by Barton, Anne
Huntford and Foxburn stared at him as though he were touched in the upper works.
James was about to say the Devil could take them both when the waiter returned with his drink. James tipped it back and found his mood improved almost immediately.
As the strains of a waltz carried through the ballroom, the duke and earl craned their necks in search of their wives. The duchess and countess were sisters—although they didn’t resemble one another, each was beautiful in her own right.
“You’d better hurry to your wives’ sides,” James advised. “There are half a dozen rogues here hoping to claim them for a dance.”
Huntford growled. “Anabelle and Daphne are more than capable of fending off advances, aren’t they Foxburn?”
The earl snorted. “I feel sorry for the poor bastards.”
James had no reason to doubt his friends, but he noticed they practically plowed through the crowd in order to join their lovely wives.
He smiled to himself and looked about for an inconspicuous spot in which to finish his drink and select a couple of beautiful young ladies to later seek out as dance partners.
It was a fine plan. The evening promised to be pleasant—until Olivia Sherbourne waylaid him. “Waylaid” was actually too benign a word; what Olivia did could best be described as “hunting him to ground.”
Appearing out of nowhere was an alarming habit of hers. One minute he was relaxed and pondering dance partners; the next he was toe to toe with a brown-haired, doe-eyed force of nature. A hurricane in a pretty blue frock.
“There you are!” she sputtered. “You must follow me.”
No greeting, no niceties, just ‘You must follow me.’ Must he? Really? Because he’d been rather content standing there with his drink.
But Olivia was already striding toward the French doors at the back of the room, assuming he was following along at her heels like a well trained pup. She was Huntford’s sister, for God’s sake. He couldn’t not follow her.
Bloody hell.
She disappeared briefly behind a trio of matrons before slipping out the doors. James ducked out after her, determined to steer her back into the ballroom as quickly as possible.
He stepped onto the terrace, which spanned the considerable width of the house and was softly illuminated by a few lanterns and the quarter moon in a cloudless sky.
“Over here,” she called in a loud whisper. She stood at the corner of the patio, her white gloves waving him over like a beacon on the rocky shore.
Instinct told him he shouldn’t do her bidding. Instinct was practically shouting at him, in fact, and his feet remained rooted to the flagstone.
Olivia seemed to sense his hesitation, however, and doubled back toward him. “We haven’t much time,” she explained, dragging him unceremoniously along by his free arm. At least she hadn’t spilled his drink.
“Where are we going?” He thought it a fair question and desperately hoped the answer wasn’t, oh, Gretna Green.
“Right here.” She stopped before a stone bench.
“Why?”
She sat and pulled him down beside her. Her expression was impossible to decipher, but her chest rose and fell as though she were frightened or breathless. Her white teeth nibbled at her lower lip. Now that she had him here, she seemed at a loss for words.
That never happened with Olivia.
“Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Er, that I know of.”
He grinned. “How refreshing. Even as a wee lass you always seemed to find trouble. Remember the time you managed to climbed into the stable with the foals and couldn’t get—”
“Don’t,” she snapped.
“Don’t what?” He’d been trying to put her at ease so she could spit out whatever it was she needed to say. She seemed less than grateful.
“Don’t treat me like Owen’s little sister.”
Holy hell. James drained his glass in one gulp and set it on the bench.
“If you don’t want to be treated like a child,” he said slowly, “stop acting like one. Start by telling me why you brought me out here.”
Olivia moistened her lips with her tongue. It didn’t help. Her mouth was as dry as a dust rag. “I needed to speak with you privately.”
James’s mossy green eyes flashed a challenge. “I’m listening.”
Her pulse raced madly. This exchange was not going at all as she’d envisioned while sprawled on her bed that afternoon. James was supposed to have detected the tremor in her voice and taken her hands in his, smoothing the pad of his thumbs over the backs of her gloved hands. By now, he should be gazing at her with concern and a healthy dose of appreciation for the revealing neckline of her gown.
But his strong arms were crossed and his normally full lips were pressed together in a thin line. He had the look of someone who had requested tea an hour ago and was still waiting. Not thirsty so much as… exasperated.
Panicked, she considered making up an excuse for her behavior. She could say she wanted to buy a gift for Owen and Anabelle’s new baby and was considering a puppy. Surely James must have an opinion on that—
“Olivia.” The impatience gave an edge to his voice, but she also heard a hint of compassion, and it propelled her forward.
There would be no dipping of her toe in the water. The only way to proceed was hurl herself in—even if it was way over her head.
She swallowed hard and looked directly into his beautiful eyes. “I love you.”
James blinked once. He had the disoriented expression of someone who had been woken in the middle of the night—and was not happy about it. “What do you mean?”
Olivia took a deep breath. “It happened in the summer of 1807, when you visited my brother at Huntford Manor. Owen preferred to spend summers with his friends, but Father insisted he spend at least one week with us, and he always brought you. I was eleven years old that summer, and one day I wanted to fish with you and Owen but he said I couldn’t because I would only scare the fish and annoy him. I refused to leave—”
“Of course you did,” James mumbled.
“So you remember that day?”
“No. Please, go on.” He picked up the glass beside him and looked at the bottom of it forlornly.
“Owen threatened to throw me in the river if I didn’t return to the house.”
“Let me guess.” James dragged a broad hand through his hair, leaving it charmingly mussed. “I championed your cause—bloodied your brother’s nose so you could have your way.”
“No. Even better. You gave me a chance to prove myself. You said that if I could bait my own hook with a live worm—without squealing—I should be allowed to stay and fish. Otherwise, I had to go.”
“And how did you fare?”
“I succeeded. Well, Owen tried to say that it didn’t count because of the retching—”
James cringed. “You didn’t.”
“A little. But you said that retching had not been prohibited by the agreement and so I must be permitted to stay and fish.”
“I see.” He looked over his shoulder toward the terrace. “So, I gather you wanted to express your gratitude, and now you have. Excellent. Shall we return to the ballroom?”
With a boldness that was shocking, even for her, she placed her hand on his leg. More precisely, his very hard and muscular thigh. “I haven’t told you everything.”
His gaze flew to her hand and remained there as he said, “I’m not certain we have time for the entire story, Olivia. We’ve been out here for a quarter of an hour and you’re still in 1807.”
She ducked her head so that he was forced to look into her eyes. “I’ve waited ten years to tell you how I feel. Please, let me finish.”
James placed a palm over the back of her hand—the one still on his leg—and a delicious warmth traveled up Olivia’s arm and throughout her body, leaving her breathless and tingling all over.
“If someone discovers us alone out here,” he said softly,
“your reputation will be shattered. Also, your brother will skewer me on the spot. If you feel that there’s more you must say, we can arrange another—”
“This won’t take long.” She could feel him retreating and doubled her resolve. “I didn’t fall in love with you that day, but I started to. Every summer I learned more about you, and you always made me feel important—like I was more than Owen’s bothersome little sister. I lived for the moments I would see you again.”
“You were young,” James said. “It was infatuation.”
Angry tears sprang to her eyes. “Then why have I waited for you? Why am I devastated at the thought of you leaving for Egypt? Why do I dream of you every single night?
James stood and dragged his hands down his face. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
Olivia leapt off the bench and stood toe to toe with him. “Look at me, James. I’m not a little girl.” She put her hands on her hips for emphasis. “This is not a schoolgirl crush—not anymore.”
“Have you been drinking?”
She heaved a sigh—he would have to ask that. “Not since four o’clock this afternoon.”
“You are incorrigible. Did you know that?”
She fingered the long curl that had been artfully arranged to fall over her right shoulder. “I can see that I have shocked you for the second time this evening, and I’m glad.”
He clenched his jaw, and she longed to touch the faint shadow of stubble along his chin.
“I have half a mind to march into that ballroom”—he pointed behind her—“and inform your brother that he needs to find you a chaperone and tether her to you for the remainder of the season.” His broad shoulders strained in the confines of his jacket each time waved his arm for emphasis.
Olivia inched closer to him, so that only a breath separated her chest and his torso. The one she had seen in all its naked glory. He smelled like leather and ink and pure male.
“You won’t do that,” she said.
A feral smile lit his face. “Oh yes, I will.”
Her heartbeat thundered in her chest. She knew what she must do.
Before she could lose her nerve, she threw her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe.
And she kissed him.
THE DISH
Where Authors Give You the Inside Scoop
From the desk of Roxanne St. Claire
Dear Reader,
Years ago, I picked up a romance novel about a contemporary “marriage of convenience” and I recall being quite skeptical that the idea could work in anything but a historical novel. How wrong I was! I not only enjoyed the book, but Separate Beds by LaVyrle Spencer became one of my top ten favorite books of all time. (Do yourself a favor and dig up this classic if you haven’t read it!) Since then, I’ve always wanted to put my own spin on a story about two people who are in a situation where they need to marry for reasons other than love, knowing that their faux marriage is doomed.
I finally found the perfect characters and setup for a marriage of convenience story when I returned to Barefoot Bay to write BAREFOOT BY THE SEA, my most recent release in the series set on an idyllic Gulf Coast island in Florida. I knew that sparks would fly and tears might flow when I paired Tessa Galloway, earth mother longing for a baby, with Ian Browning, a grieving widower in the witness protection program. I suspected that it would be a terrific conflict to give the woman who despises secrets a man who has to keep one in order to stay alive, with the added complication of a situation that can only be resolved with a fake, arranged marriage. However, I never dreamed just how much I would love writing that marriage of convenience! I should have known, since I adored the first one I’d ever read.
Throughout most of BAREFOOT BY THE SEA, hero Ian is forced to hide who he really is and why he’s in Barefoot Bay. And that gave me another story twist I love to explore: the build-up to the inevitable revelation of a character’s true identity and just how devastating that is for everyone (including the reader!). I had a blast being in Ian’s head when he fought off his demons and past to fall hard into Tessa’s arms and life. And I ached and grew with Tessa as the truth became crystal clear and shattered her fragile heart.
The best part, for me, was folding that marriage of convenience into a story about a woman who wants a child of her own but has to give up that hope to help, and ultimately lose, a man who needs her in order to be reunited with his own children. If she marries him, he gets what he needs… but he can’t give her the one thing she wants most. Will Tessa surrender her lifelong dream to help a man who lost his? She can if she loves him enough, right? Maybe.
Ironically, when the actual marriage of convenience finally took place on the page, that ceremony felt more real than any of the many weddings I’ve ever written. I hope readers agree. And speaking of weddings, stay tuned for more of them in Barefoot Bay when the Barefoot Brides trilogy launches next year! Nothing like an opportunity to kick off your shoes and fall in love, which is never convenient but always fun!
Happy reading!
From the desk of Kristen Ashley
Dear Reader,
As it happens when I start a book and the action plays out in my head, characters pop up out of nowhere.
See, I don’t plot, or outline. An idea will come to me and Wham! My brain just flows with it. Or a character will come to me and all the pieces of his or her puzzle start tumbling quickly into place and the story moves from there. Either way, this all plays in my mind’s eye like a movie and I sit at my keyboard doing my darnedest to get it all down as it goes along.
In my Dream Man series, I started it with Mystery Man because Hawk and Gwen came to me and I was desperate to get their story out. I’m not even sure that I expected it to be a series. I just needed to tell their story.
Very quickly I was introduced to Kane “Tack” Allen and Detective Mitch Lawson. When I met them through Gwen, I knew instantly—with all the hotness that was them—that they both needed their own book. So this one idea I had of Hawk and Gwen finding their happily ever after became a series.
Brock “Slim” Lucas showed up later in Mystery Man but when he did, he certainly intrigued me. Most specifically the lengths he’d go to do his job. I wondered why that fire was in his belly. And suddenly I couldn’t wait to find out.
In the meantime, my aunt Barb, who reads every one of my books when they come out, mentioned in passing she’d like to see one of my couples not struggle before they capitulated to the attraction and emotion swirling around them. Instead, she wanted to see the relationship build and grow, not the hero and heroine fighting it.
This intrigued me, too, especially when it came to Brock, who had seen a lot and done a lot in his mission as a DEA agent. I didn’t want him to have another fight on his hands, not like that. But also, I’d never done this, not in all the books I’d written.
I’m a girl who likes a challenge.
But could I weave a tale that was about a man and a woman in love, recognizing and embracing that love relatively early in the story, and then focus the story on how they learn to live with each other, deal with each other’s histories, family, and all that life throws at them on a normal basis? Would this even be interesting?
Luckily, life is interesting, sometimes in good ways, sometimes not-so-good.
Throwing Elvira and Martha into the mix, along with Tess’s hideous ex-husband and Brock’s odious ex-wife, and adding children and family, life for Brock and Tess, as well as their story, was indeed interesting (and fun) to write—when I didn’t want to wring Olivia’s neck, that is.
And I found there’s great beauty in telling a tale that isn’t about fighting attraction because of past issues or history (or the like) and besting that to find love; instead delving into what makes a man and a woman, and allowing them to let their loved one get close, at the same time learning how to depend on each other to make it through.
I should thank my aunt Barb. Because she had a great idea that led to a beautiful love story.
&n
bsp; From the desk of Eileen Dreyer
Dear Reader,
The last thing I ever thought I would do was write a series. I thought I was brave putting together a trilogy. Well, as usual, my characters outsmarted me, and I now find myself in the middle of a nine-story series about Drake’s Rakes, my handsome gentleman spies. But I don’t wait well as a reader myself. How do I ask my own readers to wait nine books for any resolution?
I just couldn’t do it. So I’ve divided up the Rakes into three trilogies based on the heroines. The first was The Three Graces. This one I’m calling Last Chance Academy, where the heroines went to school. I introduced them all in my short e-novel It Begins With A Kiss, and continue in ONCE A RAKE with Sarah Clarke, who has to save Scotsman Colonel Ian Ferguson from gunshot, assassin, and the charges of treason.
I love Sarah. A woman with an unfortunate beginning, she is just trying to save the only home she’s ever really had from penury, an estate so small and isolated that her best friend is a six-hundred-pound pig. Enter Ian. Suddenly she’s facing off with smugglers, spies, assassins, and possible eviction. I call my Drake’s Rakes series Romantic Historical Adventure, and I think there is plenty of each in ONCE A RAKE. Let me know at www.eileendreyer.com, my Facebook page (Eileen Dreyer), or on Twitter @EileenDreyer. Now I need to get back. I have five more Rakes to threaten.
From the desk of Anne Barton
Dear Reader,
Regrets. We all have them. Incidents from our distant (or not-so-distant) pasts that we’d like to forget. Photos we’d like to burn, boyfriends we never should have dated, a night or two of partying that got slightly out of control. Ahem.
In short, there are some stories we’d rather our siblings didn’t tell in front of Grandma at Thanksgiving dinner.
Luckily for me, I grew up in the pre-Internet era. Back then, a faux pas wasn’t instantly posted or tweeted for the world to see. Instead, it was recounted in a note that was ruthlessly passed through a network of tables in the cafeteria—a highly effective means of humiliation, but not nearly as permanent as the digital equivalent, thank goodness.