TA DA!
HERE IT IS!
I’m thrilled to be able to share the cover of my latest novel with you. The Viscount’s Vow will be available from Amazon
September 4, 2013
And to celebrate, I’m offering a copy of my debut novel, Highlander’s Hope, to one lucky commentator over the weekend. Just leave a comment and your email address below.
Here’s A Bit About The Viscount’s Vow
Amidst murder and betrayal, destiny and hearts collide when scandal forces a Viscount and a half-gypsy noblewoman to marry in this Regency Romance., sprinkled with suspense, humor, and inspiration.
Half Romani, half English noblewoman, Evangeline Caruthers is the last woman in England Ian Hamilton, the Viscount Warrick, could ever love—an immoral wanton responsible for his brother’s and father’s deaths. She thinks he’s a foul-tempered blackguard, who after setting out to cause her downfall, finds himself forced to marry her—snared in the trap of his own making.
When Vangie learns the marriage ceremony itself may have been a ruse, she flees to her gypsy relatives, declaring herself divorced from Ian under Romani law. He pursues her to the gypsy encampment, and when the handsome gypsy king offers to take Ian’s place in Vangie’s bed, jealousy stirs hot and dangerous.
At last, under a balmy starlit sky, Ian and Vangie breech the chasm separating them. Peril lurks though. Ian’s the last in his line, and his stepmother intends to dispose of the newlyweds so her daughter can inherit his estate. Only by trusting each other can they overcome scandal and murderous betrayal.
Chapter One
London, Late April, 1814
Vengeance isn’t sweet.
Ian Hamilton tipped his champagne flute and took a lengthy swallow. It didn’t help. He eyed the pale amber liquid. The insipid wine masquerading as champagne did little to wash away the bitterness lingering in his soul.
A young woman partnered by a fusty old lord whirled by. Ian’s gaze followed her.
Evangeline Caruthers.
After seeking her the better part of an hour, he’d finally found her, or more on point, he’d had her pointed out to him. A half-smile tugged his lips upward as he watched the aged poger trying to steer her into a secluded alcove behind a wall of potted greenery. Even across the ballroom, Ian saw her tromp on the ancient fellow’s foot.
That had been no accident.
For a fleeting moment, his smile stretched into a grin of genuine amusement. It vanished just as quickly. He wasn’t here to be amused, especially by her.
He lounged against the ballroom’s intricately carved doorframe and glanced around the opulent room. The light of dozens of candles reflected off the crystal chandeliers and framed mirrors gilding one side of the room. The dancers were a blur of pulsing colors before the reflective glass.
This was the first social event he’d attended since resigning his commission in His Majesty’s Army. The first since he’d assumed the duties of the seventh Viscount Warrick. The first since his father succumbed to heart failure brought on by Geoff’s death.
Ian sought Miss Caruthers again. His gaze lingered. His younger brother was dead. Because of her. Like a rapier between his ribs, pain pierced him sharp and fierce, hitching the air in his lungs. He exhaled—a slow, deliberate breath. Narrowing his eyes, he lifted the flute to his lips.
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 weaving his way through the doorway and careening 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. He inhaled, and 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 tonsuccess despite the lieutenant’s messy mishap.
Ian cared little. Everything about this falderal left him cold. If the circumstances weren’t pressing, he wouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t 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, a royal pain in the arse, 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, he 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 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? His 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.
Her alluring eyes and seductive smile couldn’t gull him. Miss Caruthers might be a diamond of the first water, but he knew the truth concerning her. He was immune to her charms. His gaze sharp, he cocked his head. She appeared regal, poised, accepting dance request after dance request. A demure, almost shy, smile curved her rosy lips.
Did she rouge them? He curled his lip. Likely.
He folded his arms and relaxed against the wall. The young bloods buzzing round her like bees to golden honey only confirmed what he’d been told of her. His sister, Charlotte, eyes red-rimmed from crying, had wailed, “Miss Caruthers collects men like souvenirs.”
Ian grimaced again, his attention never straying from her as she stepped and dipped to the music. Oh, yes, he knew her kind.
She epitomized the type of women he disdained. Fast women, who bewitched unsuspecting swains, like Geoff, and who stole beaus from innocents like Charlotte. Sirens who cast their admirers off with the same regard as a soiled napkin or used tea leaves. Seductresses ever intent on pursuing their new conquests, uncaring of the hearts they crushed or lives they left in ruins as a consequence of their Jezebel triumphs.
Jezebel triumphs.
A familiar twinge stung his heart—or mayhap it was only his pride. Amelia was such a woman, though he hadn’t known it until she’d tossed him aside for a bigger prize. Why settle for him, the heir to a mere viscountcy, when there was a duke to be seduced? Ironically, the same duke who now lay dead from the lead ball Geoff planted in his chest.
Exchanging his empty glass for a full one offered by a passing servant, Ian suppressed a sigh. He didn’t want to be here—loathed being here. He’d only come on his siblings’ behalf, to set things to right. In one quaff, he polished off the weak wine, barely suppressing a shudder. Vile stuff, that.
Scowling at Miss Caruthers maneuvering the steps of the lively country-dance, he clamped his lips so hard he felt a muscle spasm in his jaw. He trailed her movements, ever closer, across the waxed parquet floor. The dance steps brought her within a few feet of where he stood. Skipping past him, she laughed at something her partner said.
A jolt slammed into Ian’s gut.
God’s blood! She was laughing, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. His breath hissed from between clenched teeth. Under his breath he vowed, “By all that is holy, by evening’s end, I’ll put a stop to your dalliances—once and for all.” Precisely how he was going to go about it, he hadn’t yet determined.
Someone jabbed his shoulder.
“Nephew?”
He stiffened at the familiar feminine voice.
“Heard tell you were here. Didn’t believe it at first.”
She poked him again, harder this time. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were avoiding me.”
Dash it all, he had been.
He sucked in a calming breath before turning around and smiling down into the face of his maternal aunt, Lady Edith Fitzgibbons. Barely reaching his shoulder, Aunt Edith was a formidable dowager in her own right. Tonight, she was attired in a vivid orchid dress. A colorful ostrich feather waved flirtatiously in her silver-streaked hair. Her familiar violet perfume wafted upward tickling his nostrils.
Ian bowed over her outstretched hand. “Aunt Edith, you know I always delight in your company.”
“Pshaw. Don’t try your charming tricks on me, young scamp.” She cast a quick look around the room. “Gads, Ian, you’re in mourning. Whatever are you doing here?”
He arched a brow at her, but remained silent.
“None of my business, eh?”
She surveyed him with shrewd eyes. “How are you faring?” Then, only out of polite necessity he was sure, she inquired, “Lucinda and Charlotte?”
With a quirk of his lips, Ian said, “You don’t care a whit how my stepmother is doing. Or Charlotte either, for that matter.”
Aunt Edith inclined her noble head slightly and poked him with the tortoiseshell fan again. He was sorely tempted to snatch the fan from her and toss it behind the greenery—after snapping it in half.
“You haven’t answered me. I know how much you cared for Geoff.” Worry shadowed her unique gray eyes. His mother’s eyes had been the same unusual shade.
His gaze lingered on her. She was a saucy old bird, but a dear through and through. “I’m fine, Aunt.”
As if compelled by an unseen force, his gaze was drawn to Miss Caruthers once more. A callow-faced youth escorted her to her seat where a line of eager pups stood ready to claim her for the next set.
What’s this?
He stood straighter. Had he imagined it, or had her steps faltered and her shoulders slumped, just the merest bit? Was her smile a little strained? Ian stared, searching her face. No, she smiled as brightly as ever.
He’d imbibed too much wine—that was all. His faculties were affected, which is why he generally steered clear of the stuff. He fingered the cut crystal glass in his hand. How many had he downed since arriving? He shook his head. More than he ought. He would regret it come morn. Tonight though, the liquor dulled his senses, his pain, his grief . . . his rage.
An observant servant offered him another full glass. Ian waved away the offer and handed over the empty flute.
“Ah, I see Miss Caruthers has caught your eye. She’s a delightful girl, exceptional manners, and quite an accomplished artist.”
He shot his aunt an astounded look. Thank God, she didn’t see it. She was too busy jabbering on about Miss Caruthers.
“Soft spoken, intelligent, excellent dancer, decorous behavior. . .”
Ian smothered a snort. Miss Caruthers was an accomplished actress if Aunt Edith was unaware of her soiled feathers. No doubt Miss Caruthers emulated chastity and virtue under the ton’s watchful eye while tossing up her skirts in the shrubberies after nightfall.
A flamboyantly attired dandy elbowed his way to her side. She snapped open her fan and began waving it before her face.
Aunt Edith chuckled, elbowing Ian in the side. “Gads, would you look at Pickering’s togs?” Her shoulders shook with mirth. “La, what a nincompoop. Whatever can he be thinking?”
Shocked, Ian went rigid, darting his gaze to his aunt, then flicking it to the man hovering near Miss Caruthers.
“He is the Earl of Pickering?”
Charlotte’s beloved Reggie?
The man whose affections Miss Caruthers stole?
Ian rolled his eyes at the absurdity. It was laughable. He smiled at the irony until the memory of Geoff’s grinning face intruded. Charlotte’s affection for Pickering might be ludicrous. Geoff’s and his father’s deaths were anything but. Miss Caruthers had much to atone for.
Crinkling her nose, Aunt Edith whispered, “He doesn’t favor bathing.” She paused, “I take it you’ve not been introduced to Pickering?”
Ian sensed his aunt’s perusal. She knew him too well, precisely why he’d avoided her. Mindful of her probing stare, Ian schooled his features and shook his head. “I’ve not had the . . . ah . . . pleasure.”
“He just came into his title, only because his unfortunate cousin expired without issue.” She cast Pickering a censored look. “He’s an obnoxious coxcomb.”
Ian silently agreed. The ridiculous ensemble Pickering wore pained the eye, clear down to his outdated red, high-heeled shoes. The shoes pitched his body forward when he walked causing his neck to bobble like the vibrant parrot he resembled.
A moment later Pickering guffawed. The whistling squawks passing for laughter confirmed Ian’s initial assessment of the fop. Miss Caruthers’s fan swished faster, and her eyes—were they blue?—searched the room. Was anxiety creasing her otherwise smooth brow? The toes of one foot tapped nonstop. In vexation?
An idea took hold.
“Introduce me, Aunt Edith, won’t you?” Ian would have asked Prinny himself to do the honors if it meant making Miss Caruthers’s acquaintance. Only for the purpose of delivering her just dues, of course.
Aunt Edith cocked her head. “I seem to recall you prefer more, shall we say, practiceddamsels. Miss Caruthers is far more gently-bred than your usual choice of companion.” She stepped backward an arm’s length, assessing him with her too astute gaze. “What are you really about?”
He couldn’t very well tell her Miss Caruthers was a promiscuous tart—that she was responsible for his father and Geoff’s deaths. Instead, Ian smiled at her and winked.
“Perchance, I’m in the market for a wife.” He couldn’t keep the mockery from his tone.
His aunt snorted. “Rubbish and balderdash. You may be the last in your line, but you’re not that anxious to produce an heir.”
He released an exaggerated sigh, crossing his hand over his heart. “You wound me, Aunt.”
“Tish tosh.” She wiggled her fan under his nose. “Miss Caruthers is an orphan with barely two farthings to rub together, nephew.”
“She doesn’t appear destitute,” he said dryly.
“Lud, Ian, you of all people should know things aren’t always as they appear.” Aunt Edith angled her blasted fan in Miss Caruthers’s direction. “Her uncle, Gideon Stapleton, paid for her gown. Do you suppose he’ll dower her?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
No dowry, not a sixpence to scratch with, and Miss Caruthers dispensed her favors like flour to a baker. If Stapleton didn’t dower the chit, her fate was certain. Demimondaine or courtesan.
No dowry, not a sixpence to scratch with, and Miss Caruthers dispensed her favors like flour to a baker. If Stapleton didn’t dower the chit, her fate was certain. Demimondaine or courtesan.
“She’s part Roma, you know.”
“I was unaware,” Ian murmured extending his elbow. That explained her exotic appearance. He regarded Miss Caruthers through hooded eyes. He’d heard Romani women were remarkably creative and responsive between the sheets. His groin tightened.
Damnation.
Aunt Edith slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “It’s said gypsy women can cast love spells. Think she knows any? Not that I believe any of that drivel, mind you.”
She leaned closer to him and lowered her voice to a covert whisper. “Ian?”
He bent his head to hear her. The ostrich feather in her hair tickled his cheek.
“Perhaps that’s why you can’t take your eyes off her. She’s enchanted you.”
Now Aunt Edith was making a May game of him. He straightened and drew his brows together in a scowl. Dammit, she thought him enamored of the chit. “I assure you, I am not under the influence of any incantation.”
She tilted her head upward, an impish glimmer in the center of her silver eyes. “Course with her looks and figure, she mightn’t need it. A dowry, I mean.”
Ian’s gaze roamed over Miss Caruthers, then her bevy of suitors. The devil take it, Aunt Edith might very well be right. Why that irritated him all the more he couldn’t say.
She slapped his arm with her fan. “No, I don’t believe she’ll have need of a magic charm or a dowry at all.” Nodding her head in Miss Caruthers’s direction, a devilish smile on her lips, she murmured, “Her kind marries for love.”
