Welcome to Monday Excerpts!! Today we’re doing excerpts of our next release and buy links.
Mine is from A Promise of Love, book #1 in The Trevors, a novella series. The book will release in the Passionate Promises box set in February.
A
pril 1817, London
Lord Francis (Frank) Trevor glanced around the brilliantly lit ballroom wondering what the devil he was doing there. As the second son of the Duke of Somerset, one might suppose he would be used to the ton. And one would be mistaken. Other than the brief period of time he’d spent on the town during a university holiday, he had been acting as his father’s factor. A job that should belong to his eldest brother Damon, Marquis of Hawksworth. His father’s heir.
Frank hadn’t even had a holiday from running the dukedom’s estates. However, as soon as the Father had departed for Scotland with a few of his cronies, Mama had decided Frank could benefit from a touch of Town bronze. How the hell that was supposed to help him when he dealt mainly with crops and animals, he had no idea. He was trapped in a life he did not want and had no hope of employment outside of slaving for his father. If he even attempted to find another position, the duke would ensure he never got it. And after Damon’s marriage to Meg Featherton at Christmas, the duke had made very clear that in the future he would be making any necessary matches for his children.
Ergo, being here was a waste of time and money, though, thankfully, not his own.
A glass of wine was pressed into his hand. “Frank, you are supposed to be having fun.” His brother, Damon had a lazy smile on his face. “Not looking as if you’re facing a hanging.”
Frank took a long pull on the wine. “I’m having trouble knowing where to start. How did you manage to talk father into this visit?”
“Ah, well.” Rather than answering his question, his brother scanned the crowd. “Your mother decided it was time you were introduced to some of the ladies.”
As if he would really be allowed to choose his own bride. “Did she happen to send you a list of ladies who father would approve?”
“Ah, no.”
Damon raised his hand, and they were almost immediately joined by Meg, his wife of four months, and the young lady she had in tow. A beautiful lady with enough curves to entice a monk. Just what he needed. Even though he was immediately smitten with her, she was not for him. He had nothing to offer a woman looking for a husband, and he had his father to contend with.
“My love,” Damon continued, “we forgot that Frank doesn’t really know anyone one.”
“Aren’t you fortunate that I have a remedy?” Meg gave Frank an innocent grin.
She was up to something. The former Miss Margaret Featherton was the only female that had ever bested his father. “Miss MacGowan, may I introduce you to my brother-in-law Lord Francis Trevor. Frank, Miss MacGowan. She has been traveling the Continent, and, like you, does not know many people here.”
The woman smiled politely, but there was a hard glitter in her eyes as she held out her hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”
The moment their hands touched Frank caught his breath. He took another look into her eyes and could now see they were the color of a Scottish lake, and not nearly as cold as they had been a moment ago. A hint of lavender and lemon wove its magic, capturing his senses, and his hand warmed where her long slim fingers rested in his palm. Her thick, auburn hair was arranged on top of her head, with tendrils curling down to fame her oval face. He imagined running his fingers through her silky tresses. He didn’t know how long he just stood there, but someone coughed, and he remembered he had to bow and say something.
“It is a pleasure, Miss MacGowan.” He was surprised he could speak at all, nonetheless in a normal voice.
For a moment she stared at him, as if she was feeling the same strange sensations that had attacked him. Then she grinned ruefully, a look of consternation on her lovely face. “Dear me, you would think I’d know this by now.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, as if speaking to herself. “What do I call you?” After a moment, her brow cleared. “Oh, yes. Lord Francis.”
“I actually prefer Lord Frank.” Then, lost as he was by her flaming hair and flawless milky skin, he said the first thing that came into his head, “You do not sound Scottish.”
She laughed. A lilting sound that made him want to laugh as well. “That is because I am not. I have Scottish antecedents on my father’s side, English on my mother’s side, and a great deal of Dutch mixed in.” Her tone became defensive and challenging at the same time. “I, sir, am an American.”
American? Frank stilled for a moment. The only American woman he had heard of was . . . “From New York?” Holding her chin high Miss MacGowan nodded. “The one who was in Paris last autumn?”
“Exactly.” Her tone was as sour as a lemon. “The American heiress.” She leaned in confidingly. “You had better watch yourself, I might bite.”
Buy links:
Amazon http://amzn.to/1meg54k
iBooks http://apple.co/1Mp8rt6
ellaquinnauthor
Ella Quinn ~ Author 
This sounds really good, Ella. I love how the English ladies sometimes clash with an American and vice versa. Always clever!
Thank you, Connie. This was a real change for me in writing an American heroine.
Here’s an excerpt from Lord Quickthorn’s Bargain, my contribution to the Passionate Promises box set. Gwen is the heroine. Her sister Melisande is a little too spoiled…
Gwen shut the door behind Sir Charles and slumped against the wall. How could her sister be such a fool as to whistle the perfect suitor down the wind? Rich, well-bred, and most important of all, reliable… Stupid, stupid girl! But perhaps if Melisande repented and apologized, Sir Charles would take her back.
She hastened to the drawing room, expecting to find Melisande suffering a bout of tears, the usual sequel to a tantrum. No such luck. The tears were there, but she was dashing them away and primping before the mirror above the mantelpiece. A bad sign—it meant Melisande’s pride was hurt.
She met Gwen’s eyes in the looking-glass. “Good riddance.” Not a quiver in her voice; worse and worse.
Gwen shut the door. “He is not good riddance,” she retorted, glaring at the ruins of a perfectly good teapot on the floor, not to mention tea leaves all over the carpet. “He is the ideal man for you, and you love him, and now you’ve spoiled everything.”
“Loved, sister dear,” Mel said. “Past tense. I loved him, or thought I did. But he is stiff, starchy and boring. I don’t know how I didn’t realize it before.”
“He’s a very proper gentleman,” Gwen said. “Someone who will care for you and protect you. Who won’t chase loose women or gamble his fortune away.” As their brother had done before he died, with the result that they had very little to live on. Gwen didn’t mind being poor, but it was hard on Mel, who loved beautiful gowns and jewelry and every other sort of finery. Not that Gwen didn’t like pretty clothes, but she could make do without them.
She was dead tired of keeping Mel contented; it was far too much work. “Isn’t a reliable husband exactly what you want?”
“Not if he’s a bore,” Mel said. “I want passion, not propriety, and so I told him.”
“I expect he will show you plenty of passion after you’re married,” Gwen said. “He’s only acting as a true gentleman should.”
Melisande flapped a perfectly manicured hand. “But not like a lover. Why won’t he take me in his arms and kiss me?”
Ah. Had Mel tried to kiss her betrothed, and been spurned? “Because it would be inappropriate,” Gwen said, sympathizing in spite of herself.
“Why doesn’t he try to touch me? I haven’t even felt his bare hands—we’re always gloved. But when I asked him—” She turned away, and for the first time her voice was suspended by tears.
“When you asked him what?” Gwen said softly.
“To prove that he loved me.” She whirled, glaring. “Yes, I asked him to bed me. Is that so very bad?”
Gwen choked out a horrified laugh. “It’s as bad as can be. Oh, Mel, how could you? What must he think of you?”
“I don’t care.” She wiped her tears away and resumed her pose of indifference. “Why shouldn’t I know what I’m getting into? What if he doesn’t want to kiss me after we’re married? What if he won’t touch me?”
“He’ll have to, if he wants children,” Gwen said wryly.
“Children?” Mel shrieked. “If that’s all he wants me for, he can find someone content to be a cow and nothing else.” She huffed. “Oh, yes, I want children, but I want love and passion as well. What if he doesn’t?”
Gwen didn’t have an answer for that. Admittedly, Sir Charles was a cool sort of man, not given to violent expressions of emotion. “Maybe he has hidden depths,” she ventured. “Anyway, he loves you, Mel.”
“Not that I can tell,” Mel said. “There are plenty of other fish in the sea.”
Unfortunately, this wasn’t true. Melisande was so beautiful that men flocked around her, but in this remote part of the north of England, there were very few eligible bachelors, and to make it worse, Mel had no dowry. She was almost twenty, and the older she got, the harder it would be to find a husband. Sir Charles’ arrival a few weeks ago had seemed like manna from the heavens. He’d chanced to meet Mel and was smitten immediately.
“I’ll hook another one in no time, and so I told him,” Mel said.
“That’s horrid of you,” Gwen said.
Mel stuck her nose in the air. “A woman must see to her future, and since I have none with Sir Charles, I must find someone else. I have settled upon the perfect candidate.”
A dreadful premonition descended on Gwen. *Surely not.*
Amazon http://amzn.to/1meg54k
B&N http://bit.ly/1PejmKT
iBooks http://apple.co/1Mp8rt6
Kobo http://bit.ly/1kaiED3
This snippet is from A Kiss for Miss Kingsley, A Waltz with a Rogue Novella, also part of the Passionate Promises Anthology.
……….
Bradford extended his hand. “Let’s be about it then.”
Sighing, and resigned to whatever providence flung her way, Olivia placed her palm in his. “All right.”
“That’s my brave girl.” He gave her fingers a gentle, encouraging squeeze.
Not brave. Wholly terrified. “So help me, Brady, you step more than two feet away from me, and I shall—”
“Never fear, Kitten. I shall forsake my romantic pursuits and act the part of a diligent protector for the entire evening. I but lack my sword to slay your fears.”
Despite her rioting nerves, Olivia grinned. “How gallant of you, dear brother, and a monumental sacrifice, at that.”
“Indeed. A selfless martyr.” Sarcasm puckered Aunt Muriel’s face as if she had sucked a lemon. “For certain he’s deemed for sainthood now.”
“Anything for you, Liv. You know that.” He tucked Olivia’s hand into the crook of one elbow while offering the other to their aunt before guiding the women up the wide steps. A few guests smiled and nodded in recognition as the trio entered the manor.
Olivia forced her stiff lips upward and reluctantly passed her wrap to the waiting footman. Had he detected her shaking hands? The scarlet silk mantle provided much more than protection from the spring chill; it shrouded her in security. Her stomach fluttered and leaped about worse than frogs on hot pavement, threatening to make her ill.
She ran her hands across her middle to smooth the champagne-colored gauze overlay of her new crimson ball gown Aunt Muriel had insisted on purchasing. The ruby jewelry she wore was her aunt’s as well.
Though Bradford, now the newly titled Viscount Kingsley, had inherited a sizable fortune, Olivia had balked at acquiring a new wardrobe. “My gowns are perfectly fine. I’ll simply wear a shawl or mantle until I become accustomed to England’s clime once more.”
Besides, if she didn’t reconcile with Allen, she was leaving London, and a wardrobe bursting with the latest frilly fashions was a senseless waste of money as well as useless for country life.
“Chin up and smile, Livy. You look about to cast up your crumpets.” Bradford clasped her elbow, as if lending her his strength.
Casting up her accounts was the least of her worries. Swallowing her panic, she offered him a grateful smile as they stood before the butler.
“Her Grace, the Duchess of Daventry, Lord Kingsley, and Miss Kingsley.” The majordomo announced them in the same droning monotone he had the previous guests.
Behind Olivia, someone gasped.
Perfect.
A low murmur of hushed voices circled the room in less time than it took to curtsy as the three of them advanced into the ballroom. Perhaps Bradford’s rise in status caused the undue interest. After all, he had been third in line to the viscountcy, and if their curmudgeon of an uncle and two cousins hadn’t drowned in a boating accident, Brady would have been spared a title he disdained.
Combing the room from beneath her lashes, her stomach lurched.
Every eye was trained upon them. Her. At least it seemed that way from the brief glimpse she had braved.
This is a mistake.
Head lowered and her attention riveted on the polished marble floor, she prayed for strength. Where was the pluck Papa had praised her for, or the feistiness Bradford often teased her about? Or the spirit Allen had so admired?
She could do this. She must if she were ever to discover the truth. Otherwise, not knowing would badger and pester her, preventing her from ever finding the peace she craved.
Had Allen forgotten her? Did he love another now? That Miss Rossington?
There was only one way to find out.
Olivia forced her eyes upward. Inhaling, she squared her shoulders, commanded her lips to tilt pleasantly, and lifted her head.
Her gaze collided squarely with Allen’s flabbergasted one.
Thanks Ella! Here’s an excerpt.
Stirring Passions from the Passionate Promises anthology.
On Monday of the next week, Kate walked the long way around to Firth Manor. The Firths had returned from London, and a black wreath hung on the door. Laurie was to return to Cambridge the next day.
After an energetic ride, exercising frisky horses cooped up for days, Laurie suggested they stop at their favorite meeting place by the river.
He put his hands round Kate’s waist and lifted her down from her horse. She could have dismounted herself, but she didn’t object. Laurie had grown serious, and quite gallant. He had shot up in the last two years and was now a foot taller than her. Glad to see him, Kate smiled. He smiled back; his clear green eyes had little bits of gold around the iris.
They leaned their backs against the petrified wood of an old oak splintered by lightning, her arm touching his. He stretched his legs out over the grass and twirled a stalk between his long fingers. “Kat, Grandmother has left me an inheritance, and as I finish up at university at the end of this term, I must consider my future.”
Life was about to change for them both, and exciting though it was, Kate couldn’t help feeling a little unsettled. They were moving on in different directions. “Do you plan to enter the diplomatic service like your father?”
“I do.” An expression she hadn’t seen before warmed his eyes. She felt the tension in his arm resting against hers, aware that the atmosphere had changed.
Laurie ran his hand through his floppy fair hair. He looked so serious! “I won’t be sent abroad at first. I’ll be in London for a year or two.”
She grinned. “We’ll both be in London this Season. Won’t that be fun?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat.
“You’ll travel all over the world, I expect. How I envy you that.”
“Will you miss me, Kat?”
“Of course I will, you goose.”
“Then come with me as my wife.”
Shocked, Kate stared at him. “That’s impossible.”
Laurie frowned, a red flush appearing on his neck. “Don’t you love me a bit, Kat?” he asked, his voice rough.
Unsettled, Kate brushed a leaf from her sleeve. “Of course I do. You are my best friend. And one day someone will love you the right way for a wife.”
“You don’t have to explain what the right way is. It’s how I feel about you.”
He sounded so determined and so fierce. But determination couldn’t remove the gap in their social standing. “How can you know what love is? You’ve had little to do with other girls.”
His eyes narrowed. “Well, if I have, I’m not about to tell you.”
She eyed him curiously. Had Laurie made love to a woman? Somehow imagining him that way changed him in her eyes. She drew in a deep breath, annoyed. He was being dull-witted. He must realize how impossible a marriage between them would be. “You are mistaking friendship for love, and I wish you wouldn’t. It might spoil what we have.”
“It dashed well isn’t friendship. Not anymore.” Laurie pushed Kate back against the tree trunk and lowered his head to hers. Kate waited, curious and hot with expectation. At first, the kiss was more a colliding of lips. Not how Edward Ferrars would kiss Elinor Dashwood, in Sense and Sensibility. But it was her first kiss, and somehow she was glad it was Laurie.
http://www.maggiandersenauthor.com
See this has pique my interest, love a woman who speaks her mind