Kay Springsteen's Blog, page 9

Sweet Saturday Samples/A Lot Like A Lady

HAPPY SATURDAY! Every once in a while I like to check out p. 99′s. Here we have p. 99 from A Lot Like a Lady, available now on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Astraea Press..

The air rushed from Juliet’s lungs. When she gulped in a deep breath, the sharp scent of the fragrant lilies on the side table clogged her throat. She swayed as a woozy feeling threatened to overcome her. She simply hadn’t considered anyone would notice that Annabella’s dresses didn’t quite fit.But Harmony merely shrugged. “And every young lady should enjoy a new gown or two.”

“Aunties! I can’t go to this ball!” Juliet’s shout echoed in the room, finally silencing the aunts. The clip-­clop of a fast-­moving carriage filtered through the open window. Juliet stole a glance at the duke. Glittering eyes bored into her like a hunter waiting to pounce on his hapless prey.

“Why not?” asked Charity after a moment, a confused frown knitting her brow.

“Yes, Annabella. I’m interested in the answer to that question myself.” Grey stood, watching her with his icy blue eyes as he interjected himself back into the conversation. If she had thought she had a chance of putting the aunts off, she was certain she stood no such possibility with his grace.

“Well?” he snapped. “What excuse are you concocting to avoid this social engagement?”

Juliet shrank inside herself. The lilies’ cloying scent became bitter, and her stomach turned. She could hardly plead off with a headache this time since the day had yet to approach. She’d simply have to admit to the truth. At least as much as she dared.

“I can’t dance,” she mumbled, keeping her gaze locked on her feet.

The aunts gasped in unison and Juliet flinched.

“What?” barked Grey.

His voice jerked her head up. The duke stared, disbelief evident on his face. She began to tremble and her throat went dry.

“What nonsense are you pulling now?”

 

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Sweet Saturday Sample!

From brand new work in progress, A Life Like Jack’s, planned charity release. Dedicated to rescued dogs everywhere.

“Mom! Come quick! Amy had her puppies in the basement!” shouted Tiffy up the steps.

“Of course she did,” Carol muttered with a groan. “Because it would be too convenient for me if she had them up here.” She stood, balancing on one foot while she stretched her left arm for the bright blue cane leaning against her desk.

Taking care not to get her feet tangled up with the cane, Carol limped to the basement stairs and negotiated them one painstaking step at a time. A little breathless when she reached the bare cement floor at the bottom, she took a second to get adjusted to the dim lighting as she looked for her twelve-year-old daughter. She located Tiffy kneeling next to the white oval laundry basket. Most of her untamable chocolate colored hair escaped the thick blue elastic band at her neck to form a riot of curls that danced when she bounced up and down on her knees.

“She has two babies and they both look like her!”

Leaning heavily on her cane,  Carol limped across the floor, a little leery. More sweet babies to fall in love with only to have to give them up to good homes after eight short weeks. In Tiffy’s twelve years, they’d never had a pet of any sort. The timing had never seemed right, and the responsibility of taking care of a child had seemed enough. Until poor Amy had shown up under their back deck, that was. Too skinny, yet obviously pregnant, shivering in the chill of a late spring thundershower. Tiffy hadn’t asked. Not out loud anyway. But those eyes of hers, those mocha pools of pure emotion, had begged without words.

The white and black terrier had merely lain where Tiffy had found her, trembling, her own coffee-colored eyes so perfectly matching the child’s not begging, not showing much expression at all beyond grim resignation.

It hadn’t taken long once they’d let her inside and fed her, for Tiffy and the newly dubbed Amy to become tight friends. But now Amy had presented them with two more bouncing bundles of joy, and Carol worried it would be hard for Tiffy to give them up when they were weaned.

One of the little white and black pups nuzzled Amy and the mother dog gave the tiny head a lick. Then she started panting and began straining.

Make that three bouncing babies to find homes for. Carol sighed.

Amy gave a mighty push and a dark puppy slid into the world. The mother quickly took care to give the baby a doggie welcome to the world.

“It’s black,” whispered Tiffy, wrinkling her nose.

“And it looks a lot like Diesel…Miss Dora’s dog,” murmured Carol, picturing the black and very fuzzy male terrier mix.

Tiffy grinned up, her eyes already filled with stars. “Diesel’s a daddy!”

Carol sighed. “Yeah, well, I don’t think we should count on him for child support.”

“He looks kind of funny, Mom…different from the others.”

“Maybe it’s because he’s black.” But Carol frowned and took a closer look. The pup seemed to struggle more than its siblings in the crawl for its mother’s belly, and its hips seemed narrow, making it look more like a teardrop than the oval shape of the other two. The puppy began to suckle with enthusiasm. “I’m sure he’s fine. Look at him eat!”

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Dog lover? Cat lover? If you’re in the market for a new four-footed companion, please consider a trip to your local shelter! If you aren’t looking to add a permanent member to your family, please consider animal foster care…the lives you save may one day touch someone’s heart. Check out one shelter’s Foster Blog and see.

“I know a lot of people are concerned that they will fall in love, and they won’t be able to let go of the animal. Bu if you are really focused on the fact that you’re saving lives, it’s much easier. A little heartbreak on our end is worth it to save their lives,” said Sunshine Richards, the foster coordinator for the Bedford Humane Society. For full story, go here.

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Sweet Saturday Samples

Nearly finished with this one so how about a bit from close to the beginning? From WIP Abiding Echoes:

After Justin stirred the coals, he set the grill in place. Then he laid the first T-bone steak across the wire, followed quickly by the second. The sauce he’d slathered on combined with the fats in the meat and began to sizzle. Soon a smoky savory aroma filled the air, teasing his palate.

“That smells awesome.” Beth’s voice from behind him startled Justin. He hadn’t heard her come outside.

He turned slowly, keeping his cool as he slowly ran his gaze upward. His mother’s peg leg jeans were too long. The red plaid  shirt he’d loaned Beth fit nicely, though, the cotton bulged just a bit across the chest and, oh, sweet mercy, she wore nothing underneath. He hadn’t known what to do about undergarments, and had assumed she’d use his mother’s clothing just to get to her van for her own things. With a herculean effort, Justin forced his eyes to move on. She’d pulled some of her hair back, taming it away from her face and securing it somehow behind her head, but the majority still caressed her shoulders.

Sudden longing to experience that spun gold caressing his shoulders ripped through Justin like a harvester chewing up hay, and he battled for his next breath.

“I didn’t know what to do with my clothes.” Beth laughed nervously. “Burn them maybe.”

The intensity of his yearned with her words, and Justin chuckled. “We may live out in the country but we still have a washing machine. You’re welcome to use it.” His eyes drifted toward those gaping buttons on her blouse and he turned back to the pit on the pretense of flipping the steaks even though he knew they didn’t yet need to be turned.

“That bath worked wonders,” murmured Beth, stepping next to him. She leaned over and inhaled deeply. “Mmm. What’s in that sauce?”

She’d used his mother’s shampoo and her hair smelled of lemons. The riot of curls floated against her shoulders, and Justin clenched his hands against the urge to touch it, to see if it was as soft as he thought it must be.

Beth angled a look up at him, her eyes questioning. Right. She’d asked him about the sauce.

“It’s my mom’s special recipe,” he answered, forcing himself to concentrate. She was still warm from her bath and the heat reached out to him with enticing little invisible fingers. He retreated by a half step, needing the space but not wanting it.

He picked up a pair of tongs and stirred the embers, locating the potatoes wrapped in aluminum foil and turning them over.

Beth placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned close again. “What are those?”

That was a good question. Justin stared at the lumps of tin foil in the coals, but all he could think about was how warm her hand felt through the thin material of his shirt. “Potatoes—baked potatoes,” he finally choked out. He stood up a bit too quickly, sending Beth into a backward step.

Her feet caught on the bottom hems of the pant legs and she stumbled toward the barbecue pit.

“Watch it!” Justin snapped out a hand and clamped it over Beth’s forearm, jerking her back away from the fire.

And against him. Justin’s body knew instantly what it wanted to do and he sucked in a gulp of air as he fought for emotional and physical control.

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Pairs Writing

Quick shout to my friend and fellow Astraea Press author, Jennifer Comeaux, whose book, Life on the Edge inspired the title for this post!

When Kim Bowman and I set out to write our first collaboration, A Lot Like A Lady,

we weren't doing anything new. Lots of authors over the years have teamed up to write. Kim and I eventually found a rhythm and a method that worked for us, and it's a method that is still being refined as we move into book two of the Lady series, Something Like A Lady.

Overall, however, we discovered that for us, writing together is a lot like pairs skating. Sometimes we worked together on the same parts of the story but doing different things. Sometimes we worked on different parts of the story but doing the same things.

I wondered how other writing teams handled pairs writing. Surely we're not all the same–we must do some things differently. Fortunately, I had at my disposal, two Astraea Press authors, who sometimes write alone and sometimes write together: Leah Sanders and Rachel Van Dyken. And this is what they shared:

LEAH: Back in August, there was a call for submissions for Christmas stories. I had been working on a novel since March, but hadn't gotten very far. I decided to put it aside for a bit and try to write something for the Christmas deadline. Rachel was hanging out at my house, probably working on The Seduction of Sebastian St. James, and I turned to her and said, "I have this idea for a Christmas story. Want to write it with me?"

The Parting Gift took us about two and a half months to complete. Since it was our first endeavor together, we didn't split it up in a certain way. I wrote until I got stuck and then I sent it to Rachel to pick up where I left off. Sometimes I would set her up to write a kissing scene, because I don't really write them…at all. And she would get all happy and clap her hands with joy. She would write, send it back to me. I'd read it and blush then move on to the next part of the story.

RACHEL:  Most of the time you would move to the next part of the story but smile as you read the kissing part and then blush.

LEAH:  The most frustrating part of the process with our first book together was the encroaching deadline. I can't tell you how many times I would say to Rachel, "We're never going to get this done!" And she would smile and pat my little head and say, "Of course, we will. All that's left to do is…" filling in the blank. I would take a deep breath and keep writing. And indeed, we did finish it on time to submit to Astraea Press. It was accepted and subsequently released on Black Friday.

RACHEL:  I think we both panic at different points. When we write stuff together one of us panics and is like oh no it's not going to get accepted, and when we write our own novels we do the same thing. Writing with a parnter is cool b/c you have that support system.

LEAH:  After that first book, I had more confidence in what I was doing as a writer, so I took it upon myself to answer the call for Valentine's Day submissions with a solo endeavor (Sacred Ring, a young adult adventure story), while Rachel worked on revising a Valentine's Day novella she had written (An Unlikely Alliance). Our normal M.O. when working on any writing project (solo or duo) is to brainstorm together, read and critique works in progress, and work as sounding boards for what we are writing. Because we do this on a regular basis, it was a natural progression into co-authoring another story.

I'm pretty sure we were sitting in the exact same places actually, when Rachel stopped working for a minute and looked up at me. "I think we should write another book together." I agreed immediately. But when she said we were going to do Regency this time, I may or may not have choked on my gum. Regency is Rachel's strong suit, and while I read and help her revise a lot of her stuff, I did not feel qualified to participate in writing in the genre.

In the end, Waltzing with the Wallflower took a short time to complete—only about two weeks. But for me, it started out a little rocky. I did not want to mess up the story with my ineptitude, so it took me a couple of chapters to get a good handle on it. Once I got over that initial nervousness though, the character I was writing and the story seemed to take off. Rachel was an invaluable source of encouragement and guidance to me as I wrote outside my comfort zone. Granted, I still let her write ALL the kissing scenes.

RACHEL:  To my utter delight!!! But I will admit Leah can write some killer kissing scenes, she just deletes them as a blush creeps up her cheeks. One of these days though…it will happen!

LEAH:  With this second undertaking, we split up the book by points of view. In the first book, I wrote the hero's point of view mainly and Rachel wrote the heroine's point of view. But we did crossover from time to time. In Wallflower we divided it strictly. I wrote the heroine's point of view; Rachel wrote the hero's point of view. We switched off every other chapter. It seemed to go so smoothly that way. But again, we were constantly discussing where we want the plot to go and who the characters are, so we were both able to stay true to their personalities (or perceived lack thereof).

Rachel has a thing for the "bad boy". It's okay to admit it, Rachel. And she can write arrogance very well. Case in point, Nicholas Devons, Earl of Renwick. It's kind of our standing joke how much I would like to write his death. My tendencies lean more towards the shy, uncertain guy—Blaine Graham. He is a pilot, so can appear arrogant, but he is all thumbs when it comes to interacting with women.

We are currently working on a follow-up story to Waltzing with the Wallflower that takes up Anthony's story. The prologue and the first chapter are done. If things go well, it should be done by the end of the month.

As far as I'm concerned, writing with a partner—well, writing with Rachel— is not much different than writing alone. Regardless of what I'm working on, I rely heavily on her as a trusted critiquing partner. The main difference is the speed with which I write.

RACHEL:  TRUE

Find more of Leah and Rachel on Amazon:  Leah, Rachel.  Or find them on Barnes & Noble: Leah, Rachel.  If you leave a comment by Thursday, 04/12/2012, you may win Kindle/Nook/PDF versions of both Waltzing With the Wallflower and A Lot Like A Lady!

 

 

 

Waiting on the next one!

 

 

From WIP Abiding Echoes, Book 3 in the Echoes of Orson’s...

From WIP Abiding Echoes, Book 3 in the Echoes of Orson’s Folly series:

Chills worked along Beth’s spine where Justin rested his hand as he guided her to the kitchen. She knew the way by now but suspected if he hadn’t helped her along, she might have walked in a tight circle in the foyer until she dropped of exhaustion.

He talked as they went, his voice deeper than normal and a little husky. “I pulled some chicken from the freezer this morning so it should be defrosted. Want to help me fry it up?”

“Fry it up?” Panic fluttered up from her stomach. “You mean like—cook it? In a pan?”

Justin flashed a grin. “That’s usually what ‘fry it up’ means, yeah.”

Well, here was her chance to tell him she didn’t know how to cook, and he could have a good laugh at her expense.

But then they were in the kitchen and Justin dropped his hand from her back as he crossed the room. A searing smile in her direction when he pulled out a frying pan sent tingles from Beth’s fingertips to her center and back. Justin set the pan on the range with a clatter and then walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a white serving plate on which rested a whole raw chicken minus feathers and head.

Beth took one look at the pale whitish pink meat and shuddered. Oh, she’d rather go back to kissing Justin. She didn’t…really need to eat to survive, did she?

He set the platter on the counter next to the range and pulled a knife from a butcher block holder. Then he looked over at Beth, obviously expecting her to join him by the dead bird.

Bile rose in her throat. “Ahh, was that—ummm…walking around here at some point?”

Glancing at the chicken and then back at Beth, Justin broke out in laughter. It was a few minutes before his guffaws subsided enough so he could speak. “No, with chicken, you’re pretty safe. My mom refuses to keep chickens on the ranch.”

“I like your mom already,” Beth muttered under her breath, sending a mock glare in Justin’s direction.

“She’s going to like you, too,” murmured Justin, turning back to the chicken on the counter and deftly wielding the butcher knife.

Beth’s breath caught. She hadn’t expected him to hear her. The sharp knife sliced easily through the meat as Justin separated legs and wings from the body, and then worked on the thighs. She didn’t want to watch but his movements were so self-assured and easy, she found herself mesmerized. Still, she should contribute to dinner, but the problem was she had no idea what she could contribute. So, she hovered in the middle of the kitchen. What did Justin expect her to do? Before she could put voice to the question, he answered as though reading her thoughts.

“There’s a potato bin in the corner.” He pointed with the knife. Beth hastily shifted her gaze to the direction of his gesture and away from the gross piece of chicken skin that clung to the tip of the knife. “Can you grab us a few and peel them for mashed potatoes?”

Peel them? Beth worried at her lower lip as she crossed the kitchen to the bin and lifted the top. An earthy smell wafted up, not unpleasant but certainly a scent she’d never have expected to discover in a kitchen. She stared at the pile of brown tubers. They’re just plants, or parts of plants, anyway. The problem was, she hadn’t a clue how to remove the peels. Casting a surreptitious glance over her shoulder, Beth noted Justin had finished cutting up the chicken and was systematically rinsing the individual pieces at the sink and setting them into a bowl. She shifted her gaze back to the potatoes. How many should she peel? How many potatoes would two people eat? Surely not more than one each.

That decision made, she reached in and plucked two fairly large potatoes from the bin and shut the lid. The next problem hit her as she turned around, unsure of where she should carry her prizes. Where exactly did one peel potatoes?

Justin finished rinsing the chicken, set the bowl aside, and looked up, smiling when he caught Beth’s eye. He motioned for her to join him at the sink. His eyes fell to the potatoes she carried and he raised a brow. “Not very hungry?”

Actually, she was starving, Beth realized as her stomach grumbled softly. Justin’s words seemed to indicate she hadn’t chosen enough potatoes so she shrugged and played the helpless female card. “I couldn’t carry them all.”

“Gotcha.” Justin winked as he crossed the room to the bin, returning in short order with two more potatoes. “Do you use a vegetable peeler or a paring knife?”

Beth stared, unable to form an answer to the question, simply because she had no early idea what a vegetable peeler was. And while she could guess what a paring knife was, she had no idea how she would use a knife to remove the peels from the potatoes. She opened her mouth to explain, preparing herself for his ridicule, when he simply pulled open the second drawer down next to the sink and rummaged through the utensils until he found what he wanted. After he pushed the drawer shut, he held up an instrument that looked like a knife with a split in the middle to form an inverted blade.

She eyed the tool with suspicion. This must be the peeler, though it looked more like a knife that someone had turned inside-out. It didn’t look all that complicated to use. But it did look sharp. She accepted it with two fingers, not having a clue what she was going to do with it.

Beth cleared her throat. “Justin…um, I don’t—cook.”

He stared, his face showing no expression at all. Then he tilted his head and his forehead knit into a confused frown. “Oh. You don’t cook.” He sounded like she’d just confessed to having arrived from Mars.

She let out an impatient sigh. “I—actually I don’t know how to cook. I…never learned.” She averted her gaze, waiting for his laughter. When none came, she chanced a look at him.

Justin’s eyes twinkled and he wore a bemused smile. He rubbed two fingers along his jaw as he studied her. No doubt contemplating how utterly useless one female could possibly be.

She offered him a weak smile and a tiny shrug. “Sorry.”

He stared a miniscule second longer before he moved, and she had no time to register the intent in his eyes before his lips had claimed hers. He moved closer, crowding her against the cabinet. This was no gentle lead-up to passion. It was fervent ardor, unleashed and wild.

Raw hunger of surged through Beth. Of their own accord, her hands snuck upward along Justin’s taut chest, where she fisted them in his shirt and clung as he took her on another heated foray into the land of longing.

Justin stroked his tongue along her lips and she shivered, parting them beneath his touch, granting him access. Pressing herself shamelessly against him, Beth was convinced the flames of pleasure licking at them would soon ignite. And she didn’t care. She understood, without knowing how, that on some level she’d always belonged to Justin. She’d only been waiting to find him.

Find me on Amazon, Astraea Press, and Barnes & Noble.

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From WIP Abiding Echoes, Book 3 in the Echoes of Orson's...

From WIP Abiding Echoes, Book 3 in the Echoes of Orson's Folly series:

Chills worked along Beth's spine where Justin rested his hand as he guided her to the kitchen. She knew the way by now but suspected if he hadn't helped her along, she might have walked in a tight circle in the foyer until she dropped of exhaustion.

He talked as they went, his voice deeper than normal and a little husky. "I pulled some chicken from the freezer this morning so it should be defrosted. Want to help me fry it up?"

"Fry it up?" Panic fluttered up from her stomach. "You mean like—cook it? In a pan?"

Justin flashed a grin. "That's usually what 'fry it up' means, yeah."

Well, here was her chance to tell him she didn't know how to cook, and he could have a good laugh at her expense.

But then they were in the kitchen and Justin dropped his hand from her back as he crossed the room. A searing smile in her direction when he pulled out a frying pan sent tingles from Beth's fingertips to her center and back. Justin set the pan on the range with a clatter and then walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a white serving plate on which rested a whole raw chicken minus feathers and head.

Beth took one look at the pale whitish pink meat and shuddered. Oh, she'd rather go back to kissing Justin. She didn't…really need to eat to survive, did she?

He set the platter on the counter next to the range and pulled a knife from a butcher block holder. Then he looked over at Beth, obviously expecting her to join him by the dead bird.

Bile rose in her throat. "Ahh, was that—ummm…walking around here at some point?"

Glancing at the chicken and then back at Beth, Justin broke out in laughter. It was a few minutes before his laughter subsided enough so he could speak. "No, with chicken, you're pretty safe. My mom refuses to keep chickens on the ranch."

"I like your mom already," Beth muttered under her breath, sending a mock glare in Justin's direction.

"She's going to like you, too," murmured Justin, turning back to the chicken on the counter and deftly wielding the butcher knife.

Beth's breath caught. She hadn't expected him to hear her. The sharp knife sliced easily through the meat as Justin separated legs and wings from the body, and then worked on the thighs. She didn't want to watch but his movements were so self-assured and easy, she found herself mesmerized. Still, she should contribute to dinner, but the problem was she had no idea what she could contribute. So, she hovered in the middle of the kitchen. What did Justin expect her to do? Before she could put voice to the question, he answered as though reading her thoughts.

"There's a potato bin in the corner." He pointed with the knife. Beth hastily shifted her gaze to the direction of his gesture and away from the gross piece of chicken skin that clung to the tip of the knife. "Can you grab us a few and peel them for mashed potatoes?"

Peel them? Beth worried at her lower lip as she crossed the kitchen to the bin and lifted the top. An earthy smell wafted up, not unpleasant but certainly a scent she'd never have expected to discover in a kitchen. She stared at the pile of brown tubers. They're just plants, or parts of plants, anyway. The problem was, she hadn't a clue how to remove the peels. Casting a surreptitious glance over her shoulder, Beth noted Justin had finished cutting up the chicken and was systematically rinsing the individual pieces at the sink and setting them into a bowl. She shifted her gaze back to the potatoes. How many should she peel? How many potatoes would two people eat? Surely not more than one each.

That decision made, she reached in and plucked two fairly large potatoes from the bin and shut the lid. The next problem hit her as she turned around, unsure of where she should carry her prizes. Where exactly did one peel potatoes?

Justin finished rinsing the chicken, set the bowl aside, and looked up, smiling when he caught Beth's eye. He motioned for her to join him at the sink. His eyes fell to the potatoes she carried and he raised a brow. "Not very hungry?"

Actually, she was starving, Beth realized as her stomach grumbled softly. Justin's words seemed to indicate she hadn't chosen enough potatoes so she shrugged and played the helpless female card. "I couldn't carry them all."

"Gotcha." Justin winked as he crossed the room to the bin, returning in short order with two more potatoes. "Do you use a vegetable peeler or a paring knife?"

Beth stared, unable to form an answer to the question, simply because she had no early idea what a vegetable peeler was. And while she could guess what a paring knife was, she had no idea how she would use a knife to remove the peels from the potatoes. She opened her mouth to explain, preparing herself for his ridicule, when he simply pulled open the second drawer down next to the sink and rummaged through the utensils until he found what he wanted. After he pushed the drawer shut, he held up an instrument that looked like a knife with a split in the middle to form an inverted blade.

She eyed the tool with suspicion. This must be the peeler, though it looked more like a knife that someone had turned inside-out. It didn't look all that complicated to use. But it did look sharp. She accepted it with two fingers, not having a clue what she was going to do with it.

Beth cleared her throat. "Justin…um, I don't—cook."

He stared, his face showing no expression at all. Then he tilted his head and his forehead knit into a confused frown. "Oh. You don't cook." He sounded like she'd just confessed to having arrived from Mars.

She let out an impatient sigh. "I—actually I don't know how to cook. I…never learned." She averted her gaze, waiting for his laughter. When none came, she chanced a look at him.

Justin's eyes twinkled and he wore a bemused smile. He rubbed two fingers along his jaw as he studied her. No doubt contemplating how utterly useless one female could possibly be.

She offered him a weak smile and a tiny shrug. "Sorry."

He stared a miniscule second longer before he moved, and she had no time to register the intent in his eyes before his lips had claimed hers. He moved closer, crowding her against the cabinet. This was no gentle lead-up to passion. It was fervent ardor, unleashed and wild.

Raw hunger of surged through Beth. Of their own accord, her hands snuck upward along Justin's taut chest, where she fisted them in his shirt and clung as he took her on another heated foray into the land of longing.

Justin stroked his tongue along her lips and she shivered, parting them beneath his touch, granting him access. Pressing herself shamelessly against him, Beth was convinced the flames of pleasure licking at them would soon ignite. And she didn't care. She understood, without knowing how, that on some level she'd always belonged to Justin. She'd only been waiting to find him.

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More from WIP Abiding Echoes:

As they reached the truck to retrieve their purchases, Beth flashed another of those smiles that made him want to lasso the moon for her. "What are we cooking for dinner tonight?"

Already reaching into the back of the pickup, Justin froze in mid-reach as chills rolled over him in waves. His heart slammed against the inside of his chest and he spun around. Dinner? Who cared about food when everything he would ever need stood barely a foot away?

Ravenous for the nourishment only Beth could provide, Justin stepped forward and nudged her into the side of the truck. He slid his hands upward along her arms until he reached her shoulders. Beth's eyes widened, twin pools that had deepened to a mossy green when her pupils dilated. Her lips parted and she touched the tip of her tongue to them. It was all the invitation Justin needed. Angling his head, he swooped in and devoured her mouth. Tongues met, parried, then hers eased back and he followed with his, not asking for admittance, demanding it.

With a low moan, Beth molded herself to him, the fit so perfect they surely had been made for one another. His body stirred to life, warmth spreading from everywhere they touched to pool low in his belly. She tasted of sunshine and sweetness. She was clover and he was the bee. She rolled her head back and Justin changed the angle of the kiss, taking them both deeper. He traced a hand over her slender hips, pausing at her waist before skimming the back of his hand up along her rib cage. Beth's soft moans became whimpers. Justin splayed the fingers of his other hand along her cheek and rubbed his thumb lightly back and forth. She trembled.

Blood roared through Justin's ears, mimicked by a persistent distant thrumming that swelled and rumbled until it pervaded his whole being, became part of him just before it faded into a low growl at his feet. Beth hooked one leg around his, caressing his calf with her own.

Cold wetness slashed across Justin's forehead and flowed down his cheek. Blue-white lightning writhed across the sky followed quickly by the slow heavy roll of thunder.

"Come on!" Justin grabbed the bags containing their purchases from the back of the truck and snagged hold of Beth's hand.

Laughing, they raced across the yard to the ranch house, aiming for the closer front door. Once they were under the overhang, Justin turned around to regard the torrents of water pouring straight down from the darkened sky. More laughter gurgled from Beth's mouth, harmonizing with the pinging rain as it splashed into the brown puddles already dotting the yard. A curtain of water cascaded off the eaves overhead, bubbling and foaming at the base of the porch.

She shook her head, spraying more water from her saturated hair. "Where did that come from?"

Justin squeezed the water from his face with a quick pull of one hand. "It's been building all day. I thought we'd have a bit of time before it hit."

"But it was sunny when we went into the barn."

"Welcome to Wyoming." Justin pushed open the front door and held it for Beth to precede him inside, his body still tingling at the memory of holding her softness against him.

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Available now: Brand new Regency romance, A Lot Like A Lady!Amazon, Astraea Press, Barnes & Noble.

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A Lot Like A Lady

Prologue

Summer 1803

Haselmere, England

"Look, there's another!" Juliet danced in a circle and pointed at the carriage, drawn by two dark brown horses, as it crested the distant hill. "It's coming right here… right to the castle!"

From his seat on the low stone wall along the lane, Juliet's new friend laughed softly. "Castle, eh? What makes you call Wyndham Green a castle?"

Juliet giggled. The answer was so obvious, surely even an adult would know it. "Why, because it's the biggest house I've ever seen, and Mummy says a duke lives there. He married Lady Regina so now she's a duchess and we must always say 'her grace' when

we speak of her."

A light breeze played with the ends of the man's graying brown hair as he studied Juliet for a long time. She bit the inside of her cheek. Perhaps she had said too much. Mummy said she

sometimes said the wrong things to the wrong people. The plop-­plop of the approaching hoofbeats grew louder and Juliet shifted from foot to foot.

Her new friend bent, plucked a blade of long grass, and wound it around his finger. "And what do you think of her grace?" he finally asked.

"Oh, she's very nice," answered Juliet, grinning. "She smiles at me when she sees me and she doesn't mind when I help Mummy in the house sometimes."

The carriage slowed and turned onto the road that led to the big house. Sweat darkened the horses' sides and glistened in the strong sunlight.

"Oh, the poor horses," cried Juliet. "They must have come a long way."

The man nodded. "That they did. Does your mum work in the house then?"

"Yes." Juliet stood up straighter, proud of the hard work her mum did. "Her name's Patricia. She works for La — her grace."

"Ah, I see. What might your name be?"

"I'm Juliet." She held out her hand with the back tipped up the way she'd seen ladies do when they met gentlemen. She'd practiced for hours and hours in the barn, giggling when Alfred, her favorite horse, snuffled at her skin seeking a bit of apple or a carrot. When her new friend inclined his head and nodded in approval, she knew she'd gotten it right.

The man accepted her hand and lifted it up. Then, fixing his clear blue gaze on her eyes, he bent his head and brushed a gentle kiss behind her knuckles before releasing his grasp. "Juliet. What a beautiful name. 'O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night.'"

The skin along the back of her hand tingled and Juliet giggled. "What does that mean?"

"Why, 'tis from Romeo and Juliet. Mr. William Shakespeare wrote it. And one day, perhaps you'll find out what it means for yourself."

"Someday, I want to marry a duke like Lady — I mean her grace. And I want to live in a castle like this one."

"One day, maybe you will."

Another carriage rolled along the lane, heading toward the main house — a big one this time, shiny and black, all closed in with doors and windows, and drawn by four matched bay horses.

Juliet squinted, just able to make out a coat of arms emblazoned on the side — a red and white shield bearing a lit torch and flanked by two crested white doves. Awestruck at the splendor, she drew in a deep breath and turned back to her companion.

A pleased expression settled over the man's face. "Ah, I must go now. That carriage is bringing my son." He stood and began walking across the field toward the house.

"Wait!" cried Juliet. "I told you my name. What is yours?"

The man turned and smiled at her. It was a kind smile and it made Juliet miss her father just a tiny bit less. "Most people call me the Duke of Wyndham. But you, my dear, may call me Alexander."

As he strode away, his shiny black boots sweeping through the waving grass, Juliet stared with widened eyes at his retreating form. A frisson of awareness tickled along her spine and she knew something extraordinary had just occurred.

Chapter One

Ten years later

March 1813

Haselmere, England

"I cannot believe you're serious!"

Juliet jumped, almost dropping the heavy tray she carried, and sighed inwardly. The strident tones of Annabella Price's voice cut the peace like a sharp knife, quickly slicing short the quiet evening.

Silently cursing the duchess for picking the early supper hour to raise a subject sure to put Annabella in a sour mood, Juliet kept her gaze locked firmly on the platter of roasted rabbit she held and tried to pretend disinterest in the conversation between mother and daughter. She handed the dish to the waiting butler. Geoffrey shot her a warning glance and then placed the rabbit on the fine walnut table amongst other gleaming silver serving dishes. Juliet didn't particularly mind serving supper, though it did extend her work hours some. Serving duties had fallen to her when the duchess had been forced to let one of the footmen go. Linus Dobney was dearly missed in the household, and not only because others needed to take up his responsibilities.

Annabella slapped the flat of her hand next to her plate and slumped back in her seat, a pout marring the delicate features on her heart-­shaped face.

The pale rose fabric of Annabella's gown bunched in the middle and the lace around the neckline wrinkled downward, exposing a bit of extra cleavage, but she did nothing to right her garment. "It's laughable to think I'll consider such an outlandish plan." She tossed her head, the motion loosening the comb at the back of her head and allowing some of her golden hair to escape.

"Sit up straight, dear. And, yes, I am quite serious." With her golden hair perfectly and elaborately coifed, and her stylish Pomona green dress pressed, Regina, Duchess of Wyndham, carried off her role as lady of the household with precision and care. As all her servants were aware, she expected no less attention to detail from the other members of her household. With a pointed glance at her daughter, Regina sat up straighter herself, as if

stiffening her own spine would somehow influence her child. "The arrangements have already been made. You will be leaving at the end of the month to spend the Season in London. It's high time you take your place in society as the daughter of a duke—"

"Stepdaughter," Annabella ground out through clenched teeth. In the hard silence that fell, the too-­loud ticking of the case clock in the corner might as well have been a galloping horse.

Juliet stood frozen in place, her gaze tracing the dark crust along the edge of the roasted rabbit, afraid to look up. Ye've gone and done it now, your grace. Any minute now, Annabella would set into one of her regular tirades on the sensitive topic.

Regina insisted upon acting as if the late duke had been Annabella's father and his sons were her brothers, an arrangement none of the children had adjusted to. For the most part, Alexander's sons had stayed away from Wyndham Green after the wedding, though from the gossip amongst the servants, Juliet gathered they'd been frequent visitors before that. But Annabella and her mother seemed to never cease arguing over the fact that the late Duke of Wyndham was not her father.

From the beginning, Annabella had taken on a habit of destroying many of the pretty things Alexander had gifted her with, showing her rejection of him as her father's replacement. As

one of the upstairs maids, Juliet's mother had cleaned up bits of broken china and the remains of frocks shredded before they could be worn, and Juliet had often mourned some of the nice presents Annabella had ruined just because she'd resented her stepfather so.

Juliet had thought the old duke a wonderful man, kind and gentle. He'd called her by name and never treated her like the daughter of a servant. Sadness welled, tightening her throat. She still missed him… nearly as much as she missed her father. Maybe more so.

In private, Juliet's mother often commented that she didn't understand how Juliet managed to spend so much time with Annabella, given the spoiled girl's tendency to have tantrums. But Patricia Baines hadn't seen Annabella heartbroken and sobbing in the stable. Juliet had lost her own father at a rather young age, and she herself had been distressed at leaving the only home she had ever known. But she and her mother had to move to Wyndham

Green with Lady Price and her daughter when Regina married the duke. Juliet and Annabella offered compassion and friendship to one another, forming an unlikely bond. A bond Annabella's mother tolerated, and while Juliet could never be quite certain why, she

suspected Regina did so because of her own inability to calm her daughter. The lady of the house was never unkind, but she sometimes went to great lengths to see Juliet remained in her proper place.

"Please set out the creamed turnips and the asparagus tips."

The hint of censure in the duchess' voice startled Juliet from her memories, and she glanced at Geoffrey, whose narrowed gaze told her she would have a proper talking to later for her lack of attention. With a gulp, she hastened to the buffet. The silver tureen of creamed turnips warmed her hands as she carried it to the table, though the smell made her stomach turn and she held her breath.

"Don't think by serving my favorite foods you'll gain my willing acceptance of your wishes, Mother," warned Annabella as Geoffrey set the creamed turnips in front of her.

Juliet shuddered at the thought of the creamed turnips that would be part of her own supper. Maybe Annabella would require her services and none would be left by the time Juliet was finished with her duties for the evening. The idea appealed, and she considered how much more satisfaction she would find in just a bit of bread and some meat. Regina met her daughter's gaze. "You had a proper come-­out at one-­and‑seven, but mourning your father's death—"

Annabella set her wine glass on the table with more force than necessary. The deep red liquid sloshed back and forth and a few drops trickled over the edge to land on the white tablecloth. Immediately the linen acted as a wick and the darkness spread along the weave, vanishing beneath the blue-‑and-­white patterned china plate. Juliet sighed for the laundress. Hesper would have a time cleaning that stain once it set.

Regina ignored her daughter's temper and continued as though uninterrupted. "—has kept you away from many important social events. You will soon be one-­and-­twenty, and in London you can expect a fresh start. It is not up for discussion. I have already notified your brother, the duke." Regina raised her hand and held it out in front of her when Annabella narrowed her gaze and opened her mouth to speak. "Fine. Your stepbrother, the Duke of

Wyndham, has been notified to expect you."

"Expect me? Don't you mean expect us?"

Regina dabbed at her lips with a napkin and cleared her throat. "Well, ah, you see, I am in need of some treatments for my health, so I will be spending a few weeks in Bath first. Your great aunts Harmony and Charity will be escorting you and acting as your chaperones."

Oh, dear. Oh, no! Ignoring Geoffrey's silent directions to stand still, Juliet backed up toward the kitchen, keeping a wary eye focused on Annabella.

"Charity and Harmony! You must be jesting. The last time I saw them, they'd both gone dotty in the head." Annabella slouched rather deliberately back in her seat and crossed her arms across her chest, shooting her mother a defiant stare. "Besides, they never leave Somerset."

The duchess' lips tightened and she drew in a breath, releasing it in delicate fashion before she spoke. "They have already responded to my message that they shall be happy to escort you for a Season in London."

Annabella pushed her chair back and shot up. "I won't do it! I won't go! Why do I have to go spend the Season with Wyndham while you're off having a splendid time in Bath! You wanted to marry into nobility. Not I. He's arrogant and he barely knows I'm alive. We haven't seen him in almost four years — not since his father died. He refuses to come here because he can't stand to see you living in his father's home. I hate him!"

Juliet could only stare with wide eyes as Regina stood as well, her face pale, her movements slow and deliberate. "Annabella, you will do as I say and you will mind your manners.

Otherwise, I will be forced to accept Vicar Hamilton's marriage proposal and set the wedding to take place posthaste."

At the mention of the stout vicar, Annabella's face blanched and she clutched her stomach.

Not the vicar, your grace. Juliet bit the inside of her lip as she recalled Annabella's last tantrum, directly after the totally smitten man visited for an afternoon and spent the next several hours hovering within feet of her. It had been one of her more destructive moments, costing the home a fine oil portrait and several china teacups.

Annabella recovered and her vexation became clear in the glare to which she subjected her mother. "You wouldn't dare."

"If you don't make a suitable match soon, I'll have no choice. So it's up to you. Do you leave for London at month's end or do you begin planning your wedding to the good vicar?"

Annabella's face colored up and her eyes narrowed. Juliet's breath stuck in her throat and she fled along the hallway from the dining room to the kitchen. The sound of breaking china followed close behind.

****

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Hands on his hips, Grey surveyed the chit who had shown up on his doorstep six days prior and done nothing but cut up his peace since her arrival. Her golden brown hair had fallen from the elaborate style she'd affected earlier and most of it formed a cloud around her head. In her pale yellow gown, she looked like some sort of garden flower, a bud yet to bloom into its true beauty, lying against the green velvet of his couch. He shifted his stance, acknowledging his thought as further proof that all was not as it had seemed.

"You may as well open your eyes," he snapped. "We're quite alone."

One eyelid fluttered, then slowly opened, followed in quick order by the other. In the firelight, her tawny eyes gleamed the color of soft caramel. Would that her personality be as sweet as those eyes. Impatiently, Grey pushed the thought aside.

She kept her gaze on him as she slid her feet to the floor and slowly came to a demure sitting position with her hands in her lap. But no amount of decorum could hide the fire in her eyes.

"Would you care to explain yourself?" asked Grey.

"I-I-I'm s-sorry. It — it was the dog, you see…" She shrank back into the couch at his quelling glance.

"The dog? The dog addled your brain so you didn't know how to behave properly at a meal?" Grey folded his arms across his chest lest he take her by the shoulders and shake her. "The dog stole away your taste for those despicable creamed turnips?"

A weak smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "You don't like them, either?"

"Don't like them?" Grey sputtered and paused to take a calming breath, but his vexation wasn't to be contained. "I abhor the dreadful things and you fiendishly well know it, Annabella."

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