Avenging the Earl’s Lady is now available for pre-order on Amazon.
If Amazon is not your vendor of choice, look for it on Kobo, iBooks, and Nook later this week.
I’m excited to bring you this “mature lovers” romance, the last book (maybe) in the Sons of the Spy Lord series.
“There’s just this, my lady.” Jenny reached into her pocket and pulled out a letter, placing it into her hands. “From Lord Shaldon.”
She knew Shaldon’s writing, and this wasn’t his.
When the door closed on Jenny, she poured a glass of sherry and downed it, examining the letter again, unable to determine who’d sent it.
Once Shaldon took hold of a notion, he was relentless. What was he up to now? He would insist on an interview. He would persist until she’d told him everything.
And then, if he didn’t see her arrested, he would drop her, just as he’d dropped her father after her brother’s death. He’d rushed out of Kent as if nothing had happened, as if she and her father had not had their hearts torn out. Shaldon had been involved, her father had implied, but he wouldn’t say how.
Damn the man and his games—this letter could wait for the morning, when he’d launched his next move.
When she’d recovered more courage.
She propped the letter on the mantel next to the china shepherdess, settled onto the armchair near the cold fireplace and began taking down her hair. Long and still thick, it hung almost to her waist. She’d once had dark blonde hair. Now, it was a light brown, and in the light of the lamp, the strands of gray threading through it shimmered like silver. She should cut off a good length of it, but she often felt this was all she had left of her femininity.
On the one full night they’d had together, Reginald had marveled over her unbound hair. She squeezed her eyes shut on that memory.
A mere girl of fourteen—how could he have done what he did? True, she’d been more than willing, a thoughtless puppy seeing men for the first time. She’d even been breathless around Shaldon—who hadn’t noticed her at all—until Reginald had appeared.
She poured another sherry and drank it down. The past was over. The son Reginald had left her with still required her help. She needed to sleep for just a few hours and move quickly tomorrow.
She rubbed her eyes and raked her fingers through her tangles. A stiff brushing was just what she needed.
The dressing table stood behind an ebony-framed screen painted with fading cupids and wreathes. In the shadowed corner, she groped for the brush.
A rustle of cloth sent chills through her, freezing her breath.
Her hand found the brush and she clutched it, lifting it high, ready to strike. Around her, the air filled with scents—horse, leather, and a subtle cologne, the sort a wealthy man’s valet applied to a noble cheek after shaving it.
As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she backed slowly away watching him rise.
Tall, darkly clad, at home in the night, he loomed over her. She heard her own pulse, heard her tight gasps, smelled her own fear as it turned into rage.
Somehow, she managed a breath.
“Who took your gold sovereign?” she asked.
Most of the Regency romance fans I’ve talked to on Facebook say they love stories of “older” heroes and heroines. How about you? Let me know in the comments!