Tag: historical romance

Historical Romance – The Rake is Taken

Historical Romance – The Rake is Taken

 

League of Lords, Book 2
Historical Romance (Paranormal)
Date Published: Jun 16, 2020
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A gorgeous psychic. An unwanted betrothal. A tantalizing compromise.
 
For fans of Anne Stuart, Tessa Dare, Meredith Duran, Diana Gabaldon, and Kristen Callihan.
An independent hellion, a stealer of time, and the only woman who can capture his heart…
Lady Victoria Hamilton has a supernatural gift, a fiancé, and a guardian angel. She just never expected her protector to be the most dazzling man in England, a devilish scoundrel they call the Blue Bastard. Victoria has agreed to marry for duty, not love, but her unforeseen desire for her mystical angel threatens to destroy not only her plans for the future but the armor surrounding her susceptible heart.
A confirmed scoundrel, a mind reader, and the only man she desires…
Illegitimate son of a viscount and reigning king of London’s gossip sheets, Finn Alexander has spent a lifetime hiding his ability to read minds behind charming smiles and wicked behavior. No one knows the real man, and he likes it that way. Until he meets the lone woman who sees the man beneath the disguise—a blue-blooded temptress with the power to bring him to his knees.
As they embark on a journey of passion and friendship, Victoria and Finn must decide if they’re willing to risk everything for the promise of true, magical love.
Second novel in the tantalizing Victorian paranormal League of Lords series!
 
 
 
Other Books in the League of Lords Series
The Lady is Trouble
League of Lords, Book 1
Release Date: February 18, 2020
In the first in Tracy Sumner’s sizzling League of Lords historical series, mysticism in Victorian England is the setting for a captivating love affair . . .
He’s a viscount with a dark past who yearns for the one woman he can’t have. She’s rebellious, spurned by society and determined to change his mind.
What’s a defiant woman to do when the man she’s meant for doesn’t believe in love?
After three years of waiting for Julian Alexander to realize they are destined to be together, Lady Piper Scott takes matters into her own hands. Because her gift as a healer has never done anything but distance her from the most principled man in England. A meaningless diversion as a medium, all done to gain a certain wandering viscount’s attention, backfires. As most endeavors have for a woman known in the ton as Scandalous Scott.
What’s a reluctant viscount to do when the woman he can’t have becomes the woman he can’t live without?
Julian Alexander, Lord Beauchamp, battled his way from the lowliest slum to assume his title. He carries not only a turbulent past, but a mystical psychic gift that separates him from society. Honorable to his core, he is committed to protecting a community of outcasts with abilities like his own. He has no time, no place, for love. Or repeatedly rescuing the most outrageous, beguiling woman he’s ever known. Even if she needs his protection most—and he desires her above all others.
Seduction, intrigue and desire lead to an explosive passion…
Julian vowed to shield Piper from the deadly foes seeking to possess her powerful gift. Although he needs her help in controlling his own, the mix could be deadly. Soon what was once a simple agreement to work together becomes enchantingly complex as they surrender to a timeless love…

 

About the Author

Tracy’s storytelling career began when she picked up a copy of LaVyrle Spencer’s Vows on a college beach trip. A journalism degree and a thousand romance novels later, she decided to try her hand at writing a southern version of the perfect love story. With a great deal of luck and more than a bit of perseverance, she sold her first novel to Kensington Publishing.
When not writing sensual stories featuring complex characters and lush settings, Tracy can be found reading romance, snowboarding, watching college football and figuring out how she can get to 100 countries before she kicks (which is a more difficult endeavor than it used to be with her eleven-year-old son in tow). She lives in the deep south, but after spending a few years in NYC, considers herself a New Yorker at heart.
Tracy has been awarded the National Reader’s Choice, the Write Touch and the Beacon – with finalist nominations in the HOLT Medallion, Heart of Romance, Rising Stars and Reader’s Choice. Her books have been translated into German, Dutch, Portuguese and Spanish. She loves hearing from readers about why she tends to pit her hero and heroine against each other and that great novel she simply must order in five seconds on her Kindle.
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Twitter: @sumnertrac
Instagram: tracysumnerromance
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Historical Romance – The Blond Devil of the Sea

Historical Romance – The Blond Devil of the Sea

Historical Romance
The Blond Devil of the Sea
By Celeste Barclay

What happens when a lady smuggler meets a ruthless pirate?

Caragh Pedrick is used to men on the wrong side of the law since she runs her Cornish village’s smuggling ring. Fishing no longer feeds their families in her coastal village, so she puts her resourcefulness and bravery to use. But she’s unprepared for the pirate captain who captures her during a raid. Whisked away on a pirate ship, Caragh soon discovers that her pirate captain’s form of command is anything but unsavory. Tempted by his piercing blue eyes and powerful manner, Caragh finds herself giving in to the Blond Devil. Can Caragh leave her smuggler’s life behind for life on the high seas?

What happens when a pirate captain tries to tame the fearless woman he mistakes for a lad?

Rowan MacNeil was forced from his home on the island of Barra and into a life of piracy. Now the captain of his own ship, Rowan expects obedience from the minx he unwittingly captures. When he raids the quiet village of Bedruthen Steps, Rowan decides Caragh, dressed as a lad, would make a fine cabin boy, but it’s not long before Rowan discovers the curves that lay beneath her disguise. While he likes her spirit, his palm itches to lay down the law with the woman who’s invaded his cabin and his life. The question is: will she give in to the Blond Devil?

When misunderstanding and distrust threaten his burgeoning relationship, Rowan must put his faith in his lady smuggler. With a choice to make, Caragh must decide if she can forgive her pirate lover and make a new life with him. Can Rowan put his painful past behind him to save his burgeoning relationship? Can she curb her independent spirit in exchange for an adventurous new love?

Pirates of the Isles is a STEAMY series where lust and love become tangled when pirates and their ladies toe the line between pain and pleasure. Travel to the Hebrides and the coast of Scotland as these pirates pillage and plunder not only villages and ships but the women fearless enough to take them on. Each book can be read as a standalone, but many characters appear throughout the series. ​The first third of this book appeared as a novella in the Pirates, Passion & Plunder anthology. It has since been expanded to add more than two hundred pages of new content.

This passionate love story is ready to go up in flames. It contains adult scenes with explicit content. If this type of material offends you, please do not download.

Buy Links:

Buy from Amazon

About the Author:

Celeste Barclay, a nom de plume, lives near the Southern California coast with her husband and sons. Growing up in the Midwest, Celeste enjoyed spending as much time in and on the water as she could. Now she lives near the beach. She’s an avid swimmer, a hopeful future surfer, and a former rower. When she’s not writing, she’s being a mom.

Find Celesete Online:
Historical Romance – The Art of the Scandal

Historical Romance – The Art of the Scandal

Jilted by her fiancé, abandoned by her father, and scorned by her friends, Lady Lydia Pierpont and her pregnant, 15 year-old sister will be homeless by midnight unless she can charm the deed of her family’s home out of the mysterious South African who won the estate in a poker game.

Grieving over the death of his Jewish father and English mother, Simon Cohen has no time for gallantry. He’s out to reclaim his mother’s name from the aristocracy who humiliated her. With an art collection worth millions and the National Gallery begging for a donation, revenge is within reach.

But when Lydia points out that Simon’s treasure trove includes at least one forgery, they strike a deal. She’ll ferret out the fakes and if the debut of his collection goes smoothly, she’ll win back her home. If she fails, she will take the blame and go to jail.

Together, Lydia and Simon will feign an engagement, delve into the world of art forgery, and navigate the narrow-minded prejudices of London society to discover that love is forged, never faked.

Reader Reviews

One of the best historical romances I have ever read.” ~ Biscuits and Bodices

This is one of the best novels of any kind I have read all year! Iwould give it ten stars if it was possible.” ~ Space Cowgirl (AmazonReview)

Lydia and Simon’s love is so palpable, it almost hurts.” ~ Tiny Mighty Katie (Amazon Review)

Suzanne Tierney is a new-to-me author, but I’m already hooked on her elegant prose, her vivid, painterly descriptions, and her beautifullycomplex characters….t’s a moving and passionate love story, at timesprovoking outrage, but ever hopeful. Highly recommended!” ~ Melanie S.(Amazon Review)

Buy Links:

Buy from Amazon

About the Author:

Award winning author of the debut novel “The Art of the Scandal”.

WHETHER it’s restlessness, wanderlust, or train fever, I love stories about journeys. So that’s what I write–books steeped in the lush details of history that tell of heroines thoroughly devoted to their sense of place, even when it’s the wrong place, and the heroes who catapult, challenge and cherish those heroines, even when they have no intention of setting down roots.

FROM your arm chair, your train carriage, your vivid imagination, come and join me on the ultimate adventure.

Find Suzanne Online:

Author Q&A

What inspired you to become a writer?

Great books, long walks, and yellow shoes.

First, is there anything better than getting lost in a great, all-consuming, keep you up all night book that leaves you both bereft and joyous when you’re done?  You know—JoJo Moyes’ Me Before You, Jane Austen’s Persuasion, Haruki Murakmi’s The Wind of Bird Chronicle—books that stick to your bones.

These are the books that never leave me, and in fact, are on my brain while I take long walks. I’m a pathological walker. I have to walk. A LOT. Like miles and miles. And while walking, I ponder over what I’ve read and I also plot what I’m going to write.

And I walk in yellow shoes. I explain on my website, www.suzannetierney.com, more about why, but basically, yellow is the color of sunshine and when I wear my yellow sneakers, I feel like I’m walking on sunshine.

What social media do you use to contact with your fans?. I’m most active on Instagram  and Facebook because I love pretty pictures.

 What is your username on the different social media platforms? (do you want this information to be published

Please share!

Twitter and Instagram: @notajaxgirl

Facebook: Suzanne Tierney https://www.facebook.com/notajaxgirl

 What’s your writing style like?

 Reviewers have called it evocative, lush and lyrical. One reviewer described my language in the bedroom as being like “candlelight,” which was really a lovely thing to say. I try to tear out my heart writing so that readers can enjoy all the feels. But that also means my stories can get dark before they get light. So I pepper in some humor.

 Is there anything you found particularly challenging about writing?

 I’m a method writer, meaning I have to feel the emotions my characters are experiencing in order  to capture them on the page. Which can be awkward when one is at the local coffee shop and contorting one’s face in anger or fear. Or writing a sex scenes.

What authors are your inspiration?

In the historical romance genre, Scarlett Peckham, whose writing is out of this world, and whose voice is Alpha Female Heroines awesome. Lisa Kleypas—I want to be buried with Devil In Winter beside me. Meredith Duran—she would make a shopping list poetic. And Loretta Chase, who makes wit and chemistry crackle off the pages.

 Do you have any pets?

I have a golden doodle named Total. My children named him after a polar bear detective in a children’s book series, Timmy Failure. Like the polar bear detective, Total is lazy, eats a lot, and is thoroughly huggable. He is often featured on my Instagram, in which he does nothing besides look pretty and fluffy.

 

American Historical Romance – A Portrait of Dawn

American Historical Romance – A Portrait of Dawn

 

The Sawtooth Range Series
American Historical Romance
Date Published: April 8, 2020
Publisher: River’s End Books
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“The greatest thing a human being ever does in this world is to see something . . . to see clearly is poetry, prophecy, a religion all in one.” John Ruskin
It’s 1890 and Idaho Territory is celebrating statehood. The event will draw two individuals who, like the new state, must redefine and prove themselves. While the artist, Luke Brennan, is captivated by Dawn Fairburn’s bewitching, jade green eyes and brilliant mind, the world characterizes her as less than an acceptable model of womanly perfection. Both are lacking in society’s estimation, he for his Irish heritage and she for her deformed leg, but together they may prove them all wrong. Like the new state, their combined strengths will give them the courage to step into the wilderness of their uncertain future.
 
Other Books in The Sawtooth Range Series:
Series Share Link
Kat’s Law
ISBN: 978-1535426961
Comes the Winter
ISBN: 978-1973282006
Redeeming Lies
ISBN: 978-1732736719
Excerpt
Chapter One
“The greatest thing a human being ever does in this world is to see something . . . to see clearly is poetry, prophecy, a religion all in one.” John Ruskin
June 24, 1890
  For a future yet to be written, an unbridled imagination is a dangerous thing. Although Dawn held to such philosophical convictions, as she turned to her slumbering father sitting beside her, she allowed herself to travel that treacherous path leading her thoughts to notions of what might be.
  Even in sleep, with his chin nodding gently against his chest in easy rhythm to the rocking motion of the train, he looked dignified and even—presidential. Dawn smiled to herself, pleased by the notion. She considered her father’s pleasing features, his strong, square jaw, the touches of gray giving him that suggestion of experience and wisdom that could build confidence in his constituents. She pressed her lips together and lifted one eyebrow a slight degree higher than the other. Why not? Her skin prickled at the image. If he could go from legal counsel to the next U.S. Senator for New York, why not President? And she would be the one to help put him there.
   Dawn shifted in her seat, frowning. Mr. Pullman’s train cars were a definite improvement from those wooden seats of early years when she and her father traveled from New York to Washington. But comfortable, they were not. She envied his ability to fall asleep so effortlessly—the benefits of a man with a clean conscience.
   She reached down to retrieve her father’s brochure from the floor, the one he’d read to her with such enthusiasm moments before he’d fallen asleep. Now, with the campaign before him, did he insist on this trip into Idaho Territory? They needed to be planning, not traipsing off to the frontier for . . .  Reading the advertisement again, she felt a scowl pinch her brow. Come to the Hartmann Ranch where you can experience the frontier ranching life.
   As the train rounded a bend, the view from her window shifted to the east, the direction from which they’d been traveling since yesterday morning. Streaks of palest yellow heralded the break of day. It should have cheered her as it usually did, but unlike her usual day of ordered routine, this one held too many uncertainties. She looked down at the twisted brochure still gripped in her hands. The word adventure peeked between her fingers. It wasn’t a word that often appeared in her vocabulary. Adventure conjured up images of safari hunters in wild, foreign lands.
   Careful not to disturb him, Dawn lowered her head to her father’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his pipe tobacco and starched collar. How could she ever remain impatient with him? With a skill she’d honed since earliest childhood, she focused her thoughts on this moment. In this moment, she was blissfully content. Tomorrow was yet to be. With luck, she would see the adventures only from the windows of a rolling train.
  From the train window, the indistinct reflection appraised the serious young woman with green eyes. Dawn had been told often enough they were the same shade that made her mother so attractive. But unlike her mother, Dawn lacked the golden locks. Her brown hair favored her father’s, as did the firm line of her jaw. And like her father, her thoughts rarely strayed from her duty to support and serve.
~
Luke Brennan sat as rigid as the straight-backed chair, prepared for the worst, as his employer squinted at him through a dense cloud of cigar smoke.
The barrel-chested man behind the desk pursed his lips as he studied Luke’s most recent drawing. “It isn’t the quality of your illustrations, Luke.”
Luke tried to interpret the editor’s tight, pained expression, uncertain whether the man was commiserating or experiencing another bout of chronic indigestion. He suspected the latter. Empathy was not among Mr. Carrington’s virtues.
The older man leaned back and shoved the cigar between his lips, taking one long draw and puffing another fetid cloud in Luke’s direction. “It’s business, purely business. The St. Louis-Dispatch is foremost designed to make money for our publisher, Mr. Pulitzer.” He waved his hand, and the cigar sent a thin smoky trail, spiraling to the ceiling. Luke imagined how he’d capture smoke with his pen. Of course, he’d need to consider the limitations of the engravers.
Luke followed the ribbon of smoke curling back upon itself and watched it transform in width as it drifted to the ceiling.
“Luke, are you listening to me?” The editor leaned forward, resting his arms on the edge of his desk, a scowl lining his brow.
Luke cleared his throat and brought his gaze back to the man.
Apparently satisfied, the editor continued, “It’s a problem of speed. You submit half as many illustrations as everyone else on my staff.” His lip lifted into a sardonic smile. “Personally, I like your work. You have an eye for humor, like the drawing you made of the governor last month—the one where the woman’s hat is covering his lip.” He demonstrated with his cigar, posing with it close to his upper lip. “Looked like he was wearing the peacock feather right there! Brilliant!”
“Are you giving me notice?”
“What? No! You’re good. I just wish you could turn yourself into a photographer. As soon as we can figure out how to print the darn things cheaper and faster, no paper will waste time with illustrations. As much as our noble publisher would like to kick us into the twentieth century, we aren’t ready. But the writing is on the wall, so to speak, or should I say in the typeset? Or should I say, engraving?” He cackled at his own poor attempt at humor. “Illustrations will soon be passé. We are moving into the modern era of photographic journalism, at least that’s the term they’re using in the windowed offices down the hall.”
Luke had yet to understand fully his tenuous position, and his patience was growing thin. “Are you telling me I’m not covering Idaho’s statehood?”
The editor tapped ash into his coffee cup. He pursed his lips. “Yes, and no.”
“Sir?”
“I’m still sending you to Idaho, but not to the capitol. We’ll be assigning someone else for the bigger event. All the political posturing will happen in Boise City or. . .” He glanced at the paper on his desk. “a town called Hailey. I want you to go to Ketchum to capture the—let’s call it, the more prosaic side of the occasion.”
Luke imagined this Ketchum would be less a city and more fitting to a setting for some Western dime novel, filled with saloons and drunken miners. If he was lucky, maybe he’d see his first street shootout. His mood made a radical shift. Perhaps, this wouldn’t be so bad. He’d have a chance to encounter some real wildlife, the bison, the antelope or even the bears he’d only seen in zoos.
 “We have some patrons who are investors in the Philadelphia Smelter in Ketchum. They’ll be attending the celebration.” The editor interrupted these positive thoughts with the realities of his assignment. “You might do well to figure them prominently into any illustration you make for the paper.” A cunning smile inched across his face. “I’m certain that our financial department would be appreciative.”
“I see.”
“Good!” The big man waved a hand to the door. “Miss Turner has your train tickets for you. Oh, and I’ve arranged accommodations for you at a place called the Hartmann Guest Ranch. Seems some couple has opened their ranch for people interested in—” He picked up the same paper from his desk. “Experiencing the frontier.” He raised a bushy eyebrow. “Can’t imagine why anyone would want to. But see if you can ferret out a good story without getting scalped.” He let out a loud guffaw, adding, “Although, that would make a topnotch story.”
When the man stuck his cigar back between tight lips and began shuffling through the mess of papers on his desk, Luke assumed he was being dismissed. He left the office feeling more hopeful than he thought he’d be when walking through the door minutes earlier. The wild western frontier, a ranch, and real adventure might be just what he needed. His excitement tempered as he glumly realized that it might also be his last assignment.
~
With Elena Hartmann’s straight brown hair and brown eyes and Jessie Long’s freckled nose and strawberry blond curls, no one would have mistaken them for sisters, but Jessie was the closest Lena had ever come to having one. Besides the sharp contrast in their appearance, they were even further dissimilar in personality. Jessie was always the impulsive big-hearted optimist while Lena remained the cautious, reserved introvert. Being brought together through adversity had forged a bond that nothing in four years could weaken.
Lena scanned the telegram a second time before handing it to Jessie. “It’s a good start. Four guests will give us a good opportunity to see if we’re ready to become innkeepers.” She folded her arms, tapping one nervous finger against her forearm. “From what I can determine, only Mr. Fairburn has expressed an interest in hunting or fishing, so that shouldn’t tax Evan’s time with the normal ranch operations. I’m wondering what we’ll find to entertain the others.”
Jessie nodded in a slow, thoughtful manner. “Evan and Bart can easily take turns escorting the gentlemen and teaching them things about ranching and such.” She folded the telegram and returned it to Lena. Her eyes sparkling, she added, “I’ve already planned menus for a week. We’ll have a new breakfast pastry every morning.” She ticked off the days on her fingers. “Monday—popovers. Tuesday—cinnamon rolls. Wednesday—spiced muffins. Thursday—apple pandowdy. Friday—currant scones. Saturday—fritters. Sunday we’ll serve leftovers.”
Lena lifted an eyebrow by a skeptical degree. “That’s something we may need to discuss, Jessie. Your twins aren’t even a year old. I’m afraid your plans might be a little too ambitious.”
Looking more like a petulant child and less like a mother with two children, Jessie wrinkled her nose. She opened her mouth to respond when a crash brought both women swinging heads to the kitchen door. Another thud and Jessie started saying, “Oh, bother! Bart is supposed to be watching them.”
Jessie passed Evan coming from the kitchen. Evan grinned and said, “Your husband looks like he could use your help.”
From the kitchen came a pair of gleeful squeals along with Jessie’s dismayed voice. “Oh Lord, have mercy.”
Evan chuckled as he crossed the room, sweeping Lena into his arms. “Never boring with those two. Good thing she has you around to help.”
“You mean, those three. I’d put Jessie in the same grouping.”
He kissed her, not the chaste peck of a greeting, but a warm resounding kiss on the lips. Then he asked, “How was your afternoon?”
Lena rested her cheek against his chest, breathing in the earthy scent of horses and cedar. “The bedrooms are ready for our guests and I’ve closed all the doors to keep them that way.” She looked up. “I missed you.”
“Only been gone one night.” He stroked her back and rested his chin upon her head. “Are you all right?”
He always knew, could read every subtle shift of her mood. Empathy for others had attracted her to him four years ago when they’d first met in Sawtooth City. His boundless compassion, as he’d expressed it for others, had nearly stifled their budding romance before it blossomed. Those misunderstandings no longer mattered.
But this ache, this sense of longing, she must never speak into words. “I’m just glad you’re back.” She unraveled herself from his arms. “We have two more guests arriving this month, that makes four in all. Edward Fairburn and his daughter are coming.”
“Seems the good Lord might be smiling on your dream.”
“Our dream,” she corrected.
“Our dream.” He took her hand and started for his favorite chair near the fireplace, but pulled up short when Lena cleared her throat. He followed her gaze to his muddy boots and the layer of trail dust covering his pants. “Sorry. Guess I shouldn’t.
“No, you should not.” She laughed at the boyish look of chagrin on his face. “Come on out to the porch. You can tell me about the ranching half of our enterprise and take my mind off the guesting side.”
“You mean you want to hear about how your shrewd husband sweet-talked Nate Gallagher out of that bay stallion?”
Lena spun to face him. “You didn’t?”
“I did.” His mischievous grin told her there was more to the story. He took her hand again and led the way to the porch railing where the view of their long valley stretched west to the Big Wood River. “And would you be surprised to know how I got him to throw in that pair of pintos you’ve been adoring for the past year?”
Lena covered her mouth as she let out a cry. “Oh, Evan, did you really? The little mare?”
His lips curved into a teasing grin, his eyes sparkling. “And the stallion.”
She threw herself into his arms again. “You dear man.”
Evan breathed into her hair, “There’s nothing too good for you, my sweet lady.”
Even as she accepted his love with an open heart, she marveled at his words. He stood, offering all he was to her, a good man who had seen something within her worth cherishing. Had she continued to think herself unlovable and refused him, she would have never known this contentment.
What more could she desire? The open range land rolling down to the river belonged to them now, and it’d been hard earned, making it all the sweeter. As happy as she was in this moment, a nudge of worry kept her from savoring it. What if her gambit failed? What if all those articles she’d read about the numbers of people heading west from the cities searching for frontier tours had been exaggerated? All they’d invested could be lost. Was her dream too ambitious?
Evan stroked the side of her neck with his thumb. “Stop worrying.”
“You know me too well.”
“Yes, I do.”
“What if the dream has been too risky? All your money saved for the ranch . . . the profits from your mine. . .”
He lay his finger beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. “It’s our dream, Lena. It’s always been our dream.”
~
Luke’s hand moved rapidly across the white paper, his slender fingers, dusted black, capturing life with swift sure strokes. The thin charcoal stick snapped in his grip as the train hit a rough section of track. An ugly smudge spoiled the drawing. Luke tucked the smaller piece into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief as soiled and gray as his fingers. He dabbed at the corner of his sketch, where he’d drawn the child’s fingers burrowed beneath the kitten’s fur. A few more strokes with the broken edge of his charcoal and fine strands of sketched hair covered his mistake.
He looked up again, and studied the child’s face in profile. Her eyes reflected an old soul, but her thin arms and round face made her youth clear to any casual observer. How did he translate that dichotomy to paper? How did he truly communicate her essence? He’d seen the work of artists who had mastered such skills, but he had yet to see it realized in his own work.
“May I see?” The child peered curiously at him from across the aisle.
Luke caught and held her round curious eyes—too serious for one so young. The kitten in her lap stirred awake while the older woman beside the child slept on. He passed the sketch pad across the aisle.
The child studied it for a time, then looked up, a frown drawing her thin brows together. “It’s very nice, but my kitten is white.” Her lips pursed as she lowered her gaze to the drawing once again. “But I suppose one could not expect much else if one was drawing only with charcoal.”
“I would suppose you are correct, Miss.” Luke glanced down to conceal his amusement. Critics abounded, and he’d heard from his share over these past years as an illustrator for the St. Louis-Dispatch. From newspaper patrons to editors, he’d received both praise and condemnation. For the most part, he’d come to accept them both with equal detachment. Besides, he was his own worst critic.
She handed the pad back to Luke, a polite smile briefly lifting her countenance. “You are an artist.”
Luke hitched one shoulder. “I imagine you’ve drawn some pictures. Have you made any of your kitten?”
The child’s face grew somber, almost grave. “My grandmother says drawing is idle child’s play and I should give up childish ways and learn to behave like a lady.”
Her answer took Luke aback. A question seemed the better response. “And is that what you think as well?”
She dropped her gaze to the kitten, wiggling her fingers behind its ear. “Grandmother says it is.” Softer, she added, “You see, Grandmother is always right.”
Who was he to refute the child’s dutiful conviction? “Ah, yes. I see.”
He closed his pad and slipped it into his leather satchel, then seeing the girl returning to her lady-like composure, he turned his face to the darkened window. A ghostly reflection of his own features superimposed itself onto the rolling landscape beyond the glass. The blue eyes staring back were like those of his mother. The one time he’d tried to paint her, he’d used a mixture of Prussian blue and aquamarine, never finding the distinct hue.
He brushed a hand through his unruly brown locks, then ran it down his cheek bristly with a day’s growth of whiskers and frowned. As usual, he looked older than his twenty-three years. He always had and he blamed it on the annoying fact that he’d been shaving for over five of those years, a hereditary gift from his Irish father whose face Luke had never once seen free of whiskers except for the day they laid him out in his casket. With pale clean cheeks and his thin body clothed in a borrowed suit, he’d looked a stranger.
Why his mother would have ever said that Luke would one day steal the hearts of young ladies remained a mystery. He certainly hadn’t, but, when he was honest with himself, neither had he tried. Responsibilities to his family left no room in his life for a wife. At least, that had been true until four months ago when his mother had passed. But habits aren’t quickly altered.
He threw a glance at the child, now cooing softly to her kitten. Her childhood would probably fade as quickly as the first blush of sunrise if her grandmother had her way. Responsibilities had a way of doing that. In the child’s case, he wondered if the needs of the grandmother had superseded those of the child to remain a child for a little longer.
Under the ambient light of a nearly full moon, Luke could just discern a flat landscape stretching into the moon shadows cast by a distant mountain range. The terrain was so unlike the cityscapes he’d lived in for all his life. He felt a shiver of excitement course through him. Here in this vast and sprawling landscape he’d find subjects to fill the blank pages of his sketch books, the wild, the living wonders he’d long dreamed of seeing with his own eyes.
He checked himself, because he had an assignment to complete if he wanted to keep earning a living, even if it was for a job as unsatisfying as illustrating the news. But the concern nagged at him; would even his best be enough?
Worry never put food on the table nor coins in your pocket. Only hard work and a firm determination had the power to do either. Those were the words his mother had lived and died by. He pulled his collar close to his neck and sat back, as the train rocked him into an uneasy sleep.
About the Author

Samantha St. Claire is the pen name of an author passionate about American history and the people whose legacies are woven into the fabric of a nation. She writes those characters to life in her novels of the western frontier, their trials and triumphs. Coming from a family of pioneers, she honestly claims her roots as a Daughter of the American Revolution and descendant of a Scottish Laird.
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Historical Romance – Bound to Morocco

Historical Romance – Bound to Morocco

 

Morocco Series, Book One
Historical Romance
Published: June 2018
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Drugged and kidnapped, Shera finds herself on a ship to Morocco to serve the Sultan. Abandoned and alone, Shera must find a way to escape and confront the people who betrayed her. She gets help from an unlikely source: the man who kidnapped her. When their partnership turns to love, the two must face constant danger to endure. But will they ever be free?
Other books in the Morocco Series:
Tied To Morocco
Morocco Series, Book Two
Published: April 2019
Lady Catherine was kidnapped and taken to Morocco. There, she fell in love with Tazim. But, just before they were to wed, Tazim disappeared and she was told he was dead. Forced into an unwanted marriage with another, she manages to escape and make her way home to England. But Tazim is not dead. Believing Catherine betrayed him, he has vowed to exact revenge.Can they find each other again? Can their love be rekindled?
Freed From Morocco
Morocco Series, Book Three
Published: November 2019
Kidnapped and taken to Morocco, Lady Olivia prays for someone to come and save her. Help appears in the form of Tristan, the man she loves. He disguises himself as an English ambassador in order to rescue her, but he is betrayed. Now, she must find a way to help him. Can they escape? And will they ever be free from the clutches of the sultan?
About the Author

Leslie Hachtel was born in Ohio, raised in New York and has been a gypsy most of her adult life. Her various jobs, including licensed veterinary technician, caterer, horseback riding instructor for the disabled and advertising media buyer have given her a wealth of experiences. However, it has been writing that has consistently been her passion.
She is a bestselling author who has written thirteen romance novels, including ten historicals and three romantic suspense. She also sold an episode of a TV show, and had a screenplay optioned. Leslie lives in Florida with a fabulously supportive engineer husband and her new writing buddy, Annie, a terrier.
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Release Day –  The Lady is Trouble

Release Day – The Lady is Trouble

League of Lords, Book 1
Historical Romance
Date Published: February 18, 2020
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In the first in Tracy Sumner’s sizzling League of Lords historical series, mysticism in Victorian England is the setting for a captivating love affair . . .
He’s a viscount with a dark past who yearns for the one woman he can’t have. She’s rebellious, spurned by society and determined to change his mind.
What’s a defiant woman to do when the man she’s meant for doesn’t believe in love?
After three years of waiting for Julian Alexander to realize they are destined to be together, Lady Piper Scott takes matters into her own hands. Because her gift as a healer has never done anything but distance her from the most principled man in England. A meaningless diversion as a medium, all done to gain a certain wandering viscount’s attention, backfires. As most endeavors have for a woman known in the ton as Scandalous Scott.
What’s a reluctant viscount to do when the woman he can’t have becomes the woman he can’t live without?
Julian Alexander, Lord Beauchamp, battled his way from the lowliest slum to assume his title. He carries not only a turbulent past, but a mystical psychic gift that separates him from society. Honorable to his core, he is committed to protecting a community of outcasts with abilities like his own. He has no time, no place, for love. Or repeatedly rescuing the most outrageous, beguiling woman he’s ever known. Even if she needs his protection most—and he desires her above all others.
Seduction, intrigue and desire lead to an explosive passion…
Julian vowed to shield Piper from the deadly foes seeking to possess her powerful gift. Although he needs her help in controlling his own, the mix could be deadly. Soon what was once a simple agreement to work together becomes enchantingly complex as they surrender to a timeless love…
Praise for Tracy Sumner’s novels:
“Delicious and amusing…witty dialogue, sparkling humor and a snappy narrative. A must read!” —The Best Reviews
“Terrific dialogue…and hot loves scenes. If you haven’t read Tracy Sumner before, Tides of Passion is a good place to start.” —All About Romance
“A powerful relationship novel that explores the heartache and triumph of love.” —Romantic Times
“The battle of the sexes heats up the pages of this fun and fresh romance by talented new writer Tracy Sumner.” —New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs
 Excerpt
 There is nothing stable in the world; uproar’s your only music. John Keats
Chapter One
London, 1865
Allowing the lady to lure him into her carriage had been a brilliant idea.
Julian Alexander stared at a spider crack in the ceiling of his Mayfair town home and wondered when he might start to believe it. He could presume encountering a former lover outside Hatchards on an otherwise lonely evening was a fortuitous event if there weren’t the niggling—familiar—pinch of regret the moment his cock settled.
A faint sense of having erred, gone off the path and into a twilight woodland where one could be easily lost.
As lost as he’d felt stepping into her dimly lit carriage.
Julian watched Marianne wrap herself in his silk dressing gown, her chatter lulling him into a state of satiated distraction. Only the first and third word of each sentence filtering through, he found the conversation definitively complete. Earl, garden, tryst, scandal. Titles and the men who held them occupied her undivided interest. Each day spent investigating a riddle that had no solution.
Was not, in fact, worth the attention she devoted to it.
In all fairness, Julian could not judge.
His mystical gift separated him from a normal existence and made the world he’d been born into at times unrecognizable. Out of a sense of duty, he played the part of the gentleman for
the solitary purpose of propping up the viscountcy, adhering to society’s rules while struggling to preserve his secrets and the secrets of those he protected. Of course, he tendered his title when it benefited himself or the League. But a barony would have profited as well and knocked him down a notch, perhaps enough to slip beneath the waves and be carried from view.
He closed his eyes and let the waves crash over him.
Then Marianne mucked it up by kicking the door to the past wide open.
He rose to his elbow, knocking the counterpane aside. Dragging his hand through his hair, he asked, “Repeat that, will you?” Alarm vibrated through his belly, like swimming in the sea and realizing a massive wave crested behind you. No, it couldn’t be. “Come again?”
Marianne’s gaze settled where the sheet hung low on his hips. “So, you were listening.” She reached to touch, a stroke on air. Licked her lips in the event he didn’t register her appreciation. “Jules, with you, I never know.”
He slid high in the bed, suppressing his annoyance. Jules. He’d asked her to refrain from calling him that. Too. Many. Memories. “Marianne, the clairvoyant?”
Her smile grew luminous, her delight underscoring the scant attention he offered. Without trying to be a disdainful cad, it seemed he was precisely that. “Oh, darling, it was the most farcical evening! Ashcroft arranged for a fortune teller to entertain, and you know him. For a duke, he pushes the boundaries of propriety while always staying within the limit.” She leaned in, clutching the lapels of his dressing gown to her bosom. “I heard there was absinthe served to the men. Why, the festivities were enough to make a stuffed bird laugh!”
Julian hummed low in his throat and rose from the bed. He didn’t know but could imagine. Hell’s teeth, he thought and reached for his clothes, which lay in a tidy pile next to the chiffonier. Taken off without haste, neatly folded.
He frowned. How little had he wanted this encounter?
“I didn’t glean any outrageous tidbit about my future. Though I tried.” She lifted a delicate shoulder beneath silk. “More the delight just being there.”
He buttoned his shirt, slipped his braces over his shoulders. “You mentioned the woman had an unusual accent.”
Marianne crossed the room, slippers striking the floor in an eager rhythm. “It was dark, too dark to see anything. Very mysterious. Madame wore a veil, and there was candlelight. The ideal setting. Although Ashcroft seemed oddly anxious the entire evening, adding nothing to our merriment.” At Julian’s impatient look, she rushed on, “Madame’s accent came out on one word. She sounded almost…” She twirled her hand in a languid circle, finger pointed toward the plaster ceiling rose. “Ad-ver-tise-ment. That’s what she called the sheet she handed me. She sounded, can you imagine, American? Would that not be a vulgar surprise?” She laughed it away, swept beneath the Aubusson at her feet. “Although I’m sure I misheard. Doubtless, an upstart trying to hide cockney.”
Julian’s fingers twitched, missing a button on his waistcoat. He moved too forcefully across the room as she took a stumbling step back. “Where is it?” He drew a breath laced with the scent of Marianne’s perfume and the acrid aroma rolling in the open window. Soot, sewage. That damned river. Christ, he hated London. “The advertisement.” He extended his hand, controlling the tremor that wanted to travel from his fingers to his heart.
Could. Not. Be. Piper was tucked away in Gloucestershire. Under armed guard. Protected. Safe. Their enemies had been searching for her since she’d arrived from New York all those years ago. But they wouldn’t look in Gloucestershire. She knew this. He’d cautioned her more times than he could count. Had been advising her for years, it seemed.
Marianne regarded him through eyes the color of fresh cow dung. “Why, darling, I fear I’ve not seen you react…to anything. Appetites fed but the heart untouched.” She waved away her discomfiture and a statement she likely wished she’d kept to herself. Turning in a crimson whirl, she moved to rifle through the reticule sitting atop the chaise lounge, one just the shade of emerald eyes Julian had tried with little success to forget. “Lucky for you, I saved it. As proof, I experienced such an evening. Who would believe otherwise?”
Julian flexed his fingers, preparing for the transmission. His gift didn’t marry well with a lack of sleep. Touching an object and being pulled into the otherworld of someone who had touched it previously was brutal enough. Stepping into that world when exhausted was reckless and allowed the experience to control him.
Maybe it wasn’t Piper, and this endeavor would be nothing more than supernatural experimentation. He’d sent Finn to visit her last month. Or had it been May? A headache moved to the base of his skull. Lifting his hand to his brow, he pressed hard.
Blast it, had they not visited since the spring?
Marianne thrust the advertisement at him, and he hesitated. Taking time to notice she’d only secured an ear bob, and it dangled there without a partner, bouncing as she did. Her lips canted, though he’d bet a half-sovereign the smile would disappear if she fathomed the source of his reluctance. If she had any idea who he truly was and how his gift of sight forever separated them, she would run screaming into the misty night. “If you’re interested, Julian, and I’m shocked you are, Madame DuPre is doing a reading tonight. The address is listed.”
His breath seized. Madame DuPre. The name conjured forgotten summers of youth. Running through fields of grass so tall the blades hit his thigh; swimming in shallow lakes on moonlit nights; climbing trees until he was breathless surveying all that fell below. Laughter and
foolishness—even love by some arcane definition—on a scale he and Piper could no longer afford.
Julian huffed a sigh and grabbed the sheet before he could think better of it. Or stop himself, which he would not, because it appeared Piper had jumped off another goddamn ledge.
And he was her rescuer. Her caretaker.
Her warden.
 
I’m going to throttle her, was all he managed as he crushed the foolscap in his hand and stepped into the otherworld.
Shadow and candlelight bathed the room. The curious combination of burnt ashes, spice, and lilac. Piper was settled over a desk, her gown as golden as the Kingcup scattered along Harbingdon’s riverbank each spring. Moonlight carved a path along the floor and Julian followed the dazzling footpath of silvery blue. The walls surrounding her were covered in tattered wallpaper, peeling at the ceiling and seams. The furniture was scuffed, the rug threadbare. The dwelling was nothing like Finn’s description of the modest but opulent manor in Gloucestershire.
His heart thumped desperately against his breastbone. She was more vivid than any model he’d ever painted, and he had tried to recreate her, a thousand strokes of brush to canvas.
Her vibrancy eluded him.
Stumbling back, he tried to step out of the trance. It was a problem lately that he had trouble doing so. The otherworld had a voracious claim on him. Through eyes drawn to slits, he observed Marianne’s lips moving, but he was too entrenched in another space and time to respond.
Too entrenched in her.
Independent of his gift, Piper Scott had a stronger hold over him than any woman could ever hope to have.
Muttering a harsh oath, he dropped the advertisement like it burnt his skin and the image of Piper spiraled away, water down a drain. Forcing him from the room with the tattered wallpaper and the girl he’d sworn to protect with his life but never touch again to preserve hers.
The woman for whom he hungered.
Dear God, Piper, what have you done?
He was through the door and into the hallway before another breath had passed, ducking as a vase accompanied Marianne’s shriek of rage.
#
About the Author

Tracy’s story telling career began when she picked up a copy of LaVyrle Spencer’s Vows on a college beach trip. A couple of degrees (BA, Journalism-MA, Media Arts) and a thousand romance novels later, she decided to try her hand at writing a southern version of the perfect love story. With a great deal of luck and more than a bit of perseverance, she sold her first novel to Kensington Publishing.
Tracy has been awarded the National Reader’s Choice, HOLT Medallion, the Write Touch and the Beacon – with finalist nominations in the HOLT Medallion, Heart of Romance, Rising Stars and Reader’s Choice. Her books have been translated into German, Dutch, Portuguese and Spanish.
She lives in the south, but after spending a few years in NYC, considers herself a New Yorker at heart. She loves hearing from readers about why she tends to pit her hero and heroine against each other or that great novel she simply must read.

 
 
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Historical Romance – The Colonel and the Enchantress

Historical Romance – The Colonel and the Enchantress

An Enchantress Novel, Book 4
Historical Romance
Date Published: February 14, 2020
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From the shadows of war, love rises.
Lady Mary Mowbrah, daughter of a duke, fell in love with a man beneath her station. When he leaves for war, determined to earn her hand as a hero, she promises to wait for him, never dreaming the man who returns will be different from the man who left.
Colonel Duncan Starrett returns from war with honors, accolades, and a debilitating injury. As much as he still loves Lady Mary, he fears a future between them is now impossible.
This is the love story of Mary and Duncan as they forge a future from the shadows of the past.
 
Other Books in the Enchantress Novel Series:
The Earl and The Enchantress
The Duke and The Enchantress
The Baron and The Enchantress
Excerpt
Prologue
August 1790
 
Five years earlier
Stretching out his legs, Duncan Starrett lay across the picnic blanket, his forearm sinking into the dewy grass beneath. His eyes met those of his love’s—wide, walnut brown, framed with black lashes against alabaster skin. For nearly a year he had loved her, yet one look still made his pulse race.
“I want to come with you,” she said, brushing soft fingers against his cheek.
“I’ll return before you notice I’ve gone; a decorated hero worthy of your hand.”
She pleaded with her eyes.
“The battlefield is no place for you, Mary. How could I fight for Crown and country when worrying about your safety? Not that your family would ever consent for you to follow the drum.”
“Oh, Duncan, let’s elope! It would be so romantic.” Wistful, Lady Mary clasped her hands, looked to the heavens, and fell back against the blanket with a sigh of youthful innocence.
Tree branches danced shadows on her features. His heartbeat quickened as he leaned over her, tracing her lips with his fingertips. Leaving her behind would be the most difficult task of his life. His Mary. His love.
“Dream of my return,” he said. “We’ll attend the best parties, dance until our feet blister, and ride into the sunset on our fastest horses. Once I return, I’ll ask permission for your hand.”
She combed her fingers through his hair, sending shivers from scalp to toes. Pulling him to her, she kissed him, a gentle pout of moist lips pursed to his.
“We’ve lingered too long,” he murmured, lost in the depths of her eyes. “Go home before they notice your absence.”
***
1791
As an ensign in the Light Dragoons, Duncan saw more ballrooms than battlefields, easy to do when there were no battles. He craved the clash of swords and thunder of guns. After a childhood filled with his father’s romantic war stories, Duncan longed to experience the scenes for himself: hiking impossible hills, meeting the enemy with sword drawn, wading through rivers, sleeping beneath the stars. In the quiet of the night, he brandished his sabre at the darkness, practicing his moves, striking a dashing pose.
*
1792
Lieutenant Starrett had yet to see war. Was this his route to heroism? Was he fated to return home an officer who had never drawn his sword?
Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to years.
The French were at war with themselves, launching a revolution against their monarchy. The British Army remained idle, waiting. Waiting for what? An opportune moment to fight? Duncan wanted to fight now. For too long he had waited for action. He recalled the promises made when his father purchased his first commission—the Crown would take advantage of France’s weakness. When was this grand takeover? His blade was sharp, his gun was clean, and he was ready.
*
July 1793
Captain Starrett ached with desperation to prove himself.
And then, he found war. Or rather, war found him.
The daring! The glory! The action exhilarated him.
He roared into battle, a fierce foe, heart in his throat, body tingling with excitement tinged with fear. He fought for his life, for his country, for his father, for Mary. In this moment, he was man—raw power, passionate and invigorated, victory red.
He thought himself debonair, a real hero.
With the elation of battle pulsing through his veins, he wrote to Mary. He could not very well return after wielding his sword only once. He wanted more—thirsted, hungered for more. What was another couple of years after the three he spent waiting? It was not as though he would never return.
*
April 1794
Major Starrett dabbed the tender skin of his stomach with a wet cloth. The blade had come too close for comfort. Only now did he realize how close, as it had sliced through his waistcoat and grazed his skin. The more superficial, the more troubling. He winced with each stroke of the cloth.
However safe at camp he was, the apprehension of more bloodshed buzzed in his ears. The morning would see the fighting renewed. His limbs were clammy from the cold sweat all too familiar both post- and pre-battle. Tonight, he would dream of holding Mary, inhaling the aroma of her lavender-scented hair, savoring the feel of her velvet skin.  
*
June 1794
He trudged with throbbing feet, overwrought muscles, and pounding head, disillusioned by war. Lost were his dreams in a sea of red, bathed in the glow of regimental coats mingled with blood. This was not heroic. This was not glamorous. This was a horror show of vacant stares and flashing steel. He was Charon, ferrying sons from their mothers and husbands from their wives. No longer did he crave the battlefield with its death and guilt.
And yet, he still craved the valor, the camaraderie, the rhythm of the drums, the scent of victory, the sounds of gallantry.
*
August 1794
Atop his stallion Caesar, Lieutenant Colonel Starrett of the Light Dragoons led his men into battle. British, Dutch, and Austrian troops launched against the French, a proper invasion of a weakened and ruler-less country. With sabre at the ready, he leaned forward and squeezed his calves to the hot horseflesh, signaling his mount to charge. The formation was tight, mere inches between cavalry riders. A roar of power erupted as they broke through infantry lines, slashing an opening for the foot regiments.
There was no greater feeling than a horse beneath him, an inseverable bond between beast and man. Only his legs and weight signaled his horse’s movements, for his hands wielded weapons of war rather than reins. His horse was an extension of himself.
Boxtel was a fierce and bloody battle, but Duncan was untouchable atop his stallion.
*
January 1795
Colonel Starrett shivered. More men had died from exposure than battle; a harsher winter they had not seen. With white clouds for breath, they prepared to defend the frozen waters of the Lower Rhine. The horses pawed the iced earth, ready. He stroked Caesar’s neck, his hand trembling.
The enemy lined the opposite bank, muskets aimed, bayonets fixed.
Ignoring the smell of fear in the air, Duncan signaled his regiment with his sabre.
Time slowed. Seconds stretched to infinity between spur and charge. Duncan’s attention funneled. He knew only the hoofbeats of his horse, the song of bullets, and his steady breath.
The cavalry hoofed alongside their field commander, an impenetrable wall of horse muscle and blades.
Convinced the Holy Spirit was on their side, the enemy marched across the frozen water.
Steel clanged and men cried as the dragoons broke the line at the riverbank.
A moment of victory before it all went wrong.
Another line crossed the river, muskets aimed, bayonets fixed. Another line behind them. And another. His regiment, decimated by the cold, chattered their teeth along the river’s edge as they watched the endless onslaught of Frenchmen.
Retreat! The cry echoed through the ranks, the survivors running or fighting their way back to safety.
Duncan, one hand wielding his sabre, the other holstering his Elliot pattern pistol, nudged Caesar to about-face. Without further encouragement, the horse turned and retreated, the whole of the allied troops doing likewise.
His one thought: get the men to safety.
A slap to his lower back broke his focus. He looked to either side, expecting to see one of his men. Leaning forward to quicken the pace away from the river, he felt a tightening pressure along his spine, warming as it twisted, a fire poker sinking into his flesh then tugging.
The scorch spread, hot and wet.
As he straightened, slowing his mount, he felt winded, the air knocked out of his lungs. He panicked, struggling to breathe.
Before him, arm outstretched, hovered an ethereal Mary. His Mary. His ladylove. Even as he reached out to her, his head swam in a dizzying vortex. Their fingers touched as he slumped against Caesar’s neck.
 
About the Author

Celebrated for her complex characters, realistic conflicts, and sensual love scenes, Paullett Golden puts a spin on historical romance. Her novels, set primarily in Georgian and Regency England with some dabbling in Ireland, Scotland, and France, challenge the norm by involving characters who are loved for their flaws, imperfections, and idiosyncrasies. Her stories show love overcoming adversity. Whatever our self-doubts, love will out.
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