To Tame a Scoundrel’s Heart Sale! Only 99¢
September 18-Oct 2nd!
Nic and Katrina’s story is on sale! If you adore Regency romances, dashing pirates-turned-duke, headstrong heroines, and slightly naughty cats, then this historical romance is for you!
Could you give up what you’re most passionate about forever?
She had her whole life planned.
Katrina Needham intended to marry her beloved major and live happily-ever-after. Until he’s seen with another woman. Distraught, and needing a distraction, she agrees to assist the rugged, and dangerously handsome privateer, The Saint of the Sea, find a wife.
He loves everything about being a sea captain.
When Dominic St. Monté unexpectedly inherits a dukedom and the care of his young sisters, he reluctantly decides he must marry. Afterward, he can return to the sea-faring life he craves and leave his duchess to oversee his dukedom.
Nic enlists a family friend’s help in finding an acceptable bride and soon realizes Katrina possesses every characteristic he seeks in a duchess. However, he cannot ask for her hand. Not only is she promised to another, a man still determined to make her his, she has absolutely no interest in becoming a privateer’s wife. Can Nic and Katrina relinquish their carefully planned futures and trust love to guide them?
Caution: This humorous historical Regency romance contains a scoundrel turned respectable duke, a precocious heroine whose tendency to say whatever scandalous thing that pops into her head lands her in scrapes, a spoiled feline with an attitude, and a sweet, meddling elderly aunt.
Buy this 4th installment in the Waltz with a Rogue historical Regency romance novella series for a rousing, emotional, and romantic adventure you can’t put down.
Purchase your copy of To Tame a Scoundrel’s Heart HERE
On all fours, Katrina Needham peered beneath the ugly-as-sin floral, chintz-covered couch, and in the process, snagged a hairpin on its braided edge. Several tendrils tugged loose, and an exasperated noise escaped her when the strands flopped across her forehead and eyes.
The sofa’s colors—somewhere between sickroom tosspot and stall muck—made her faintly nauseated. Or perhaps the potent fragrance hanging heavily in Miss Sweeting’s overly hot parlor triggered Katrina’s uncharacteristic queasiness.
A spicy-earthy scent permeated the stifling room, and, sweeping her hand behind the sofa, Katrina scrunched her nose in distaste.
Incense?
Yes, there atop the mantel beside an Oriental vase, unbelievably even more hideous than the couch. Heat-wilted blossoms sagged over the vase’s rim and drooped against each other in a futile effort to survive the ungodly temperature. Probably the revolting incense too. What could Miss Sweeting have been thinking? Surely she must have an inkling how unbearably warm and smelly the parlor was?
Most likely the incense was another exotic gift from the infamous Captain Dominic St. Monté. Despite his aged aunt’s adoration, Miss Sweeting’s privateer nephew would never claim sainthood, no indeed.
A seducing scoundrel? A well-earned title, most assuredly.
At least according to the not-entirely-disapproving whispered titters and wistful sighs Katrina had overheard at numerous le bon ton gatherings. One learned ever so many improper—and delicious—tidbits by listening and observing. Gentlemen either admired St. Monté’s prowess and daring, in and out of the boudoir, or disdained him as a reckless rakehell.
Katrina hadn’t a doubt he’d earned his devilish reputation in every arena.
A rare, unladylike snort escaped her, and she shoved a burnished curl out of her eyes while heaving a frustrated breath. How far could the thimble have rolled, for pity’s sake? And where had that rotten cat vanished to?
If the indulged, fur-covered, hissing ball of podgy unpleasantness Miss Sweeting called Pretty Percival hadn’t waddled his tubbiness across the sewing table, knocking the diamond-encrusted trinket to the floor, Katrina wouldn’t be creeping about on silk-clad knees, frantically trying to find the treasure. She must locate it before her hostess put in an appearance and Katrina’s hoydenish behavior required an explanation.
“Pretty Percival, my bum. More like peevish, petulant, spoiled-to-his-stubby-whiskers puss.”
Maybe, please God, the thimble had bounced beneath a chair or table.
Katrina crawled the few feet to an equally garish chair situated between the fireplace and a shelf laden with gaudy knick-knacks. Miss Sweeting truly possessed the most atrocious taste in furnishing. Ghastly stuff.
Remorse immediately poked Katrina. Given Miss Sweeting’s modest finances, everything she owned, including the threadbare carpet Katrina kneeled on, was a cast-off.
If the gold thimble hadn’t been a gift from The Saint, she wouldn’t have been as concerned. But the valuable bauble’s absence—purportedly once part of a Spanish treasure—would surely be noticed and distress the already feeble, too trusting Miss Sweeting. She doted on her nefarious nephew, though believing everything he said mightn’t be altogether prudent. Actually, not wise at all, considering privateers and pirates were opposite sides of the same coin.
St. Monté, otherwise known as The Saint of the Sea, according to the twittering elderly spinster, regularly sent her unusual trinkets, hideous things, and not once during Katrina’s visits had Miss Sweeting, Mama’s former governess, failed to display the thimble and various other foreign bric-a-brac proudly. His thoughtfulness and obvious affection for the woman who’d raised him contrasted starkly with his privateer repute.
Katrina patted about the chair’s legs before sinking lower and scowling at a lone bunny-sized dust ball snuggled contentedly between a gouged rear leg and the faded wall. No thimble hid there either. Where had the dratted thing disappeared to? It wasn’t as if the room was vast or stuffed with furnishings and whatnots.
“Percival, you rotten, flea-ridden hair ball, where is it?”
“I regret,” a rumbling male voice said, “I cannot stay for tea today, Aunt—”
Percival yowled plaintively, and Katrina, her pink-clad derrière indelicately raised, froze.
Oh, God no. That sounds like—
“Percy, darling. What is it, sweetums? Nic, do be a dear boy and pick him up for me,” Miss Sweeting cooed, her tinny tone frailer than usual. “Come, here. There’s a love, my pretty, pretty boy.”
Perhaps they hadn’t seen Katrina yet, and she could …
Daring a peek, Katrina met a golden, grinning Adonis’s amber-hued gaze. The Saint, devil it. And he most certainly had seen her.
His attention fixed on Katrina’s bottom, he passed the now-purring Percival to Miss Sweeting, and Katrina swiftly angled to her knees, confident her face matched her gown’s rosy hue.
Purchase your copy of To Tame a Scoundrel’s Heart HERE
