Liz Riggs and Stephanie Michels! Both have been notified via email and should be receiving their prizes soon.
Blog hop runs December 3–10, 2012
Hi, and welcome to the Astraea Press Christmas Regency blog hop, with Eleven Lords A-Leaping… all over the Internet. Have you heard what gossip columnist Mrs. Peabody had to say about Miss Anne Kirkhoven? It seems Miss Kirkhoven wandered off during the Kringles' Christmas Eve ball… but let's let Mrs. Peabody tell the tale.
All the Honorable Anne Kirkhoven wants is to be wrapped in the arms of the man she loves, Frederick Shaw, Esquire, barrister, solicitor, writer of the best Gothic romance novels in England, and surely a future Member of Parliament. But despite Frederick’s many perfections, Anne’s mama has forbidden her to speak with him, much less marry him, and until Anne attains her majority, all they can do is wait.
But now the most notorious duke in the ton, Ernst Anton Oldenburg, the First Duke of Cumberland (and some say a foreign prince), is making a public point of assessing her… attributes, sending shivers to portions of her anatomy she’d rather not name. Who’s the right man? And will her reputation survive the Duke’s assault long enough for her to find out?
If you don't want to wait, you can find Scandal on Half Moon Street at Barnes & Noble, Kobo, Amazon, Smashwords, and the Astraea Press website. But two lucky readers chosen by Random.org will each win a copy, and you can enter by commenting below. Can you top Mrs. Peabody's ear for a scandal? Feel free to tell us about one!
Thanks for stopping by. Here's a link back to the blog hop's starting point with bestselling author Kim Bowman, and here's a link to the Astraea Press blog, where you can enter to win a bundle of Christmas Regency ebooks.
Hi, everybody, and welcome back for more #SweetSat fun. First, the incredible news: Scandal on Half Moon Street reached #6 last night on the Amazon Books>Romance>Regency bestseller list. Readers, THANK YOU! You're the best!
So, in celebration, here's a sample from Scandal. Miss Anne Kirkhoven is meeting secretly with her beloved, Frederick Shaw, in the conservatory of the Pantheon Bazaar, and he wants to make certain she isn't falling in love with the ton's most eligible rake, the Duke of Cumberland.
“I love you, Anne.” His touch slid down her spine, tightening her pelisse around her neck, hesitated at her waist, then stroked higher again. “Is it truly awful?”
She ached to stay tangled in his embrace, his kisses, his love. But they did need to discuss this and she eased back, resting her hands on his chest. His brown spaniel’s eyes darkened beyond their usual soulfulness into anguish and fire, and through his clothing and topcoat, his heart thumped, hard and fast.
He glanced aside, not quite rolling his eyes. All right, that was hardly news.
“And His Grace is very handsome, decidedly so.” She stumbled over the words. But her relationship with Frederick had always been open and blatantly honest, and she would not conceal the facts from him now.
Even though he looked as if she’d ripped a knife through his heart and twisted it.
She hauled in a deep breath. “To that I must admit. Also, his manners are charming, his wit sparkles, and his conversation engages one’s attention with ease. There’s a quality to his person that speaks to just that, his quality, and he has a way of speaking, to a lady at least, that casts her as the center of the world.”
Frederick drooped, rather like an aeronaut’s balloon with the valve released. Beneath her hands, his heartbeat ran ragged and his breathing slowed, deepened.
“And none of it matters, not a whit. I love you, Frederick Shaw, barrister and solicitor, Anonymous Gentleman of the Inner Temple.”
His pulse seemed to pause, as if the world stood still for him, as well. He fixed her with a brown stare, flecked with possessive pride.
“I’ve promised you: you’re the only man I’ll ever marry. To that promise, I hold true.” She stroked his cheek; he reached up and pressed her palm to his lips. “And I hold you, as well. Promise me, Frederick.”
“Forgive my weakness.” He touched his forehead to hers, and her bonnet’s brim sent his hat sliding back until it tumbled across his shoulder and down.
Freeing his hair for her hands.
“Not weakness,” she said, “silliness.”
Anne must decide whether to marry the man she loves, even though he's beneath her social position, or the duke her mother most ardently prefers. Of course, it would help if she could figure out exactly what that duke is really up to…
Thanks for stopping by. Cheers,
Hi, everybody, and welcome back for more Sweet Saturday Sample fun. First of all, SQUEE! Scandal on Half Moon Street, my Regency Christmas novella, is currently #27 on Amazon's Books>Romance>Regency bestseller list, and #84 on Books>Romance>Historical. Of course it will move around by the time you read this, but THANK YOU to everyone, because if not for lovely, supportive, wonderful readers like you, I wouldn't be drunken-clumsy-I-don't-care-who's-watching Snoopy dancing™ all over the living room right now.
Ahem. Now that I've gotten that off my silly chest--
Here's a sample from Scandal. Our sort-of hero, His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland, is sitting in Mr. Trent's coffee house, a few tables over from Miss Anne Kirkhoven, surrounded by patrons drinking their coffee and looking for gossip. Take it away, Cumberland:
His Grace poured a cup — only lesser men doctored Trent’s pure, bracing, potent brew — and leaned back in his chair.
Staring at Anne.
Oh, discreetly, of course. Or pseudo-discreetly, at least. Never blatant ogling nor shabby gaping. Just an intermittent, attentive eye watching beyond the rim of his cup, focus shifting between painted blue flowers and elegant female. Merely displaying his not-quite-open admiration for her breathtaking complexion, the sweet curves of her cheek and ear, the sunlight glinting off her golden hair, the mortified blush spreading from her neck to her forehead and then fading, leaving her pale as death.
The whispers amongst the patrons sank into subdued, horrified fascination. Which was entirely proper; as obvious as he’d made his actions, surely they’d had no trouble tracing his stare.
Finally she glanced at him.
He smiled that smile, dipped his chin, and lifted his cup.
And she promptly showed him her shoulder, a smooth curve of touchable white cambric. Well, it was lovely, too.
His reputation precedes him and it's not pretty. Oh, did you want to watch the book video? Here's the Flickr link. And thanks so much for stopping by!
Vivian Roycroft is a pseudonym for historical fiction and adventure writer J. Gunnar Grey. And if she’s not careful, her pseudonymous pseudonym will have its own pseudonym soon, too. With its own e-reader, a yarn stash, an old Hermès hunt saddle, and a turtle sundae at Culver‘s.
A Different Sort of Perfect
Works in progress:
Kissing the Toad: In Berkeley Square, book #1