"Not only did I enjoy the humorous situation, the characters personalities and their dialogue, I appreciated being privy to some truly amusing inner thoughts. This is a fun light-hearted Regency certainly worth the read!" Eileen, Goodreads
Description:
Published: July 24th, 2019
After escaping the guillotine, Noelle de Vallon takes refuge with her aunt in England. Determined to make her own way, she joins the local smugglers, but when their plans are uncovered, Richard, Lord Boltwood steps out of the shadows to save her. Too bad he’s the last man on earth she ever wanted to see again.
Years ago, Richard Boltwood’s plan to marry Noelle was foiled when his ruthless father shipped him to the Continent to work in espionage. But with the old man at death’s door, Richard returns to England with one final mission: to catch a spy. And Noelle is the prime suspect.
Noelle needs Richard’s help, but how can she ever trust the man who abandoned her? And how can Richard catch the real culprit while protecting the woman who stole his heart and won’t forgive him for breaking hers?
EXCERPT
Setup:
Noelle needs Richard’s help, but she doesn’t want him interfering in the
smuggling business. She refuses to marry him, and she can’t afford to let him
seduce her, either. Richard has other ideas…
Noelle
slid off Snowflake’s back, passed her to a surprised groom, and hastened toward
the house. The wind ceased its fitful snatching at her bonnet and tore it off
good and proper, dancing with it in the sunlight, tossing it around the side of
Boltwood Manor.
Noelle
picked up her skirts and ran after the hat. The wind teased it away from her
grasping fingers and threw it this way and that across the lawn. Noelle
followed, cursing, while the wind tugged her hair out of its pins and flapped
it into her face. The bonnet flew through the herb garden, lit briefly on the
outstretched hand of a stone nymph, and fluttered toward the terrace.
Richard
Boltwood stepped through the French doors to the terrace, reached out a long
arm, and rescued Noelle’s hat from the wind.
Sacré tonnerre,
but he was beautiful. Most improperly, he wore only shirt and breeches. His
sleeves couldn’t hide those powerful shoulders and arms, nor his breeches the
muscles of his thighs. The open neck of his shirt revealed his firm throat and
a few hairs of the masculine chest she had seen and touched only once.
His
face was bright with laughter, his bearing confident. Masterful. Irresistible.
In spite of herself, Noelle quivered inside.
No.
This was no time for quivering. She hurried forward. “Richard, I must speak
with you.”
“With
pleasure,” Richard said. “Your bonnet, ma’am.” He held it out but made no
attempt to touch her.
Noelle
closed her fingers around the ribbons, and immediately Richard put his hands
behind his back. She moved closer, and he inched away. “In private!” she
whispered. She put her hands on her hips and scowled at him. The hat strained
away from her hand, and her hair flapped in her face. “Stay here! It’s urgent.
I need your help immediately.”
“Ah,”
Richard said, “I am of course at your service, my love, but do consider. Your
only legitimate excuse for such a precipitate arrival must be desperate love
for me, but if there is to be no touching, it won’t look like love, will it?”
He danced away like the bonnet on the wind. “You do look delightfully
desperate, my sweet.”
“That
was your idea,” Noelle fumed. “I never said I wouldn’t touch you, merely that
it would be wiser not.”
“It
would have been wiser not to involve yourself in the free trade. As to not
touching me, do as you please, as long as you understand that if you touch me,
I will consider it a clear invitation to touch you in return.” His lips
twitched.
“Nom de Dieu.” She must keep her
distance, but he was making that impossible. “Oh, very well. You may kiss my
hand.”
“Your
Majesty is most gracious.” He took her gloved hand in his and tugged at the tip
of one finger.
She
tried to draw away, but he wouldn’t let go. “What are you doing?”
“Exactly
what it looks like. I won’t waste one of my burning kisses on a mere glove.” A
few seconds later, the glove was in his breeches pocket. He took her cool hand
into his large warm one and brought it within an inch of his lips.
The
warmth of his hand, the heat of his breath, traveled all the way to her toes.
“Get on with it,” she said, quivering with impatience. Get it over with before it kills me. When he did nothing, she
pulled at her hand.
He
didn’t let go. “It’s not enough. No woman who gallops to her lover’s door would
be content with one little kiss.” He paused. “On her hand.”
Waiting
for that kiss was torture, and she had urgent news. She said in French,
“Richard, the excisemen are nearby! We don’t have time for playing games.”
“This
is no game,” he answered in the same language. “Lives are at stake, and
therefore our charade must appear real.”
Charade?
Did
that mean he accepted her refusal to marry him? In which case, she should be
glad. Or at the very least, relieved.
She
didn’t have time for emotions. “Lives are at stake, and therefore we must hurry.”
“But
not appear to do so,” he said. “A bargain—both your hands. It’s not dangerous,
surely . . . just a little hand kiss or two.”
Before
she had a chance to respond, he took the other hand, pried her fingers open,
and released the ribbons of her hat.
It
fluttered away across the lawn. “My bonnet!”
“What’s
a mere bonnet when one is deep in love?” Richard removed the second glove and
stowed it in his pocket. He pulled her close and pressed his hot lips to the
back of one tingling hand.
Something
inside Noelle pulsed in response. Yes.
His
lips settled hotly on the other hand.
Oh, yes.
“Enough?”
Richard whispered. “We have demonstrated love, but what about passion?”
Noelle
couldn’t bring herself to move. Her breathing quickened, and her knees felt
abominably weak.
“Only
a passionate woman would ride ventre à
terre to the man she loves.” He turned her hands over and cupped them in
his large ones. “You, my sweet, are the essence of passion.”
He
pressed his lips into one palm and then the other. The pulsing inside her
deepened to a throb.
She
couldn’t help it. She whimpered, staring at his lips and her hand.
His
tongue reached out and gently, devastatingly, licked her palm.
Dieu du ciel.
His arms surrounded her and his heady aroma overwhelmed her senses. She drank
it in through her very pores. I love you.
Oh, how I love you. She pressed her face into the hollow at his throat.
No.
About the author:
Winner of the Holt Medallion, Maggie, Daphne du Maurier, Reviewer’s Choice and Epic awards, Barbara Monajem wrote her first story at eight years old about apple tree gnomes. She published a middle-grade fantasy when her children were young, then moved on to paranormal mysteries and Regency romances with intrepid heroines and long-suffering heroes (or vice versa). Regency mysteries are next on the agenda.
Barbara loves to cook, especially soups. She used to have two items on her bucket list: to make asparagus pudding (because it was too weird to resist) and to succeed at knitting socks. She managed the first (it was dreadful) but doubts she’ll ever accomplish the second. This is not a bid for immortality but merely the dismal truth. She lives near Atlanta, Georgia with an ever-shifting population of relatives, friends, and feline strays.
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