Here's an excerpt from The Right to Remain Single
James Blakely opened his bedchamber door upon an appalling sight.
A lady, standing next to his writing desk clad only in her nightdress, turned to him with a dazzling smile. “Mr. Blakely, how romantic.” She indicated the pile of papers he’d been working on that afternoon. “I didn’t know you wrote poetry!”
“I don’t,” he said, unable to stop himself from looking her up and down. She was so damned pretty—there was no denying he found her attractive—but good God, what if someone heard them? He shut the door softly and glared at her. “What the deuce are you doing here, Miss Warren?”
Thomasina’s flush showed clearly in the light of a branch of candles. “I came to ask a favor of you.”
The ghost, who had removed his plumed hat in the presence of a lady, beamed and nodded at James.
“At midnight?” James snapped. “In my bedchamber?”
She blushed even more—and what a beautiful sight she was. “What better time and place?”
The ghost grinned widely. He mentioned midnight and bedchambers far too often in his execrable poems.
“For what?” James demanded, trying not to notice how enchantingly her chestnut hair tumbled about her shoulders.
“For…for love.” Her gaze flickered to the scattered sheets of bad verse. “Who is she, your inamorata?”
“My—my what?” He shook his head. “She’s not real,” and then, at a sudden gust of frigid air on his spine, “not alive, anyway. She’s the lady love of our resident ghost.”
“Ah, the dashing Cavalier I’ve heard about. That explains the slightly archaic feeling of the poems.” She took a deep breath. Her bosom rose and fell. “In that case, what I’m about to ask is acceptable.”
Nothing was acceptable about this situation. “Miss Warren, I do not wish to be discourteous, but this is most improper, and you must leave at once. Ask your favor of me tomorrow, in daylight, in a less compromising location.”
She didn’t move. “Tomorrow will be too late.”
“A pity, but nevertheless you may not remain here.” He returned to the door, motioning with his chin, hoping to get rid of her without actually touching her. “Back to your own bedchamber. Now.”
Thomasina faltered a little, but instead of obeying, she approached, looking up at him with wide, grey eyes. Meanwhile, he struggled not to lower his gaze to her bosom, which jiggled as she moved. The ghost watched them, highly amused.
“Please don’t be upset, Mr. Blakely. It’s just a simple favor. I’m sure it can’t be difficult, as it’s done all the time.”
He gritted his teeth. “What is done all the time?”
“Carnal knowledge,” she said calmly. “It’s quite simple, really. All I want is for you to ruin me.”
James Blakely opened his bedchamber door upon an appalling sight.
A lady, standing next to his writing desk clad only in her nightdress, turned to him with a dazzling smile. “Mr. Blakely, how romantic.” She indicated the pile of papers he’d been working on that afternoon. “I didn’t know you wrote poetry!”
“I don’t,” he said, unable to stop himself from looking her up and down. She was so damned pretty—there was no denying he found her attractive—but good God, what if someone heard them? He shut the door softly and glared at her. “What the deuce are you doing here, Miss Warren?”
Thomasina’s flush showed clearly in the light of a branch of candles. “I came to ask a favor of you.”
The ghost, who had removed his plumed hat in the presence of a lady, beamed and nodded at James.
“At midnight?” James snapped. “In my bedchamber?”
She blushed even more—and what a beautiful sight she was. “What better time and place?”
The ghost grinned widely. He mentioned midnight and bedchambers far too often in his execrable poems.
“For what?” James demanded, trying not to notice how enchantingly her chestnut hair tumbled about her shoulders.
“For…for love.” Her gaze flickered to the scattered sheets of bad verse. “Who is she, your inamorata?”
“My—my what?” He shook his head. “She’s not real,” and then, at a sudden gust of frigid air on his spine, “not alive, anyway. She’s the lady love of our resident ghost.”
“Ah, the dashing Cavalier I’ve heard about. That explains the slightly archaic feeling of the poems.” She took a deep breath. Her bosom rose and fell. “In that case, what I’m about to ask is acceptable.”
Nothing was acceptable about this situation. “Miss Warren, I do not wish to be discourteous, but this is most improper, and you must leave at once. Ask your favor of me tomorrow, in daylight, in a less compromising location.”
She didn’t move. “Tomorrow will be too late.”
“A pity, but nevertheless you may not remain here.” He returned to the door, motioning with his chin, hoping to get rid of her without actually touching her. “Back to your own bedchamber. Now.”
Thomasina faltered a little, but instead of obeying, she approached, looking up at him with wide, grey eyes. Meanwhile, he struggled not to lower his gaze to her bosom, which jiggled as she moved. The ghost watched them, highly amused.
“Please don’t be upset, Mr. Blakely. It’s just a simple favor. I’m sure it can’t be difficult, as it’s done all the time.”
He gritted his teeth. “What is done all the time?”
“Carnal knowledge,” she said calmly. “It’s quite simple, really. All I want is for you to ruin me.”
