“Charming, amusing, and as near perfect as indulging in gourmet chocolate.”
THE RULES OF ENGAGEMENT
Who better than Amelia Grant, his oldest and dearest friend? She alone might understand—and forgive—his moment of madness upon beholding the beautiful Lucy Meriwether, a moment that resulted in Hugh’s first real proposal of marriage and Lucy’s vow to meet his ex-fiancée in the flesh. However, as the proposed conversation snowballs into an elaborate charade involving Hugh’s rakish cousin, scandal, and inappropriate kisses, as Hugh risks Amelia’s friendship to win Lucy’s hand, a wise reader has to wonder: What exactly are the rules of engagement? And, after the battle, whose heart will be won?
“With witty repartee, humor, and a voice that shows she really knows the Regency period, Australian author Jillian Leigh has crafted yet another fantastic romance novella … Since her debut novella, Some Like It Haute, I have been eagerly awaiting another taste of Ms. Leigh’s writing talents and this sophomoric effort has me craving more.” –Angie Just Read…, The Romance Reviews
“I breezed through it … and ended up with a bit of a crush, really. Not for Trevalyn, whose saturnine looks are my usual cup of tea, but for Leigh’s no nonsense style. Her cracking dialogue moves the pace right along, where other authors might linger too much in the details. The history is researched, but casually placed enough that I know this lady knows her stuff, and the Regency era, while not pivotal to the plot, is more than window dressing.” –Anne Glover, Regency Reader
♥NEW♥ Read an exclusive interview with Hugh Trevalyn here.
Here’s a taste:
(Hugh Trevalyn has just proposed to the beautiful Lucy Meriwether. But now she has decided she must meet his former fiancée…)
“If you love me, you will want to put my mind at ease. You must arrange a meeting.”
“Why, it is quite impossible,” he said, fervently hoping, but not expecting, that she would take him at his word.
“All things are possible when a man desires to make them so,” she whispered, her hands curling around his back and coming to rest lightly on his buttocks. Any exasperation he’d felt now evaporated in a dreamy haze of imagining all the ways he would make love to her if he only had the chance. “Do you desire to make this possible?” she went on in a husky voice. “Do you desire me?”
“God, yes,” he said on a groan.
“Then promise me,” she whispered throatily. “Promise me this, and I promise I will give you whatever you want of me.”
“I promise,” he said, and set about caressing every inch of skin he came across and pressing himself against her so she could feel the effect she was having on him.
Lucy giggled as he stopped to nuzzle at her throat once more. “What is her name?”
The twin scents of rose and female drifted into his nostrils. “Her name? Who? Whose name?”
He would have this girl. Perhaps even tonight. She was his. All he had to do was give her a name. “Amelia,” he said. After all, what difference did it make—wait, had he made a promise?
No matter. Back he went to kissing the sweet, fragrant crevice between her breasts.
“Amelia,” Lucy repeated. “I’m going to meet Amelia.”
“Yes, my darling,” he said. “Whatever you say.”
She was his, tonight and every night after.
“My dearest Mr. Trevalyn, you can have no idea how relieved I am by your promises.” Lucy stepped back, clapped her hands and, unless the darkness was causing him to see things, actually bounced up and down on the spot. “How enjoyable this is going to be. I am going to meet Amelia. Oh, we must return to our party. I must tell Miss Percy all about it.”
“What? No, you must not tell your chaperone.”
“Not Miss Pratt-Stanley, silly,” she gurgled. “My dearest friend in all the world, Miss Percy. She would never divulge one of my confidences.”
“I must forbid—”
But Lucy had already turned and disappeared into the darkness.
Hugh called her name in a furious whisper but she seemed to be gone. Back to bloody Miss Percy, no doubt.
What had he just done?
Had he really made a promise to let her meet His Betrothed? Had he really been so driven by his own lust that he’d lost his senses?
These were questions he would have the leisure to contemplate in the darkness, on his own, seeing that he would have to spend the next few minutes furiously thinking about anything other than the effects his unfulfilled desire was having on the tightness of his breeches. Multiplication tables, perhaps, or the unfortunately horse-like face of his least favorite aunt…
…or a non-existent woman whom he had promised to introduce to the lady he was hoping would relieve his trouser-borne anguish.
“Bugger me,” he said to no one in particular.
SOME LIKE IT HAUTE
Too haute for comfort? In this short story, a stylish gentleman meets his match when he wagers he can make a dowdy spinster the talk of the ton in Regency England.
Here’s a taste …
They wound their way through a labyrinth of white muslin and black satin until they reached one of the quieter corners of the room, where tabbies and dowagers collected to get away from the bustle. “So who is this poor chap?” Sherry asked, raising his quizzing glass to peruse the scene.
“Chap?” Northwyck repeated. “Whatever gave you that idea? No, the one next to old Mrs. Gordon. It’s her.”
Northwyck pointed towards a row of chairs, empty save two. The first was occupied by an elderly woman whose oversized turban bobbed in time with her snores. A young woman of indeterminate age occupied the next. Sherry could not be certain whether the lack of candles in this part of the room was to blame, but from where he stood, everything about the woman resembled a cup of tea that had been given a dash too much milk.
He’d never before seen hair for which the epithet mousy was not only accurate but even forgiving, but hers, hastily coiled into a utilitarian bun, most definitely was. The woman’s gown, a cavernous disgrace of scorched silk and tattered lace, had been fashioned in a hue so insipid it could barely be deemed a color at all. As for her complexion, it was apparent that she hadn’t spent her days hiding from the elements.
She produced a handkerchief, a small flash of white set off against a sea of brown. Her dainty tongue darted out to wet one corner of the linen square, and for a second, Sherry experienced a stirring of interest. Then she pulled at her skirts and proceeded to rub vigorously against what he could now see was a dark stain that spread across her lap.
“Good God,” he murmured to Northwyck. “You cannot be serious. Her?”
The woman’s head snapped up. She looked across the space between them. Her eyes caught his. But instead of blushing, or smiling apologetically, or hiding behind her fan, she tossed her head and glared at him through narrowed, glittering eyes, her lips pursed, her chin rising ever so slightly.
By God, she was angry.
And there was no way in hell he was going to win that wager.