Bound by centuries of bad blood, England’s two most powerful families maintain a veneer of civility...until the heir to the staggering Redmond fortune disappears, reviving rumors of an ancient curse: a Redmond and an Eversea are destined to fall disastrously in love once per generation.
Description:
Release Date: September 29th, 2015
Bound by centuries of bad blood, England’s two most powerful families maintain a veneer of civility...until the heir to the staggering Redmond fortune disappears, reviving rumors of an ancient curse: a Redmond and an Eversea are destined to fall disastrously in love once per generation.
An enduring legend
Rumor has it she broke Lyon Redmond’s heart. But while many a man has since wooed the dazzling Olivia Eversea, none has ever won her—which is why jaws drop when she suddenly accepts a viscount’s proposal. Now London waits with bated breath for the wedding of a decade…and wagers on the return of an heir.
An eternal love
It was instant and irresistible, forbidden...and unforgettable. And Lyon—now a driven, dangerous, infinitely devastating man—decides it’s time for a reckoning. As the day of her wedding races toward them, Lyon and Olivia will decide whether their love is a curse destined to tear their families part...or the stuff of which legends are made.
EXCERPT
She was the
last of the Eversea children to be married, and she was going to be the wife of
a viscount. Her brothers had all married unusual women, not one of whom
possessed a title. Genevieve had married a duke—to the quietly gleeful
satisfaction of her father, for they had trumped the Redmonds, who acquired a
mere earl by marriage—but she and Falconbridge had wed by special license.
Olivia was the family’s last chance for pomp.
No one had
said as much, of course.
And this
was the unspoken source of all the tension.
They had
nothing to worry about. Olivia was definitely going to marry him.
The betting
books at White’s, of course, had it otherwise.
God, but
she was infinitely weary of being a sport for the wager-happy wastrels
at White’s. She did not want to be an event.
But if
she’d learned anything over the years, wanting something and getting it were
not always sequential events. Even for Everseas.
She pressed
her head back against the plump seat, which smelled vaguely and soothingly of
her father’s tobacco, then gave a start and fished about in her reticule.
“Blast!”
Only two shillings were in there, along with her hussif, her tortoiseshell card
case, and, of course, a square of linen folded in sixteenths that she always
pretended not to see but that traveled with her everywhere.
It had
become a personal ritual, her way of tithing, to say a few kind words and drop
a few coins into the cups of the beggars who had appeared weeks ago and
lingered near Madame Marceau’s shop, and who reappeared no matter how often
Madame Marceau tried to shoo them away. They were as intrepid as ants. They
knew where to find sustenance, and that was from the affluent women who
frequented the modiste.
But Olivia,
as usual, always wished she had more to give.
At last “Madame Marceau, Modiste,” a gaudy
sign gilded swinging on chains, came into view, Olivia sat up alertly. The
Strand was even livelier than usual today, apparently: she could hear a choir,
of all things.
She didn’t
know the tune, but it was certainly infectious, lilting and lively. Her foot
was already tapping before the footman pulled open the door of the carriage,
and she was smiling when he handed her down.
A
half-dozen men were arrayed before Madame Marceau’s, arms slung about each
other, swaying rhythmically, their heads tipped back in full-throated song.
Another man seemed to be presiding as a conductor, strutting to and fro before
them and holding a sheaf of papers in one hand.
He waved
one in the air. “Get yer flash ballad here! Two pence! Be the first to teach
your friends the song all of London will be singing for centuries to come!”
This was
quite a claim, given that one of London’s other favorite songs was all about
Olivia’s brother Colin, and it, like Colin, who had survived the gallows,
refused to die.
Years of
distributing and accepting pamphlets for the causes nearest her heart—the
eradication of slavery and the protection of the poor—had Olivia reflexively
stretching out her hand for it.
The man
hesitated, then saw the outstretched hand was encased in an expensive blue kid
glove and decided to let her hold it.
“Two pence,
madame, if ye’d like to take it with you.” He beamed persuasively at her.
She didn’t
hear him.
She was
transfixed in horror by the first words on the page.
About the author:
Julie Anne Long originally set out to be a rock star when she grew up, and she has the guitars and the questionable wardrobe stuffed in the back of her closet t prove it. When playing to indifferent crowds at midnight in dank clubs lost its, ahem, charm, she realized she could incorporate all of the best things about being in a band—namely, drama, passion and men with unruly hair—into novels, while at the same time indulging her love of history and research. So she made the move from guitar to keyboard (the computer variety) and embarked on a considerably more civilized, if not much more peaceful, career as a novelist.
Julie lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with a fat orange cat. (Little known fact: they issue you a cat the minute you become a romance novelist.)
Author's Giveaway
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