Giveaway #6 - Lady Myddelton's Lover by Evangeline Holland
Something now for fans of historical romance. Today's giveaway gives you not one... not two... but FIVE chances of winning!
The blurb...Lady Myddelton’s Lover (short novella) – set in 1907. Aline, Countess of Myddelton is a very proper widow whose friends feel she has mourned her husband long enough. Their surprise birthday gift of a secret lover backfires, for the man who appears to seduce the propriety out of her is her husband’s much younger and very tempting heir. But Richard, long in love with her, cannot stop with just one touch, or one kiss, and he vows to make Aline his by means fair or foul.
Introducing Evangeline... Click to go to website
I write romantic historical fiction* set in the Edwardian era and during WWI, and love to write about strong and intelligent heroines grappling their personal relationships and the thornier issues of their time. My stories span the globe and place a strong focus on the multicultural world of the turn-of-the-century, the class system, and the tough questions and conflicts with which people of the late 19th and early 20th centuries dealt.
In my fiction, I try my best to push beyond using the historical setting as “fantasy” or “fairy tale”. I don’t want to write historicals to present the past through rose-colored glasses, but about real people, experiencing real life as it was one hundred years ago. So if you think realism and history can be melded with wit, humor, adventure, passionate romance, and unforgettable characters, please stick around. Official Bio: Evangeline Holland has curtsied to Queen Victoria, witnessed the betrayal of Benedict Arnold and Peggy Shippen, stomped at the Savoy, traveled on a Crusades pilgrimage–and those are half the adventures she’s experienced through the historical novels of her youth. Luckily, she was able to grow up and continue to jump through time with the best job in the world: writing Edwardian & WWI romantic historicals. Evangeline lives with her family in Northern California with a territorial cat, a perpetually disastrous kitchen, and a house full of books. Represented by Kevan Lyon of Marsal Lyon Literary Agency. * Romantic Historical Fiction bridges the gap between historical romance and historical fiction–too “romancey” for historical fiction, yet too tied to historical events for historical romance. Excerpt from Lady Myddelton's Lover...June 1907
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London society would have given their eyeteeth to see the very proper Aline, Countess of Myddelton as she was now. Her auburn hair waved loosely about her bare shoulders, and a negligee of the barest silk and lace hugged her lithe curves, the hem shushing like molten liquid across her restless feet, which tapped a nervous staccato. She paused before the mirror over the fireplace mantle and nervously smoothed her unbound hair, disengaging a few stray curls from the knots of ribbon on the bodice of her negligee. Her face stared back at her, pale and wide-eyed, and for one moment, Aline contemplated dousing the lights, covering the dinner, and fleeing to her bedroom, where she could pull the blankets tightly over her head.
No, she said inwardly, her mirror image squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin—she would not be a coward. It was her thirty-fourth birthday, and after spending two lonely years in mourning, taking a lover of her choice was the best—perhaps the only—decent gift she could present to herself. Her eyes shifted to the ormolu clock ticking merrily on the mantelpiece, noting the late hour. He should have arrived by now. His tardiness increased the prickly quiver of anxiety coursing through her.
She moved towards the window overlooking Charles Street and jumped back when she noticed a man pausing on the kerb to stare up at her narrow townhouse. She inched to the window again—the kerb was empty save the soft moonlight bleaching the pavement an opalescent white. She bit her lip as a faint sensation of disappointment washed over her—until she remembered the doorbell went directly to the empty servant’s hall in the basement.
Aline hurried to the mirror and pinched her cheeks for a bit of color, before rushing out of the sitting room, down the stairs and to the front door. Her heart beat triple time and she stopped herself at the door, running a cursory hand over her hair and negligee one last time. The knob was cold and smooth in her palm as she twisted it and pulled open the door, shivering at the whoosh of cool night air sweeping into the entrance hall. She looked up…and up…eyes widening at his immense height. He must be nearly two meters tall!
As she stared at him, her…lover (the word seemed so much more physical now that he had arrived) immediately removed his hat, but with the moonlight streaming behind him, she could see nothing but an outline of wide shoulders and rough-cut gilt-colored hair.
However, she could smell him; a warm, pungent bouquet of masculinity and ocean breeze, and she flushed at the reaction the stranger’s steady, quiet regard elicited within her.
“Will you come in?” She stepped aside and gestured for him to enter.
“Thank you,” He murmured, a hint of an unfamiliar accent elongating his gravelly vowels.
He ducked his head to step into the entrance hall and she closed the door, plunging them into an uncomfortable, yet slightly thrilling semi-darkness. She peered up at him, gasping softly, overcome by his largeness.
Aline hummed lightly to clear her throat. “Shall we, ah, go upstairs?”
“Yes…I suppose we can,” He replied slowly, his lovely accent more pronounced (she decided that it was lovely, rather than strange).
He gave her sitting room a sweeping glance of assessment as he set his hat on the embroidered antimacassar folded over her striped couch, noting the small, but ornate French furniture and elegant, delicately scented plants and flower arrangements filling the room. She followed his line of vision to the table set for two, where she noted that for someone with little experience of illicit affairs, she felt her arrangement of the sitting room was rather seductive. A bottle of champagne sat, slightly tilted, in a bucket of ice, beside a cold supper of chicken and a dessert of hot house fruits grown at Myddelton Park, and the lights were dimmed to an elegant and intimate radiance.
His eyes then came to rest on her, and Aline touched a cut crystal bowl filled with her prize roses to steady herself beneath the warm, syrupy caramel of his regard. A thick fringe of lashes veiled his deep-set brown eyes, his nose was straight and narrow, and the shadow of a dark blond beard failed to mask his voluptuary’s mouth. She released a breath she did not know she held when he lowered his lashes to the movement of his hands as they unbuttoned his coat, and she allowed herself to drink him in, noticing, with a start, how extraordinarily vital he appeared. He seemed to radiate a sunny vigor from his tanned skin to the smooth waves of his golden hair, vigor and vitality incongruous with the careful, almost dull starched shirt, dark trousers and black coat deemed proper for gentlemen. Then he returned his remarkable eyes to her and she could not see anything else, could not feel anything else but the way her body leapt to his warmth, her skin prickling with awareness and her nipples tightening beneath her negligee.
He almost seemed to know her response to him and he smiled. Aline released her hold on the rose bowl and stepped towards the table, where she poured two coupes of champagne. His fingers, large and blunt, were over hers before she could turn to hand him a glass, and she drew a shaky breath before turning to face him. Their glasses clinked and champagne sloshed with their toast. Aline forced herself to meet his eyes over the rim of the coupe as they finished the first glass of champagne. She set her glass on the table and placed a hand on his arm when he opened his mouth to speak, the tiny bit of alcohol and the silence giving her a bit of Dutch courage.
His expression turned inquisitive as she led him to the couch and she felt a small flutter of trepidation when he sat beside her, his broad-shouldered, lean-hipped frame dwarfing the couch’s elegant proportions. She was quite tall for her sex, but he was taller, and she glanced greedily at the long, sinewy length of his limbs, accustomed to the middling, comfortable height of the majority of the men of her acquaintance. He held himself stiffly beside her, and she suddenly realized he was slightly uncomfortable with his size, ignorant of her surprising attraction to the crush of his body against hers.
Strapping, was what he was, being neither lean nor fat, but just…large, and sensual, and very masculine. Just the thought of his naked body weighing her down sent a leap of arousal through her and she squirmed uncomfortably, the silk of her negligee feeling rough and hot against her skin. His breath hitched, the breadth of his chest rising and falling against her side, the arm he placed behind her head jerking in reaction to her movements. She sank further against him, willing him to realize she was very attracted to him; he relaxed with a deep, contented sigh, and she could not help but fit her curves to his hardness.
I want you to touch me.
Aline gasped at her boldness, hoping desperately that she had not said that aloud, yet wanting his hands, his mouth, his general touch to ease her arousal. She glanced up at him, meeting his eyes, which darkened to a rich chocolate with an unfathomable emotion, and then dropping to his sensual lips. She was struck by the sudden notion that hiring a lover should be a requirement of all new widows, locked away in a sort of English purdah as it were, for two years. She bit her lip, just imagining what the reaction to this suggestion would be, and the reaction she would receive for even mentioning it, much less thinking such a thing!
All thoughts of scandal and social outrage vanished when he touched her. His hand was large, his palm hot and searing against her skin as he cupped her shoulder and then slid his fingers down her arm. This barest of caress set her body aflame and she squirmed against him, hoping he would take the hint and place his hands, perhaps his mouth, on her aching breasts. He thankfully obliged, one hand curving possessively around her waist as he tugged one taut nipple into his mouth and suckled through the thin fabric of her gown. She sighed in relief, and impulsively stretching her legs before her, she accidentally kicked him in the shin.
Aline’s breath caught in her throat in fear when he froze against her, hoping he would not take that as a rebuff to his advances. To her surprise, he laughed, his amusement vibrating against her skin, and she could not help but join in his bemused merriment. She was now far, far beyond her initial shock towards this thoroughly unconventional “gift”, and she pressed shamelessly against him, rubbing her nipples against his chest, feeling rather akin to “The Lady” in Mrs. Glyn’s scandalous Three Weeks.
She definitely would like to sin on a tiger skin, or err on some other fur.
No, she said inwardly, her mirror image squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin—she would not be a coward. It was her thirty-fourth birthday, and after spending two lonely years in mourning, taking a lover of her choice was the best—perhaps the only—decent gift she could present to herself. Her eyes shifted to the ormolu clock ticking merrily on the mantelpiece, noting the late hour. He should have arrived by now. His tardiness increased the prickly quiver of anxiety coursing through her.
She moved towards the window overlooking Charles Street and jumped back when she noticed a man pausing on the kerb to stare up at her narrow townhouse. She inched to the window again—the kerb was empty save the soft moonlight bleaching the pavement an opalescent white. She bit her lip as a faint sensation of disappointment washed over her—until she remembered the doorbell went directly to the empty servant’s hall in the basement.
Aline hurried to the mirror and pinched her cheeks for a bit of color, before rushing out of the sitting room, down the stairs and to the front door. Her heart beat triple time and she stopped herself at the door, running a cursory hand over her hair and negligee one last time. The knob was cold and smooth in her palm as she twisted it and pulled open the door, shivering at the whoosh of cool night air sweeping into the entrance hall. She looked up…and up…eyes widening at his immense height. He must be nearly two meters tall!
As she stared at him, her…lover (the word seemed so much more physical now that he had arrived) immediately removed his hat, but with the moonlight streaming behind him, she could see nothing but an outline of wide shoulders and rough-cut gilt-colored hair.
However, she could smell him; a warm, pungent bouquet of masculinity and ocean breeze, and she flushed at the reaction the stranger’s steady, quiet regard elicited within her.
“Will you come in?” She stepped aside and gestured for him to enter.
“Thank you,” He murmured, a hint of an unfamiliar accent elongating his gravelly vowels.
He ducked his head to step into the entrance hall and she closed the door, plunging them into an uncomfortable, yet slightly thrilling semi-darkness. She peered up at him, gasping softly, overcome by his largeness.
Aline hummed lightly to clear her throat. “Shall we, ah, go upstairs?”
“Yes…I suppose we can,” He replied slowly, his lovely accent more pronounced (she decided that it was lovely, rather than strange).
He gave her sitting room a sweeping glance of assessment as he set his hat on the embroidered antimacassar folded over her striped couch, noting the small, but ornate French furniture and elegant, delicately scented plants and flower arrangements filling the room. She followed his line of vision to the table set for two, where she noted that for someone with little experience of illicit affairs, she felt her arrangement of the sitting room was rather seductive. A bottle of champagne sat, slightly tilted, in a bucket of ice, beside a cold supper of chicken and a dessert of hot house fruits grown at Myddelton Park, and the lights were dimmed to an elegant and intimate radiance.
His eyes then came to rest on her, and Aline touched a cut crystal bowl filled with her prize roses to steady herself beneath the warm, syrupy caramel of his regard. A thick fringe of lashes veiled his deep-set brown eyes, his nose was straight and narrow, and the shadow of a dark blond beard failed to mask his voluptuary’s mouth. She released a breath she did not know she held when he lowered his lashes to the movement of his hands as they unbuttoned his coat, and she allowed herself to drink him in, noticing, with a start, how extraordinarily vital he appeared. He seemed to radiate a sunny vigor from his tanned skin to the smooth waves of his golden hair, vigor and vitality incongruous with the careful, almost dull starched shirt, dark trousers and black coat deemed proper for gentlemen. Then he returned his remarkable eyes to her and she could not see anything else, could not feel anything else but the way her body leapt to his warmth, her skin prickling with awareness and her nipples tightening beneath her negligee.
He almost seemed to know her response to him and he smiled. Aline released her hold on the rose bowl and stepped towards the table, where she poured two coupes of champagne. His fingers, large and blunt, were over hers before she could turn to hand him a glass, and she drew a shaky breath before turning to face him. Their glasses clinked and champagne sloshed with their toast. Aline forced herself to meet his eyes over the rim of the coupe as they finished the first glass of champagne. She set her glass on the table and placed a hand on his arm when he opened his mouth to speak, the tiny bit of alcohol and the silence giving her a bit of Dutch courage.
His expression turned inquisitive as she led him to the couch and she felt a small flutter of trepidation when he sat beside her, his broad-shouldered, lean-hipped frame dwarfing the couch’s elegant proportions. She was quite tall for her sex, but he was taller, and she glanced greedily at the long, sinewy length of his limbs, accustomed to the middling, comfortable height of the majority of the men of her acquaintance. He held himself stiffly beside her, and she suddenly realized he was slightly uncomfortable with his size, ignorant of her surprising attraction to the crush of his body against hers.
Strapping, was what he was, being neither lean nor fat, but just…large, and sensual, and very masculine. Just the thought of his naked body weighing her down sent a leap of arousal through her and she squirmed uncomfortably, the silk of her negligee feeling rough and hot against her skin. His breath hitched, the breadth of his chest rising and falling against her side, the arm he placed behind her head jerking in reaction to her movements. She sank further against him, willing him to realize she was very attracted to him; he relaxed with a deep, contented sigh, and she could not help but fit her curves to his hardness.
I want you to touch me.
Aline gasped at her boldness, hoping desperately that she had not said that aloud, yet wanting his hands, his mouth, his general touch to ease her arousal. She glanced up at him, meeting his eyes, which darkened to a rich chocolate with an unfathomable emotion, and then dropping to his sensual lips. She was struck by the sudden notion that hiring a lover should be a requirement of all new widows, locked away in a sort of English purdah as it were, for two years. She bit her lip, just imagining what the reaction to this suggestion would be, and the reaction she would receive for even mentioning it, much less thinking such a thing!
All thoughts of scandal and social outrage vanished when he touched her. His hand was large, his palm hot and searing against her skin as he cupped her shoulder and then slid his fingers down her arm. This barest of caress set her body aflame and she squirmed against him, hoping he would take the hint and place his hands, perhaps his mouth, on her aching breasts. He thankfully obliged, one hand curving possessively around her waist as he tugged one taut nipple into his mouth and suckled through the thin fabric of her gown. She sighed in relief, and impulsively stretching her legs before her, she accidentally kicked him in the shin.
Aline’s breath caught in her throat in fear when he froze against her, hoping he would not take that as a rebuff to his advances. To her surprise, he laughed, his amusement vibrating against her skin, and she could not help but join in his bemused merriment. She was now far, far beyond her initial shock towards this thoroughly unconventional “gift”, and she pressed shamelessly against him, rubbing her nipples against his chest, feeling rather akin to “The Lady” in Mrs. Glyn’s scandalous Three Weeks.
She definitely would like to sin on a tiger skin, or err on some other fur.
