It’s time to strut your stuff!! Today I invite you to post the first page of chapter four. If that’s not acceptable for PG-13 viewing, then please feel free to post your blurb or another excerpt. Buy links are welcome!
Here is mine from my new release, Enticing Miss Eugénie Villaret.
“The Earl of Watford!” Mrs. Villaret’s eyes had widened, and her breathing had quickened.
Until then, she had been holding up quite well. Yet for some reason Will’s disclosing that he represented the earl seemed to frighten her. But why? And what the devil was she doing here in the middle of the night, alone save for another female and a sleeping escort?
Her trepidation did not last more than a few moments. He was unable to keep his eyes off her as she straightened her shoulders and raised her chin as if preparing to do battle. He had to admire the fact that even though he’d caught her in someone else’s office and without protection, she was apparently not going to back down.
Andrew sidled up to the desk, placed a hand on the ledger, and turned it toward him. “Do you even know what you’re looking at?”
“Naturally, she does,” Mrs. Villaret replied forcefully.
She reminded Will of nothing less than a tigress protecting her cub.
The blonde huffed. “Of course I do.”
“All right then.” Andrew smiled. She smiled back. “What did you find?”
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La Déesse Noire: The Black Goddess. (Seems kind of silly to keep posting WIP material, but I swear it will be published soon. :-))
Although she had spent the greater portion of her life preparing for the day she would lose her virginity, the first night alone with Fitz, Kali found herself unreasonably alarmed. Mayuri had done her no favors, preparing her for the worst.
Fitz had no reason to be gentle, she had been warned, no cause to concern himself with her wishes, desires, or fears. No matter how handsome, how charming, how solicitous in the drawing room, Mayuri had said, there was every possibility he would be driven entirely by his own lust, disregarding even the most basic courtesies. And no matter what he did, Kali was to pretend she had never been more excited by anything in her life.
Instead of enjoying the supper her new cook had prepared for them in the elegant three-story house he had provided not a mile from his own, she had spent the entire meal twiddling her fork in one hand, digging her nails into the palm of the other, pushing her food about the plate and sipping an extraordinary claret as thought it had no flavor. After dinner, she told him she had stocked his preferred port and Spanish segars. He suggested perhaps an early night was in order.
As he removed his cravat and jacket in her new bedroom, which as yet showed no sign of her taste, he remarked on her hands shaking and how quickly she was drinking the champagne he had brought. Watching her dropped lashes over the edge of her glass, he asked, teasingly, if it were even possible for such an elegant tawaif to exhibit nerves, and whether he had contracted for that.
Kali could barely bring herself to answer, only nodded and whispered, “Yes, my lord, it is possible.” She turned away to stare into the corner of the room, fingers tripping over the buttons of her dress, trying to speed things up to be finished that much faster.
Hi! Not sure how to contact you other than commenting here, so apologies for the public nature. As you know, I just used your book to start a Pinterest “Other Author’s Books” page. Now I am thinking of “New Title Tuesday” on my blog. (Which is also your fault, as it is loosely based on Monday Excerpts. ;-)) Would you like to start it next Tuesday with cover and blurb? I could also do an email interview, if you would prefer that.
LOL, Mari Christie! I love that your ideas are my fault! Yes, I would be interested. Email me on the contact form either on this blog or my website, http://www.ellaquinnauthor.com.
Wonderful! And thank you – this is Chapter Four, 1st page of my latest, Great & Unfortunate Desires, part of that limited fabulous box-set Tempted by His Touch – available only to September 21!!!!
Cumberland House, Pall Mall
The Assistant to the Secretary for War, Alfred Livingston, sat behind a large desk listening to Tristan’s report of what happened in Afghanistan. With spectacles perched on his nose and clothing befitting his position, Livingston looked every bit the busy and important man he was. Stacks of papers before him were scattered haphazardly.
“So it is your conclusion we have a traitor in the War Office, hey, Major Lord Wrenworth?” Livingston sat back in his chair, his gaze never leaving the spy’s face.
Tristan’s necktie seemed to tighten. His superior’s tone implied he was doubtful and needed more than the death of a few agents to convince him. “Yes, sir, I believe so.”
Livingston stood. He tossed his eyepiece to the desktop and pinched the bridge between his eyes as he started to pace. “That would be a disaster. Why do you believe it is so? Did Captain Lord Reynard not make an advance on the woman? As I understand it, her father had placed you as her husband, am I not correct?”
Tristan’s insides twisted. “Sir, it was not really that…”
“She wasn’t accosted? Or was it that you were not involved with her?”
Anger and regret stymied Tristan. It took great resolve to keep his voice even. “Sir…”
Livingston raised an eyebrow, his eyes widening. Tristan bit back a potential torrent of spite.
“Yes, sir,” he replied finally, his gaze not on his superior but on the wall of books behind him. “I was her husband, in a manner of speaking. But no, Captain Reynard did not ‘accost’ her.”
Livingston appeared to study him. Tristan’s skin prickled under his gaze. The man then picked up the report before him, scanning the page.
“In your own words, he was more than a soldier to you.”
“Yes, Lord Livingston, he was a close friend.”
“I see, well, then, proceed with caution.” Livingston lowered the report, gathered the documents that Tristan included to support his work, and dropped the pages into a desk drawer. Shutting the drawer, he sat back and looked up at him. “These are very important times for the Empire, Lord Major, so we will keep mum about this until you find more precise evidence. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
With a heavy sigh, he added, “And Major, do watch your back. This could amount to nothing or explode wide open. But, as usual, you know you are on your own in that regard. To expose your theory could make the fiend disappear, or worse, eliminate the threat to his activities. And if he finds you’re after him, he may take matters into his own hands. This could mean your death, and I’d be unable to help you. Though I would be at a loss without your services.”
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Great as always, Gina!
From Viking Sword: A Fall of Yellow Fire – The Stranded One by Màiri Norris. Set in southern England in 882. Brandr Óttarrson is stranded after a raid gone wrong and meets with Lissa of Yriclea, lone survivor of another brutal attack. —
“Hold!”
Lissa gasped at the low-voiced command that heralded the precipitate return of the one called Sindre. The big hand that cradled her head in that death-dealing grip froze.
Her thoughts scattered. Panting, she sagged against the powerful body of the warrior, and felt his arm drop to clamp around her waist. Release from profound terror stole strength from her legs. Had he not held her, she would have fallen.
Sindre lurched to a halt in front of her, a sack thrown over his shoulder. There was no sign of the belt of gold, but beneath his garb, his trim waist had gained considerable bulk. He threw at her a hard, searing glance.
“Brandr, prepare yourself. Our little friend forgot to mention we might have company. They will arrive shortly.”
She sought to burrow into the hard chest behind her, trying to comprehend why Brandr had almost killed her, and now this one breathed fire as if he wished he could. Did the víkingrs believe she betrayed them? How could she have known the raiders might return?
“How many?”
“Too many.”
Brandr’s hands settled once again on her shoulders, this time turning her to face him.
“Is there another way out?”
She heard the words, but try though she might, she could not take his meaning. She still grappled with the knowledge of what had almost happened. Only at the last moment had she realized what he meant to do. She stared at his mouth, framed by beard and mustache the same streaked barley color as the tight curls of his hair.
By the saints! He almost killed me.
He shook her gently, bringing her gaze back to his. “Lissa, think! Are we trapped here?”
Deep and resonant, his voice mesmerized, as did the intense blue of his gaze. She could not bear his scrutiny and dropped her gaze to the lacing at the neck of his tunic.
Thanks for posting, Màiri!
I haven’t stopped by in a while, Ella. Have been struggling to finish book one in my new series amid the dust, racket and men barging through our house, remodeling the place. Very unnerving!
I love your excerpt from Miss Eugenie’s adventure! Here’s page one from chapter four of my new baby, working title Rescuing Lara.
Several days passed uneventfully. Lara was more than satisfied with Conn’s vigilant performance of his bodyguard duties. He walked her property several times a day, looking for any sign of intruders, and made sure all windows and doors were securely locked after dark. She knew he even went out in the dead of night to check the premises. She’d heard him quietly let himself out more than once when she lay awake.
Despite his careful guardianship, Lara grew more and more fearful, jumping at every little sound and finding it difficult to sleep. When Conn asked if she sensed the Hellhounds – he called them bad guys – were nearby, she had to admit her nerves were so frayed that she couldn’t tell for sure one way or the other. The admission left her feeling powerless.
One morning about a week and a half after their visit to Conn’s relatives, she sat before the open front door, staring outside, with Penguin in her lap. She didn’t realize she was hugging the cat tight until he meowed in complaint and struggled to get away.
“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie,” she murmured, releasing him. He leapt to the floor, gave her an accusing green glare and trotted off toward the kitchen, no doubt in search of a tasty treat from Una. Returning her gaze to the outdoors, Lara wrapped her arms across her chest as a wave of fear threatened to engulf her.
I know how you’re feeling, Lyn. Welcome back!
Chapter 4 wasn’t going to make much sense, so I’m posting the beginning of the sequel to Only Marriage Will Do (the sequel to Only Scandal Will Do). Hope that’s okay!
London
July 2, 1761
The brass lion-head knocker under Amiable Dawson’s hand sent a sharp rap through the dark walnut door of Dunham House for the second time. The hot July sun hadn’t done his temper any good as he waited on the marble stoop for entrance to the Marquess of Dalbury’s townhouse. He’d been in a foul mood ever since the news of his beloved Katarina’s marriage to the marquess had reached him. Blast it to hell, he was supposed to have married the girl. At least he could make sure she was well and well taken care of by this man she had married.
At last a short, dark-haired maid opened the door. She took one look at him, gasped, and stepped back into the house. Her eyes widened and she glanced to her right, wringing her hands. “Who may I say—”
A man shouted from within. “No, I do not believe you.”
“It is true, I tell you!” A woman’s voice, raised and sharp with terror, sent a chill through Amiable.
Katarina. What in God’s name?
He barged past the stunned girl and strode down the hall toward the commotion. He burst through the doorway, expecting to defend the woman he loved, only to stop dead at the sight of a man lunging across a sofa and grasping a woman by the wrist. Amiable had half drawn his sword before he realized the woman was not Katarina, but a complete stranger. He dropped it back into its scabbard. This was none of his affair.
The young man, foppishly dressed in a robin’s egg blue satin coat dripping too many layers of frothy lace at throat and wrists looked at Amiable, a snarl on his lips.
Taking advantage of the distraction, the woman wrenched her arm from the man’s grip. “Praise God. Here he is.” She staggered as she righted herself. “Now you will have to believe me, Philippe.”
The fop scrambled back off the sofa and groped for a black lacquer walking stick that lay on the floor. Lips pressed together, he glowered at the woman. “That remains to be seen, ma chere. In any case, I have shown you the papers. They speak for themselves.”
The woman ran from behind the sofa to Amiable’s side, grazed a kiss over his cheek and whispered, “For God’s sake, help me. I am alone here and he is trying to take me away. Please, agree with whatever I say.”
Smiling into her pleading face, he grasped her hands and gave them a gentle squeeze to signal his acquiescence. “Whatever is the matter, my dear?” Hell if he knew. But he could play his part, even with little information. Let the lady lead and he’d follow as well as he could.
The woman smiled then took a deep breath. “My dear, may I present Viscount St. Cyr?” She nodded toward the fop. “Philippe, this is my husband, the Earl of Manning.”
Thanks, Ella!
Very nice, Jenna!
Ella – I really appreciate this. I think my post here last week actually stirred some interest in my book. So — here we go with the first page of The Ice Goddess (myBook.to/TheIceGoddess), Chapter 4:
They made many twists and turns, and even though the mist caused them to move slowly, Evangeline was already disoriented. A wave of dizziness washed over her and she had no choice but to lean her head against the highwayman’s broad chest. This amused him, and he said against the top of her head, “Not too proud now, are you?” He began to laugh, the sharp sound cutting through the air.
“Damn you, Reilly,” the other man hissed at him from a few paces ahead. “Shut your mouth. That red-haired one will be after her soon enough as it is.”
Reilly laughed again, more softly — more sanely, Evangeline thought — and indicated the murky woods around them. “The young gentleman will be at a loss here. This isn’t his civilized south.”
As the horses moved along, the steady rhythm of their hooves against the ground calmed Evangeline, but she wondered how much longer she could hold out. She was tired and ill, and every day something more perilous happened to her. Lost in a reverie that she knew wouldn’t last, she enjoyed the clean air fanning past the hot skin of her uncovered face, the mist beading against her eyebrows and lashes.
The horses found an alcove framed by the dense, dark trees, and through the haze, she could see a thatched cottage. Reilly reined in the horse, dismounted and pulled her down beside him. “Are you hungry?” he asked almost gently.
His companion threw him an exasperated look while tying up his own horse, then hurried inside the house.
Reilly had to move slowly with her, for she stumbled over the cobblestoned path leading to the doorway. When they entered, the sharp combination of onions and wood smoke greeted them and caused her eyes to water.
I’m so glad Hannelore!! Welcome back!
Hello and thank you for having me. This is from my third Regency novel, published by TWCS just last week. It’s called Passion and Propriety, and is the first book in my Hearts of Honour series-
Chapter 4
Torment
William was on fire, pinned down and unable to escape the burning pain.
The screams of men and horses rose above the heavy thud of the big guns
spewing their deadly missiles. The battle for Arapiles, south of Salamanca,
had begun well. The English-fired shrapnel, a new development, shifted the
balance in the favour of the Anglo-Portuguese troops, but still their losses
were great. Cut down by a spray of fragmented shell casings fired by the
superior French guns, William’s cavalry unit was decimated. His personal
demons—images of his men, his friends—swirled through his mind, their
faces hovering before him. Then a real spectre appeared.
“We’ll have to remove your arm, Captain.”
The army surgeon loomed over him while the lantern above his head
swung to and fro, in time with the familiar sway of the ocean.
“He won’t thank you,” someone argued, William’s vision too blurred to
make out his advocate’s more distant features. “He’s a viscount. He’ll have
your head if you don’t gain his permission before amputating.”
“I don’t care if he’s the Duke of bloody Wellington. It’s the only way to
save his life.”
“Not my arm,” William shouted at the feel of steel cutting through his
flesh.
“Shh,” a woman’s voice soothed, her cool hand caressing his brow. “It’s
going to be all right.”
“Don’t take my arm.”
“We’re trying to save it.” Her voice was soft, in stark contrast to the
vicious pain radiating from his limb.
“Just let me die,” he begged.
“I can’t do that. You must fight to live”—the sweet voice scolded before
changing to that of his father’s—“but it would be better if you’d never been
born.”
William flinched from his sire’s angry face. At least he’d done one thing
right, leaving no heir behind to bear the burden of the Blackthorn Curse or
hear such hateful words.
God, have mercy, he prayed before realisation dawned that it was too late
for supplication. The heat and pain were no less than he’d been warned to
expect, but the woman’s presence confused him.
What was an angel doing here in hell?
“Bloody well leave me be, woman!” he shouted when her prodding and
poking became too much.
“I’m trying to help you, my lord.” Warm hazel eyes met his gaze on the
rare occasion he could force his lids to open, but her gentle voice and soft
smile didn’t fool him. She was no angel, but a devilish imp allocated to his
personal torment.
“You’re a demon.” He glowered at her when she insisted on bathing him
and changing his sweat-soaked bedding, the jostling increasing his agony.
“And you’re an impossible man, but we all have our crosses to bear.”
Thank you Ella!