About Me
- Pamela Clare
- I grew up in Colorado at the foot of the Rocky Mountains, then lived in Denmark and traveled throughout Europe before coming back to Colorado. I have two adult sons, whom I cherish. I started my writing career as a columnist and investigative reporter and eventually became the first woman editor of two different papers. Along the way, my team and I won numerous state and several national awards, including the National Journalism Award for Public Service. In 2011, I was awarded the Keeper of the Flame Lifetime Achievement Award for Journalism. Now I write historical romance and contemporary romantic suspense.
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Tuesday, April 08, 2014
Jenn LeBlanc’s ABSOLUTE SURRENDER is out! Giveaway plus excerpt
It’s out!
Absolute Surrender, Jenn LeBlanc’s second novel, is officially released today! I feel a special attachment to this story because I watched the creative process unfold, watched Jenn as the story took over and began to go in directions she hadn’t planned (as stories often do). She wrote part of it in a hotel room we shared on a writing retreat, and we wrote together a few times in coffee shops.
The story is not like most romances you’ve read. For starters, it’s illustrated. Yes, it has photographs. Sexy photographs. Jenn is an award-winning journalist, in addition to being a talented author, and she put those photographic talents to use shooting photos of key scenes in the story just as she did for The Rake and the Recluse, her first book, the original Illustrated Romance.™
More than that, the story itself defies conventions. As you can see from the luscious cover (which features the sexy cast you’ll see inside), there are two heroes. Yes, it’s a menáge story. But it’s not erotica. It’s romance.
If that’s not enough, the heroine is afflicted by a condition that in her time in history could easily have landed her in that dread institution Bedlam. Fortunately for her, she holds the hearts of two men who will stop at nothing to win her — and to protect her secret.
Here’s the book’s blurb:
Happiness was always too much for Lady Amelia to hope for.
Now all she expects is to secure her future and marry Charles, Duke of Castleberry, as arranged. But Amelia has a dangerous secret that could not only destroy her in Charles's eyes and the eyes of society, but could also very well condemn her to Bedlam.
Baron Endsleigh, Amelia’s oldest friend, has other ideas. Ender has loved Amelia all his life. He knows her secrets, and they don’t frighten him. He plans to come between Amelia and Charles in any way he can to prevent the marriage and finally claim Amelia for his own. Though her father forbade the match years ago, Ender is determined to have her as his wife and nothing can stop him. Not even a duke as powerful as Castleberry.
That duke has hated Baron Endsleigh and wanted Amelia for, what seems to him, forever. Charles will stop at nothing to make her his, and his alone, even if that means destroying the one thing he knows she loves most in this world—Endsleigh.
Will Amelia be able to choose when one man speaks to her head and the other her heart?
None of them will find happiness until they all three learn to embrace absolute surrender.
You can get the book online at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iBooks, and Kobo. Or head to Jenn’s website to buy it in trade paperback.
PLEASE remember to leave some way for me to reach you! You can't win a prize if I can’t get hold of you!
Also, Jenn is giving away a Nook and a $25 B&N gift card to one randomly chosen reader who reviews ABSOLUTE SURRENDER. Enter your review links here:
http://www.romancewrangler.com/2014/04/absolutesurrender-reviewraffle-jennleblanc.html
And now as an extra treat, here’s an excerpt from the novel courtesy of the lovely author.
CHAPTER ONE
1881
London, England
Amelia stood. It
was the simplest explanation, really. She did nothing else. Her back straight,
her hands held gently—not too tight—just below her
waist. Her reticule dangled from one wrist, resting just behind her hands. Her
skirt did not sway—as she did not twitch.
She blinked.
The room was full.
Nobody looked her way.
She corrected the angle of her
chin because it had been too severe. She lowered her chin slightly and tilted
her head gently to the left to balance the flowers in her hair because her girl
had angled them to the right.
She smiled gently—there’s
that word again—and shook her head. Gently, she thought. Gentlygentlygently. Amelia’s shoulders drooped at the thought, so she lifted and rolled them back
gently—no, unnoticeably. Yes, I rolled them unnoticeably, not gently.
Well…gently as well, but more unnoticeably than gently. Or perhaps so gently as
to be unnoticed? Perhaps that’s it.
She twitched.
Amelia wished she knew what was
wrong with her. If she could give a name to this malady, perhaps it would lose
its power over her.
That’s a ridiculous thought. The
fact was, to give it a name would be to give it more power—to the people who would diagnose her, to those who would judge her, to
the doctors, physicians and others who would determine she was unhealthy,
unworthy…unwell.
Power to those who would then control her future, and that of her entire family
with her. Giving a name to her illness was an impossibility. She had to remain
hidden.
“Amelia.” Her name rolled across her senses like
a heavy fog. He should not be using my common
name. I am not common. He is not common. It is not done. What if...what if
someone hears?
“You,” she
whispered, and Amelia’s eyes darted to and fro to ensure their conversation was private as he
reached for her hand. “Endsleigh,” she said just a bit louder to deflect any complaints that she’d not responded to his greeting.
That would be improper, unheard of. A
terrible cut.
Amelia looked down. Hugh had her
hand, and her heart skipped a beat as her breath increased as if to make up for
it. It was her right hand that he held, as
is proper, and her reticule hung straight down. It did not catch on her gloved
hand or her gown. She’d chosen this particular
reticule because once she’d chosen one with cute little baubles and shiny beads and the beads and
baubles had snagged her gown and—
“Might I have the honor of this dance, my lady?” Hugh interrupted the train
wreck of her thoughts.
Amelia’s eyes widened as she shook her head quickly to bring herself back to
the ballroom, to the man, to the hand on her hand—certainly for an inappropriate amount of time by now. But his hand was
warm and as he tightened his grip...she could breathe.
Hugh waited more patiently than
he ought. He was regal in his black and white, his broad shoulders enhanced by
the stark lines. Amelia took another breath. It was a concerted effort
until—cinnamon and rich cigar, perhaps a hint of brandy—the knot in her belly
loosened just a touch. She looked up to the all-too-familiar whiskey-colored
eyes and forced a smile. “Yes, my lord, yes.
The honor.”
Amelia’s hand slipped from his, and her breath caught. Her eyes drifted as she
checked the ballroom to see who was watching, but the answer was more simple
than “who.” The answer was everyone, and
she knew it before she looked, as well as she knew the chill on her skin was
caused by the trickle of sweat rolling slowly down her spine, pausing every so
often like a tease as the bead of sweat rounded a small bone then continued on
its merry way.
She looked past him to see that
the eyes of the ton were on her,
but were not yet narrowed.
Hugh took her hand, this time
her left, which was good, because her left hand was rather cold and the other
was a bit warm now. The warmth of his hand on her hand—or rather my hand in his
warm hand—called her back to the ballroom.
“Bollocks.” Amelia’s eyes went wide as she heard the word come from her mouth so softly she
could only hope it made it just as far as her own ears. But when she heard Hugh
clear his throat—more loudly than
was seemly—she knew that was not to be.
He smiled at her gently—yes,
gently, it had to be gently—as he turned her and
rested his hand, his other hand—that first warm hand—on her back. Very low on
her back. The heat sank through the layers of her gown and stays and
underthings and straight through her skin to her soul.
Breathe.
As much as her pulse raced, her
body softened, sinking into the safety of his embrace. Warmth. Security. It
rankled at times that her body calmed to him even when her mind wished to
revolt. If she could have been constrained beyond the boundaries of her corset,
she might have been okay—but that was not
within the realm of possibility here in this room.
Amelia shivered. Logically, she
knew she wasn’t cold, because the
room was brimming with bodies. Bodies
with eyes and opinions and all of them on me. Breathe. Damn you, she thought,
then twitched and sent the thought from her head. She glanced up from below her
eyelashes to see if he’d noticed, and he
had—of course he had. How could he not, after all? His
hands are on me—they are ON me.
Breathe. Damn me!
She twitched again
and his fingers tensed as his hands relaxed. Odd that—that his hand could attempt to let go as his fingers tensed to...to
what? She knew she shouldn’t be seen dancing with him. Not tonight, of all nights, because Charles was here. Somewhere.
She needed to get away, before
Charles saw her dancing with Hugh. She looked up again, and her eyes went wide
as they caught Hugh’s. Then his eyes
narrowed. Oh…oh
no.
#
Hugh knew without
doubt she was preparing to bolt like a spring lamb—awkwardly and without proper balance—and yet he was not prepared to let her get out of this as easily as with
an inopportune and well-placed twitch. She was not going to run from the room.
For one, he was bigger than she.
Hugh relaxed incrementally,
lulling her, letting her believe he was unaware of her intention.
Damn me. His grip tightened, and he pulled her toward him through the corner—a warning of sorts.
“Amelia...” he managed through a clenched jaw.
What he wished to say was, Do not make me regret this. But
that would have been too harsh, too much for her delicate state to handle at
the moment.
They sailed down
the far side of the ballroom, his arms so tense he knew they would cramp that
night. Hugh worked toward relaxing his features—at
the very least. Because were this to be effective, he had to appear happy to be
pulling her through the turns. Hugh had to give her the restraint she required,
without providing a show for the ton
gossips to flourish on.
Damn me twice. Why? Hugh watched the emotions fade and pulse across her features like so
many birds flocking from a predator.
She twitched.
Damn me twofold.
He stumbled.
God in heaven.
The song ended.
Praise be.
Hugh tightened his hand on hers—we are not yet finished here—then turned them toward the
balcony bordering the ballroom over the gardens. Hugh shook his head to stay
her and moved her hand to his elbow but did not release his grip.
“You’ve no
idea the effect you have, do you?” Amelia said nearly sotto voce, her smile
solidly in place. “You’ve no idea the power you wield
so easily.”
Hugh grunted, then checked to
make sure the sound was not so loud as to draw more attention, and politely
raised his hand to clear his throat. Again. Certainly tomorrow he would receive
all manner of gifts and cards to usher a speedy recovery from whatever malady
they believed him to have—if they only knew.
In fact, he was
aware of his “power,” as she chose to call it. But
his heart rent to see her in these situations, where she could so easily be
ruined for all the world. It was a very precarious position. In the wrong
hands, she could easily end up in Bedlam, never to return to the world. Her
mother didn’t
understand, and her father…well. He believed the duke was either entirely too ill to notice much
beyond himself, or much too calculating to care what would happen to his
daughter, who was currently charged with securing her own future and that of
her mother. Hugh thought it terribly cruel, but it was the way of the world.
There was nothing to be done about it. Her illness was not compatible with the
pressure of the ton.
If only to satisfy her, he
kicked up a smile on one side and knew the minute she saw it—because she twitched.
#
The strange thing
was that no thought had come before the twitch, as was common. Hugh’s hand tightened on hers as he handed her through the narrow doorway to
the balcony, then followed without letting go. If she could just breathe.
Damn me twice. But his hands are
on me. On me, touching me, on me.
Her arm jerked and managed to
dislodge him, and she turned, her eyes wide. This was her chance to run. She
shifted left, only to find the outside wall of the ballroom, and when she
looked right, the high balustrade blocked her, the rest of the space taken by
that giant ominous beast of a man who insisted on rescuing her.
Damn him again. She huffed and stomped her foot. “Must you be so pervasive? Must you be so insistent? And why?” she whispered viciously to the
floor before he could answer, as her eyes shifted around the balcony.
She knew he smiled.
Damn him twice.
She turned away from him toward
the gardens, watching the moonlight paint the ground with patterns from the
oldest trees in the county. She’d
no idea how long she stood there before the air shifted behind her, and his
hand brushed her neck.
“Amelia.”
The anger left her
then like a muddied body diving into a clear blue lake—a cleansing. She closed her eyes. “Hugh.” But his
name sounded more like “you” on a
breath. She absorbed the calming effect of his very presence. Why do I fight this?
“Yes, Amelia mine, none other than I. I only wish to help. You can put an
end to my incessant pestering with one word. Should you choose to.”
Amelia could feel the words as
he spoke against her neck, then the absence of heat when he stepped back. When
she turned, he was gone, as though he’d
never been there.
Perhaps just a memory.
You.
A powerful sob
threatened to rend her stays, and she squeezed herself tightly as though to
prevent herself from falling into a million tiny pieces on the balcony. The
truth was, she couldn’t give him the word he wanted.
She loved him, true, but her father would never agree to a match with a mere
baron, particularly a baron with no income to speak of—no matter her dire
circumstance.
“Ma Belle!” her mother shrilled. “You should not be out here alone.”
Amelia turned to see her
overbright mother traipsing toward her with the air of grace and the intent of mastery.
No wonder Hugh had disappeared so quickly.
“Yes,
Mother.” Improper, improper, improper. How many noticed, how many wondered, how
many remarked that he left me here?
“Back inside now,” her mother singsonged with saccharine sweetness in her fading French
accent. “They’re waiting for you to return.
Where is that smile?”
Amelia looked down and pulled
from the depths of her toes the most brilliant smile possible, then strode
lightly back toward the ballroom.
#
Hugh watched as
Amelia stepped through the narrow door, and her very skin reacted, tightening
as though she’d walked through a cloud. He saw
her joints stiffen slightly, her fingers curl around her reticule, her chin
rise just a touch. His head moved back and forth, not enough for a shake but
plenty enough to show discontent.
Hugh could see her awareness of
him ease her, relax the muscles between the blades of her shoulders. She
dropped them slightly and allowed herself to float across the room, away from
him and toward the man who would be her husband.
Damn me forever.
He turned to leave and nearly
ran down a young lady.
“Pardon me—”
“No, my lord, I’m entirely at fault,” the girl said. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen and in her first, possibly second,
season. He noticed a woman watching them to his left. The Countess Rigsby. Hugh
was never one for the young chits put out every year because he preferred women
with some experience, some…seasoning. He closed his
eyes and groaned inwardly so as not to further fluster the child before him. He
took her hand, as she’d been placed in his path, and
bowed over it.
“The Lord Endsleigh, at your service.”
She curtsied. “Thank you, my lord, I am Miss Rigsby,” she replied with a shy smile.
He released her
hand and took a step back. He considered her. As the charge of the Countess
Rigsby, this could be nothing but trouble, particularly as it seemed she wasn’t merely a charge, but a relation. Lady Rigsby was a gossip of the worst
sort and tended to trap gentlemen into marriages for her daughters, nieces—anyone put in her charge. And
many girls had been placed in her care for the season, because she was ever so
successful. Hugh found it the worst sort of irony that her family tended to
produce naught but girls, and by the lot of them as well.
“Miss…Maitland Rigsby?” he asked carefully. Her eyes
widened, and she nodded stiffly. He closed his eyes momentarily to consider his
next step, because he knew, now, who she was—and just how delicate. He determined the best course of action was to
remove himself, as expediently as possible.
“It has been delightful to make your acquaintance. However, I was just on
my way—”
“Why, Lord Endsleigh, I wasn’t aware you’d been made known to my niece,” Lady Rigsby said from behind him. Her tenor rankled, and he squared his
shoulders.
“We had not, previously, been introduced, no, but we managed well enough
after I nearly tripped over her,” he said, perhaps not as politely as he should have, as Lady Rigsby
rounded him to stand next to the girl. She shied, and his heart sank. Hugh wasn’t sure whether it was a game
meant to pull at his honor, or whether the girl was as much a victim of her
aunt as the lady obviously hoped he would be. “She’s a
delightful young lady, however. You should be
proud,” Hugh said more politely. He was rather proud at just how politely, considering.
“Well, perhaps a dance? Miss Rigsby is quite popular this evening, but I’m sure she has one dance
available…for you.” Lady Rigsby’s smile was toxic as it sank
past his guard.
Hugh was not about
to be trapped, but he didn’t wish to damage this girl in
public with a refusal. He also knew the kind of gossip this woman could start,
and he certainly didn’t need an enemy in her, particularly with Amelia in such a precarious
position. A fact he was certain the lady was full aware of.
Hugh nodded stiffly
as he watched Amelia remove from the ballroom on the arm of her duke. If only
he’d been paying more attention, he could easily have
avoided this and been gone by now. Instead, he took Miss Rigsby’s hand and led her to the dance
floor.
#
Amelia knew the moment Hugh quit
watching because her skin tightened. This is not going to end well. She closed
her eyes but for a moment, then lifted her chin defiantly to greet her
intended. She could not give a thought to her friend, the boy she grew up with,
the man who would forever hold her secrets. The sole light in her darkness.
It was wholly inappropriate, a
man other than her husband privy to her innermost thoughts. Her body—no, but
that’s not what theirs was about, was it?
Was it? Was it? Amelia closed her eyes. She
needed to concentrate and, as if to remind her, she received a sharp jab to the
rib.
“Amelia Marie!” her mother whispered. The woman’s face did not shift, as though no word had been spoken. Her mother didn’t seem to understand that her
idea of handling the “situation” was about the least helpful thing of all.
Amelia widened her eyes to fend
off the tears, and when they glistened, she hoped Charles would think it from
happiness. She saw him then, through the crowd, speaking with the inimitable
Duke of Pembroke-by-the-Sea. Her father.
If he’d not been born a duke, we might have been happy, Amelia thought.
Amelia shook off
that thought as her mother clucked her tongue. She’d not seen Charles in nearly a year, but it seemed that this had been
the year when everything had changed about him. He was more than recognizable,
even though he was no longer the shy boy she remembered from their youth.
Charles turned toward her, his
blue eyes searching the room, she knew for her. When he found her, his eyes
smiled. Remarkable, that, as his mouth never moved. A full head taller than the
whole of the ballroom, Charles was not merely a presence now, but a
reckoning.
He’d grown into the gangly limbs that seemed to be more of a hindrance than
help when trying to keep up with her and Hugh at Pembroke. Charles’s appearance seemed at odds with
the overly agreeable personality she remembered, and yet she could tell by the
look in his eyes now that to misjudge him would mean a quick end.
Jackson and Endsleigh. Jacks and
Ender. Charles and Hugh. Hugh had always been the light to her darkness, even
outwardly, Hugh was the light and Charles the dark. Charles’s liquid brown eyes, Hugh’s bright as the sea. Charles’s deep, thick hair, and Hugh’s longer sun-kissed blonde. It was nearly humorous, the
differences between the two.
She always wanted
to reach first for Charles’s smooth hair, but she simply
could not, of course. She felt the want in the tingle in her fingers, an itch
she could not quite scratch. She wanted to touch, to feel, to explore Charles.
Whereas Hugh, she wanted to laugh with, chase, sink into.
Her father took her
hand, and the contact startled her. She hadn’t
realized she was already here in the circle, because her mind, as it did, had
wandered. She looked down to her father and softened instantly. He seemed so
small in his wheelchair, a rug across his knees to prevent a chill to his worn
bones.
His eyebrows
pinched ever so slightly. “My dear, might I present the
Duke of Castleberry. Of course you know of him.” He turned to Charles, eyebrows raised with a smile.
And of course she
did, of course she knew him. Or, more specifically, knew of him, because she
didn’t know this Charles, the one who now towered over
her, the one who seemed to look straight through her. But she wanted to. This
night had been planned, set up and determined for years now, and all that time
she had done nothing but look forward to the reality of it. Now that it was
upon her, she was frightened.
Charles nodded easily, his eyes
never shifting from her. “My lady, it’s an honor.”
Amelia’s heart trembled at the deep baritone of his voice—something she didn’t remember—and she brought her hand to him slowly. Charles took that hand and
bowed over it quickly. Her other hand pressed to her belly, attempting to
constrain the loose feeling that once again threatened to spill.
“Your Grace.” She smiled when the title sounded strange on her tongue. He’d grown into, and inherited, his
title, but all she could see was Jacks, the awkward boy who’d followed her around during
those young summers. “I’m
certain the honor is mine,” she added as joyfully and as full of smiles as she could muster,
curtsying slowly, gracefully, carefully. “I was sorry to hear of your mother.” From the corner of her eye, she saw her own mother’s eyes widen and her smile
freeze.
Charles released
Amelia’s hand and stepped back. As was proper. Not because
of her statement, she was sure. He could not be seen to be standing too
closely, that was all. Charles was nothing if not full of graciousness and
propriety.
“Thank you.” His voice was nearly a whisper.
The strain of music
picked up yet again, and her mother bumped her elbow. “Your Grace, I believe my daughter has been saving this next dance for
you.” Amelia
thought her mother’s smile was bound to cleave her face clean in two, rather saw it
happening, and Amelia’s eyes strained as she stared, expectantly, for the first crack.
Charles turned to her mother
quickly, drawing all attention with him, as Earth to the sun, his smile tight.
If for no other reason, Amelia decided then, she could love him because he
measured the intent of her mother rather quickly.
“Perhaps some refreshment and a turn around the room, my lady?” Charles turned back to her,
bringing her gaze with him. “I find I’m not much for dancing this evening.”
“By all means, Your Grace, as
you please.” She smiled as she hazarded a glance at her mother—who was actively
suppressing a frown. Because, of course, a dance with a duke—and not just any duke but the Duke of Castleberry—would solidify her position. Not a soul would dare speak out about her
after that—but a turn around the ballroom would have to do...for now.
#
Beyond being taken
with his future bride—if he could call her that—he
was absolutely intrigued. Charles knew beyond reason that if he were to wed
her, his life would be more interesting.
Charles remembered all too well
the girl he first met so many years ago. Full of spit and vinegar and laughter.
He could not quite reconcile that with the woman she’d grown into, the one the
ladies of the ton whispered of behind their fans. But that was of little
concern to him. Ton gossip was old hat, something he’d never bothered with. Charles
could see the movements, the odd-placed tics, and could not quite figure why
she shivered often, but her actions called to an extreme sense of
protection.
Stunning as she was, he knew she
believed herself to be unworthy of the attentions paid and, in some sense, she
was. The only true attention received from the ton was a great disdain for her
awkwardness and a jealousy that, due to her position, they could not, under any
circumstance, call attention to it. Instead, they waited, they stared, they
laughed privately, and they said to themselves what not a single one of them
dared to utter aloud—not even to their closest confidants—but they all knew:
She was strange.
Odd.
Different.
Regardless of her delicate nose,
her bow-shaped mouth, and her viridescent eyes. Irrelevant that she had the
most vibrant smile and impossibly bright and luminescent hair that he wanted
spilling across his hands. Inconsequential that he had been in want of her
since the first moment he’d drawn breath in her presence more than ten years
past—beautiful, exciting, laughing and playful.
Pointless that he saw these
things above all else. Because he knew that she could not yet trust him. Not a
stone’s throw, not a toe. She trusted Ender. That much was obvious from the
dance they’d already shared tonight. That much was obvious from the summers
he’d spent attempting to keep pace with them. That much was obvious from the
times Ender had been allowed in her presence—and Charles had not.
That much was obvious from the
paste smile she had carefully set upon her lips now. Charles shifted
uncomfortably.
“Your Grace, are you well?” she
asked quietly, so no one would hear. She might make the perfect duchess at
that. She was so very aware of her surroundings and propriety, always watching,
always aware, always a paradigm. Charles frowned, and her hand tensed against
his arm, and he wondered what all this caution cost her.
“I have always been well when
with you. It’s been so very long since we’ve had a chance to speak, and this is
not the time nor place for great discussions, is it? Yet there are so many
great discussions I wish to have with you,” Charles said.
They passed the Duke and Duchess
of Roxleigh, and he nodded in deference and received a welcoming smile from Her
Grace. They were so different from the general ton, it gave him hope for the
possibilities it presented. Roxleigh answered to no one but the queen.
Amelia shivered, recapturing his
attention instantly, and he schooled his reaction. Ever wary in public he must
be with this masterful beauty. Ever concerned that his reaction would call her
out.
Charles’s position being what it was, if he were to respond badly, the ton
would follow without heed. He would be the gate to which the flood would flow, and
he felt that certain pressure keenly on his shoulders. He didn’t wish to ruin
her, regardless the outcome of their suit. He cared for her, whatever that
meant. Well, if he was being honest with himself, what it was was an
insuppressible want of her…but that he’d wanted for so long, he believed he
might have a genuine care for her as well. Charles turned for the balcony.
“Perhaps some air.”
“As you please,” she said.
Charles followed, properly
keeping well in sight of the ballroom, then stayed himself when she released
him, walking toward the balustrade.
“Endsleigh,” was all he said.
Charles couldn’t help himself. He watched as she controlled her reactions
incrementally, like a sudden freeze, starting with her ears and traveling down.
He saw every muscle stop, coming to attention. It was a rather beautiful dance
beneath her skin and caused his fingers to itch, the physical manifestation of
a wish to touch.
“Endsleigh,” she replied with a
catch in her voice. “My oldest friend.”
“Dearest?” he asked, wanting to
know, truly.
“Perhaps.” She turned toward the
sleeping gardens, resting her gloved hands on the marble barrier. “Out there,
at the far side of England, away from society, the only friends we have are
those born to us.” She smiled back at him, over her shoulder.
“I imagine. And beyond that?” he
replied, perhaps hopefully, needing to know how close they truly were. He had a
deep need to posses her body, certainly, though more than that he wasn’t sure
he was capable of. Regardless, if she were his, he would expect every bit of
her to belong to him, without exception. Body and soul.
“Beyond that, there can be
nothing,” she said simply. She lifted one shoulder, a concession, yet not
enough to allay his fears.
“He’s always been allowed in
your life, while I have not been. Until now,” Charles said.
“All true, and yet—”
“And yet?” he asked.
“And yet…” Amelia’s voice faded
as she turned, and he saw in her eyes the request…no, the defiant demand that
he quit this line.
For a man to sigh called
thoughts of weakness, for men were never to question their thoughts, their
wishes. But sigh he did, and he put his whole heart into it.
“As you please,” he
responded.
Her perfect smile returned.
Charles was taken away at how well she did that, effected that persona. Created
that incredible wash of calm while he could feel, even at this distance, that
she was falling apart from the inside.
Now that he looked closely he
could see those little shivers, jerks, and ticks that never quite went away,
were never quite hidden.
They both looked out over the
gardens. Shoulder to shoulder—she with her hands held perfectly in front of
her, he with his clasped tightly behind his back—as the moonlight drifted down
upon them like a spotlight in the vast darkness.
Charles was not quite as good at
schooling his physical features. But then he never had cause to be. He was not
nearly as practiced with controlling something so seemingly uncontrollable as
she. His control at this point was simply his nature. All emotion had been
schooled out of him as unacceptable, and truth be told, he’d never been witness
to, or party to, anything like love. Though he thought it must be kin to
joy…and that he had witnessed. In her. Charles shook his head and wished...what
did he wish? He wished he knew what it was she needed to keep herself together.
“Amelia, I love…I love—”
Charles stopped abruptly when
her eyes widened. His father had always told him that women wanted to hear they
were loved, that he should wield those three words like a weapon.
“I love…pudding.” What the hell?
But when she laughed in answer
to the statement…he realized he
would have done it again for that moment. Pudding,
for fuck’s sake. He wished he knew what it would take to bring that joyful girl from the
sea back to him in a more permanent fashion.
Endsleigh.
Like an unwelcome voice in his
head, the name intruded.
Endsleigh.
To banish Ender from thought
would be his greatest wish, but Ender’s effect on her could not be banished.
Charles had watched that dance. He’d seen her standing. Just standing.
Attempting to simply stand. Then Ender was there, and she had spiraled up and
then back, like a top would. Tightened then released, all that difficulty gone.
There was something more between them. Charles had always known that, but what
he could not understand was why. When they were younger, Ender had been allowed
to be there with her, no matter what. Whenever it seemed she was acting out of
sorts, they had removed Charles and let Ender stay.
This was without a
doubt a level of jealousy he had no wish to control. And yet…and yet, to have that same
power for her—but he feared that level of
concern came from a level of connection that was beyond his ability. Charles
shifted again, looked at the leather toe of his shoe as he tapped it quietly,
once, twice, a third time. Once they wed, her friendship with Ender would be
officially at an end, and all this maundering would have no consequence. She
would be forced to his confidence.
What would have consequence was if she were unsuitable.
Charles knew she
had this magic inside her. To find that again…no. He wanted her. She was the only person he’d met in his life who had been so open, so free. Everyone else in his
life spoke to the Duke of Castleberry, but she always spoke to Jacks, and he
wanted her to speak to Charles. She was never put off by his title, didn’t want
him for it. Somehow, she saw the boy and the man. That intrigued him.
“It is odd, is it not? The last
time we spoke, you were merely Amelia, and I was merely Jacks,” he said
wistfully.
She smiled then, and it was
genuine, and he could not help but return it with the knowledge that that girl,
the one from before, was still in there. Charles took her hand and smoothed a
circle into her palm with his thumb, dropping her mouth open slightly until he
could see the pink of her tongue.
“Mon Dieu,” he whispered on a
breath. Her jaw snapped shut. “Malheureusement.” he said. Charles swallowed,
his mouth suddenly dry, his tongue swollen inside. “Pardon me.” He cleared his
throat and dropped her hand. “I believe I’ve had quite enough of this function.
I shall return you to...to your—” Charles coughed in an attempt to vanquish the
image of that perfect pink tongue from his mind. It didn’t work, so he closed
his eyes as he continued. “Your family. Perhaps I could call on the morrow to
take you for a ride in my carriage? I hear the Royal Gardens are beautiful at
the moment,” he said distractedly. “Something to be seen. Perhaps then we could
attempt the first of many great discussions.”
“As you please,” she
whispered.
If only...he thought. Charles reached for her hand carefully, then, quite
without his permission, his hand landed gently on her shoulder and dragged
slowly down her bare skin to the top of her glove, catching on the edge, then
continuing until he had her hand.
“And what would you wish, Amelia?” He was
rewarded with another perfect view of that pink tongue as her mouth dropped
open to answer him, but all he was given was a quick breath. He placed her hand
on his arm, and her other hand pushed at her belly, as though she would be
ill.
“Do you need a moment?”
Amelia shook her
head. “No, thank you, I simply need to…” She looked up
into his eyes and seemed to press that hand harder into her stomach. Her eyes
showed pain, and he was truly at a loss as how to proceed.
“Amelia, if I have offended—”
She shook her head
adamantly. “Please do call on the morrow. For tonight, I feel
I’m overtired. The trip from Pembroke...” She waved her free hand in a circle,
as if to say etc....
Charles nodded, but knew an
excuse when he heard one. Tonight was merely a beginning, the first opening of
the window. He held her hand to his arm and brought her through the crowd,
willing some of his strength to her. He thought she needed it much more than he
at the moment.
All too aware of her physical
proximity, he led her through the jostling throng to her waiting mother. He
handed her off and turned to the duke. This man he needed to watch. Charles’s
own father had told him to be wary of Pembroke but never did elaborate as to
why. Charles knew peers used different tactics to attempt to control those
around them—it was one of the most important lessons from his father. Control
was important, lack of such could destroy a dynasty. As such, whatever control
Pembroke had, whatever tactics he used to maintain it Charles would need to
determine as they moved forward.
“Pembroke, with your leave I
would very much like to call upon Lady Amelia on the morrow.”
“By all means, sir. By all
means. We shall arrange to have a chaperone availed to you,” her father
replied.
Charles turned to Amelia and
took her hand once again. He bowed over it stiffly, nodded to her mother and
took his leave.
#
It was then she breathed.
“I do hope you did not ruin
this,” her mother mumbled through a stiff grin.
Amelia’s hands tensed, one on the other.
“I’m quite sure nothing is
ruined, Your Grace. You heard yourself he’s to call tomorrow. As for now, I’m
to Pembroke House. I see no further use
for me here.”
“Now, my dear,” her father
started, “you should not manage your mother so. You know she only wishes the
best for you.”
“By all means necessary, only
the very best,” Amelia said a bit too loudly and with an irrepressible smile.
Amelia turned and made her way
to the front of the house. So very close now, within reach, a stone’s throw, so
simple. Her arms snaked around her middle. Safety beyond those two great doors
and then home to peace, within and without. Amelia’s heart raced her feet to
the threshold.
Away from here, away from these
people, away from everything she hated—everything she was born to be.
Everything. This was everything to everyone. Everyone but her. Her everything
had already quit the ball, as she did now.
Author Site: http://jennleblanc.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/jennleblanc
Illustrated Romance: http://StudioSmexy.com/
Facebook: http://Facebook.com/studiosmexy
Twitter: http://twitter.com/StudioSmexy
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Seduction Game
6 comments:
Sounds interesting. Would like to see these illustrations and how the two heroes and heroine will compromise. Or will they?
Dao Xiong
email: d7xiong@gmail.com
Yay!! I have every intention of buying this book as soon as I'm done with the one I'm reading, but in case I win first... I need to pop my Jenn Leblanc cherry, after all. :-)
Kristin P.
kristincheee@aol.com
Oh, this sounds right up my alley!
And the winner is... (drum roll, please!)...
KRISTIN P!
Congrats, Kristin! I hope you enjoy the story. I'll be in touch shortly with your prize. :-)