Erica Ridley's Blog, page 4
September 3, 2020
Dawn with a Duke: Sharable images!
August 31, 2020
August Roundup: News & Giveaways!
Another busy month! Several giveaways and free books for you, but first:
A secret identities, forbidden love, opposites attract romance from a New York Times bestselling author: Why seduce a duke the normal way, when you can accidentally kidnap one in an elaborately planned heist?
I’m so excited for THE DUKE HEIST!!
(ICYMI: My )
Grab your copy here:
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Register your preorder and get a FREE BOOK as a bonus gift!
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This week: DAWN WITH A DUKE!
Secrets and scandal abound when two strong-willed opposites are snowbound together in this laugh-out-loud, heartwarming romance!
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Coming to you on 9 October: ONE NIGHT WITH A DUKE!
Sparks fly in this definitely-not-falling-in-love workplace romance featuring a venture capitalist who never returns to the same town twice, and a talented jeweler who would never leave her community and family behind�
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Lord of Secrets is 99¢/99p for a limited time!
An opposites-attract, wrong-side-of-the-tracks, secret identity romance: Heath Grenville is the problem-solver for London’s elite. When his assignment leads him to the wrong young lady, surely he won’t do anything so scandalous as to fall in love�
August 28, 2020
Meet the Hero: Calvin McAlistair
Enjoy an excerpt from the newest 12 Dukes of Christmas romance,
Dawn with a Duke!
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Calvin McAlistair immediately regretted gesturing at the empty chair on the other side of his small dining table.
He’d chosen the smallest table in the farthest corner specifically to avoid being forced to speak to anyone. Managing awkward small talk was painful enough with acquaintances. With strangers, it was impossible. Already his body tensed and his mind emptied of anything clever to say.
But though he had the social abilities of a block of marble, inside he knew all too well what it was like to gaze about and realize one did not belong. That there was no place here for you, and never would be.
The young woman he’d gestured to, on the other hand, did not appear familiar with the sensation of not having a place at the table. Even before her eyes had widened and her pretty forehead lined with disbelief, then consternation, it had been obvious from the moment she’d swept into the posting house that she expected to be welcome anywhere.
Soft brown hair, swept high. Cheeks flushed with good health rather than chapped from the cold. Gorgeous carriage dress of olive bombazine, trimmed with golden Spanish puffs and a double row of intricate matching crepe. Sarcenet-lined fur wrapping-cloak, combined with an enormous matching pelerine to guard against the winter weather.
In other words, she was the sort of woman his mother might have worked for, not the sort of woman who took her meals with common folk like Calvin McAlistair.
Despite his attire, he was no gentleman.
But it was too late to take back his reckless act of kindness. The elegant young woman glided his way, a hesitant smile on her pretty lips.
Calvin was more than hesitant. He was a rash, regretful curmudgeon who enjoyed the anonymity of large crowds, but vastly preferred solitude. He should have taken his meal in his room. Then she could have the entire tiny table to herself, and he would not be forced to spend the next quarter hour in increasingly awkward levels of hell.
But no. He’d already ordered his food, and he’d extended the silent invitation to come and disturb him.
She was here.
“Thank you.� Her voice was confident, cultured, as rich as honey. He could almost taste each syllable on his tongue. She paused next to the empty chair.
Calvin did not leap up to pull it back from the table for her. He did not want to feel the rich fabric of her skirt brush against his stiff body or catch a hint of some flowery perfume as she sank gracefully into her chair.
Making it through his meal would be challenge enough.
“Mmphh,� he said gruffly. He could not quite bring himself to say my pleasure.
She floated down into her chair like a feather nestling in the crook of a tree.
Interactions such as these were torture, not out of fear of rejection, so much as the certainty of embarrassing himself. He did not know what to say to a refined lady in a posting house dining room, and preferred saying nothing at all rather than mortifying them both with inescapable awkwardness.
Now that she’d sat before him, they were both trapped. There would be no running away until the food was ordered and consumed. Even if he wolfed down his mutton pie in the space of a breath, politeness dictated he remain in his seat until she, too, had finished eating.
The hesitant smile was back on her lips. “I’m� Mrs. é辱Ա.�
“McAlistair.� The word came out easily.
In fact, his muscles had relaxed considerably and the hardness in his stomach had nearly vanished. Mrs. é辱Ա was the best possible name the beautiful stranger could have.
She was obviously respectable—one glance at her expensive carriage dress indicated that much—and a respectable married lady would not be in the least concerned with what kind of impression Calvin happened to make.
“Are you here on holiday?� she asked politely, her cultured accent slightly jarring.
“N.�
He was here on business. Mostly. Which was another reason why he should have taken his meal upstairs in his room. He would not come downstairs again until he was ready to leave. Calvin did not have time for distractions, even temporary ones that smelt of lavender.
Why did she smell like lavender? She had just arrived; he’d been watching. He watched everyone, took note of everything. The back of her traveling costume was wrinkled. She had a driver, a maid who’d fallen sick. She should smell of long carriage rides, not lavender.
Belatedly, he remembered it was his turn to ask a question. He went with the same one she had chosen.
“Are you here on holiday?”�
“Yes.� Her hazel eyes lit with warmth, elevating her features from beautiful to luminous. “We’ll spend the Yuletide visiting friends and family.�
He did not have to ask who “we� was. She was Mrs. é辱Ա. “We� meant she and her husband, the imprudently absent Mr. é辱Ա.
Calvin would never find himself in such a predicament, because Calvin did not intend to marry. A wife would get in his way, and he in hers. They would be forced to have awkward dining conversations like this three times a day. True, some married couples never saw each other save for the occasional nocturnal visit, but Calvin saw even less point in leg-shackling oneself to someone one had no wish to spend time with.
Oh, he understood why the aristocracy did so. Heirs and such, the passing down of titles and entailed estates, the strategic alliance to increase land or political connections. After the obligatory begetting of sons, each party was free to discreetly do as they pleased. Many lords kept the same mistresses they’d had since before the wedding.
Calvin did not need to bother with any of that. No title, no land, no estate, no link to politics. If he wanted a mistress, he could just get one, and skip the bit about lying to his wife about it. Being a common bachelor was simple and straightforward. Having no friends and family to visit, even better. No strings at all, just as he liked it.
“McAlistair,� she said slowly, as if tasting his name the way he tasted all of her honey-rich words. “Are you Scottish?�
“N.� Maybe. Probably. It was none of her business. He turned the tables back on her. “Are you?�
“Am I� Scottish?� She leaned back. “I’m Mrs. é辱Ա.�
He shrugged. “You’re not French.�
Her face flushed crimson. “How� I� My husband…�
The serving girl appeared, rushed and out of breath. She looked at Mrs. é辱Ա. “Pie and ale?�
Mrs. é辱Ա darted a startled look at Calvin.
“’v already ordered,� he told her. “Pie and ale.�
“You, madam?� prompted the serving girl.
“Er,� said Mrs. é辱Ա as if they were all speaking a different language. Perhaps she was French. “Is there a menu?�
“Yes,� the serving girl replied impatiently. “Pie and ale if you’re hungry, no pie if you’re not.�
“She’ll have the pie and ale,� Calvin murmured.
The serving girl bobbed her head and spun away without another word.
“Thank you,� Mrs. é辱Ա said. “I thought� I don’t know what I thought.�
“You thought there would be choices,� Calvin said dryly. “And usually you would be right. But when the dining room is this busy, the kitchen makes one meal in order to feed the guests with as much haste as possible.�
It was the longest speech he could remember making to a stranger. Nor was the topic a particularly interesting one.
But Mrs. é辱Ա grinned at him as if they were old acquaintances sharing a private jest.
Calvin’s heart beat uncomfortably fast.
“Have you stayed here long?� she asked.
“A few days.�
Eight, to be exact. Tomorrow he would depart for a meeting that would change his life forever.
He hoped.
But before he met with the investor, he needed to finish the new prototype. That was why he had chosen this posting house. Close enough to be a convenient distance from his meeting. Far enough that he need not fear running into his business partner before the prototype was ready.
Far enough for Calvin to get ready. Days of haggling with his business partner over the best way to present their secret project awaited him, followed by the most awkward conversation ever, in which he and his partner attempted to convince a potential investor to part with his money in order to fund a speculative venture.
All of which meant he should not be sitting at a cozy table, making idle talk with a married lady. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to have the serving girl send his pie and ale up to his room. Unconscionably rude perhaps, but it wasn’t as though Mrs. é辱Ա longed for Calvin’s company in particular. They were strangers and would remain so. Once he exited the dining room, he would never lay eyes on her again.
“Ale.� The serving girl thunked two pints onto the table and disappeared.
Mrs. é辱Ա stared at her glass of frothing ale as though she had no idea what she was meant to do with it.
Calvin lifted his and held it up toward her. “May the pies arrive as fast as possible.�
She burst out laughing and clanked her glass with his, her hazel eyes merry. “I’m being horribly awkward, aren’t I? A thousand heartfelt apologies, Mr. McAlistair. I’d like to blame the long journey, but the truth is, ’v never been in a situation such as this, and I find myself uncertain what to do or say. You are a perfect gentleman to let me stumble about so without a word of complaint.�
He stared at her.
Mrs. é辱Ա thought she was being horribly awkward? And Calvin a perfect gentleman?
�’v never been in this situation either,� he blurted out, exactly unlike how a perfect gentleman would do.
Mrs. é辱Ա all but melted in obvious relief. She brought her glass back to his with a conspiratorial grin. “To two hopelessly lost souls sharing a delightfully awkward supper together.�
It had never occurred to Calvin that awkwardness could be delightful, but if ever it were to be true, it was at this moment, right here with her. He clinked her glass. “To pie and ale with a stranger.�
But already the word no longer fit. The sharpest edges had worn away. He no longer felt prickly and uncomfortable. Or rather, he still did, but in a new way. The prickles fluttered in his stomach, rather than crawled upon his skin. His discomfort came not from the desire to flee, but the realization that he no longer wished to. He hoped the kitchen took twice as long with the pies.
“This is my first time in Houville,� Mrs. é辱Ա confessed.
“Mine, as well.� He hesitated, then added, “I cannot tell you much about it. I haven’t left the posting house since I arrived.�
“I shan’t have an opportunity to go exploring, either. I didn’t mean to stop here. As soon as my maid is well enough to travel, we’ll be off.�
Calvin did not ask to where. The Christmas village of Cressmouth was an obvious choice, but the Yuletide was still a fortnight away. Perhaps the reason she’d inquired about Scotland was because she had just come from there. Or maybe she was en route to London. She looked the part.
“I wish your maid good health.�
“As do I.� Her tone was so fervent, one might be forgiven for thinking a family member had fallen ill, rather than a servant. She took a sip of ale and wrinkled her nose. “Is it meant to taste like this?�
The corners of his mouth twitched.
“The ale is actually nice,� he admitted. “I suspect many of the dining guests are local residents who’ve come specifically because of the ale.�
She took another sip, swished it in her mouth for a moment, then swallowed with a grimace. “Will it grow on me?�
“Do things tend to?�
She tilted her head to one side as if this were a fascinating question she had not previously considered.
“Some things,� she said at last. “The best ones are like honeysuckle. By the time you notice, they’ve bloomed, and you’re glad they’ve taken over your façade.�
Calvin blinked at the image. He often thought in terms of façades and pretty armor. It was the reason he always dressed as though he was off to promenade with the bon ton in Hyde Park. At a young age, he had learnt that the easiest way to avoid unwanted questions was to appear highborn enough that it would be impertinent to ask.
Mrs. é辱Ա was likely being metaphorical.
“Have you honeysuckle growing on your house?� he asked.
She shook her head. “Red brick. It’s� When I’m there, I’m usually somewhere else. At a window looking out, or carrying my favorite paint set off to—�
Her cheeks flushed, and she took a sip of ale rather than finish her sentence.
“Do you paint?�
She waved this off. “All ladies are forced to dabble in watercolor during their youth. What about you?�
“Do I watercolor?�
“I don’t know your vice. That’s why I’m asking.�
He wasn’t certain whether it was more intriguing that she’d grouped herself in with “all ladies� or that she considered watercolor a vice.
“I have no vices.� None that he was willing to mention. “Except for opium-eating, pig wrestling, and the politesse not to mention a frothy mustache on a supper companion’s top lip.�
She let out a choked giggle. “Have I froth on my lip?�
“You make it fetching,� he assured her. “If Ackermann were to walk by, he’d sketch you on the first page of the next repository.�
“In that case…� She lifted her ale to her mouth and held it to her lip for a moment too long. When she returned her glass to the table, the hint of froth below her nose was now a lopsided swath of bubbles. “All better?�
“Your frothy whiskers are undetectable.� He pretended to scrutinize her. “Unless I’m looking at you.�
“Pie.� The serving girl slid two steaming platters onto the table. “You’ve got froth on your face.�
Calvin and Mrs. é辱Ա burst into laughter.
The serving girl had already moved to the next table.
“She doesn’t understand high fashion,� Mrs. é辱Ա whispered.
“No one ever does,� he said sadly. “It’s a curse.�
“I hope this pie is the cure. It smells divine.�
“They’ve excellent pies here,� Calvin admitted. “My favorite is the minced meat. I shan’t be at all offended if we’re too busy shoveling food into our froth-adorned mouths to have time for conversation.�
“I shan’t be offended either…� A shy smile curled up one side of her lips. “But I would be disappointed. It turns out I’m glad there were no free tables in the dining room. ’v been enjoying sharing this ale together.�
“You hate the ale,� he reminded her.
“True.� She set down her glass. “Then it must be the fine company I like so much.�
The back of Calvin’s neck flamed with heat. Thank heavens for the pompously overblown neckcloth exploding from his throat. Mrs. é辱Ա would not see him blush like a schoolboy.
He wasn’t certain precisely when it had happened, but he’d at some point forgot his awkwardness entirely. He hadn’t realized that forgetting one’s awkwardness was a phenomenon that could even occur.
“I suspect,� he said gruffly, “I’m only fit company when with the right person.�
“You charming flatterer.� She blotted her lip with a serviette, eyes twinkling. “If we’ve determined anything, it is that I am the wrong person to take anywhere. If the pies hadn’t arrived when they did, who knows what silly mischief we’d have got up to next.�
That sounded� marvelous. She was marvelous.
No, no. This could not stand. He picked up his cutlery and fixed his gaze on his pie. He did not have time for a distraction, even one as fetching as Mrs. é辱Ա.
His future depended on it.
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August 21, 2020
Meet the Heroine: Lady Isabelle
Enjoy an excerpt from the newest 12 Dukes of Christmas romance,
Dawn with a Duke!
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December 1814
Although Lady Isabelle Borland’s carriage climbed toward the northernmost peak of England, she did not gaze out of the window in her usual dreamy way at the picturesque snow-blanketed landscape shimmering in all directions.
Instead, all of Belle’s worried focus centered on the lady’s maid seated opposite her.
Ursula’s perpetually cheery freckled face was white as plaster of Paris, and drawn into a pained grimace that worsened every time one of their wheels ran over a rock or slid on a patch of ice. Her painstakingly styled russet hair clung to her face and neck in damp hunks, partially obscuring the rivulets of sweat dripping from her temples. Her shaking limbs hid beneath every single blanket in the carriage, save for a pale, trembling hand that clutched a sturdy sack that had once contained periodicals for the journey, and now contained�
Ah, there she went again. It had been ages since Ursula last attempted to eat, yet her stomach continued to rebel with alarming regularity.
“How much longer?� Belle shouted to their driver, John.
A lady did not shout, particularly not if she were the infallibly respectable daughter of a duke, but if Ursula did not get out of this carriage and into a warm bed posthaste�
“Two hours,� John called back.
Two hours? Ursula would not last two more hours. The putrid sack swinging ominously from her fingers would withstand even less. And if Belle was sitting in the enclosed carriage when the contents of that sack escaped, John would deal with not one but two violently ill passengers.
“You have half an hour,� Belle shouted back. “Maybe less.�
“Lady Isabelle, I’m afraid horses cannot fly. Cressmouth is at the top of this mountain, and we must wind our way up the path like we do every year. With the way this snow is coming down—�
“Forget Cressmouth,� Belle snapped. “I don’t care about my holiday. Ursula needs a bed and a doctor.�
John gestured at the endless horizon of rolling, snow-dusted pines and muttered what sounded suspiciously like, “Let me know when you see one.�
She curled her fingers into fists. John couldn’t make horses fly, and Belle couldn’t conjure a doctor out of thin air. But she had to do something.
Think, she begged herself in desperation.
Females don’t have to think, Papa liked to say, with an indulgent wink. That’s what husbands and fathers are for. Just be pretty.
And Belle would grit her teeth behind a tight-lipped smile to keep the frustration from boiling over as her mother’s face fell with disappointment. Lady Isabelle, were you thinking again? How will you ever find a match that way? There are rules to follow, darling. You know them by heart. All you need to do is follow them.
Father was gone now, but the rules had not changed. All of Society followed them. What to say, what to do, what to eat, what to wear. What was allowed to interest you, who you could and could not befriend.
Like Ursula, for instance. Belle had been scolded time and again that Ursula was a servant, not a playmate. After more than a decade of each other’s company, Ursula was no longer Belle’s secret friend, but more like a sister.
And that sister was turning inside out in misery before Belle’s eyes.
�Houville,� she blurted.
John glanced back at her. “W?�
“Houville,� she repeated in triumph. “It’s the last little village before the long stretch to Cressmouth, and I don’t recall having passed it.�
John brightened. “You’re right. I don’t know if there’ll be a doctor, but I believe there’s a posting house. Can you last half an hour?�
Ursula gave Belle a weak nod before returning her face to her sack.
Twenty minutes will be too long, Belle wanted to respond, but did not. With all this ice and snow, a carriage accident would make things immeasurably worse.
“Thank you, John,� she called back, and straightened the blankets about Ursula’s shoulders.
Her brother, the Duke of Nottingvale, held a Yuletide party at his winter residence in Cressmouth every winter. Belle had thought it would be lovely to head up early and spend a week or two with her friend Angelica. She’d thought Ursula would enjoy the trip as well. She’d thought it might be a welcome holiday for them both.
And now this.
This was what she got for thinking.
She diverted her gaze out of the window to the passing evergreens. Each tree brought them closer to Houville. Everything would be fine. They would rent the finest suite of rooms in the posting house, Ursula would improve quickly, and they’d be back on the road to Cressmouth as if nothing had happened.
There ɴdzܱ’t even be a need to mention this small detour to anyone. Especially not to her mother or to her brother, the duke.
It was all under control.
Or would be, as soon as they arrived at the posting house.
The moment evergreens turned into cottages with snow-covered roofs and busy brick chimneys, Belle tied her bonnet beneath her chin and set about helping Ursula prepare to leave the coach.
Snowflakes whirled in with the sharp wind as John swung open the carriage door.
She hurried down the step and onto the frozen street. “Don’t worry about the trunks. We need to get Ursula inside. If you can take her, I’ll run ahead and arrange the rooms.�
“As you wish.� John disappeared into the carriage.
Belle squinted up at the illustrated owl on the sign above the posting house door. The Hoot & Holly. At least it was open.
The interior teemed with people and warmth. Glasses and cutlery clanged in a crowded dining area that seemed to take up the front half of the building. At the rear was a long bar, behind which stood an older woman in an apron and a mob cap.
A lady did not rush, but time was of the essence. Belle hastened through the dining area, dodging wooden chairs and a harried serving girl.
When she reached the bar, the older woman flung a damp towel over her shoulder. “How can I help you, love?�
“I need three rooms for the night. And a doctor, if you’ve got one.”�
“I haven’t.� The woman passed a speculative glance over Belle’s luxurious but hopelessly wrinkled traveling costume. “W’s wrong with you?�
“Not me,� Belle explained. “It’s my maid. She’s feverish, and cannot keep anything in her stomach. I’ll take the finest suite you have, with separate bedrooms of course, and another room for our driver. We’ll be on our way to Cressmouth as soon as—�
“Haven’t got three rooms.� The older woman pointed out of the window to the falling snow. “Suddenly everyone wants to stop here on their way to the castle. Too bad no one’s a carpenter to add on another floor.�
“W do you have?� Belle asked desperately. “I’ll pay double.�
The proprietress tilted her head and gave her a speculative look. “’v only one room left.�
“Perfect.� Belle sagged with relief. “I’ll take it.�
“It has but one bed,� the proprietress warned. “A narrow one.�
“My maid can have it,� Belle said quickly. “I’ll sleep on a chair.�
Or on the floor. She’d brought enough gowns to improvise a cushion fit for a princess, if need be. But what was she to do with John?
Movement rustled behind her as her driver staggered forth with Ursula in his arms, the sack dangling from one pale hand.
The proprietress’s eyes filled with compassion. “Caught the influenza that’s going around, did she?�
John and Belle exchanged startled looks.
“Going around?� he croaked.
“It doesn’t matter,� Belle said firmly. “I’ll mind her in my room.� She turned to the proprietress. “Have you anywhere my driver could sleep?�
“I suppose you don’t mind servants� quarters?�
John shook his head. “Not at all, madam.�
“Then there’s a bed for you.� She narrowed her eyes at Ursula. “And for this one, as well. None of this ‘sleeping on the floor� in my inn, when ’v already a sickroom in the back for two maids who have come down with the same thing. It’ll be easier on everyone to keep all the invalids in one place.�
“Thank you.� Belle pressed her hands to her heart. “You’ve no idea how much I appreciate your kindness.�
“You may change your mind. The room I mentioned is the smallest one in the posting house. We try to keep men and women on separate floors, but with this weather, we’re all having to make do. I suppose you have a companion?�
Belle’s companion was barely conscious, and about to be carried off to the servants� quarters by her driver. Her skin went clammy. The daughter of a duke could not possibly spend a single moment by herself on a mixed-sex wing of bedchambers, much less pass an entire night in such company and expect to keep her reputation intact.
But what choice did she have? Dragging Ursula back out into the snow at twilight would be asinine and dangerous.
“It’s fine,� she said firmly. She would have a sturdy footman guide her to her room and stay locked in there until morning, when she could ring for a maid to accompany her back down. “Just me, no companions.�
The proprietress slid a guestbook across the counter. “Then sign here, Miss�?�
“La—� Belle’s voice cut off. She could not sign “Lady Isabelle� in the registry. The scandalous news would arrive back in London before she did.
She needed a pseudonym. One that apparently began with “Lay,� now that she’d begun.
“é辱Ա�,� she blurted. It had been the name of her childhood pet. It would have to do. “Mrs. é辱Ա. I’m� a widow. Traveling from� Epping.�
Now she was babbling and giving far too much unnecessary information. She clamped her teeth shut before she invented three children and a chalet in France to match her fake French surname. If challenged, at least Belle could speak French. Those endless tutoring sessions had not been for nothing.
John, for his part, did not blink at the false name.
Nor did the proprietress, who tapped the pencil laying in the fold of the registry. “How do you do, Mrs. é辱Ա? I’m Mrs. Price. Sign, and I’ll give you a key.�
Belle grabbed the pencil and dashed an illegible scrawl on the next line. “Ursula and John are to have anything they wish. I will cover all costs. And if there’s a doctor—�
“He’ll be passing through tomorrow morning. I’ll have him look at your girl when he attends the others. Now, shall we get the invalid out of our dining room?� Mrs. Price waved down an adolescent boy, and gave him instructions for both Ursula and John. Then she plucked a brass key from behind the counter and pressed it into Belle’s hand. “There you are, love. Room eighteen. Third floor, second-to-last room on the left.�
“Er…� Belle’s fingers closed about the heavy key. “Is there someone who can carry up my trunks, and show John what to do with the carriage?�
Mrs. Price glanced about the busy dining room. “Not at the moment, but I’ll see to it you’re next. Why don’t you have something to eat while you wait?�
“I’m not—� A rumble in her stomach made a lie of her protestation.
She was hungry, Belle realized. It had been hours since Ursula last ate, and the same amount of time for her. Belle had concentrated so hard on trying to arrive at Cressmouth before nightfall, for Ursula’s sake, that she’d forgot all about stopping for food.
“I will,� she told Mrs. Price. “Thank you. Please see that my driver eats well.�
Now that she’d woken her stomach, Belle realized she was famished. She turned in search of an empty table.
There was none.
“Always crowded this time of year.� Mrs. Price beamed with pride. “We’re the last posting house before Christmas.�
Literally and figuratively. Cressmouth was best known as Christmas, and Britons flocked from far and wide to spend the festive season in a village renowned for its perennial Yuletide. Most revelers spent their holiday in beautiful Marlowe Castle, in one of hundreds of guest rooms with a spectacular view.
None of which was helping Belle find an empty table. Perhaps over there� No. Or perhaps over� Taken, as well. Or perhaps�
A pair of glittering brown eyes met hers and Belle’s breath caught in her suddenly dry throat.
The gentleman gazing back at her looked as though he had just stepped out of a fashionable gentleman’s club such as White’s or Brooks’s. Gleaming black Hessians on his feet, flawless buckskins molded to his legs, an exquisitely tailored greatcoat over an understated waistcoat. Dark hair, darker gaze. Neckcloth so bright it dazzled the eyes. Every stitch was perfect, every hair in place. He was like a portrait entitled Dangerous Rake: Virtuous Ladies Should Not Dare Come Near.
And he was beckoning her closer. No, not merely closer. He was gesturing to the empty seat on the other side of his private table. He was inviting her to join him.
Her heart clattered. She shouldn’t. She ɴdzܱ’t. It was improper in every way� for Lady Isabelle. Who she definitely was not. She was Mrs. é辱Ա, a matronly widow who could do as she pleased. Couldn’t she? Just this once. Belle tried to steady her fluttering pulse. This was the tamest of adventures. She and Sir Renaissance Painting Come to Life were strangers who need never cross paths again.
What harm could come from enjoying a moment or two of his company?
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July 31, 2020
July Roundup: News & Giveaways!
Another busy month! Several giveaways and free books for you, but first:
I’m so excited for THE DUKE HEIST!!
(ICYMI: My )
Grab your copy here:
June 30, 2020
June Roundup: News & Giveaways!
What a wonderful, busy month! Several giveaways and free books for you, but first:
Cover reveal for THE DUKE HEIST!!! I love this cover so much!! Here is my . And an !
Grab your copy here:
June 11, 2020
Cover Reveal: THE DUKE HEIST
The cover for THE DUKE HEIST has finally been unveiled! I am in LOVE!! I can’t wait for you to meet the Wild Wynchesters! This fun-loving, caper-committing family of tight-knit siblings has been such a blast to write. I hope you adore them just as much as I do!
Check out the gorgeous cover and read an at the Frolic romance website�
PLUS, as a bonus gift to fans: register your preorder and I’ll send you a , not available anywhere else! 
December 24, 2019
New Release: THE DUKE’S DESIRE
12 Dukes of Christmas #8: The Duke’s Desire!
Meg Church adores two things: life in a village of perennial Yuletide, and the freedoms of being a spinster with no reputation to protect. Oh, very well, three things: She’s harbored a secret tendre for Christmas curmudgeon Lucien le Duc since the moment she first glimpsed him. But the sexy blacksmith won’t give her the time of day, much less a night of torrid passion.
Ever since Lucien le Duc was forced to flee his beloved France during the revolution, his all-consuming goal has been to recover not only his lost land and fortune, but also his rightful place among the French aristocracy. He would never be distracted by an English dairy maid’s sultry glances� or her soul-consuming kisses� or the temptation to turn one night into forever�
The 12 Dukes of Christmas is a series of heartwarming Regency romps nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. After all, nothing heats up a winter night quite like finding oneself in the arms of a duke!
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December 14, 2019
Meet the Hero: Lucien le Duc
Enjoy an excerpt from the newest Twelve Dukes of Christmas romance, THE DUKE’S DESIRE !
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The lending library was empty. Perfect.
Lucien le Duc didn’t want anyone to witness him returning books meant for babies. If he hadn’t managed to become fluent in English by now, there was no point in carrying on. Not when he finally had a ticket back home tucked away in his waistcoat pocket.
Perhaps what he ought to pick up were a few things in French. Was there a latest novel everyone would be raving about? A fascinating biography? Advances in wine production and the cultivation of grapes? He stepped around the corner� and crashed directly into a young woman emerging from between two tall shelves.
Her book went flying.
His books went flying.
She flailed for balance.
He caught her.
Gray-blue eyes met his and widened.
He sighed. “You wonder� if I am� the local blacksmith…�
Her eyes glinted with mischief. “I’m actually wondering what else you can do with those strong hands.�
He let her go.
She placed the back of her hand against her forehead and dramatically slumped against his chest as though she had just swooned.
Her eyes were still open. And twinkling wickedly.
Lucien had absolutely no idea how a gentleman should respond. So he froze. Her hair smelled like lilacs. An errant curl tickled his jaw. He had a feeling she knew it.
She pushed away from his chest and burst out laughing. “’v been dying to be alone with you for six long years. I thought I’d imagined every possible way it might happen, but you’ve just exceeded my every expectation. You even let me nuzzle against your chest for the briefest of moments. It was just as warm and hard and muscular as I dreamed it would be.�
He stared at her helplessly. The more she talked, the less he knew what to do with her.
“Here.� She knelt to the floor. “Let me retrieve your books.�
�No,� he barked, but it was too late.
A Little Pretty Pocket-Book was already in her hand.
She blinked at the title. “Interesting choice. I prefer gothic intrigue, and a shameless lack of virtue, but I suppose this could also� No, it probably couldn’t.� She handed him back his books.
“W are you?� he managed.
But of course he knew who she was. Not her name, but her face. The village was much too small for even a recluse like Lucien not to recognize other locals. He’d glimpsed this black-haired beauty several times in the company of his new sister-in-law. Her generous curves and blue-gray eyes were impossible to miss. Nor could anyone mistake her habit of throwing back her head with a laugh so shockingly loud, so unabashedly delighted, so enticingly infectious, that even a marble statue would be tempted to smile back.
What he hadn’t realized was that she’d been watching him, too.
“I’m Meg.� She dipped an impressively graceful curtsey.
He waited.
She added no additional information.
He cleared his throat. “Meg…�
“Meg, of the Christmas Megs.� She smiled brightly, then fluttered her eyes heavenward. “If you must have all the boring details, I am Miss Margaret Church, cousin to Mr. and Mrs. Allan Farrell of the local Farrell dairy, and yes, I live there, too. Eve insists on saying ‘Margaret� just to needle me, but friends can call me Meg.�
“Are we friends?� he asked doubtfully.
“Oh, do I get to decide? In that case, yes. We are most definitely friends. I’m Meg, and you’re� may I call you Luc?�
“N.�
She tapped her cheek. “Lucien, then. But ɴdzܱ’t it be fun if we all had a one-syllable name? Meg, Luc, Eve, Beau—�
He crossed his arms. “My brother’s name� is Bastien.�
“Ah, but you knew who I was talking about, didn’t you? Yet I see your point. If everyone used a one-syllable nickname, it would become monotonous. Maybe Eve has it right, and I should be Margaret after all. Well, too late for us. You’re a friend who calls me Meg. I’ll have to save ‘Margaret� for the next rugged blacksmith I crash into at the library.�
Lucien wished he knew a polite way to say Do you always talk this much? in English.
But he wasn’t here to be polite to English people. He was here to rid himself of English nonsense that he had no interest in reading.
Mademoiselle Church either took deep pleasure in being shocking, or she had no idea how scandalous her behavior actually was. A gentleman would walk away, so as not to find himself embroiled in scandal himself.
And he would. Any second now.
He narrowed his eyes. She was no debutante. Not just for lack of manners, but because Lucien took her age to be at least five-and-twenty. A beautiful spinster living in someone else’s humble country farm would imply Mademoiselle Church was an impoverished cousin relying on family charity. A poor relation to a dairy maid. Leagues beneath the caliber of well-bred aristocratic young ladies Lucien would be associating with once he returned to France.
No doubt she saw that damnable article in the Cressmouth, realized his family was no longer as poor as they’d been, and figured a blacksmith would be a step up from her current circumstances. Well, he wasn’t interested. Not in her, or any Englishwoman. She would have to find some other mark to bat those long eyelashes at.
He opened his mouth to tell her so.
“No, no, don’t stop now.� She fanned her neck. “I love the way you glower. I have no idea what you’re thinking and really it doesn’t matter, because if you told me, all the mystery would go away. When you cross those big, strong arms over that wide chest and narrow those piercing chocolate-brown eyes to slits, it feels as though you’re smiting an entire room with the power of your thoughts. It comes across positively devilish.� She lowered her voice. “I adore anything wicked.�
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December 7, 2019
Meet the Heroine: Miss Margaret Church
Enjoy an excerpt from the newest Twelve Dukes of Christmas romance, THE DUKE’S DESIRE !
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With her arms full of fresh-cut flowers nicked from the castle greenhouse, Meg Church burst into her best friend’s gorgeous new office. Oh, very well, Meg was technically Miss Margaret Damaris Brouillard-Church, but who had time to waste on anything that stuffy and boring?
“Here,� she announced, as she began strategically arranging stems of yellow gorse. “If you’re going to be cooped inside this enormous, luxurious new office all day and night, you need a bit of beauty to offset all those mountains of paper.� She spun toward her friend with a mischievous shake of her finger. “Please tell me you’re no longer spending your nights hunched over a printing press. I’m sure your husband can find some other way to entertain you.�
Eve flushed scarlet and became extremely interested in inspecting her new desk’s empty drawers.
“Excellent!� Meg clapped her hands in glee. “I had no doubt the le Duc brothers would be every bit as good as they look.�
Eve sank down in her chair and covered her face with her hand.
“You can’t get missish on me now—you’re married,� Meg teased her. “It’s perfectly acceptable for you and your husband to perform as many decadent, carnal acts as can fit into a night. It’s me who must be secretive about such things.�
Eve peeked through her fingers, both eyebrows raised. “‘Secretive?� You can’t even be subtle.�
“W wants to be subtle?� Meg scoffed. “Subtle is a waste of everyone’s time. If we would all just say what we mean, think of how many misunderstandings could be avoided!�
“Is that so?� Eve leaned forward on her desk, an arch look in her eye. “Then why haven’t you told Lucien that you melt into a puddle at the mere glimpse of him?�
“It hasn’t come up,� Meg replied pertly, then let out a long sigh. “Mostly because he’s never spoken to me. Not that I insist upon conversation. I’d be perfectly satisfied if all he wants to do with me is—�
Eve slapped her hands over her ears. “I’m a le Duc now! We cannot talk that way about my brother--.�
Meg grinned back unrepentantly. It was good to be jocular with her best friend again. No, it was great. Over the past fortnight, they’d barely seen each other, except at the wedding.
Not that Eve had cut old friends out of her life the moment she became a Proper Married Woman. The opposite; not a day went by without a note inviting Meg to join the happy duo for a supper here or a glass of wine there. But what kind of friend would Meg be if she shoehorned herself into a newlywed couple’s private time together, just because Meg was lonely?
Setting up a new office, however, was exactly the sort of thing Meg was best at. Although she liked to pretend there was nothing more in her head than the image of Lucien le Duc in tight buckskins and an abiding love for good chocolate, the truth was, Meg was a born organizer. She loved the late nights she’d spent helping set up the type for the quarterly Gazette. She loved helping her cousins manage milking schedules at the family dairy. She even loved doing the occasional odd tasks around the castle.
Granted, none of those endeavors incurred a salary of any sort, but Meg had just enough funds to get by. She liked her life, just as it was. What else did she need?
“Congratulations again,� she told Eve seriously. “You deserve this. All of this. True love and a journalism dream come true.�
“Publishing every month instead of every three months.� Eve’s expression was still awed. “And I can write whatever I want.�
“The current issue is your most popular yet.� Meg lifted a copy from one of the many stacks. “Subscribers were expecting the traditional big Christmas edition, and you gave them so much more. Everyone in the whole village must have purchased theirs by now.�
“Everyone everywhere,� Eve admitted with a smile. “We had to reprint twice to fill all the long distance requests from tourists.� She tilted her head. “W about you?�
“I have three copies,� Meg answered without hesitation. She always bought at least that many. One to read, one to save, and one for the castle library upstairs.
“I don’t mean the Gazette. You helped me set up the type.� Eve crossed her arms. “I meant, what about you getting everything you ever wanted, too?�
Meg set down the newspaper.
“I already have everything I could ever want,� she answered lightly. “A brilliant and talented bosom friend, who lets me spoil her dog rotten. I share a home with my cousin and her husband, who are the kindest people in England. And we live in a beautiful mountaintop village that celebrates Christmastide all year round. I’m the luckiest person I know.�
“You could be even luckier,� Eve insisted. “W if you took a husband?�
“Good God.� Meg groaned. “Please tell me you haven’t turned into one of those so quickly. I thought Old Married Lady syndrome wasn’t supposed to start until five or six years in.�
Eve’s mouth fell open. “I’m not—�
“You were perfectly happy without a man in your life until Sébastien came along,� Meg reminded her.
“And then I became happier.� Eve lifted her chin. “It could happen to you, too.�
“I have plenty of opportunities for happiness.� Meg pointed a finger toward the ceiling. “Do you know how many well-favored tourists pass through the castle’s guest chambers every year?�
“You deserve a lifetime of happiness.� Eve frowned. “Not just a night or two here and there.�
“To be fair…� Meg wiggled her brows. “They tend to be very good nights.�
Besides, she knew better than to risk her heart. Some people were lucky enough to find “forever,� but Meg was not one of those people. If life had taught her anything, it was that as soon as she was comfortable and content, something would happen to snatch it all away. It was much better not to pine for things one could not have in the first place. Changewas the most dangerous thing of all.
Eve sighed. “If you want to be a scandalous spinster for the rest of your life—�
“I do,� Meg assured her. She leaned a hip onto the corner of Eve’s desk. “Highly recommended over the regular sort of spinster. You get all the best bits of having a man in your life without having to actually have a man in your life.�
“Didn’t you tell me you could stare at a man like Lucien le Duc for the rest of your life?�
“’v been staring at his brooding deliciousness every day since I moved here eight years ago without needing a leg-shackle, thank you very much. Besides, that’s a terrible example. He despises everything English, and I’m� oh, right. English.�
“No one could despise you,� Eve said staunchly. “Although you’re right; Lucien was a bad example. He’ll be going back to France soon.�
Meg couldn’t hide her skepticism. “I don’t think ‘soon� means what you think it means. He’s been planning to leave for as long as I can remember.�
“The war just ended.� Eve softened her voice. “He has a ticket. His ship sails the sixth of January.�
Meg’s chest tightened. Of course Eve would know. News was her job, and she was part of the le Duc family now.
“Well, figs.� Meg let out a disappointed sigh. “Glimpses of the devil-duke are one of the highlights of my day.�
“Lucien is not a devil duke,� Eve scolded her. “Didn’t you read page four? He’s a Christmas ܰ.�
Meg gasped dramatically. “That means� this is my last chance for an extremely wicked Christmas miracle!�
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