I do love historical romances so I'm excited to bring you an Excerpt and Giveaway ($25 Gift Card to an e-book retailer!) from Lorraine Heath's newest: Falling into Bed with a Duke!
Publication Date: October 27th 2015 by Avon
About the book:
In the first in a dazzling new series, New York Times bestselling author Lorraine Heath introduces the Hellions of Havisham—three charismatic rogues destined to lose their hearts...
After six unsuccessful Seasons, Miss Minerva Dodger chooses spinsterhood over fortune-hungry suitors. But thanks to the Nightingale Club, she can at least enjoy one night of pleasure. At that notorious establishment, ladies don masks before choosing a lover. The sinfully handsome Duke of Ashebury is more than willing to satisfy the secretive lady's desires—and draws Minerva into an exquisite, increasingly intimate affair.
A man of remarkable talents, Ashe soon deduces that his bedmate is the unconventional Miss Dodger. Intrigued by her wit and daring, he sets out to woo her in earnest. Yet Minerva refuses to trust him. How to court a woman he has already thoroughly seduced? And how to prove that the passion unleashed in darkness is only the beginning of a lifetime's pleasure?
Excerpt:
The Duke of Ashebury was on the hunt for a pair of long, shapely legs.
Standing casually with a shoulder pressed to a wall in the front parlor of the
Nightingale Club, he observed with a jaundiced eye those who entered. The
ladies wore flowing silk that caressed their skin as a lover might before the
night was done. The shimmering fabric seductively outlined the body, hinted at
dips and swells. Arms were bared. Necklines were low, the silk gathering just
below a tasteful showing of cleavage designed to entice. People murmured and
sipped their champagne, while exchanging heavy-lidded gazes and come-hither
smiles.
The flirtation that occurred within these walls was very different from
that found in a ballroom. No one here was searching for a dance partner.
Rather, they wanted a bedding partner. He appreciated the honesty on display,
which was the reason that he often stopped by when he was in London. No
pretense, no ruses, no duplicity.
He had already claimed a bedchamber, the key nestled in his jacket
pocket, as he wanted no one to disturb what he had so painstakingly set up. His
needs were unique, and he knew that within these walls, they would be kept
secret. People did not discuss what occurred at the Nightingale Club. For most
of London, its existence was something spoken about in longing whispers by
those who knew it only as myth. But for those familiar with it, it served as a
sanctuary, liberator, confidant. It was whatever one needed it to be.
For him, it was salvation, bringing him back from the brink of
darkness. Twenty years had gone by since his parents’ deaths, yet still he
dreamed of mangled and charred remains. Still, he heard his mother’s terrorized
screams and his father’s fruitless cries. Still, his behavior when he’d last
seen them taunted him. Had he known that he’d never look upon them again—
With resolve, he shook off the haunting musings that sent a chill down
his spine. Here, he could forget, at least for a few hours. Here, the regrets
didn’t gnaw unmercifully at him. Here, he could become lost striving for
perfection, for the ultimate in pleasure.
He had merely to determine which lady would best suit his purposes,
which would be willing to concede to his unusual request without protest. It
bothered him not at all that the ladies wore domino masks. He cared little for
their faces, understood their need for anonymity. Their concealment worked to
his advantage as he’d discovered that ladies were more comfortable with his
request when they were assured it would remain their secret—and his not knowing
their identity made them bolder than they might have been otherwise. They liked
being a little naughty as long as they weren’t caught. He couldn’t catch them
if he didn’t know who they were.
Still, he had one cardinal rule he always observed: never the same lady
twice.
The ladies brought their own masks, seldom changed them, as the façade
became their calling cards, as effective at identifying them as the ones handed
over to butlers in the early afternoon when they were making proper visits. The
woman in the black mask decorated with peacock feathers had a scar just above
her left knee from a tumble she’d taken from a pony as a child. The blue mask,
black feathers had two delightful dimples in the small of her back. The green
mask outlined in yellow lace possessed bony hips that had proven a challenge,
but he’d been pleased with the results when their time together was finished.
But then he’d always embraced the challenge of discovering the perfection in
imperfection.
The three glasses of scotch that he’d enjoyed were thrumming through
his veins. The din of intimacy was calming. The muscles that had been so tense
earlier were relaxed. He was in his element here, or he would be in short
order. As soon as he found that for which he was searching. He wouldn’t settle for
less than what he wanted; he never did. If one sure thing could be said about
the Duke of Ashebury, it was that he knew his own mind. That he was stubborn
when it came to acquiring what he needed—or wanted. Tonight’s endeavors
straddled the line of both what he needed and what he wanted. All needs would
be met before dawn. Then, perhaps, he could be glad to be back in London.
Lifting his glass for another sip, he watched a woman wearing draping
white silk and a white mask with short white feathers walk hesitantly into the
room as though she expected the floor to drop out from beneath her at any
moment. She wasn’t particularly tall, but based on the way the silk moved over
her flesh with each graceful step, it was obvious that she possessed long,
slender legs. He wondered if she was meeting someone, already had an arranged
assignation. Some ladies did—it was one of the reasons that the men didn’t wear
masks. So they were easily identifiable if their paramours wanted to meet them
here. Another reason was that men simply didn’t bloody well care if anyone knew
that they were in the mood for a good tupping. Even the married ones were
brazen with their presence.
The woman in white appeared to have dark hair, gathered up in an
elaborate style that no doubt required an abundance of pins. He couldn’t be
absolutely certain of the exact shade because the lighting in the room—only
flickering candles—enhanced the mood of secrecy as well as creating an ambiance
for intimacy while providing a gossamer disguise for some distinguishing
characteristics that were easily identifiable by color: hair, eyes, even the
fairness of skin. Perhaps she moved slowly because her eyes were adjusting to
the dimness. Gentlemen not yet spoken for did not swarm to her side. But then
that was the rule here. Seduction happened slowly. Ladies needed to hint at an
interest.
But then, if this was her first time, she might not be aware of the
subtle rules. He was fairly certain he’d never seen her before. A connoisseur
of the body, he would have remembered the elegance of her movements, the way
the cloth glided over her skin, outlining her form. Slender legs, but meat
where it counted. No bony hips there.
With one long swallow, he finished off his scotch, relishing the
realization that the hunt was over. He’d thought he wanted a tall woman. He’d
been mistaken.
He wanted her.
About LORRAINE HEATH
LORRAINE HEATH always dreamed of being a writer. After graduating from
the University of Texas, she wrote training manuals and computer code, but
something was always missing. After reading a romance novel, she not only
became hooked on the genre, but quickly realized what her writing lacked:
rebels, scoundrels, and rogues. She’s been writing about them ever since. Her
work has been recognized with numerous industry awards, including RWA’s RITA®
and a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award. Her novels have appeared on the
USA Today and New York Times best-seller lists.
Praise for FALLING INTO BED WITH A DUKE
“Heath’s first Hellions of Havisham Victorian romance is wonderfully entertaining….Heath adeptly juggles numerous new and familiar characters as she sweeps fans of her Regency novels into the Victorian era.”—Publishers Weekly
“With her usual flair for richly nuanced characters and elegant writing, RITA® Award-winning Heath launches her new Hellions of Havisham historical series with a tale that simply sizzles with sensuality.”—Booklist
“She dazzles with fascinating characters and a naughty plotline, but most of all she mesmerizes with the depth of emotion in this highly sensual story.”—RT Book Reviews, **4.5 Stars, Top Pick!**
“Falling into Bed with a Duke is a great start to Lorraine Heath’s new series, and book two can’t appear fast enough.” –All About Romance, Desert Island Keeper Review
“FALLING INTO BED WITH A DUKE is a passionate Victorian romance that leaves the reader sighing in happiness…” –Fresh Fiction
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