I am so pleased to welcome the fabulous author Cara Elliott back to the blog. Cara is here to tell us about her latest release, Passionately Yours!! And she is giving a copy to one of you who tells her you want it!
As always we begin with the beautiful cover!!
Now the blurb.
Proper young ladies of the ton—especially ones who have very small dowries—are not encouraged to have an interest in intellectual pursuits. Indeed, the only thing they are encouraged to pursue is an eligible bachelor. So, the headstrong Sloane sisters must keep their passions a secret. Ah, but secret passions are wont to lead a lady into trouble . . .
The youngest of the Hellions of High Street, Caro Sloane has watched her two sisters have exhilarating encounters with dashing heroes, and now she is longing for some excitement of her own. After all, how can she write truly passionate poetry until she has experienced a Grand Adventure? But that seems unlikely to happen as she’ll be spending the next few weeks in the quiet spa town of Bath, where nothing grand or adventurous ever happens . . . until she and her new friend Isobel are nearly abducted while walking on a quiet country road—only to be rescued by Alec McClellan, the moody and mysterious Scottish lord she met at Dunbar Castle.
Alec has come to England to deal with a treacherous betrayal and fears that his half-sister Isobel is in peril from an old enemy. Does he dare share his secrets with Caro? The bold and brave beauty leaves him no choice, and together they are quickly caught up in a swirl of dangerous intrigue . . . but it’s the fiery desire between them that may ignite into the greatest danger of all.
And an excerpt.
“Did you enjoy the organ recital, too, Miss Caro?” For some inexplicable reason Alec chose to fall in step beside her instead of his sister. She couldn’t help but notice that his gait had the muscular grace of a prowling predator. Deceptively relaxed, but ready to spring for the kill at an instant’s notice.
A lordly wolf. With sharp, chiseled nose and ice-blue eyes that seemed lit by an inner fire.
“I have an indifferent ear for music,” she replied.
“Indeed?” He cocked an appraising look. “I would have thought a poet would appreciate the nuances of sound.”
“Then I must be a bad poet,” said Caro a little tartly. “Or your assumptions are mistaken.”
“Or perhaps there is some other answer that is not quite so obvious,” he said slowly. “The world can rarely be depicted in such stark shades of black and white.”
His gaze didn’t waver and Caro could feel it burning like phosphorous against her skin.
“Ah, a lecture on painting, as well as poetry and music?” It was, she knew, a shrewish reply, but she couldn’t help herself. The exchange she had heard in the churchyard had left her very unsettled. “It seems we shall cover all of the arts before we reach York Street.”
“You seem bent on deliberately misunderstanding me,” replied Alec softly. “Is there a specific reason? Aside from the fact that, in general, you find me an odious oaf?”
“I don’t . . .”
When she didn’t go on, he murmured an encouraging “Yes?”
“As you say, sir, it’s not so black and white.”
His mouth quirked, softening the forbidding lines of his face. At that moment he no longer looked like a wild arctic wolf. But nor did he look like a housebroken lap dog.
“Your skill with language seems as sharp as ever,” observed Alec. “Which is no surprise. I would imagine that the author of a poem as lyrical as “Mist-Shrouded Moors” would never be at a loss for words.”
“H-how did you know I wrote that?” Shocked, Caro released his arm and came to an abrupt halt on the walkway. “I swear, I shall throttle Anna when she returns from Russia. She promised she wouldn’t tell a soul.”
“Anna didn’t tell me.”
“It was simply an educated guess,” he replied. “You said it was by McAdam, and I happen to be own a copy of his complete works.” He fixed her with a speculative stare. “There seemed little reason for the subterfuge unless you had written it yourself.”
“Hmmph, I see that I shall have to work on becoming a better liar,” grumbled Caro.
He didn’t smile. “Concentrate your talents on learning to become an even better poet. There are enough accomplished liars in the world.”
She wasn’t sure how to answer. He thought her a good poet? Her stomach gave a queer little lurch.
“Come, we had better catch up with the others.” Taking her arm, Alec lengthened his stride.
“McAdam is very good,” she said in a small voice as they crossed to the other side of the street. “It is poetic justice that I was caught trying to fob off my own verse as his.”
“You are better,” said Alec brusquely.
Her foot slipped on one of the smooth paving stones, pitching her up against him.
Wrapping an arm around her waist, he steadied her stumble.
Caro was instantly aware of a myriad of sensations—the lithe strength of his muscles, the solid breadth of his shoulders, the subtle scent of bay rum pervading the crisp linen of his cravat.
“Don’t tell me the intrepid Miss Caro Sloane is going to swoon again?” he murmured dryly.
She realized that her legs had gone all soft and floppy like those of a rag doll, and she was clinging to his coat like a helpless peagoose. It would have been utterly mortifying if it hadn’t been so utterly silly.
Stifling a laugh in the soft folds of merino wool, she managed to say, “Oh, dear, I seem to be making a complete cake of myself. You must think me an idiot.”
A flash of amusement accentuated the sapphire highlights in his slate blue eyes, giving hint that there was sunlight behind the stormclouds. “You are,” he drawled, “far too interesting to be an idiot.”
“I dare not try to think of what other words you might consider more appropriate.”
“Even with your impressive vocabulary, I doubt you would come close to guessing,” he agreed.
Oh, but it was a very tantalizing game to play. As well as a little frightening.
“That sounds like a warning,” she said . . .
I started creating books at the age of five, or so my mother tells me. And she has the proof—a neatly penciled story, the pages lavishly illustrated with full color crayon drawings of horses and bound with staples—to back up her claim. I have since moved on from Westerns to writing about Regency England, a time and place that has captured my imagination ever since I opened the covers of Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice.” (Clearly I have a thing for Men in Boots!)
I have a BA and an MFA in Graphic Design from Yale University and now my work as a writer lets me combine my love of the printed word with my love of art. I’m very fortunate in that research for my historical novels allows me to travel to interesting destinations around the world—however, my favorite spot is London, where the funky antique markets and used book stores offer a wealth of inspiration for my stories.
blog with Cara at the Word Wenches: http://wordwenches.typepad.com/