Guest: Natasha Blackthorne

The lovely, Natasha Blackthorne, has a new release out. Her Mystery Duke sounds wonderful and I’m looking forward to reading it, which is why I’m sharing it here with you.

HER MYSTERY DUKE is an erotic Regency historical romance, light BDSM elements, Rubenesque /BBW. For adults 18+ only.

Buy Links: Amazon (US) / Amazon (UK) / Smashwords 

hermysteryduke

Blurb for HER MYSTERY DUKE:

Jeanne Darling spent her adolescence coping with her father’s increasing illness and insanity. Left alone by his death and plunged into poverty, she did what she had to do to survive. Now still reeling from the overwhelming physical and emotional demands her father’s care required, she values her peace above all. She doesn’t need anyone or anything except her writing and the safety of her rented garret chamber. She’s about to rise above her past and create financial independence for herself. What she absolutely does not need is the mysterious and possibly insane stranger who walks into the coffee shop and into her life.

David Somerville, the Duke of Hartley, has known pain and betrayal from the people closest to him. Born to privilege, power and wealth, and filled with idealistic vision for humane change, he gives all of himself to his political career. He keeps his life circumspectly under control. But one day, all the carefully arranged threads of his life unravel and his life intersects with Jeanne’s in a way that challenges his view of everything he thinks he knows.
Leagues apart in society, they can only have one possible future, that of protector and mistress. And neither wants to risk deeper connection. However, their overwhelming attraction and resulting sexual games provide them with pleasures neither of them has ever known. Will their sensual journey lead them to discover something rare and magical? Or will their seemingly insurmountable differences and passionate personal goals drive them apart?
Reader Warning: HER MYSTERY DUKE is a work of historical erotic romance. It is not meant to be a guide to or an accurate portrayal of modern BDSM lifestyles or practices. This story contains graphic descriptions of sexual acts and frank sexual language. It also contains light bondage, anal play, sexual toys, cunnilingus, fellatio and spanking. Please be aware, there are no scenes of ménage or sexual sharing in this story.

Excerpt From HER MYSTERY DUKE, pre-edited version.

Chapter One

London, England

 

Winter, 1813

 

 

Indecent. The tall gentleman’s stare was the most blatantly indecent assault Jeanne had ever encountered. Deeper than intense. Intimate, as if he knew everything thing about her.

 

That penetrating gaze set her palms sweating and made her mouth dry. It was a direct threat. No one could possibly know her. She kept herself too well protected, hidden beneath layers of aloof disinterest. Yet she found herself unable to look away. She just sat there and let that gaze burn her. Burn through the wall she kept between herself and the world. It even seeped under her skin and melted her blood into warmed honey.

 

A single pane of rain-splattered glass separated them. The thudding of her heart in her ears blocked out the sounds from the common room of the coffee shop and created a sense of isolation.

 

He wore no hat and his hair lay plastered like spilt black ink streaked across his high, broad forehead. Rain dripped over hard chiseled cheekbones, down an aquiline nose and square jaw, over shoulders that were made even more impossibly broad by a dark blue greatcoat.

 

He was like something from a dream. A harlot’s very naughty dream.

 

Oh really. A handsome, mysterious stranger, one who was intensely interested in her and seemed to know all about her? Her imagination was running away with her, taking a life of its own. She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. The wine hadn’t been that strong as to make her conjure carnal fantasies in mid-afternoon. In public. She dared to look again.

 

The tall gentleman was gone.

 

There, see? An author of fairy stories couldn’t be fooled by a waking dream. And yet cold, heaviness sank through her insides, a feeling of loss. How utterly ridiculous. Irritated with herself, Jeanne bent over her mug, inhaling the fruity, spicy scent of mulled wine, and listened to the low rumble of conversations around her. Mrs. Roberts had a new blue bonnet and she was preening like a peacock. Mr. Taylor announced to his friends that he’d just become engaged to Miss Smith and his companions were alternately ribbing and toasting him.

 

Once a week, she ventured from her garret to this little coffee shop to be among people, as an observer. A customer, keeping a protective distance.

 

“Miss Darling.”The slightly nervous, boyish voice broke into her peace. “You usually come here on Saturday.”

 

She forced the irritation from her expression and looked up to meet his freckled face. “Yes, Paul, this week I decided on a change.”

 

She kept her tone cool and polite, as always.

 

Mr. Ratherford, her publisher, had sent a note, informing her that she must present herself at his offices and bring the fairy tales he’d requested. As an author of children’s stories, she’d been working for months on the stories but she still had one more story to write, the grand finale in a leather bound volume of the stories that she hoped to have printed. However, she’d been unable to write for several weeks. The harder she tried to create a story, the less she liked anything she wrote. Today, that note had put her into a state of desperation. She’d come here to try and stimulate her mind. It had worked a little too well judging from the daydream of the handsome, mysterious stranger.

 

“A special occasion?” Paul’s words cut into her thoughts again.

 

Oh bother! She took a deep breath and struggled to find more patience. Once Paul Cook started, he never let up. But he was just a boy, and a kind one at that. She bit back an impatient response.

 

Her concentration, her peace, however: they were gone. Never mind. The wind was howling with more intensity outside, and the winter’s day was growing dark far too early. It was time to leave.

 

As she reached down to retrieve her reticule, the odor of wet wool intruded on her senses, mingled with the citrus-soapy scent of a gentleman’s shaving lotion. A body close to hers. Too close. She jerked her head up and faced a waking dream.

 

His greatcoat was opened to reveal a fine, silk, embroidered waistcoat that encompassed a broad chest, which narrowed into a flat-as-boards stomach. Water dripped from his hair, leaving wet spots on his hopelessly crushed cravat. He didn’t seem to be aware of his dishevelment.

 

She met his eyes. His gaze intensified, turning to brilliant, intimidating greenish fire, like an emerald catching the sunlight. Thick, dark lashes and heavy black brows made the color appear even richer.

 

“Thérèse.”

 

His voice was deep yet hushed and utterly masculine. It sent another curl of heat through her, stronger, penetrating all the way down from her chest to her navel and into her womb. However, it was the note of despair that made her catch her breath.

 

Pressure swelled in her throat, a pang of sympathy. Sympathy for others was the most dangerous emotion of all. It could lead one to make painful, unwise sacrifices.

 

She’d never had such an immediate reaction like this to any man. Tingles raced from her midsection to her toes, not arousal this time but an urge to run. He was dangerous.

 

And Thérèse? Clearly he was grossly mistaken. Or foxed.

 

She stood, then took a deep breath, released it and raised her brows up in a haughty mask.“Pardon me, sir?”

 

His expression sharpened. He took her arm, harshly. “Don’t toy with me.”

 

She pulled back and he tightened his grip. His hand was large. His hold stronger than any gentleman she’d known.

 

He leaned so close she could have brushed her lips against his. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know me?”

 

His deep, hushed voice sent pleasurable shivers through her but Jeanne pushed the sensation aside. As his breath wafted over her, she inhaled deeply but couldn’t detect any odor of spirits. Prickles raced over her scalp like a thousand needles.

 

Perhaps the gentleman wasn’t in full control over his mental faculties. Dear God. Just like Papa. She’d spent her youth caring for her father in his varying stages of insanity. Life with him had become a prison. Since his death, she had lived in fear of the unbalanced. Now she’d become the target of a stranger’s madness. Another series of prickles raced over her scalp.

 

She met the stranger’s gaze levelly. “What’s your game?”

 

“Thérèse, don‘t be this way.” His whisper, laced with steel, was so low, that she unwittingly leaned closer. “We needn’t make any dramatics here. We’re going home.”

 

This near to him, Jeanne noted the glassiness of his eyes. Again, she sniffed. No hint of alcohol. But then again, having experienced all of Papa’s variances of sanity, she had an instinct for spotting others who were likewise afflicted. This man was definitely afflicted in his mind.

 

This was the exact situation she always dreaded. Since her girlhood, she always watched others, seeking any sign of madness. She’d had to cope with Papa, that had been her duty, but she was always careful to keep others who showed any inkling of mental instability at a safe distance. How stupid of her to have let herself be distracted by this man’s masculine beauty.

 

Angry at herself, she jerked her arm, trying once again to free herself. His grip remained relentless.

 

“Thérèse!” Again, the low steely whisper. “Behave yourself.”

 

How unwise of her. An insane person could react unpredictably. She ought not provoke him. Yet she knew it was important to present a strong, confident front.

 

“Sir, I am not your Thérèse and have no wish to be. So please unhand me.” Her heart was hammering at her chest wall so violently, she had trouble keeping her voice even. She lifted her chin and stared at him steadily. “Now.”

 

“You are deliberately pushing me, Thérèse. I don’t appreciate it.”

 

Boots sounded on the floorboards. The sound drew her attention to how quiet the public room had become. She glanced around. The other patrons were staring.

 

“Miss Darling, is everything all right?”

 

The tall gentleman turned to Paul and regarded him with an icy, haughty stare. “The lady is a friend. Please go back to your counter and mind your business.”

 

At the velvet over iron tone, the young man’s eyes grew round. He took one step backward and then another, then stood looking uneasy.

 

“Are you having a spot of trouble here, Miss Darling?”

 

Jeanne turned to face the shop owner, a large, barrel-chested man.

 

The stranger exhaled long and loud. A sound of complete exasperation. “As I told the boy, the lady is a rather close friend. I would appreciate a little privacy.”

 

The shop owner turned to her. “Miss Darling?”

 

Her heart froze and her chest constricted. She placed a hand to her throat. She didn’t know what to say.

 

“The gent don’t look right to me.” The owner’s wife squinted at the stranger.

 

Jeanne glanced at the gentleman’s handsome profile and the proud jut of his jaw. He gazed at her sideways and she caught her breath. There was something about that brief gaze. A lost, disorientated air. Just like Papa when he had been in one of his worst spells and he was trying to hide it by acting arrogantly assertive.

 

But she had seen. The stranger was truly not in his right mind.

 

He swayed then braced his hands on the back of the chair and caught himself. Arrogance fell over his face like a mask.

 

Jeanne’s throat ached. He was so vulnerable. So alone.

 

Mrs. Cook motioned to the chair Jeanne had vacated. “Sir, you better sit.”

 

The gentleman stared at the matron, well, rather he glowered down his nose at her. “If you please, the lady and I have some personal business to attend to.”

 

His eyes jerked from side to side. At the alarming motion, Jeanne started. He seemed to lurch forward. She looked down and saw his hands gripping the chair back. The knuckles were white. The ache in her throat increased.

 

“Paul.”

 

Jeanne glanced back at Mrs.Cook. The woman wrinkled her forehead. “Go fetch Dr. Miller.”

 

Paul walked to the door.

 

“Quickly now.” Mrs. Cook’s voice carried urgency and she made a shooing motion.

 

A doctor.

 

Memories rose in Jeanne’s mind. Her father screaming, his face contorted in torment as the doctor painted yet another mustard plaster on his skin in an attempt to draw the poisonous humors out. The endless purges and emetics. None of it doing anything to cure Papa’s mad fits and mental lapses. And then finally, the insane asylum.

 

But that was how people dealt with madness. It would be how they would deal with this obviously touched gentleman. As if her stays had suddenly shrunk, her chest constricted. No, no, it wasn’t her place to step out of her way to aid this gentleman. He wasn’t her responsibility. She owed him nothing. Her breathing came shorter, faster. It wasn’t safe to stick one’s neck out. And yet the words rose. She tried to hold them back but they burst out, “There‘s no need for a doctor.”

 

Mrs. Cook frowned deeper. “But he called you Thérèse, that’s a French girl’s name, not yours.”

 

“He is calling me by my middle name.” Jeanne held her breath and waited to see if this lie would be accepted.

 

Mrs. Cook blinked several times. “You have a French middle name?”

 

“Yes. My mother’s mother was French.” Another lie.

 

The matron’s eyes narrowed. “Just how does this gentleman know you? He seems very well off to be on familiar terms with a decent girl from around here.”

 

Jeanne caught herself biting her lip. She quickly released it and gave the first answer that came to mind. “He’s my cousin, on my mother’s side, twice removed.”

 

Again, Mrs. Cook blinked a few times. Then her mouth twisted until she looked like she’d just tasted a particularly sour lemon.

 

“My cousin is not well.”

 

“Apparently. More likely drunk as a lord.” Mrs. Cook’s tone became sourer than her expression. “I don’t like this.”

 

“Pardon me?”Jeanne tried for genteel outrage.

 

Mrs. Cook’s tone became sharper. “I have known you since you started coming here on Saturdays with your Papa. I always thought you were such a dedicated daughter. A good girl. But I don’t like having fancy pieces courting trade in my shop.”

 

“Mrs. Cook, this man is my cousin.”

 

“A wealthy relation who didn’t help you when your dear Papa was ill?”

 

“My cousin was out of the country at that time—he was in India, making his fortune.”

 

Mrs. Cook looked from Jeanne to the gentleman and back. Several times. “I don’t see any family resemblance.”

 

Jeanne swallowed against a tightening throat. Could everyone hear the pounding of her heart? “I favor my father’s side. H-he is my cousin.”

 

Her voice came out so strained that she cringed internally.

 

The matron’s expression hardened. “I think you met this gentleman under less than respectable conditions. Perhaps in a place where you’re known by a false name, a fancy French name to make yourself sound more interesting to wealthy gentlemen.”

 

Jeanne’s mouth dried and anxiety twisted her insides. “That’s not how it happened.”

 

“I’d appreciate if you took your cousin and left. I’d also appreciate if you never came back. I run a decent shop here, not a place of disorderly assignation.”

 

Jeanne sucked in a deep breath. That had hurt. More than she wished to admit. This was her place of comfort and respite when her isolation became too much. And she was a horrible liar. But what else could she have done? Consigned this gentleman to Bedlam? Oh God. She’d known he was dangerous. Why hadn’t she listened to that inner voice?

 

She glanced up at the gentleman. He was gazing at her with an odd, confused expression. Were his eyes a bit glassy? Might he be ill, instead of insane? Surely, if he were that ill, he’d be in bed.

 

She reached a hand to him. “Let’s leave.”

 

The gentleman released the chair then took her hand and laced his fingers with hers as naturally as if he’d always done so. “Come, Thérèse.”

 

They walked sedately out of the coffee shop, just like that, with their gloved hands intertwined.

 

The rain had let up yet the wind still gusted. With her free hand, she readjusted her scarf. His hold remained firm on her hand until they had traveled a block away. The strength of his grip sent prickles of fear darting into her. He could easily overpower her, if his insane whim so dictated.

 

He stopped just as they were about to turn the corner, and he looked down at her. A slight smile softened his mouth. “My darling.”

 

Dear heavens, he was such a gorgeous man. Dangerous, utterly dangerous. But he was still a madman. Any sensible person knew well to be frightened of the insane, she more than anyone. She returned his smile but only to placate him.

 

“Are we headed in the proper direction for the mews?” he asked.

 

“Yes, we are. They are just down this street and to the right.”

 

“Esau has the carriage there.”

 

Well, there it was. She’d done her part keeping him out of the clutches of an overzealous doctor. God and this Esau fellow would have to watch over him now. She wasn’t about to get anywhere near his carriage and risk him shoving her bodily into it.

 

She offered another, hopefully warm, smile.

 

She must have succeeded for he relaxed his grip on her hand and they resumed walking. As they rounded the corner, she slipped her hand from his.

 

And ran.

 

“Thérèse!”

 

Her heart pounded and she ran faster.

 

“Stop, please. For the love of God!” His tone was hollow with desolation. Her sympathy panged her yet again. Unwittingly, she glanced over her shoulder.

 

Wind whipped the gentleman’s dark forelock. He leaned against a street lamp, one hand holding his side. He appeared to be panting for breath, his expression a mask of loss and despair.

 

Just like Papa. She’d seen those emotions on her father’s face too many times. But the expression appeared so out of place on such an arrogant, masculine face. Her heart constricted. She turned to face the direction she was running and put all her energy into it.

 

Something came between her foot and the pavement. She lost her balance and fell forward. As the bricks rose to meet her, she threw her hands out to brace her fall. She cried out then reeled from the fall. Her arm began to burn like fire. She knew she wouldn’t be able to run easily for much longer.

 

She hauled herself to her feet and scanned the shop fronts.

 

Mrs. Mason’s Bakery.

 

Relief washed over her. Mrs. Mason had always been friendly. She had even given her day-old bread, on days when she couldn’t pay.

 

She darted into the shop and the scent of baking bread and spicy cinnamon and apples comforted her.

 

“Good day, Miss Darling!” Mrs. Mason sang out. “What shall it be today?

 

“I think I shall have whatever smells of apples and spice.”

 

“You sit and I’ll bring it right out.”

 

Jeanne sank into the nearest chair. Moments later, Mrs. Mason brought hot tea and apple pie. But Jeanne found the pie tasted like ashes and could only manage a few tiny bites. Unable to stop twitching and fidgeting, she kept catching herself glancing back at the window.

 

She jerked her head away.

 

No, don’t look. He is not your affair.

 

She forced herself to focus on Mrs. Mason’s steady chatter. The wind made a long, low, threatening howling sound. Such a dreadful day. What about—

 

No, he isn’t your responsibility.

 

A loud crash seemed to rumble through her body and shake her bones and resound in the pit of her stomach.

 

What happened? An accident? A carriage trying to avoid a disorientated pedestrian and yet hitting them all the same?

 

She jumped to her feet and rushed to the window. Some crates had blown over. Men were shouting and running about. The sky had grown darker.

 

Against all her caution, her gaze was drawn back to the direction whence she had come.

 

Oh God, there he was, staggering down the street in a wavering pattern. For such a stalwart-looking man, the gentleman walked so oddly, so slowly. Had he been in the war perhaps and suffered some irreparable head injury that had left him this way?

 

Almost completely in front of the shop, he glanced up. He had that lost, desolate look.

 

Her throat burned.

 

His gaze sharpened. Honed in on her.

 

Oh, damn. How stupid of her. Of course, he’d seen her at the window. She stepped back several paces. But it was too late. He began walking toward the door.

 

“Isn’t it just dreadful weather, Miss Darling?” Mrs. Mason exclaimed. “My Ben can take you home in the gig later, if you like. Come sit back down and have a chat.”

 

Jeanne didn’t answer, her gaze was fixed on the gentleman as he reached for the door. He was coming in. And he looked absolutely furious, in a cold, controlled way that was all the more frightening. Her hand flew to her mouth to stop the cry of protest that sprung from the depths of her and she backed away from the window.

 

The little bell tinkled as he entered, an incongruously gay herald. His eyes blazed into hers. She gave a little squeak and took several steps backwards until her bottom hit one of the display cases.

 

As he approached, he looked down at her arm. She followed his eyes. Long red scrape marks still oozed a little blood. She drew it behind her, scratching it along her wool gown and the wounds burned. She winced.

 

His expression softened. “My darling, are you alright?”

 

“Dearie, is he bothering you?” Mrs. Mason asked in her grandmotherly tones.

 

“We have something to discuss,” he answered.

 

Jeanne inhaled sharply and gave the first plausible explanation that came to her mind. “My father owed him money, he thinks I can pay but I don’t have it.”

 

The gentleman gaped at her, with eyes gone wide with shock that quickly transformed into raw edged hurt.

 

His pain sliced into her. She began rubbing her hands together. As if iron bands constricted her, she could barely breathe, so greatly did sympathy overwhelm her. “Please, sir—”

 

She couldn’t think of what else to say.

 

His expression hardened, his eyes frosted.

 

“That’s just about enough.”

 

At the sound of Mrs. Mason’s voice, Jeanne turned to the serving counter. The older woman narrowed her eyes. She reached behind the counter and pulled out a small pistol.

 

Every hair on Jeanne’s body stood on end and she gasped. “Oh please don’t—”

 

“Don’t fret, dearie, I’ll take care of this,” Mrs. Mason said as she leveled it straight and steady at the gentleman.

 

“Please, Mrs. Mason, put your gun away.” Jeanne forced the words past her tightening throat muscles. “I can handle him.”

 

“I know how to deal with these uppity nobs. They get two pence to rub together in their pockets, some fancy clothes, and they think they are the lord of the manor.”Mrs. Mason said, keeping her pistol aimed at the gentleman’s chest. “Mister, I think you better leave.”

 

He frowned.“Madam, do you have any idea to whom you are speaking?”

 

“To whom am I speaking?” Mrs. Mason asked.

 

The gentleman stared at her blankly. He lost that arrogant expression. He looked forlorn once more.

 

Jeanne’s chest tightened again.

 

“You forget yourself, where you are at. You’re not among your type here, sir.” Mrs. Mason walked closer to the gentleman. “I left my home in Pennsylvania over thirty years ago when I married. And I have lived here among the British and made my husband‘s home my own. But I have never been settled to bow and scrape to your kind.”

 

“My kind?” The gentleman asked.

 

Mrs. Mason jabbed the gun into his chest. “I am sixty-seven years old. I’ll be damned before I cower to one such as you.”

 

The gentleman held his hands up. “I mean no trouble.”

 

“What else could you be about, coming here and terrorizing a sweet young thing like this?” Mrs. Mason harrumphed.

 

“I thought we had something to discuss.” He gave Jeanne a cold, hard glance. It was so full of sadness, bitterness that it made her heart jump. “Apparently, I was mistaken.”

 

“Yes, you certainly were,” Mrs. Mason said.

 

He turned on his heel and left the shop. The little bell rang in the wake of his departure.

 

Jeanne returned to the window and watched him staggering and veering down the street. The wind gusted again. It was such a cold day. He had no hat. Where would he go? Who would watch out for him?

 

He wasn’t her responsibility.

 

It was dangerous to reach out to others. Someone like him, with a disorder of the mind, would be a bottomless pit of need. Sucking her dry.

 

He was turning the corner. She put her hand to the glass. Her throat began to burn.

 

A light touch settled on her shoulders. She started and twisted around.

 

Mrs. Mason smiled.“It’s all over, dear.”

 

It was over. She was safe now. He was gone and gone in a way that didn’t involve doctors treating him with all sorts of barbaric, useless torture. She should be relieved. She was relieved.

 

He might still encounter dangers between here and reaching Esau. But how much was one person required to risk for a stranger?

 

“Oh, you are shaking.” Mrs. Mason patted her shoulders. “Now don’t you worry. I know his type, a craven fox preying on the weak. But he’ll think twice about harassing you now that he knows you’ve got some friends in this town.” Mrs. Mason pulled her away from the window.

 

“I am so tired. I need to go home.”

 

“No, you must wait. Be sure he is gone. You should finish your pie and have some more tea.”

 

“Yes, of course you’re right.” Jeanne followed her back to the table and chairs. She took some coins out of her reticule and placed them on the table.

 

Mrs. Mason shook her head. “My treat today.”

 

“No, I insist.”Mrs. Mason waved dismissively. “I have to attend to the baking but you stay here and rest yourself. Ben will drive you home later. If that coxcomb comes back, you just call for me.”

 

Mrs. Mason hurried away to the backroom.

 

Jeanne stared into the steaming cup. Tap, tap, tap.

 

She looked up. Raindrops pattered the window. No, not rain. Sleet. The drops stuck to the glass then melted and slid down.

 

What if the gentleman were truly ill and delirious with fever? Not insane at all?He had no hat. Was lost. Alone. The burn in her throat swelled into a sob. She slapped her hand to her mouth and pressed it back.

 

A touch on her shoulder brought her into the moment. “Why don’t you just stay here tonight?”

 

Jeanne shook her head furiously. “No, no, I have to go.”

 

She tore from Mrs. Mason’s touch, arose from her seat and hurried to the door.

 

“Wait, wait. The gentleman may be waiting—”

 

Jeanne jerked the door open and exited the shop.

 

She ran faster than she ever had in her life. But she didn’t have far to go once she’d turned the corner. The gentleman was leaning against a wall. He looked as pensive as ever.

 

As she approached his expression eased and he reached a hand out. “My darling, let’s go home.”

 

The wind gusted, sending ice cold straight to her bones and she pulled her pelisse closer to her chin. A passing coach rattled by, its wheels sending a sluice of a cloudy grayish water up in an arc which came dangerously close to drenching them.

 

She forced a smile. “Yes, let’s go home.”

 

She’d get him into a carriage and on his way back to where he belonged. Surely that was enough. A gentleman like him must have servants who would watch over him. Her responsibility would be discharged.

 

“Where the devil is the carriage?” Deep offense resounded in his voice, as if he’d never had to wait for a carriage before.

 

“Didn’t you tell your driver to wait?”

 

“Of course I did.”His voice rang with indignation.

 

“Come,” she said firmly. “Let’s go back to the mews and see about your carriage.”

 

The groom at the mews nearest the coffee shop said that the gentleman hadn’t left any carriage there.

 

“Where did you come from before you arrived at the coffee shop?” she asked once they had walked out of earshot of the groom.

 

The gentleman just stared at her with that highbrow look and compressed his lips. So, he didn’t know where he’d been or where he’d left his damned carriage. She sighed. “We’ll walk a bit and a hackney shall come along.”

 

He looked down from his lofty heights, almost sneering down his aristocratic nose. “We’re certainly not going to take a public carriage.”

 

“Well, the carriage is—” She drew her brows together. “Being repaired.”

 

“Being repaired?”he asked, as if such a thing were a complete impossibility.

 

“Yes.”

 

Her heart fluttered a series of frenzied beats. Shaky, panicked energy quivered down her legs. She drew in a deep, hitching breath. Calm, she must remain calm. If she stayed calm, he was less likely to have any sort of fit or rage, right? Perhaps she might play the loving mistress? “Darling, don’t you remember?”

 

He stared at her then blinked several times.

 

“Don’t you?” She made her voice very soft.

 

He released her hand. “Blast it, I don’t remember.” His expression went blank yet his eyes widened. “I don’t remember anything.” He frowned. “Except that you were angry with me.”

 

“Angry about what?”

 

“Everything.”

 

There was that devastated, desolate look again. The burn returned to her throat and she had to turn away. “It’s terribly cold. We’re being soaked. Let us find a public conveyance and sort all of this out later, shall we?”

 

He jutted his chin and his features took on an annoyed expression. Apparently, he was not used to listening to others or taking their advice. He blinked once or twice and then he took her hand again and strode determinedly ahead, pulling her with him.

 

When they found a carriage for hire, the gentleman stared blankly at the driver.

 

“Sir, where shall I take you?”

 

“Darling, tell the man.” Again, she tried to make her voice soft. Loving.

 

He turned to her. His eyes. Now glassy again, a murky, moss green, reflected sheer fear. Her throat constricted. Again, she wondered if he were really ill with a fever. He didn’t remember where he lived. Or he couldn’t remember how to give directions to where he lived. Heavens, it was worse than she’d thought. Oh Lord. She did not want to deal with any panicked hysterics or self-defensive rages like with Papa. She swallowed hard and smiled at him in a hopefully reassuring manner.

 

He jerked his gaze away.

 

“Give him directions, Thérèse.” The resentment in his voice made her heart contract. She was intimately familiar with a man not wanting to appear weak. Not wanting to need help.

 

Wetness pricked the corners of her eyes. Not from the rain but from frustration.

 

All right, yes, mostly she cried from sympathy.

 

She did not want this. This couldn’t be happening. She quickly gave the driver directions.

 

She’d have to take him to her garret for now. The other women frequently entertained men in their rooms. Mrs. Pillmore required her percentage of course. But it wouldn’t seem amiss to anyone. Oh, just imagine how Mr. High-And-Mighty was going to respond to being taken to her garret. But what else was she to do with him? Good heavens, he wasn’t a stray dog. What was she to do with him?

 

The driver rushed to aid her into the carriage but the gentleman pushed him aside then poked his head inside.

 

He began peeling off his greatcoat.

 

“What are you doing?” she asked.

 

“It is appalling inside. You shall have to sit on my coat.”

 

She stuck her head inside and caught the odor of mildew and a touch of stale urine. Well, clearly not the best but she’d come across worse. On a rainy day, this far east, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

 

“Please put your coat back on.

 

“You cannot sit on those seats.”

 

“You are becoming soaked through. Please, put your coat on.”

 

His frown deepened. “Thérèse, why are you suddenly so disagreeable?”

 

“The longer we stand here, the more thoroughly soaked we get from the sleet.”

 

Was that a hint of a smile on his lips? “Your new bluntness is a refreshing.”

 

He reached out, as if he were about to help her into the carriage. Then he swayed and listed backwards. His eyes rolled until only the whites showed. He pitched forward.

 

A startled cry pierced the silence. Hers. She leapt forward, hands poised to catch him. He fell upon her and his weight overwhelmed her to the point her knees buckled.

 

Then his weight eased. The driver was lifting him. “Let’s put him inside, milady.”

 

Milady.

 

She could have laughed at any other time. But the reality of her situation came crashing upon her. She was now responsible for an unconscious, mentally unstable gentleman. Together, they got the unconscious gentleman inside. She settled beside him and took a deep breath.

 

The driver closed the door with a slam. The finality of the sound resonated deep in her chest.

 

What a fine situation she’d willingly trapped herself in.

 

Her nostrils began to burn. The connivance didn’t smell any nicer with the door shut. She wrinkled her nose. Thank God she didn’t live too far away.

 

It began to move. To put it more bluntly, it began to rock hard enough to rattle her teeth. His unconscious form shifted and fell against her shoulder.

 

“Thérèse—” His deep voice sounded sleepy. “The channel is so choppy this time of year. You mustn’t be afraid. Think about Paris. We shall have a grand time in Paris.”

 

He locked an arm around her waist and drew her near. Sheltering her from the jarring motion with his body.

 

His very solid body.

 

The hackney rattled along and another strong jolt hit. She found her face pressed ruthlessly against his chest. The scent of his shaving soap was certainly better than the odors in the cab.

 

He pressed the curve of her waist then slid down to the swell of her hip. “You have gained some weight.”

 

Heat suffused her face. Of course, his Thérèse must be a slip of a thing. No one could ever accuse Jeanne of being slender.

 

“You never ran from me before.”

 

“No?”

 

“No.” He found her hand. “Can you forgive me? Will you come home and stay?”
He didn’t plead. But there was a sincere, earnest, urgency underneath his calm tone that made her believe his sincerity. His remorse. It held her spellbound, unable to resist as he lifted her hand to his cheek. The stubble there was a faint rasp against her fingers. His skin burnt her like live coals. She gasped then jerked her hand out of his hold. She tore her glove off and put a hand to his forehead. Moist, blistering heat.

 

Thurmp, Thurmp. Thurmp.

 

Her heart pounded her ears with sudden, jarring violence. Her mouth went dry. God above. She’d been so focused on her fear of the insane, it had clouded her perception. However, the man was dreadfully ill and delirious with fever.

 

Totally her responsibility.

 

She swallowed hard and in the semidarkness they rode in silence for long moments. Silence all but for the subtle wheezing issuing from his open mouth as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

Book Review: A Measured Risk by Natasha Blackthorne

First, here are all the details for the book I’m about to talk about.

ameasuredrisk_800risk

Book one in the Regency Risks Series

He is her most dangerous temptation, the only man she has ever trusted and now he is demanding her submission. Dare she take the risk?

Emotionally scarred in the horrific accident that took her husband’s life, Lady Cranfield is imprisoned by her lingering terror of horses and carriages. Lady Cranfield longed to be closer to the fascinating Earl of Ruel. She sensed intuitively that he could teach her how to overcome the terrors that held her in bondage.

And now she’s willing to risk almost anything-her reputation, even her virtue-to find out. But what he proposes startles her.

When the shy, studious and socially awkward young widow approached him, Ruel instantly sensed she would be the sweetest, most submissive experience of a lifetime-if only he can gain her total and complete trust. He makes her a non-negotiable offer. His help in return for her submission and obedience.

But Lady Cranfield grew up neglected by her ducal parents, raised by servants and then later ignored by her handsome, charming husband. She’s learnt to protect her heart at all costs and she trusts no one but herself.

How can the jaded Earl of Ruel break through her self-protective defences and show her how to love when he has spent his lifetime avoiding that tender trap?

Reader Advisory: This book contains anal Sex, spanking, BDSM and brief F/F touching. This is a work of historical fiction, it is not meant to be an accurate portrayal of or guide to how people recover from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or of modern BDSM or D/s lifestyles.

Buy Links: Total-E-Bound / Amazon (US) / Amazon (UK) / All Romance E-Books / Bookstrand / Barnes and Noble

Excerpt is below my review. 

My Review

I’ve always been picky when it comes to my historical reads. I find some of them can begin to sound the same. I’ve only found a few authors and books that are wonderful. So when I stumbled on A Measured Risk I didn’t have the first clue what to make of it. I mean, this has BDSM elements with spanking and even some brief F/F action and I’m not one for F/F.

Can I please reassure you, this book was bloody brilliant. I can’t even begin to praise it enough. From the moment I opened my kindle and began reading, I had to finish. The lead, Lady Cranfield or Anne was such a wonderful character. I really felt her confusion and the fight she was faced to gain control of herself. She had gone through a traumatic experience and was doing everything she could to fight the fear she’d developed. I really like the way she was described. Anne was not a simpering little lady but a woman who knew her own mind. Her biggest problem was the fear from the accident. She was stuck in a place she didn’t want to be, surrounded by people who didn’t much care for her.

Enter Jonathon Lloyd, the Earl of Ruel. Now, his character was perfect. He was exactly what Anne needed. The way his protectiveness is portrayed is believable He’s intrigued by Anne and when she asks for help, his ultimatum of spending a month with him, was hot. Even for a historical erotic romance, Jonathon was pure male and super hot.

He pushes Anne but for the good. Not only is she dealing with the traumatic experience of what happened to her, she has closed off her passionate nature. She doesn’t know what it is like to let lose and to feel.

While reading I felt connected to Anne and I felt how trapped she was inside herself. The frustration to let herself feel. It was a wonderfully descriptive book but not overly so. I didn’t find myself skipping parts as the author was not repetitive.

The BDSM elements were light but necessary and helped the story to move along with Anne’s development. The relationship between Jonathon and Anne was superbly described. They fought each other at every turn. Their love grew gradually throughout the book. They were first intrigued by each other and their attraction for one another brought them closer together.

I love dominant alpha males and Jonathon was brilliant.

A Measured Risk has become one of my all time favourite historical erotic romances. I got so much from the characters and the storyline. The author is extremely talented. The BDSM is light for readers who a little daunted by this genre. This is a perfect mix of passion, dominance and submission.

I do not wish to ruin the story line. I was pleased I picked this book and will have it forever on my kindle. Well written and wonderful escapism.

A highly recommended read.

By reading any further, you are stating that you are 18 years of age, or over.
If you are under the age of 18, it is necessary to exit this site.
Copyright © Natasha Blackthorne, 2012
All Rights Reserved, Total-E-Ntwined Limited, T/A Total-E-Bound.
Excerpt from A MEASURED RISK:
“Why did you run away?” His deep voice settled in her belly, rich and warm, like crème brûlée on a cold winter’s night.
“Because I wanted you to follow.” She tried to sound sophisticated and seductive, but her voice choked off on the last word.
Ruel placed his hand on the shelf above her head and blocked her path to the door. His tall, solidly muscled body leaned over her, surrounding her with the sumptuous, sinful scents of tobacco, Scotch whisky and something masculine and undeniably dangerous. A slow, sensual smile stretched his hard mouth.
He appeared different. Softer. More approachable.
At the change, her insides seemed to flip over.
“Well, sweeting, getting us off alone was a very inspired idea.” He touched one of her fallen ringlets. “I am bored to distraction with endless hunting and fencing.”
As he slowly wrapped the curl around two fingers, he brushed her collarbone. Fiery sparks tingled down her spine, so intense that she shivered and her nipples beaded, pressing against her stays. By some instinct she hadn’t even known she possessed, she arched her back, presenting herself for his assessment.
His eyes shone so vividly blue against his bronzed face that they resembled cornflowers. She swallowed tightly and wished for a long drink of claret. This more personal side of him suddenly seemed far more hazardous than his usually fierce exterior.
Well, no matter. There was nothing to fear. She would allow only as much contact as need be to get to know him a little. Since being torn from her lonely yet secure life in Ireland and thrust into society at age sixteen, she’d spent her time allowing people only as near as was comfortable. She was an expert at emotional evasion.
It should be easy to regain her control.
But now, as late afternoon sun rays played over his pale hair, turning it to the colour of winter wheat, all her carefully rehearsed words flew away.
Say something—anything—else he will think you’re a bird-wit.
An intimate smile, one that invited her to play, tugged at his mouth.
“In a situation like this, alone with a gentleman, it’s perfectly normal for a lady to feel some apprehension.” His hushed voice, barely audible above the piano and boisterous singing from down the corridor, accentuated their isolation. He brushed his fingertips over her cheek and his gaze became so piercing that she had to lower her eyes. “She will invariably ask herself if he will try to kiss her.”
She jerked her eyes back to his face. God, he couldn’t mean to—Not yet, surely… Peculiar, heated chills swept over her. She tried to take a step back, but found her arse flush against the bookshelf.
He leaned closer; so close that his Scotch-scented breath tickled her face. “And just in case you are wondering, Lady Cranfield—the answer is most assuredly yes.”
She should demand that he put his arm down so she could pass by and leave. She really should. But she couldn’t stop looking at his hard mouth and wondering what it would feel like upon hers. He was so close to her, his breath blew on her lips. If she moved but a fraction, she’d be kissing him.
Kissing him.
Dear God. Her breath began to come very fast and short. Her throat went tight with a suppressed moan.
His eyes burnt as brightly as aquamarines. He looked so fierce. If he kissed her, if he dared… Oh God, it would be so harsh. That cruel-looking mouth could express itself no other way.
Excitement rushed through her, sending tingles to every point of her body, even her toes.
But no, he wouldn’t. Not yet.
He kept leaning closer. He didn’t close his eyes. Instead, he seemed to focus all the harder upon her.
Heart pounding and unable to move away, she braced herself for his assault.
His lips brushed hers, barely. A gossamer caress.
He lifted his head.
It was done.
Ended.
And it hadn’t even begun.
He held her chin, appearing so cool, so unaffected. His kiss had seemed to sear her. An urge to put her fingers to her lips arose in her. She resisted it, for it would give away too much of how she was affected.
Never show your feelings.
He traced his thumb along her lower lip, slowly, deliberately, as he studied her with eyes that now glittered with something powerful and predatory. Heat pooled in her pelvis, low and spreading even lower.
She went weak all over, as if she’d lain in a sunny window seat for too long. Her knees almost buckled. She forced them to lock. To be strong.
It should not have affected her so profoundly. It had just been a peck—not a true kiss at all. William had poured out all of his skill upon her and hadn’t garnered even a tenth of the reaction in her that this man’s peck had.
Ruel traced her jaw line with his fingertips. Unthinkingly, she leaned in to his touch.
“Of course, once he has kissed her, then it’s his turn to wonder…” His voice sounded unnaturally loud to her ears. “How will she respond? Will she withdraw, or can he ignite some hidden fire?”
She sensed that he was toying with her. She’d didn’t understand flirtation—why had she imagined she could carry this ruse off? Was he making advances in order to have a laugh with Francesca and her simpering friends later? Hurt blossomed in her chest. She resented him for that. She ought to feel indignant, superior, uncaring—anything but hurt.
“Please don’t make sport of me.”
She cringed. Was that quavering, pleading voice really hers?
An infinitesimal pause. “Now, why on earth would I do such a thing?” His voice was as smooth as velvet.
“To please your vanity,” she replied, trying to regain her wits.
“Here.” He placed her hand to his chest. The contours of his muscles were hard, powerfully developed. Even more so than she’d expected. His body heat radiated through the satin and, beneath her hand, his heart beat was rapid and strong.
“Is that vanity?” He put a finger under her chin, giving her no choice but to face him. “Is it?” He gentled his grip.
The warmth in his voice settled over her like luscious hot chocolate. Melting her insides to quivering burgoo, rendering her speechless, unable to move.
“My dear, lovely Lady Cranfield, I am going kiss you again.”
Then he touched his mouth to hers, more firmly this time. Delicious, steady pressure. Her lips trembled and she clutched his lapels. He lifted his head. At the loss, a throaty, pleading moan sounded in her ears. Had it really come from her?
Clearly, now was the time for her to reassert some control over her reactions. To put him at a more comfortable distance.
“Kiss me back.” At the commanding edge in his voice, hot, sweet honey pooled in her belly.
No. Focus.
What had she wanted to ask him? Focus? Dear God, what rubbish. She could scarcely remember her own name, much less anything else. What madness had made her think she could maintain control over him?
He traced her mouth with his tongue. Deliberately; lingeringly. This time she couldn’t hold back a moan. She had grown to dislike it when William kissed her opened mouthed. It had always seemed such an overheated, messy thing. But where was her coldness now? She was burning to know what it would feel like to know Ruel’s full kiss. She had to know—just once—or she would surely die.
Just once. Certainly once wouldn’t hurt.
Tentatively, tremulously, she opened her mouth.
He thrust inside, his tongue like a bold blade of flame as it touched hers. He tasted of whisky and something smoky, too sensual to be borne. Fire burst within her, spreading over her breasts. Of their own volition, her hands slid up his muscled arms and she gripped his shoulders and moaned again.
She twisted and pressed her breasts against his chest, trying to increase the sensation on her taut, aching nipples. However, her stays prevented it. Her frustration vibrated deep in her throat, another longer, more intense moan.
The sound startled her and, for a moment, it was as if she was staring down at the two of them. She didn’t recognise herself, but she couldn’t stop kissing him back. Couldn’t stop rubbing her breasts against him.
Who was this uninhibited strumpet? His breathing changed, growing heavier. He cupped her face with his large, long-fingered hands, angling her head. She went even more boneless and allowed him to move her as suited his wont.
He probed more forcefully with his tongue, went deeper, compelling her to open further, to melt against him more completely. He slid his hand to her neck and threaded his fingertips through her hair. He lifted the heavy mass off her neck. Cool air rushed over her nape. In one quick movement, he tightened his hold and, with gentle but firm pressure, he pulled her head back. Her shocked gasp came out as a mere whimper, muffled by his demanding mouth.
No man had ever handled her like this. She’d never even suspected a gentleman would handle a woman—even one of his whores—like this. If she had any sense left, she ought to be frightened, offended—enraged.
Instead, her nipples pebbled painfully and heat twisted through her insides.
He tore his mouth from hers. As she gasped for breath, a sense of loss hit her so intensely that she felt disorientated. She stood there, leaning against his hard body, panting open-mouthed, with her head pulled backwards by his grip.
He studied her and tightened his grasp, pulling more harshly this time. A violent shaft of desire stabbed her, womb-deep.
Warmth, and what looked very much like satisfaction, shone in his gaze.
He laid his other hand along her collarbone in what could only be called a blatant, sexually possessive manner. The skin crinkled around his eyes. He was smiling, ever so slightly. Something had just happened. She didn’t understand what it was. If only she could think, she would be able to reason it out. However, liquid warmth pooled in her lower pelvis and flowed out between her legs in a gush that came so suddenly she gasped. Her sex throbbed as if it were a beating heart.
Coherent thought was impossible.
He shifted and throbbing heat seared her, even through their clothing.
His erection.
Its long, thick, tubular weight was more substantial than William’s.
Ruel brushed his fingers against her back. Tugging, pulling.
Undoing her laces.
She froze and placed her hands on his chest. “Don’t.”
The gown slipped and she automatically clutched the dark purple silk to herself.
He took hold of her wrists, easily circling them with the forefinger and thumb of each hand. “Let the gown fall away.”
He used the voice. The one from the dreams she only reluctantly admitted to herself. The very confident, commanding tone that the nameless, faceless man used in her nocturnal fantasies. Her secret lover who would press her down and—
“I want you to remove the rest of your garments and then I want you to lie on that crimson divan and display yourself for me.”
She threw a glance at the divan, her favourite spot in this whole house. The image his words conjured—her, lying naked on the crimson velvet, open for his perusal—burnt into her brain. Her inner muscles contracted several times—hard. The folds between her legs swelled and grew slicker.
Of course, despite her wayward dreams, she didn’t really want to do something like that.
Couldn’t possibly.
She barely knew Ruel. Yet there was that innate sense that she could trust him. That she could give in to his whims and it would be safe. A secret shared between them. Temptation tingled through her, increasing with every beat of her heart.
Reckless.
She had never been reckless in her life. A trembling began in her legs.
She turned back to him. His features were tight with desire, his stare commanding and compelling. She wanted to be reckless with this man.
“The door is locked. The others aren’t going to come in here—the gentlemen are all occupied with fencing and the ladies are busy with their watercolours.”
She’d never allow herself the luxury of surrendering to this. For this was pure emotion and it would be giving him too much of herself.
“I won’t do it.” She had intended to make her tone resolute. That thready, pleading voice couldn’t possibly be hers.
“It would please me.” His firm tone sent a new wave of lassitude through her limbs.
Need twisted in her lower stomach and a fresh cascade of wetness slicked her intimate folds. It slid down her inner thighs.
Wait—How had they come to this moment? Where the devil was the reserve and sexual coolness that had driven William into other arms? This virtual stranger held some kind of special power over her. God. It was unthinkable. It was terrifying.
“No.” Her strident denial echoed jarringly in her ears.
He released her wrists.
She pulled the gown up high and clutched it tight. She wanted to run. She should run. But his large, strong body still stood between her and the exit. Would he really attempt to stop her if she tried to flee? Her heart pounded at the thought. Because she knew that if he put his hands on her and stopped her, especially if he did it as forcefully and firmly as he’d behaved thus far, she’d melt for him.
What a revelation! She’d never suspected such a creature existed in her secret heart, waiting for someone to come along and draw her out.
“You’d better leave now.” She pushed the words past her shaking lips.

Guest: Natasha Blackthorne

“Grey’s Lady is the story of a wealthy New York merchant price, Grey Sexton, who falls for a poor but beautiful seductress, Beth McConnell. Yet, for all their social and economical differences, at their most basic level, Beth and Grey are very similar. This story explores how these similarities threaten to tear them apart before love can overcome the fear of being vulnerable.
Both Beth and Grey suffered isolation and emotional neglect in childhood. Grey grew up as a privileged only son, heir to Sexton Shipping, one of the fledgling nation’s largest mercantile fleets. Grey’s father was a stern businessman who did not understand his daydreaming son and held him at a distance. A child in this position might take solace in a closer relationship with his mother. However, Grey’s mother was chronically ill and unable to bear his childish energy. She kept to her chambers and died while he was still quite young. Later at age nineteen, Grey engaged in an emotionally scarring experience with a slightly older woman, something that is not covered in Grey’s Lady. All of these backstory issues and more are explored in more depth in the sequel, White Lace and Promises, which is scheduled for release Dec. 26, 2011.
In contrast, the focus of Grey’s Lady is on the immediate interaction between two wounded and self-protective people who feel an overpowering attraction to each other but who do not want to admit it to themselves or the other.
I will let my character, Beth, tell her story in her own words:
Why should men always have the power of choice when it comes to love? Is it right that we women have no choice but to sit and wait for a man decide to honor us with his declarations–usually uttered in the form of a demand? And all we as women may do is say “yes” or “no” and hope we have made a wise choice. The man still has the power to break his promises and it will be our good name and heart that bears the damage.
My mother fell into an adulterous affaire with an unknown man and as a result I was created. Her husband put her out of their house. I would have been born in the almshouse if not for the kindness of her employer. After my mother’s death, I would have gone to the foundling home without my kindly benefactress. My unknown father also had his power of choice, the choice to abandon me. How fair is it that men have all the power of choice?
Oh, you ask what about the gentlemen? Ha! The gentlemen. They are the very worst.
A gentleman once declared passionate love for me. He said this so ardently, his beautiful brown eyes shone with sincerity. I was young. I was naïve. I believed him. I trusted him and gave my heart wholly into his keeping. And as went my heart, eventually so went my virtue.
Do you what happened next? Surely, I don’t have to tell you. You know how these maudlin stories go. He married someone else. A lady. Someone of his own class. His took his power of choice. He became a respectable family man and I was left being a soiled dove. I had a good cry over it. I may have drank a little too much at his wedding celebration. What a pitiful little fool I was. But I did not wallow in my self-pity for long. So men have needs and desires? Well, I also have needs. I also have desires. Why should men have all the power of choice? Why should they have all the enjoyment in life?
I take my own power of choice now. I chose whom, when and for how long and I select only the most handsome, wealthy, and powerful of gentlemen.
Yes, I know you are asking do I not fear discovery? This is a worry and I take it seriously. Truly I do. I live with my half-brother and his family now. He is very protective and very touchy about matters of honor. Our mother was not faithful to his father. Now he takes such matters so seriously. Too seriously. If he had his way, I would stay home all the time, working in the backroom of his cobbler shop with one eye on the children. But honestly, though I love my nieces and my half-siblings, life there is dreary. It’s all work, work and more work. Everything is shabby, everything seems to stay gritty and grimy no matter how hard I work to keep things clean. There are always more shoes to repair. I swear my eyes shall go crossed trying to sew by candlelight night after night. I never get enough sleep or time to myself. If I couldn’t go out and seek my adventures, I should go mad. I have my mother’s wild blood in me and my desires can run so high I fear they shall consume me.
I could marry a nice man and he would carry me away from all of this. I would have my own cozy home and hearth. My benefactress has introduced me to a nice young minister and to a nice young but struggling legal clerk and a nice young medical student who trembled all over and went pale when I said good morning to him. I have no interest in nice young men. It’s the wealthy, powerful, arrogant gentlemen who fascinate me. I know they will never desire me for a wife but they shall burn for me. They shall remember me.
How do I protect myself from discovery? I limit my liaisons to one single meeting. I never meet with my gentlemen again, no matter how desperately they implore me. And they do implore me. Though I am poor, the child of adultery by an unknown man and powerless in my society, I have something gentlemen desire. I have beauty, and thanks to my mother’s wild blood, I understand their hot lusts better than the women of their class. I do gain a measure of satisfaction out of leaving them burning for more. Burning for me. No gentleman shall ever forget the one afternoon he spent with me.
Today is a special day for me. Mr. Asahel de Grijs, otherwise known as Grey to his friends, is coming to my favorite bookseller to give a lecture on privateering. He is a New York man, the owner of Sexton Shipping which has a fleet of over forty sea going vessels. He is rumored to be the wealthiest gentleman in America. I know this is not true. I know exactly who is the wealthiest man in America. But Mr. Sexton is among the top three wealthiest men in our nation. He is also politically connected and quite powerful. He would be the brightest feather in my cap. I think I shall wear my shabbiest dress because it is always more thrilling when these gentlemen cannot resist the tattered, poor little bastard girl. They are slaves to their own greed for beauty.
I don’t really deride gentlemen for their focus on beauty. I appreciate a handsome face and well-made masculine form. Well, if Mr. Sexton’s physicality matches his other attributes, then I shall be entertaining a gentleman today. In private. In his carriage. But only for today. Afterwards, he shall burn for me. He will never forget me.
Grey’s Lady
Carte Blanche, Book 1
By Natasha Blackthorne
Total-E-Bound Publishing
eBook ISBN: 978-0-85715-618-1
To Purchase click on links below:Total-e-Bound  | Amazon  | All Romance e-Books
To watch the book video: http://youtu.be/fHAaAZdH5bQ

Blurb:

Beth McConnell boldly seduces Grey Sexton, a self-controlled merchant prince from New York, she finds herself too fascinated by his ice-over-fire nature to stay away. His possessive determination to own her, body and soul, threatens to expose her secret erotic life to public shame.

Excerpt:

“Are you hungry?” he asked, his tone front-parlour-polite.
“No.” She couldn’t possibly eat. She’d been pent up with desire like a caged cat for two weeks. Now, so close to being beneath him again, she could barely keep herself from swooning from the excitement.
“You know, for a moment there, I thought you were about to bolt.”
“No, never.”
“That’s a relief.” He laughed without smiling and pressed something into her hand—a key. He whispered his room number. “Go up. I’ll follow shortly.”
“I haven’t much time.”
“Very shortly.” The edgy promise in his voice sent a bolt of desire twisting through her belly. Her knees melted to jelly and she wobbled.
“Careful.” His strong hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her, his face showing none of the emotion pounding through her own body. How could he remain so unaffected?
Impulse seized her and she caught hold of his lapels. “Kiss me.”
He leaned closer. Heavens, anyone could come along and catch them. Oh the risk… But her breath quickened and her nipples stiffened, straining against her stays. She closed her eyes, tilted her head up. Waited.
And waited.
“How many men since me?” He laid his large hand at the base of her throat and a thrill went chasing through her. “Look me in the eye.”
Her lids fluttered open and his gaze pierced into her with such intensity she gasped. “It has only been two weeks.”
“Answer me, Beth.”
Another thrill trembled through her. Fear or anticipation? She couldn’t say. “None.”
Still holding her throat, he studied her for several long moments. She set her jaw, refusing to waver under his scrutiny.
He bent and his mouth pressed hers, hard and hasty. Passion spiralled, took her soaring to the stars. Lassitude weakened her and wetness seeped between her legs. He lifted his head. She tightened her hands on his lapels, trying to pull him back. He resisted, his eyes trained on her like a stag with a doe.
Kiss me. Just kiss me, you arrogant jackanapes.
“Now, go.” He released her, set her veil back in place and left her there.
She gaped at his departing back, watching how he moved, so tall and proud. Over-proud. Did he have any idea what a rarefied class he found himself in? She didn’t go around asking just any man to kiss her. She had very high standards and she shared herself with only a select few. She was bestowing quite an honour on him and yet he reacted as if she were the one who ought to be grateful. And to add insult to injury, he hadn’t even kissed her. Not truly.
and a bit more…