Well, at last I have a release date, September 4, 2013 though no cover.
There is a draft done, and as soon as it’s sent to me, I’ll do a cover reveal with some sort of giveaway.
I’ve also posted the link to Highlander’s Hope Highlander’s Hope book trailer. Remember, the heroine Yvette, is cousin to Vangie, the heroine in The Viscount’s Vow.
It’s really quite fabulous!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0HnUxiYbR5I
Chapter One-Excerpt Two
A lieutenant reeking of strong spirits staggered from the ballroom and plowed into him. Ian choked on the wine trickling down his throat. “Good—God—man,” he said between strangled coughs.
“‘Scuse me, m’lord. Don’ feel well. Too hot.”
Swallowing against the stinging in his throat, Ian beckoned to a livered servant. “Help that chap, please.”
He pointed to the lieutenant as he weaved his way through the doorway and careened into any guest unfortunate enough to be in his path. The crimson-uniformed soldier traveled but a dozen steps more before casting up his accounts on the glossy marble floor. Gentlemen raised their voices in protest as ladies yanked their skirts aside, squawking in outrage.
Ian curved his lips again. Poor sot. He’d done it up brown—literally.
The ballroom was much too warm, the crush of guests intolerable. His nose twitched. The place stank of sweat, unwashed bodies, and an abundance of cloying perfume. He smirked. No doubt the ball would be touted a haut ton success despite the lieutenant’s messy mishap.
Ian cared little. Everything about this falderal left him cold.
If the circumstances weren’t pressing, he would not be here. He should not be here with his brother dead and buried less than a month, his father scarcely a fortnight. Ian’s breech of mourning protocol bordered on ruinous—not that he gave a damn. Miss Caruthers’s retribution could not wait.
Nor could the explanation Prinny demanded for Geoff’s role in the Duke of Paneswort’s death. Paneswort had been a particular favorite of the Prince Regent’s. Ian grimaced. Lecherous cohorts.
At any rate, Prinny was irate. So, Ian cast off propriety, abandoned the peace and quiet of his country house, Somersfield, and ventured into this fray despite the ton’s disapproval of his presence. He’d deal with Miss Caruthers, then pacify His Majesty.
Turning, Ian rested his shoulder against the wall, the deep saffron-colored wallpaper, very much like the color of the mess in the process of being cleared away. His gaze swept the room once more. Lord, how he despised these garish affairs. The pretentiousness. The fake smiles. The gossip. The social climbing. Every bit of it added to the bad taste in his mouth.
He felt the fool, snooping round to determine who Miss Caruthers was. He’d stooped to eavesdropping on the spinsterish misses gossiping along the dance floor’s periphery. When they’d turned their eager, expectant faces to him, he’d fled like a frightened dog with its tail between its legs.
He was the worst sort of knave, raising their pitiful hopes, then dashing off without so much as a How do you do? Had the toxic mixture of grief and ire addled him? Ian’s grip tightened round the etched flute’s stem.
The idea wasn’t far-fetched.
He’d resorted, without success until now, to asking acquaintances to identify Miss Caruthers to him. More than one male mouth stretched into a rakish grin at his probing.
“Want a taste of that, eh, Warrick?”
“Prime mort she is.”
Yes indeed, he was cork-brained.
Ian raised his glass again. Empty. The devil take it.
Searching the room for a servant bearing more spirits, he tried to ignore the tittering débutantes and their match-making mamas vying for his attention. He supposed he was ripe for the Marriage Mart now—rather like a piece of prime horseflesh at Tattersall’s. Everyone present knew he was newly titled.
More than one affronted dame glared at him. He’d bet his favorite hunting hound they were more vexed with him for ignoring their transparent attempts to parade their calf-eyed daughters before him than his blatant disregard for mourning customs.
He cared not. Not tonight leastways. Miss Caruthers commandeered his attention this evening. Frowning, Ian considered her. Adorned in a shimmering white gown, with some sort of filmy overskirt, she was, he grudgingly admitted, exquisite. Her black hair piled atop her head was adorned with a tiara and entwined with a filigree circlet. It twinkled each time she moved her head.
She appeared angelic.
He knew better.
