Historical Books
Cover art copyright 2011 by Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.
Cover art copyright 2011 by Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.
Cover art copyright 2010 by Harlequin Enterprises Ltd.
Text copyright 2010-2012 by Barbara Monajem. Cover art Copyright 2010-2012 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited. Permission to reproduce text granted by Harlequin Books, S.A. Cover art used by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises Limited. All rights reserved.
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The Unrepentant Rake
Beatrix
March chose to be a governess rather than let an overbearing husband
rule her. Although she never intends to marry, it doesn't mean she can't
enjoy a man's...company — especially when tempted by notorious rake Simon Carling.
Little does she know that this rake is in the mood to wed...and when Simon wants something, he will go to outrageous lengths to get it!
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The Wanton Governess
In exchange for a few days’ shelter, dismissed governess
Pompeia Grant pretends to be the wife of a man who spurned her years earlier.
James Carling, the man in question, is in America, so he’ll never know.
And it’s only for a couple of days...
And she’s helping a friend, so she’s doing a good deed…
The next day, James comes home.
Notorious Eliza
Patrick needs a respectable new wife to be a mother for his daughter.
Notorious Eliza paints nudes to support her young son.
They should resist the attraction. (They don’t.)
They dare not fall in love. (They do.)
They must not marry… for one day Eliza’s most scandalous secret will surface and destroy them all...
Here's an excerpt from The Wanton Governess:
Sussex, 1801
"What in hell's name were you thinking?"
At this furious bellow all the ladies froze, then gaped. "Who was that?" Clarabelle faltered.
Pompeia rose in horror. She would know that enraged shout anywhere. She had heard it only once before, and she would never forget it.
But this time it was surely directed at her.
Footsteps hammered on the staircase, and her heart abandoned itself to terror. She had to run. She had to flee.
No! She had to do something.
"James, wait!" That was Sally's voice from the corridor. "Please, just let me --"
"James wasn't supposed to be home yet," Clarabelle moaned, and meanwhile the footsteps pounded down the passage.
Think, think! There must be some way to avert disaster. Not to Pompeia herself -- that was impossible -- but to Sally, to whom the vouchers for Almack's meant so much. But there wasn't time, because it would mean convincing Sir James to talk to her privately before exposing the deception. It would mean making him want to. Inexorably, the footsteps approached the drawing-room doorway.
I know how to make a man want to, said the Wanton Within.
Not that! Pompeia's rational mind screamed. Not now! But after a second's furious pause, she realized that for once the Wanton might be right. She got her feet moving and went straight for the door.
Too late.
He came into the room like a thunderstorm. It was James indeed, older, broader, and even more beautiful than four years ago, from his dark, wavy hair and grey eyes to his well-worn leathers. The Wanton Within applauded, but mostly, Pompeia cringed. She closed her eyes, desperate to compose herself. A babble of voices roiled around her, but she was poised only for his, for the fatal words exposing her as a fraud, commanding her to leave.
Open your eyes, said the Wanton. Look at him.
She did. He stared back, the anger slowly draining from his features, surprise taking its place.
That's a good start, the Wanton said. Now, let your eyes do the talking. But Pompeia had done that once before to Sir James -- accompanied by words that permitted no misunderstanding -- and received a stinging refusal.
That was then; this is now, the Wanton insisted. Smile, for pity's sake!
Pompeia felt her lips tremble into a travesty of a welcome.
Sir James's mouth quirked the tiniest bit in response. "Pompeia," he said.
She forced her tongue into motion. "J-James."
"Unbelievable." Slowly, he shook his head. "Oh, Pompeia." His eyes rested on her, warmly approving. No, wickedly so.
This was astonishingly different from the last time they'd met, when the chill in those eyes had made even the Wanton cower. No, particularly the Wanton, who had gone into hiding for quite a while after that.
What had happened to change things?
Ah. James did know of Pompeia's disgrace, just as she'd assumed. And, in the way of all men, he anticipated that she would willingly be just as disgraceful with him.
Yes! Do let's! Just this once! the Wanton said.
***
Here's an excerpt from Notorious Eliza.
London, March 1800
Eliza Dauntry frowned at the portrait on the easel, then at the naked woman sprawled on the sofa. Something was amiss with the pink tints underlying the skin on her breasts and belly. Eliza hated not getting her portraits exactly right. On the other hand, she had come to loathe painting nudes. She didn’t think a not-quite-perfect pink would matter to the rake who had commissioned the portrait of his mistress. Most likely, he wouldn’t notice the difference.
She flicked a glance at the rake, who had insisted on watching while Eliza worked. He wasn’t looking at the portrait, nor at his voluptuous mistress.
Instead his gaze was fixed on Eliza in an all too familiar way.
The rake dismissed his mistress with a flick of the hand. “That’s enough for now, love. Mrs. Dauntry and I wish to talk.”
Oh, no. Not another one. Eliza Dauntry braced herself to deal with the rake. The trollop, justly annoyed, snatched her wrapper from the sofa but flounced away without covering her nakedness. The rake couldn’t help watching the bounce of his mistress’s breasts and the jiggle of her thighs, but Eliza knew his desire was now directed at herself.
Damn! Neither frumpy clothing, nor hair going any which way, nor smudges of paint on her nose made any difference at all. According to these indiscriminate lechers, a woman who painted one’s mistress in the nude—lavishly, wantonly nude—must be partial to being naked herself.
In a sense, they were correct, but Eliza had been a widow for five years, and although she missed sprawling naked with David, there had never been anyone else and likely never would be.
Definitely not this one.
Perhaps she should accept the commission proposed by Lord Lansdowne in a letter received that morning. A month spent at his country estate would put the cap on her ruined reputation, but he had offered her a small fortune, enough to send James, her son, to a good school for years. More important, Lansdowne was old as Methuselah. Too ancient to bed her, and he didn’t hold orgies anymore.
Meanwhile, the rake approached, a predatory gleam in his eye.
Eliza checked that her palate knife was handy, took a deep breath and prepared to defend her honor. Again.
Setup for the excerpt: Clarabelle is James’s mother. Sally is his sister, who asked Pompeia to pretend to be James’s wife for a couple of days. The Wanton Within is the voice of Pompeia’s sensual nature, which she has tried very hard to suppress for years…
Sussex, 1801
"What in hell's name were you thinking?"
At this furious bellow all the ladies froze, then gaped. "Who was that?" Clarabelle faltered.
Pompeia rose in horror. She would know that enraged shout anywhere. She had heard it only once before, and she would never forget it.
But this time it was surely directed at her.
Footsteps hammered on the staircase, and her heart abandoned itself to terror. She had to run. She had to flee.
No! She had to do something.
"James, wait!" That was Sally's voice from the corridor. "Please, just let me --"
"James wasn't supposed to be home yet," Clarabelle moaned, and meanwhile the footsteps pounded down the passage.
Think, think! There must be some way to avert disaster. Not to Pompeia herself -- that was impossible -- but to Sally, to whom the vouchers for Almack's meant so much. But there wasn't time, because it would mean convincing Sir James to talk to her privately before exposing the deception. It would mean making him want to. Inexorably, the footsteps approached the drawing-room doorway.
I know how to make a man want to, said the Wanton Within.
Not that! Pompeia's rational mind screamed. Not now! But after a second's furious pause, she realized that for once the Wanton might be right. She got her feet moving and went straight for the door.
Too late.
He came into the room like a thunderstorm. It was James indeed, older, broader, and even more beautiful than four years ago, from his dark, wavy hair and grey eyes to his well-worn leathers. The Wanton Within applauded, but mostly, Pompeia cringed. She closed her eyes, desperate to compose herself. A babble of voices roiled around her, but she was poised only for his, for the fatal words exposing her as a fraud, commanding her to leave.
Open your eyes, said the Wanton. Look at him.
She did. He stared back, the anger slowly draining from his features, surprise taking its place.
That's a good start, the Wanton said. Now, let your eyes do the talking. But Pompeia had done that once before to Sir James -- accompanied by words that permitted no misunderstanding -- and received a stinging refusal.
That was then; this is now, the Wanton insisted. Smile, for pity's sake!
Pompeia felt her lips tremble into a travesty of a welcome.
Sir James's mouth quirked the tiniest bit in response. "Pompeia," he said.
She forced her tongue into motion. "J-James."
"Unbelievable." Slowly, he shook his head. "Oh, Pompeia." His eyes rested on her, warmly approving. No, wickedly so.
This was astonishingly different from the last time they'd met, when the chill in those eyes had made even the Wanton cower. No, particularly the Wanton, who had gone into hiding for quite a while after that.
What had happened to change things?
Ah. James did know of Pompeia's disgrace, just as she'd assumed. And, in the way of all men, he anticipated that she would willingly be just as disgraceful with him.
Yes! Do let's! Just this once! the Wanton said.
***
Here's an excerpt from Notorious Eliza.
London, March 1800
Eliza Dauntry frowned at the portrait on the easel, then at the naked woman sprawled on the sofa. Something was amiss with the pink tints underlying the skin on her breasts and belly. Eliza hated not getting her portraits exactly right. On the other hand, she had come to loathe painting nudes. She didn’t think a not-quite-perfect pink would matter to the rake who had commissioned the portrait of his mistress. Most likely, he wouldn’t notice the difference.
She flicked a glance at the rake, who had insisted on watching while Eliza worked. He wasn’t looking at the portrait, nor at his voluptuous mistress.
Instead his gaze was fixed on Eliza in an all too familiar way.
The rake dismissed his mistress with a flick of the hand. “That’s enough for now, love. Mrs. Dauntry and I wish to talk.”
Oh, no. Not another one. Eliza Dauntry braced herself to deal with the rake. The trollop, justly annoyed, snatched her wrapper from the sofa but flounced away without covering her nakedness. The rake couldn’t help watching the bounce of his mistress’s breasts and the jiggle of her thighs, but Eliza knew his desire was now directed at herself.
Damn! Neither frumpy clothing, nor hair going any which way, nor smudges of paint on her nose made any difference at all. According to these indiscriminate lechers, a woman who painted one’s mistress in the nude—lavishly, wantonly nude—must be partial to being naked herself.
In a sense, they were correct, but Eliza had been a widow for five years, and although she missed sprawling naked with David, there had never been anyone else and likely never would be.
Definitely not this one.
Perhaps she should accept the commission proposed by Lord Lansdowne in a letter received that morning. A month spent at his country estate would put the cap on her ruined reputation, but he had offered her a small fortune, enough to send James, her son, to a good school for years. More important, Lansdowne was old as Methuselah. Too ancient to bed her, and he didn’t hold orgies anymore.
Meanwhile, the rake approached, a predatory gleam in his eye.
Eliza checked that her palate knife was handy, took a deep breath and prepared to defend her honor. Again.
***
