trueromance

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Strip Tease
She told herself not to stare, but he truly had the most
glorious physique. His back was all sleek, smooth, bronzed
flesh, sinew rippling as he moved— “Hey!” she said as his
pants dropped. He kicked free and kept walking, in nothing
but black knit boxers. “What are you doing?” she
squeaked, even as her gaze soaked up the fact that he had
a tan line, and that the waistband of his boxers had slipped
past it, revealing a tantalizing strip of paler, smooth, tight
skin. “We’re not doing this, Wade O’Riley. Do you hear
me? This is all pretend, remember?”
“I remember. The question is, do you?” He sent her a
cheeky grin over his shoulder.
Praise for Jill Shalvis and Her Romances
“Witty, fun, and sexy—the perfect romance!”
—New York Times bestselling author Lori Foster
“Humor, intrigue, and scintillating sex. Jill Shalvis is a
total original.”
—New York Times bestselling author Suzanne Forster
“Fast-paced and deliciously fun . . . Jill Shalvis sweeps you
away.” —USA Today bestselling author Cherry Adair
“A fun, sexy story of the redemptive powers of love . . .
Red-hot!” —New York Times bestselling author JoAnn Ross

Dear Reader,

There’s nothing more wildly sexy and appealing than a professional athlete, someone willing to put life and limb on the line for the win, someone so used to doing whatever it takes to save the game, that they don’t realize that they themselves need saving.

I love torturing my heroes with love. Not sure what that says about me, but there’s something about a watching a guy suffer before getting his happily ever after. Slow Heat begins with a big, bad sexy-as-hell major league baseball catcher for the Santa Barbara Heat. Wade O’Riley is a walk on the wild side, and doesn’t see a problem with that. Unfortunately for him, management does.

When the Powers-That-Be decide Wade needs a public make-over, they task the Heat’s publicist with pretending to be his girlfriend at a celebrity wedding. They figure this will ward off both women and trouble. Problem – putting Sam and Wade together any amount of time equals trouble all on its own. Trouble, and a crazy sexual heat neither can seem to resist to save their lives . . .

Wade doesn’t have a problem with what’s happening between them. He might be the Good Time Guy, but he knows a good thing when it hits him. Sam, however, isn’t as easy to convince. She’s known Wade for a long time, and has never seen him stick. Care. Open his heart.

And since hers has been open to him since that one long ago night they’d shared, she’s doubly cautious. But risking when it comes to love is what it’s all about, and before their story is over, each will have to risk far more than they bargained for, including their hearts and souls.

As always, I’d love to hear what you think. You can find me on the web, along with my daily blog about my own adventures at http://www.jillshalvis.com.

Oh, and be sure to look for Double Play, featuring Pace’s and Holly’s story, out now as well!

Happy Reading!
Jill Shalvis

Jill is giving away 10 FREE books - comment below - tell us why you deserve to win

Chapter 1
Confucius say: “Baseball wrong—man with four balls cannot walk.”
~Author Unknown
She’d read somewhere that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, but Samantha McNead knew better than that—in certain men the stomach was aiming just a bit too high.
Wade O’Riley was one of them.
The best defensive catcher in major league baseball, he had women lining up to meet him wherever he went. And it wasn’t home cooking that they wanted to give him either.
Not that Wade seemed to mind. Nope, even with all the constraints that went with the new big, fat, multimillion dollar contract he’d just signed for Santa Barbara’s expansion team The Heat, the guy seemed oblivious to pressure. Laid-back and easygoing, he took everything as it came, with a grain of salt and a slow, knowing smile that let everyone in on the joke.
Because life was one big funny to Wade.
Sam appreciated that, she just didn’t live it the way he did. Didn’t know how. As the publicist for the Heat, as one of the few females in a man’s world, her life tended to be more work than fun lately. Hence her mission today.
The limo pulled up in front of Wade’s big, cottage-style beach house, perched on a bluff over the ocean. From the backseat she could see the waves froth and pitch.
Much like her stomach.
In the work aspect of her life, she was extremely comfortable. That was a given. She’d been raised by men: her father, her uncle, her brother, and her cousins were all tough, implacable, unforgiving alpha males. Failure had never been an option, which translated to being very good at whatever she tackled. Unfortunately for her more womanly parts, all she’d tackled lately was the job.
A job she loved with all her heart, but sometimes she yearned for more. Maybe one of these days a man would sweep her off her feet and then into bed, but it wouldn’t be today, and it wouldn’t be with the guy she’d been tasked with babysitting.
The Heat had played last night. It was the first week of April, and it’d been an exhibition game, a prelude to their season opener on Sunday. They’d played the Padres, and it’d turned out to be surprisingly down and dirty. Wade had hit a homer in the second inning, then been harshly walked in the third when the pitcher had hit him in the thigh with a throwaway pitch. The game had gone two extra innings, until past midnight, when the Heat had finally won on Wade’s double, so Sam expected him to be exhausted and probably sore as hell. Maybe she’d even have to pull him out of bed.
The thought brought concern, and a secret tingle to those womanly parts she’d been neglecting.
Nice to know they still worked.
As she reached for the limo door handle, Wade’s front door opened, and six feet of rugged, lean muscled male stepped out in Levi’s and an untucked blue and white striped button-down. A gust of wind molded his clothes against the body that tended to make Sam’s tongue stick to the roof of her mouth.
Wade stopped to slide on his sunglasses, the picture of a California surfer, all easygoing, laid-back charm.
He’d been a rock star in another life, Sam was convinced, and she purposely let out a breath and leaned back, reminding herself he was just a guy. A flawed guy at that, though certainly none of his flaws happened to be showing at the moment.
He moved across the lawn in an unhurried, sexy stride, all scruffy gorgeousness, and opened the limo door, letting in the chilly April afternoon air. With one hand on the roof, the other on the door, he bent down, peering in through his Prada sunglasses, merely arching a brow when he saw her.
Couldn’t blame him. They weren’t exactly on speaking terms.
His sun-kissed light brown hair was either styled messy today on purpose, or he hadn’t bothered with a comb. His face sported at least a day-old beard so she was going with the no comb theory. He should have looked sloppy and unkempt but nothing about him ever looked anything less than God’s gift. She’d seen him in uniform, in designer suits, in workout gear, in all sorts of things including absolutely nothing, and he always looked perfect.
Especially in the nothing.
“Hey,” he said in that low, slightly raspy voice of his, the one that never failed to immediately put her back up.
And/or turn her on.
“Hey yourself.” He hadn’t limped, and he sure as hell didn’t look exhausted. The opposite, she thought a little breathlessly as his deceptively lazy gaze raked her in from head to toe. Deceptively, because behind that beach bum front of his lay a sharp-as-hell wit.
Given their . . . tense relationship at the moment, she didn’t smile.
And though he usually smiled at anything female, neither did he.
“Are you okay after last night’s game?” she asked.
“Always. How about you, Princess?
She’d asked him a million times not to call her that. It drove her crazy, which was of course why he did it. “I’m fine. We need to talk.”
“Sorry,” he said with mock regret. “But we don’t talk. We fight. And I’m not in the mood.”
He hadn’t been “in the mood” since what she called The Mishap.
The Mishap Never To Be Talked About.
Except . . . except Wade got along with the entire world, and she had to admit it was disturbing that they didn’t. Couldn’t. But there was nothing to be done about that now.
Nothing.
She had a job to do. They had a job to do. “I realize you probably don’t want to go over the plan,” she said, feeling at a disadvantage sitting while Wade still stood. “But I really think we should.”
“I know the plan,” he said. “One of the corporations endorsing the Heat has a new, conservative CEO who has high family values, and is upset with our PR troubles—”
“Your PR troubles,” she corrected.
He let out a tight breath and bowed his head in agreement. “And you, the Skiper, the owners—hell everyone but me—believes that the world cares about one more ridiculous baseball scandal involving some woman claiming I’ve gotten her pregnant.”
“You can’t blame people for believing it; you do have a bit of a playboy reputation.”
“I never slept with Tia.”
“She produced pictures of you and her on the beach by your house.”
He just looked at her.
“See,” she pointed out. “This is why we have to talk about it.”
“Look, I get what the powers-that-be want from me. From us. We pretend to be a couple in the eyes of the press so I look like a good boy, and our endorsements won’t be pulled. How hard can it be?”
“I don’t know,” she replied cautiously. “How hard?”
His eyes heated. And a matching heat seared through her belly at the inadvertent double entrendre. “You know what I mean, Wade. The plan—”
“The plan is that I have to behave. And you’re supposed to make me.” He paused. “Though I am looking forward to the make me part.”
Oh, God. “You know what? This isn’t going to work.” She was fun, dammit. Even lighthearted at times. Why the hell he made her sound so uptight and stuffy, she had no idea.
Wait. She did have an idea. An exact idea.
She’d slept him.
Once.
On the one single night in her entire life when she’d had too much to drink. Except there’d been no sleeping involved. To make matters worse, it’d been one of the most erotic, sensual nights of her life. “Listen, I realize we’ve had our differences, but—”
“Differences?” He laughed, then shook his head, still amused.
“Fine, so differences doesn’t quite cut it. We have to get a move on.” A friend of his was getting married. A close friend who just happened to be a big-time Hollywood producer, and Wade was one of the groomsmen. The wedding was an entire weekend extravaganza, where there was sure to be tons of press. If he attracted any of it—and just by being Wade, he most definitely would—he needed to attract good press.
By the end of the two-hour trip to the famed Orange County, specifically Laguna Beach, they needed to be in sync and looking like lovers. Willing to do her part, she practiced a smile on him, the smile that usually got her exactly what she wanted, which in this case was Wade’s cooperation. Thing was, he didn’t often feel the need to cooperate. “You getting in?”
He looked at her for a long beat, all big and built and completely inscrutable, during which time she held her breath. For as kick-back as he was, he was also tough as steel. He had to be. Catchers were known for their courage and toughness, having what was arguably the hardest position in baseball. And Wade was the best catcher behind the plate, period. He had to command the respect of all the players, make the calls on the field, have good sequences in those calls, and the ability to change it up and keep the hitters off balance. All of which meant he had to be smart, sharp, and strong in both mind and body.
Wade was all of those things and more, and clearly one of those things was decisive. He tossed his overnight bag into the limo and followed it in, dropping down next to her even though he could have had the opposite seat all to himself. Leaning back, he stretched out his long, long legs and looked around. “So. We have any food in here?”
“No. Are you hungry?”
“Starving.”
He was always starving. Probably because he burned God knew how many calories a day between his five-mile runs, weight training, and the game itself. “We can stop and get something to go. Rosa’s?” she asked, naming the closest café. Look at that, she was getting the hang of taking care of him already.
“DQ is good.”
She’d never met a grown man with such a love for fast food before. But whatever he wanted, she’d get. It would make him happy, and a happy Wade was a hopefully compliant one. With a nod from her, the driver started the engine and they began their trek, heading through town toward Dairy Queen.
Santa Barbara was a colorful blend of the Spanish history of California and beach living. Wade was looking out the window, taking it in, giving her his profile as they turned onto Highway 1, heading south. The sparkling Pacific was on their right, the green, craggily Santa Ynez peaks on their left, both breathtaking.
They stopped at Dairy Queen and quickly got back on the road. Wade was quiet as he ate, watching as they left the affluent homes and ranches, heading into the outlying county and the less privileged areas. She knew he’d been underprivileged himself. Despite his many faults, he was surprisingly humble and quick to laugh at himself, and often joked he’d grown up so far from the proverbial train tracks that he hadn’t even been able to see the tracks.
And her?
Well, she’d grown up with a silver spoon in her mouth and everyone knew it. It was certainly all Wade knew about her, because it’d been the only thing she’d ever let him see. He had no idea that the two of them had a hell of a lot more in common that he’d ever guess.
He polished off two burgers and went to work on his fries. “So . . .” His green eyes were relaxed but assessing as they met hers. “When were you going to tell me they want us to do this boyfriend/girlfriend thing for a whole month?”
“You heard?” she asked in surprise. She’d been asked to talk him into it.
“I work with a bunch of women, Sam. They tell all.”
“You work with a group of professional athletes, male.”
“Who gossip more than a bunch of teenage girls after cheerleading practice. Pace heard it from Henry, who overheard Gage talking to you.”
Pace being Wade’s best friend and the Heat’s pitcher. Henry was their shortstop. Gage, their team manager. And yes, the supposedly professional clubhouse really was similar in nature to a high school locker room.
Sprawled out, relaxed, Wade watched her with a half smile, looking far too appealing. She took a careful breath. “A month shows stability. It’s more impressive than just a weekend wedding fling.”
“So you’re okay with being joined at the hip for a month?”
“If you are.”
He considered this. “Are there benefits?”
“No.”
He sighed. “So much for fun.”
“Hey, I’m fun.” He didn’t say a word, which burned. “I am! And I just realized, there are benefits.”
He cocked his head.
“Well . . . I can be a pretty convincing bitch when I want to be.”
“Noooo,” he said with feigned shock. “But how exactly is that a benefit?”
“I can scare away all the crazy women that chase you around, thereby giving you a break. And in return, you can relax knowing you won’t have to take care of me like your usual fan-girl, clingy type who bores you within the span of one date.”
He arched a brow.
“Just calling ’em like I see ’em.”
He didn’t say anything to that as he finished his fries, then tossed all the trash into the bag and set it aside. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and said another entire boatload of nothing.
“It’s just a role, Wade. And it could have been worse. We could have lost the endorsement entirely, or they could have traded you.”
“They’re that desperate for good press?” He shook his head in disbelief.
“Hey, baseball isn’t exactly showing its best foot to the public lately. We need this. The Heat needs this.”
“And your father’s okay with it?” he asked carefully.
With good reason. Her father was one of the owners of the Heat. Her uncle owned their sister team, the South Carolina Charleston Bucks. The McNead brothers were famous for getting their way, or more accurately, infamous.
And they were baseball royalty.
Or had been until Samantha’s brother Jeremy—her PR equivalent at the Bucks—had stepped over the ethics line, the moral line, and several other lines as well, and brought the wrath of the press down on the McNeads. It hadn’t gone over well, and damage control was required. Gee, guess who was in charge of damage control? “Yes,” she said quietly. “My father thinks it’s a good idea.”
“So they’re willing to pimp out their princess when it suits them.”
Ouch. But the answer was yes, a McNead was expected to stick to the pack. She’d known that by the time she could talk in full sentences. “It’s just an illusion.”
“It’s an entire month.”
The reminder made her stomach quiver. An entire month of being his girlfriend. “We’re grown-ups.”
“Really?” His stark green gaze was more genuine curiosity than sarcasm. “Because we’ve not spent more than two minutes together without snarling at each other.”
God. So true.
“Well, except for the elevator,” he said.
Also true, and her stomach executed a double gainer with a twist as the memory flew back, hot and sexy, resurrected by nothing more than the sound of his voice and the sudden sleepy look in his eyes.
It’d happened last season. The Heat had just lost, bad. The press had been ruthless, and her father had been pissed at her for somehow not being Super Woman. She’d been in desperate need of some alone time.
What she’d gotten instead was stuck in an elevator on the way to her hotel room with Wade and a couple little bottles of airplane Scotch, and her pity party for one had turned into a naked party for two. The erotic, alcohol-tinged memories came to her in slow-mo and as always, always, sent her spinning between total and complete humiliation and an even more devastating aching hunger and desire.
If she could just erase from her memory banks the picture of Wade taking her straight to heaven in under five minutes she would, but the pictures in her brain only seemed to only strengthen with time instead of lessen. She darted a quick glance at their driver, who was currently sipping a seventy-two-ounce DQ soda and rocking his head to the radio as he beat the steering wheel like a drum. “I don’t want to discuss that night.”
Wade shrugged. No skin off his nose. Hell, he’d probably had lots of nights like that since. She concentrated on the view. Not a hardship. Santa Barbara wasn’t called the American Riviera for nothing, and she watched as they passed four-thousand-foot peaks covered in unique and beautiful chaparral and sandstone outcrops. “So we’re good?” she asked quietly.
Wade smiled. It was his professional smile, the one that could melt a woman’s panties at fifty paces and make men wish that they had half his athletic prowess, and it was a charmer. She knew its potency, braced herself for it, and still felt her panties begin to melt. “What the hell.” He stretched out even further, his leg sliding to hers. “We’re good. Girlfriend.”
“Fake girlfriend,” she corrected, shoving him over, telling herself she was absolutely not noticing the heat of him, the feel of his rock hard thigh . . .
He stretched some more, straightening his arms above him, briefly exposing a flash of washboard abs between the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his jeans. Jeans that were faded at all the stress points. He had some very fine stress points . . .
She saw more men in a day than the average woman dreamed of. Many of those men—if she was in the clubhouse before a game—in various stages of nakedness, leaving her utterly immune to tantalizing glimpses of male skin.
Which didn’t explain why her mouth went dry.
“Maybe we should kiss on it,” Wade suggested. “Seal the deal.”
Her tummy quivered, a fact she firmly ignored. “What? No!”
“Spoil sport.”
He’d probably have fallen over if she’d said yes, which she absolutely wouldn’t do. Even if he was the kiss master.
Which he was . . .
His leg was touching hers again. He was hogging the backseat, albeit unintentionally. He was a big guy and he needed space. He also smelled good. He looked good, too, which really didn’t seem fair at all. But he was here, not pitching a diva fit, and she owed him for that. “Thank you,” she said. “For agreeing to this.”
“You’re welcome.”
Well, that seemed surprisingly genuine, and she had to wonder if maybe she’d anticipated trouble with him simply because of their past. Maybe . . . maybe deep down he really was a good guy.
It was possible.
Maybe they could laugh about this, her having to keep up the pretense of being his lover, when they’d already done the deed.
That could possibly be fun. Maybe.
Sort of.
And maybe they could even become friends. It would be nice—
“You packing any Scotch today?” he asked, looking around the limo. “Should I be bracing myself for you to tear my clothes off again?”
With a sigh, she leaned back and closed her eyes. She could safely check both fun and friends off the list.

Do you think blogging is like dancing? This is tough stuff! We want our readers to be engaged & enjoy our posts . . . so how does one accomplish this???? Guest Bloggers & that means YOU!

What Makes a Good Blogger?????

1. Can you be personal?

2. Convey a personality in your post?

3. Be passionate about your post?

4. Post pictures?

5. Stay focused?

You’re hired!
No kidding . . . we’re looking for readers who’d like to chat with other readers . . . now is the time! Comment below & tell us what you’d like to post about & why you would be a great guest blogger & you may win the chance to post with us on BTRB.

Winners will be chosen & posted next week. . . now is your chance!

Happy Romance,
SueG

It’s five short days until the release of McKettricks of Texas: Tate – the first book in my new Texas McKettricks series.

McKettricks of Texas: Tate on sale 1/26 at Borders!

The anticipation is killing me!

I started writing this book last summer, and I knew immediately it was something special. With all my years of writing, the experience of writing it was remarkable—I’d never seen quite the same phenomenon before.

Some books are easy. Some books are difficult. But Tate didn’t fall into either category. The story flowed so fast, it was as if it was being downloaded from my brain. But, trust me, it had its challenges—if only because just when I think I have them figured out, those McKettrick boys surprise me!

In the end, all I could do was be there to watch their antics unfold and write them down. The process was exhausting . . . but so magical.

As I got to know Tate, the eldest of the three Texas McKettrick brothers, I had to admit I liked what I saw. This corporate cowboy comes to realize that it’s time to get back to the basics of life. He suspects that returning to his McKettrick roots in Blue River, Texas, could be the key to happiness for him and his twin daughters . . . and maybe to finding a love that will last with his high school sweetheart.

I do hope you’ll take this cowboy home—and that you will also take a moment to visit www.TakeACowboyHome.com, where we have a more than few surprises in store for you . . .

In the meantime, did you have one particular high school sweetheart? Did you marry him? Do you wish you had? Why is first love so special? And how does it color all the loves that follow?

Randomly chosen commenters below will get a free book from Harlequin Publishing. Good Luck!

Adios!

Linda

Check out Linda’s hot hero trailer here http://takeacowboyhome.com/takeacowboyhome/#

The Truth About Lord Stoneville, by Sabrina Jeffries; the beginning of a new series, The Hellions of Halstead Hall

One Toe Over the Line

I never set out to create a rakehell character who would spawn a whole series. Oliver Sharpe, the Marquess of Stoneville, was supposed to be a red herring for Cousin Michael, the anonymous benefactor to Charlotte Harris’s school for young ladies in my School for Heiresses series.

So in book 4 of the series, I introduced Stoneville and another character as part of my grand plan to throw people off the track in preparation for the final book in which Cousin Michael’s true identity is revealed. It made sense to make Stoneville a friend of Anthony Dalton, the hero of that book (Let Sleeping Rogues Lie). Since Anthony was a rakehell and his two other friends were married, I decided to make Stoneville a kind of rakehell partner in crime.

That’s how Stoneville was born. When my agent first read his character, she said, “He’ll never be a hero. He’s too much of a real rakehell for that.” I told her she was wrong, though I had no intention of making him a hero. He was a red herring—he wasn’t supposed to have a book. He didn’t have to be a hero.

It wasn’t long before I had to change my mind about that. Stoneville leapt off the page from the moment I created him. I don’t know why. Perhaps it was because I didn’t start out thinking of him as a hero. I just let him have his head and say what he pleased. And he said—and did—some outrageous things. So readers fell in love with him, as did I. By the end of the series, a good portion of them were convinced he was Cousin Michael, which I’d certainly never intended.

That’s when I knew I had to write his story. But there was a problem. Although he’d shown glimmers of goodness in his loyalty to his friends, he’d also had the sort of rakehell personality that I almost never write, and that I generally don’t think can be reformed. He came across as a guy who toyed with women. I had to dig deep to find out what could trigger such an attitude . . . what the truth about Stoneville entailed. In the process, I uncovered his siblings, a cranky grandmother, and a family tragedy that had left him scarred and cynical. I’d also found my new series.

Stoneville came about as close to being a real rakehell as I ever get (other authors have gone much further). He really did have one toe over the line for me.

So how do you feel about “real” rakehells in romance? Do you like them? Hate them? And if so, why? Where would you draw the line on rakish behavior if you had to draw one?

Sabrina Jeffries / The Truth About Lord Stoneville – Excerpt

Chapter Four

Maria Butterfield gaped at the Marquess of Stoneville. Surely she’d heard him wrong. “You want me to what?”
The secretive smile playing about his sensual mouth gave her pause. “Pretend to be my fiancée for a short time. As soon as I convince Gran that I seriously mean to marry you, the need for the pretense will end.”
She felt as if she’d stumbled into one of her Gothic novels. “You’re mad.”
“No. I’m just plagued with a grandmother who thinks that forcing me and my siblings into marriage will settle her mind about our futures—an idea that I mean to show her is absurd.”
“By pretending to be engaged to a perfect stranger?”
He shrugged. “I came here looking for a whore to do the job. But they’re expensive, and why should I settle for a whore when you’ll do nicely?”
His gaze traveled down her body with thorough insolence. “You’re exactly the sort my grandmother would find unacceptable as a wife for me: an American of low birth, with an impudent manner and a reckless tongue. And you’re just pretty enough to convince her that I might actually contemplate marriage to you.”
Shock held her motionless. She didn’t know which was worse—his nonchalant attitude toward hiring a whore to fool his poor grandmother, or the insults he’d lobbed at her with such insufferable arrogance. “Now that you’ve offended me in every possible way, do you think I’d agree to this insanity?”
Amusement flickered in his black eyes. “Given that your other choice is to take your chances with the gentlemen in the hall . . . yes, I do. Of course, if you want to watch your cousin hang—” He headed for the door.
“Stop!”
He paused with his hand on the handle, one eyebrow arched in question.
The curst man had her trapped, and he knew it.
No one in London could vouch for her and Freddy. As he’d guessed, not a soul here knew them. Even the ship they’d traveled on had already set sail. If they were arrested, the English authorities might be willing to write to Aunt Rose and confirm their story. But until word came, she and Freddy would surely be imprisoned. She wasn’t sure she could survive weeks in prison, and Freddy wouldn’t survive a day.
What was she thinking? Freddy wouldn’t survive an hour.
Still, she cringed at the idea of letting this aristocratic bully blackmail her into doing his bidding. “You know perfectly well we’re not thieves. You could vouch for us if you wanted. They’d accept whatever you told them.”
His eyes narrowed. “And why should I? What would it gain me?”
“The satisfaction of knowing that you’ve done the right thing.”
“You really are quite fetchingly naïve,” he drawled.
She bristled. “So you have no morals?”
“None.”
He actually admitted it! And with an appalling lack of shame, too. Yet she pressed on. “You told me that if you were satisfied we were blameless of theft, you’d let us go. You swore it on your honor as a gentleman.”
Leaning against the door, he crossed his arms over his rather impressive chest. “Unfortunately for you, I have no honor. And the term ‘gentleman’ doesn’t suit me particularly well, either.”
His blithe manner incensed her. “I should have thrust that sword through your neck when I had the chance!”
That only seemed to amuse him. “Ah, but then you’d almost certainly have been hanged. And that would be such a pity for a woman as pretty as you.”
She ignored the feminine vanity that responded to his calling her pretty. He probably said such things to women all the time. “It’s no wonder your grandmother despairs of you. God only knows what a trial you are to your poor parents.”
The humor vanished abruptly from his face. “Sadly, my parents are too dead to be overly concerned about my behavior.”
His words were flip, but the sudden glint of grief in his eyes told another tale. “Please forgive me,” she said hastily, cursing her quick tongue. “It’s awful to lose your parents. I know that better than anyone.”
“No need for apologies.” He pushed away from the door. “They despaired of me long before they died, so you weren’t far off the mark.”
“Still, it was very wrong of me to—”
“Come now, Miss Butterfield, this has naught to do with my proposal. Will you pretend to be my fiancée or not?” When she hesitated, he went on with a hint of anger, “I don’t see why you make such a fuss over it. It’s not as if I’m asking you to do anything wicked.”
That ridiculous remark banished her brief moment of sympathy. “You’re asking me to lie! To deceive a woman for the sake of your purpose, whatever that is. It goes against every moral principle—”
“And threatening to stab a man does not?” He cast her a thin smile. “Think of it as playing a role, like an actress. You and your cousin will be guests at my estate for a week or two, entirely at your leisure.” A dark gleam shone in his eyes. “I can even set up an effigy of myself for you to stab at will.”
“That does sound tempting.”
“As for Freddy there, he can ride and hunt and play cards with my brothers. It’s better entertainment than he’d find in jail.”
“As long as you feed me, sir,” Freddy said, “I’ll follow you anywhere.”
“Freddy!” Maria cried.
“What? That blasted inn where we’re staying is flea-ridden and cold as a witch’s tit. Plus, you keep such tight hold on the purse strings that I’m famished all the time. What’s wrong with helping this fellow if it means we finally sleep in decent beds? And it’s not a big thing, your pretending to be betrothed to him.”
“I’m already betrothed, thank you very much. And what about Nathan? While we’re off deceiving this man’s poor grandmother, Nathan might be hurt or in trouble. You expect me just to give up searching for him so you can get a decent meal?”
“And keep from being hanged,” Freddy pointed out. “Let’s not forget that.”
“Ah, the missing fiancé,” Lord Stoneville said coldly. “I did wonder when you would bring him back into it.”
She glowered at him. “I never let him out of it. He’s the reason I’m here.”
“So you say.”
That inflamed her temper. “Now see here, you insufferable, arrogant—”
“Fine. If you insist on clinging to your wild story, how about this: while you pretend to be my fiancée, I’ll hire someone to look for your fiancé. A simple trade of services. A Bow Street runner will still cost me less than hiring a whore for two weeks.”
“For pity’s sake, you doubt my identity because I don’t fit your notion of a wealthy man’s daughter, yet you quibble over the cost of hiring people? I thought you lofty lords had plenty of money.”
He sighed. “Not all of us. But that situation will improve once my grandmother comes to her senses. You are going to help me with that, aren’t you?”
Though he couched it as a question, his glittering gaze showed it was really an order from a man used to getting his way.
But he was offering to help her find Nathan. There was that. If she could believe him.
“You’ve made it abundantly clear that you have no honor and are no gentleman. So how can I trust anything you say? How can I be sure that when this is over, you won’t just hand us over to the authorities?”
“You can’t,” he countered.
“Then I’ll take my chances with the men in the hall.” She headed for the door.
“Wait!” When she paused to glance at him, all trace of his smug smile and the insolent arch of his dark eyebrow were gone.
“What if I swear on my mother’s grave to uphold my promise?” His gaze locked with hers, solemn as death. “That’s a vow I’d take very seriously.”
A shiver swept down her spine. Something haunted in that look called to her. As if sensing that, he stiffened and his expression returned to the one of bored nonchalance that she despised, making her wonder if she’d imagined that glimpse of vulnerability.
“Really, Miss Butterfield,” he went on, “don’t force me to go down to the magistrate’s office and spend hours talking to the authorities. I lack the time or the patience for it. It would be such an inconvenience at this hour of the evening.”
“We’ll do it,” Freddy said quickly.
“Great heavens, Freddy—”
“We’ve got to, Mopsy. I’m not going to prison for your principles. Besides, he’ll help us find Nathan. That’s all you want, isn’t it?”
A weary sigh escaped her. Freddy did have a point. She was tired of searching for Nathan, tired of being on her guard every moment in this curst city, tired of dealing with Freddy’s complaints. Maybe it was time to get some help.
She glanced to Lord Stoneville. “How long would I have to play this role?”
“Two weeks at most, though I suspect it will take less.”
She must be crazy to even consider this. But he had her cornered, and he knew it. And if he did hire someone to look for Nathan . . .
“All right,” she said. “Two weeks, no more.” When he started to smile, she added, “But you must swear on your mother’s grave to help me find Nathan, as you promised. And that when I’ve met your terms, you’ll let us both go free and end this nonsense about having us arrested for thievery.”
“Whatever you wish,” he said blithely.
“Swear it!” Some instinct told her that he’d meant it when he said he would take such a vow seriously.
A muscle worked in his jaw. Then he nodded. “I swear on my mother’s grave that I’ll do everything in my power to find your fiancé. And that at the end of two weeks, you’ll be free to go wherever you please.”
She let out a long breath. “Very well. Then I accept your proposal.”
“Good. Stay here.” Opening the door, he called for someone, and a burly man she hadn’t seen before came in. “Watch them until I return,” Lord Stoneville ordered, then disappeared into the hall.
When their guard eyed her as if she were a particularly choice piece of beef, Maria turned her back on him, trying not to dwell on what could happen to them now that they’d put themselves at the mercy of a lord with no morals. She tried not to remember the wicked scenes she’d read in novels, where villains kept women imprisoned in their houses and did shameful things to them.
The books had been rather vague about that part, but what they’d left out, Maria had made up from her imagination. Her down-to-earth aunt had told her quite a bit about how men and women joined in the bedchamber and it didn’t take much to envisage a villain lying between a woman’s legs and having his way with her.
A villain like Lord Stoneville.
Freddy sidled up next to her, and with a furtive glance at their guard, lowered his voice. “Stoneville seems like a decent enough chap.”
She stifled a hysterical laugh. “Oh, yes, quite decent. We met him in a brothel, and he’s blackmailing us into deceiving his grandmother.”
“At least he’s not handing us over to the constable. And he did find out about the satchel for you. He could have had us tossed into gaol the moment my sword hit the floor.”
True. He’d heard them out when he hadn’t had to. But that was only because she “suited his purpose.”
The door opened and Lord Stoneville walked in, carrying several items. He nodded to the burly man, who left.
Lord Stoneville tossed a vivid red gown and other pieces of clothing onto a settee. “You’ll have to change clothes. You can’t wear mourning when I present you to Gran. It’ll rouse questions about your situation, and I don’t want her guessing that this is a sham.”
Warily, Maria examined what he’d brought. The white gloves, stockings, and cap of white crepe edged in red satin with matching satin ribbons looked presentable enough, but the gown was tawdry, to say the least. Made of a very cheap silk, it was cut shamefully low. “You can’t expect me to wear this.”
“Polly tells me it should fit. You’re about the size of one of her girls.”
Her girls? Polly must own the brothel. No surprise then that he was so chummy with the woman, given what Maria had seen of his character.
“The rest is fine,” she said, “but the gown is too scandalous.”
“It’s the only thing I could acquire on such short notice,” he bit out. “We’ll get other clothes for you tomorrow, but for now this is what you’ll wear.”
She bristled at his high-handedness, wanting to argue, but she dared not until she and Freddy escaped this place with their necks intact.
He stared at her expectantly. “Well? Put it on.”
“Not until you and Freddy leave!” she exclaimed.
“Sorry, my dear. I can’t have him stand out there where our friends can reconsider their decision to let him go. Nor shall I leave you two alone to escape through some window.” He shot her a cursory glance. “Trust me, I’ve seen more women in their corsets and shifts than you’ve seen years.”
“I can well believe that.” She sniffed. “At least turn around.”
“Fine.” He turned his back to her, and Freddy followed suit. “But be quick about it. I’d like to reach Halstead Hall in time for dinner.”
“Do as he says, will you?” Freddy put in. “I’m about to faint from hunger.”
“For once, Freddy,” she grumbled, “would you stop thinking with your stomach?”
The stockings seemed to fit, and she managed to undo her own gown so she could slip the other one on. But she could never button it herself, especially since it was small in the waist. And the bosom. Mercy, she would need help.
“Freddy, come fasten me up, will you?”
Her cousin’s back stiffened. “I can’t do that!”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Lord Stoneville strode over. “I knew you Americans were prudish, but this is absurd.”
Before she could even protest, he began fastening her gown. To her horror, the faint scent of his spicy cologne and his fingers working efficiently over the buttons made an odd sort of heat rise up from her belly. That couldn’t be good.
“You seem to know how to do up a woman’s gown very well.” She struggled to sound nonchalant. “I take it you’ve had plenty of practice.”
“You know us debauchers,” he said dryly. “Practice, practice, practice.”
That set her to wondering how many soiled doves he’d taken to his bed. Did he touch them everywhere, as her aunt said men did? When images filled her mind, she swallowed. It was hard not to imagine such things when his fingers brushed her back with every motion. Nor did it help that the process had slowed to a crawl as he struggled to fasten the lower part.
“The gown is too tight for me,” she said, embarrassed.
“It’s just these blasted small buttons.” His breath wafted over her cheek, making a shiver sweep her skin. “They’re too dainty for a man’s fingers.”
Skeptical, she sucked in a breath, which must have helped because he finally got the back done up. But now that he’d finished, she realized just how scandalous the gown was. It exposed a shameful amount of her chest. That became only more obvious when he circled around in front of her to rake her with a heated glance.
“That’ll do nicely.”
His husky words quickened her pulse, despite everything. And when his gaze lingered on her partially exposed bosom with particular interest, one of Aunt Rose’s practical warnings about suitors sprang instantly to her mind: Men will try to touch your breasts. Don’t let them.
A nervous giggle escaped her, and he arched one eyebrow. “Not the kind of gown you’re accustomed to wearing, I suppose.”
“Hardly. Most of my gowns fit. You won’t be able to feed me, you know. One morsel of food, and I shall burst right through the cheap fabric of this bodice.”
Turning around, Freddy snorted. “Wouldn’t hurt you to take off a few pounds, Mopsy.”
When she scowled at him, Lord Stoneville surprised her by saying, “Your cousin is perfect just as she is.” His gaze raked her appreciatively. “Utterly perfect.”
Her cheeks heated. She wasn’t used to men giving her extravagant compliments. Papa was too practical for it, and Nathan too absorbed in his work at the company. It made it hard for her to trust Lord Stoneville’s flatteries. “You mean I’m perfect for your purpose.”
His mouth crooked up in what appeared to be a genuine smile. “That, too.” He watched as she bundled up her gown and other things. Then he helped her into her redingote and offered her his arm in an oddly courtly gesture. “Shall we?”
For a second, she could only stare at it. Had she lost her mind, putting their lives in his hands? The man could do anything with them, carry them off anywhere, and they could do nothing to stop him.
But at least they wouldn’t end up in the gaol.
When she took his arm, his dark eyes gleamed at her in triumph. “A wise decision, Miss Butterfield,” he said as he led her to the door. “You won’t regret it.”
Unfortunately, she doubted that very much.
The Truth About Lord Stoneville, by Sabrina Jeffries

Sarah Tanner from Monkey Bear Reviews - http://www.monkeybearreviews.com/

“My love affair with romance stories began at the age of eight. I received a copy of M.M. Kaye’s wonderful children’s fairytale, The Ordinary Princess, as a Christmas gift. Although I’d enjoyed the classic fairytales, I always found myself frustrated at the portrayal of the princesses. Their perfect beauty was not something that my gangly eight-year-old self could aspire to. They did tedious things such as hang around in towers waiting to be rescued, or sleeping for one hundred years until Prince Charming deigned to put in an appearance. The Ordinary Princess, on the other hand was, well, ordinary.

Princess Amethyst is the beautiful seventh princess of the Kingdom of Phantasmorania. When her mother insists on inviting all the fairies in the kingdom to her Christening party, one of them bestows a gift upon the baby which she says will make her the happiest of all: ordinariness. From that moment on, Princess Amethyst is distinguished by her shocking normalcy. She soon becomes known as Princess Amy – a name more befitting her homely appearance. When her parents fail to find a willing suitor for her, they decide to hire a dragon to attract young noblemen to fight for Amy’s hand in marriage. Disgusted by the scheme, Amy swaps clothing with her maid, Griselda, and runs away to live in the forest.

Amy’s life in the forest is happy for a time, but with winter fast approaching, she realizes she needs money with which to buy warm clothes. She walks to the nearest city and finds employment as a kitchen maid at the local palace. Here she meets the handsome Peregrine, man-of-all-work, who, of course, turns out to be a king. Needless to say, Amy and Peregrine fall in love and live happily ever after – after a few twists and turns, of course!

In Princess Amy, I found a romantic heroine with whom I could identify. Princess Amy had adventures, wasn’t afraid to get her clothes dirty, and still found a handsome king to marry. As a gawky little girl, she inspired me to hope that I, too, could find happiness even if I never metamorphosed from an ugly duckling into a swan.

Which books inspired you as a child? What was the first romance you ever read?” Love to hear your comments below . . .

Happy Romance!