him a whole host of problems, and on their wedding day she’d silently vowed to never do so again.

John studied her for a few moments, amusement lighting up his silvery-grey gaze. When his mouth quirked into a knowing smile, Bathsheba capitulated. “I can never hide anything from you, can I?” she grumbled in mock complaint.

“It’s a most annoying habit, isn’t it? Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m just being silly, but I’m not very fond of travelling in bad weather.”

John glanced out the window. “It’s not that bad and the road is perfectly safe. I would never expose you to any danger, my love, you may be sure,” he said with a reassuring smile.

Bathsheba’s stomach fluttered with girlish pleasure. They had been married for over a year and she still couldn’t believe her good fortune. Not so long ago, she’d been one of the most powerful and sought after women of the ton. She’d also been vain, selfish, short-tempered, and wildly unsure of herself, all flaws that her handsome and talented husband had overlooked. That struck her as a miracle on the level of Moses parting the Red Sea.

And if she was still occasionally sharp-tongued…well, John didn’t seem to mind that either, especially since any arguments they had were usually resolved to their mutual satisfaction in the bedroom.

“If we do end up in a ditch it will be your fault,” she replied. “But I’ll be willing to forgive you if you agree to discuss the plans for the new charity hospital with Lady Randolph. Honestly, that woman’s head is as hard as marble, and nothing I say about the architectural designs makes the slightest dent.”

It still felt odd to think of the former Miss Elliott as Lady Randolph. Bathsheba had once held that very same title, courtesy of her first husband, the fifth Earl of Randolph who had died some years back. The title had passed to his cousin Matthew, a kind if rather absent-minded man. Matthew had married Miss Elliott, a strong-minded bluestocking, within weeks of Bathsheba’s marriage to John. To say that the former and the current countesses had differing approaches to life was a massive understatement.

“I’m happy to do so,” John replied, “if you will tell me—”

He broke off when the carriage bumped through a rut in the road then slewed sideways before leveling out. Dodger, the spaniel at their feet, woke with a bark and scrambled up to a sitting position. Grabbing the carriage strap, Bathsheba directed a glare at her husband, who responded with an insouciant shrug.

“Not in the ditch yet.”

“The operative word is yet,” she said dryly, then bent to comfort her dog. “Hush, Dodger. It’s just a little rut in the road. If we do end up with a broken carriage wheel, I promise your master will carry you the rest of the way to Compton Manor.”

John snorted. “Not likely. And why in God’s name did you bring Dodger along, anyway? I can’t imagine Lady Randolph will greet his appearance at her party with joy.”

“I know. Animals belong in the stables and barn, not in the house,” Bathsheba responded, mimicking Lady Randolph’s disapproving tones. “But Dodger simply jumped into the carriage and nothing I said could make him budge.” Not that she’d actually tried.

“I suppose this is your way of punishing Lady Randolph for refusing to take your advice,” John said. “Not that I blame you. But you should expect some minor fireworks on our arrival.”

Bathsheba gave him a bland smile, not bothering to deny his observation. She did enjoy annoying Lady Randolph but that wasn’t the real reason she’d let Dodger come along. The dog was her constant companion, faithful, cuddly, and sweet, keeping her company when John was out visiting patients or working in his study. Not that Bathsheba was ever really lonely, not with her younger sister Rachel to care for and a husband who meant the world to her. But sometimes she wished for something more. Something she could never have, and which she had thought herself reconciled to a long time ago.

She wanted a baby, and the older she got the more she longed for one. She’d known for years she was barren, and given the horrors of her first marriage that had been a blessing. But when she met John everything had changed, including her growing desire to be a mother. It was selfish and stupid of her to pine for it, and she would rather die than show John even a moment’s discontent with their life. But that niggle of emptiness tapped away at her, no matter how hard she tried to ignore it.

Expelling a sigh, she nudged Dodger with her foot. “I suppose you’ll just have to be my ridiculous little substitute,” she muttered, more to herself than to the dog.

John gave her a quizzical smile and then looked out the window. “We’re arrived. You’ll also be glad to hear that the snow has stopped. We won’t have to stay overnight at Compton Manor after all.”

“Thank God for small mercies. I don’t think Rachel would be very happy if we didn’t make it home for Christmas Day.” Her sister, always frail of health, was at home with a slight cough under the eagle-eyed care of Bathsheba’s maid, Miss Boland. Bathsheba had to admit she almost envied Rachel, tucked up in her cozy bed, as John handed her down from the carriage into the wind-whipped evening.

As the butler ushered them in and took their wraps, Bathsheba cast an approving glance around the entrance hall of Compton Manor. The lovely old building hailed from Jacobean times. The panelling of the timbered hall glowed with the rich sheen of beeswax and lemon oil, and swags of fragrant greenery decorated the staircase and mantelpiece. A large mistletoe bough hung from the central chandelier, and gigantic crystal vases filled with white roses and berry-laden branches of holly were scattered about on tabletops. She had to admit that Lady Randolph had done a spectacular job bringing Christmas cheer to the old estate.

“Dr. Blackmore, Bathsheba, here you are,” exclaimed a cheerful voice. “We were afraid the snow would keep you away.”

Bathsheba turned to meet Matthew, Lord Randolph, accompanied by his wife.

“How delightful to see you,” Bathsheba said, giving him a hug. “We wouldn’t miss your Christmas party for the world.”

Matthew kissed her cheek. “I know you’re lying through your teeth, but I’m ever so grateful you’ve come. My dear wife would have been dreadfully disappointed if you hadn’t.”

Since Lady Randolph was currently giving Dodger the eye of doom as he frisked about her skirts, Bathsheba had her doubts. When she turned that doom-laden stare her way, Bathsheba couldn’t hold back a grin.

“Happy Christmas, Lady Randolph,” she said. “I can’t tell you how glad we are to be here. Especially Dodger. He simply insisted on coming.”

“Indeed,” Lady Randolph replied in a sardonic tone. Then she surprised Bathsheba by breaking into a slight smile. “Well, since it is the eve of our Lord’s birth we must be charitable. After all, the Christ child was born in a stable, surrounded by animals, so I suppose we can tolerate Dodger’s company for one evening. But please do not make such visitations a habit, Mrs. Blackmore.”

Bathsheba was spared a reply by the commotion of more guests arriving outside the front entrance.

“That will be the Reverend and Mrs. Spencer,” said Lady Randolph. “Dr. Blackmore, if you would be so kind as to remain in the hall. Mrs. Spencer is bringing you a new patient, one I am most eager for you to examine.”

John’s eyebrows went up. “To a Christmas party? Why didn’t Mrs. Spencer simply send for me earlier in the day? I would have been happy to stop by the vicarage.”

“Because this patient will be staying here at the manor for a few days. She’s an infant, recently come into our care, and I’m reluctant to place her into the orphanage until you can assure me that she won’t pass any contagion on to the other children. Mrs. Spencer and I thought it best she remain here.”

“An orphaned infant?” Bathsheba cast a concerned glance at her husband. “I don’t recall hearing about this. Do you, John?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t heard of the death of any young parents. Who does the child belong to, Lady Randolph?”

The countess grimaced. “Her parents are not, in fact, deceased. This child’s misfortune is of another sort.”

The bustling entrance of the vicar and his wife interrupted any further explanations.

“Oh, Dr. Blackmore,” exclaimed Mrs. Spencer, clutching a heavily swaddled bundle to her chest, “I’m so thankful you’re here. This poor child seems to have caught quite the little cold, and she’s been miserable for the last two days.”

“Let me take her so you can rid yourself of your pelisse and bonnet,” John said.

He expertly tucked the baby into the crook of his arm while he eased back the swaddling blanket. When a thin, distressed wail rose up from the bundle, Bathsheba’s heart clutched. Sidling over to her husband, she went up on her toes to peer at the little package cradled in his arms.

A round-faced, unhappy baby gazed up at her. The infant had flushed checks and a plump button nose that was as red as her cheeks. Her blue eyes were droopy and tear-filled, and silky blond hair curled in a damp mess on her head and stuck to her cheeks. But when those cornflower blue eyes latched onto Bathsheba, her baby mouth trembled into a small, sweet smile.

“Oh, John,” Bathsheba breathed. “She’s beautiful. Do you think she’s very ill? She’s so flushed.”

Her husband’s hand smoothed over the baby’s skull and then rested against her cheek. “I suspect she’s simply over-heated from her wrappings. I don’t think she has much of a fever, but I’d like to examine her right away.”

Mrs. Spencer, a shy and fluttery sort of woman, clasped her hands anxiously to her breast. “Oh, Dr. Blackmore, I do hope I didn’t over-swaddle the little dear. It’s such a chilly night out that I didn’t want her to catch something even worse.”

“You did perfectly right, Mrs. Spencer, I’m sure,” John said with a reassuring smile.

Carefully, Bathsheba brushed the baby’s damp hair from her flushed cheeks. A chubby hand shot out from under the blanket and grabbed her index finger. The breath caught in Bathsheba’s throat as the baby wrapped her little hand tight. When the mite let out a tiny sneeze a moment later, she still didn’t let go. In fact, she pulled Bathsheba’s finger into her toothless mouth and began gnawing on it.

Bathsheba let out a choked laugh. If anyone had told her a year ago that a damp, messy baby could instantly reduce her to an emotional wreck, she would have sliced them in two with a few choice words.

“What’s this little darling’s name?” she asked.

Lady Randolph shot her a startled look, pausing for several moments before answering. “It’s Mary. Mary Cooper. Dr. Blackmore, I’ve prepared a nursery upstairs. I’d like to get her examined and settled, if you don’t mind. I’m sure she needs her sleep, and I have no intention of making you spend Christmas Eve looking after a fractious infant.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” John said cheerfully. He glanced at Bathsheba. “Would you like to carry her up, my dear? I would be happy for your assistance.”

“I’d better not,” she answered regretfully. “This blasted gown has a ridiculously large ruffle on the hem. I don’t want to trip on it going up the stairs. You’d best carry her, and mind you watch Dodger.”

“Very well, but I’d still like for you to help me.”

Bathsheba nodded and carefully pried her finger from the baby’s grip. Mary obviously didn’t like that, letting out another aggrieved wail. The sound of it cut straight to Bathsheba’s heart, and she had to hold her hands tight against her sides to resist a fierce impulse to snatch the baby into her arms.

Taking a deep breath, she followed her husband and Lady Randolph up the stairs, with Dodger trotting happily beside her. Clearly, the dog had no intention of missing out on any of the fun.

“You mentioned that the baby’s parents aren’t dead. If that’s the case, why has she come into your care?” Bathsheba asked.

One of Lady Randolph’s favorite charities was the local orphanage in Ripon. Under her exacting eye, the children were all well-cared for, but Bathsheba hated to think of handing this vulnerable child over to strangers.

Lady Randolph glanced back. “Her mother was a prostitute who came to my Institution for Unwed Mothers. We were trying to train her into a respectable profession, but she was resistant. She snuck out three nights ago after telling one of the other girls that she had booked passage on the stagecoach to London. Apparently, she fell into her old ways to obtain money for the trip. Rebecca Cooper is a flighty, loose-footed girl, I’m sorry to say.”

Taking in the stern set of Lady Randolph’s mouth, Bathsheba could almost feel sympathy for Rebecca. Almost. What she could not sympathize with—or even understand—was how the woman could abandon her baby to strangers. “How old is she?” she asked.

“Mary is four months. Thankfully, at least her mother didn’t abandon her at birth. That happens all too frequently, especially in hard times such as these.”

“And the father? What happened to him?” John asked as they turned into a corridor leading to the guest rooms.

“No one knows who the father is, including Rebecca.” Lady Randolph’s frosty tone indicated the subject was closed.

The countess led them to the end of the hall and opened the door into a small but comfortably furnished bedroom overlooking the inner courtyard. A cradle was set up by the fireplace and clean linen, a pile of infant’s clothing, and various medicinal supplies were stacked on a table nearby.

“One of the kitchen maids is very experienced with infants,” the countess said. “I’ll send her up to help you, Dr. Blackmore, and then she’ll stay with Mary for the rest of the evening.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Bathsheba blurted out. “I’ll be happy to stay with her, at least for a while.”

Lady Randolph’s thin eyebrows arched in amazement, and even John looked surprised. Perhaps they didn’t think she was capable of taking care of a sick infant, but she was. Bathsheba had practically raised her sister after their mother’s death, nursing her through more than one serious illness. And she was a doctor’s wife now, more than familiar with illness and all manner of medical problems. She could certainly take care of one little baby with a head cold.

“Mrs. Blackmore, are you telling me you’d rather nurse a sickly infant than join the festivities downstairs?” Lady Randolph’s tone of voice was frankly skeptical.

“I’m perfectly happy to do it,” Bathsheba replied, trying not to feel defensive. “I help John all the time.”

“And very capably, too,” John said as he put the baby down on the bed and began unwrapping her blankets and linen.

As Lady Randolph continued to assess her with a sharp gaze, Bathsheba resisted the impulse to glare back at her. Perhaps it was silly to spend time with Mary, or start to grow attached to her. No good could come of that since the child was destined for the orphanage and possibly adoption. If Bathsheba knew Lady Randolph, she already had prospective parents in mind.

They stared at each other, silently debating. Finally, Lady Randolph capitulated with a brisk nod. “Very well, Mrs. Blackmore, I’ll leave Mary in your capable hands. I’ll be up later to see how you go on.” She scowled at Dodger, who sat their feet with a foolish doggy grin on his face.

Bathsheba let out a ghost of a laugh after the countess left the room. “Did she really just say that, or am I losing my mind?”

John grinned at her. “I was a witness. She actually said you were capable.”

“Will wonders never cease.” She joined her husband by the bed, watching carefully as he conducted his examination. Despite her runny little nose—which Bathsheba for some demented reason found both heart-wrenching and adorable—Mary gurgled happily as he checked her over. Unwrapped from her linen shift she was cheerfully naked, waving her plump white arms and kicking out both legs. When John gently palpated her round belly, she actually chortled with glee.

Despite her efforts not to appear a complete idiot, Bathsheba couldn’t help melting. “Oh, John, she’s perfect isn’t she?”

He flashed her quick smile. “She is, I’m happy to say, and aside from a mild cold perfectly healthy, as far as I can see. She’ll need a few days to recover and then there’s no reason she can’t be placed in the orphanage.”

Bathsheba thumped back down to earth. “John, I hate that idea,” she said before she could stop herself.

Her husband’s large but gentle hands, wrapping Mary back up, stilled for a moment. Then he expertly finished the swaddling. “I’m sure Lady Randolph already has someone in mind to adopt her. I wouldn’t worry about it, my dear. Mary will be well taken care of.”

But would she be happy? Would those strangers love Mary the way she deserved to be loved?

Bathsheba didn’t dare voice those thoughts because, really, they were not her concern. Lady Randolph clearly had everything under control.

John picked Mary up and without warning plopped her into Bathsheba’s arms. Her heart lurched, and she clutched the small bundle close to her chest, almost afraid to move.

“I’m going down to the kitchen to see about a poultice,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Her chest is clear, but it’ll help her stuffy nose. Why don’t you rock her a bit? Perhaps she’ll fall asleep if you do.” Then he turned on his heel and left the room, leaving Bathsheba to stare after him.

She looked down at Mary. The infant’s blue eyes gazed up at her, solemn and full of innocence and trust. For a minute or two they contemplated each other, and then the baby’s rosebud mouth split into a heart-stopping, toothless smile.

“Oh, you little darling,” Bathsheba whispered. Her vision blurred and she had to blink away tears. She wandered over to a rocking chair set on the other side of the fireplace, never taking her gaze off the baby’s face. Dodger padded over. He snuffled through Mary’s curls, gave her skull a little lick, and then settled down to sleep by the rocking chair.

As Bathsheba slowly rocked she lost track of time, all her attention focused on the warm bundle in her arms. Mary sniffled and squirmed a bit but gradually her eyelids began to droop. And when her mouth opened in a huge yawn, Bathsheba couldn’t hold back a soft laugh. But part of her felt like crying as emotion twisted through her body to finally settle in her heart. It felt both intensely peaceful and yet momentous and earth-shattering all at once.

The long case clock in the hall bonged out the turn of the hour. When the sound of the chimes faded, Bathsheba heard faint snatches of song rising up from the front of the house. Carefully, so as not to jolt the dozing baby, she rose from her chair and made her way to the door. When she opened it, the sound of carols drifted along the corridor. She listened, picking out Matthew’s melodious tenor and the clear soprano of the vicar’s wife.

As the words and music of Silent Night wrapped gently around her and the baby, Bathsheba smiled, torn between exasperation and tears. Everything this night conspired against her, pushing her in an impossible direction. She returned her gaze to the child sleeping in her arms and knew without a shred of doubt what she wanted. What she had to do.

When a firm tread sounded on the floorboards, she raised her eyes to see her husband return. He came to stand before her, bending slightly to press a tender kiss on her mouth. Then he rested a hand, one that had healed so many including her, on the baby’s head.

“Have you decided?” he asked.

Her mind went blank. “Ah…decided what?”

“To adopt Mary. I expect that’s what you’ve been thinking about, isn’t it?"

Bathsheba gaped at him. “How did you know?”

He gave her a wry grin. “I always do, remember?”

At any other time she would have teased him, but the emotional tumult in her breast prevented her. “Do you mean it? You would be willing to let me—us—take on this responsibility?”

“I hardly imagine I could stop you, my love. Besides, I think Rachel would like to be an aunt, don’t you?"

Bathsheba looked down at the sleeping baby in her arms then up at her husband, trying to see the future. Adopting Mary would be a huge responsibility, one that would change their lives forever. Did John truly want this for her? For them? And now that the moment was upon her, was she ready for it?

She hedged for a moment as she tried to think with her head instead of her heart. “What about Lady Randolph? I don’t think she believes I’d make a very good mother.”

“On the contrary. She just spent the last fifteen minutes trying to convince me that we’re the perfect couple for little Mary. The countess certainly won’t be putting any obstacles in our way.”

Bathsheba chewed over that surprise for a few moments, and then worked up the courage to ask the only question that really counted. “And what about you, John? Bringing a baby into the house will change everything. We’re not sure how Rachel will react, and you’re already so busy. I don’t want you to—”

John placed a gentle finger across her lips. “Hush, love. It’s drafty out here in the hall. Come back into the bedroom.”

He led her to the rocking chair then went down on his knees before her. Dodger grumbled at the intrusion and then went back to sleep.

John wrapped his long fingers around Bathsheba’s hand as it rested on Mary’s chest. “You don’t have to convince me that taking in this child would be anything but a blessing, Bathsheba. I know how much you’ve wanted a baby, and it’s been a great sorrow to me that I couldn’t give you one.”

“But the fault was mine,” she protested.

“It was no one’s fault, but that didn’t make the pain any less real, for both of us.” He brushed Mary’s soft curls from her forehead then tenderly cupped Bathsheba’s cheek. “This child deserves a family—a mother—who loves her. She will be cared for in the orphanage, and perhaps adopted. But that future is uncertain at best. Why not open our hearts and our home to her? Surely we have enough love between us to do that.”

Bathsheba stared into her husband’s silvery gaze, falling in love with him all over again. Fortunately, before she could dissolve into a mawkish puddle, the baby awoke with a startle and immediately began fussing.

“She’s hungry, I expect,” John said, once more the practical physician. “I’d best go down and find out what arrangements Lady Randolph has made to feed her, and see how Cook is progressing with my poultice.”

He rose to his feet and headed for the door, as calm as ever, as if he hadn’t just turned her world upside down.

“John,” she called softly.

He turned and lifted an enquiring brow.

“Thank you,” she managed in a tight voice. “Thank you for everything.”

He shrugged. “I love you,” he said, as if that explained it all. And she supposed it did.

When he opened the door, the sound of a lively chorus of Joy To The World rang up from the front hall, filling the room with music. Bathsheba gazed at the infant snugly cradled in her arms. All the joy in the world couldn’t begin to encompass what she felt in that moment. Leaning down, she pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead.

“Happy Christmas, sweet Mary,” she whispered. “Welcome home."

~*~*~*~

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BLAME IT ON THE MISTLETOE…

When Major Lucas Stanton inherited his earldom, he never dreamed his property would include the previous earl’s granddaughter. Phoebe Linville is a sparkling American beauty, yes, but with a talent for getting into trouble. Witness the compromising position that forced them into wedlock. Whisked away to Mistletoe Manor, his country estate, it isn’t long before she is challenging his rules—and surprising him in and out of bed…

Phoebe has no intention of bowing to Lucas’s stubbornness even though he offers all that she wants. His kisses and unexpected warmth are enticing, but Phoebe is determined to show the Earl of Merritt what real love is all about. And if that takes twelve nights of delicious seduction by a roaring fire, she’s more than willing to reveal her gifts very slowly…

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An Accidental Fire...with Carolyn Jewel (+Giveaway)

2012-12-18T10:00:00.000-05:00

An Accidental Fire
on Christmas Eve with Carolyn Jewel

About the Author:

Carolyn Jewel was born on a moonless night. That darkness was seared into her soul and she became an award winning author of historical and paranormal romance. She has a very dusty car and a Master’s degree in English that proves useful at the oddest times. An avid fan of fine chocolate, finer heroines, Bollywood films, and heroism in all forms, she has three cats and a dog. Also a son. One of the cats is his.

Find Caroyln Online: Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter

Off The Cliff

by Caroyln Jewel

Cumbria, England, 1811

Georgina Ellis pulled her cloak tighter around her and told herself she would on no account look to her left. She did not want to see his home. She was not here to remember how badly she’d made a fool of herself. She was here to be her father’s eyes and heart.

The cold cut through her, though she wore her warmest cloak and her thickest gloves. When she was a child young enough to be held, her father would bring her here, just the two of them. He’d walk to the very edge with her in his arms, and they would gaze at beauty. He gave her a kiss on the cheek for pointing out the things she knew. To the right, their home. A kiss. Colbourn Close, Lord St. Aubyn’s house, there, to the left, where she would not look. A kiss. An eagle, Papa. A kiss. The river. A kiss. Mama’s grave. A kiss.

She walked to the edge of the escarpment, savoring the familiar tingle that raced up the back of her legs. Her chest tingled, too, and her breath caught. As always, the sensation thrilled her. She did not look to her left. He did not deserve even a moment of her attention.

Why then, a tiny voice asked, does your heart pain you so? If she were over the heartbreak, she’d be able to look at his house. Wouldn’t she?

“For God’s sake, step away from there.”

Heart in her mouth, she whirled to see a tall man standing some ten feet from her. He extended a hand to her. She tipped her head to one side. “Oh, it’s you.”

St. Aubyn put one booted foot atop a protruding rock. The upturned collar of his coat was horribly dashing. She hated him for it. “It’s you.”

“How clever of you.” He was as handsome as ever, with his brown eyes and too strong nose. Alas, she was as foolish at twenty-five as she had ever been. She still loved him. She turned her back to him and wished him gone.

“Miss Ellis. Please. Move away from the edge. You’ll fall.”

“I shan’t.” She looked to her left and feigned shock and horror. “My God, Colbourn Close is on fire.”

“Tisn’t.”

“I’m sure I see flames. You’ve quite the Christmas fire going down there.” Smoke curled lazily from several of the chimneys. She watched the speck of a servant walking a horse from the stable block to the paddock. “Fly, sir, like the wind, or you will lose everything.”

“Have pity on me, won’t you?”

She turned around. Her knees were jelly. She’d been in society enough to know he wasn’t the most handsome man in the world, but even in London, he’d make a good showing. “I shan’t do that either.”

He stared at the ground, his hat in one hand. “Miss Ellis.”

“Lord St. Aubyn.” She curtseyed.

“Come away from the ledge.”

“No.” She gave him her back once more and took in the vista her father so loved.

“Please?”

With a sigh, she walked away from the edge of the cliff. She’d risked her heart for him and had been given a disappointing answer. It was not his fault he did not love her in return. He watched her march past him. She had her pride. Later she might regret feeling so very satisfied that he’d expected her to stop and she hadn’t.

He caught her arm, his fingers sliding down her arm until he had her wrist. She tugged, but he did not budge. In London, she had mastered the art of the killing glance. Ruthless now, she used it on him. “Release me, St. Aubyn.”

He didn’t.

“It’s Christmas day, and your house is on fire. Surely, you have better things to do than mock me again. Will you really risk everything for such poor sport?”

“My house is not on fire.”

“I assure you it is.” She yanked on her arm and his fingers loosened. She nodded toward the escarpment. “See for yourself.”

He scowled at her.

“You know I never lie.”

“While he strode to the edge, she hurried down the path.

“There’s no fire,” he bellowed. The wind carried his words away, but she heard them and walked faster. He caught up with her halfway to the bottom. She increased her pace. So did he. He spoke directly over her head. “I owe you an apology.”

With every step she knew the best way to maintain her dignity would be to listen to him with an empty smile while he pretended to be sorry. At the end she could say, I accept your apology and go on with her life. Except she couldn’t. Words stuck in her throat along with tears and resentment and hurt and the painful knowledge that she had loved him for as long as she could remember, and he had let her go on wearing her heart on her sleeve while he flirted with every woman in the world except her.

“I am in love with you, Miss Ellis.” His words rang out. Sharp. Determined.

She stumbled but caught herself and kept walking. The road was in sight now and she could see he’d tied his horse to the back of her carriage.

“I was an oaf and a fool. Selfish and proud.” His legs were a deal longer than hers and now that they were nearly to stile between the field and the road, he had the advantage. He matched her stride for stride. “Vain. Stubborn. Blind. Cruel to you, who deserved so much better.”

She whirled on him and jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare pity me. I am not a pitiful woman.”

“No. You are not.” He looked her up and down, then stuck out a hand to help her over the stile. “Foolish. I was a fool.”

“You said that already.” Her coachman sat up straight while her groom tucked a flask into his coat and jumped down from the top of the carriage. “However, you have a great many faults. I forgive you the repetition.”

“A bloody damn fool.”

“You will not curse in my presence, sir.” Her groom glanced the other way and reversed course to the other side of the carriage. Her coachmen coughed once and pulled his hat lower on his head. “Finney, do fetch Lord Aubyn his horse.”

St. Aubyn moved close. Too close. “I told myself it wasn’t possible that the woman my father wanted and expected me to marry would ever be woman I wanted to marry. You were perfect, he always said. Beautiful and polite and amusing. Even I could see everyone is happier around you.” He towered over her, staring at her, eyes flashing. “You’d settle me, he said. Make me a better man. Naturally, I told him to go to hell. And said much the same to you, I’m sorry to say.”

She sucked in a breath. “Finney?” From the other side of the carriage, her groom let out a groan. “Do please let’s go. We ought not detain Lord St. Aubyn while his life goes to ruin.”

He slapped his palm on the carriage door and sent poor Finney a glare that put her killing gaze to utter shame. “I am sorry for that.” He put the fingers of his other hand to her cheek and turned her head to his. “Miss Ellis. My dearest. My darling.”

She put her hand over his mouth. “I’ll thank you not to say what you don’t mean.”

He twisted his head, and she dropped her hand. “I shan’t. I won’t.”

“Liar.”

“Never. I’ve learned my lesson. I am in ruins if you leave again. While you were gone”—He shook his head—“when you left, my life diminished. I didn’t notice right away, it came on so slowly.”

“Nothing but ashes when you return home.” She couldn’t think anymore why she thought she liked tall men. St. Aubyn was taking up all the space.

“I’d think, there’s an amusing thing that’s happened. Miss Ellis will want to hear that, and I’d realize I couldn’t tell you.”

“A shame you were so deprived.” Coward that she was, she could not bring herself to look at him. “I do love a good story.”

He snorted. “You know you’re most often in the middle of them.”

“Nonsense.”

“I’d tell some other woman she was beautiful and think she was no match for you. You cannot imagine how that enraged me.”

She patted his cheek. “Poor man.”

“You took my heart with you when you left. Impossible, I said. It’s impossible I could love you so desperately.”

“Yes. As you once told me. At great length.” She held her breath. “Not now, Finney. I believe Lord St. Aubyn is groveling.” She whispered, “Aren’t you?”

“Yes.” He held her gaze, and she was back on that cliff. Soaring. “I am.”

“Go on, then.”

“I was in love with you and was too stubborn to admit it.”

“You haven’t run out of money, have you?”

“Not a bit.”

“You might have told me, you know. When you realized you loved me.”

“Did none of my letters reach you?”

“I didn’t read them. Why would I? I don’t correspond with gentlemen who break my heart.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” With each word, his head came closer, his mouth came closer to hers. Her legs went weak again. Here she stood on solid ground and she felt herself at the edge of a cliff. He said, “But I’m not sorry I love you.”

Finney coughed.

“Yes, St. Aubyn.” She put her hands on her cheeks. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”

“Do you know,” he said. “There’s just nothing I love more than a good Christmas fire.”

~*~*~*~

*Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Elizabeth Essex's Scene*

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The Marquess of Fenris has loved Lady Eugenia from the day he first set eyes on her. Five years ago, pride caused him to earn her enmity. Now she’s widowed, and he’s determined to make amends and win her heart. But with their near explosive attraction, can he resist his desire long enough to court her properly?After the death of her beloved husband, Lady Eugenia Bryant has come to London to build a new life. Despite the gift of a medallion said to have the power to unite the wearer with her perfect match, Eugenia believes she won’t love again. And yet, amid the social whirl of chaperoning a young friend through her first Season, she finds a second chance at happiness.Unfortunately, the Marquess of Fenris threatens her newfound peace. Eugenia dislikes the man, but the handsome and wealthy heir to a dukedom is more charming than he has a right to be. Constantly underfoot, the rogue disturbs her heart, alternately delighting and scandalizing her. And when their relationship takes a highly improper turn, Eugenia must decide if the wrong man isn’t the right one after all.

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Alone with a Rogue...with Sherry Thomas (+Giveaway)

2012-12-17T08:00:00.000-05:00

Alone with a Rogue
on Christmas Eve with Sherry Thomas

About the Author:

Sherry Thomas is one of the most acclaimed romance authors working today. Her books regularly receive starred reviews from trade publications and are frequently found on best-of-the-year lists. She is also a two-time winner of Romance Writers of America's prestigious RITA® Award.

English is Sherry's second language—she has come a long way from the days when she made her laborious way through Rosemary Roger's SWEET SAVAGE LOVE with an English-Chinese dictionary. She enjoys digging down to the emotional core of stories. And when she is not writing, she thinks about the zen and zaniness of her profession, plays computer games with her sons, and reads as many fabulous books as she can find.

Sherry’s next book, The Burning Sky, volume one of her young adult fantasy trilogy, will be available fall 2013.

Find Sherry Online: Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter

I am ashamed to say I’m not even sure what a rogue is, in terms of a romance hero. So I just did a playboy everybody likes. J But of course, me being me, the playboy carries a secret pain.- Sherry

Alone with a Rogue on Christmas Eve

by Sherry Thomas

The cigarette burned slowly, with infinite patience.

Georgina watched as the shredded tobacco turned to a delicate gray ash. She tapped a finger against the cigarette. The ash, knocked loose, fell onto the fresh snow upon the balustrade. To either side of the balustrade, garlands of pine and holly had been hung, in recognition of the season, decked with snow and frosted with moonlight.

Georgina had never developed into a proper smoker. Occasionally she took a puff, holding the smoke for a moment in her mouth—not her lungs. But most of the time she lit a cigarette out of habit and affection, just to watch it in burn down—and to smell the familiar pungency of Elliot’s special blend.

“Lady Georgina.”

She turned around with a smile. “Why hullo, Beresford. When did you get here?”

Beresford was a man women smiled at, sometimes because they had ulterior motives, sometimes because they couldn’t help it. Georgina fell into the latter category—she felt very affectionate toward him. And it certainly didn’t hurt that he was wonderfully easy on the eyes, a spare, elegant build and a face one’d find on the Parthenon.

“I arrived half an hour ago. You know I never miss your mother’s birthday.”

Her mother was born on Christmas eve. And her birthday was always an occasion for gathering family and friends from far and wide. “No, indeed, we can always count on her favorite scoundrel to delight her.”

Beresford approached the balustrade, his gait leisurely, fluid. “My goodness, a man gambles a little, drinks a little, and carouses a little, and suddenly he is a scoundrel. Do we no longer require dishonesty or actual criminality before we label a man so?”

His tone was light and teasing. So she teased right back. “Not when we like said scoundrel.”

“Do we?”

Was it her imagination or had his voice turned huskier? “We do,” she answered brightly. “Why, at tea, my friends were all wondering why you wouldn’t sleep with them.”

Her language was blunt. But then she’d known Beresford for almost a decade. Moreover, he had been her husband’s best friend. Surely, one was allowed to be more direct before a chum of such long standing?

Beresford extracted a cigarette case from his pocket. “I’ve slept with one of your friends.”

“Mrs. Liddell is an acquaintance, not an intimate.”

He cast her a somewhat incredulous and slightly scandalized glance. “You want me to sleep with your intimates?”

She laughed. “I never said that, only that they are curious why you haven’t.”

“Well, let’s see.” He tapped a cigarette on the ivory-inlay case. “Mrs. Claughton is too much of a romantic—she’ll want me to write sonnets for her. Lady Piercy isn’t interested in a lover—she just wants to make her husband rush back to her side. And Mrs. Fulford, she would be a rollicking good time, I’ve no doubt, but I’m not sure I want Society to know all the particulars of my lovemaking and she rather lives to broadcast those details.”

He lit his cigarette, took a long drag, and expelled a stream of smoke into the night air, the biting scent heart-tuggingly familiar. For some reason it always came as a surprise for Georgina to remember that Elliott’s special blend had actually been—and was still—Lord Beresford’s.

“And as for you,” said Beresford, pausing to take another puff on his cigarette.

She blinked. She was never part of that conversation. She’d only giggled at her friends’ not terribly serious schemes to get into his trousers.

“As for you,” he repeated himself, turning to look at her fully in the eye. “I don’t sleep with you because your husband was my best friend and his widow is off limits to me.”

Her heart thudded. What did he mean? That had her late husband been anyone else, he would now be actively in pursuit of her favors?

She didn’t reply—she was not one to randomly reach for words when she didn’t know what to say. Her silence seemed very prominent on the terrace, louder than the stiff breeze. Louder than the sound of merriment spilling from the house.

He took a few more drags on his cigarette, stubbed it out, and inclined his head—this time, without quite meeting her eyes. “I will leave you to enjoy your solitude some more, my lady.”

And then he was gone. A few minutes later, across a bank of French doors , he reappeared inside the house, , one festive silhouette among many.

~*~*~*~

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Helena Fitzhugh understands perfectly well that she would be ruined should her secret love affair be discovered. So when a rendezvous goes wrong and she is about to be caught in the act, it is with the greatest reluctance that she accepts help from David Hillsborough, Viscount Hastings, and elopes with him to save her reputation.

Helena has despised David since they were children—the notorious rake has tormented her all her life. David, on the other hand, has always loved Helena, but his pride will never let him admit the secrets of his heart.

A carriage accident the day after their elopement, however, robs Helena of her memory—the slate is wiped clean. At last David dares to reveal his love, and she finds him both fascinating and desirable. But what will happen when her memory returns and she realizes she has fallen for a man she has sworn never to trust?

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Sherry is giving away a copy of her book, Tempting the Bride, to one lucky commenter (Open Internationally)! Make sure to leave a meaningful comment below AND fill out the rafflecopter!

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Crashing a Ball...with Heather Snow (+Giveaway)

2012-12-16T12:05:00.001-05:00

Crashing a Ball
on Christmas Eve with Heather Snow

About the Author:

Heather Snow is a historical romance author with a degree in Chemistry who discovered she much preferred creating chemistry on the page, rather than in the lab. She lives in the Midwest with her husband, two rambunctious boys and one very put upon cat who is currently taking out all of her feline frustrations on the Snow family Christmas tree...

Find Heather Online: Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter

Happy Holidays and warm greetings to you all! Thank you so much for having me here today. I'm thrilled to have been invited to share a story with you in this fun Christmas tradition Rita and Dani have begun.

When I received my assigned theme of "Crashing a Ball on Christmas Eve", my first thought was, "Great. What am I going to write about? Neither one of my science-savvy heroines would be caught dead near a ballroom." Okay, Liliana (my lady chemist from Sweet Enemy) did crash a house party once, but only to solve the mystery of her father's murder.

As I was considering how I might force one of them to crash a ball, the image of a soldier coming home for Christmas kept stealing into my thoughts instead. The idea didn't spring from nowhere. You see, I just finished the third book in the series, Sweet Madness, which is due out in April. In it, my heroine dabbles in psychology, and her passion is treating soldiers coming home from the Napoleonic wars who suffer from battle fatigue, so I certainly had soldiers on my mind.

Many of us do, especially at Christmas time, knowing that while we are enjoying special moments and memories with our families, some of our countrymen and women are far from home. So if you or your loved ones are serving, thank you for all that you sacrifice. Merry Christmas, and I pray your families are reunited soon... -Heather Snow

Lieutenant Pemberton's Proposal

by Heather Snow

Birminghamshire, December 24, 1815. Eleven of the clock in the evening...

"I must admit, milord, I thought you'd lost your mind when you said you meant to be in the West Midlands in time for Christmas. I never reckoned we'd make it."

Oliver Pemberton glanced over at his batman, Giles, who was adeptly pinning Oliver’s jacket in an attempt to hide how gaunt he’d become since last time he’d been home. There had been, of course, no time to have new evening clothes made up. They’d arrived at Pemberton Place but a scant hour ago, and they never should have made that.

One corner of Oliver’s mouth kicked up. “Well, as Major Devereaux said time and again, ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way, lads.’” Called out most usually just before they charged into a skirmish where the odds of survival seemed slim.

Giles grunted and stuck in another pin.

Oliver’s mouth settled into a dogged smile. Those words had become his motto of late. Only sheer force of will and a bit of luck had carried them the more than four hundred miles from the hospital in Brussels—where he’s spent just shy of half a year recuperating—across the channel, then overland to his ancestral home near Birmingham in less than a fortnight.

Determination and good fortune were also how he’d survived his wounds at Waterloo, how he’d beaten the raging fever that had nearly finished what a French lance through his back and chest had started, how he’d learned to walk again once his wounds had healed as much as they were ever going to, and, he prayed, would be how he convinced Miss Julia Harrington to become his wife even though she’d never given him reason to hope.

Giles stood, stepping back to assess his handiwork with a critical eye. “Are you certain you don’t wish to rest up a few days, milord? Have proper fitting clothes made up? Perhaps approach the lady privately?”

Oliver quirked a brow. “Do I look such a fright, old friend?”

Giles snorted, but eyed him with a concerned look. “Of course not. It is just that it has been an exhausting journey, and from what you’ve told me, your neighbor’s annual Christmas Eve ball is always a crush…”

Oliver pressed his lips together hard. What his loyal batman left unsaid was that ever since he’d woken from his fever, body broken and unable to move his legs, loud noise and crowded spaces bothered him terribly. Sent his heart racing and sometimes even threw him into a fit of vertigo that left him shaken and gasping for breath. Some strange after effect of either the years of battle or the horrors of recovery from his injuries, he’d been told. Whatever caused it, it left Oliver feeling less than a man during those moments of unreasonable fear.

Yet he would brave even that to ask for Julia’s hand, even though she certainly deserved better than him. He’d scarcely believed it when he’d learned she was still unattached. He had been certain he’d used up his share of good fortune already— he’d not waste another moment tempting fate.

Besides, Julia’s favorite time of year was Christmas. He was counting on her good cheer, and perhaps a bit of yuletide magic to tip the scales in his favor.

“No, Giles. It must be tonight.”

****

“Are you hiding?”

Julia started with a gasp at her friend Penelope’s incredulous whisper. She glanced over her shoulder—through large, flat fronds of greenery—to find the blonde girl who’d debuted with her two years ago, staring at her with an expression that was equal parts confusion and amusement.

“I mean, obviously you are. But behind a potted plant, Jules? I thought you more creative than that.”

“It was convenient,” Julia whispered back. “And besides, it’s probably the only spot in this entire blasted ballroom that isn’t under a sprig of mistletoe.” She pursed her lips, glancing around at the festively decorated room. Could her mother have been more obvious? Forget boughs of holly. Instead, the cursed kissing shrub dangled everywhere. It had even been strung together with ribbons and streamed from a small wire circle in the middle of the room to all points north, east, south, and west, spanning the entire space.

“Getting impatient, is she?” Penelope said with a smile that clearly said better you than me.

Julia sighed. “Yes. She can’t understand why I haven’t accepted any of the offers I’ve received already.” And she’d been certain to invite all three of the prospective gentlemen to their annual Christmas Eve ball, of course. Hence the hiding. “Truthfully, Pen, neither can I. Any one of them would make a good match. It’s just that…”

No one had ever made her heart flutter and her breath catch the way Oliver Pemberton had. Always had.

Not that he’d ever paid her any mind. His regular visits to Harrington Hall had been to see her older brother, of course. But over the years, she’d shared many conversations, and even mild flirtations, with her handsome neighbor—at least until Oliver had taken up his commission. Where her brother was now Viscount Lightly, Oliver had been born sixth son of an impoverished, if prolific, marquess and had had to make his own way in the world. And while he’d once been a regular attendee at their annual Christmas Eve ball, it had been more than two years since she’d even seen him.

And yet just the thought of him made her chest tingle with warmth. If Oliver were here, she wouldn’t be dodging clusters of mistletoe as if they were fat pigeons poised to drop an unpleasant Christmas surprise upon the shoulder of her forest green silk.

If Oliver were here…

Julia blinked her eyes. Once. Twice. Then shut them and rubbed at them with the heels of her hands.

“What is it?” Penelope asked, alarm in her voice.

“I thought I saw—” Julia sucked in a breath as her eyes fixed once again on the man who’d just entered the ballroom. “Oliver,” she whispered.

“Oliver?” her friend parroted, but Julia ignored her, pushing past Penelope as if in a daze.

Could it be? Word on injured soldiers from the battlefields had been slow to trickle back to England. Finally, after many inquiries, she’d learned he’d been grievously injured at Waterloo and wouldn’t be able to return to England for months. She’d been worried sick, had even sent him countless letters, but had gotten no response.

The newcomer—arriving unfashionably late for a Christmas Eve ball, given it was nearly no longer Christmas Eve at all at close to midnight—was still several yards off. A sea of people swam between him and her, but Julia’s heart fluttered in her chest as if the organ knew without a doubt that the man it had always pined for was near.

As her feet carried her across the room, her eyes roamed over him. He had the look of Oliver, but he was so very different as well.

His face was more angular than it had once been. He was leaner than he had been two years ago, as well—much leaner—though the change simply made his shoulders appear broader. His brown hair, while it had never been overly long, was now closely shorn. Austere, she’d describe him.

Yet he was still strikingly handsome. Maybe even more handsome than she remembered. Still half a room from him, she noticed people’s delighted smiles of recognition as they greeted him. It was him.

Her fluttering heart now hammered, then stilled completely as his unmistakable gray eyes found hers.

And then, unbelievably, he was pushing through the crowd towards her, just as she was him, his eyes fixed on her with an unerring determination that sent a thrill skittering up her spine. She had to be mistaken…and yet, she knew she was not. His destination was her.

“Julia—” he murmured as he reached her.

“Oliver—” she said, at the exact same, surreal, moment.

Those piercing eyes scanned her face as if comparing her visage to one stored away in his mind. She flushed beneath his intense regard, or perhaps beneath the curious stares of the onlookers around them, but otherwise did not move. She couldn’t.

But then his glance flickered to their audience and he cleared his throat, breaking the spell. “Miss Harrington,” he said in a low voice, bowing his head.

“Lord Oliver,” she returned in a shaky voice, inclining her own.

When he lifted his eyes back to hers, she glimpsed…panic in them? Oliver’s throat worked, as if he were struggling to swallow. “Is there—” he began, his voice tight “—somewhere we might talk?”

Julia’s brow furrowed. “Of course,” she murmured, flashing a social smile to the curious around them even as she led Oliver from the ballroom. She started for an exit to the hallway, but a strange intuition had her turning for the French doors leading out to the terrace instead. She shivered as a frigid blast of cold chilled her face, but when she turned to face Oliver, she knew she’d made the right decision. He was breathing deeply of the night air, the tightness she’d sensed in him easing visibly.

He must have noticed her teeth chattering, as he frowned. “You’re cold. We should return—”

“No!” she blurted, somehow knowing it was the ballroom that bothered him so. “I mean, I prefer it out here.”

He looked dubious, but immediately shed his evening coat and draped it around her shoulders. She was enveloped not only by his warmth, but by the scent of him—spice and sandalwood. She also suddenly felt as filled with nerves as he looked.

“I hope you don’t mind that I crashed your ball,” he said.

“You have a standing invitation,” she murmured, still hardly believing that Oliver was here, standing on her terrace, with her. “But why did you come? I mean how—”

“I have something to ask you.” He straightened his shoulders, looking quite as she expected a military man would—very different from the carefree young man he’d been when last he’d visited Harrington Hall. “But first, I have something to tell you. I love you, Julia.”

She gasped, unable to countenance what her ears insisted she’d heard. Perhaps that panic she thought she’d glimpsed in his eyes had truly been madness. “What?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard that I nearly died on the battlefield,” he said, rather than repeating his declaration. “It was a very near thing.”

She nodded, unable to speak before the emotion burning in his eyes.

“As I lay there, fighting raging around me, my life’s blood spilling hot down my body, I knew I was going to die. I knew it. And do you want to know the one thought I had as I lay there in agony, convinced I was breathing my last?”

Again, she nodded. It seemed all she was capable of.

He reached a hand out, his warm palm caressing her cheek. “I thought if I ever were to have married, it would have been Julia.”

She stopped breathing entirely.

His thumb moved against her skin. “My one regret was never telling you how I felt. For letting my shame at my impoverished circumstances and my friendship with your brother prevent me from pursuing the one woman I wanted for my own. And then I got angry. Angry with myself, angry with fate, and damn it all, I refused to die until I got the chance to make it right.”

“Oliver,” she whispered, overwhelmed by his revelation, but his other hand came up to frame her face, cutting off anything else she might of said.

“You saved me, Julia. My only thought was getting back her to you, a whole man, to ask you to marry me. By Christmas.” He blinked, his eyes gone glassy, as she was certain hers had. “Well, I’m here, just in time, though I’m not a whole man anymore. Something inside of me is broken, but it is not my heart. So I’m asking. Will you—”

“Yes!” she cried, a cloud of white breath puffing from her lips with her exclamation. This must be a dream, she knew. She’d doubtless nodded off behind that potted palm, waiting for her suitors, or her mother—or both—to give up and let her be. Because Oliver couldn’t love her. He’d never given her a hint of it. Of course, neither had she ever let on about her feelings—self-preservation and all that.

And then he was kissing her, and the fire that licked her body told her she was very much awake, and very much alive, and very much in need of something she didn’t quite understand. But Oliver did. The way he stoked that need within her, with caresses and murmured words left no doubt that he knew exactly what it was she craved. And that he intended to give it to her.

As his lips left hers so that they both could breathe, Julia lifted her eyes to the night sky. As her unfocused gaze began to clear, she realized that for once tonight nothing hung above her head. She’d escaped to the one place her mother hadn’t put any mistletoe—and had subsequently been kissed within an inch of her chastity. She couldn’t stop the joyful laughter bubbling up.

“What is it?” Oliver asked, his voice husky against her ear.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just kiss me again. And again. Forever.”

~*~*~*~

*Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Manda Collin's Scene*

**I hope you enjoyed this short story. While Oliver and Julia were written solely for the Historical Christmas Eve event, my upcoming novel does feature another soldier suffering from (among other things) battle fatigue, or what we now know as post-traumatic stress disorder. Its hero, Major Gabriel Devereaux, Marquess of Bromwich, and heroine, Lady Penelope Bridgeman, were mentioned very briefly above. Thanks again, and Happy Holidays! -Heather

Coming April 2nd 2013:

AN UNTAMED MIND

Ever since her husband’s sudden and tragic death, Lady Penelope Bridgeman has committed herself to studying the maladies of the mind, particularly treating traumatized soldiers of the Napoleonic Wars. It is this expertise that brings the Marquess of Bromwich’s family to her door.

Gabriel Devereaux’s unexpected and unpredictable episodes are unlike any Penelope has studied. The once proud soldier has been left shaken and withdrawn, but she manages to build a fragile trust between them. Strangely, Gabriel seems completely lucid when not in the grips of his mania, and in the calm between bouts, she is surprised by how much she is drawn to him.

Despite his own growing feelings, Gabriel knows that he is fit for no one, and is determined to keep Penelope away from his descent into madness. But even though she knows firsthand the folly of loving a broken man, Penelope cannot stop herself from trying to save him, no matter the cost.

Pre-Order Your Copy Today:

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Heather is giving away a copy of her book, Sweet Madness, to one lucky commenter (Open Internationally)! Make sure to leave a meaningful comment below AND fill out the rafflecopter!

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An Indecent Proposal...with Mia Marlowe (+Giveaway)

2012-12-15T12:53:00.004-05:00

An Indecent Proposal
on Christmas Eve with Mia Marlowe

About the Author:

Award winning author Mia Marlowe writes historical romance for Kensington Publishing and Sourcebooks. Her debut title received acclaim from romance luminaries. #1 New York Times bestseller Victoria Alexander says Mia's Touch of a Thief has "adventure and heat and everything I want in a great story!" UK's BooksMonthly has crowned Mia Marlowe "the queen of saucy historical romance."
Mia learned much of what she knows about storytelling from singing. A classically trained soprano, she won the District Metropolitan Opera Auditions and shared a stage with Placido Domingo. As she prepared for operatic roles, she devised back stories for her characters. Since she's worn a real corset, and had to sing high C's in one, she empathizes with the trials of her fictional heroines. But in Mia's stories, they don't die in a Parisian garret. They get to live and keep the hero!

Find Mia Online: Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter

Readers often ask me what happens to my characters after their book has ended. In the case of HOW TO PLEASE A PIRATE, I can offer a small peek into the lives of Jacquelyn and Gabriel Drake and what sort of adventures they enjoy after the main story is over. Come with me now and I’ll whisk you back to Cornwall for. . . - Mia

A Dragon Caern Christmas

by Mia Marlowe

“One ball is hanging low.” Jacquelyn Drake cocked her head and narrowed her eyes at her husband.

“That, my love, is the condition of most men.” Gabriel glanced over his shoulder and waggled his dark brows at her. “But how you can tell from there is a mystery.”

She swatted his well-muscled derrière. “I mean the spice balls on the kissing bough. The left one is lower than the right. See if you can tie it up higher.”

Gabriel stretched to reach the kissing bough he’d just hung from the arched center of the solar’s ceiling. He hiked the clove-encrusted suet ball a few finger-widths higher. The spicy fragrance mingled with the fresh evergreens in the bough.

“Any particular reason they have to match?”

“Because it will please me if they do.” Jacquelyn waggled her brows back at him and stepped close to wrap her arms around his waist. “And I’m sure you want to please me.”

“It’s what I live for,” he assured her. Gabriel couldn’t reciprocate with an embrace while he tied up her Christmas folderol, but he bent to kiss her anyway. His lips covered hers

in a warm, wet promise of even better things to come.

“And I . . .” she said between love nips, “want to please . . .” Jacquelyn pressed herself against him and rocked slowly. He groaned. “. . . you, too, milord.”

“Ow!” He broke off their kiss and shook his hand, blowing on his fingertips. “That holly is prickly.”

“That’s because it represents men,” Jacquelyn explained as she took his injured hand and kissed each finger tip, pausing to suck the one with the angry red mark. She smiled when Gabriel’s breathing hitched a bit. “Holly for men, ivy for women and mistletoe for—”

“Trust me, love. I know what mistletoe is for.” Gabriel pulled her close for a demonstration that had her gasping for air and not wanting to come up for it at the same time. He tasted of the mulled wine they’d shared earlier and his kiss sent an intoxicating sizzle through her veins. When his hands slipped over the curve of her breasts, heat spread down her body. Jacquelyn wondered if there was time to hoist her skirts for a quick—

“Ow!” Jacquelyn jerked back and rubbed her crown. The spice ball had come untied, landed on her noggin, bounced to the floor and wobbled across the flagstone to a lopsided stop. “I thought sailors were supposed to be handy with knots.”

“Sailors, aye. None handier.” Gabriel grinned sheepishly as he bent to scoop up the offending ornament. “But pirates are known to play fast and loose with the rules from time to time and I may have skipped a step with that last knot.” He pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head. “You have to admit, I was being distracted.”

“Well, I’ll not distract you this time.” She crossed her arms under her breasts.

“Lyn, you distract me just by breathing.”

Her insides melted when Gabriel used his special name for her. “You know, you’re supposed to pluck a mistletoe berry each time you steal a kiss,” she said. “When they’re gone, the free kisses are ended.”

“What if the kisses are freely given?” he asked.

“That, my love, is another matter entirely.”

~*~*~*~

*Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Shana Galen's Scene*

**To read the rest of this FREE short story, which bridges the characters from HOW TO PLEASE A PIRATE with the ones in HOW TO VEX A VISCOUNT, please visit http://miamarlowe.com/blog/a-dragon-caern-christmas/ .

How about you? Do you wonder about the lives of fictional couples who’ve already been given their HEA? Would like to know how they’re doing? Have you ever written any fan fiction to keep characters you love alive?

Leave a comment or question for me and you’ll be entered in the random drawing for my Christmas enovella, MY LADY BELOW STAIRS! Two winners will be chosen.

Available Now:

Nobody misses Lord & Lady Hartwell's Christmas Ball, . . . but they all go for different reasons. When Lady Sybil runs off with an Italian portrait painter, her bastard half-sister Jane Tate goes in her place. Lord Eddleton plans on proposing to "Sybil" under the mistletoe. Lady Darvish is on the hunt for her fifth husband.. And Ian Michael MacGarrett, the head groom with more than horseflesh on his mind, is determined to show Jane that love doesn't have to pretend.

Get Your Copy Today:

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Mia is giving away two ecopies of her book, My Lady Below Stairs, to one lucky commenter (Open to all with ereader/program access)! Make sure to leave a meaningful comment/answer her question above AND fill out the rafflecopter!

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A Drunken Escapade...with Sophie Barnes (+Giveaway)

2012-12-14T10:47:00.000-05:00

A Drunken Escapade
on Christmas Eve with Sophie Barnes

About the Author:

Born in Denmark, Sophie has spent her youth traveling with her parents to wonderful places all around the world. She’s lived in five different countries, on three different continents, and speaks Danish, English, French, Spanish and Romanian.
She has studied design in Paris and New York and has a bachelor’s degree from Parson’s School of design, but most impressive of all – she’s been married to the same man three times, in three different countries and in three different dresses.
While living in Africa, Sophie turned to her lifelong passion – writing.
When she’s not busy, dreaming up her next romance novel, Sophie enjoys spending time with her family, swimming, cooking, gardening, watching romantic comedies and, of course, reading. She currently lives on the East Coast.

Find Sophie Online: Website | Goodreads | Facebook | Twitter

A Drunken Escapade on Christmas Eve

by Sophie Barnes

Lady Amanda (daughter of the Marquess & Marchioness of Hawkwood) is celebrating Christmas with her family at their country estate. Her father’s best friend and his wife have been invited and are staying for the holidays along with their son Peter (the Earl of Charington) who is best friends with Amanda’s brother – the two have gone to Eton together and later to Oxford.

Amanda has known Peter her whole life (thus the use of first names) and is hopelessly in love with him. In attendance however, are also Amanda’s aunt and uncle who have brought Amanda’s three annoyingly beautiful cousins along. They are blonde and fair-skinned whereas Amanda has inherited her mother’s darker Italian complexion and chestnut hair. To make matters worse, the three cousins are all in love with Peter as well and have been fawning over him all evening. Jealous and insecure over his attentions toward them, Amanda finds it impossible to sleep. Desperate for something to take her mind away from Peter, she slips out of bed and heads downstairs in search of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by Edmund Gibbon – a book that Amanda has found most helpful on other sleepless nights.

The scene opens with Amanda entering the library:
Amanda set her oil lamp carefully on the side table next to the door and adjusted the flame, brightening the space with a yellow glow. With the fire reduced to embers, the room was no longer as warm as it had been earlier in the evening and Amanda found herself pulling her dressing gown tight across her chest to ward off the chill. She glanced about, her gaze settling on the boughs of evergreen that had been cut from a fir tree earlier in the day and tied with crimson ribbons as per her mother’s instructions.

Taking a deep breath, Amanda closed her eyes for a moment to enjoy the rich scent of the pine. She loved Christmas and the atmosphere that accompanied it when Rambly Hall was filled with people – she just hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be seeing Peter again.
With a small sigh and an admonishing shake of her head, she padded across the floor to one of the bookcases, spotting the thick volume she sought almost instantly. Reaching for a stool, she pulled it toward her and stepped up onto it. It wasn’t quite enough though and she was forced to go up on tiptoes, her right arm straining to reach the book she wanted. She almost had it – she was certain of it – if she could only …

The sound of the library door opening caught her attention and she turned her head on reflex, losing her balance in the process and falling straight back until she landed on the floor with a loud thud. “Umph!”

“Good God, Amanda. Are you all right?”

Amanda squeezed her eyes shut and nodded, praying that the man of her dreams would leave it at that, walk away and forget he’d seen her in such a humiliating sprawl. Of course this was too much to hope for and before she knew it she felt Peter’s warm hands beneath her armpits as he pulled her upright. “What were you thinking?” he asked, sounding as if he had the urge to give her a good shake. “You could have been seriously injured.”

“I couldn’t sleep so I came to get a book, though I don’t believe I would have fallen if it hadn’t been for you,” she said, looking away from his familiar and much too handsome face. “You startled me.”

With a grunt of marked disapproval, he guided her over to a chair, then stepped away and went to the side table. “Would you care for a drink?” he asked, raising what looked like a bottle of sherry.

Amanda steeled herself. Enjoying the company of the one man she was trying not to think about, wasn’t exactly the best plan. A drink would indeed be welcome – especially after making such a complete cake of herself in his presence, but she wanted something stronger, and besides, she was tired of being so predictable. “Thank you, but I do believe I’d prefer a brandy instead.” Peter raised an eyebrow and his lips parted as if he meant to say something, so she hastily added, “It is Christmas, after all.”

“Very well,” he agreed, abandoning the bottle of sherry in favor of a crystal carafe. He poured two fingers of the amber liquid into a pair of tumblers and then closed the distance between them so he could give her one of them. Amanda took it without hesitation, thanking him as he took the seat across from her. He frowned and asked, “Have you tried this before?”

Amanda shook her head. No, she had not, but the thought of having him in her house while her beautiful cousins showered him with attention – attention which he had happily returned - had distraught her enough where she would try anything as long as it dulled the ache in her heart.

“It may burn a little on the way down,” he warned with a crooked smile. “I advise you to take small sips until you grow accustomed to it.” Raising his glass toward her, he then added, “To friendship.”

To friendship.

Amanda gritted her teeth as she followed his lead, allowing her glass to clink against his. She nodded in acknowledgement of his toast, fearful that if she spoke her words would lack conviction. To friendship indeed. She wanted more than that, but would likely never have it. Irritation flared inside of her and she forgot his words of warning and took a large gulp of her drink. Oh dear God! Her throat was on fire and she gasped, choked on her own breath and finally coughed until tears sprang to her eyes and she thought her lungs might burst.

“Take another sip,” Peter said. He’d risen from his chair and had proceeded to slap her back.
Where on earth was that gaping hole she hoped would appear and swallow her up? Another sip indeed. Was he mad?

“I assure you it will help,” he said, taking the glass that she’d somehow managed to place on a table at the start of her attack and holding it toward her. Tilting it slightly, she soon felt the strong drink biting at her lips and she reluctantly opened her mouth, swallowing just a little.
To her astonishment, he was right. The drink that had disagreed with her only a moment earlier, soothed her in its smaller quantity and she found herself relaxing, enjoying the heat of it as it warmed her insides. “Thank you,” she murmured, watching him carefully as he returned the glass to the table and sat back down.

He grinned. “In all the years I’ve known you, I don’t recall seeing you imbibe in alcohol even once – not even wine. That you would start now with brandy …” He moved to get up once more. “Perhaps I should fetch a glass of sherry for you after all.”

“No!” The word came out louder than she’d intended and was instantly met with a raised eyebrow. She swallowed hard to get herself under some measure of control. When she’d seen him last, it had been at her coming out ball. He had danced with her of course, but had not remained at the ball long enough to see her drink anything other than the glass of lemonade he’d offered her before making a hasty departure.

The fact that he still thought her a child, struck her with such force that she took her glass and tossed back the remainder of the brandy, wincing only slightly this time. Meeting Peter’s shocked gaze and taking a great deal of pleasure unsettling him, she smiled and said, “I do believe I’m learning to handle my liquor. Would you please be so kind as to give me a re-fill?”
Peter looked around, wary. “I don’t believe that’s a good idea, Amanda. I think you’ve had quite enough.”

“Nonsense,” she said, waving her hand to dismiss his concerns. She was starting to feel much better and idly wondered if it had anything to do with the brandy. Probably not. She’d heard of how silly people became when foxed. She didn’t feel like that in the least. Quite the opposite really – she felt confident and carefree.

Seeing that he wasn’t about to oblige her, she got up and went to the sideboard herself, pausing only once along the way when an overwhelming feeling of faintness made her worry about losing her footing - yet again. That simply wouldn’t do and she shook it away, reaching her destination without incident.

Peter watched her go, noticing the exact moment when she stopped to steady herself. What the devil had come over her? He’d known her since she was in swaddling clothes and getting foxed in the middle of the night behind closed doors and in the company of a bachelor no less, was completely out of character for her. She was demure and innocent – the kid sister of his best friend – yet here she was courting trouble. He groaned, knowing he must do something to stop her from pouring herself another glass. If her brother or, heaven forbid, her father were to happen upon them like this he’d surely find himself drawn and quartered. “Amanda, stop this at once,” he said, aiming for a note of authority.

“Or what?” she asked, her fingers already curled around the neck of the carafe.
“Or I shall have no other choice but to come over there and remove the carafe from you personally.” Was that really the best he could do? Even she looked skeptical as she offered him a sly smile and proceeded to pour. That did it – he had to put an end to this farce by acting upon his threat. He rose, and in three easy strides he was before her. “May I please have your glass?”

With a small frown she leaned sideways and looked past him. “Oh dear,” she then remarked. “It appears as though one of Mama’s decorations has unhinged itself from the ceiling.”
He automatically turned to look, not recognizing the trap she’d set for him before it was too late. When he looked back at her, he wasn’t the least bit surprised to discover that she’d already tossed back the contents of her glass. Frustrated and annoyed, yes, but not surprised. He had to hand it to her though – she did appear to have gotten quite good at handling her drink. Still, he would not stand for this insanity a moment longer. She was a genteel lady of breeding after all and this lapse in judgment on her part was really too much. “I cannot begin to imagine what might have brought this on, Amanda. You’re acting like a child and you’d do well to stop it this instant.”

Her eyebrows snapped together and he saw something then – something in her eyes that spoke of both sadness and longing. “I am not a child, Peter.” Her words surprised him in their harsh annunciation and he found himself leaning back as if she’d struck him. “I am eighteen years of age – old enough to marry and bare children if that is what I choose to do.”
It was his turn to feel affronted. He clenched and unclenched his hands, staring silently back at her before he turned away in search of his own glass. He needed that brandy. Now.

Finishing off its contents, he gave her a sideways glance. She was still looking at him as if he were the very devil incarnate, but her words … Christ. As if he hadn’t noticed that she was no longer the child he’d given piggyback rides to years ago. He’d been at her coming out ball and had danced with her because after all, that was the polite thing to do. As soon as the dance was over he’d found her a glass of lemonade and fled. He was not supposed to notice how good she felt beneath his touch as he’d guided her in a simple country dance, nor was he meant to appreciate the scent of her or to wonder … But God help him he’d wondered – repeatedly – ever since that night. Consequently he’d stayed away until now.

He expelled a heavy breath. He could never lay a hand on her unless he planned to make her his wife, but was that something that she would want? “Amanda, I …” he began, but his words faltered with the uncertainty of what he should say and instead he just stood there in the silence that followed, staring back at her.
Laying himself bare before her like this could ruin everything – his friendship with her brother as well as that between their parents. It was a tremendous risk to take when he wasn’t even certain of how she might respond, so he kept quiet instead, thinking of how to proceed when she suddenly laughed.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you speechless before,” she said, pouring more brandy into her glass and taking another sip.

Her skin had grown flushed and he could tell by the slur of her words that the alcohol was taking effect. She wasn’t herself, and rather than standing about talking, he ought to do the responsible thing and get her to bed. By herself of course, not with him – though the thought did tempt him. He pushed it aside. “You’ve never spoken to me about marriage or children before,” he said.

She chuckled. “No, I suppose not.” Heading back toward her chair, she swayed a little, regained her balance and plopped down onto the seat. She leaned back and said. “Then again, what reason would I have to discuss such matters with you? My father will eventually see to it that I marry a respectable gentleman. You needn’t concern yourself on that score.”
Was she mocking him? He wasn’t certain, though she did sound annoyed. He was getting rather annoyed himself thinking of her in the arms of some faceless man.

“Besides,” she continued. “You are busy enough right now. I wonder which of them you’ll pick.”

Her comment threw him completely. “I beg your pardon?”

“You didn’t think I’d notice your interest in my cousins?” There was no mistaking the bitterness in her tone this time, and he found himself leaning forward with interest. “They’re truly stunning with their blonde hair and alabaster skin. I cannot fault you for being fascinated.”

“The drink has loosened your tongue too much, Amanda,” he said, irritated that she would think he gave a damn about three women who were no different than all the rest. “You speak without thinking.”

“They like you too, you know,” she added, not heeding his warning in the slightest. He was about to reprimand her again and suggest she get herself upstairs to bed before she said anything more, when a sad smile claimed her lips and she whispered beneath her breath, “Though not nearly as much as I.”

Peter stood for a moment frozen and unable to move. Hell, he could barely breathe, much less focus on his thoughts. Had he heard her right? He believed so and somehow found himself moving toward her – the woman he’d come to realize he wanted by his side forever, who’d just confessed to liking him quite a lot, even though it had taken a great deal of brandy for her to pluck up the courage to say so. “Would you mind repeating that?” he asked.
Her eyes met his, focused, and she suddenly leapt out of her seat, her hand clasped across her mouth as she stepped away from him. “It was nothing,” she gasped from behind her hand, her eyes darting toward the door as if calculating her chance of escape.

She obviously hadn’t realized she’d spoken her words aloud, or perhaps she just hadn’t counted on him hearing her. Whatever the case, she wasn’t deep enough in her cups not to know that her words had changed everything between them. There was no going back now.
“It certainly wasn’t nothing,” he said, following her as she edged her way along one of the bookcases until she’d backed herself into a corner.

She shook her head. “Of course it was. I only meant that they don’t know you as well as I do. After all, I’ve known you forever and I … I …” She had nowhere to go with him now standing before her, blocking her only exit.

Reaching out, he gently brushed her cheek with his fingers. “I have no interest in your cousins, Amanda.”

“You … you don’t?” Her eyes were wide with confusion. “But I thought—”
“Yes, you did, but you were mistaken.” His fingers traced the delicate structure of her jawline, leaving a deep blush in their wake. “You see, the thing of it is, Amanda, that there is only one woman I care for, except I dared not hope that she might care for me – until now. Do you care for me, Amanda?”

He saw the longing in her eyes as realization dawned, and knew she’d respond in the affirmative before she nodded her answer. As soon as she did so however, he immediately breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God, for I don’t believe I could have born it if you didn’t.” And then he did what he’d wanted to do for so long. He lowered his mouth over hers and kissed her, chasing away whatever doubts she might have left that he would ever want someone else.

Her lips parted and he was there, coaxing her and tasting her until she gasped for breath. “I will speak to your father tomorrow,” he promised and her face lit up with a dazzling smile.
“This is indeed the best Christmas ever,” she said, leaning back into him for yet another smoldering kiss.

“I couldn’t agree more,” he said
.
She suddenly frowned. “I hope I won’t have forgotten about all of this in the morning. After all, I did have my fair share of brandy.”

Peter grinned. “That you did.” He placed a gentle kiss upon her forehead. “Fear not though – I shall leave you a note to remind you of all that has transpired.”

Amanda woke the following morning, groaning in response to the pounding headache that threatened to split her skull in two. She rolled onto her side and opened her eyes to find a crisp piece of paper perched on her bedside table. Picking it up, she frowned, read it, and finally leapt from her bed in a state of total and utter bliss. She hadn’t forgotten, but his words made her heart sing with joy:

In case you fail to recall last night’s events, allow me tell you that I love you, Amanda, that I have always loved you, and that I will never cease loving you. I hope you will do me the very great honor of marrying me, though it goes without saying that a formal proposal is in order. After all, you deserve the very best.

With the deepest affection and admiration,

Peter.

P.S. I have a Christmas present waiting for you downstairs.

~*~*~*~

*Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Anna Randol's Scene*

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Mary Croyden lives a simple life . . . and she likes it. But when she inherits a title and a large sum of money, everything changes. Forced to navigate high society, Mary finds herself relying on the help of one man—Ryan Summersby. Determined not to lose her sense of self, she realizes that Ryan is the only person she can trust. But Mary's hobbies are not exactly proper, and Ryan is starting to discover that this simple miss is not at all what he expected . . . but just might be exactly what he needs.

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Stranded in a Carriage...with Robyn DeHart (+Giveaway)

2012-12-13T08:25:00.002-05:00

Stranded in a Carriage
on Christmas Eve with Robyn Dehart

About the Author:

A life-long lover of stories and adventure, it was either become a stuntwoman for the movies or live out those adventures from the safety of her PJ’s and computer. Award-winning author,Robyn DeHart chose the latter and couldn’t be happier for doing so. Known for her unique plotlines and authentic characters, Robyn is a favorite among readers and reviewers. Publishers' Weekly claims her writing to be "comical and sexy" while the Chicago Tribune dubs her "wonderfully entertaining." Robyn is an award-winning author as well as being a four-time RT Bookclub Reviewers' Choice award nominee, and a three-time RomCon Reader’s Crown nominee. Look for Robyn’s new trilogy on forbidden love coming from Entangled. A Little Bit Wicked, A Little Bit Sinful (spring 2013) and A Little Bit Scandalous (summer 2013). Also in 2013 she'll launch her Jack the Ripper series with The Secrets of Mia Danvers (June 2013, NAL).Robyn lives in Texas with her brainy husband, two precocious little girls and two spoiled cats.

Find Robyn Online: Website | Goodreads | Facebook | Twitter

One Scandalous Night

by Robyn DeHart

Miss Winifred Wilmington pulled her green velvet cloak tighter around her. She exhaled and a puff of air was visible in her breath so cold was it inside the carriage.

“We are going to die in here,” her maid, Polly, wailed.

Winifred rolled her eyes heavenward. “I seriously doubt that,” she said. “It is rather cold, but I suspect someone will be along soon enough and rescue us.”

“I could remind you that it was my suggestion that we leave earlier in the day. Or yesterday.” Polly grumbled. “It is the eve of Christmas, who else is traveling?”

The thought had crossed Winifred’s mind as well, but she certainly wouldn’t put voice to it. There was no need to panic, that would solve nothing. Of course therein lay one of the significant differences between herself and her long-time maid, Winifred was nothing if not practical. It was a skill she had learned out of necessity. One didn’t get jilted at the altar and not make some significant changes in one’s life. In any case, she was somewhat concerned about being stranded in this frigid carriage all night, though she was hopeful that someone would come along to save them.

Clearly she had a highly active imagination as she could swear she heard carriage wheels off in the distance. Would that it was true.

Polly sat up. “Do you hear that?”

Polly was so apt at creating drama, no doubt the woman thought she heard wolves outside. “What?” Winifred asked.

“A carriage is coming,” Polly said.

Perhaps it hadn’t been her imagination after all. Winifred listened and the wheels did sound as if they were drawing nearer. Hope bloomed in her chest. The wheels rumbled and the horse hooves clattered louder and louder until they were upon the, and they rolled to a stop.

“As long as it’s not a highwayman, I suppose we can consider ourselves rescued,” Winifred said.

A male voice spoke to their driver, then there was a rap at door.

Winifred leaned forward and opened it.

A tall gentleman stood there in a great coat with a top hat perched upon his head. He held a cane in his hand. "Madams," he said, the timbre in his voice deep and rich.

A chill skirted over Winifred’s arms despite the fact she was encased in her cloak. "Good evening, Sir," she said. "I should thank you for stopping to assist us. Can our carriage be repaired?"

"I do not know, nor am I inclined to look," he said. "I will offer you a ride."

Winifred considered his words. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it would do. "Yes, my grandmother's estate is not far from here. We would very much appreciate it."

"No," he said.

She frowned, shook her head. "I beg your pardon? What do you mean no, you just offered to give us a ride," she said.

"A ride. To where I'm going.” He tapped his cane against his chest. “In the morning you may have the carriage take you to your destination," he said. “But in this weather I am going nowhere else.”

"And where is it that you're going?" Winifred asked.

"Coventry Hall," he said.

Nerves prickled at her neck, standing the little hairs there on end. "You are?" Winifred asked.

"Alistair Devlin, Marquess of Coventry," he said with only a shadow of a bow.

"Oh good heavens," Polly said, finally breaking her silence. She shook her head violently. "Miss Wilmington, we mustn’t go with him."

"Don't be rude, Polly."

"Yes, don't be rude, Polly,” he repeated. “I don't believe you'll have any other options tonight.” His shoulders rose in a slight shrug. “Though you could certainly choose to stay here and freeze," he said. "I have made the offer." He turned on his heel and walked away.

"Miss Wilmington, you know what they say of him," Polly said. "Mary who works for Lord Garrick says she knows the housekeeper that used to work at Coventry. He is a killer,” she whispered. “Murdered his own wife, tossed her right off a cliff, they say."

"Don't be so dramatic, Polly." But of course Winifred had also heard those rumors and plenty more when it came to the Marquess of Coventry. He had a most interesting reputation. But the man was right, the odds of someone else coming along to rescue them were very slim. "It is a good offer," Winifred said. "Consider this, Polly, being tossed off a cliff should result in a rather quick death whereas freezing in this carriage would be slow and painful, I suspect.”

Polly did not look convinced.

“Pipkin, I should like to get down please," Winifred called to the driver. He was there in a breath to assist her to the ground.

The frigid air swirled around her, snow fell, soft as a whisper, covering her face and sticking to her eyelashes. She put her hands in her muff and walked toward the other carriage.

Polly raced up to meet her. "Miss Wilmington, think of your reputation."

Winifred shook her head. "Don't be silly. I am a spinster who was jilted; no one cares a whit about my reputation. Furthermore, my reputation certainly won't matter if I freeze to death now will it? Are you coming?"

"I shall not ride with that man," Polly said with a firm shake of her head.

"Suit yourself. Do try to stay warm," Winifred said.

"If you go with him, I shall resign," Polly warned.

"Don't bother, I shall simply dismiss you," Winifred said.

Polly made a growling noise, yet still followed behind. "I shall come with you to keep you safe, but I refuse to ride inside with him."

"Do whatever you wish, Polly, I am riding inside where it promises to be nice and warm." And with that a gloved hand reached out of the carriage. She took a deep breath and placed her hand in his and climbed into the carriage. A lantern hung from a hook on the other side of the carriage illuminating the interior. She took a seat on the plush bench across from where the marquess sat. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Your maid, she is going to ride outside?” he asked.

“She’s a stubborn lot,” Winifred said.

“You sacked her,” he said.

“Third time this week.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Polly and I have plenty of disagreements.”

He nodded, then picked up the book that had been sitting on the seat next to him. The carriage lurched forward.

She eyed her unlikely travel companion. He was tall and lean and formidable, but younger than she had expected. She’d heard of the Marquess of Coventry, but had never before seen him. He couldn’t be more than five and thirty. His cane leaned against the bench next to him and his gloved hand held onto the gold knob on top. She looked up at his face. An ugly scar slashed across his left cheek leading to his eye. He looked up from his reading as if he sensed her perusal. His eyes were a startling shade of green, like the first bloom of spring after a blistering winter.

“My name is Winifred Wilmington,” she said dumbly.

“I know who you are,” he said, then went back to his reading.

She frowned. How had he known who she was? Perhaps he’d merely inquired from her driver when he’d first stopped. “What are you reading?” she asked.

“Shakespeare. ‘As You Like it,’” he said.

She was quiet for a moment, trying to recall if she’d read that particular play. It seemed she must have, but at the moment she couldn’t recall a single thing about it. “You know I am not afraid of you,” she said. “I don’t think it’s very intelligent to believe everything you hear about a person.”

“Indeed,” he said, not bothering to look up from his book.

“Oh yes, people are quite hateful with the rumors they spread.” She forced herself to stop talking then as she was about to tell him about a particularly nasty rumor, but then that would be gossiping. She knew she became chatty when she was nervous and she certainly did not need to say something she would later regret.

“What is it that people say about me?” he asked, again not looking up from his book.

She eyed him for a moment, trying to gage if he was toying with her. He must know what people said. Even the servants gossiped about him.

He looked up at her and once again she was caught in those unusual green eyes. His right brow rose expectedly.

She swallowed. “That you murdered your wife.” Her voice came out weak.

“But you do not believe that,” he said.

“No, I do not.” She shook her head. “You are obviously a responsible and kind gentleman.”

“You do not know me,” he said. He set his book aside. His glove gripped the gold knob on his cane.

“No, but you stopped to assist a stranded lady, that says volumes about your character, my lord,” she said, quite pleased with her logic.

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “How do you know I’m not taking you to my castle to ravish you?”

She sucked in her breath. “Are you?”

He crooked his finger at her, beckoning her forward.

She leaned toward him.

He grabbed her by the chin and pulled her closer, then caught her mouth in a kiss. So shocked by the touch, her lips parted, giving him a brazen invitation to deepen the kiss. His lips were soft and unfamiliar, yet seductive, intoxicating. Her eyes fluttered closed and her hands gripped the fabric of his great coat around his shoulders. And then the kiss was over, ending as quickly and abruptly as it had begun. He leaned back in his seat and she was left in the middle of the carriage with her eyes closed, no doubt looking very much the goose.

“You should not be so trusting,” he said.

“You never answered my question,” she shot back once she’d regained her senses.

“Which was?”

“If you were intending to ravish me once we arrived at your castle?”

His lips quirked up in a half smile. “I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”

~*~*~*~

*Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Grace Burrowes' Scene*

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Marcus Kincaid has returned to England after a ten-year absence as the Earl of Ashford after his brother’s untimely death. Unfortunately, his younger sister is embroiled in a potential scandal that could ruin her chance at marriage, and his aunt has already called in reinforcements—The Paragon.
Vivian March is known simply as The Paragon. She moves through every circle within Society, smoothing out scandals and stopping gossip in its tracks. Everyone in London knows that if she aligns herself with you, Society will forgive your sins. What they don’t know is that she uses their secrets to cover her own jaded past.
But with every kiss and every touch that Marcus thrusts upon her, Vivian comes to believe life is infinitely more fun when you can be just a little bit wicked…

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Robyn is giving away an ecopy of her first novel in the Forbidden Love series, A Little Bit Wicked, to one lucky commenter (Open to all with ereader capabilities)! Make sure to leave a meaningful comment below AND include your email!

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A Royal Guest...with Katy Madison (+Giveaway)

2012-12-12T08:00:00.000-05:00

A Royal Guest
on Christmas Eve with Katy Madison

About The Author:

Award winning author Katy Madison has always loved stories. As a child she was always lugging around a book. At the age of eight, after having gone through over a hundred Nancy Drew mysteries, all the Laura Ingalls Wilder books—at least twice—and many others including her full weekly allotment of library books, Katy went to her mother and begged for a new book to read. Her frustrated mother handed her a romance novel. Katy fell in love with the genre. She quickly discovered where her mother hid the rest and began sneaking them out to read. She cut her eyeteeth on books by Georgetty Heyer and Mary Stewart, not to mention dozens of Barbara Cartland Regency romances.

Katy writes gothic historical romances and Regency historical romance. She also writes American-set historical romances for Harlequin under the name Kate Madison and gritty romantic suspense under the name K. T. Madison.

She lives the glamorous life of a writer, which mostly means she stays in her pajamas all day, in an older house on a tree-lined street in Kansas City, Missouri. She thinks nothing is better than curling up in front of the fireplace with a good book. Visit her on the web at www.katymadison.com

Find Katy Online: Website | Goodreads | Facebook | Twitter

The Duke and Duchess of Trent have a long history of Christmas house parties. After his father dies, the newest duke (The hero of Compromised by Christmas) is determined to keep this tradition alive. But when the Prince of Wales asks to hold a private knighting ceremony on Christmas Eve to honor men whose covert services to the crown have proved invaluable to the kingdom what can he do but acquiesce to the royal wish. The men will be knighted in secret, but they will be able to claim their status when their services are no longer needed in the war against France. The Duke never thinks that the sprigs of mistletoe that proved so lethal to him and his stepmother might trap another family member in another Christmastime enchantment... -Katy

A Royal Guest on Christmas Eve

Tossing Her scarf

by Katy Madison

"Thomas, I'm going to kill you." Julia hiked her skirts and chased after her pesky younger brother. A pox on him.

Because she was only allowed to wear a simple white muslin round gown instead of one of her sister-in-law's divine creations, Mama had allowed her to wear a very fine Chinese shawl, which her brother had snatched off her shoulders. He raced ahead, the red silk trailing behind him like a battle pennant.

She was too old to be running through the house after Thomas, but her brother likely thought her as willing to play as she'd been before he started at Eton.

He turned down the stairs to the great hall. She whipped around following him. "Thomas, stop before you ruin it."

A gentleman in black stepped out of the shadows near the bottom of the stairs.

Her heart thumped awkwardly. Pine needles pricked her hand as she grabbed the evergreen-and-ribbon-wrapped banister to stop her flight.

Her sister-in-law and Mama had spent the last few days in a flurry of decorating the house. Everything had to be perfect for the Prince of Wales's visit this Christmas Eve.

Thomas spun around. His eyes widened and his mouth rounded. He flung the shawl over the railing where it snagged on the massive Christmas tree a good twelve feet above the ground.

"Thomas!"

He ran up the stairs past her and fled into the recesses of the house. How in the world would she retrieve her shawl from the tree?

The man, whom she had never seen before, tilted his head, slowly raked his eyes down her body then asked, "Would you like me to complement your knees or your garters?"

"Neither." She dropped the hems of her skirt and petticoat and smoothed them down. Her cheeks burned. There seemed to be a lot of people at this secret royal visit to bestow knighthoods. "Who are you?"

"You have very pretty ankles then." He bent at the waist, but his eyes never left hers. "Garrett Arden at your service, my lady."

The heat from her face flowed through her body in strange ways. Striving for nonchalance as if men remarked on her limbs all the time, she cast a glance at her snagged shawl. When she turned back he'd disappeared.

Blinking she half wondered if she'd imagined him. "Sir?"

Looking left and right, she descended the stairs. The hall was dark with the mid-winter gloom, and the footmen normally stationed by the front door must be employed getting ready to serve dinner. She circled the base of the tree looking for the mysterious man invading her home.

Like a cat, he dropped down beside her.

She nearly jumped to whatever height he had fallen from. "Goodness."

His dark eyes twinkled as he handed her the shawl and stuffed something into his pocket.

"Where did you come from?"

"My mother told me from heaven, but my father was certain I came from a much warmer locale."

"Just now."

He shook his head and managed to compose his features into a bland mask of mild confusion. "I've been right here all along."

She wasn't fooled.

Behind him was the cavernous fireplace, which would contain the Yule log on the morrow. Had he been on the mantel? A tiny smear on the lower part of his unmentionables gave him away. "You've sap on you."

How had he managed to get onto the mantel five feet above the hearth?

"Regrettable." He tugged down his cuffs.

The distance to where her shawl had been caught on the tree was considerable. Yards. It wouldn't do to have the tree catch fire from a stray spark. Being on the mantel would have only put him near the same height, but not close enough to reach. "How did you get my shawl down?"

"Are you not glad to have it? I could toss it back up if you think it adds to the festive look of the tree." His eyes narrowed for just a second as if he were contemplating draping it around the top.

While he looked at the tree, she studied him. His hair was dark and combed into a modest style. His cravat was a pearl gray and his waistcoat a muted blue. He'd easily blend into the shadows. Even so she couldn't help but look at him. "Are you one of Roxy's relatives?"

"Roxy?" he echoed weakly.

"The Duchess of Trent."

"Most assuredly not."

"Ah, you can answer questions with something other than a question," she murmured.

The side of his mouth lifted.

Suddenly the idea that there was mistletoe hanging in the alcove at the top of the stairs popped into her head. What would his mouth feel like on hers? She banished the thought. Her mother would be horrified and had gone to great lengths to warn her to stay clear of the mistletoe especially while his highness was in the house. Although, she was hardly likely to appeal to the prince who liked much more mature women. Was this man part of the prince's retinue? "Why are you here?"

"To be knighted." He pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh, it's a secret."

"Surely not," she said. He was too young. He appeared only a few years older than she was. "What service have you performed for the crown?"

"You are mighty inquisitive."

Footfalls on the stairs sent a frisson of disappointment through her. Their tête-à-tête would be cut short. Garrett's face blanked as if he'd scrubbed any expression from it.

"Oh, there you are, Arden," said her stepfather. "Come up to the drawing room and meet everyone."

Scully—she was never quite sure how to address her stepfather, since he'd been her brother's friend before he married Mama—started back up the stairs, then turned and stared hard at Garrett. "When did you get in?"

Garrett brushed his sleeve. "Yesterday."

How had he arrived yesterday? Surely Mama or Roxy would have told her if there was another gentleman staying in the house.

Scully rolled his eyes. "Did you come in through a door?"

Garrett's chin lifted and a smile flashed across his face in a way that stole her breath.

"Where did you sleep—never mind." Scully shook his head. "Use the doors, Arden. That's an order."

"Don't want to let my skills get rusty." Garrett's twinkling eyes suggested he was entirely unrepentant.

"Come along, both of you. We can't keep the prince waiting." Scully went back up the stairs.

Garrett nudged her chin, letting her know her jaw had dropped during the exchange.

Was Scully the one in charge? She'd thought the ceremony happening here was some trick of her brother Max's. And why would Garrett avoid doors? "Are you some kind of sneak thief?"

A hint of a smile creased around his eyes. Intelligent eyes, that a minute ago had appeared vacant. "Master spy, love." He held out his arm. "I believe we've received our marching orders."

She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. They took the steps, her brain whirring. He paused and cocked his head at the top of the stairs. "I don't believe I've ever said that before."

"Which part?" Calling himself a spy or calling her love, which left her a bit shaky. Her gaze darted to the alcove with the sprig of mistletoe. Her heart kicked into a gallop. She wanted to appear sophisticated and aware instead of a silly schoolroom miss, but she hadn't the faintest idea how to maneuver under the mistletoe without being ridiculously obvious or far too bold.

"Claimed my occupation." He took a step and nodded toward the alcove. "Don't even think it. You are not old enough."

She tugged him to a stop. "The butcher's daughter is married and expecting and she is two months younger than me." Granted she was only sixteen, but he had the wrong impression because she'd chased after Thomas. "I am very much old enough."

He studied her his eyes narrowing. Then pell-mell he had her backed into the alcove under the mistletoe. His fingers ran down the side of her cheek. "Certain?"

She was quite certain rivers of sensation were running down her spine. Words were impossible. She nodded.

His lips twitched as if he were laughing at her.

"I owe you for the rescue of my shawl," she managed. Her words fluttered like leaves caught in the wind.

His eyes dropped to her lips. "You are still too young."

Nonetheless he bent and touched his firm lips to hers just as she was trying to gulp in air that was in short supply. Everything tingled, even her toes.

He drew back just as she was adjusting to the shock of a man's lips on hers.

No!

She wasn't having her first kiss be a near brotherly peck.

Throwing her arms around his shoulders she bounced up on toes and drew him toward her. With a groan he bent and crushed his lips against hers. His arms came around just in time to keep her from falling as her legs turned to pudding.

Her pulse raced and secret parts of her grew warm as she pressed into him. He made a sound deep in his throat somewhere between a growl and a purr. The sound sent liquid fire through her veins. His fingers splayed on her back crushing her chest against his as he deepened the kiss.

Oh my! Nothing was brotherly about the kiss now.

Lifting his head he stared down at her. His chest heaved against hers.

Thoughts flitted in and out of her brain as if she were a nitwit. Surely, one of them had to say something. She stroked a finger along the edge of his collar. "So where did you sleep last night?"

His eyes widened. "From another woman, I'd take that as an invitation."

An invitation? She tried to work out what that meant. She bit her tingling lip as she stared at him.

"Don't tempt me, Lady Julia." He reached up a plucked a white berry from the sprig and handed it to her as he loosened his embrace. "I am entirely too good at finding my way into places I don't belong.

Goodness. Was he thinking she was asking him into her room...her bed? The idea started a buzzing deep inside her. Heat climbed up her face. "I didn't mean..." Oh heavens. "You couldn't...anyway, the third floor passage is locked at night."

His lips moved as if he fought a smile, and she stared at them.

"Now that, love, was too much of a challenge to resist."

~*~*~*~

*Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Lecia Cornwall's Scene*

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Roxana Winston's family is in dire straits. Instructed to land a wealthy husband by any means necessary, she is packed off to a holiday season house party thrown by the wealthy Duke of Trent, Maximilian St. Clair. She is determined to get herself compromised, and she needs Max to play his role as protector and demand the proper recompense for her when the time comes. But unbeknownst to everyone, Roxana has a secret plan to break free of the narrow roles for women defined by society. Her skills with the needle can be used for more than disguising her poverty; she hopes she can turn designing into a career. The last thing she needs is to fall for Max, who has a very inconvenient sense of honor and thwarts her every attempt to persuade a certain gentleman to cross the line.

While Max is amused by the lovely Miss Winston's schemes to land a wealthy husband, he is determined to protect her virtue, even when the greatest threat to it comes from him. And when he learns the reason for his guest's behavior, he is more determined then ever to give her the greatest gift of all...even if that means he has to throw his principles to the wind.

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Katy is giving away a ecopy of her latest, Compromised by Christmas, to one lucky commenter (Open to commenters with Kindle/Nook/Smashwords Downloads)! Make sure to leave a meaningful comment below AND fill out the rafflecopter.

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Caught Under the Mistletoe...with Pamela Clare (+Giveaway)

2012-12-11T08:00:00.000-05:00

Caught Under the Mistletoe

On Christmas Eve

With Pamela Clare

Colorado author Pamela Clare began her writing career as a columnist and investigative reporter and eventually became the first woman editor-in-chief of two different newspapers. Along the way, she and her team won numerous state and national honors, including the First Amendment Award and the National Journalism Award for Public Service. This year, she was honored by the Colorado Pro Chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists with their Keeper of the Flame Lifetime Achievement Award for her work. A single mother with two college-aged sons, she writes historical romance and contemporary romantic suspense within view of the beautiful Rocky Mountains. She is a RITA finalist (Surrender, 2006) and a three-time Daphne du Maurier finalist (I-Team series). She loves history, having studied archaeology in college, and has traveled extensively, living for almost three years in Denmark, which feels like home to her. She attributes her love of historical romance with the years she spent visiting ruins and castles in Europe.

Find Pamela Online: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads

I hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season. I cobbled together a little short story for you all that takes up a few weeks after the epilogue of DEFIANT, book 3 in the MacKinnon’s Rangers ends — just before Christmas of 1760. The setting is upstate New York on the MacKinnon farm. Enjoy! And Happy Holidays! -Pamela

Midnight Beneath the Mistletoe

A MacKinnon's Rangers Christmas Special
by Pamela Clare

Connor MacKinnon strode toward the barn, deep snows squeaking beneath his moccasins, the morning air biting cold against his face, sunrise a glimmer of gold in the east.
“Madainn mhath,” he called to his brother Morgan, who was busy chopping firewood. Good morning.
Ax in hand, Morgan glowered at him, kicked a piece of firewood into the pile. “What’s so bloody good about it?”
Och, hell.
So that was the way of things.
Connor let his brother’s words go and entered the dark warmth of the barn. Cows lowed, eager to be milked, the air pungent with the scents of hay, leather, and manure. He passed the well-ordered and oiled horse tackling and farm gear and walked to the back to the stalls where Iain was already measuring out the morning’s portion of oats for the horses.
Iain looked up. “Madainn mhath.”
“Dia dhuit.” God be with you.
Connor patted Fríthe, his favorite mare, on her velvety muzzle. “Morgan’s in a rage again.”
“Aye. So I noticed.” Iain handed Connor a filled nosebag. “Annie says Amalie has forsaken his bed.”
Och, that would be enough to sour any man’s temper.
Connor slipped the nosebag onto Fríthe’s head, and the mare began to feed. “Yule E’en is upon us. ’Tis no’ fittin’ that he and Amalie find themselves still at odds. Talk wi’ him, Iain. You are the eldest. He’ll heed your counsel.”
Iain handed Connor another nosebag of oats. “I’ve tried talkin’ wi’ him, but he willna listen. ’Tis fear that drives him. I’ve no words to assuage such fears.”
Nor did Connor. These were not baseless fears, but fears born from harsh reality. Women perished in childbed every day, dying as they struggled to bring new life into the world. Only three weeks had passed since Sarah had given birth to little William, and Connor had not yet forgotten her long hours of suffering, the sound of her cries, or the fear that had gnawed at him as he’d wondered whether she and the child would both survive.
And yet to hear Iain and Morgan speak of it, Sarah’s travail had been nothing compared to that which Amalie had endured. Last March, Amalie had borne Morgan twin sons and would certainly have perished had Rebecca, sister to their Mahican blood brother Joseph and a skilled midwife, not been here to help with the birth.
Aye, Connor could understand why Morgan had refused to spend his seed in his wife. Morgan did not wish to see her suffer again, nor did he wish to risk losing her. But nine months had passed now, and Amalie’s patience seemed to be at an end.
If, as Iain’s wife Annie had said, Amalie had forsaken Morgan’s bed altogether, there would be no living with either of them.
Connor carried the nosebag to Fiona’s stall, hung it gently on the mare’s head. “Somethin’ must be done. I dinnae wish to see Amalie weepin’ at Christmas.”
Iain handed him another filled nosebag. “Nor do I.”
And then it came to Connor.
He thrust the nosebag back into Iain’s hands. “I’ve got a plan.”
“Connor, what… ?”
But Connor didn’t stop, nor did he explain himself to Iain, but hurried back to the house to fetch his snowshoes.

# # #

The sun was good and up before Connor reached the old oak. It grew near the burnie that marked the eastern edge of their lands, the water now turned to hard ice. There, on a thick, gnarled branch, he spotted what he’d come for—mistletoe. It’s green leaves and waxy white berries stood out against the rough, gray bark.
The priests and old women of Skye, where Connor and his brothers had been born, held mistletoe to be sacred. Green when other plants had died, it was said to be twice as powerful if it grew upon an oak. When hung above doorways, it kept evil at bay, blessing all who passed beneath it. And lads and lasses who kissed beneath it could be assured they would marry in the new year.
Connor didn’t know if the stories were true, but if mistletoe could help unmarried lads and lasses to wed, perhaps it could mend hurts between a husband and wife.
He kicked off his snowshoes and began to climb.

# # #

Morgan poured warm water into a copper bowl, his anger long since spent. Feeling wooden inside, he washed for dinner, shaved, and put on a clean shirt of white linen. It would not do to join the others at Iain and Annie’s board for Christmas E’en dinner in a shirt stained by sweat from a day’s worth of chores.
He reached into his pack for the gift he’d hidden there and drew out a velvet bag of deep crimson. He opened it, spilled its contents into his hands—a pair of polished brass filigree combs he’d chosen as a Christmas gift for Amalie. He’d bought them last summer on a trip to Albany, certain they would please her. But now…
He’d never meant to hurt her. He was only trying to protect her, but that’s not how she saw it.
“Do you not want me, Morgan?” she’d asked him last night, a stricken look on her face. “Do you feel no desire for me?”
He’d tried again to explain. “I love you, Amalie, and wish only to spare you. We’ve two strong sons, and I’ll ask no more from you. I willna risk you in childbirth again, nor would I see our sons grow up motherless.”
“You cannot make that choice for me. You are selfish and wish only to free yourself from fear. Where is your faith, Morgan?”
He’d lost his temper then. “Your years in the convent have blinded you to the harshness of this life.”
Tears had filled her eyes. “If I cannot lie with you as your wife, I will not lie with you at all.”
She’d taken a blanket from the bed and curled up on the floor before the fire.
And nothing he’d said had coaxed her beneath the bearskin again.
Why could she not understand?
If he got her with child only to lose her, he would never forgive himself. Besides, it wasn’t that she lacked for pleasure. He would not join his body to hers, but there were many ways for a man to love a woman. He did not leave her unsatisfied. Many a woman would consider such an arrangement a blessing—carnal gratification without childbirth. Why could Amalie not be content?
Are you content, laddie?
Aye, he was. Or he tried to be.
Amalie had become a skillful lover, her mouth and hands driving him to the brink of madness. And if there were times he ached to be inside her, to feel their bodies become one, to lie face to face with her, buried within her?
It was a sacrifice he was willing to make for her sake.
You cannot make that choice for me.
Och, Satan’s arse!
He slipped the combs into the velvet bag, tucked it back into its hiding place, and walked down the stairs and out his front door. Iain and the others would be waiting.

# # #

“Adeste fideles laeti triumphantes/Venite, venite in Bethlehem.”
Amalie did her best to sing along, willing herself to seem as cheerful as the others as they sang chants des Noëls—what the others called Christmas carols—in Scottish Gaelic, French, English, and Latin to the accompaniment of Sarah’s beautiful harpsichord, children playing at their feet or sleeping on the thick bearskin rug stretched out near Iain and Annie’s hearth.
They’d eaten a dinner of roasted goose, buttery corn, boiled parsnips, potatoes, and biscuits, with spiced cider, Annie’s gingerbread, and something Sarah called Christmas pudding for dessert. But, although the food had been delicious, Amalie had had little appetite, her thoughts never straying far from the argument she’d had with Morgan last night.
He claimed she did not understand, but she did. He was afraid she would die in childbed, and so he gave her only part of himself. She could not deny that she found pleasure with him, but that pleasure was incomplete. She missed the feel of his weight upon her, his deep thrusts inside her, the joy of being possessed wholly by him—and possessing him in return.
In truth, it was he who did not understand. But how could she convince him that what he was doing to protect her was in truth hurtful to her?
“Venite adoremus/Venite adoremus/Venite adoremus/Dominum.”
The song came to an end, and Amalie like the others clapped. The sound roused little Connor Joseph from his sleep. He whimpered, fussed. Amalie went to him, lifted her son into her arms, his twin Lachlan still asleep, thumb in his mouth.
“Sleepy lad!” Morgan ran his hand over little Connor’s dark hair, his warm smile and the gentleness in his eyes when he met Amalie’s gaze a peace offering. He looked so handsome in his crisp linen shirt, his dark hair drawn back in a queue, his face clean shaven.
She willed a smile onto her face and sat in the chair that he offered her, fighting not to cry when he kissed her hair, her emotions at an edge. “Merci.”
They sang a few more carols, then Iain walked to the fireplace and drew from the mantel the heavy leather-bound family Bible. Apart from Connor’s whimpers, the room fell quiet as Iain opened the thick book to a page marked with a red ribbon and began to read, his deep voice seeming to fill the room.
“And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed. This taxin’ was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria. And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city. Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, because he was of the house and lineage of David, to be taxed wi’ Mary his espoused wife, bein’ great wi’ child.
“And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn Son and wrapped Him in swaddling clothes and laid Him in a manger because there was no room for them in the inn.”
As Iain read about the angels and shepherds, Amalie thought of a young virgin, unmarried and most unexpectedly with child, her betrothed shocked to find her thus, but compelled by a dream and his own compassion to remain true to her. She thought of blameless Mary, great with child, traveling to Bethlehem on a donkey, the pangs of childbirth coming upon her. She thought of a young mother giving birth to her first child in the chill of a stable with only straw for birthing linens.
If Joseph could be a husband to Mary through such hardship and uncertainty, why could Morgan not be a true husband to Amalie?
She felt something wet on her face—tears—and wiped them away.

# # #

Beneath his own roof once more, Morgan built up the fires while Amalie settled little Lachlan and Connor in their cradles. He was determined to make peace with his wife tonight one way or another. He’d seen her tears, had wondered whether it had been the tale of the first Christmas that had moved her—or whether her tears were borne of sorrow.
The nagging feeling in his heart told him it was the latter.
She stepped out of the boys’ room, a brass candle holder in one hand, the flame’s light dancing on her beautiful face, her long dark hair spilling down her back.
Say somethin’, you lout!
But before he could find his tongue, she had disappeared into their room.
What could he say? He wouldn’t apologize for wanting to protect her life. That was his duty as a husband. Why was he expected to watch over her and keep her safe from harm when it came to wild animals and ruthless men, but blamed and condemned when he tried to protect her from the harm that his own seed might cause?
You are selfish and wish only to free yourself from fear. Where is your faith, Morgan?
Her words came back to him, but he brushed them aside. He trusted no one in Heaven or on earth with Amalie’s life.
And then she stood before him, wearing only her nightgown, a woolen shawl around her shoulders, candle holder in her hand. “Goodnight, Morgan. Joyeux Noël.”
She turned to go.
“Amalie—wait.” He crossed the room. “I would speak wi’ you.”
He’d been so angry all day, a strange sense of guilt eating at him, and his words came out as a command.
She stood still as he’d bidden her, but her gaze was averted.
“You’ll be sleepin’ in the bed wi’ me tonight. I’ll no’ see you catch your death by sleepin’ on the floor.”
“As you wish.”
Och, Satan’s hairy arse! He hadn’t meant to speak the words as though they were an order. He didn’t want her obedience.
He reached out, cupped her shoulders, gentled his voice. “I dinnae wish to see you fall ill.”
She said nothing.
“Amalie, for God’s sake! How can you blame me when all I want in this world is to keep you and our sons safe?”
Her gaze collided with his. “I do not wish to be merely safe. I want to live, Morgan! I want to feel your love, to be your wife in every way!”
“But you are my wife in every way.”
She shook her head. “You refuse to give me all of yourself, as if I were your mistress or your… your whore.”
“That’s no’ the way of it. I cherish you! You bloody well ken that!” He drew a breath, worked to rein in his temper. This was not turning out as he’d hoped. He did not wish to fight with her. “At least tell me why you were weepin’. I saw tears on your face.”
Her gaze dropped to the floor. “I was thinking of Mary. An angel came to her and told her she was with child even though she was a virgin, and she never once faltered. Not when Joseph doubted her. Not only the long journey to Bethlehem. Not when she had no choice but to give birth in a stable, with only Joseph at her side. It is a story of faith, Morgan. Can you not see? If Joseph found the faith to stand by Mary, why can you not find the faith to stand by me?”
“But I do stand by you! I would never forsake you!”
She looked up at him. “In your fear, you already have. By denying me your body, you deny us, our marriage, our love. You seek to spare me suffering, but in doing so you deprive me of the joys of being a wife and mother.”
And Morgan understood. “You truly want this. You would risk your life for this.”
“Oui. I want you Morgan—all of you.”
He took the candleholder from her hand and set it on the mantel, then drew her to him, taking her mouth in a slow, deep kiss. She melted against him, returned the kiss with a woman’s full passion, her fingers sliding into his hair.
Desire long denied flared to life inside him, and he found himself lifting the soft linen of her nightgown in impatient handfuls, his hands hungry for the feel of her, his cock already hard and straining against the leather of his breeches.
But she was impatient, too, her hands sliding beneath his shirt to caress his chest, then dropping lower, boldly rubbing the bulge of his erection.
There was no time for tenderness or gentle kisses, raw need driving them both.
With a groan, Morgan drew her nightgown over her head, then lifted her off her feet and laid her back on the table, firelight dancing over her bare breasts, the gentle curve of her belly, the sweet slit of her sex.
She reached down to fight with the fall of his breeches. “Now, Morgan!”
Hunger pounding in his veins, he pushed her hands aside and drew his cock free, moaning aloud when he pressed the engorged tip against her cleft and found she was already wet and ready for him.
Her legs wrapped possessively around his waist, drawing him closer as he slid inch by slick inch inside her.
Amalie felt her body arch as Morgan stretched her, filled her, became one with her at last. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, the pleasure astonishing as he began to move, slow strokes quickly building into hard, rapid thrusts that almost rocked the table. She closed her hands over his forearms, his fingers digging into her hips as he moved faster, thrust harder. Then his thumb found her most sensitive spot, teased it, moving in slick circles over the swollen nub.
She found herself on the crest, bliss drawing tight in her belly, then exploding in a warm rush, a flood of liquid delight. Morgan’s groans mingled with her cries as he followed her into oblivion and spilled himself inside her.
She didn’t realize she was crying until Morgan wiped her tears away. But this time they were tears of happiness.

# # #

He made sweet, slow love to her twice more, once on the bearskin rug before their hearth and then again in their bed. It was only as she lay in his arms, about to drift into dreams, that she noticed it.
“Le gui.” She did not know what the plant was called in English.
Morgan opened his eyes, a lazy grin spreading on his face when he saw it. “Mistletoe. Where did you find it?”
“I did not put it there.” She sat up on one elbow. “I thought you’d hung it.”
His brow furrowed. “Nay.”
Amalie met Morgan’s gaze and knew he was as perplexed as she.
“Hmmm.” His eyes narrowed. “My brothers.”
Did he believe his brothers had done this?
Amalie blushed to think so.
But then Morgan settled her head against his shoulder, one strong arm holding her close, his other hand stroking her hair. “You know I’d gladly cut out my own heart and throw it in the dirt afore I’d hurt you. Can you forgi’e me, lass?”
“Of course.” She slid her hand over his chest, her palm coming to rest over his heartbeat. “But leave your heart where it is, oui?”

# # #

Christmas Day dawned bright and beautiful, sunshine making the snow glitter. It was clear to Connor, Sarah, Iain and Annie that something had changed overnight between Morgan and Amalie. If their smiling faces hadn’t given that away, then their tender touches and stolen glances would have.
But it was Iain who noticed the smug look on his youngest brother’s face. “What did you do, for I ken you were up to somethin’.”
“Do you remember the old oak by the burn?”
“Aye, for certain.”
“I cut some mistletoe from its branches and hung it above their bed.”
Iain’s gaze narrowed. “So that was you?”
Connor’s grin broadened. “Aye. I had plenty, so I nailed some up above your bed, too.”
Iain had thought Annie was responsible for the sprig above their bed and had rewarded her for the sweet gesture with a night of loving. She probably thought he’d hung it hoping to seduce her.
Och, well, either way it had worked its magic.
Iain threw back his head and laughed. “Merry Christmas, brother.”
“Merry Christmas.” Connor gave him a nudge. “And you’re welcome.”

© 2012 Pamela Clare
Used with permission

~*~*~*~

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Charged with a crime they didn't commit, the MacKinnon brothers faced a death sentence until they agreed to serve the British Crown in the colonies and take up arms against the French. Allied with the Indian tribes who lived beside them in the wilderness, the Scottish Highland warriors forged a new breed of soldier...

Major Connor MacKinnon despises his commander, Lord William Wentworth, beyond all other men. Ordered to rescue Wentworth's niece after the Shawnee take her captive, he expects Lady Sarah Woodville to be every bit as arrogant and contemptible as her uncle. Instead, he finds a brave and beautiful lass in desperate peril. But the only way to free Sarah is for Connor to defeat the Shawnee warrior who kidnapped her—and claim her himself.

Torn by tragedy from her sheltered life in London, Lady Sarah is unprepared for the harshness of the frontier—or for the attraction she feels toward Connor as he guides her first through the consummation of their forced union and then through the dangers of the wilderness. When they reach civilization, however, it is she who must protect him. For if her uncle knew all that Connor had done to save her, he would surely kill him.

But the flames of passion, once kindled, are difficult to deny. As desire transforms into love, Connor will have to defy an empire to keep Sarah at his side.

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Pamela is giving away a copy of her book Defiant, to one lucky commenter! (US only) Make sure to leave a meaningful comment below AND fill out the rafflecopter.

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Three Dukes and a Baby...with Miranda Neville (+Giveaway)

2012-12-10T08:00:00.000-05:00

Three Dukes and a Baby

On Christmas Eve

With Miranda Neville

Miranda Neville moved to New York from her native England to work in Sotheby's Book Department. She later married and moved to Vermont, where she still lives and almost always gets a white Christmas. When she started to write historical romance, she set out to prove that, contrary to actual experience, rare book collectors are young and hot. She is now attempting the same transformation with art collectors and connoisseurs. The Importance of Being Wicked is the first in her new series The Wild Quartet. There will eventually be four books. Probably.

Find Miranda Online: Website | Facebook | Twitter | on The Ballroom Blog

No one loves a hot duke more than I do. But to fit three of them into one short story seemed like overkill. So I took a different approach to my Christmas tale of separated lovers. -Miranda

Three Dukes and a Baby

by Miranda Neville

Jonathan Bradshaw hated dukes. To be specific he hated one duke.

The day a duke ruined his life he’d ended up face down in a ditch on the Scottish side of the border, stunned and aching from the beating he’d suffered at the hands of His Grace’s lackeys. The smell of whisky cut through the mud clogging his swollen nose. That was the last straw. His pocket flask, fully charged against the chill of a northern journey in early spring, had cracked. If he managed to lug his bruised body out of the dirt, he wouldn’t be able to console his bruised soul and broken heart with the Scottish breath of life.

Waiting for his miserable existence to evaporate along with his last source of comfort, he became aware of a faint lapping sound close to his ear. Then a tiny snuffle and a wet little tongue licking his cheek. Something else was chewing on his boot. The ignominy of ending his life a meal for rats lifted him out of his torpid despair. Rolling onto his arse he found himself surrounded by a trio of puppies. Funny little things, they were, with snub noses and floppy ears and madly wagging tails. They must have been abandoned since their breeding was, to put it kindly, indeterminate. He felt a kinship with the mongrels. Had he not also been rejected by the Duke of Windlesham for his lack of the proper parentage?

The creatures yelped with joy, butting their little heads against his legs and nuzzling his hands with wet noses. One of them demanded to be picked up. When he obliged a wet warmth trickled through his fingers.

The little devil had wet himself.

Jonathan averted his eyes from his housekeeper’s festive sprig of holly and checked that the decanter was full. It was Christmas Eve, an occasion he’d dreamed of celebrating in his elegant hundred-year-old house with his wife. If he had a wife. The Duke of Windlesham said not, when he dragged his daughter from the Gretna Green smithy where the smith had just declared Mr. Jonathan Bradshaw and the Lady Anthea Winslow man and wife. A Scottish marriage apparently didn’t count unless it was consummated. As it happened the consummation had taken place, but before the ceremony. In any case, the question was moot. All efforts to find his bride had proved futile. Anthea had vanished from society, from her father’s many mansions, and, as far as Jonathan could discover, from the face of the earth.

So he’d returned to the estate he’d purchased in a vain attempt to impress the duke, who’d declared he’d never give his daughter to the son of a tradesman, however rich. Jonathan wasn’t in the habit of indulging alone, but tonight he intended to get rip roaring drunk.

Something was missing. Or rather three somethings.

“Dukes!” he called into the garden where moonlight glittered on frosted trees. “Come in boys!”

In his loathing for all things ducal, he’d decided to insult the highest rank of nobility by bestowing the title on his brood of curs. Clarence, who had a penchant for spirits, was named for the duke who was unfortunately drowned in a butt of Malmsey wine. Wellington was the boot chewer. And the dog who peed on him was honored with the title of Windlesham. But since he was fond of the little fellow, he usually just called him Widdle. Except when he widdled.

“Clarence! Wellington! Widdle!” he shouted. Ill-bred yapping arose from the shrubbery. The dogs had either cornered a creature or found something vile-smelling to roll in. “Come, boys. If you stink it’s the stables for you, and not a bite of my supper.”

Jonathan’s amble across the lawn turned into a run when a new sound joined the cacophony of barks. Good Lord! A capacious basket wedged into the shelter of a rhododendron emitted the unmistakable howl of an angry baby.

In short order he carried the foundling inside. Without knowing much about infants, he was sure this one was very young. His ridiculously small and very red face was topped by a spindly mop of dark hair. With eyes screwed shut he emitted a level of noise astonishing for such a tiny body.

“Hey there,” he whispered, touched by such fragile helplessness. “What’s the matter?” Was he hungry, cold? Both? The only response was a continuing howl. “What do you want, little one?”

The child was tightly wrapped, a good idea outside, but his library had a good fire. He gently removed a blanket and loosened the swaddling. The perfection of the miniature hands tempted him to touch. Little fingers clutched at his giant one. The baby fell silent and regarded him with big, unfocused eyes.

The dukes sat around him, regarding him with adoring trust. He’d cared for them as orphaned babies and now it apparently fell to him to do the same for a human one. Reaching below the child’s bottom, he smiled. “Well, well,” he told the dogs. “We’ve acquired another widdler.”

His competent housekeeper, whom he’d previously dismissed for the night, responded to his rung. “Newborn, sir. I’ll take care of him and we can decide what to do tomorrow. The mother must be in a sad way to abandon her child at Christmas.”

“Bring him back here when you’ve made him comfortable.”

The infant had fallen under his protection and he’d care for it, as he would any one in need. But he felt more than casual charity for this waif. His company for Christmas was far more appealing than the bottle.

Her company, as the housekeeper informed him when she returned. “Ring again when she cries, sir. She’ll be hungry in the night. I’ve rigged up a bottle and teat for her but tomorrow she’ll need a wet nurse.”

“Show me what to do. I’ll see to her.”

For now the tiny girl slept peacefully while he watched. Dry napkins, a wet nurse, a foster mother. The needs of so helpless a creature were overwhelming. Perhaps he’d keep her. The notion surprised him. When he’d persuaded Anthea to elope with him to escape her arranged marriage, his mind had been possessed by love and earthy passion, the consequences of domesticity little regarded. He wondered if she had wed the middle-aged earl with his two dead wives and rakish reputation. Surely he would have heard.

Unmanly tears prickled his eyes yet his heart was lighter. Fortune had brought him someone to care for, besides his trio of dukes.

He didn’t know how long he kept vigil. It was the dukes who disturbed the silence first, starting up from their sleeping heap of fur on the hearth rug. Distantly he heard the front door knocker. A glance at the mantle clock told him it was after midnight.

Christmas Day.

He opened the door to a pathetic and wondrous sight. She was bedraggled and shivering but he’d recognize her in a full face mask in the dark. His one and only love.

“Anthea!” he cried and she collapsed into his arms.

“Joanna? Do you have her? I put her down because I couldn’t carry her another step. I was coming to the house but I fainted. When I awoke she was gone.”

“She is safe, my love. Come.”

He lifted her up and bore her trembling body into the library. Her care was all for her daughter but he could wait.

Their daughter. He was a father.

“What happened?” he asked, when he had his wife curled in his lap in a large armchair, their child in her arms.

“Father kept me locked at his hunting box until the birth. He was going to take her away from me and I couldn’t bear it. Finally I found a way to escape and come to you. I’m sorry it took so long, Jonathan. I love you and I’ve never loved another.”

“Nothing matters now. I love you, I love Joanna, and we’re together.”

“I was so afraid I’d never see you again.”

He stroked her smooth dark head and drank in the lovely face he’d feared lost forever. Her cheek was chilled beneath his palm, as were the lips he traced with his thumb. Then he kissed her and felt nothing but warmth and the promise of a blissful future.

A tug on his boot interrupted the tender interlude. There was a puddle on the carpet, and one pair of eyes gazed longingly at the untouched decanter.

“My darling,” he said. “I must introduce you to the dukes.”

* Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Maya Rodale's scene*

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Thomas, Duke of Castleton, has every intention of wedding a prim and proper heiress. That is, until he sets eyes on the heiress's cousin, easily the least proper woman he's ever met. His devotion to family duty is no defense against the red-headed vixen whose greatest asset seems to be a talent for trouble...

Caroline Townsend has no patience for the oh-so-suitable (and boring) men of the ton. So when the handsome but stuffy duke arrives at her doorstep, she decides to put him to the test. But her scandalous exploits awaken a desire in Thomas he never knew he had. Suddenly Caro finds herself falling for this most proper duke...while Thomas discovers there's a great deal of fun in a little bit of wickedness.

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A Lonely Courtesan....with Jess Michaels (+Giveaway)

2012-12-09T09:00:00.000-05:00

A Lonely Courtesan
on Christmas Eve with Jess Michaels

About the Author:

Jess Michaels began writing full-time in 1999 after being encouraged by her husband to follow her dream. In 2003, she sold her first novella to Red Sage Press, an erotic historical romance about an Egyptian tomb and a very sexy curse. Since then she has published (or has contracted to publish by the end of 2013) 37 novels and novellas under three different pen names with several major publishers, small presses and via self-publishing. Her erotic historical romances have been national bestsellers and won awards from booksellers and readers.

In 2011, she and her husband moved to Tucson, AZ. There she enjoys hiking in the beautiful desert, spending time with her nephews, designing jewelry, reading and spending time with her awesome husband and cats.

Find Jess Online: Website | Goodreads | Facebook | Twitter

Upon A Christmas Star

by Jess Michaels

Annalisa Ferrar sighed as she steadied herself on the seat of her carriage when it took a corner too quickly. Why the driver was in such a rush, she could not imagine. After all, he was only taking her to a pointless, empty party. One she would have refused to attend if not for the personal invitation of her old friend Vivien Manning.
“A Christmas Eve masquerade, my dear,” Vivien had said with a twinkling smile. “Given for only the best in Society.”
“Why we are invited is beyond me,” Annalisa had replied at the time.
But Vivien had said something about being on the arm of some important man and that the masks would protect their identities. All the words had blended together at some point because Annalisa simply did not care anymore. She had stopped caring at the end of the summer when Gabriel ended their affair.
Their affair wasn’t even supposed to start. She had seen him at one of Vivien’s soiree’s, heard his tragic story of injury and scarring in the war and had approached him out of sympathy for what he’d been through. But she had soon learned that he was not a man to be pitied. He was a shocking lover, one who gave her more pleasure than she had ever experienced before. More than that, he was a good man, an interesting man, a man she had fallen deeply and utterly in love with.
And he had rejected her and her heart. He had disappeared from her life with only a few scrawled words on a piece of paper left on her pillow.
So what did parties matter anymore?
The carriage stopped and her footman opened the door for her. As she stepped down onto the packed and dirty snow on the drive, she looked up. It was a clear night, the stars sparkling unmarred above her and mocking her pain. Then, unexpectedly, one of them flickered and fell toward earth.
“A shooting star,” she murmured beneath her breath.
“Best make your Christmas wish then, miss,” her footman said in his funny Cockney accent. “And get yourself inside ‘fore you freeze.”
She stared up as the star disappeared on its journey. A wish. Well, there was only one wish to make. One foolish, Christmas wish.
“I wish for him to return to me,” she murmured. “Somehow.”

Major Gabriel Crook shifted uncomfortably as the mask he wore chafed the still tender scar tissue on his cheek. If the itchy thing hid his identity even in the slightest, he might have welcomed it, but his pronounced limp and the raw flesh that peeked out around the edges of the mask told the world who he was. And they did delight in staring, whispering, giving him pitying looks even while they avoided speaking to him.
But what was he to do? Every so often one of these fops who were somehow related to the Army wanted to bring him out for display. Parade him like a war pony for his friends and cronies to cluck over. And with his financial situation as it was, he was in no position to turn down a free meal and liquor to boot.
He had once belonged the ranks of those around him, but his experiences now separated him. That and the fact this is bastard of a father had cut him off because he couldn’t stand to look at him. He’d even heard the old man say he wished his son had died rather than return home from the continent as such a broken, worthless man.
Of course, his father wasn’t that far from the truth.
“Ah, Major, there you are.”
He pressed his lips together, drew a deep breath and turned to face Lord Avery, his host for the evening. He had nothing against the man, of course. In fact, Avery was one of the more reasonable and decent men of these circles. But Gabriel did not function well when it came to these empty exchanges, he had lost that ability when he nearly lost his life.
“Good evening, my lord,” he managed with difficulty. “Thank you again for inviting me.”
“It is my pleasure, sir. Your sacrifice for our country cannot be ignored, especially during this season of goodwill and remembrance of our blessings.”
Gabriel wanted to turn away. Of course what Avery meant was that Gabriel was a good reminder to the others to count their blessings. At least they weren’t a deformed, disinherited war hero who had lost everything in battle. Wonderful to be held up as such for all to see.
He held tightly to the whiskey in his hand and nodded to placate the gentleman. “Yes, my lord, I thank you for that.”
He did not, but there was no use being rude. In some circumstances he still remembered the skills of politeness.
Avery shifted as if he realized how his words could be taken, but then his discomfort faded and a smile tilted up his lips. “Ah, perhaps you will soon have more blessings to count. A lady approaches and I shall depart to leave you to what I’m sure will be better company.”
Gabriel acknowledged his host’s departure, but only just kept himself from stifling a groan at the idea of a lady approaching him. Dear God, they were worse than the men. They sidled up to him, murmuring empty platitudes and the moment they saw the deep disfiguring on the left side of his face they fled. Some had even fainted. Their desire to nurture a war hero only went so far.
Well, that wasn’t fair. One woman had never seemed to care about his looks. Annalisa. But that was over.
He turned to face his present attacker, being sure to give her the left side of his face before the rest in the hopes it would speed the charade along. But the woman who was nearly at his side made him stop.
She was wearing a red velvet gown, cut far too low in the front. She held her matching velvet mask up, but she was so distracted it had slipped down to reveal most of her face. And there, looking right at him, was the woman he had been considering not a moment ago.
“Anna,” he breathed as she stopped in front of him, her dark eyes filled with emotion as she stared up at him in awe.
“Gabriel,” she whispered back. “I did not realize you would be here.”
He struggled to speak. To say something polite and inane, but all he wanted to do was to push her down to the floor right then and there and take her like he had so many times. To make her his until he could forget all of his faults, all of the reasons to stay away.
“Nor I, you,” he managed to say instead of stake his claim as he so desired. “I apologize, I would not have come had I known.”
Her full lips thinned with displeasure and something in him swelled. So she was still upset by their parting. He hated it, for it hurt her… but part of him was happy she could not so easily forget him.
“Should I go?” she asked, her tone flat and angry. “Would that make you more comfortable? After all, that is all we care about, isn’t it?”
He flinched at her pointed words. “Anna-” he began.
She turned away. “Nevermind. I was foolish to approach you when you have made your distain for me quite clear. Forgive me for the intrusion.”
With that, she turned and spun away, racing across the ballroom until she disappeared from view. Gabriel stared where he had last saw her and emotions bubbled inside of him. Joy that he had seen her again. Pain that she had left. Despair that she believed he thought so little of her. And anger that she did not allow him to explain. More emotions than he ever allowed himself to feel.
“Are you going to go after her?” a voice said from behind him.
He turned to find Vivien Manning standing at his side. She wore a mask, of course, but there was no denying the beauty of her blonde hair, the stark brightness of her cool, blue eyes. Even if one did not recognize her for her features, her calm, sophisticated confidence gave her away. No other woman in the world held herself with such self-certainty and comfort despite a position many would judge her for.
“Vivien, you must know I cannot,” he said, clenching a fist at his side.
“Ah, so she was right, you are a coward,” Vivien said, then clucked her tongue.
He stiffened. “I am a great many things, madam, but a coward is not one of them.”
“Hmmm, and yet one little Spanish courtesan makes you hide. That sounds rather cowardly to me.” She did not wait for him to defend himself, but turned and walked away into the crowd.
He pivoted to look for Annalisa again. It was one thing for Vivien to say it, but had Annalisa truly called him a coward? His abandonment could not be seen as such, even by her. Great God, he would not stand for it.
Slowly, he moved through the crowd, his leg screaming with every step. But for once, he did not focus on the pain, nor the pitying stares. He only moved toward where he had last seen Anna.
Instead he found a clucking, tsking group of women who stared at him in horror and interest equally matched.
“I beg your pardon, but have you seen a woman?” he asked. “In a red velvet gown?”
The women clucked at each other even more, leaning in to whisper as if he had not even asked a question. How he wanted to howl and curse and truly make himself the beast they thought him to be.
Then a savior stepped forward. A woman in a bright blue gown, her mask covering her entire face. “I saw the lady, sir. She went toward the portrait gallery.”
“Thank you,” he said in relief that he would not be forced to repeat that nightmare of talking to the others at the party. He ducked from the room and down a series of long hallways toward the portrait gallery. By the time he reached the long, dimly lit hallway, he had almost given up on Annalisa. Surely she would not come all this way just to avoid him.
But as he rounded a final corner into the hall, his disbelief was proven false. There she stood, arms folded as she paced back and forth in front of a painting she was not even pretending to look at.
“Anna,” he began.
She pivoted toward him in surprise. “Great God, Gabriel, you asked me to leave you be and I have. Why do you follow me?”
Without waiting for a response, she stalked further down the hallway and into a parlor. Gabriel winced as he limped after her.
“I would ask that you have the courtesy to look at me,” he snapped as he slammed the door behind himself in the hopes they would have privacy for what looked to be a rather unpleasant encounter.
She clenched her fists at her sides and then slowly did as he had asked. “Why are you chasing me across Lord Avery’s home?” she asked, tossing her mask aside so he got his first full view of her beautiful face.
He caught his breath and made an effort to calm himself before he responded. “I have heard rumor that you called me a coward, madam. Is this true?”
She pursed her lips and was silent for a beat too long. His heart sank.
“It is true,” he murmured, truly shocked.
She shifted ever so slightly, as if she were unhappy at being caught in this statement. “I did say it, once in anger. I assume your source must be Vivien Manning.”
He nodded. “Indeed, it was she who told me this.”
“Conniving-” She bit her next words off and returned to her pacing from earlier. “This is why she brought me here tonight, I assume. To create this drama between us. To further her matchmaking.”
Gabriel knew she was right, but he had more pressing matters to attend to, whether he had been manipulated into them or not. “You know it was not cowardice that sent me from you.”
She stopped moving but her tone dripped with sarcasm as she said, “Oh no. You say it is your desire to protect me, of course.”
“It is. I can offer you nothing, Annalisa. I have been disinherited by my father and my financial status is low at best. I am stared at as a freakish monster best caged and seen only after someone pays a pence.”
Anna marched toward him and grasped the edge of his mask. With one smooth motion, she flipped it up and away from his face and cupped his cheeks with both her palms. It had been so long since he touched her that he shuddered even with this angry version of her warmth.
“Don’t you dare speak of yourself in such terms Gabriel Crook,” she whispered, her tone harsh and broken. “If I heard someone else do so, I would slap them. Do not think that I won’t do the same to you. You are not freakish or broken or worthless. That voice you hear in your head was never mine, but it never mattered. You threw me away to wallow in your pain and grief and mourning over the man you no longer were. But I didn’t know that man and I love the man you are, not that it matters.”
The last statement came out as a broken sob and she let him go and headed for the door. But as she tugged against it, it did not open.
He faced her slowly, watching her struggle with the door until she finally rested her forehead against it.
“The door is jammed,” she said.

Annalisa struggled not to break down in utterly humiliating tears as she tried the door one more time. Of course the door was jammed, for it was the most opportune time to be stuck somewhere with a man.
“May I try it?” Gabriel asked softly.
She stepped aside, careful not to look at him and watched as he hobbled up to the door and tugged on it a few times. Injured or not, he was much stronger than she and the door didn’t move even a fraction.
“It is not jammed, I believe it may be locked,” he said, his voice very impassive, though his bright green eyes sparkled with emotion. Emotion and something else she recognized very well: desire. He desired her.
She shivered and stepped away. She had her pride, didn’t she? That if nothing else.
“Who would lock us in?” he asked, eyeing her as if he suspected her of something.
“Why do you ask me?” she said, folding her arms. “I certainly would never encourage such behavior. I ran away from you, didn’t I?”
He pondered that. “True. Vivien encouraged me to follow. And a woman in blue.”
“Blue…” She trailed off. “Lysandra was wearing blue.”
“Who?”
“The new Viscountess Callis, she went to Vivien for help.” She shut her eyes. “Damn them, they are playing some kind of matchmaking game.”
He frowned. “Between us?”
“Is that so unpalatable to you, Gabriel?” She wanted to sound angry, but instead she just felt… sad. Lonely. Brokenhearted.
“Of course not,” he replied, moving toward her a step before he stopped. “Annalisa, you know that my leaving had nothing to do with you. With how I feel for you.”
“You feel something for me?” she scoffed.
His cheeks filled with dark and angry red color. “Damn it, stop attacking me!” he shouted. “I left because I knew that staying would destroy you. Because I don’t want to see you, with all your vibrancy and beauty and charm, saddled to a man with no future, no friends, no money. I love you, you foolish woman.”
Annalisa blinked. Had she just imagined those words. “You… love me.”
He sucked in a breath. “You have angered me into a confession I did not wish to make,” he muttered as he turned away from her.
“You love me,” she repeated, letting those beautiful words roll off her tongue. Savoring them. Now that they had been said she found a strength she had lost. A strength to fight. “Tell me that was a lie.”
He refused to look at her. “I cannot do that.”
She slipped up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her body to his so that her breasts flattened against his back, her cheek rested against his shoulder. “Just as I cannot let you go.”
He caught his breath and she smiled as his body moved.
Slowly he turned, but she would not allow him to leave her embrace. She kept her arms around him, staring up into his beautiful, imperfect and yet utterly handsome face. She loved his scars, they marked him as her man, her love. They had been earned through bravery that made him the man he was. Anyone who thought otherwise was an idiot… including himself.
“Anna,” he whispered, his voice breaking as tears filled his eyes. She was stunned at the sight of them, for she had never allowed herself to believe that his feelings for her went so deep. “Please, you must let me go. You deserve more.”
“You were the first man who made me realize just what I do deserve. Passion, desire and love so powerful that it nearly takes me off my feet,” she said, lifting on her tiptoes to press little kisses to his jawline. She felt his desire rising with each one, even if he tried to deny himself.
“But you would suffer if you were to be with me. My father has cut me off, I have no funds to support you. I am scarred and your friends would whisper. If we came into my vague edges of Society, they would know you had once been a courtesan and not fully accept you. You would lose a great deal if you were to marry me.”
She blinked. “You would marry me.”
“If I had anything to offer, I would marry you tomorrow,” he admitted with great passion, great feeling.
“I do not need financial support,” she replied, hardly able to remain calm. “Your Society’s judgment means nothing to me because I think they are idiots. As for my friends, my closest friends are likely the ones who locked us into this room in the first place, so I believe they must approve. But even if they didn’t, I have seen and suffered a great bit in my life, I don’t need approval to survive. I need love, I need you. Tell me you do not need me.”
To accentuate her order, she reached down and stroked his cock through his trousers. It was already stiff and he sucked in a breath.
“I need you.” He blinked. “I need you more than I need breath. I love you more than I love my life. And I want you more than I want sustenance. Anna, I will ask you this question, though I know what it will cost you. Marry me?”
Tears welled in her eyes, joyful, thrilling tears. “I will, my dearest love. I will marry you.”
He smiled as he backed her toward the settee, unbuttoning her gown as he did so.
“Then I say we consummate this union,” he said with a smile that made him seem so much younger, so much less damaged by his experiences. And she vowed to keep that smile on his face forever.

~*~*~*~

*Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Karen Erickson's Scene*

Available Now:

When friends turn to lovers, anything can happen…
A mistress should never be foolish enough to fall in love with her protector, nor trust him with her financial future. Mariah Desmond did both, and now her dearly departed protector has left her with nothing.Forced to seek another protector, she’s determined that this time, she’ll lead with her survival instinct—not her heart. But when she attends one of Vivien Manning’s infamous parties, the familiar face of her late lover’s best friend throws her for a loop.

A painful past taught John Rycroft that he’s not fit to be anyone’s knight in shining armor. His soft spot—make that a hard spot—for Mariah is precisely why he’s kept his distance. Yet the sight of her flirting with a bevy of men vying to become her next lover makes something inside him snap.

As John hauls her bodily away from her suitors, Mariah’s indignation melts away in the heat of the sizzling sexual chemistry. She quickly finds it isn’t easy to navigate John’s stormy emotional waters. Especially when his abusive father’s quest to get his son back under his thumb puts her life in danger.

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Jess is giving away a ecopy of her first novel in the Mistress Matchmaker series, An Introduction to Pleasure, to one lucky commenter (Open International-anyone with a Kindle or Nook)! Make sure to leave a meaningful comment below AND fill out the rafflecopter.

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A Romantic Proposal...With Maggie Robinson (+Giveaway)

2012-12-08T09:49:00.001-05:00

A Romantic Proposal
on Christmas Eve with Maggie Robinson

About the Author:

Maggie Robinson is a former teacher, library clerk and mother of four who woke up in the middle of the night, absolutely compelled to create the perfect man and use as many adverbs as possible doing so. A transplanted New Yorker, she lives with her not-quite perfect husband in Maine, where the cold winters are ideal for staying inside and writing hot historical romances.

Find Maggie Online: Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter

My November book, Lord Gray’s List, revolves around a Regency newspaper that serves as a clearinghouse for gossip, employment and matchmaking. Who better than Lord and Lady Gray to help another couple become as happy as they are? -Maggie

A Romantic Proposal on Christmas Eve

by Maggie Robinson

December 24, 1821

“I don’t like it, Evie,” Lord Benton Gray said to his wife.

“You never like anything if I’ve thought of it first,” Lady Gray replied, spreading letters out on her desk. Well, their desk. Ben had bought a huge new partners desk for the London List’s office since he now owned the newspaper.

But he didn’t own her. Maybe her heart, perhaps, but she had a perfectly good mind of her own. And right now it was whirring with the intricacies of bringing the young Marquess of Portland up to scratch.

He and Miss Fernanda Abernathy would be married by the New Year, or her name was not Evangeline Ramsey Gray.

“Give the poor boy a few more years of freedom,” Ben begged.

“What good did your freedom do you? Courtesan races. Dancing in the nude in graveyards. I ask you,” Evie sniffed with disdain. “No, when Fernanda and Portland arrive, I shall lock them in the storage room. That should do it.”

“Those methods seem awfully crude for a woman of your intellect, Evie.”

“Well, Portland has been awfully slow. He’s known Fernanda since they were in leading strings. She’s turned down sixteen perfectly decent proposals in the past three years. It’s past time, even if a bit of compromise is involved. You’re on your way to pick up her aunt?”

Ben shuddered. As much as Evie would like to take all the credit, the idea for this ruse came from Augusta Abernathy, Fernanda’s indomitable aunt.

“All right then. Give me a kiss. The happy couple should be here any minute, and one look at you will convince Portland we’re up to something.”

Evie was always up to something.

***

Robert Humphrey, Marquess of Portland, threw his body up against the locked door. Nothing happened except a jolting pain from his shoulder to his pinky finger.

“Devil take it! Where is that newspaperwoman? I thought we were here to deliver Christmas baskets to orphans.”

“Well, at least we won’t starve to death. Cook made quite a lot of figgy puddings,” Fernanda replied. It was rather dark in the closet, but she was sure Robert rolled his eyes.

“You seem unnaturally calm, Fern. Did you plan this?” Robert asked. “Saying your aunt had the grippe and your maid the ague and your footman a toothache, and you had nobody to take you to the poor orphans’ party. A plague on you if you did!”

“Why would I do that? I don’t want to spend Christmas Eve in a closet with the likes of you!” True, Fernanda had been a bit suspicious at the sudden illnesses and her aunt’s suggestion she ask Robert to escort her. This entire affair smacked of Aunt Augusta’s manipulation. In a little while the woman herself would probably be pounding on the door and accusing Robert of compromising her favorite niece.

Robert had not compromised her. Robert was all the way over in the far corner. He hadn’t even tried to kiss her.

He hadn’t kissed her in two years. But when he had, he had ruined her completely.

She would never forget the look on his face afterward—the glazed eyes, the slack jaw, the sudden flush of color on his chiseled cheekbones. Yes, she had had a certain effect on him, and he’d been running from her ever since.

“I suppose you think I’ll have to marry you now that we’ve been trapped together.” Robert didn’t sound quite so belligerent.

“Is that a proposal?” Fernanda asked. “If it is, I’ve had better.”

“Why haven’t you married any of your dozen swains?”

“Sixteen,” Fernanda corrected. “I guess I’m hard to please.”

“You’ve always seemed perfectly agreeable to me.”

It was time for her to roll her eyes. “How you flatter me, my lord.”

“If I was ever in the mood to marry, I might not do any better than you. We’ve known each other all our lives.”

“Familiarity breeds contempt.”

“You hold me in contempt?” Robert took a step toward her.

Fernanda’s heart raced just a little. “I didn’t say that.”

“Do you like me, then?”

“You’re all right, I suppose. For a boy.”

“A boy? I’m four and twenty! I’m man enough for any woman.”

“Prove it.”

“What?”

She enjoyed the crack in his voice. “Kiss me. See if you can improve on the last one you gave me. Let’s see—I think it was the occasion of my thirteenth birthday party.”

“It was two years ago, you witch, and I’ve dreamed about it every night since then. I’m not only going to kiss you now, Fern, but kiss you every night from now on. You’re going to marry me.”

Fernanda smiled in the dark. “I am?”

“You are.”

Neither one of them much cared when the closet door opened some time later and Aunt Augusta gave a practiced, ear-splitting shriek.

~*~*~*~

*Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Elise Rome's Scene*

Available Now:

From duchesses to chamber maids, everybody's reading it. Each Tuesday, The London List appears, filled with gossip and scandal, offering job postings and matches fro the loverlorn-and most enticing of all, telling the tales and selling the wares a more modest publication wouldn't touch.

The creation of Evangeline Ramsey, the London List saved her and her ailing father from destitution. But the paper has given Evie more than financial relief. As its publisher, she lives as a man, dressed in masculine garb, free to pursue and report whatever she likes-especially the latest disgraces besmirching Lord Benton Gray. It's only fair she hang his dirty laundry, given that it was his youthful ardor that put her off marriage for good.

Lord Gray-Ben-isn't about to stand by while all of London laughs at his peccadilloes week after week. But once he discovers that the publisher is none other than pretty Evie Ramsey with her curls lopped shorty, his worries turn to desires-and not one of them fit to print.

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Maggie is giving away a copy of her anthology, Lords Of Passion, to one lucky commenter (Open Internationally)! Make sure to leave a meaningful comment below AND fill out the rafflecopter.

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A Spy Mission...with Jillian Stone (+Giveaway)

2012-12-07T10:34:00.001-05:00

A Spy Mission
on Christmas Eve with Jillian Stone

About the Author:

Jillian Stone is the author of the Phaeton Black, Paranormal Investigator series, which includes The Seduction of Phaeton Black, and the just released, The Moonstone and Miss Jones. The third sequel, The Miss Education of Doctor Exeter, is scheduled to release in summer 2013. Jillian is also the author of The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard series. Watch for A Private Duel with Agent Gunn in late November!

Find Jillian Online: Website | Blog-O-Nauts | Facebook | Twitter

Detective Flynn Rhys is on duty Christmas Eve. Several months back, working a case with Detective Rafe Lewis, he was injured in a dynamite explosion. A rather serious compound leg fracture. Plastered up in a full leg cast, he’s been assigned to surveillance, day and night, weekends and holidays. Resigned to a lonely night ahead, he hunkers down with a pair of binoculars––until a pretty package in red and white arrives.

I am also happy to report that these next few pages, written for Dani and Rita’s Christmas Eve Blogfest, will eventually become the opening chapter of the next Gentlemen of Scotland Yard romantic suspense adventure: A Dragon Kiss from Detective Rhys.-Jillian

A Spy Mission on Christmas Eve

by Jillian Stone

Isle of Dogs, London 1887

Flynn Rhys adjusted the bi-ocular spyglass to afford the best possible view across Rabbit Row. A window had been left uncovered in the second floor of the boarding house––one that rented by the hour. The prostitute working her customer tugged at the pale yellow ribbon on her chemise. “Have a care Lizzy, and show us those rosy tips,” Flynn muttered to himself as an ample bosom sprang from its confines.

He made an adjustment to his trousers, causing a downward tilt of his binoculars. A bustle of pedestrians traipsed up and down Nightingale Lane, last minute shoppers laden with packages. A dockworker hustled home with a doll under his arm. Flynn counted a half dozen oranges in an open weave sack flung over a sailor’s shoulder.

The fact that it was Saturday night and Christmas Eve, appeared to double the merriment. The brass buttoned jacket of the local Custom-house officer caught his eye. Ham Brady was a bully of a man with plenty of cheek. Even Brady who never smiled, whistled a tune as he sauntered down the row.

“Officer Brady up to his usual three penny upright, sir?” Charlie raised the window shade on a dusky twilight. The lamplighters were about. On most Saturday nights, Ham Brady would be sampling a bit street quim in the alley below. But not tonight. Presumably, the man made his way home to a family who found something to love about him.

“You should go home, Charlie––it’s Christmas Eve, for God’s sake.” A street hawker by trade, Charlie Doyle was a strapping lad. Yard men in need of an extra hand, hired him for off the books operations. He slipped a banknote into the young man’s jacket. “Stores will be closed in another hour. Take home a pretty bauble for your sister and mum.”

Reluctant to leave, Charlie hesitated at the door. “I don’t mind staying, sir. We could take turns on watch––between a bit of card play.”

Flynn, grabbed the hearth poker and itched a toe. “Not likely Grey de Ruthyn will be engaged in any gun smuggling tonight.”

“I wager you’re looking forward to Tuesday, next.” Charlie nodded to the full leg cast. “About time those plaster bandages were off.”

Flynn had been laid up for months nursing a compound fracture. To keep him from going barking mad, Zeno Kennedy, Chief Inspector, Special Branch, had arranged for something––unofficial. Flynn had been tasked with observing the comings and goings of a storehouse in Wapping, and now a shipping office on the Isle of Dogs.

The very idea of an arms trafficker setting up shop not four doors away from the Board of Trade Office––well, it was a wicked clever ruse. And Simon Grey de Ruthyn was as cunning and bold as they come.

“Out of my sight, lad.” Flynn softened his gaze. “Save me some Christmas dinner.”
“That I will, sir.” Charlie, donned his cap, backing out of the flat. “Roast goose and plum pudd––” Rattled by loud thumps on the door, his helper jumped away.
Another series of thuds and a muffled cries. Flynn separated two voices. One of them was the boarding house proprietress, Mrs. Hardwick.

He and Charlie exchanged looks. One could never be too careful when surveilling Grey de Ruthyn. Flynn tossed the fire poker to Charlie with a nod. “Let’s see who it is.”

His apprentice Yard man had no sooner turned the lock––when the door burst open in a blur of red and white.

“Young ladies are not allowed to call on gentlemen borders––it’s strictly against the house rules.” Mrs. Hardwick followed after a flurry white lace and red military-style coat.

“Certainly you can make allowances due to Mister Rhys condition? The smartly dressed intruder tossed the words over her shoulder.

Flynn sat up straight, as much as he could with the cumbersome leg cast. “Alice?”

“Surprised to see me, cousin?” She made big eyes at him and rolled them toward his sputtering landlady.

He ignored Mrs. Crosby’s protests and took a very long moment to admire everything about Miss Alice Millicent Armistead. Rich, tawny and wheat colored waves of hair blown wild from a horse race through the city. She was even more breathtaking than he recalled––she was a force of nature. A sable fur hat haloed sparkling blue eyes framed by dark lashes. Her nose, as usual, was sprinkled with pale freckles. Cheeks flushed rosy pink from the crisp cold air added a touch of color to a smile that was as genuine and radiant as he remembered. Good Christ, she could arouse Saint Peter in his grave.

She carried a large basket, which she set beside his chair. “Please inform your landlady I am a relative.” She unbuttoned intricate braided closures. Looking up from her coat, she widened her eyes. “Please, Flynn.”

Reluctantly, he confronted his landlord. “I take it you haven’t been introduced. Mrs. Crosby, it would be my pleasure––”

“Best not have anything to do with your pleasure, Mister Rhys––I hear any sound o’ pleasure coming through these walls, and y’er out on the street.”

“Mrs. Crosby––I’m shocked. A good Christian woman such as yourself, would toss me out on Christmas Eve?” Flynn tried for a stunned, bewildered expression. “The night our savior was born?”

Mrs. Crosby eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. “A warning, Mister Rhys––fornication is a sin against God.” Adding a grunt for emphasis, she eyeballed Alice on her way out the door.
“Charlie––head her off at the stairs and give her this.” Flynn slipped him a fiver. “For the Sisters of Mercy Night Home, on lower Seymour Street.”

Charlie tipped his hat and stole another fleeting glance at Alice. What red-blooded young bloke wouldn’t?

“Tell her the donation came from Miss Armistead,” Flynn paused for emphasis, “…my cousin.” He detected a grin as she tossed her coat over a chair back.

“Yes, sir––very good, sir.” Flynn waited to hear the key turn the lock before he shifted his gaze from the closed door to the beauty standing before him. The dress was simplicity itself. White, virginal, a sheer slip of a dress with delicate cap sleeves and bare shoulders. And the plunging neckline was––most arresting. His eyes traveled down the slope of her breasts. Lovely globes jiggled ever so slightly when she moved, like now.

She sat down on the edge of the chaise that served as his chair and his bed. “All those months last year, when you were assigned to watch over me? All I ever wanted was for you to look at me like you are doing now.”

A smile tugged the edges of his mouth. “How am I looking at you?”

She leaned closer. “Like I’m a present…to be unwrapped.” Her wily Alice charms were on the job, tonight. Flynn’s gaze dropped to her extraordinary mouth––a bit wide with full lips. Dear God, a man could loose control of himself.

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. He could feel the heat from her breath on his cheek. She moistened her lips and opened her mouth––just enough to be inviting.

So close, now…

She curled the tip of her tongue over the curve of her upper lip––and licked. “Happy Christmas, Detective Rhys.”

~*~*~*~
*Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Tracey Devlyn's Scene*

Just Released! A Private Duel with Agent Gunn:

Prima ballerina Catriona de Dovia lives the glamorous life of a starlet, filled with glittering jewels, sumptuous dinners, and admiring suitors. She’s grown up considerably since losing her heart to Hugh Curzon once upon a time, no longer wasting her emotions on the empty promises of charming gentlemen. On her own since the untimely death of her parents, she will do anything for the only family she has left: her brother, a notorious anarchist.

Scotland Yard Agent Phineas Gunn–sometimes known as Hugh Curzon–receives his new assignment reluctantly. He’s up for something a little more strenuous than playing nanny to a ballerina, until he sees who his charge is. Then, it’s a completely different story, because he’d been unable to forget the trusting, beautiful Cate since he had to leave her behind in Barcelona. And he suspects Cate is more than a ballet girl–in fact, she just might be a jewel thief, or even more arousing–a clever undercover operative.

Finn is determined to find out as the two race across the Continent–by land, by sea, even through the air by zephyr–it becomes uncertain who is keeping tabs on whom, and Finn and Cate must battle the sexual tension that snaps and sizzles between them every step of the way.

Get Your Copy Today:

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Jillian is giving away a copy of her book, A Private Duel with Agent Gunn, to one lucky commenter (Open International)! Make sure to leave a meaningful comment below AND fill out the rafflecopter.

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A Wardrobe Malfunction...With Anna Campbell (+Giveaway)

2012-12-06T08:00:00.000-05:00

A Wadrobe Malfunction
on Christmas Eve with Anna Campbell

About the Author:

ANNA CAMPBELL has won numerous awards for her seven Regency-set romances including Romantic Times Reviewers Choice, the Booksellers Best, the Golden Quill (three times), the Heart of Excellence (twice), the Aspen Gold (twice) and the Australian Romance Readers Association's favorite historical romance (four times). In 2012, Anna launches an exciting new publishing venture with Grand Central Publishing. She launches her first series, "Sons of Sin", with SEVEN NIGHTS IN A ROGUE’S BED in October 2012 with A RAKE’S MIDNIGHT KISS to follow in September 2013.

Find Anna Online: Website | Goodreads | Facebook | Twitter

I thought I give the word ‘wardrobe’ a slightly different meaning than I’m sure was intended by the girls – like to keep them on their toes! At a Christmas house party when there’s skullduggery afoot, a nice girl just doesn’t know who might end up sharing a dark, enclosed space with her. The funny thing is I checked the scene I did last year and my heroine ended up locked into a small, dark space with the hero in that one too. Clearly I associate Christmas with hide and seek!-Anna

A Wardrobe Malfunction on Christmas Eve

by Anna Campbell

Hartley Manor, Wiltshire, December, 1823

Surreptitiously Philippa Sanders inched the door open, praying that nobody emerged into the lamplit corridor and caught her in a place where no lady of good reputation should be, especially near midnight on Christmas Eve.

Swift and silent as a cat, she slipped into the room and carefully closed the door behind her. Lord Erskine was downstairs carousing with his cronies. If the last three nights were any indication, his flirtation with the brandy bottle was likely to continue into the early hours. She should be able to search his bedroom undisturbed. The thought did nothing to calm the mad race of her heart. If anyone caught her alone in a gentleman’s bedchamber, especially such a notorious gentleman, there would be the devil to pay.

If only the stakes weren’t so high. If only her sister Jenny wasn’t such a ninnyhammer. If only Erskine wasn’t a man who turned even sensible women silly.

Philippa sighed. “If only” wasn’t going to help. It was imperative that she found the compromising letter her henwitted sister had sent Erskine after her engagement to Mr. Gerard Fox was announced last night.

She straightened and surveyed her surroundings by the light of the fire blazing in the hearth. The room was large and luxurious. Clearly her aunt tried to turn Lord Erskine up sweet in the hope that he’d offer for her horse-faced daughter Caroline. Given the trouble his libertine lordship had caused, Philippa almost wished her vile cousin on him. Over the last few days, she’d observed him closely. She couldn’t approve of the cynical light in his eyes and the way he arrogantly assumed that any chit in his vicinity would swoon at his merest word. Philippa wouldn’t however be female without noting what a spectacular specimen of masculinity he was.

She’d worried that it might take too long to locate the letter, but her gaze immediately fell on a beautiful mahogany writing slope left open on the window seat. She rushed toward the window, hardly believing her luck. Then stopped on a choked gasp when she heard the door knob squeak behind her.

Dear heavens…

Frantically she dived across the few feet to the dressing room, even as she heard the door open behind her. She had time to notice dark coats hanging from rows of pegs and shelves piled with clothing. Hands shaking, she tugged the door closed until she cowered in thick darkness. Thick darkness that smelled surprisingly pleasant with a mixture of leather and soap and sandalwood—and something undefined that teased her nostrils.

Dizzy with fear, she silently prayed for whoever had come in to do what they needed to and go. Much as she strained, she couldn’t hear anything, even with her ear pressed to the door. The thick wood blocked out all sound just as it blocked out all light.

Within seconds, the door jerked open. “What have we here?”

“Lord Erskine—”

This was beyond awful. Sick with horror, she lurched away, crowding against the coats lined against the back wall. Desperately she struggled not to look at the bare skin below his chin. His shirt dangled from one elegant hand.

“Miss Philippa Sanders.” With unconcealed mockery, he bowed before stepping into the confined space. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The room had been tiny before. Now it was suffocating. That cursed elusive scent made her head swim as she crushed herself into the wall. Still his tall body remained only inches away. Surely it was her imagination that a subtle heat radiated out to envelop her.

“I mistook the room,” she stammered. She made the error of glancing at his chest. Broad. Powerful. Scattered with a light covering of hair. She gulped. Seeing the farm workers without their shirts from a distance wasn’t at all the same as facing down a half-dressed rake in his bedroom.

A wry smile curled his lips. “By a whole wing, apparently.”

She straightened and glared at him, trying not to notice the way his thick dark hair was ruffled and his green eyes devoured her like a sweetmeat set out for his Christmas delectation. “It’s late. I must return to my room.”

He didn’t step aside. “Not quite yet.”

She summoned every ounce of courage. “Not before you return my sister’s letter at any rate.”

He laughed softly. “I knew there was more to you than the little shadow glowering from the corner.”

She flushed with chagrin. She’d had no idea he’d noticed her, let alone remarked her reactions to him. “Give me Jenny’s letter.”

Dark eyebrows tilted in supercilious inquiry. “Or what? You’ll unfold all my shirts and stamp on them?”

Anger tempered her dread. “A gentleman would return the letter.”

“I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

Her fists clenched at her sides. “What do you intend to do with it?”

His smile broadened. “Why, nothing, my sweet Yuletide burglar. I burned it immediately after I read it.”

Since Jenny’s confession of her stupidity, apprehension had knotted Philippa’s belly. She sucked in her first full breath in what felt like days. “Thank you.” She paused. “I must go.”

“Not just yet, my fascinating Miss Sanders.”

“I’m not your Miss Sanders,” she snapped.

“Not yet, at any rate,” he said mildly, pulling the door shut behind him.

Darkness wrapped around them. Rage and terror spurred her to lurch forward, shoving hard at him. “Let me out of here.”

As he leaned away, she tugged madly at the door knob but even using both hands, she couldn’t budge it. Her shoulder brushed Erskine’s arm as she struggled. To her surprise, he made no attempt to stop her escaping.

“Open this door,” she demanded breathlessly.

“I hope I’ve frightened you sufficiently to discourage you from invading another man’s room,” he said without shifting.

“You’re trying to teach me a lesson?” she hissed incredulously.

That familiar soft laugh played up and down her backbone, and she realized that the evocative scent filling the room was Lord Erskine’s own. The intimacy of recognizing his personal essence scared her more than being trapped in the dark with a rake.

“I am indeed.” In the tight space, she heard him inhale. More unwelcome intimacy. “Step aside.”

He rattled the door knob for what seemed a ridiculous length of time.

“Stop playing games,” she said sharply. “Unlock the door and let me out.”

Philippa sensed the sudden rigidity in his tall body. When he spoke, no trace of humor warmed his deep voice. “It’s jammed.”

~*~*~*~

*Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Theresa Romain's Scene*

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Will a week of seduction...
Desperate to save her sister's life, Sidonie Forsythe has agreed to submit herself to a terrible fate: Beyond the foreboding walls of Castle Craven, a notorious, hideously scarred scoundrel will take her virtue over the course of seven sinful nights. Yet instead of a monster, she encounters a man like no other. And during this week, she comes to care for Jonas Merrick in ways that defy all logic-even as a dark secret she carries threatens them both.

...Spark a lifetime of passionate surrender?
Ruthless loner Jonas knows exactly who he is. Should he forget, even for a moment, the curse he bears, a mere glance in the mirror serves as an agonizing reminder. So when the lovely Sidonie turns up on his doorstep, her seduction is an even more delicious prospect than he originally planned. But the hardened outcast is soon moved by her innocent beauty, sharp wit, and surprising courage. Now as dangerous enemies gather at the gate to destroy them, can their new, fragile love survive?

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Anna is giving away a copy of her first novel in the Sons of Sin series, Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed, to one lucky commenter (Open Internationally)! Make sure to leave a meaningful comment below AND include your email!

(**No rafflecopter form needs to be filled out for this giveaway- just comment with email!)

And don't forget to enter the Grand Prize Giveaway

What's on your Christmas Reading List? (+Giveaway)

2012-12-05T08:00:00.000-05:00

Due to unforeseen circumstances, Beverley Kendall was not able to provide a scene for the event today. In lieu, I'll be putting together a small post featuring some of my favorite holiday reads and Beverley will be giving away some of HER fave holiday reads! Enjoy!

It's that time of year again! Mad dashes to Bath and Body works & Old Navy for last minute Xmas gifts, lots of studying late into the winter nights for finals, working retail while EVERYONE is last minute shopping as well-- this is what my last few winters have been like. Life can get crazy/overwhelming all year long- but especially when the snow hits the ground and your room starts to resemble the wrapping room at Santa's toy shop!

One of my favorite things to do this time of year is to plan a day for myself when I have no school or work and stay in all day, cuddled under covers with comfort foods and one of my all-time favorite holiday reads close at hand. Revisiting these classics help get me in the spirit and maybe they have/or can for you too!

1.) A Wallflower Christmas by Lisa Kleypas

Readers get to catch up with their favorite Wallflowers and meet a new addition who'll be swept away by an unwitting devil-may-care American. As a huge fan of this series, I got SOOO much ungodly glee out of this novel and every winter, this book gets broken out and re-fawned over!

2.) The Holiday Present by Johanna Lindsey

This book features TWO stories- The first (just like my last pick) is in an Epilogue-ish vain, giving fans of the previous books from the series the chance to catch up with some of the characters that found their HEA, while also introducing the reader to a love story that was brought up routinely through out the other books. The second story was one I had the pleasure of enjoying during my first christmas as an offcial romance junkie. My addiction to romance books was out of control and when I strolled through the aisle of my local library, 4 books already tucked under my arm, I spotted a name I was becoming quite fond of. It was an Xmas themed book at that- so I knew I had to read it and after that year the story became a permanent fixture in my holiday reading queue.

3.) And we can't forget Grace Burrowes' Windham series and the two Christmas-titled knock-outs!
Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish and Lady Louisa's Christmas Knight.

I've had a lot of fun remembering the stories that embody Christmas to me! So how about you guys? Tell me which books scream HOLIDAY to you and you can't help but revisit this time of year!

**Make sure you stop by Ramblings From This Chick today & check out a holiday scene written by Emma Wildes

~*~*~*~

And make sure you add a few of Beverley Kendall's titles to your Christmas List! I am definitely treating myself to her first contemporary title which is dropping at the top of the new year (called When In Paris by Beverley Kendall, Available Jan 15th, 2015)

Books by Beverley Kendall:

Beverley is giving away a few of her fave Christmas reads to 1 lucky commenter! US Only. To enter, make sure you leave a meaningful comment on this post AND fill out the rafflecopter form.

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Caroling Off-Key...with Kieran Kramer (+ Giveaway)

2012-12-04T08:00:00.000-05:00

Caroling Off-Key

On Christmas Eve

With Kieran Kramer

Double Rita®-finalist and USA Today bestseller Kieran Kramer is the author of the lighthearted Regency historical romance series, The Impossible Bachelors, published by St. Martin’s Press. She has a new six-book contract with St. Martin’s for another Regency series called The House of Brady, which premeired in August 2012 with LOVING LADY MARCIA. A former CIA employee, journalist, and English teacher, Kieran’s also a game show veteran, karaoke enthusiast, and general adventurer. Without doubt her greatest adventure, which she’s taken hand-in-hand with her husband of 23 years has been mothering their three

Find Kieran Online: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Blogs

Hi, everyone! When I received this scene assignment from Dani, I laughed out loud—because I’m from a family of extreme singers! What does that mean? Well, we all love to sing, and we harmonize together so well that people often say we’re like the Von Trapp family from The Sound of Music, and they wonder why we didn’t have stage parents who made us form a group like the Osmonds. But my family just enjoyed singing for singing’s sake, especially around the holidays. Christmas Eve was a big deal because we’d all pile on a wagon that my dad pulled behind his tractor, and we’d go down the dirt road from house to house in the country neighborhood we lived in and sing carols.

I still remember being twelve and sitting in that wagon on a pile of hay. I remember looking up at the starry night sky and seeing one special star twinkling—I was sure it was the Christmas star. It was such a wonderful feeling, knowing that we were all together and singing and that the next morning, Christmas would be there…

Next thing I knew years passed, and I married a man who can’t sing his way out of a box! He’s so cute, though, when he does sing, and it makes me realize listening to him that the best singing is heartfelt. It doesn’t matter if you don’t sound real purty—just sing! Let your heart express in song what words can’t always do alone.

And that’s what I love most about music. It says things words can’t—and as a writer, that’s a pretty big thing for me to admit. But I’m glad to—I love music, and without it, my life would feel incomplete. And that’s a fact. Especially around the holidays, I want my Thanksgiving songs and my Christmas carols!

Now that you know where I’m coming from, I hope you’ll enjoy this scene I wrote from the heart (and I played Christmas carols while doing it) -Kieran

Caroling Off-Key on Christmas Eve

by Kieran Kramer

Everyone at Ballybrook should be as happy at Christmas as I am, thought Marcia Lattimore, Lady Chadwick, and said a quick prayer that each resident, from the lowliest stable boy to the wine steward to her parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Brady themselves, felt as loved as she did at that moment.

She finished fastening the pearl earring bobs her new husband Duncan had just presented her and sat back from her looking glass to admire her appearance. She couldn’t help it—she was so madly in love with her man that she knew she looked the best she ever had.

What you do in bed with him has everything to do with it, a naughty voice in her head reminded her. She gave a little giggle. They were spending an awful lot of time away from the Christmas festivities, weren’t they? Ballybrook was filled to the brim with family and good friends. Her parents’ estate in Ireland was never prettier than it was around Christmas, and there was so much to do, every single minute.

But at least three times in the past two days alone—since they’d arrived there with their son Joe, his nurse Aislynn, and a few other beloved servants from their London home—Marcia and Duncan had sneaked out of the charades, the decorating, and the sipping of hot chocolate to rendezvous for a few stolen moments of intimacy: once in their bedchamber, on the rug before the fire; once in the greenhouse, which was warm and cozy; and once outside, in the bright, clear sunlight against the trunk of a tree in the woods behind the estate.

She couldn’t resist Duncan. And it made her heart melt even more with love for him to realize that he couldn’t resist her, either. Together, they were a fire that was almost dangerously out of control. But it was thrilling—and oh, so right—to let herself surrender completely to passion with the man she loved.

“I get so tired of being proper all the time,” she said to her reflection.

With Duncan, she needn’t be.

Which was why her cheeks glowed so pink, why her eyes were the clearest blue they’d ever been, and why her lips felt soft and plump and looked red as raspberries.

The earrings swayed on her earlobes, and she stood.

It was time to sing. It was her favorite part of Christmas, how on Christmas Eve the whole family gathered with friends and sang carols around the pianoforte. And of course, that family included Alice, their housekeeper. She sang louder than everyone else. This was her house and her family, and no one dared argue with her on either point! And on Christmas Eve, Alice wanted everyone to sing their very best. She couldn’t stand a bit of squeakiness or a note sung off-key.

Marcia was so excited when downstairs, all the out-of-town friends staying with the family were gathered, and all the family’s local friends—the shopkeepers, the vicar, and various neighbors from the nearby village--had arrived. Indeed, everyone was already crowding about the pianoforte, where Marcia’s beloved Duncan sat. He would play the Christmas carols this year instead of Alice, giving the housekeeper even more time to ensure that the gathering went off famously.

Marcia blew Duncan a kiss and felt butterflies in her stomach when he sent her a look that she knew was meant only for her. It promised lots of kisses—and more—after midnight, when the house was quiet, awaiting Christmas. But she had to put aside those warm, fuzzy thoughts of Duncan for now. It was time to sing!

She had to restrain a giggle when she saw Alice lift an eyebrow and glance around the company. Was there anyone there who needed some coaching? Alice wasn’t averse to that. Oh, no. In fact, she found great pleasure in taking poor singers aside and conducting an impromptu practice with them, if needs be. But no one had ever objected in the past, as being asked to spend any time at all with the august housekeeper was considered quite an honor by all--such an honor, in fact, that some people even faked being bad singers. They knew that after practice, Alice—if she were in an extra jolly holiday mood--would wink at the lucky person she’d singled out and tell him that she’d sneak him her own special whisky cake—an entire one--to carry home with him when they left!

But Alice saw through the phony awful carol singers every time. No, she was after only genuinely bad ones. Her mission on Christmas Eve was to ensure that everyone at Ballybrook, which was a little piece of heaven, sang like true angels.

So when a newcomer to the group, Samuel Waterson, the new butcher in the nearby village, began singing, “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” off-key, why, Alice’s face grew bright pink. And on top of the pink were two bright red circles where her pale white cheeks usually were.

Marcia waited. And waited. So did everyone else.

When was Alice going to intervene and give Samuel Waterson a quick bit of singing practice while the rest of them continued on as if nothing were happening? Because, of course, that was the polite thing to do—act as if you didn’t even notice the poor person—or lucky person, depending on how you looked at it—being trained to sing on key by Alice.

But nothing happened. Samuel was such a bad singer that everyone’s mouths curled up in gentle smiles. Except for Alice’s. She acted as if Samuel didn’t exist.

Marcia caught Duncan’s eye, and in that one-second exchange, they each read the other’s thoughts: Alice has a tendre for Samuel.

There was no other explanation for it.

At the conclusion of the song, Duncan rested his hands on the edge of the keys. “Alice, I have a special favor.”

“Name it,” Alice said in her usual brisk manner. “I’ll do it.”

Duncan and Joe were the latest male additions to the household, and Alice did her best to lavish every bit of love and attention she could on her two new favorites.

Duncan sent the housekeeper what Marcia thought was quite simply the most devastatingly charming grin she’d ever seen. “Please take Samuel away for a few minutes to practice the harmony for ‘Away in the Manger.’” Duncan’s tone was kind but firm. “You two would sing it splendidly together. When you come back, we’ll sing it for the vicar and his wife when they arrive.”

“I’ll sit that one out,” said Samuel after a beat of taut silence. “I’m the worst singer in the world. I’m off-key all the time.”

Marcia smiled. “But challenges are Alice’s specialty. She’ll get you back on key in no time. She says she’s never met someone whose singing she couldn’t fix.” She nudged her sister Janice in the side.

“That’s right,” said Janice, her golden hair twisted in an artful chignon. “Alice will get your confidence back, Mr. Waterson. That’s all you need.”

“Some cases are hopeless.” Alice stared stonily at Marcia and Janice.

“But Alice, no singing challenge is too great for you.” Duncan smiled at her again—that special, heart-melting smile that made Marcia’s toes curl. “You’ve said so yourself.”

“I must agree with Duncan,” Marcia’s mother Caroline said. As mistress of the house, she was resplendent in a deep emerald gown and three matching feathers in her hair.

“And I agree with my wife,” affirmed Marcia’s handsome Irish stepfather Michael, the Marquess of Brady. He was well turned out in a black coat, silver waistcoat, and a diamond stick pin in his pristine white cravat, but the twinkle in his eyes reminded Marcia of how charmingly boyish he could be, especially when he was home at Ballybrook.

Everyone else nodded and murmured the same agreement. Alice must take Mr. Waterson away.

The housekeeper stared round at the company. “If you insist,” she eventually said in a tight voice, then glared at Mr. Waterson.

“Right, then.” He grinned, not afraid of her at all. “It’s Christmas. Maybe a miracle will happen.”

“Maybe it will,” Alice said again in that tight-lipped fashion. “And maybe it won’t.”

When she strode off, Mr. Waterson rushed to catch up with her. “Wait a minute.” He took her arm. “A lady doesn’t open doors.”

He waved aside the approaching footman and pulled open the drawing room door for Alice himself.

“Thank you, Mr. Waterson.” She still sounded grumpy—but not as grumpy as she had a mere few seconds ago.

Marcia hid a grin.

“My pleasure,” she heard Mr. Waterson say to Alice in the corridor. “Now tell me, Miss O’Grady, why is it that everyone is so afraid of a lady as pretty as you? That blue gown of yours brings out the blue in your eyes….”

The singing started again, but Marcia sped to the door and peeked out.

The couple was moving slowly away.

“That’s enough flattery, Mr. Waterson.” Alice’s tone was firm, but Marcia heard a distinct wobble when she said his name. “You sing like a dying beaver, and I don’t think there’s a thing I can do to save you.” She tried to yank her arm away from his.

But Mr. Waterson wouldn’t let her. “Oh, yeah? I know something that could save me—not my voice, maybe, but my heart.”

Alice’s eyes narrowed, but Marcia saw a telltale flush on her cheeks. “Mr. Waterson, that is enough—“ She finally yanked her arm away from his and went striding down the hall alone, her back perfectly straight. “Now follow me to the study,” she said over her shoulder. “We have only half an hour to practice before the vicar arrives. I’m going to whip your voice into shape if it’s the last thing I do.”

“I have another sort of practice in mind, and it’s got nothing to do with my voice.” Mr. Waterson caught up to her in two long strides and caught her hand.

Even without being able to see Alice’s face, Marcia could sense that their wonderful housekeeper had somehow softened. Her shoulders looked less square. And while railing at the butcher, a tendril had escaped her tightly bound hair.

“There’s not a bit of mistletoe in sight,” Mr. Waterson said. “You’d better remember that when you wake up tomorrow and start making excuses about why I did what I’m about to do.” He took her upper arms gently. “I’ve been wanting to kiss you since I first set eyes on you in my store, Alice--since you first yelled at me for not tying the string on the package of meat with a pretty bow instead of a knot. You and your girly ways….”

“Me? Girly?” Alice asked in a soft voice.

“Of course, you’re girly!” Samuel tugged her close. “Do you really hate hearing me sing off-key?”

Alice paused, then shook her head. “No. I love it, actually. I don’t know why. It makes no sense, really. You’re the worst singer I’ve ever heard.”

And now it was time for Mr. Waterson’s face to soften. “Happy Christmas, Alice,” he whispered.

And then—

Marcia closed her eyes and pulled herself back into the drawing room to give the couple privacy.

Everyone was still singing, but she caught Duncan’s questioning gaze. She bit her lip and nodded. He grinned and winked. She smiled and blew him a kiss. There was nothing off-key about what was going on in that corridor between Alice and Samuel.

Marcia squeezed in beside Janice again, wrapped her arm around her sister’s waist, and joined in the singing. It was going to be a very happy Christmas, indeed.

* Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Jayne Fresina's scene*

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Marcia gets schooled…
Of the three Brady sisters, Lady Marcia has always seemed the girl most likely to lead a perfectly charmed life. But after a handsome cad breaks her heart, she swears off love and devotes her life to teaching girls at a private school. In spite of her family’s wish for a London debut, Marcia is happy where she is—until terrible news sends her back to the Brady clan…and into the arms of an unexpected suitor.

On the subject of love
A dark and dashing earl who knows Marcia’s past, Duncan Lattimore is surprised by what a fascinating and independent woman she’s become. Marcia, too, is surprised—by the fiery attraction she feels for Duncan. But why—why—must he be the brother of the scoundrel who broke her heart? Why must Marcia’s rival at school forbid her from seeing him? How can this lady possibly resist this fellow—when they know that it’s much more than a hunch…?

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Kieran is giving away a signed copy of her book Loving Lady Marcia, to one lucky commenter! (US only) Make sure to leave a meaningful comment below AND fill out the rafflecopter.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

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A Wallflower Makeover...with Erin Knightley & Giveaway

2012-12-03T08:00:00.000-05:00

A Wallflower Makeover
on Christmas Evewith Erin Knightley

About the Author:

Despite being an avid reader and closet writer her whole life, Erin Knightley decided to pursue a sensible career in science. It was only after earning her B.S. and working in the field for years that she realized doing the sensible thing wasn't any fun at all. Following her dreams, Erin left her practical side behind and now spends her days writing. Together with her tall, dark, and handsome husband and their three spoiled mutts, she is living her own Happily Ever After in North Carolina.

Find Erin Online: Website | Goodreads | Facebook | Twitter

Christmas is the time of year when anything can happen. Testing that theory, one wallflower allows her sister to transform her for the family’s Christmas Ball, but soon has second thoughts. When her secret crush takes notice, will the makeover be a Christmas gift… or a curse? -Erin

Her Christmas Transformation

by Erin Knightley

“I look ridiculous.”

“You look gorgeous.”

Mercedes leveled a patently unconvinced glare at her sister’s slightly blurry reflection. “Perhaps you should wear my spectacles, since you clearly aren’t going to allow me to have them.”

Hyacinth smiled back unrepentantly. “I can see perfectly well, thank you very much, which is how I know you will cause a sensation tonight.”

“And that is a good thing how, exactly?” People like Hyacinth caused sensations. Delicate-boned, smooth-haired, ready-smiled young ladies who blossomed in the attention of the ton. People like Mercedes not only did not cause sensations—they didn’t want to cause them. They, in this sense, being specific to her.

She glanced down at the shockingly bold scarlet gown, dipping precariously low at the bodice. It was beautiful in the way ancient Greek statues were: exquisite to behold, but not emulate. She felt as bare as Venus on her clamshell. Although, at least Venus had her hair to cover up with. Mercedes’ was piled high on her head, coiffed within an inch of its life and completely useless to her rebelling sense of modesty.

Adjusting her own golden gown in the mirror, Hyacinth rolled her eyes. “It is a good thing, my dear sister, since I am bound and determined to pull you away from the potted palms and into the arms of an actual man.” She paused to wink at Mercedes in the mirror. “And a handsome one at that.”

She should have known. “Hyacinth! I only agreed to this nonsense because you said this scrap of fabric wouldn’t fit you, and you refused to let it go to waste. Did you plan this all along?”

“Of course! Someone had to pull you out of your shell. You’re four-and-twenty, Mer—high time to make people notice you.” She looked quite pleased with herself as she held out her hand. “Now, come along. We mustn’t be late to our own ball.”

Of all the conniving, traitorous, wretched things to do to a sister. Hyacinth was lucky it was Christmas—killing one’s sibling this time of year was highly frowned upon. “Fine. But don’t think a silly gown and fancy hair will pull me from the outskirts of the ballroom. I don’t dance because I don’t wish to dance, not because I’m not able.”

It was mostly true, anyway. There was only one person she had ever wished to dance with, and he had never once deigned to ask. Which was rather convenient, since even if he had, she’d never have the nerve to actually dance with him. Whether she admitted it or not, she was a wallflower for a reason.

Sliding her gloved hand into the crook of Mercedes’ elbow, Hyacinth grinned. “We shall see about that.”

***

The scent of mulled wine lent a warmth to the ballroom that had nothing to do with the glittering chandeliers and two merrily burning fireplaces at either end of the grand room. Laughter echoed to the vaulted, arched ceiling, nearly drowning out the gay music from the small orchestra tucked into a small alcove behind the stairs.

But despite the jovial atmosphere, Mercedes couldn’t bring herself to step away from the curtains. After all, if she wasn’t supposed to be a wallflower, than surely her gown wouldn’t have been the exact color of the velvet drapes, effectively disguising her. Never mind that it was her own house, and her sister had probably subconsciously chosen the fabric that looked so well in the ballroom. A match was a match, and Mercedes was staying put.

Heaven knew she had endured enough leering glances at her décolleté while greeting their guests. She tugged up on her bodice just thinking about the unwanted attention. Everyone had been so shocked to see her looking so well, as if up until now she had been wearing bed sheets for gowns and buckets for hats. It was more than a little insulting, since she rather liked the way she dressed.

“My dear Lady Mercedes. How positively radiant you look tonight.”

“Lord Farwell, how nice to see you.” Thou shalt not lie really only applied outside the ballroom, surely. She hoped.

The young lord offered a satisfied nod of his head, as if to say, Yes! It is nice to see me, isn’t it? “Do you know, it only just occurred to me that I cannot for the life of me recall having danced with you?” He smiled a little smugly and held out a hand. “Shall we? It is Christmas, after all.”

Drat. She couldn’t very well turn down a direct invitation—even if it was directed to her bosom rather than her face. She almost replied, “Only if you can tell me my eye color,” but something told her Mama would somehow sense the rudeness across the ballroom. Last time, she had threatened to take away Mercedes book allowance, which was galling in the extreme. She knew full well that was the worst of all fates for Mercedes. With a sigh, she started to reach for his hand, but a gloved hand sliced between them.

“Beg pardon, Farwell, but Lady Mercedes has already promised this dance to me.”

At the sound of his voice, her heart slammed to a stop, stealing the air from her lungs. As if in a dream, she looked up into the dark, nearly black gaze of the Duke of Warington. Good heavens, he knew her name. Well, of course he knew her name, they had attended functions together for years, but he had never actually paid her any mind.

Actually, that wasn’t true. She had spent so much time trying to avoid his company—one needed one’s heart to be working, after all—they had never actually been this close. And now that they were, only one thought seemed to form in her suddenly blank brain: Lord, but he smelled good.

Like winter wind, and wood smoke, and subtle spice. She blew out a breath, realizing that she had done nothing but breathe in since she met his startling intense gaze.

“Is that true, my lady?”

Mercedes jerked her gaze back to Farwell, finding his pale eyes narrowed. No, it wasn’t true in the least! They had never even spoken—how was she to have arranged a dance? “Indeed it is. How silly of me to have forgotten.”

It was a very good thing there was the ballroom caveat to lying.

Tightening his jaw, Farwell gave a stiff nod and strode away. Which meant… it was just the duke and her. Alone. Well, in a ballroom full of people, but having nearly ten square feet to themselves was practically like being on their own continent.

“You lied.”

She blinked, looking up to meet his gaze. “You lied. I merely agreed.”

He bent his head a bit in deference to their height difference. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I’m not sure why I did.” What an utterly absurd conversation. They stood there, she in brilliant red, he in unrelieved black, like two actors in an overly dramatic opera. If she hadn’t have felt so completely at a loss of what to say or do, she would have said it was a dream. Her heart pounded with impressive speed, making her a bit lightheaded.

What did one do when confronted with the man one had secretly admired for three years?

“Perhaps because you wished to dance with me?”

“I beg your pardon?” In her frazzled state, she had completely lost track of the conversation. A duke really had no right to be quite so handsome.

The slightest hint of a smile turned up the corner of his lip. “Perhaps you agreed with me because you wished to dance with me.”

Dance with him? Touch him? Oh lord, she was going to faint. Without her agreeing or disagreeing with him, he held out his hand to her, the humor having left his gaze completely.

She squeezed her hand into a fist, trying to quell the tremor in her fingers. This was exactly what she had imagined happening for years—it was time to seize her chance. Relaxing her hand, she accepted his offer, setting her fingers over his as lightly as a falling snow.

He led them to the dance floor, where the next set was just about to begin. Finding an empty space among the couples, he positioned them for… oh good heavens, it was a waltz!

The music started then, and he swept them into the revolving tide of couples, expertly maneuvering between the swishing skirts and jutting elbows. For the first minute, she stared steadfastly at the shoulder of his jacket, too nervous to actually look at the man. In her periphery, she saw the evergreen garland and glowing candelabras glide by in a soft blur as the two of them became the center of the universe.

His smell enveloped her while the feel of his muscled shoulder beneath her thin gloves melted her insides like ice in the midday sun. This was happening, it was actually happening.

“You’ve changed.”

Her head snapped up, meeting his eyes. Any humor from earlier had vanished, and he looked oddly stern. “Yes.”

“Why?”

What on earth was she to say to such a query? “My sister’s idea.”

“Well, it certainly seems to have garnered notice.”

Her brows came together as she puzzled over his tone. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was disapproving. A bit of her nerves slipped away, replaced by indignation. “It apparently garnered yours.”

“How could it do otherwise? That gown is a hair’s breadth away from total indecency.”

She stumbled, barely avoiding trodding on his feet. If she had had her wits about her, she wouldn’t have stopped herself. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but that is completely uncalled for. This gown is perfectly respectable, and not unlike any of the others being worn tonight.”

“Yes, but other women don’t have your figure.”

She gasped. How dare he say such a thing? “That is—”

“And where are your spectacles?”

For heaven’s sake, what was wrong with the man? Had she been harboring tender feelings for a boorish cad all these years and not even known it? She had no one but herself to blame—she had been the one too terrified to speak with him.

“It’s none of your business where my spectacles are,” she snapped, pulling away from him even as he tightened his hold. Thankfully, the music came to an end, freeing her of the prison of good manners.

Mercedes jerked out of his grasp, stepping back a good foot before offering him the briefest possible curtsey. She had been such a fool to hold him up like some sort of hero, when he was naught but a self-important fool.

“My lady, wait—”

But she didn’t stop to hear him out. She dashed for the exit, wanting to be free of the need to maintain her slipping composure in front of their one hundred guests. Escaping through the half closed door leading to the East Wing corridor, she headed straight for her sanctuary—the library.

The room was dim and quiet, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she closed the door. She should have known the man could never have lived up to the dream. Seconds later, the knob turned and the door pushed inward. Blast, why had he followed her? She backed up, putting the nearest piece of furniture, a heavy wood chair, in between them.

The door swung open to reveal her tormentor, framed in the open doorway. His dark hair seemed black in the low light, his eyes the color of the night sky. “Mercedes, let me—”

“No, you shouldn’t be here. And more than that, I don’t want you here.”

He ignored her, striding into her sanctuary as if he owned the place. “I must apologize.”

She took a few steps to the right, keeping the chair in between them. “Why ever would you wish to apologize? For insulting my gown? My figure? Bringing up my spectacles? Save it. What I really want to know is why you ever asked me to dance in the first place.”

He paused, tilting his head slightly to one side. “Because for the first time, you looked like you wanted to dance.”

“What?” Not the most eloquent of responses, but his statement made no sense.

“You never dance. Ever. Every time I see you, you are doing your damnedest to blend in with the greenery or decorate the wall. If men walk toward you, you go the other way.”

She shook her head slowly, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “So? What did that matter to you?”

“Because, if you were finally going to dance, I wanted it to be with me.”

The chair that she had been keeping between them suddenly seemed very convenient as her legs grew weak and she lowered herself onto it. “I don’t understand. You insulted me. You insulted my gown…”

“Because that gown isn’t you. That hair isn’t you. Not that it’s not all very pretty,” he said, another ghost of a smile playing over his features. “But I like your spectacles. I prefer your simple gowns and hairstyles. The better to show off your natural beauty.”

Heat bloomed in her chest and spread, staining her cheeks and warming her toes. “You . . . you like the way I look? Looked,” she said, correcting herself.

“Yes, I always have. Just as I have always wished to dance with you. To speak with you, for that matter.”

He had walked his way around so that he was directly in front of her, towering over where she sat. Slowly, as if fearing he might startle her, the handsome duke lowered himself to his knees so that they were at eye level. “And now I’ve done a lovely job of botching both of those.”

No, he hadn’t. Not in the least. She had always wished for a man who saw her for who she was. Suddenly filled with the kind of confidence that usually evaded her in his presence, she offered up a smile. “Isn’t it fortunate, then, that it’s Christmas?”

“Christmas?”

She nodded, leaning forward scandalously. “Yes, and I have a very good imagination. From all of my reading, I suspect.”

He lifted a single eyebrow. “Is that a fact? What are you imagining at this exact moment in time?”

“Don’t look now,” she said, close enough now that his breath caressed her lips, “but I believe we must be under the mistletoe.”

The duke smiled, his dark eyes sparkling with joy. “Exactly where I always wished to find you.”

With that, he pressed his mouth to hers in a kiss so searing, even her eyelashes curled. Her last thought as she gave herself over to the perfection of the moment was that she’d have to remember to thanks her sister for a Christmas makeover so unsuccessful, it worked like a charm.

*Don't forget to stop by Ramblings From This Chick for Tessa Dare's Scene*

Coming December 4th:

A TEMPTING DIVERSION
Things have always fallen into place for Richard Moore, Earl of Raleigh. His good looks, abundance of charm, and the small matter of being heir to a marquisate make him quite the catch. So when a delectable young woman wants nothing to do with him, he can't help but seize the irresistible challenge.

AN UNLIKELY COURTSHIP

Jane Bunting knows all about responsibility—she has managed to support herself and her brother with their bakery—but she knows nothing of excitement or passion. When dashing Lord Raleigh crosses the threshold of her shop, she has no idea of the potential danger to her reputation . . . or to her heart.

AN IMPOSSIBLE MATCH

Neither imagined things would go so far—until the night their worlds collide, irrevocably changing both their lives. But when duty calls for Richard, and with everything Jane has worked for suddenly at stake, will their taste for scandal be their downfall?

Pre-order Your Copy Today:

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Erin is giving away a copy of her first novel in the Sealed with a Kiss series, More Than A Stranger, to one lucky commenter (US/Canada?Mexico only)! Make sure to leave a meaningful comment below AND fill out the rafflecopter.

**BTW- Erin is doing a huge 'Historical Romance Palooza' giveaway on her website—there are 36 signed books up for grabs! Click HERE for all the details.

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Holiday Excerpt + Giveaway with Sabrina Jeffries [Part 1]

2012-12-02T10:00:00.000-05:00

By the time Sabrina Jeffries was 18, she'd eaten chicken heads and jellyfish, been chased by a baby elephant, seen countless cobras and pythons, had the entire series of rabies shots, and visited rain forests and rubber plantations.
But that wasn't enough excitement for her; to escape her mundane life in Thailand, she read romance novels.

Now she writes romance novels, and her bestselling, award-winning tales of strong women and sexy, dangerous men have been translated all over the world. Although she now lives in North Carolina with her husband and son, her colorful life has taken her from Thailand to New Orleans and given her plenty of inspiration for more books.

Find Sabrina Online: Website | Facebook | Twitter | Blogs on Goddess Blogs

About the Book:

Pierce Waverly, the Earl of Devonmont, has been estranged from his mother for most of his life. When his mother's new companion, Mrs. Camilla Stuart, writes to tell him that his mother is seriously ill, he goes home. But when he learns that the lovely widow tricked him in order to effect a holiday reconciliation, he refuses to stay - unless she meets his 'terms.' Somewhere between trying to seduce the beautiful Camilla and struggling with the cruel memories of his childhood Christmases, Pierce discovers that not only does forgiveness go two ways, but that love can blossom even in the coldest of winters.

Get Your Copy Today:

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AND NOW....

An Excerpt from Sabrina Jeffries’ ‘Twas the Night After Christmas (Gallery Books, On sale now!)
the New York Times bestselling author’s first-ever holiday hardcover

(Part One)

Dinner was pure misery.

Not that Pierce was surprised. How could it be anything else? He was sitting in the very chair his father had always used, staring at the lofty portrait of a grandfather he’d never known, and listening to the achingly familiar voice of his mother prattling on about nothing while Mrs. Stuart shot him furtive glances.

The damned woman didn’t understand—he couldn’t act as if the past twenty-three years hadn’t happened. Mrs. Stuart expected him to make witty conversation with his mother. Might as well ask him to give a sermon in hell.

Especially with bitter memories resurrecting themselves every moment he sat here. As a boy. he’d taken his meals in the nursery, but he’d been allowed to join his parents for dinner at Christmas and special occasions. Those nights invariably deteriorated as Father berated him for being weak and sickly, until he retorted with some bit of insolence that got him banished from the table. The memory made his stomach churn.

He forced a spoonful of soup between his lips and swallowed, barely tasting it. Mother had always tried to mediate but had rarely been successful. It was as if Father wanted to drive Pierce off, so he could have Mother all to himself.

Well, if that had been Father’s aim, he’d gotten exactly what he wanted, hadn’t he? And Mother hadn’t protested it.

Glancing over at her, he looked for signs of the heartless creature he knew her to be. But aside from her ornate gown and fine jewelry, which reminded him that what she really wanted was more of Father’s fortune, he could see nothing other than the mother he’d adored as a boy.

Except a far older one. He couldn’t get over how much she’d aged. Seeing it made something in his chest twist.

When that became too painful to endure, he turned his gaze to Mrs. Stuart. Instantly, the aching turned to annoyance. The woman was a bloody meddler, presumptuous and self-righteous, and so blindly loyal to his mother that it made him want to . . . to . . .

To respect her. He sighed. That was mad. Blind loyalty shouldn’t be an admirable quality. But somehow, in Mrs. Stuart it was. Perhaps because she was loyal for the most naive reasons. She considered it the right thing, the caring thing, to champion his mother.

It was the caring part that stymied him. How could she care about a woman who’d abandoned her own son? Of course, the young widow didn’t seem to know that, and he wasn’t ready to tell her. Not until he had a better sense of what the situation was.

“Do you not agree, my lord?” Mrs. Stuart’s pleasant voice intruded.

Damn, his long stares had made her think he had an opinion on whatever nonsense she and Mother were discussing. “I suppose,” he said noncommittally.

“You didn’t hear a word, did you?” Mrs. Stuart said.

The woman certainly liked to speak her mind. “Listening appeared unnecessary. Once the conversation turned to decorations for Christmas, I knew any points I made would be ignored.”

“Not at all,” she protested. “Why would you think so?”

Feeling Mother’s gaze on him, he shrugged. “I’m a man, and we’re generally thought incompetent to advise in that area.”

“That doesn’t mean you are,” his mother said earnestly. “Mr. Fowler says you’ve made many improvements on the estate—better roofs for the tenant cottages, a new fishery, modern additions to the dairy—”

“Those are my purview. Decorations for Christmas are not.”

“They could be.” A hopeful look crossed her face. “Perhaps this year you could even join us for the season.”

A hard knot formed in his chest. “Impossible. I’m expected at the Waverlys’.” He cast her a meaningful glance. “As usual.” When his mother flinched, it soured his temper further, which made him glare at the pretty young widow who’d brought this about in the first place. “I wouldn’t even be here, if not for the interference of certain individuals.”

She calmly continued to eat her soup, though her cheeks reddened considerably. “As I recall, I apologized for misleading you about your mother’s health, sir.”

Since Mother didn’t look shocked by her comment, Mrs. Stuart must have confessed all to her. That was a surprise. “Apparently I missed your apology during all the chiding and lecturing.”

“You just now admitted to a certain laxness in listening,” Mrs. Stuart said pertly. “Perhaps your attention wandered during my apology, too.”

Perversely, that made him want to smile. The widow’s impudent streak caught him unaware sometimes. “Then I’ll have to pay better attention in future,” he said, struggling to sound stern.

It was hard to be stern with her. He wasn’t sure why. She just had this way of bringing him out of himself when he least expected it.

Suddenly he felt his mother’s gaze on him. He looked over to see her eyes dart from him to Mrs. Stuart and back, and his bad mood returned. Best not to give her any ideas, or she’d be priming Mrs. Stuart to be even more of an ally.

He frowned at them both. “So what do you want my opinion on, anyway?”

“We have to decide whether to have a Christmas tree like those that your mother had in her youth,” Mrs. Stuart said gamely.

“And in Pierce’s youth, too.” Mother cut her roast beef. “I always made sure we had at least a small one, hung round with candles and toys and such, though Pierce’s father thought it a foolish waste of good timber.”

He tensed. Mother was still following that peculiar German custom? Great God. In his childhood, the scent of cut fir had permeated the house every Christmas. Even now, whenever he smelled firs he thought of that strange little tree with its sparkling baubles and little bags of nuts . . . and he ached with the bittersweet memory of his last Christmas at home.

Oblivious to his reaction, Mrs. Stuart generously buttered a slice of bread. “We’ll have to find one ourselves, with your supervision, my lady. The servants won’t know what sort of tree to choose. And once they cut it down and bring it in, you’ll have to show us how to decorate it and affix candles to it.”

“Excellent,” he grumbled. “Might as well show you how to set fire to the whole damned house, while you’re at it.”

~*~*~*~ Continue to Part 2 on Ramblings From This Chick ~*~*~*~

Sabrina Jeffries is giving one (1) lucky winner some festive holiday puzzle blocks and a copy of the Snowy Night with a Stranger anthology, which features short fiction stories inspired by the characters from Sabrina Jeffries’ The School for Heiresses series.

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Time To Celebrate: A Historical Christmas Eve Event

2012-12-01T12:00:00.000-05:00

We are back at it again

Me and Dani from Ramblings From This Chick are back at it this year to bring you an amazing, extra special Christmas event you won’t soon forget! Starting tomorrow, December 2nd, both of our blogs will feature daily holiday-themed scenes written by some of your favorite historical romance authors. This year we've decided to add an extra twist to the festivities and all of the scenes take place on Christmas Eve! Each day you’ll have the chance to enter a daily giveaway on each blog sponsored by the featured author. There will also be an AMAZING GRAND PRIZE giveaway that you won't want to miss out on. Each participating author, as well as both Rita and myself have put together a GIANT box of goodies (+ something special for our International Readers, because Aussies, Brits, etc need a little love too ;) ) Sounds like fun right?

The event will run from Dec 2nd - December 23rd 2012.
(with all giveaways running until and ending a week after)

Author Line-Up:Authors in red appearing at RFTC. Author in green appearing at NARB.

Dec. 2 - Sabrina Jeffries (visiting both blogs)

Dec. 3 - Tessa Dare and Erin Knightley

Dec. 4 - Jayne Fresina and Kieran Kramer

Dec. 5 - Emma Wildes and Beverley Kendall

Dec. 6 - Theresa Romain and Anna Campbell

Dec. 7 - Tracey Devlyn and Jillian Stone

Dec. 8 - Elise Rome and Maggie Robinson

Dec. 9 - Karen Erickson and Jess Michaels

Dec. 10 - Maya Rodale and Miranda Neville

Dec. 11 - Tiffany Clare and Pamela Clare

Dec. 12 - Lecia Cornwall and Katy Madison

Dec. 13 - Grace Burrowes and Robyn DeHart

Dec. 14 - Anna Randol and Sophie Barnes

Dec. 15 - Shana Galen and Mia Marlowe

Dec. 16 - Manda Collins and Heather Snow

Dec. 17 - Julianne MacLean and Sherry Thomas

Dec. 18 - Elizabeth Essex and Carolyn Jewel

Dec. 19 - Margo Maguire and Vanessa Kelly

Dec. 20 - Anne Barton and Valerie Bowman

Dec. 21 - Stefanie Sloane and Cheryl Holt

Dec. 22 - Lorraine Heath and Nicola Cornick

Dec. 23 - Carrie Lofty (visiting both blogs)

Don’t miss out on the fun! There will be a lot of Christmas joy to share and fabulous, unique scenes you won’t read anywhere else.