Saturday, August 9, 2014
Saturday Discussion: Comfort Reads
The past few weeks have seen a lot of things going on: family member went from sick to really sick to a day in the emergency room to a few days in the hospital to recovering at home and now back to business as usual. Which means lots of stuff to do, disrupted routines, lots of waiting, lots of nerves and not as much sleep as anybody would like. Though the crisis is now past, there's still dust to settle, but thankfully reading is always good medicine, and in the tough times, we still find time to read. It's not selfish, it's not frivolous, and I would argue it's downright necessary for rest and respite.
For a few minutes, hours, even days, we can step through a magic portal into a different world, live other lives, and come back feeling refreshed, restored and ready to tackle the next battle that life has thrown in our general direction. I don't use the term "escape" for such reading, because we do have to return to the issues at hand when our reading breaks are over, but it is respite, a way to plug into hope and assurance and let our brains relax as the story takes us into another time and place.
Comfort reading is different from regular reading for some, if not most readers. When our minds and bodies are worn out from dealing with the increased stress, finding a new book to read may not always be the most pressing thing on our schedule. Rereads of favorite books or authors often fit the bill. Two of my surefire comfort reads are pictured below: Skye O'Malley, by Bertrice Small and Lovesong, by Valerie Sherwood.
Historicals are my go-to comfort read, books I read and loved many years ago. Not a lot of surprises, but there's a certain reassurance in knowing I'm travelling a road I've travelled many times before and will be sure to revisit again. Big, thick, sweeping romantic adventures in times past are exactly what I need when life gets to be too much.
For others, humor is what counts most, or a trip to an idyllic small town tucked far away from life's troubles. Still others want to visit a universe where the supernatural is the most natural thing in the world, or jump into the ongoing saga of long-running characters who are always going to be okay, despite insurmountable odds. I've even found comfort reading in the dystopian world of The Walking Dead graphic novels, because whatever is going wrong in my life can't possibly be as bad as a world where the undead walk the earth and consider me lunch.
So, dear readers, our question today is, what is a comfort read for you? Is it genre, author, a particular book? Maybe it's a type of book, whether it's new to you or not. Can a book you've never read before be a comfort read, if it's of the right author, genre or setting? Settle into our virtual couch and sip your beverage of choice and share your favorite comfort reads, because we can all use a break.
Labels:
Anna Bowling,
saturday discussion
Friday, August 8, 2014
Blog Tour: What a Lady Craves by Ashlyn Macnamara (Excerpt & Giveaway)
Release Date: August 12, 2014
Genre: Historical Romance
Publisher: Random House Loveswept
What a Lady Craves
The Eton Boys Trilogy #1
What a Lady Craves
The Eton Boys Trilogy #1Henrietta Upperton is about to marry Alexander Sanford when he rushes off to India to salvage his family’s fortune. Then comes the devastating news that he has wed another. Eight agonizing years later, a storm washes Alexander ashore—injured, widowed, and hunted—and one glimpse of his ruggedly handsome face reawakens the desire Henrietta thought she had buried deep inside. Her body still yearns for his touch, but she’s determined not let him wound her again . . . not this time.
For Alexander, honor always comes first. But only now does he realize that when given the choice between two virtuous deeds, he picked the wrong one. On the run with his life in tatters and a pair of daughters in tow, Alexander burns for Henrietta. He knows he does not deserve forgiveness. And yet he longs to wrap his arms around her warm body once again. What’s more, he is sure the lady craves the same.
What a Lady Craves
“Good heavens.” Lady Epperley placed a bony hand to her bosom. “Good
heavens. If he’s returned from India, he’s left no word, sent no note. Why, we
had no idea.”
“Please, memsahib. He is in a bad way. I cannot
drag his body—”
“Body?”
Lady Epperley’s doughy cheeks paled beneath their generous layer of rouge.
Henrietta suspected her own cheeks had taken on the same ashen tones. Whatever
had passed between her and Alexander, she certainly did not wish the man dead.
“Forgive me.” The stranger repeated his reverent bow. “I mean no
upset. Our ship, you see, sank in the storm. I saw Mr. Sanford to shore, but
the ordeal took too much out of me. I was forced to leave him on the beach.”
It wasn’t her place to speak, but Henrietta could no more hold back
than she could stop her heart from beating out of control. “Your pardon, Mr. .
. .”
“Satya.”
“Mr. Satya—”
“No, simply Satya.”
She clamped her back teeth. If this man could not get to the point,
and soon, she might forget her manners and voice her impatience. “Is Mr.
Sanford still of this world?”
“Oh, yes, he is quite well, considering the circumstances. He has
merely fainted, and—”
“Fainted?” Her pulse slowed, but only somewhat.
“Yes, memsahib. That is why I came for help.
I cannot carry his dead weight alone.”
Dead weight. Body. Why did this man insist on such phrasing?
Henrietta waved the thoughts away. Surely English was not his native language.
He could not know the import of his words.
“Hirsch!” Lady Epperley barked the name, even though the butler had
not left the room. “Summon several footmen, and have Mr. Satya show them to my
nephew. And tell the housekeeper to prepare his usual chamber. At once!”
“My . . . my lady . . .” Henrietta forced the words past a constriction
in her throat. “If you won’t be needing me for the rest of the evening . . .”
If she could escape to her quarters, she wouldn’t even have to see him. At the
same time, she might hide this blasted agitation from her employer. She’d only
have to wonder if he’d changed in the years since she’d bid him Godspeed.
Surely India had altered him.
“Nonsense, George.” Lady Epperley heaved herself to her feet,
leaning heavily on the arm of the settee for balance. In the process, she
overturned Albemarle’s cushion. The cat hit the floor with a dull thud
and stalked off, flicking her bushy tail indignantly.
“I shall certainly need you,” the dowager went on. “Good heavens, a
shock like this at my age. My own nephew shipwrecked.” For emphasis, she
clenched a hand about the fabric of her bodice. “My heart.”
Henrietta wasn’t fooled for an instant. The old woman’s voice was
far too strong for her to be experiencing any true malaise. “Yes, my lady.”
In what seemed like no time at all, the footmen returned, easing a
limp body up the stairs from the foyer. Lady Epperley still wrung her hands at
the front of her gown, as if she thought to keep her heart from breaking free
of her chest by mere pressure. Henrietta couldn’t help but watch the
processional that trailed a slow drizzle of water on the polished parquet that
lined the corridor. Drip, drip, drip, the even cadence of
a black-plumed horse at the head of a funeral procession.
Her mind conjured the image of a robust, serious man in the glow of
health. Tall, lean, yet his presence overwhelmed. In direct contrast to her
memory, the form before her lay inert. The sharp angles of his cheekbones
shadowed chalky flesh peppered with light brown stubble. Sodden hair fell in
hanks over his forehead, and his garments were shredded beyond repair . . .
offering glimpses of skin she’d only ever seen in her dreams.
Henrietta pressed her lips into a line, deliberately tamping down
the unexpected—and unwelcome—flutter low in her belly. Her knees wobbled. More
inappropriate words jumbled in her mouth and clamored for release. She could
not risk her position by giving them voice, no matter how great the temptation.
In this state, Lady Epperley had no choice but to take in her nephew; the
history between him and Henrietta be damned.
“Good heavens.” Lady Epperley placed a bony hand to her bosom. “Good
heavens. If he’s returned from India, he’s left no word, sent no note. Why, we
had no idea.”
“Please, memsahib. He is in a bad way. I cannot
drag his body—”
“Body?”
Lady Epperley’s doughy cheeks paled beneath their generous layer of rouge.
Henrietta suspected her own cheeks had taken on the same ashen tones. Whatever
had passed between her and Alexander, she certainly did not wish the man dead.
“Forgive me.” The stranger repeated his reverent bow. “I mean no
upset. Our ship, you see, sank in the storm. I saw Mr. Sanford to shore, but
the ordeal took too much out of me. I was forced to leave him on the beach.”
It wasn’t her place to speak, but Henrietta could no more hold back
than she could stop her heart from beating out of control. “Your pardon, Mr. .
. .”
“Satya.”
“Mr. Satya—”
“No, simply Satya.”
She clamped her back teeth. If this man could not get to the point,
and soon, she might forget her manners and voice her impatience. “Is Mr.
Sanford still of this world?”
“Oh, yes, he is quite well, considering the circumstances. He has
merely fainted, and—”
“Fainted?” Her pulse slowed, but only somewhat.
“Yes, memsahib. That is why I came for help.
I cannot carry his dead weight alone.”
Dead weight. Body. Why did this man insist on such phrasing?
Henrietta waved the thoughts away. Surely English was not his native language.
He could not know the import of his words.
“Hirsch!” Lady Epperley barked the name, even though the butler had
not left the room. “Summon several footmen, and have Mr. Satya show them to my
nephew. And tell the housekeeper to prepare his usual chamber. At once!”
“My . . . my lady . . .” Henrietta forced the words past a constriction
in her throat. “If you won’t be needing me for the rest of the evening . . .”
If she could escape to her quarters, she wouldn’t even have to see him. At the
same time, she might hide this blasted agitation from her employer. She’d only
have to wonder if he’d changed in the years since she’d bid him Godspeed.
Surely India had altered him.
“Nonsense, George.” Lady Epperley heaved herself to her feet,
leaning heavily on the arm of the settee for balance. In the process, she
overturned Albemarle’s cushion. The cat hit the floor with a dull thud
and stalked off, flicking her bushy tail indignantly.
“I shall certainly need you,” the dowager went on. “Good heavens, a
shock like this at my age. My own nephew shipwrecked.” For emphasis, she
clenched a hand about the fabric of her bodice. “My heart.”
Henrietta wasn’t fooled for an instant. The old woman’s voice was
far too strong for her to be experiencing any true malaise. “Yes, my lady.”
In what seemed like no time at all, the footmen returned, easing a
limp body up the stairs from the foyer. Lady Epperley still wrung her hands at
the front of her gown, as if she thought to keep her heart from breaking free
of her chest by mere pressure. Henrietta couldn’t help but watch the
processional that trailed a slow drizzle of water on the polished parquet that
lined the corridor. Drip, drip, drip, the even cadence of
a black-plumed horse at the head of a funeral procession.
Her mind conjured the image of a robust, serious man in the glow of
health. Tall, lean, yet his presence overwhelmed. In direct contrast to her
memory, the form before her lay inert. The sharp angles of his cheekbones
shadowed chalky flesh peppered with light brown stubble. Sodden hair fell in
hanks over his forehead, and his garments were shredded beyond repair . . .
offering glimpses of skin she’d only ever seen in her dreams.
Henrietta pressed her lips into a line, deliberately tamping down
the unexpected—and unwelcome—flutter low in her belly. Her knees wobbled. More
inappropriate words jumbled in her mouth and clamored for release. She could
not risk her position by giving them voice, no matter how great the temptation.
In this state, Lady Epperley had no choice but to take in her nephew; the
history between him and Henrietta be damned.
Author Bio
Ashlyn
Macnamara is the
author of A Most Scandalous Proposal. She lives in the wilds of suburbia
outside of Montreal with her husband and two teenage daughters. When not
writing, she looks for other excuses to neglect the housework, among them
knitting, reading, and wasting time on the Internet in the guise of doing
research.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
Blog Tour: Finding Miss McFarland by Vivienne Lorret (Excerpt & Giveaway)
Release Date: August 5, 2014
Genre: Historical Romance
Publisher: Avon
Finding
Miss McFarland
Wallflower
Weddings Book Three
Finding
Miss McFarland
Wallflower
Weddings Book ThreeDelaney McFarland is on the hunt for a husband—preferably one who needs her embarrassingly large dowry more than a dutiful wife. After the unspeakable incident at her debut, Delaney knows marrying for love is off the table, but a marriage of convenience—one that leaves her free to live the life she chooses—is the next best thing, never mind what that arrogant, devilishly handsome Mr. Croft thinks. Delaney plans to marry for money … or not at all.
Ever since the fiery redhead burst into his life—in a most memorable way—Griffin Croft hasn't been able to get Miss McFarland out of his mind. Now, with the maddening woman determined to hand over her fortune to a rake, Griffin knows he must step in. He must help her. He must not kiss her. But when Griffin's noble intentions flee in a moment of unexpected passion, his true course becomes clear: tame Delaney's wild heart and save her from a fate worse than death … a life without love.
Finding Miss McFarland
“Mr. Croft,” her father said, not bothering to conceal the satisfied grin he wore. “It is my pleasure to introduce you to my eldest daughter, Gillian Delaney McFarland.”
This was the first time her father had used her full name during an introduction. Normally, he preferred not to be reminded that such a creature was named after him. Yet at the moment, she didn’t bother to question it. She was too distracted by the man across from her.
Griffin Croft stood an inch taller than her father, with waves of dark hair brushed back from his forehead. In this light, she couldn’t tell if his hair was black or brown, or if his eyes were brown or blue; all she knew was that when their gazes met, she felt a strange crackling sensation beneath her palms. It felt the way she imagined a fire consumed bits of tinder—hot, bright, and skittering over the surface, igniting kindling with dozens of tiny flames.
And like a flame, her gaze became greedy, consuming every nuance of his face, from his elegantly sloped nose to his wide mouth, and from the deep cleft in his chin to the square jaw and the barest shadow of stubble she saw above a clumsily tied cravat.
“Miss McFarland.”
She didn’t hear him at first. There was an odd ringing in her ears. But by looking at his mouth—and a very pleasant one, it was—she could see that he’d spoken.
Miss McFarland . . . and with those words, his lips pressed together twice. Like a kiss. The idea made her dizzy.
“Mr. Croft.”
A wave of heat assailed her. Then, too soon, another terrible grip seized her stomach. Her vision blurred for an instant, and when she looked down, she saw that he held out his gloved hand, as if to steady her.
Her father’s hand went to her back. “Perhaps it would be best to postpone—”
He never had a chance to finish.
And she never had the chance to turn around and take hold of the railing. Instead, her body betrayed her most cruelly and cast up her accounts all over Griffin Croft’s shoes.
“Mr. Croft,” her father said, not bothering to conceal the satisfied grin he wore. “It is my pleasure to introduce you to my eldest daughter, Gillian Delaney McFarland.”
This was the first time her father had used her full name during an introduction. Normally, he preferred not to be reminded that such a creature was named after him. Yet at the moment, she didn’t bother to question it. She was too distracted by the man across from her.
Griffin Croft stood an inch taller than her father, with waves of dark hair brushed back from his forehead. In this light, she couldn’t tell if his hair was black or brown, or if his eyes were brown or blue; all she knew was that when their gazes met, she felt a strange crackling sensation beneath her palms. It felt the way she imagined a fire consumed bits of tinder—hot, bright, and skittering over the surface, igniting kindling with dozens of tiny flames.
And like a flame, her gaze became greedy, consuming every nuance of his face, from his elegantly sloped nose to his wide mouth, and from the deep cleft in his chin to the square jaw and the barest shadow of stubble she saw above a clumsily tied cravat.
“Miss McFarland.”
She didn’t hear him at first. There was an odd ringing in her ears. But by looking at his mouth—and a very pleasant one, it was—she could see that he’d spoken.
Miss McFarland . . . and with those words, his lips pressed together twice. Like a kiss. The idea made her dizzy.
“Mr. Croft.”
A wave of heat assailed her. Then, too soon, another terrible grip seized her stomach. Her vision blurred for an instant, and when she looked down, she saw that he held out his gloved hand, as if to steady her.
Her father’s hand went to her back. “Perhaps it would be best to postpone—”
He never had a chance to finish.
And she never had the chance to turn around and take hold of the railing. Instead, her body betrayed her most cruelly and cast up her accounts all over Griffin Croft’s shoes.
This was the first time her father had used her full name during an introduction. Normally, he preferred not to be reminded that such a creature was named after him. Yet at the moment, she didn’t bother to question it. She was too distracted by the man across from her.
Griffin Croft stood an inch taller than her father, with waves of dark hair brushed back from his forehead. In this light, she couldn’t tell if his hair was black or brown, or if his eyes were brown or blue; all she knew was that when their gazes met, she felt a strange crackling sensation beneath her palms. It felt the way she imagined a fire consumed bits of tinder—hot, bright, and skittering over the surface, igniting kindling with dozens of tiny flames.
And like a flame, her gaze became greedy, consuming every nuance of his face, from his elegantly sloped nose to his wide mouth, and from the deep cleft in his chin to the square jaw and the barest shadow of stubble she saw above a clumsily tied cravat.
“Miss McFarland.”
She didn’t hear him at first. There was an odd ringing in her ears. But by looking at his mouth—and a very pleasant one, it was—she could see that he’d spoken.
Miss McFarland . . . and with those words, his lips pressed together twice. Like a kiss. The idea made her dizzy.
“Mr. Croft.”
A wave of heat assailed her. Then, too soon, another terrible grip seized her stomach. Her vision blurred for an instant, and when she looked down, she saw that he held out his gloved hand, as if to steady her.
Her father’s hand went to her back. “Perhaps it would be best to postpone—”
He never had a chance to finish.
And she never had the chance to turn around and take hold of the railing. Instead, her body betrayed her most cruelly and cast up her accounts all over Griffin Croft’s shoes.
Author Bio
I fell in
love with fairy tales and the romance behind happily ever after at a very young
age. Like a lot of you, I tweaked the fables bit by bit in my imagination until
they suited me perfectly. By the time I was eleven, a teacher encouraged me to
start writing.
Throughout
the years that followed, my teachers remained my most fervent supporters,
giving me the tools I needed to continue my journey as a writer.
My husband
and I have two teenage boys, who are heroes in their own right. For now, we
live in a small Midwestern town near Lake Michigan…until a time in the future
when a new adventure calls us to other shores.
I am currently working
on my next novel, but I always enjoy hearing from my readers. Feel free to
email me at vivienne@vivlorret.netYou can follow this tour here:
http://www.tastybooktours.com/2014/06/now-booking-tasty-virtual-tour-for_6353.html
Giveaway for Digital Set of DARING MISS DANVERS and WINNING MISS WAKEFIELD
Throwback Thursday: Historical Romance Edition #38
Happy Thursday, everyone! Zeee here from I Heart Romance hosting this weeks' Throwback Thursday: Historical Romance Edition, a feature started by Buried Under Romance and Love Saves the World.
What is Throwback Thursday?
Traditionally, Throwback Thursday celebrates nostalgia, asking participants to post a personal photo or an image from their past -- usually from 5 to 10 years ago. There are a lot of book blogs that also do a book-related Throwback Thursday.
The Historical Romance Edition:
Since Tin of Love Saves the World and I are unapologetic lovers of historical romances, we've decided to focus on our beloved genre.
Here are our rules:
1. It must be posted on a Thursday.
My pick for this week is And Then He Kissed Her by Laura Lee Guhrke, published on February 27, 2007.
BLURB
Supremely sensible
Emmaline Dove wishes to share her etiquette expertise with London's
readers, and as secretary to Viscount Marlowe, Emma knows she's in the
perfect position to make her dream come true. Marlowe might be a rake
with a preference for can-can dancers and an aversion to matrimony, but
he is also the city's leading publisher, and Emma is convinced he's her
best chance to see her work in print...until she discovers the lying
scoundrel has been rejecting her manuscripts without ever reading a
single page!
As a publisher, Harry finds reading etiquette books akin to slow, painful torture. Besides, he can't believe his proper secretary has the passion to write anything worth reading. Then she has the nerve to call him a liar, and even resigns without notice, leaving his business in an uproar and his honor in question. Harry decides it's time to teach Miss Dove a few things that aren't proper. But when he kisses her, he discovers that his former secretary has more passion and fire than he'd ever imagined, for one luscious taste of her lips only leaves him hungry for more.
As a publisher, Harry finds reading etiquette books akin to slow, painful torture. Besides, he can't believe his proper secretary has the passion to write anything worth reading. Then she has the nerve to call him a liar, and even resigns without notice, leaving his business in an uproar and his honor in question. Harry decides it's time to teach Miss Dove a few things that aren't proper. But when he kisses her, he discovers that his former secretary has more passion and fire than he'd ever imagined, for one luscious taste of her lips only leaves him hungry for more.
My Thoughts
I think this was the first book by Laura Lee Guhrke that I read and I was hooked! She has become an autobuy/autoclick author since then. I love And Then He Kissed Her because not only is it a love "between the classes," the heroine is also an author and an artist, plus there is also the ugly ducking trope. Who doesn't love that?
Now, head over to Tin @ Love Saves the World and Ki Pha @ Doing Some Reading for their pick of the week.
Fellow historical romance readers are welcome to join us. Enter your link below so we can visit your TBT: HR Edition post for the week! (Then go here to copy the Link code to your blogs.)
Don't forget to leave some love! mwaaaah*
Labels:
throwback thursday
Wednesday, August 6, 2014
Guest Post: Taming Miss Tisdale by Jessica Jefferson (with Excerpt and Giveaway)
We want to welcome Jessica Jefferson to Buried Under Romance, she is sharing her writing process and an excerpt from her latest book with all of us. She also has a giveaway of a $50 Amazon Gift Card Enjoy!
Jessica Jefferson makes her home in northern Indiana, or as she likes to think of it—almost Chicago. She is heavily inspired by classic sweeping, historical romance novels, but aims to take those key emotional elements and inject a fresh blend of quick dialogue and comedy. She invites you to visit her at jessicajefferson.com and read more of her random romance musings.
Author Links
Author Links
My Writing Process
After majoring in English with hopes of becoming a teacher and writer, I somehow landed myself into the world of nursing. My career path was winding to say the least.
Eventually, I found my strength wasn’t necessarily in the caring for patients, but with the observation and evaluation of healthcare processes. My career took another unexpected turn into a role similar to that of an industrial engineer’s with performance improvement. I learned to plot out processes using post-it notes and to continually apply the PDCA (plan, do, check, act) cycle to all I do.
Now, I’m a full time writer, and part time performance improvement facilitator. And I’ve been able to apply most everything I’ve learned to my writing process.
I’ve always considered myself to be a spontaneous person. Heck, I was at the Romance Times Convention in New Orleans and without any planning what-so-ever, walked into a tattoo parlor and had my body marked for life on a whim. But I can’t write like that. I need planning- structure.
I’m currently working on my third and fourth books simultaneously, and I couldn’t be more regimented. I’m a very visual person, and transparency was a common theme throughout my previous day job. I put everything on my wall so that I can always see where it is I’m going in the story. Characters are represented by post-its and a picture of what I’d think they’d look like. Each chapter is plotted out, a series of post-its stretched across my wall. Specific lines I come up with at three a.m. are jotted down on corresponding post-its and posted in the appropriate location. Magazine clippings of furniture or colors may also be featured on my wall for inspiration. Research and notes are also posted on the wall.
It doesn’t take very much time, and it usually changes a dozen or so times before the book is written. But it does help me to feel organized and have some sort of control over this new, crazy career of mine.
Marc watched the faint outline come across the dense morning fog, becoming more discernible as it approached. The tall, thin figure was riding along at a perilous speed, given the morning’s lack of visibility. He thought perhaps it was some gangly young man misguided in the fog. It wouldn’t be the first time someone accidentally stumbled upon the vast property that made up his family’s immodest estate.
Then the fog parted in an almost biblical manner, revealing his gross inaccuracy.
Were those ... breasts?
Marc closed his eyes and thought for a moment. Typically, women didn’t ride alone at such an hour and they certainly didn’t wander unexpectedly across his property. It’d been quite a while, his last birthday to be exact, since his last intimate encounter with a woman—a gift, compliments of St. Regis—so there was always the possibility that perhaps his half-drunk, sex-starved mind had conjured up the sensual image.
He shook his head, opened his eyes, and looked back again toward the horizon.
Yes, those were most certainly breasts.
And she was most definitely not a young man. The woman’s riding habit pulled taut against her body as she raced toward him. Her hair was blowing behind her—various hues of auburn and gold, like wild flames curling about in the wind. Then a decidedly feminine voice burst through the morning’s silence, interrupting his self-doubt.
“Oh, thank goodness I found you!”
This was no mirage. She was indeed very real.
And very loud.
Then the fog parted in an almost biblical manner, revealing his gross inaccuracy.
Were those ... breasts?
Marc closed his eyes and thought for a moment. Typically, women didn’t ride alone at such an hour and they certainly didn’t wander unexpectedly across his property. It’d been quite a while, his last birthday to be exact, since his last intimate encounter with a woman—a gift, compliments of St. Regis—so there was always the possibility that perhaps his half-drunk, sex-starved mind had conjured up the sensual image.
He shook his head, opened his eyes, and looked back again toward the horizon.
Yes, those were most certainly breasts.
And she was most definitely not a young man. The woman’s riding habit pulled taut against her body as she raced toward him. Her hair was blowing behind her—various hues of auburn and gold, like wild flames curling about in the wind. Then a decidedly feminine voice burst through the morning’s silence, interrupting his self-doubt.
“Oh, thank goodness I found you!”
This was no mirage. She was indeed very real.
And very loud.
Marcus Winston, the Duke of Grayson, has a lackluster reputation. The last in a dying line, he’s endured a protected life—rank with privilege, encumbered by isolation. After a brief encounter with rebellion, he learns the devastating consequences of his carelessness and willingly accepts living life from inside his gilded cage.
However, a chance meeting with the brazen Miss Tisdale gives Marc the opportunity to reinvent himself into the man he’s always dreamed of being. When his deception comes to light, and ghosts from both their pasts threaten to unravel the intimacy they’ve come to cherish, will either of them set their fears aside long enough to embrace love? Or will Miss Tisdale’s stubbornness divide them?
August Anticipated Reads in Historical Romance
Each month we will be bringing you the books we are excited to read for that month.
We hope you enjoy the books and maybe find a new author.
ARC Review: How to School Your Scoundrel by Juliana Gray
How to School Your Scoundrel by Juliana Gray
Publication date: June 3, 2014
Series: A Princess in Hiding #3
Publisher: Berkley
Amazon | Goodreads B & N
~~Reviewed by Bonnie~~
With her country in turmoil, and her life in danger, Princess Luisa and her sisters are forced to flee their small homeland of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof for England. The Royal Prince (the girls’ father) as well as Luisa’s new husband were murdered by rebels seeking to overthrow the monarchy. The three princesses are half English, and their English uncle, The Duke of Olympia concocts a plan to have them masquerade as men to keep them safe.
Luisa is to become Mr. Markham, and apply to become secretary to the notorious Earl of Somerton. During the initial interview, Luisa displays a cockiness that appeals to Somerton, who is used to everyone trembling in his presence, and he hires her (him.) They develop a relationship, while not exactly a friendship, buta sort of mutual trust and respect.
Somerton is in an unhappy marriage. Years ago, he fell in love with his wife, who was in love with another man. He bulldozed her parents into making her accept his suit, and basically bought her. She still loves this man, and Somerton is obsessed with finding proof of her infidelity, and enacting revenge.
I am amazed at how the author managed to weave all the various threads of this story so tightly together. First of all, I have to say that I really dislike the trope of ladies disguising themselves as men. Second, I am really not at all fond of political intrigues, especially involving monarchy. And third, I totally dislike the kind of man Somerton was. (No spoilers, but he had a whole lot of sins in his past.) Yet, I absolutely loved this story. As it progresses, we get to see that Somerton is a lonely man who has never been loved, and his first attempt at loving was rejected. We also get to see him transform into a hero without losing his toughness, which is something Luisa will need. Luisa, meanwhile, has always lived for duty alone, and now she feels love as well.
This book is the third book of the princess trilogy, and these books were my first introduction to Juliana Gray. I will definitely be reading her previous books, and she is now an “auto buy” author for me. I have also learned that one of her previous books, “A Gentleman Never Tells” is the story of Somerton’s troubled marriage, told from his wife’s point of view. I can’t recommend this book highly enough – it has it all. It’s exciting, sexy, angsty, heartbreaking, and ultimately satisfying. The epilogue is a treasure
I received a complimentary copy of this book in exchange for my honest review.
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