Guest Author Christy Carlyle!

Please welcome Christy Carlyle back to the blog!! Christy is here today with her latest release, One Tempting Proposal!! She is also giving away a copy to one of you. All you have to do is tell her you want it!

We begin with the beautiful cover.

Now the blurb.

Becoming engaged? Simple. Resisting temptation? Impossible.

Sebastian Fennick, the newest Duke of Wrexford, prefers the straightforwardness of mathematics to romantic nonsense. When he meets Lady Katherine Adderly at the first ball of the season, he finds her as alluring as she is disagreeable. His title may now require him to marry, but Sebastian can’t think of anyone less fit to be his wife, even if he can’t get her out of his mind.

After five seasons of snubbing suitors and making small talk, Lady Kitty has seen all the ton has to offer…and she’s not impressed. But when Kitty’s overbearing father demands she must marry before her beloved younger sister can, she proposes a plan to the handsome duke. Kitty’s schemes always seem to backfire, but she knows this one can’t go wrong. After all, she’s not the least bit tempted by Sebastian, is she?

And an excerpt.

He would leave. The duke was already two steps away from the threshold, and there was a firm, decided solidity in the line of his back. The man seemed quite finished with her and their strange encounter. Then he shocked Kitty by halting midstride and spearing her with a glance over the wide span of his shoulder.

Those eyes of his were a nuisance.

“Perhaps we can dispense with a bit of formality, Your Grace.” She paired the words with one of the simpering smiles she’d perfected over the years. It wouldn’t do to make an enemy of the man. “Please, call me Kitty.”

Many called her by the diminutive. There was no true intimacy in what she offered, but he wouldn’t know that. Gifting the concession drew people in and tended to soften them toward her.

He turned fully and snapped his head up, his inscrutable gaze tangling with hers. His eyes widened, but irritation still furrowed lines between his brows.

“Kitty?”

Ignoring his incredulous tone, Kitty lifted a hand to her elbow and pulled her white evening glove snug on her right arm. She brushed a fingertip across the spot where he’d touched her. Held her. As if he had any right to do so.

“That’s what my friends call me. So you must do so too.” She pasted on a grin and turned her chin down at the precise angle to allow her eyes to tilt up at him flirtatiously.

He’d succumb like all the others, and she would choose what he called her and when he touched her, if she ever allowed him to touch her again.

Then he stalked toward her, and her sense of control faltered. A tremor skittered across her skin, but she refused to retreat. She stood firm, only reaching up to twine her long strand of pearls through her fingers, twisting the gems tight to cover her pulse where it flickered wildly at the base of her throat.

He tipped his head and studied her in a slow agonizing perusal. “No, I think not.”

“No?” With him standing close, his rich verdant scent scrambling her wits, she wasn’t certain what he refused.

Her name. He was denying the invitation to call her Kitty. No, that wasn’t the way of it. Men didn’t refuse her. She refused them.

He closed the distance in one long stride. Warm man and the aromas of oak moss and bay assaulted her senses. Shock arced through her body. Shock that he affected her, and that she craved any man’s body so near.

“Is that truly what others call you? It can’t be your name. There’s nothing kittenish about you.”

She gasped, to breathe him in, to catch her breath, and when he moved his arm, she had the mad notion he might reach up and trace her lips with his fingertip, and then claim her mouth with his, letting her taste his woodsy cologne directly from his skin.

His gaze locked on her eyes.

“You’re not a kitten. You prowled that ballroom as sure-footed as any woman I’ve ever seen. And while you manage to appear disinterested in everyone and everything, I’d wager nothing escapes your notice.”

He lifted a hand as if to touch her but hesitated.

She held her breath, drawn taut and tense.

“You’re much more cat than kitten.” He grinned, the lines between his brows softening, and a glint of satisfaction lighting his gaze. “Yes. Kat suits you far better than Kitty.”

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About Christy.

Fueled by Pacific Northwest coffee and inspired by multiple viewings of every British costume drama she can get her hands on, Christy Carlyle writes sensual historical romance set in the Victorian era. She loves heroes who struggle against all odds and heroines who are ahead of their time. A former teacher with a degree in history, she finds there’s nothing better than being able to combine her love of the past with a die-hard belief in happy endings.

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