It’s time to hook your reader! Today let’s post the first page of you new or recent release, or your WIP that is in your hero’s point of view! Don’t forget your buy or social media links.
Here is mine from Enticing Miss Eugénie Villaret.
July 1816, England
William, Viscount Wivenly, caught a glimpse of sprigged muslin through a thinly leafed part of the tall hedge, behind which he’d taken refuge.
“Are you sure he came this way?” an excited female voice whispered.
- He didn’t like the sound of that. Will found himself in sympathy with the fox at a hunt.
“Quite sure,” came the hushed response. “You must be careful, Cressida. If I reveal to you what Miss Stavely told me in the strictest confidence, you must vow never to repeat what I’m about to say. I swore I’d never breathe a word.”
“Yes, yes,” Miss Cressida Hawthorne replied urgently, “I promise.”
He’d been dodging the Hawthorne chit for two days now, and unfortunately she wasn’t the only one. The other woman sounded like the newly betrothed Miss Blakely.
“Well then”—Miss Blakely paused—“I really shouldn’t. If it got out, she’d be ruined!”
“I already promised,” Miss Hawthorne wheedled.
After a few moments, the other girl continued. “Miss Stavely said she followed Lord Wivenly to the library so that they’d be alone, and he’d have to marry her.”
“What an excellent plan.” Miss Hawthorne’s tone fell somewhere between admiring and wishful.
“Well, it wasn’t.”
Even thinking about the incident with Miss Stavely made Will shudder. There were few worse fates than being married to her in particular. Fortunately, the lady was not as intelligent as she was crafty. The minute she’d turned the lock, she had announced he would have to marry her. However, she’d failed to take into account the French windows through which Will had made his escape.
“What do you mean it wasn’t a good idea?” Miss Hawthorne asked.
“Have you heard a betrothal announcement?”
Their footsteps stopped. Drat it all, there must be another way out of here. He surveyed the privet hedge, which bordered three sides of this part of the garden. Across from him was a wooden rail fence about five feet high. Large rambling roses in pale pink and yellow sprawled along it, completing the enclosure. Whoever designed this spot had wanted privacy. Will’s attention was once again captured by the voices.
“No,” Miss Hawthorne said slowly, as if working out a puzzle. “So it didn’t work.”
“Do you know what Miss Stavely failed to take into account?”
When Miss Hawthorne didn’t reply, Miss Blakely continued. “She didn’t bother to ensure she had a witness at hand. Miss Stavely said Lord Wivenly looked her up and down like she was a beefsteak and told her he’d ruin her if she wished, but not to think he’d take her to wife.”
Now it’s your turn! I can’t wait to read them.
Ella
ellaquinnauthor
Ella Quinn ~ Author 
Nice! And thank you for letting me share. This is from my current release, Great & Unfortunate Desires, part of the boxed set Tempted by His Touch – only 99 cents til 9/21 then its gone! 🙂
Great & Unfortunate Desires
Afghanistan, June 1868
The blade slid inside the skin with ease, like butter. Blood, deep red, seeped around the steel, spilling downward. The victim helped force the weapon into his own flesh, but as the sword sliced into the organs beneath, his hand dropped lazily. The muted gasp of pain, barely audible from the man kneeling before him, registered in the killer’s ears.
Tristan St. James stood, his hand on the hilt of the sword, every nerve inside him on fire. Appalled at what he had been forced to do, he fought against showing his anguish. If there was a Hell, it was here, on Earth, right now in front of him. His vision blurred.
The man before him, Grifton Reynard, looked hard at him. As his robes turned crimson, he gagged and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.
“Promise me you’ll take care of her,” he gritted out. “Promise me!”
“I promise. And I will find the bastard who did this,” Tristan hissed, his voice low and angry.
His friend gave a tense nod. He coughed a rattling noise as he choked, blood spewing like a geyser from his mouth. It hit Tristan on his face, adding to the stream from his own wound there, and staining the cream and maroon-trimmed cotton of his robes. But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t move, his feet firmly glued to the hard dirt surface. Grifton fell backward, his body thudded against the ground, eyes open but no longer seeing, his mouth askew, his lips and chin covered in his blood.
The sword fell free and hit the ground with a clank, as if it’d hit a rock.
His best friend, and his subordinate in this awful war of intrigue, lay dead before Tristan, by his hand. A pain–deep, gut wrenching and as violent as the act he’d just committed–seized his chest, strangling his heart. Swallowing hard, he shut his eyes for just a moment, an attempt to subdue the pain, to deaden it.
Unable to leave Grifton there, he bent and grabbed the man’s arms, yanked him up and threw him over his shoulder. The lifeless body hung like a sack of grain. Not that Tristan cared. No, his mind was assessing, reassessing and analyzing the material in his head. Like the cold-blooded killer they had made him, he narrowed the field of suspects who could have orchestrated this. Someone with everything to gain and more to lose if it failed.
He’d find out who had betrayed him and his men, the man responsible for their deaths, and kill him.
Amazon: http://amzn.to/1xjOFsy
Nook: http://bit.ly/1k1Gm3S
Kobo: http://bit.ly/1taFf4G
Smashwords: http://bit.ly/1rJUaCF
iBook: http://bit.ly/1npYgsf
Gina, I tried to buy your book, but Amazon insists I already have it. Now I have to dig through my million ebooks and find it. Any chance you will come to home and read it to me? No? Off to search then.
Here’s page 1 of The Troublesome Apprentice by me, Liza O’Connor. It’s book one of a humorous, Late Victorian Sleuth series:
London, England, Spring 1893
Xavier Thorn rarely attended funerals since he had no family and only a handful of friends. Mostly what he had were clients, and he tried very hard to keep his clients from dying. He failed with Maddy Hamilton, who had been both friend and client. Thus, he presently stood in the cold, miserable rain, watching those who loved Maddy mourn her.
Once the service ended and the crowd thinned, Xavier stepped up to her grave. He knelt and spoke in a soft whisper. “Forgive me, Maddy, for not protecting you. I will not rest until I find the person who ordered your assassination and send him to Hell. I give you my word. Justice will be served.”
He rose and approached her family, ready to face his guilt head on. Because of him, Maddy’s nephew and niece were orphaned a second time at the ages of twenty-two and twenty. They stood together, receiving condolences for the insurmountable loss of their aunt.
Victor Hamilton, wearing a double-breasted coat and homburg hat, reached out and took Xavier’s hand. The young man was tall with blond, cropped hair and intense blue eyes so like Maddy’s. Xavier hoped he possessed her strength, as well.
“I am Xavier Thorn. I know you are grieving just now, but there are matters that cannot wait. I am sorry, I wish they could, but the sooner we talk, the better.”
Upon hearing his name, Victor’s grip tightened upon Xavier’s hand. “I am honored you have come, sir. I feared I would have to abandon my sister on this day to find you. But you are here, and you are most correct. It is imperative we speak as soon as possible. Will you return to our house with us?”
Xavier blinked once as he stared at the earnest young man. Of all probable replies he might have expected, Victor’s response was not remotely one of them.
Available at:
http://www.amazon.com/Troublesome-Apprentice-Adventures-Xavier-Book-ebook/dp/B00M7H63VO/
You are so very good at this (writing scenes, I mean, not posting to a blog ;-)). I am looking forward to reading your book(s). As usual, WIP… but release date set for Royal Regard: November 26!!!!
Royal Regard, Chapter 2
Whenever a lady walked into the room whom he had never seen, Nicholas Northope always took notice. However, the ninth Duke of Wellbridge wasn’t always so intrigued. Her face was utterly fascinating: openly emotive, not the customary painted-on mask of genuine boredom. Although her eyes were too close-set, her nose had character rather than charm, and her cheeks were more rounded than most, taken in total, he found her features captivating. She stuck out in the crowd of jaded aristocrats like a sunflower in a field of nettles.
She had assuredly spent time in foreign ports; he might assume Spanish or Italian blood if her hair weren’t brighter than a fresh-minted copper ha’penny. Her unfashionably dark face was curious, intelligent, probably opinionated, by the set of her jaw, and yet, her shoulders hunched just slightly, as though she were afraid the entirety of the British aristocracy would collectively slap her face as soon as she walked through the door.
He tugged at his jacket and straightened his gloves, feeling a perfect fool in knee breeches and dancing pumps, when he always preferred buckskins and boots. He hated Almack’s conformist rules set by rancorous old women with nothing better to do than make everyone else’s life miserable, but his sister had insisted this afternoon one more time than he had managed to refuse.
A thick strand of blond hair fell out of his once-neat queue, curling at his temples, but he refused to be seen adjusting his hair like a woman. It was bad enough Allie had forced lace at his cuff and diamond shoe buckles. He looked ridiculous—more dandy than duke.
Nick saw the lady across the room take a deep, fortifying breath as she was joined by the Marchioness of Firthley. From the way the two women put their heads together without so much as a salutation, they were well acquainted, possibly family. Good, he thought. Though he had never met Lady Firthley, he knew her husband well enough to procure an introduction.
Turning away, Nick looked around for Allie, hoping she might not see him begging to meet a woman she hadn’t chosen. As the daughter of the seventh Duke of Wellbridge and sister of the eighth and ninth, Lady Allison was the unquestioned arbiter of appropriate ducal matches. Sadly, this meant Nick had to listen to her endless lectures whenever he refused to help her sort through eligibles, no small source of irritation. It was certainly not his fault she had made a deathbed promise to their mother that he didn’t want to keep.
Thanks for a great excerpt Ella. I look forward to reading it when I get some time to myself. Here’s my offering. It’s from A Desperate Wager which will be released on 27th August on Amazon. (It has not been proofread yet or had final edits so there may be typos etc).
Nathaniel Spencer, fourteenth Duke of Kirkbourne groaned and rolled over in bed. A tattoo beat a steady rhythm inside his skull, his stomach was bilious and the world spun at an alarming rate.
Last night he had been in his cups—again. He knew he should take a more moderate attitude to alcohol but recently, staying sober had seemed somewhat pointless. Why stay sober if you were just going to end up dead at the side of the road—another silly young buck who had killed himself in a curricle race?
Damn Crosby! Why had he made the damned challenge? Nathaniel, or Nate as he preferred to be called, would never forget Crosby’s lifeless eyes staring up at him, or the crack of the pistol as a bystander put his horses out of their misery. And he would never forgive himself for being the man whom Crosby was racing.
Nate closed his eyes and willed his stomach to stop churning as he tried to recall the events of the night before. He had been at White’s for dinner and had moved to the card room. The brandy had been flowing, and Ormsby had suggested moving on to a less reputable gaming hell. He remembered the Earl of Brackingham tagging along for some reason that defied Nate.
He had no issue with Brackingham, but the earl was at least twenty years the senior of everyone else in their party. He had been coughing somewhat alarmingly, Nate recalled. He hoped the old man was not spreading disease around. The last thing Nate needed was to be laid up in bed—his mother fussing around him and pouring vile-tasting concoctions down his throat. There was another thing that took many young, seemingly healthy lives—fever. Curricles and fever—good reasons to get absolutely foxed if ever he needed any.
Brackingham! The name seemed to be prodding his tired and very painful brain—waiting for him to remember something significant from last night. He had a vague memory of playing vingt-et-un with him. There had been a ludicrous bet. Brackingham wagered his daughter’s hand and if Nate lost, he would have to marry the girl.
Nate had been on a winning streak. Bravado and alcohol made him foolish. He had a three and a queen. He sat up as the king of diamonds flashed before his eyes.
God, damn it.
The king of diamonds took him to twenty-three. His head swum and he tamped down the urge to cast up his accounts. Twenty-three. But surely a wager like that was a joke. It had to be. Brackingham did not expect him to marry his chit of a daughter, did he? Had he even set eyes on the girl before?
Again, some piece of information about the girl needled his brain. He had no recollection of dancing with her at balls. But then he hardly ever danced at balls. He had no plans to seek a leg-shackle on the marriage mart, so he steered clear and spent most of the evening in the card room.
God, he hoped she was at least old enough to have had her come out and this was not some medieval plan to marry a thirteen-year-old off to him. Eighteen was quite young enough—too young in his rather jaded opinion.
But no. He had no recollection of ever having set eyes on Lady… Lady what? He had no idea.
He fished in the pocket of his waistcoat, which he still wore, having obviously been so foxed when he had returned that he had either shooed his valet away or he had arrived so late the valet had been asleep. There was a note. A wager. He hoped he owed the man a vast fortune instead.
Marry Lady Sarah Steele. Dowry – £10,000. Meet Brackingham on 5th day of March to make arrangements.
Today must be the fifth of March. Yesterday had definitely been the fourth. Christ, he had to see if this was a big joke or, if not, if there was any way he could inveigle his way out of it. He had no plans to marry. None at all. And that was that.
Here’s my FB page https://www.facebook.com/EmTaylorRegency for info and any competitions that I may run in the next few weeks.
Hullo Ella, enticing indeed. Loved it! Mine is from Bella’s Betrothal, MuseItUp. Available from amazon and many online retailers. Here’s amazon.com http://goo.gl/PKptQg
Bella’s Betrothal Anne Stenhouse
Charles Lindsay loosened his grip on the girl and felt her slide away from him down into the chair. She was slight in her figure, and he wondered if her recent troubles had spoiled her appetite. It was over two years since he had caught daily sight of her entering the Menzieses’ household in George Square. He remembered a well grown young woman with an energetic manner and ready laugh that carried on the spring air. Her visit had enlivened the Menzieses’ children and caused some fluttering among the neighbouring mamas with eligible sons. At that time, Lady Isabella Wormsley was considered a fine catch.
The Isabella Wormsley before him now was no longer carefree and untried. Indeed, her trials had been so well publicised he would need to have been travelling in deep jungle to be ignorant of them, and she was no longer the object of marriage-minded mothers. His own mama had warned him of the absolute necessity of avoiding contact with her.
Contact! Charles at last acknowledged the stirring in his blood. Isabella’s lithe body had sent tremors of excitement along his nerves as she struggled to be free of him. Beneath the loose nightwear his fingers had brushed an enticing swell of breast.
It was not the way Charles normally held a woman, or more precisely, not the way he held a woman of good breeding. Delicate fingers on his arm permitted him to offer his assistance to a young lady crossing Edinburgh’s cobbles. A brief
clasping of waist allowed him to help a young matron dismount. These were his only contacts with the women of his world since Alison’s betrayal. Mama would collapse in a heap of vapours if she ever caught wind of this night’s activities. The thought of her reaction spurred him into speech.
Thanks for the chance to show off my stuff, Ella. 🙂 Here’s the opening of my second Georgian romance, Only Marriage Will Do, that’s slated to release sometime in 2015.
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.”
Mine is from my second book, Across the Sea:
“Ignorant upstarts, all of them. I suppose now they will either freeze to death or die of starvation. Fat lot of good a revolution has done them, eh?”
My father raised his glass and all the guests followed suit, smiling at his pithy remarks. My eyes swept the crowd and I was struck by how sad they all were. Clinging to their meaningless titles, mocking the revolution they had been powerless to stop; it was pathetic. I raised my glass as well and smiled nonetheless as they all drank to the illusion of their grandeur. They didn’t notice as I sat quietly, watching as they all began to eat again. I could feel the retort rising in my throat and did nothing to push it back into the safe recesses of my mind.
“Well Father, ignorant upstarts or no, they did manage to beat us. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?” I tipped back my glass and downed the red cordial, looking up slowly after setting the glass on the table. The tinkling of the silver against the fine china came to a halt as the guests watched me. Everything got very quiet.
My father’s face darkened and I knew he was less than amused. The only person who seemed mildly entertained was my cousin William. But then William was always one to enjoy a little family discord.
“It’s just as Benjamin Franklin wrote, Father,” I continued. “Any fool can criticize, condemn, and complain and most fools do.”
All around the room I heard gasps. William choked on his food and had to hide behind his napkin as the rest of the table looked at me, dumbfounded.
“You let her read such drivel, Byron?” my Aunt Elizabeth exclaimed. “Women should be reading the Bible, not political nonsense. You really ought to have taken a firmer hand with her. She is too much like her mother. No wonder she hasn’t found a husband!”
“Do not talk about my mother, Aunt Elizabeth,” I said angrily. “I haven’t forgotten that it was your advice to not bother the doctor until she was almost dead!”
“Olivia!” my father snapped. Aunt Elizabeth looked as though she was going to need her smelling salts. Slowly I stood and pushed my chair away from the long table.
“Olivia. Sit down.”
My father always issued commands, not requests. I knew this but I sucked in my breath and continued to smile. “I think not, Father,” I replied. “I’ve had enough of English supremacy for one evening.”
William was smiling while the other guests watched in horrified awe as I turned and swept out of the room. I could feel their eyes on me, and I knew they were thinking I was a horrible, ill-behaved daughter.
“Olivia!” my father bellowed. “Come back here at once!”
But I was already halfway up the marble staircase, my silk dress swishing in defiance with every step. I ran into my bedroom and shut the door, locking it from the inside. Leaning my head against it I sighed in relief. Insufferable arrogance, I thought. He thinks he can control colonies that are half a world away, just like he thinks he can control me!
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Across-Sea-C-Lynn-Biccum-ebook/dp/B00K08SONC
Lucas Saintclair, the best scout in the Barbary States, meets Harriet Montague outside an Algiers tavern in THE LION’S EMBRACE.
“Please, don’t hurt me,” she pleaded, breathless.
His eyes opened wide in shock.
Since when did Tuareg fighters speak fluent English? Come to think of it, since when did they smell of Damascus rose soap?
He peered more closely at the face in front of him and saw two large, grey eyes bordered with long, dark eyelashes and the tip of a small nose above the dark blue scarf. He recalled the odd sensations when the soft, curvy body had thrust against him earlier. This wasn’t a Tuareg fighter at all, it was a … He ripped the headdress off and a mass of thick, honey blonde hair tumbled out.
“A woman? I thought as much. Who are you?” he asked in English. “What the hell did you think you were doing just then?” He shook her a little, not to hurt her, but enough to give her a fright.
The woman didn’t answer.
“You’re not so bold now, are you?” He narrowed his eyes, smiled his meanest smile, and was satisfied to hear her helpless cry. She had cost him days of patient stakeout. Now, because of her, Rachid was free to sell the map to the highest bidder. And he knew exactly who that would be.
“Maybe you want to take another bite?” he snarled, pointing to his shoulder.
“No,” she whispered.
“Actually, maybe I’ll be the one to take a bite. You look appetizing enough.” He lifted her closer, until his mouth almost touched hers, and he felt her warm breath on his skin.
He gazed into her grey eyes and time seemed to stop.
“Please,” she squeaked.
He shook his head, dizzy, like someone pulled too abruptly out of a dream.
“You have some explaining to do, lady,” he said, his voice a little hoarse.
She was shaking like a leaf now. He let her down, keeping a firm hold on her arm. He didn’t trust her. She might stand in front of him, small and fragile, but he wouldn’t put it past her to run off and disappear into the maze of alleys of the old town.
She wouldn’t go anywhere before he had answers to his questions.
SPECIAL PRICE 77p ALL WEEK
http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Lions-Embrace-Marie-Laval-ebook/dp/B00BACDSK6
This is from an upcoming release called Cowboy Bred, Cowboy Born
Sterling Gentry didn’t get aggravated very easily, but he was ready to pull his rifle from the scabbard near his right knee and shoot the ornery bull he’d been pushing all day long. Both Gentry and the big beast were exhausted. Not to mention the paint gelding he’d worked to a frazzle to keep the escapee moving.
They still had another mile to go before the bull was back on the right side of the fence. One of the hands had already repaired the section where the big red animal escaped yesterday, so Gentry had to herd the bull the long way round, to the gate beside the road.
Suddenly, the bull stopped dead in his tracks, stared at something in the distance and snorted.
“What the hell?” Gentry couldn’t believe his eyes. Was that a woman standing in the middle of the road? Holding a camera? Before he could process it, the flighty bull whirled and galloped away with his tail in the air.
Undecided whether to give chase or go yell at the dimwit woman who had just cost him a day’s work, he didn’t do either. Instead, he cussed. “Son-of-a-bitch.”
Still snapping photos, the woman approached him. When she came within speaking distance, she waved. “Hello.”
“Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in the middle of the road? Don’t you know better than to stand in the way when somebody’s herding stock?”
Her mouth opened and closed a couple times. “I didn’t think—”
“Hell no, you didn’t think,” Gentry shouted. “Damn it anyway.”
“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. “The shot was just so good…”
The shot? She’d ruined hours upon hours of exhausting work because she’d wanted a picture? Who the hell would do something so stupid?
Only a damn greenhorn.
The following is a scene from “Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love” which will be released September 15th! In this scene, the hero’s eldest sister and mother are letting him know their thoughts on his ‘bad behavior’ 😉 and pressing him to find a wife…and a governess for his troublesome sisters!
A smile pulled at his lips. “And you believe a wife will make me happy?” A wife would place demands upon his comfortable life. It would require him to forsake the life of pleasure he’d come to know and enjoy. No, a wife would be nothing more than a hindrance.
Patrina rushed to defend Mother’s claims. “I’ve never known you to partake in gambling, and drinking, and…and…all manners of inappropriate behaviors. Not to this recent extent.”
Well, then his sister knew him far less than she actually believed. He returned his attention to the window. “These matters are not at all appropriate discussion for respectable ladies.”
Patrina snorted. “It most certainly is appropriate. You are my brother. I care very much about your happiness.”
“Will you think on what we’ve said?” Mother prodded.
He’d think about it for the remainder of his visit, until he stepped out into the street and returned to his clubs. “Certainly,” he assured them. He was in need of a mistress. He’d not set one up in a long while. Perhaps that would alleviate some of his boredom.
Mother studied him a long moment, as if searching for the veracity of his single-word pledge. “Now, there is the matter of the governess.”
He sighed, but then, he required a governess more than a mistress at the moment. “I’m certain you’ll find another.”
She always did.
Mother shook her head. “I’m not finding another.”
“You’re not?” Patrina and Jonathan said in unison.
“No.”
He furrowed his brow. His youngest sisters were twelve, thirteen, and fifteen, and still all in need of a governess. Mother could not simply let them go on as…as…governess-less young ladies.
“You are, Jonathan.” she said, with great relish in that pronouncement.
He blinked as her words cut into his thoughts. “I am, what?” he blurted.
She smiled. “Why, you are finding the girls a suitable governess this time.”
Here’s part of a scene from my newest regency-The Earl’s Spitfire. Reading it you’ll see why the title.
“Lady Sophia Walker, without a doubt, you are the most irritating, annoying and strong-headed woman I’ve ever had the pleasure to make my acquaintance. Time after time during this house party you’ve tried my patience to the thought of sending you packing. However, until now I’ve maintained decorum so as not to embarrass your parents. But,” he paused to take a breath while taking in the worried looks on earl and countess’ faces. “Your behavior tonight in taking the forbidden horse, when there are others to choose, out for a gallop across the countryside has finally worn my patience to the breaking point. For the rest of this gathering you are hereby denied any riding or access to the stables. The only mode of transport you will be permitted is by carriage or on foot. Do I make myself clear?”
As he spoke, he watched her reaction to the dressing down he was laying upon her. In further annoyance to him, she maintained a pleasant and relaxed smile, which contradicted her furrowed brow. To make matters worse, with one hand she drummed her slim, delicate fingers against her elbow, while the other was balled into a fist. The biggest insult, she impatiently tapped her toe on the carpet.
Each alone wouldn’t have bothered him, but it was the combination of her actions which drew him into action, this time to William, Earl of Dent.
“Dent, it would seem your daughter is stubborn minded and has a difficult time listening to those in authority, not to mention doing as she’s told. Am I not correct, sir?”
“M’ lord, if I might,” the countess interrupted. “We’ve done our best to train and educate her in how a lady should behave. As you well note, it’s to no avail. With your permission, we will depart in the morning.”
Peter stroked his chin in thought, digesting the words and the promise of departing from the countess. What he found interesting, William didn’t protest at his wife’s declaration. But, what Peter thought curious was the snicker coming from the back of his office. Lifting his head, he saw Keith and Mrs. Oglethorpe standing barely hidden by the shadows.
Peter squared his shoulders, then set his gaze on the countess.
“M’ lady, as much as I appreciate your gracious offer, I can’t allow it.”
He then swiveled his head to the earl, ignoring the gasp of shock coming from the countess.
“Lord William Walker, Earl of Dent, I am humbly asking for your daughter’s hand in marriage.” He concluded his declaration with a deep bow to the earl then to the countess.
What happened next was something Peter never expected.
A gasp came from Sophia. “You want what?” Her voice rose with each word. “You pompous ass, what would make you think I’d even consider your offer, even if you were the last remaining man on earth,” Sophia yelled at her host.
Preorder buy links-
B&N- http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-earls-spitfire-lindsay-downs/1119982825?ean=2940045646918
iBooks- https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/x/id900837610
KOBO- http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/the-earl-s-spitfire
Amazon US- http://www.amazon.com/Earls-Spitfire-Lindsay-Downs-ebook/dp/B00MRIZU8U/ref=la_B007NQAIIS_1_10?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1408299441&sr=1-10
Amazon UK- http://www.amazon.co.uk/Earls-Spitfire-Lindsay-Downs-ebook/dp/B00MRIZU8U/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1408299547&sr=8-1&keywords=The+Earl%27s+Spitfire
Oh, these are wonderful!
This excerpt is from my December 2014 release, Triumph and Treasure, Book I in The Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series.
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The duke didn’t bother rising to make the introductions. His slurred speech hinted as to why. He waved a hand Flynn’s direction. “Angelina, may I present Flynn, Marquis of Bretheridge. Bretheridge, my niece, Mrs. Ells—er, that is, Thorne.”
Waterford released a hiccupping belch. He patted his distended belly and licked his lips. “Beg pardon.”
Egads, the man was half-soused.
Her Grace appeared unaware or else chose to deliberately ignore her spouse. Focused on sipping her tea and nibbling biscuits, she avoided gazing at her husband. Not that Flynn blamed her. His Grace’s resemblance to a drowsy lizard lounging atop a rock was uncanny.
If the duke’s tongue flicked out and caught the annoying fly buzzing about the ginger biscuits, Flynn wouldn’t have been altogether shocked.
Chagrin coloring her cheeks, Mrs. Thorne scooted around the table. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, my lord.”
She dipped a graceful curtsy.
The woman before Flynn bore scant resemblance to the sprite he met earlier. Other than several curls framing her oval face, her hair was neatly coiffed. The black of the muslin gown she wore emphasized her unusual greenish eyes and trim figure. The slight mark on her flushed cheek was the only remaining proof she’d been splashing about in the stream and climbing trees.
Flynn bent over her hand. The jolt he experienced earlier when helping her from the tree shot through him again. “Forgive me, Mrs. Thorne. Have we met before? You seem familiar.”
It was wicked of him to tease her. She inhaled sharply and tossed her uncle and uneasy glance. So, she didn’t want the duke to know about her little adventure. Why?
“No, I don’t believe we have. I’m newly arrived in England, you see.”
“I was so sure . . .” Flynn murmured.
He angled his back to their graces and stared pointedly at Mrs. Thorne’s slipper-clad feet. Grinning, he snared her gaze. He winked.
Her amazing eyes widened, the pupils growing huge. Her pretty mouth trembled. He swore she was biting the side of her cheek to keep from laughing.
She was utterly delightful.
Thank you for this great opportunity, Ella. Such talented authors out there! Here is my excerpt from my recently-released anthology, ‘Vampires Don’t Drink Coffee And Other Stories’. The excerpt comes from the novella ‘Candle of Life’, set during the English Civil War.
Sir Jasper Mortimer gazed down at the pale blonde head cradled in the hollow of his shoulder and breathed a silent sigh of relief. She slept at last. His vampire powers were strong and he could have compelled her, but he had not wished to do so. It was enough that he had touched her thoughts to calm her and ease the pain of the conversion. It was more than enough that he had been forced to convert her in the first place. Unbidden, his mind filled with the pictures of when he had first seen her.
He had been following his brother for some weeks, altering memories, calming the hysteria caused by the cur’s ungovernable blood lust and endeavouring to prevent the mass revolt and destruction Ralph, no doubt, had planned. Word had reached Jasper, via a network of souls loyal to the King, that his brother was headed into the Royalist strongholds of the west between Worcester, Nottingham and the Welsh Marches. He had almost caught up with him at the manor of Beckford and it was there, close on Ralph’s heels, that he had found the woman in his arms.
He had heard her screams from several miles away, having continued on in the direction of Shrewsbury, surmising that to be his brother’s likely route. By the time he had located the tiny dwelling in the vast oak forest, Ralph was once more long gone and his victim, her throat ripped, bleeding her last drops of precious lifeblood on to the crimson spattered plank floor. Red had also patterned the rough cabin walls and soaked into a russet and tan coloured rug made of strips of rag, upon which the girl had fallen.
Thinking her already dead, Jasper had cursed and turned himself to mist in order to follow more easily the man he hated above all others, but then, as he paused above the inert body, gazing with sorrow upon the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, he had heard the faintest throb of her heart. Returning at once to human form, his fangs lengthening simultaneously, he had not hesitated. Gently he had taken a mere drop or two of the sweetest nectar he had ever tasted, then tearing his wrist, had dribbled his own blood into her mouth… He had then carried her with the supernatural speed of his kind to this foul alehouse, the farthest he could safely take her.
It is currently available in paperback, with a kindle version due soon. As Vandalia Black, I visit my dark side!
Here are the links:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Vampires-Drink-Coffee-Other-Stories/dp/1500219096/ref=sr_1_13?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1406294881&sr=1-13&keywords=vampires+romance+short+stories+anthology
http://www.amazon.com/Vampires-Drink-Coffee-Other-Stories/dp/1500219096/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1406297421&sr=1-1-catcorr&keywords=vandalia+black+vampires+short+stories+anthology
http://regencywriter-hking.blogspot.co.uk
https://www.facebook.com/heather.king.author
What a nice variety of excerpts! I’m adding the hero’s first POV scene from “Bella’s Band” which will release on September 3rd:
The crew of wee filchers scattered past him like the balls in a billiard game.
Like the infantry in full retreat.
His blood quickened. Steven Beauverde, Earl of Hackwell, wheeled his battle-trained bay and followed the blond head that was close on the heels of a tattered dark boy.
Shouts of “Grab him” and “Stop, Thief” pursued them. The blond boy, quick as a harrier, tackled his larger quarry in the street. They rolled, punched, and growled foul obscenities.
The fair-haired boy had bottom. If they were allowed to finish, Steven would lay odds on him.
Steven eased closer, the crowd dodging out of the way of his mount. The pummeling had stopped and a workman had each of the boys by the scruff.
“That’s ‘im.” A thin man in an apron pushed his way closer and pointed at the blond lad. “Nicked a coin, he did.”
The boy’s eyes went wide. “Did not.”
“What’s this one?” The captor shook the dark boy.
“Him, too,” the shopkeeper said. “Together, they are.”
A woman pushed through the crowd, another blond boy perched on her hip.
Ah, it was she, the dark-clad woman escorting the boys. When she reached for the fair-haired captive, the man holding him pulled him back.
“Release him this instant. He is with me.”
Her cultured tones and air of command silenced the crowd and sent a ripple of admiration through Steven. Plainly dressed and well-covered, she passed for an upper-floor servant. But a housekeeper would not have a cockney boy in tow, and a nursemaid would not speak so well. A governess—well, the little one in her arms was too young for a governess.
The shopkeeper narrowed his eyes at her. “I seen him.”
She drew herself up taller. “You are mistaken. He was walking with me. Now hand him over.”
The man bristled. “The watch will—”
“Hand him over to the lady, there’s a good man,” Steven said.
All eyes turned up to him, but it was the pair of grey ones that snared him.
He knew this look. He’d seen it in Spain, in the eyes of the liberated. Not defiant anymore, she was taking his measure. Friend or foe?
He raised an eyebrow and held her gaze.
Thank you ladies for some intriguing excerpts!